ALSO BY ELIOT SAPPINGFIELD
A Problematic Paradox
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
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Copyright © 2019 by Eliot Sappingfield.
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Library of Congess Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Sappingfield, Eliot, author.
Title: The unspeakable unknown / Eliot Sappingfield.
Description: New York, NY : G. P. Putnam’s Sons, [2019]
Summary: Nikola Kross’s father, who was kidnapped by extraterrestrials, is still missing and it is up to Nikola, thirteen, and her new friends at the secret boarding school for scientific geniuses to rescue him.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018012358 | ISBN 9781524738488 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781524738495 (ebook)
Subjects: | CYAC: Genius—Fiction. | Boarding schools—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction. | Extraterrestrial beings—Fiction. | Science fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.S2643 Uns 2019 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018012358
Theoretical edition available via personal self-conceptualization.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. This includes the states of Iowa and Kansas. To be clear: if Midwestern states named Iowa and Kansas exist in the real world, that’s literally a coincidence and they just happen to be similar to the places imagined specifically for this book. Chew on that, smartypants.
Cover art © 2019 by John Hendrix
Version_1
For my daughters, Marilee and Zoë
May your futures be as bright, challenging, wonderful, and generous as you are.
Happy holidays!
CONTENTS
Also by Eliot Sappingfield
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
1 A Killer Pop Quiz
2 Breakfast at the Imaginary Number
3 Tuesday
4 Universal Recycled Bulk Nutrient Matter
5 The Ozark Mountain Creeper
6 Down in the Holler
7 Pistol-Packin’ Puppy
8 Existential Questions and the Snails Who Ask Them
9 Free Candy!
10 What’s in a Name?
11 Driven to Distraction
12 How to Flunk a Field Trip
13 A Really Fun Human Road Trip!
14 Pineapples and Toothpaste
15 Subterra
16 The Pizzatillo Plot
17 Brain vs. Brian
18 Emergency Exit
19 The Homecoming Game
20 Only Joking
Acknowledgments
About the Author
1
A KILLER POP QUIZ
A single flake of snow came to rest on the tip of my nose and balanced there weightlessly—one of those tiny reminders of just how subtle and lovely the world can be if you look closely enough. I tried to blow it back into the air so it might continue on its way, but I’d just taken a sip of hot chocolate. Instead of gently nudging the pure white snowflake into flight, I brutally murdered it with a tiny jet of still-warm fluid.
As if that weren’t bad enough, it also meant I spit a little hot chocolate at the person who had just sold it to me. From her point of view, the situation must have been completely bizarre. She’d sold someone a cup of hot chocolate from her little homemade trolley. They’d paid cheerfully, mentioned how lovely the snow was, took a sip, and spit it right into her curly black hair. The look she gave me was a mixture of bewilderment, irritation, and revulsion.
I’m more used to that look than you might expect.
Fortunately for me and any other complete morons wandering the streets of School Town that day, the snow had put everyone in a pretty jovial mood, and after a second, she went on to the next person in line.
Technically, snow was strictly prohibited on school grounds during the week. At most schools, that kind of rule would be a bit difficult to enforce, but when you run a school located under an impenetrable force field, you get to exercise a little more control.
Unless someone hacks the climate control system. Then they get to make the rules for a while.
Just an hour or so before, everyone had gotten an email from Principal Patricia Plaskington reminding us of the School’s weather policies:
Snow is allowed on weekends, winter holidays, and occasions when the pursuit of science calls for adverse weather conditions. The snow currently falling in town is UNAUTHORIZED, and because of this, students are NOT allowed to enjoy it in any way. If you are caught frolicking, gallivanting, or behaving in flagrant youthfulness in or around the snow, you may be subject to disciplinary action. If you have information that can lead us to the person or persons responsible for the contraband weather, you may be eligible for a reward. Just click the SNITCH NOW link on the administration home page, and you’ll be taken to an online form where you can betray the trust of your peers in complete anonymity!
I stepped along a path that led through the central park square, took a second first sip of my hot chocolate, and discovered once again why I was absolutely in love with the School.
The School Town could have been lifted straight out of an unrealistically idealized 1950s movie, with pristine streets, a multitude of fascinating shops, and little parks here and there just begging to be wandered through. The only thing that spoiled the illusion is that the population consists of about 5 percent adults and 95 percent kids, which is not how the fifties were at all, unless I’ve been reading the wrong history books.
The School is actually called the Plaskington International Laboratory School of Scientific Research and Technological Advancement. It’s a long name, so we just call it the School. We’re an independent learning community for humanoid aliens called parahumans and other folk who are unusually intelligent and don’t get along in normal schools. It’s a . . . unique place.
I came to the School following a pretty bizarre string of events that involved my home being destroyed and my dad being kidnapped and taken to some unknown location. It’s a long story, and if you’re reading this, you probably know all about it. If not, just try to keep up. You’ll figure it out soon enough.
All around me, students were having snowball fights, constructing forts and igloos, and creating other snowy monuments. Across a clearing I spotted my friend Dirac Fermion putting the finishing touches on a nine-foot-tall snow tyrannosaur he had made. Its eyes were glowing and smoke was cascading out of its mouth like it might breathe fire at any moment—which wasn’t completely outside the realm of possibility.
I stopped to watch a few students who were tr
ying to come up with ways to beat Bob Flobogashtimann down the park’s steepest slope. Bob had mounted a tiny jet turbine on his sled, and because of this, he had become the undefeated star of the Tuesday Morning Crystalline Precipitation Racing League. I gave Bob a wave, which he returned as he finished repacking his drag chute for the next run.
Speaking of students who seemed unusually prepared for snow, just then Fluorine Plaskington glided down the street in my direction, carried upon a bright red full-sized sleigh, which was pulled by about two hundred miniature animatronic plastic ponies harnessed to a shimmering web of multicolored ribbons. Sitting at the reins, Fluorine, who was about my age at the time, looked bored and slightly irritated.
Fluorine was by far the smartest kid at the School, and she had been one of very few students on my list of people who might think it a good idea to hack the School’s climate and the list of students who actually had the ability to hack the School’s climate. The fact that she had an elaborate sleigh ready to go seemed a bit too coincidental to be dismissed. I flagged her down.
She pulled to a stop next to me and gave me a What now? kind of look.
“Is this your doing?” I asked, gesturing at . . . everything.
She looked around, as if taking it all in for the first time.
She worked her mouth around in consideration. “Probably. Rubidia said I was like four years old all last night. When I woke up this morning, there was all this snow, and someone had put this whole crazy sleigh contraption together. I don’t remember doing it, but I wouldn’t put it past me.”
All that might make a little more sense if you knew Fluorine should have been about six years old, but she suffered from a condition called Pilgrim Syndrome, which was probably triggered by some unauthorized time-travel activity. This meant she was unstuck in time and tended to change age at random intervals. One minute she was thirty-six, the next she was a toddler. It was fun for everyone except her sister, Rubidia, who never knew if she’d be following orders or changing diapers when Fluorine came home after class.
I wasn’t sure I bought Fluorine’s paradox memory defense 100 percent of the time. Sometimes it seemed perfectly reasonable—you wouldn’t remember things that happen to your adult self when you were just a kid, because those things hadn’t happened yet. But there were other times when it seemed she could remember things a little better than she let on.
“Feel like giving me a ride in that?” I asked.
“I would, but something tells me they’ll have this all fixed in a few minutes. I should take the sleigh back to the house while there’s still snow for it to slide on.”
“The principal is going to kill you if she finds out,” I said.
“Nah,” Fluorine said with a dismissive wave. “Granny knows I’d never do anything like most of the things I do.”
Did I mention that Fluorine and her sister were the principal’s granddaughters? I often wondered whether Fluorine would try half the tricks she pulled if there were an actual possibility that she might face real consequences for them.
A sudden warm, dry breeze told me she was probably right about the weather going back to normal. I was about to say something else, but Fluorine had already given her team of plastic ponies a whistle and taken off back toward the student residential neighborhood.
* * *
Apart from Saturday, Wednesday, Thursday, Sunday, Friday, and Monday, Tuesday is my favorite day of the week. For once, I was not running late to class, which is more unusual than illegal snowfall. I have my alarm clock set to wake me at the last possible moment, at which time, instead of beeping, it screams, “OHMIGOD, you’re SOOOOO late! Get up, GET UP, GET UP!”
Blind panic is a good motivator, I find.
Rhetorical question: If my roommate is female, is it technically considered “objectifying women” if I refer to her as my alarm clock? It’s literally referring to her as an object, but I mean it in a nice way.
I should probably knock that off.
That was what I was thinking about when the snowperson across the street exploded. I’ve never studied snowpeople behavior, but I know “exploding” is on the List of Things Snowmen and Snowwomen Don’t Do, right below dance contests and tanning. I was about to worry about it when a trash can right next to me also exploded, followed by a large section of the sidewalk immediately behind me.
I was starting to suspect I might be in danger.
We’d been discussing emergent threats and surprise attacks in Electronic Combat class, so we might better protect ourselves in the outside world once we left school. I knew that when faced with a sudden attack, I should follow the Emergent Situation Protocols, step one of which is to seek cover immediately before attempting to analyze the situation further. At the moment, I’d just left the park and was only a few feet from the door of Carother’s Clothing Boutique, which was our chemistry laboratory. I ducked inside just as another explosion atomized the sidewalk where I had been standing a moment before.
Inside, I performed an expert tactical roll right into a chair, entangling its legs with mine and just generally screwing up the whole maneuver. While I kicked and cursed at the inconsiderate and poorly designed chair, a middle-aged woman with dark, neatly parted hair and wearing a black suit and tie stood up in the front of the room.
“Young lady!” she admonished. “Class is in session, and you are distracting our work. Please leave!”
“Things are exploding out there!” I pointed out from behind an overturned desk nobody had even been using anyway.
“The weather is not my problem. We are attempting to synthesize polymers, and you are disturbing us.”
“Listen, lady. You can take your polymers and stick—”
I might have gone on, but that was when the storefront windows became a bigger problem than her by exploding in precisely the way you don’t want windows to explode. The shock hit the table I’d hid behind and knocked me farther into the room, and also untangled my legs, which was a plus.
A few younger students who had been carefully stirring flasks of various fluids a moment before stepped cautiously away from their experiments, waiting for the hullabaloo to die down. A few of them yelped in surprise, and a couple giggled and clapped. One of them helped me up, patting me on the back.
Sudden disaster was a regular feature at the School, so students tended to take it in stride, even when it might have been wiser to run away screaming. Some of the kids were wandering to the edges of the room, but most were just sitting there, playing the important role of Potential Victim. I shouted for them to get under cover, and maybe three listened.
Next I followed step two of the Emergent Situation Protocols and attempted to identify the threat. This was simple because just then the threat swooped down onto the street and hung hovering in the air right in front of where the windows had been. What I saw was a terrifying, compact car–sized mass of tentacles, teeth, rage, and slime. I couldn’t believe my eyes, but there was no denying it. I was looking at the disgusting, shockingly terrifying form of an Old One.
If you don’t know what an Old One is, I kind of envy you. Allow me to ruin your blissful ignorance. On this earth there are a certain number of nasty, very smelly, and utterly evil interdimensional creatures who call themselves the Old Ones. Because they’re old. Clever, huh?
I was one of only a handful of Old One survivors, people who had seen one of them in person and could still feed and dress themselves without assistance. I briefly wondered at the odds that a second Old One had infiltrated the School and was trying to blow up a chemistry class, but just then the Old One roared in a completely animalistic way and thrust its tentacles forward into the classroom. I decided I didn’t care how it had gotten in.
As soon as the Old One’s considerable form made it into the room, the windows began automatically repairing themselves, sealing us in with it. That’s normal, by the way. Most of the important bui
ldings at the School were constructed from materials impregnated with nanoreconstructors, which are millions of microscopic robots that fix things as soon as they’re broken (which was often, in my experience).
I thought back to my training, again thanking my good luck that we had just studied this kind of thing in eCombat class. Step three of the Emergent Situation Protocols was to consider my options—to decide whether to flee from the threat, or to stand and fight it.
Running was a possibility. I’d been in the building a number of times and knew the class had a back exit and a hatch that led to the underground tunnel network that ran beneath everything in town. The problem was that the class was filled with seven- and eight-year-old kids, none of whom was able to stand up against an Old One. They had a teacher, but the moment the Old One appeared, the aforementioned teacher had made use of one of the aforementioned exit routes and was gone. Nice. I doubted I could get all the kids through a door in less than five minutes on a good day. That meant I needed to put up a fight to give them more time.
Because Old Ones are interdimensional by nature, they can move pretty quickly when they want to, but for some reason, this particular Old One was having trouble moving through the room and kept getting hung up on tables and chairs. No complaints from me there.
The mood in the room had changed, and now none of the kids in the class thought anything was funny. That was probably because, without protection, they wouldn’t last long, and worse, the only protection they had was me.
Back to the protocols. Step four was to assess my assets. I had my quantum agar bracelet, which was extremely useful in most situations, but it didn’t generally work against Old Ones.
I also kept my gravitational disruptor on me at all times. It’s a small weapon that creates powerful, localized distortions in gravity. It couldn’t kill an Old One but could push it around and generally irritate it—so that was something. If I could buy some time, I could make an amplifier and make the disruptor more powerful. But this wasn’t an electronics class, so they didn’t have anything that could—
The Unspeakable Unknown Page 1
