by Ned Rust
“Admiring our grounds fauna?” asked Kempton.
“Your what?” asked Patrick, gauging Kempton’s glance. A few hundred yards distant a large flock of blue-collared sheep, cows, goats, and llamas was milling about.
“Oh, like the animals in your yard, right? They’re for mowing the ball fields?”
“Of course,” said Kempton.
“And what’s the deal with the trench?” asked Patrick. Past the animals was a long, shallow concrete depression.
“The manure culvert?”
Patrick raised an eyebrow.
“Come on,” said Kempton, sitting down and gesturing for Patrick to join him. The green fields down below and off to the sides were flanked by jumbotrons. For the moment, they all seemed to be showing the same shimmering spider-stop-sign symbol that had been on Magister Dorkenlaffer’s and Bostrel the Nostril’s uniforms:
“So,” he said to Kempton. “Are we going to be watching a game?”
“We’ll be playing a game,” said Kempton. “But, first—in a couple terts—there’s going to be the commencement address from the provost.”
“Oh,” said Patrick. “What are terts?”
“Umm,” he said, looking suspiciously at Patrick, “you know, ten quats?”
“What are quats?”
“You don’t measure time in quints, quats, terts, deuces, and dunts?”
Patrick shook his head and Kempton, sighing like he was being forced to explain things to a not-very-bright kindergartner, held up his screen with what appeared to be a Wikipedia entry. The subject heading read, “tImkEping.”
“So,” continued Kempton, “a quint is the smallest common increment of time measurement, right? One one-hundred-thousandth of a day. You know, count, ‘one-Missouri, two-Missouri, three-Missouri’—and each of those is about a quint. And a quint is a tenth of a quat, so count ten quints and—” He broke off and stood up, exclaiming, “There he is!”
Patrick looked down to the field even as the world exploded around them. He reflexively dropped down in front of his seat and covered his ears. The initial blast was followed by a series of rumbling notes that kind of sounded like a man—or a giant—talking. Another noise assaulted him next, a noise like a cresting tidal wave of applause and human voices and—
Patrick cautiously opened one eye, then the other. Everybody in the bleachers was jumping and cheering. He removed his hands from his ears, stood, and saw—down on the field at a podium and simultaneously playing upon the massive 3D jumbotrons—Bostrel the Nostril. The man was red-faced and fierce-eyed now, the cords on his neck standing out like cables under a tent canopy.
“We have a problem!” said the big-nosed man, waving impatiently for the crowd to sit. To Patrick, the problem was obvious: they had the volume up about fifty times too high. He clamped his hands back on his ears and looked around, astonished that nobody else seemed to even be flinching. A person in the next town could easily have made out every word.
The provost continued, “Your achievements this yie deserve recognition and, I daresay, real praise.
“But I’m not here to just pat you on the head and send you to the next term.”
The man’s eyebrows descended on his face and his fist on the lectern.
“Now is not the time for congratulations. Now is not the time for self-satisfaction.
“GRAVE PERIL is at our door!
“A menace like none we have ever known threatens to upend all the assiduous work of the Minder, the Seer, Rex, your parents, and all of us. The approaching new yie, the springtime of our birthright, can assuredly become a waking nightmare!
“You know the menace of which I speak?”
The kids around Patrick quivered in their seats.
“ANARCHISTS!!!” he screamed as the jumbotrons projected images of monsters like the one from Kempton’s game.
Patrick winced at the pain in his ears.
“The Deacons inform us that these filthy scum, these degenerate solipsists, these haters of order and Nature and peace, these self-serving monsters, these agents of entropy have chosen this moment to wage an all-out campaign of terror!
“Our resolve must be like titanium-ceramic alloy!” he screamed. The images showed cities on fire, people running scared, soot-stained children crying in open fields.
“We MUST NOT waver, we MUST NOT flinch, we MUST NOT abandon our responsibilities, we MUST NOT question or doubt our course, and what they have done to us we MUST NEVER FORGET!
“To do so,” he added solemnly as the screens went blank and then filled with the image of a middle-aged man in a black turtleneck.
Kempton elbowed Patrick to get his attention. “That’s Rex,” he said solicitously. “Do you recognize him now?”
Patrick shook his head. The man somehow looked like a cross between Steve Jobs and The Rock.
“To forget,” the Provost repeated for emphasis, “would be to fail the Seer and the Minder himself.
“‘Why did they do it?’ we wonder. And why are those that remain continuing to flout Rex’s Tenets? Why are they maliciously hacking our networks? Why are they impeding effective governance? Why are they tampering with the Minder-given order of Nature and turning genetic abominations loose upon us? Why are they attempting to disrupt the visit of our first emissary from Earth since Rex himself? Tell me now!!!”
“They’re Evil!” screamed every student in the grandstand.
“I can’t HEAR you!” the provost screamed back.
“THEY’RE EVIL!”
There was a thunderclap as he again pounded his fist on the lectern. “And, so, what quality must we embrace—on a daily basis, for every waking dunt—to ensure they don’t carry off their nefarious plots!? What is our greatest weapon?!!”
“Vigilance!” shouted the students.
“And what do we do if we see something unusual?! We—”
“INFORM!!” screamed the crowd as the screens projected the eye symbol Patrick had seen on his binky.
“Louder!” screamed the man. “If you see something, you—”
“INFORM!!!!!”
“With your attention, with your focus, with your courage to observe and, yes, inform officials of any unusual occurrences, any potential malfeasances, we will be victorious. We will root them out and we will fulfill the Seer’s vision … and the Minder’s plan. We have withstood the worst plague in all of humanity’s history—and we can finally triumph over the enemy!
“Now,” said the big-nosed man, suddenly smiling brightly as the screens filled with images of streaking military aircraft and exploding rockets, “let’s take a measure of this moment’s importance and apply it toward our opponents on the playing fields of this fine institution of learning: Let the games begin!”
* * *
“Kill the carrier? Like where one guy carries the ball?” asked Patrick. He was a little surprised. He’d seen it played—and played some himself—in backyards and neighborhood playgrounds, but he’d never heard of it being played as a legitimate sport. Somehow it seemed pretty dangerous for a school to ever approve, much less a school for a bunch of people who didn’t even seem to like to shake hands.
“Really?” he asked.
Kempton cocked his head. “What do you mean? Don’t you have kill the carrier on Earth?”
“Well, we do, but not at schools.”
“Just a pro league, then? But why not at schools? What better place is there to memorialize the Pandemic?”
“The Pandemic? Is this what that kid mentioned in your class?”
“Yes, where the Anarchists killed more than 99 percent of the population.”
“Oh,” said Patrick, a little shocked. “When did that happen?”
“Fifty yies ago.”
“Oh, wow,” said Patrick, his head spinning. Could it be true? Ninety-nine percent of the entire world had died? And the people who made it, these Anarchists, were still around? No wonder Bostrel had been so worked up in his speech just now.
“So you did
n’t have a Pandemic on Earth?” asked Kempton.
“I don’t think so,” said Patrick.
“But you have the sport? What does the carrier symbolize for you, then?”
“Symbolize?” asked Patrick.
“It’s symbolism, you know—the person carrying the ball is the one carrying the virus. That’s why they must be stopped!”
“Oh,” said Patrick. “I think the ball’s just the ball on Earth.”
“Well, you see, here on Ith, playing the sport helps make sure we’ll never forget.”
“That makes sense.”
“Plus”—Kempton brightened—“it’s awesome fun! Here, let’s go get picked!”
They had come to the edge of the boys’ echelon-six crowd, just then divvying itself up into teams. The two captains were tall, broad-chested, and—despite the heavy lipstick and purple eye shadow they wore—were obviously handsome and self-confident. Also, the only difference between them appeared to be the color of their shirts. One wore blue, the other red.
“Twins?” Patrick asked Kempton as they attached themselves to the line of still-unpicked kids.
“Yes, Breeden and Carl Luntz. Either would be the most athletic and popular boy in the class but there are two of them! Can you believe it?!”
Patrick had seen harder-to-believe things even in the past ten minutes but figured there wasn’t much point saying so.
“Say,” he said, “where are all the adults?”
Now that the provost was no longer at the podium, it struck Patrick there wasn’t a single coach, referee, or teacher outside with them.
“Inside doing work, of course,” said Kempton.
“But who’s going to keep an eye on things?”
“What do you mean?”
“What if there’s a fight or something?”
“A fight?”
“Sure, or bullying.”
“What?”
“What if somebody gets hurt?”
“Then responders will come,” said Kempton, raising his binky.
“They really let you do sports and stuff without any grownups around?”
“Why not?”
“Your team gets Kempton, we get Patrick Griffin,” interrupted the red-shirted twin.
“No way, Breeden,” said the blue-shirted one. “Your team gets Kempton.”
“Those guys,” whispered Kempton to Patrick. “They’re trying to make you feel welcome.”
“Tell you what,” said Patrick, a little put off at how they were treating Kempton and realizing that here was a place where he could take advantage of this being a dream—and his dream at that.
“How about,” he said, “I get to pick which team I join?”
The two boys—and every other sixth-echelon student—looked at Patrick with surprise.
“Who’s got a coin?” asked Patrick.
“A coin?” replied Kempton.
“You know—a quarter, a dime, a penny…” Patrick’s voice trailed off as he absorbed the looks of bewilderment around him. A few kids unholstered and began examining their binkies.
“Don’t you guys have any change?”
“Change?” asked the blue-shirted twin. “You mean, like, alter the rules?”
“Money,” said Patrick.
“Like pirates’ doubloons?” asked a kid.
“He means coin money from the dark ages,” said another, looking up from his screen.
“You guys don’t have money at all?” asked Patrick.
“Umm,” said the blue-shirted twin.
“No-o,” said the red-shirted twin.
“‘Money,’” said Kempton, reading from his binky, “‘is an archaic system used to measure and mete out power in many suboptimized, nontransparent social organizations.’”
“Nerd!” said somebody.
“All right,” said Patrick, realizing that this conversation was going no place fast. He stooped and plucked a blade of grass. “I’ve got a piece of grass and I’m going to put my hands behind my back and whoever picks the hand with it gets me on their team. And Kempton goes to the other. That’s fair, right?”
Most of them seemed to agree. Patrick put his hands together behind his back and—so nobody could see—transferred the blade to his left hand, and then back to his right.
“Who gets to pick?” asked Kempton.
“It doesn’t matter—you guys decide.”
“You pick, Carl,” said the red-shirted twin to the blue-shirted twin.
“Fine by me, Breeden,” said Carl.
“All right,” said Patrick. “Right or left?”
“Your right or left, or his right or left?” asked Kempton.
Patrick sighed and looked to Carl. “How about your right or left. Or, why don’t you just point?”
“Don’t let me down and give me Kempton, ’kay?” the jock replied with a mascaraed wink.
Somebody started chanting “Poo-ber! Poo-ber! Poo-ber!” and soon pretty much the whole crowd had joined in.
Three things became clear to Patrick in that moment. First, he might not be Kempton’s biggest fan, but he didn’t quite hate him, either. Second, the playgrounds of Ith were not much different from those of Earth—if he’d seen one, he’d easily seen a hundred jocks-laughing-at-wimps moments like this. And, third, if Breeden and Carl were to move to Hedgerow Heights, they’d probably become instant best friends with Neil and his idiot lacrosse-playing friends.
When the chanting and laughing had somewhat subsided, Carl reached out and tapped Patrick’s right shoulder.
And then Patrick did something he’d never have done in a million years in real life: he raised his arm toward Carl and, instead of opening his fist and revealing the blade of grass it contained, he gave him a hand gesture that, had a teacher back home seen, would have earned Patrick detention. Here and now on the dreamed-up fields of the Educational Complex, however, his raised finger didn’t seem to cause anything but confusion.
“Does that mean he didn’t pick the grass?” asked Breeden.
Patrick felt his face flush hot.
“He seems upset,” said Carl.
“I guess he didn’t want to be on your team,” said Breeden.
“I guess you didn’t not want to be a dillhole,” said Carl to his twin brother.
“Look—Patrick Griffin’s ears are turning red!” shouted a small boy, pointing. Kids began oohing and ahing, and taking videos with their binkies.
“They’re like big, purple seashells!” said a flat-faced boy.
Patrick turned and aimed his finger at him.
“You really don’t know what this means?”
“‘You’re number one’?” guessed the boy.
“No,” said Patrick.
“Does it mean ‘no grass’?” asked Carl.
“No, it doesn’t mean ‘no grass,’ Jock-o.”
“What’s ‘jock-o’ mean?” asked Kempton.
“Forget it,” said Patrick, opening his fist to reveal the grass. “Let’s just play.”
“In that case, your team is up,” said Kempton, gesturing for Patrick to follow Carl and the other boys onto the field.
“Here,” said Patrick, starting to undo his binky belt, “where do we put these?”
“What are you doing?” asked Kempton.
“You wear these even when you play kill the carrier?”
“Why would you take it off?”
Patrick guessed binkies must be more rugged than the cell phones he knew from Earth.
It seemed like a good theory at the time.
CHAPTER 22
Crackin’ Up
Patrick’s father and older brother, Neil, were on their way back from the Tool Town Superstore in Paramus where an investigation of hose gaskets had been cut short by a call from Mrs. Griffin. Mr. Griffin wasn’t saying what was going on beyond “Your brother’s done something stupid,” but that was good enough for Neil. Patrick never got in trouble, so between that and the fact that they’d only had to spend five minutes inside t
hat monumentally boring hardware megastore, the morning could have been going a lot worse.
But while the prospect of some justice coming down on his little brother was pretty cool, what he’d just heard on the radio almost made him forget the entire situation: the news dude had just said the first interesting thing in his entire droning, epically boring life.
Neil reached for the volume knob so he could better hear over the squeaky wipers.
“What do you think you’re doing, Neil?”
“Shhh! Architeuthis, Dad, Architeuthis!”
“What?”
“Architeuthis,” repeated Neil impatiently, “the giant squid, Dad! Shhh!”
Scientists from Branledore University have rescued a juvenile Architeuthis sanctipauli, the legendary giant squid, from a fishing net near the Comoros Islands. The creature was alive and has been placed in a high-pressure tank aboard the research vessel Christy Jenkins. Mission leaders hope to transport the cephalopod—the first giant squid successfully kept alive in captivity—back to a permanent facility in Corpus Christi, Texas, for study and public display.
The largest invertebrate creatures on the planet, giant squids have been known to grow more than forty feet in length. They are believed to range throughout the deeper portions of the world’s major oceans. This specimen, it is reported, is just over fifteen feet in length.
And now the weekend weather: it looks as if a high—
“They’re going to kill it,” said Neil, turning down the volume.
“Would you believe this joker?” asked his dad, gesturing at the tricked-out Range Rover in front of them. The big SUV had stopped just shy of the intersection. “That is known as a yellow light, not a red light!” he yelled at the windshield.
“Can I borrow your phone?” asked Neil.
