I welcomed these diversions, especially as our ship drew closer to Earth and my fears began to take deeper root in my mind.
I was still terribly excited about seeing Pleskit, of course. But the stories he had sent me of life on this primitive and semi-barbaric planet had me wondering what strange and terrifying things might happen during my visit.
* * *
The closer we came to the time of our arrival, the more distressed I became. I checked my pack over and over to make sure the guesting gifts I had for the embassy staff were all ready. And several times a day I examined the mysterious package of feebo beezbuds the Motherly One had asked me to carry to Meenom. What could the message be?
Curiosity consumed me and I was dying to open the package. I was also dying to consume what was inside it. But I knew that opening it would be improper. Besides, if I did succumb to my curiosity, the Motherly One would be sure to find out. She is inescapable in that way.
I ate most of my meals with Ellico vec Bur, and though the Trader(s)’ behavior was unfailingly polite, they asked more questions than I wanted to answer. They seemed especially interested in the Motherly One and anything she might have said to me before she left the ship. They were cagey with these questions, and expressed them mostly by talking about her distress, and their desire that she not be too worried about me. Even so, they caused me to be suspicious.
Finally the day came when the ship entered Earth orbit.
“Well, this is it, Maktel,” said Ellico vec Bur jovially as we brought out our luggage and took our place in the transport pod that would carry us down to the surface.
The pod was piloted by the four-legged crew member I had noticed when the Motherly One had first led me aboard the freighter.
The planet we saw waiting below us was surprisingly beautiful, a mottled blue ball with an unusual amount of surface water. I wondered if the Earthlings had any idea how lucky they were to possess such an abundance of this resource.
Soon we saw the embassy dangling from its support hook atop a hill made white by a dusting of snow. The embassy’s familiar design—Pleskit says the Earthlings claim it looks like a “flying saucer”—instantly made me feel more at home.
The pod swept under the embassy to dock at the little port located on its lower side. I heard the magnetic click that indicated the seal was complete.
“Ready?” asked Ellico vec Bur as the top of the pod opened.
Without waiting for my answer, the Trader(s) stood on the mag-pad that would lift them into the embassy. As they started to rise out of the pod, the crew member who had piloted us down put a hand on my arm. He waited until the Trader(s) were gone, then leaned to me and whispered, “I’d watch out for them if I were you.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
But he just crossed his eyes in a gesture for silence and discretion, and pointed to the mag-pad.
I climbed on, and floated up into the embassy.
CHAPTER 4 [LINNSY]
HOW TO HURT A FRIEND
So now it’s my tum. All right, I guess the real starting point for me was the afternoon of Maktel’s arrival. I was sitting at my desk having a very pleasant daydream when my mother shouted, “Linnsy! Mr. Timothy is here to see you!”
I have no idea why my mother calls Tim “Mr. Timothy.” It’s just one of her little quirks.
She’s got a lot of them.
When I didn’t answer right away, she shouted, “Linnsy!”
I sighed. “All right, Mom. I’m coming.”
I pushed myself away from my desk without looking at what I had been doodling while I daydreamed. Too bad; I might have saved a lot of trouble if I had bothered to glance down.
Tim was sitting on the living room couch. He looked so upset, I wondered if someone had finally told him that the people on Tarbox Moon Warriors were only actors.
“What happened to you?” I asked.
“I need to talk.”
“About what?”
“It’s private.”
I sighed yet again, then said, “All right, let’s go to my room.”
This was my second mistake. I should probably just ban Tim from my room altogether. I’d have a good excuse, since his mother is starting to get antsy about the two of us having private conferences in either of our rooms. My own mother is more calm about this, mostly because she knows that my romantic interest in Tim is about equal to my desire to pound large nails into my head. But I tend to give in easily when he has that wounded-puppy look on his face, partly because I still have some guilt about the way I sort of stopped talking to him for a while back in fifth grade because he was such a doofus. But we’ve lived in the same apartment building forever and we used to sort of be best friends, so I started feeling pretty rotten about that. And after the aliens came to live in Syracuse, we faced several problems we had to work together to solve.
So now we’re friends again, sort of. And the poor guy was obviously so upset that refusing to listen to him would have been like refusing to put a goldfish that’s flopped out of its tank back into the water.
* * *
When we got to my room, I sat down at my desk, feeling a little like Lucy, the five-cent psychiatrist in the Peanuts comic strip.
Tim plunked himself down in my beanbag chair.
“Well?” I said.
His eyes darted around the room, looking anywhere but at me. He’d gone from wounded puppy to trapped animal. I had been through this with him before, so I just sat and waited. Finally he blurted, “I’m worried about what’s going to happen when Maktel gets here.”
Tim’s a boy, so you have to translate when he’s talking about emotional stuff, and it took me a minute to work this one out. As I was thinking about it, I glanced down at my desk.
A cold surge of horror twisted my stomach when I saw my daydream doodles.
I started to blush and moved my hand to cover the paper. But my hand wasn’t big enough, and the gesture was too suspicious. Tim raised himself in the chair to look at my desk. When he saw what I was trying to hide, his eyes widened and he turned as red as I suspect I was already. He looked sick.
“Sorry,” he muttered bitterly. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”
Then he leaped up and bolted out of my room.
“Tim!” I cried. “Wait!”
He didn’t, of course, and a second later I heard the door to the hall open and slam shut.
I collapsed in my chair and stared with disgust at the paper under my fingers.
Scrawled across it in a dozen different kinds of fancy writing was “Jordan Lynch Jordan Lynch Jordan Lynch.”
I wanted to scream. What the heck was going on here? I have better things to do with my time than obsess about a guy who’s the biggest snot in our class.
On the other hand, even though Jordan seems to be taking a correspondence class in butt-headedness, he’s also the only boy in our school who’s as tall as I am. And at my height—I’m the official class Amazon—that has to count for something.
And, to be honest, he’s a genuine hottie.
I was working on a theory that a lot of the reason why Jordan acts so nasty is that his parents pretty much ignore him, except to buy him stuff. My theory is that he’s just trying to mask the deep pain tearing at his heart.
Whatever the reason, I couldn’t seem to get him out of my mind, and it was driving me nuts. It was as if I had a little war going on inside me. Part of me wanted to stop thinking about Jordan altogether. But another part kept saying, Maybe all he needs is the right girl to get him on track. With my help, Jordan could probably be class president when we get to high school. I imagined us going to the prom together, being voted class couple, driving off to—
I shook my head in disgust. Why couldn’t I get these stupid ideas out of my head? My mother had thought she could fix my father, and look how that turned out!
None of this, of course, was anything that I could ever discuss with Tim. When Jordan got put in our class after he got kicked out of
the fancy private school where he used to go, for some reason he chose Tim to be his personal psychic punching bag. Tim has suffered a lot from Jordan since then—which meant that just having these thoughts made me feel incredibly disloyal.
But that upset me too. I mean, what was Tim to me that I should worry about what he thought?
I started to wad up the paper, then smoothed it out and slid it into my desk.
As I did, a new question occurred to me, a truly horrifying one: What if Tim told someone—anyone—what he had seen?
I moaned, and wondered if I could talk my parents into moving.
CHAPTER 5 [PLESKIT]
ANXIETY
The silvery walls of this place are beautiful but cold. I wish nothing more than to go home. Even my new home on Earth would be better than this.
The key to release is simple, yet painful. I must tell, clearly and honestly, my part of the story. At least, I hope that will be sufficient to set us free.
I am glad that Judge Wingler is allowing us to work together. Even so, it is not easy to write down not only the facts of what happened but also the secret workings of the smorgle.
Across the room, in a beam of light, I can see Maktel, working on his part of the story. Perhaps writing this down will help me understand how I came into conflict with someone whom I care for so much.
Tim showed me what he has written so far. It made me sad to read it. And Linnsy—well, I am not ready to talk about what happened to Linnsy.
Like the others, I guess I should choose a starting point. Perhaps it was when I returned to the embassy after school on the day Maktel was to arrive.
McNally and I went to the kitchen as usual.
Barvgis, the round and slimy being who acts as assistant to the Fatherly One, was there already. This was not surprising. The kitchen is his favorite place.
The room smelled wonderful because Shhh-foop, our Queen of the Kitchen, had prepared a fresh batch of finnikle-pokta. “Just for you, my little Pleskit-pingle,” she sang, sliding to the table and placing them in front of me.
The oozy things squeaked and rolled about the platter in a most appetizing way. Even so, I had no desire to eat anything right then.
Before I could think of how to tell this to Shhh-foop, she slid back to the counter. She returned an instant later, this time clutching a steaming pot of black liquid in two of her orange tentacles. In a third she held an empty cup. The rest of her tentacles vibrating with eagerness, she warbled, “Some coffee for the handsome Just McNally?”
She calls him that because McNally does not like to use his first name. When he is introduced to someone, he always says, “The name’s McNally—just McNally.” This led Shhh-foop to think his name was “Just McNally,” an idea she has never been able to shake.
My Earthling bodyguard glanced up at her. His eyes were hidden by his ever-present sunglasses. Even so, I could sense his panic. McNally loves coffee, but for some reason our Queen of the Kitchen has never been able to master the secrets of this Earthly beverage.
“I have devised a new method for wringing joyous flavor from the bean of caffeine in order to bring happiness to your tongue,” she sang. Her notes were hopeful, yet colored by a tragic undertone of longing mixed with anxiety.
“Sure,” said McNally gruffly. “I’ll try a cup, Shhh-foop.”
“Oh, glorptious glee!” she trilled, pouring fragrant liquid into the cup. She placed it in front of him.
McNally took a sniff and smiled hopefully. “Smells good!” He blew across the top of the cup, then raised it to his lips.
Shhh-foop wrapped her tentacles around herself, quivering with excitement. McNally took a sip. Shhh-foop watched with wide eyes, waiting for his approval.
Alas, it was not to be. Suddenly McNally flinched. He began to twitch, then shook his head violently, as if trying to dislodge a tigloop from his ear. “Whooo-eee!” he cried. Taking a deep breath, he carefully set the cup on the table, then slid it as far away as his arm would reach.
Shhh-foop was wringing her tentacles in agony.
“Not…,” gasped McNally, his voice a husky whisper, “quite.”
Tentacles drooping, Shhh-foop slid back to the counter, singing “The Lament of the Coffee Bean,” a song of despair that has grown to several hundred verses since she first began composing it.
“It was kind of you to try a taste,” I said, putting my hand on my bodyguard’s arm.
“Sure,” he said—well, whispered; his voice still did not seem to be working properly. Then he glanced down at my plate of finnikle-pokta. Without speaking, he pointed at it, then lifted an eyebrow.
I have learned that this is an Earthling way of asking a question. And I knew very well what he was asking: Why was my food, which happened to be something I like very much, untouched?
I shrugged, an Earthling gesture I had picked up from prolonged exposure to the species. “I don’t feel like eating.”
“Why not?” asked Barvgis. The idea of someone not wanting to eat always puzzles Barvgis, mostly because it is a feeling he has never personally experienced.
“Anxiety and nervousness are tying a knot in my kirgiltum.”
“Someone been bugging you at school?” asked McNally protectively. His voice seemed to be recovering from Shhh-foop’s latest creation.
I waggled my sphen-gnut-ksher to indicate that this idea was wrong.
Barvgis looked at me slyly. “Does this have anything to do with Maktel’s impending arrival?” He scooped a large handful of squirmers out of the bowl in front of him. Ignoring their tiny screams, he poured them into his gaping mouth.
Unlike the squirmers, I made no sound at all. However, my silence answered Barvgis’s question quite clearly.
“What are you so nervous about?” asked McNally in surprise. “I thought Maktel was your best bud.”
“He is. At least, he was my best bud on Hevi-Hevi. But I also have a best bud here on Earth.”
“Ah,” said McNally. “I’ve got the picture. You’re worried about having two best buds in the same place. I understand. Happened to me with a couple of lady friends once.” He shook his head. “I gotta tell you, it wasn’t pretty.”
“I think I am too young to hear about your romances, McNally,” I said.
Though I had not intended the statement to be funny, it caused Barvgis to laugh so hard, he nearly choked on a squirmer.
I went to my room to play with the Veeblax. But even the antics of my little shape-shifter could not distract me. By the time Maktel’s ship was due, I was so excited I thought my head was going to explode.
(I must point out to Judge Wingler that I learned this bizarrely violent phrase from Tim. The fact that I feel comfortable using it—in fact, didn’t even notice I had used it until I looked back on what I have already written—may indicate I already have spent too much time on my new planet.)
Time passed so slowly that I began to think someone had murdered the clock. (Gak! There’s another one!) I was sitting in my room, wondering if I should make a visit to Wakkam Akkim, the Fatherly One’s spiritual massagemaster, when the speaker above my door belched for attention.
“Transport pod approaching! Anticipated docking time: two minutes and forty-seven seconds.”
Maktel was here at last!
Shoving aside my concerns, I hurried to greet my friend. Though I was first to arrive, the rest of the staff soon entered as well—everyone from Ms. Buttsman, the prim and proper Earthling who acts as our protocol adviser, to Beezle Whompis, the Fatherly One’s personal secretary, an energy being who only takes physical form as an occasional act of courtesy to those around him.
The Fatherly One was there, of course. To my surprise, he had even brought the brain of the Grandfatherly One.
“Pod connected!” announced the speaker.
I was hugging myself with anticipation. But when the tube from the dock opened, I stepped back in dismay.
CHAPTER 6 [PLESKIT]
GIFTS AND GREETINGS
&nbs
p; “I did not know you were coming,” I said when I saw Ellico vec Bur step out of the tube that carries guests up from the docking pad.
The Trader(s) bowed their mutual head. “Perhaps your Fatherly One was too busy to mention it, Pleskit,” said the Ellico portion. “It’s nice to see you again too.”
My sphen-gnut-ksher twitched in embarrassment as I returned their bow. “I am sorry. That was not a very polite greeting. It is good to see you, Ellico vec Bur.”
This was a lie, but such little lies are an important part of the diplomatic life.
The Trader(s) nodded and moved aside. To my distress, the tube was now empty. Before I could get too worried, the mag-pad floated up. On it stood Maktel. He was dressed in a traditional Hevi-Hevian travel robe, and though most of his luggage would be carried up by the scurry-bots, he had a pack on his back.
At the sight of him I cried out in joy and ran forward.
He leaped out of the tube to greet me. We embraced, then did an interpretive dance to express our delight at seeing each other.
It was a relief to be able to dance this way again. I had not done so for some time, mostly because I learned shortly after my arrival on Earth that my classmates were baffled and amused by such behavior. It is not pleasant to be expressing your deepest feelings and have people roar with laughter as a result.
The Veeblax joined our dance, capering around in a shape a little like an Earthling cat, except for the wings.
When we finished the dance, my friend tapped his sphen-gnut-ksher against mine and said, “I have brought a guesting gift for you. In fact,” he continued, taking his pack from his back and opening it, “I have gifts for everyone.” The staff applauded, as was appropriate. Even McNally and Ms. Buttsman joined in, though they looked somewhat puzzled.
Too Many Aliens Page 2
