Destination Unknown

by K. A. Applegate

  All at once the hole was there, right in front of him, right below him, down he went, down into a field of black, dotted with stars. It was a whirlpool, a sink drain, a vacuum hose, sucking him out into space.

  Space?

  Down and through and all at once MoSteel was sucking on nothingness. His skin was freezing cold. He knew hed be dead in a matter of minutes, if not seconds.

  He tumbled, weightless, twisted, saw forty, fifty strange, hovering creatures, liquid blue-steel, floating in space below the hole.

  He turned, unable to control anything, nothing to touch, twirled, and into his field of vision rose an object so massive, so vast it seemed as big as a planet. It was a maze of protrusions, towers, bubbles, clefts, doughnuts, cubes, and pyramids.

  It extended far beyond his field of vision in every direction. And it was beautiful.

  Some surfaces were blazing bright as though filled with the light of a sun shining through green or red or yellow glass. Other parts were mirrored, showing nothing but distorted, twisted reflections of the stars. There were transparencies, opacities, glowing milky translucences. There were long streams of living light that bounced and curved and danced. There were shadows so deep they seemed to swallow light.

  It was impossible to take in. He was an ant clinging to the undercarriage of a car, too tiny and insignificant even to be able to imagine the size and shape and purpose of the vast object above him.

  MoSteel wondered if he was already dead. Wondered if his mind was already gone.

  Then pain reminded him that he still lived. His frostbitten flesh slammed into something hard and unyielding.

  He grabbed, reflex taking over. He grabbed and his hands slipped, numb, insensate fingers clawed at a surface that allowed no purchase. But he could wrap his arms around it. He wrapped his arms and held on, with his head swimming, lungs starving, draining the last molecules of oxygen into his heart.

  He held on to the creature, the smooth, glossy, liquid-metal creature, as it fired engines within its hind legs and zoomed up toward the ragged hole in the bottom of the ship.

  MoSteel saw the others, a cluster, rising all together with what seemed grim determination, up through the hole into the village, up through the hole in the hill. Farther down the ship, a quarter mile away, a second band of the creatures. More beyond that. At least four, five separate assaults, all taking place at once.

  MoSteel held on with the last of his strength. Up and up, up through the hole. Up toward a pale-blue, Brueghel sky.

  Then they were through and MoSteel could feel the warmth, not warm but warmer than empty space. But still no air. Still his lungs seized and his diaphragm convulsed.

  As if it had belatedly discovered his presence, the creature shook him off. MoSteel was ten, fifteen feet above ground level when he lost his grip.

  He fell. He had weight again. He fell back toward space. Back to the hole. Back down/up into the stars.

  He reached feebly, woozy, half-blind, trying to grab the lip of the hole. But there was no way, too far, emptiness beneath him.

  And all at once a square of steel appeared.

  MoSteel landed hard. His knees crumpled. He fell facedown, slid, jerked the wrong way, confused, and now his legs were dangling out into empty space.

  Squares. Appearing all around. Ten-by-ten-foot squares, running around the hole, racing in a circle, filling in the gap, appearing out of nowhere, simply appearing. Like dominoes, they rippled. Coming toward him!

  He yanked his legs up and a second later rested them on a solid surface.

  Steel? Hard, anyway. The hole was closing, healing itself.

  He was thinking. Yes. Breathing! Air, thin, but there. Thin better than nothing, a lot better. He had to expand his lungs to the max with every intake, gasping like a fish on land, but awareness was returning, oxygen was in his blood once more.

  With an audible snap the hole was closed.

  And now a wall of dirt was appearing, materializing. MoSteel was lying in a hole, facedown on steel, and the soil beneath the village was being replaced. It was like a wave rushing toward him, a ten-foot tsunami of dirt.

  He got to his feet, ran straight toward the advancing wall, scrambled up, riding the wave of dirt like a surfer. He rose on the swell, windmilling his arms, kicking frantically with his feet.

  And then, it was over. He was on his knees behind a rough-hewn stable. Two peasant women were doing something with a large copper pot.

  He was gasping, sick, stomach convulsing, retching dry heaves, and still so cold his body was shaking like he had malaria. There was blood draining from his ears, blood seeping from his nose and eyes.

  Okay, MoSteel said, that was enough of a rush. Even for me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO WELL, SOMEWHERE THERES A BRIDGE.

  Jobs watched as the blue-black creatures rose up through the hole in the village. Up through the hole in the hill above.

  Machines or creatures or something in between, it was impossible to tell. They were quadrupeds, four sturdy legs supporting a high-arched body. They reminded him of Halloween cats, backs high. A head was carried forward, like any grazing animal might, but from the sides of the head grew two tentacles. They waved like snakes, like guardians of the face.

  They were armored, metallic, blued steel that moved like plastic. Or perhaps the seeming armor was actually the creature.

  The rear legs fired short bursts, like maneuvering rockets. They flew but not fast, not like missiles or even like jets. They lumbered. Like helicopters perhaps. Clumsy.

  Up through the two holes they came, dozens of them. And Jobs thought he saw more in the far distance, behind the Tower of Babel.

  They rose above the landscape, a blurry nightmare to Jobss oxygen-deprived brain.

  Then, air. A little at first, more. His lungs drew greedily. His head began to clear.

  The hole was being filled. Squares of steel were appearing, plate against plate, rimming the hole, healing the scar, shutting out space. The steel plates simply materialized, entire, one after another. Like something out of a cartoon.

  Now dirt appeared, eight or ten feet of it, covering the plates. Upon the dirt, right behind its advance edge, the buildings of the Brueghel village were once again taking shape.

  The hole was healing. But the quadruped aliens had made it through.

  They assembled in the air. Jobs counted. Hard to be sure, but he thought there were thirty-six. Thirty or forty, any way.

  They reminded Jobs of his own people, of the Wakers. They seemed hesitant, hovering, unsure.

  Mo! Miss Blake! Jobs yelled. The risk seemed acceptable: The aliens were ignoring the peasants that reappeared to populate the village.

  Olga? I mean, Ms. Gonzalez? Jobs called. No answer. Oh, god, had they all been pulled out into space? What about the others, the main group? What about Edward?

  He yelled again. No answer. He got to his feet and scanned in every direction.

  Then he spotted MoSteel rounding a stable and felt a flood of relief. His friend was walking though the reconstituted village, carrying half a dozen pies.

  Mo! Over here!

  MoSteel came at a run, pausing only to glance up repeatedly at the hovering armada of armored aliens.

  Is my mom with you? MoSteel demanded.

  I dont know where she is, Mo. Or Miss Blake, either, Jobs said.

  This aint a planet, Duck, MoSteel said.

  Yeah, I noticed.

  This is a ship. Were inside some whompin big ship.

  Yeah. And those guys up there just boarded it forcibly. He looked closely at his friend.

  He and MoSteel watched the aliens.

  I was outside, migo. Caught a ride back inside with one of those Blue Meanies. You should see this ship, Jobs. God, I hope my moms okay.

  The more Jobs watched, the more he became convinced that the Blue Meanies were space suits of a sort, small, individualized spacecraft almost. It was in the way they moved: not with the ease of a biological creature or with the s
peed and assurance of a sophisticated robot. They were clumsy, uncertain. Creatures within machines.

  The hole was completely repaired. The village was back. The wall Jobs was on rebuilt itself, like a video on rewind. Bricks appeared, piled one atop another. He jumped to the ground and winced at the pain in his back.

  MoSteel yelled, Mom! Mom! Can you hear me?

  There came an answer. Over here. In the barn.

  They found her with Violet Blake and Billy, all in the darkness of what might have been a barn but for the absence of animals, or even animal smells.

  Everyone okay? Jobs asked.

  What about those creatures out there? Olga asked, ignoring Jobss query and hugging her son.

  I dont know, Jobs said. They dont seem to care about us.

  This is not a planet, Violet Blake said. I was looking at space out there. Stars. Were in space.

  Seems like, Jobs said. He was distracted. Of course it was a ship, not a planet. Why hadnt he figured it out before? Thats why the shuttle showed no reentry scarring. Thats why the solar sails hadnt burned away. They hadnt landed, theyd been picked up by a ship that could simply match velocity.

  It was the scale that had thrown him off. It was impossible to conceive of a ship vast enough to contain a tenth of what theyd already seen.

  Hey, you can eat these, MoSteel announced. He held out a pie for Jobs.

  Whats it taste like?

  Like you care? You live on jerky and chips. Tastes like . . . I dont know, maybe some kind of meat.

  Jobs hesitated, but there was no point resisting. He had to eat. He took a tentative bite. Tastes like . . . I dont know. Like chicken?

  Thats original, Violet said. She took a pie for herself. It does taste like chicken. Maybe it is.

  Jobs edged back to the door and peeked outside. He expected to see the aliens still hovering. They were, but now they had formed up into a V. Like geese heading south.

  They look like theyre getting ready to leave, MoSteel observed.

  Hard to tell. They arent exactly human.

  The V formation hovered and rotated slowly counterclockwise. Then, with sudden, shockingly smooth speed, they jerked back clockwise.

  They fired their jets and the entire formation shot ahead.

  The lead alien ran smack into a steel plate that appeared in the air before him. Jobs could hear the ringing of metal on metal. The alien crumpled and fell.

  They were all moving now and as each advanced, a steel square appeared to block him. But now the clumsy moves were abandoned. The aliens shot forward and up and around, dodging, zooming, accelerating, and decelerating. Some dropped down to just above ground level and blew between buildings, smacking carelessly into peasants.

  It was a ruse! Jobs said. They were playing dead! Hiding their speed. They were hiding their capabilities, playing lame.

  It was a dogfight, a melee. The plates materialized, floating steel walls. The Blue Meanies evaded them.

  The plates caught many. Many crumpled and fell to the ground.

  But others escaped.

  As Jobs and the others watched, a dozen or more of the blue-steel space suits burned jets and disappeared beyond the Tower of Babel.

  I wonder where theyre going? Olga mused.

  To the bridge, Jobs said.

  The what? What bridge?

  Jobs watched them disappear from sight. Their flight was no longer obstructed. The defenses of the ship had either been exhausted, or the ship had simply decided to let the Blue Meanies pass.

  This is a ship, Jobs said. We didnt land, we were picked up. We were picked up, we were attacked, eight of us were kidnapped. Were separated from the others. Now this. Well, somewhere theres a bridge, or the equivalent. He nodded as if to himself, accepting his own analysis. Someone or something flies this ship. Someone or somethings got an agenda. Someone or something is in charge. Thats where those Blue Meanies are going. And Ill tell you what else: Its where we better be going, too.

  It was a long speech for Jobs and he felt a little embarrassed. He was going to ask if anyone else had a different opinion, but MoSteel slapped him on the back and grinned.

  Sounds good, Duck. To the bridge, so my boy here can figure it all out. Lets travel.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as unsold and destroyed to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this stripped book.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 555 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.

  ISBN 0-4397-3996-9

  Copyright © 2001 by Katherine Applegate.

  All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc.

  SCHOLASTIC, APPLE PAPERBACKS, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

  REMNANTS and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Katherine Applegate.

  121110987654321 1234567/0

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  First Scholastic printing, September 2001

  Cover Art: Jonathan Barkat

  Cover Design: Ursula S. Albano

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE IS ANYONE THERE?

  CHAPTER TWO IF THIS IS A DREAM, ITS THE MOTHER, FATHER, SISTER, AND BROTHER OF WEIRD.

  CHAPTER THREE OKAY, THIS IS NOT CERTIFIED ORGANIC. THIS IS MESSED UP.

  CHAPTER FOUR WE HAVE TO DO WHAT WE CAN.

  CHAPTER FIVE YOU DONT WANT TO SEE.

  CHAPTER SIX ARE WE THERE YET?

  CHAPTER SEVEN SUFFOCATE IN HERE OR SUFFOCATE OUT THERE. TAKE YOUR CHOICE.

  CHAPTER EIGHT USUALLY THERES NO PAIN, BUT THIS MAY BE DIFFERENT.

  CHAPTER NINE WE DIDNT LAND. WE WERE CAPTURED.

  CHAPTER TEN THE BABY . . . SOMETHINGS NOT RIGHT.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN YOU MAY NEED A SOLDIER.

  CHAPTER TWELVE THEYRE HEADING FOR OUR PEOPLE!

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN YOU DONT GO DEER HUNTING WITH A TANK.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN AND MAYBE WERE ANTS TRYING TO FIGURE OUT A PICNIC.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN DONT LET ME LIVE.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN ILL COUNT TO TEN SO YOULL KNOW WHEN ITS HAPPENING.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN TENS ONLY A MAGIC NUMBER IF YOU GOT TEN FINGERS.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN WHO ARE YOU? WHAT DO YOU WANT WITH US?

  CHAPTER NINETEEN YOU DONT LIKE THE WAY THINGS ARE, YOU CAN GO, TOO.

  CHAPTER TWENTY THIS IS AN AWFUL LOT OF TROUBLE FOR OUR ALIENS TO GO TO.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE THAT WAS ENOUGH OF A RUSH.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO WELL, SOMEWHERE THERES A BRIDGE.