2017 Young Explorer's Adventure Guide

by Maggie Allen

  The tiny Lando shrugged. “Maybe, but if we do, it would’ve been packed long ago. Not exactly a necessity.”

  “Gotcha,” I replied. “I’ll ask Dad to borrow his. See you in a few. Cinnamon Chou, over and out.”

  I ended the link, but before I could return to our quarters, Dad stepped into the corridor.

  “Just the person I needed to see,” I said, giving him my brightest smile.

  Dad cocked an eyebrow, glanced from my dazzling smile to the finger hovering above my link and said, “What do you need, sugar cookie? Or rather, what does Lando need?”

  I grimaced. Only Dad could get away with comparing me to an overly sweet pastry. “Lando’s Inarian has escaped and he doesn’t have time to wait for it to reappear on its own.”

  Dad nodded. “You’re hoping for a DNA detector?”

  I upped the wattage on my smile and nodded.

  “I don’t know, Cinnamon. Those are delicate instruments, easily misread.”

  My smile morphed into a scowl in a nanosecond. “Really, Dad? You think I’d mistake Inarian DNA for, oh, I don’t know, a Tenarian tunnel rat?”

  Dad had the grace to drop his gaze. “No. I know you’d use it properly.” He sighed, stared at the ceiling for a moment, then nodded. “Follow me, Detective Chou.”

  My grin returned, and I skipped down the corridor at Dad’s heels.

  Space station corridors can be very confusing. A person new to the station often thinks they all look alike, but they’re wrong. You just have to get used to the subtle clues. Since I’ve grown up on Space Station Zeta, I’m never lost. I can tell purple sector from blue without even having to resort to the colored chips embedded in the corridor walls and floors. I can tell the sectors by their odors.

  Green sector houses hydroponics and smells of nutrients, water and growing plants. Purple sector houses the market district. Purple always smells of hot oil, spices, and too many humans and aliens packed into too little space. Red sector is mechanical engineering. If you think nanobots and computer circuitry don’t have distinct odors, then you’ve never lived on a space station.

  And then there’s white sector. Medics and remedies; antiseptics and bile; with a stiff overlay of fear. I shivered. I hated even walking past white sector.

  But now I followed Dad to my favorite sector: blue. Blue sector is administration, which translates to military since Space Station Zeta is a Universal Star League station. As such the station is under the command and protection of the USL Fleet. Both of my parents are USL officers, so blue sector smells of peace, security, and home.

  Not that we lived in blue sector. All living quarters were in the central core—yellow sector. Yellow was further divided into crew and civilian quarters, and then by individual or family, but beyond that our station had no class boundaries. At least not where living quarters were concerned.

  Dad paused before the entrance to security, waited for the station to acknowledge his voice and retinal prints, and then strode inside when the entry irised open. I followed quickly. The door would’ve irised open for me as well, but why wait to be scanned when I could just stick close to Dad?

  Everyone but me wore blue and silver USL uniforms. The officers, like Dad, with insignia of rank emblazoned on chest and shoulder, the crew with the simple, stylized USL logo. Everyone saluted when Dad entered, since he was the ranking officer. When he returned their salute, they relaxed and called greetings to me as well.

  “Aikens,” Dad called, and a young man snapped to attention. “Please find an old DNA detector for Cinnamon. It doesn’t need to be state-of-the-art,” he continued, “just functional.”

  “Sir. Yes, sir.”

  Dad cocked a brow at me. “What are you waiting for, Detective Chou? Follow Aikens, collect your gear, and get out of my office.”

  I grinned, saluted, and ran to follow Aikens. I found him in the supply closet, rummaging through a box of outdated gear.

  “What are you up to today, Cinnamon?” he asked as he rooted through the box. “Why a DNA detector?”

  “My friend is cycling off-station today, and his Inarian escaped. I’m hoping to help him track it down before he ships out.”

  Aikens paused, dislodged a small electronic device, and pulled it free of the box. Thumbing it on, he checked the read-out, then nodded.

  “This should do the trick,” he said, handing the detector to me. “It’s got plenty of juice and is reading properly. Good luck with your search.”

  “Thanks! This should make it easy.” I saluted Aikens, ran back past Dad’s office and out into the station corridor. Now to get to Lando’s quarters on the double.

  I arrived at the Maxon family quarters in yellow sector sweaty and out of breath.

  “Hi … Mrs. Maxon …” I wheezed. “Is … Lando … home?”

  Lando’s mother gave me a distracted look and waved toward Lando’s room. “He’s in his room. Searching for Dumpling.”

  I nodded. “I heard,” I said, my breathing settling into a more normal pattern. “I’m here to help.”

  She turned back to the wardrobe she was inventorying. “I hope you can. We won’t be able to delay our departure for an Inarian.”

  “Understood,” I said, already on my way to join my friend. As the door whooshed open and I stepped into Lando’s room, he raced forward, grabbed my hand and pulled me to the habitat.

  “I think I’ve found where he got out,” he said, pointing to a junction between the main habitat and one of the tubular trails that allowed Dumpling to roam the edges of Lando’s room. “That connection is slightly loose. It doesn’t look wide enough for escape, but it’s the only possibility I’ve found.”

  I got down on my hands and knees to examine the evidence. Sure enough, Lando had discovered a half-inch gap between the main habitat and the tube.

  Now Inarians are small, but they’re not that small. Dumpling was at least six inches long, but while he looked like he was as round as he was long, he was actually little more than a walking ball of fluff. I’d seen him squeeze himself flat under his exercise wheel. No idea why he’d done that, but I’d witnessed it with my own two eyes. If he could get into that tiny space, he could ooze out through the loose connection Lando had discovered.

  I pulled the DNA detector out of my pocket and turned it on.

  “Okay,” I said, “this device is our best hope. Look around and find me a bit of his fur or blood, or, well, whatever might have his DNA.”

  I examined the escape point to see if he might have scraped himself and left a sample behind, but the smooth edges were clear. A whoop of victory told me that Lando had fared better.

  “Here, Cinnamon. I found a clump of fur.”

  I held my breath as we touched the DNA detector’s probe to the fur. “Let there be DNA,” I whispered. “Let there be DNA.” I knew enough about genetics to know that unless a hair has the follicle or root attached, you can’t get a DNA reading. I watched the meter’s read-out. Nothing.

  Carefully, I touched a different bit of the fur with the probe … and the screen lit. We had a reading!

  Lando said, “Yes!” and I exhaled in relief.

  “Now what?” he asked.

  “Now we follow Dumpling’s DNA trail.” I worked the dials on the device and locked in the sample reading. Now the screen would only light when matching DNA was detected.

  Crawling along Lando’s bedroom floor, we followed the trace evidence Dumpling had left behind. The trail led to a very small hole in the wall between Lando’s bedroom and the main room of the family’s quarters.

  I glanced at Lando and saw his shoulders sag. He was thinking the same thing I was…what if Dumpling found a way to scurry along inside the walls? We’d never be able to track him through the permaplastic.

  After a quick discussion of our options, we agreed that Lando would stay in his room beside the hole, while I ran into the main room to see if there was an exit anywhere nearby.

  I laid the DNA detector on the floor and tapped t
he wall, hoping to hear Lando tapping back. There! I was about six feet too far into the room. I moved toward his rappings, pleased to hear the noise getting louder. When I found the right place, I lay down on my stomach and searched the junction of floor and wall.

  “Lando!” I shouted into the little hole. “I found it. There’s a matching hole on this side.”

  “Did he come through?” Lando yelled back. “Does the DNA trail continue?”

  Rats! Or maybe I should say, Inarians! The detector was several feet away on the floor where I’d left it. I jumped up to retrieve it, just in time to see a loading dock worker push a floating cargo cart into the room. He’d come to collect some of the Maxons’ belongings, and he stopped the cart right over the DNA detector.

  If he allowed the cart to settle, he’d crush the instrument that was our only hope of finding Dumpling in time!

  “No!” I yelled. “Don’t settle the cart there. You’ll crush my gadget.”

  The dock worker stared at me, then checked around his feet, clearly confused. He was just about to lower the cart when I pulled a Dumpling and threw myself into the space under the cart. The way too small space to accommodate my bulk.

  “What the…” the worker said, and steered the cart into the center of the room, away from my flying feet and fingers. “Are you nuts, kid? This thing could break you in half.”

  I grabbed the detector and hugged it close to my hammering heart. “I know,” I answered, “but it would’ve pulverized my DNA detector.”

  Shaking his head at the lunacy of kids, the dock worker settled the cargo cart and began loading it with boxes.

  Moving back to the hole in the wall, I sank to the floor, closed my eyes, and allowed myself to simply breathe until Lando joined me.

  “Well?” he asked. “Do we have a trail, or don’t we?”

  I held the detector out to him. “You check,” I said. “I’m still recovering from a close encounter.”

  He cocked his head and gave me a quizzical expression, silently asking for an explanation, but I waved him toward the hole. I’d tell him all about it later, in a cyber-sending if not in person.

  Lando bent to the floor and a moment later gave a fist pump. “We have a trail,” he cried and crawled off toward the family kitchen.

  Thanks to Dad’s old DNA detector, we found Dumpling fifteen minutes later curled up in an empty kitchen cabinet, surrounded by bits of breakfast cereal. The cabinet door was firmly latched, with no cracks big enough for even the flattest Inarian to wriggle through.

  Lando and I decided that Dumpling must have already been in the cabinet when Mrs. Maxon gave the kitchen a final once-over and closed the door.

  With the over-full Inarian still sleeping off his cereal high, Lando and I set about disassembling his habitat and packing it for the journey. Dumpling would be confined to a small carry-case for the duration, but he seemed blissfully unconcerned.

  I walked my best friend and his family to the loading dock. Not the cargo loading dock. The people loading dock. There wasn’t much to see, just a little waiting room with a door that led into a tube. It reminded me of Dumpling’s tubular trail system, only this tube would carry my best friend in the whole universe to the space ship that would take him from our home on Space Station Zeta to his new home on Centauri Three.

  I wasn’t sure how many light years would separate us, but it really didn’t matter. Too many to bridge with a tubular trail.

  The light over the exit turned green, and passengers began to move slowly to the tube.

  Mr. and Mrs. Maxon each hugged me and thanked me again for rescuing Dumpling … and thereby their son. Then they stepped aside so Lando could approach.

  “Well,” he said, staring at his shoes, “I guess this is it, Cinnamon.”

  “Yeah,” I sighed. “I guess so.” I looked at the floor, too, willing the tears not to flow.

  “Thanks for being my friend.” He touched my hand, and suddenly my arms were around him, hugging him tight.

  “You’ll always be my friend,” I whispered, my throat tight with tears I didn’t want to shed. “Light years can’t change that.”

  He nodded and we stepped apart.

  “Take care of Dumpling for me,” I said. Then a thought struck. “Here. Take this.” I thrust the DNA detector into his hands. “It’s old and Dad doesn’t need it … and you never know when you might need to track an Inarian.”

  Lando smiled, brushed the back of his hand across his eyes, and said, “Thanks, Cinnamon. You’re the best.”

  A moment later Lando and his parents disappeared into the tube. I stood there staring at the empty passageway until a blue and silver clad security crewmember closed and locked the door.

  I walked away from the dock, heading back to tell Dad what had happened to his DNA detector, when I heard a woman speaking. A woman who sounded like she was trying to be excited but was failing rather spectacularly.

  Turning, I saw a tall, willowy blonde woman in the blue and silver of the USL leading a blue-eyed girl with light brown hair pulled into braids. “Don’t worry, Sammy. I’m sure we’ll be happy here. You’ll make friends in no time, and I … I’ll learn my new post quickly. Everything is going to be A-Okay.”

  She raised her eyes, saw me watching, and gave a little wave. “See, honey? There’s a little girl about your age. Maybe she can help us find our quarters.”

  I straightened my shoulders, pasted on a smile, and walked over to the newcomers. This Sammy person might not be able to replace Lando, but I could definitely help them find their quarters.

  After all, Space Station Zeta was my home, and I was a detective. I could find anything!

  Vasilisa and the Delivery

  by Joey DiZoglio

  Joey DiZoglio is a young writer whose work has been selected as a finalist in the Providence Journal H.P. Lovecraft Short Story Contest. His nonfiction pieces encompass video game criticism and they have appeared on the websites: First Person Scholar, Ontological Geek, Kill Screen; as well as in the digital publication The Arcade Review. Joey is currently enrolled in his first year at Warren Alpert Medical School and he looks forward to integrating medical themes into future science fiction stories. His Twitter handle is @JoeyDiZoglio

  Vasilisa led the family’s mechanical horse up the path, pulling a sled carrying a dismally small load of wood. Frozen soil and gravel crunched under the metallic hooves. The dark trees, wanting only silence, glared at their transgression. The beast was a fine robot, fit for both forest and steppe and powered by what might be considered magic in the old country. In truth, it was only a small hydrogen engine that energized the beast's walking gyros and rudimentary brain. It was the family’s most prized possession, their last tie to the colony—a dream put on hold for many years.

  She soon reached the end of the path and saw her farm in the shadows of the black birches. The snow began to fall once more as she passed under the gate. After unhitching the horse, she commanded it to go rest in the stable and protect its joints from the shards of ice growing on its legs. It obeyed and left tracks as it trotted through fresh snow. Vasilisa trudged to the front door bearing a load of logs. The handle was frozen, so she resolutely kicked the door until a family member heard her signal that the delivery was here.

  The wide and hopeful eyes of her brother appeared briefly when the door cracked open before vanishing back behind the thick portal where the cold could not sting his cheeks and long nose. Vasilisa slipped past the threshold and heard her grandmother call out.

  “Ivan, Eugene! Help your sister with the wood!” Little hands scurried forth and reached up to their tall sister to lighten her load. Vasilisa stepped back outside twice more to retrieve the rest of the day’s haul. Now free, her hands fell to her sides as she took in deep breaths of warm air. Snowflakes trickled down her brow and ears and chin, staining her blonde hair and her gray scarf dark with icy liquid. She heard her father come from behind and let him fumble over the frozen buttons and whisk away the wet scarf and
overcoat that clung to her body. Then the family went back to their chores while Vasilisa stood, half asleep, and waited.

  Chairs creaked and the wooden floor rumbled when the family was ready to gather for dinner. The two boys, grandmother, father, and Vasilisa recited a prayer to God and country as they let the steam from their bowls wash over their faces. Grandmother broke the misty silence with her hoarse voice:

  “Tonight is the last of the wild boar; eat up, children.” Vasilisa held in a sigh and thought of that hunt and how she and her father sang under the gray sun as the boar heaved and gasped its lasts breaths. And then she thought of the rage he almost kept hidden when they discovered it was pregnant and how, in his haste, father ordered Vasilisa to shoot and kill the spoils of five hunts with one bullet. The gelatin of thrice-boiled bones and tendons clung to the lips of their spoons and made the stew slimy on their tongues. Vasilisa’s father excused himself from the table to bring a bowl to her mother, bedridden with pneumonia. The rest at the table continued to dip their warped and crooked spoons into the ever shallower bowls. As the boys scooped out the last tender morsels of boar, Vasilisa remembered her gift. She went to the coat hooks. She drew from her overcoat and laid on the table two shriveled bunches of autumn berries that she’d found frozen and preserved in the pine thickets. The boys gobbled them up, then ran off to play in the shadows of the fire. They laughed and tumbled, so an onlooker might see their joyful tongues dyed by the juice. Grandmother and Vasilisa stayed at table and scraped at the gelatin the boys had left in their bowls. In time, night's chill crept into the house, and the women watched the boys’ breaths beginning to linger like specters in the growing cold.

  When it was time for sleep, Vasilisa went over to herd her brothers to their bed in the loft. Accustomed to the ritual resistance, she warned, “Hurry off to bed, or Baba Yaga will catch you and eat you!”

  Shrieking in pretend fear, the boys clung to their sister’s legs and cried out, “No, sister, don’t let Baba Yaga get us.”

  “Then let’s get ready for bed.” The three climbed the ladder, and she threw thick blankets over the boys and tucked wool and down sheets over their small frames. The lamps were turned off, and the boys looked up at their sister's soft face; her blonde hair turned scarlet and shadowed from the orange flames below.