The Reunion

by K. A. Applegate

  1

  It was happening again. Unbelievably, it was happening again.

  A woman was drowning. Not the dreaded leader of an alien force. Just a woman. Alone in a roiling sea. Defenseless. Vulnerable.

  My mother.

  There was no way I could let it happen again.

  I powered toward her. My arms strained with each stroke. My legs kicked wildly.

  Hold on. Hold on!

  So close. Close enough to see her straining to keep her head above the cold black water.

  Then I was on her, one arm around her shoulders, the other paddling madly to keep us afloat.

  "Hold on!" I cried. "I've got you!"

  2 She looked up at me, wet hair plastering her face. Then she spoke. "Thank you, Marco."

  "Mom . . ."

  "I'm free, Marco. I'm free!"

  And then a powerful current swept her out of my grasp and sucked her under the glittering surface of the midnight ocean.

  "No! No, no, no!"

  I dove. The salt stung my eyes. I pushed deeper and deeper into the darkness. My lungs ached but I would not allow it to happen again. I would not let her go! Not when she was free. Not ...

  "NO!"

  "Marco? Are you okay?"

  I shot up straight as a board. Where . . . ? My bed, my room. My father.

  I put my hands to my head and looked at the picture of my mother that sat on my nightstand.

  "You okay?" he repeated.

  No. I wasn't. "Yeah. Yeah. Bad dream, I guess."

  "About her?"

  I swallowed hard. "Yeah."

  Dad sat on the edge of my bed and hugged me.

  I returned the hug weakly. Patted him on the back.

  "I'm okay, big guy," I said. "What time is it?"

  3 "About time to get up and get going," he said. "I get the shower first. I have to be in early today."

  I watched my father leave the room. But instead of getting out of bed and heading downstairs for a bowl of Honeycomb, I sat amidst the tangled, slightly damp bedcovers, too exhausted to move.

  My name, as you probably know by now, is Marco. And that was how my Friday started. Not the greatest way to greet the last day of a long week. But not exactly uncommon. Dreams of fear and loss and despair.

  Before I lost my mother to the enemy, before I learned of the Yeerk invasion of Earth, my life was pretty tame. Mostly I worried about things like whether I'd dropped enough hints at dinner about which Sega disk I wanted for my birthday.

  Not about things like the enslavement of the human race.

  Those were the days. Or, as Dad says, "The salad days."

  I'm not sure what that means exactly - "salad days" - but he says it a lot. I'm not a big fan of salad myself, unless it's heavily croutoned.

  Anyway, here's the rough sequence of events. I'll keep it brief.

  My mother - my beautiful, pretty-smelling, intelligent mother - took our boat out late one

  4 night and never came back. They found the boat. They didn't find her.

  She was presumed drowned. With no explanation of why she had done such a strange thing like take the boat out alone. At night. I mean, my mother was not exactly the suicidal type.

  Next. My friends - Jake, Rachel, Cassie, and Tobias - and I had the distinct misfortune to stumble upon a dying Andalite warrior prince who told us about the Yeerks and their invasion of our planet. He gave us the gift and curse of morphing, an Andalite technology that allows us to acquire the DNA of any animal and become - morph - that animal.

  This is our most spectacular weapon. The others are cunning, courage, and secrecy. (And in my case irresistible cuteness.)

  Then, we were joined by Aximili-Esgarrouth-Isthill, younger brother of Prince Elfangor.

  Another highlight. This happened long after I'd learned my mother had not fallen overboard and drowned but had been infested by the Yeerk known as Visser One, originator of the Earth invasion. I'm talking about the time I'd seen her frail, Yeerk-infested body floating facedown as the Yeerks' underwater headquarters destructed.

  Since that moment I've spent at least, oh, a

  5 bazillion hours wondering if my mother could have survived. Rachel heard a submarine speeding away from the chaotic scene. And I'd seen a Leeran-Controller swimming toward my mother's floating body. So there was a chance she'd lived, a chance the Leeran had dragged her unconscious body to the sub and powered away.

  At least, that's what I chose to believe. But alongside that belief was the realization that the chances she'd made it to the sub were slim.

  You can understand how sometimes my particular daily grind gets to be a pain in the ...

  I mean, five more or less normal kids, one of whom is now more bird than boy, plus an Andalite cadet are supposed to save the Earth from an army of evil sluglike parasites?

  What are the odds that's going to happen?

  The Yeerks are parasitic. They squirm their way into your ear canal and from there seep into every nook and cranny of your brain. They assume total control over your thoughts and your actions. They leave you alert and alive - but absolutely powerless to act or speak on your own behalf. You are locked in a kind of brain cage while the Yeerk takes over every single aspect of your life. The Yeerk is in total control.

  Total control.

  The Yeerk moves your eyes and hands and

  6 feet. The Yeerk speaks with your voice. The Yeerk opens your memories and reads them like a book. Every memory. Every secret.

  The Yeerk in my mother's head can look through her memories and see what she saw as she comforted me in my crib long, long ago. The Yeerk can see memories of me crying from a skinned knee. Memories of grouchy breakfasts with my dad and me. Memories of the hideously embarrassing "birds and bees" conversation.

  The Yeerk saw all of that. The Yeerk who held the rank of Visser One. The original overlord of the invasion of Earth. The Yeerk who made a slave of my mother.

  Because of this invasion our lives have become a series of fierce battles and narrow escapes. Of soul-crushing experiences and bone-shattering fights. You can see why my mornings have taken a dramatic turn for the worse.

  Just the same, when Dad left for work, I took a shower and got ready with every intention of going to school.

  Really, I did.

  7 2

  With a clean face and conditioned hair I headed toward the school bus stop.

  And walked past it.

  Instead, I hopped on a city bus headed downtown.

  The warren of streets that is the financial and business center of our town seemed as good a place as any to kill time. To get lost without running the risk of running into anyone who knew me.

  There were movie theaters downtown. I figured I'd look around till I could catch a matinee of something loud and fun.

  Twenty minutes later the bus dropped me and

  8 thirty office-bound men and women in the heart of blue-suit central.

  It was still way early but already the sun was heating up the sidewalks, and the exhaust from the cars, trucks, and buses was spread like a grubby, smelly blanket over the concrete and steel jungle.

  Nice choice, Marco. I should have gone to the beach. I stood on the sidewalk and stared.

  Seething mass of humanity. I'd heard that phrase once and now I knew what it meant. It meant "office workers at rush hour."

  What was the big hurry? Did adults really like going to work? Or was Friday free donut day at the office?

  THWACK!

  I was down! My knees hit the pavement and my face landed in a planter full of cigarette butts and abandoned coffee cups.

  The enemy! I prepared myself for the next blow.

  Nothing. I looked up.

  No one had noticed I'd been knocked over.

  I got to my
feet, dazed. I rubbed the ash, dirt, and stale coffee off my face with the bottom of my shirt.

  I was disgusted. And I was mad.

  A woman had run me over with her tank of a briefcase. Then she'd continued on down the

  9 street like nothing had happened. And no one had stopped to help me.

  "And they say my generation has no manners," I muttered.

  I gave myself a quick once-over - nothing seriously damaged but my dignity - and set out after the woman who'd so callously whacked me. This woman had an appointment with the dirty pavement, courtesy of a well-placed Saucony Cross Trainer.

  I caught up to her about halfway down the block and followed a few feet behind. Waiting for my chance. Her briefcase was big enough to hold a Doberman and built to maim, with steel corners and a big combination lock on the side.

  And what was up with that hair? The woman wore a stiff, curly blonde wig. Think steel-wool pad. Used. Slightly shredded. And yellow.

  I saw the perfect spot to exact my revenge.

  I skirted the crowd and hid behind a big, concrete column about a yard ahead, just at the corner of the courthouse. When Wig Lady passed - bingo, bango! BAM!

  She was going down.

  I peeked from around the pillar to see how close she was to meeting my foot. And then I bit my cheek to stop from screaming.

  The woman with the awful blonde hair and the briefcase . . .

  10 Was my mother!

  Visser One!

  I ducked back behind the column and pulled my South Park cap down over my eyes. She passed by. She hadn't seen me.

  My mother was alive!

  I took a deep breath and tried to comprehend this fact. She'd escaped the destruction of the Yeerk underwater complex. Relief and happiness and fear all at once. She was alive! But she was so dangerous. So terribly dangerous.

  Think, Marco. She's alive, but... the disguise. A blue power suit. A curly blonde wig. What had looked like blue contact lenses behind big, black-rimmed glasses. The massive briefcase.

  Why a disguise? To hide. From whom?

  Should I follow her? Find the others? I could still make it to school before the late bell. Maybe.

  But then I'd lose my mother for sure. And Visser One.

  I watched my mother's body walk down the street. When she reached the next corner, I followed.

  On the next block I saw her climb the steps to the front doors of the Sutherlan d Tower, the downtown area's tallest building. She squeezed herself and her briefcase into a compartment of

  11 the revolving door. I bolted up the steps, waited one extra revolution of the brass-plated door, then followed her in.

  The lobby was about three stories tall. Behind a row of security guards, water flowed down one pink marble wall into a lit pool. Visser One flashed some kind of pass and continued by the guard's station.

  I had no pass. Plus I was a kid. The guards had already seen me come in, and now they were looking at me like I was one hundred percent no-good. If I made the wrong move they were sure to hassle me. Then the Visser would look over her shoulder to see what the commotion was about and I'd be in big, big trouble.

  Visser One would recognize me as her host body's son.

  So I stood. Just stopped right there by the revolving door and waited for the next person to come through.

  Whoever it was, their DNA was mine.

  12 3

  The revolving door whooshed. Footsteps behind me. I turned around.

  "Hi, Dad!" I said. "What took you so long?"

  The man was stocky, well-dressed, and surprised. But he had his ID in one hand and I had his other hand and before he knew it, the mild acquisition trance was in place.

  "Hello, Mr. Grant," said a slick-haired security guard.

  "It's 'Fathers Take Their Sons to Work Day!'" I said brightly as I led the zoned-out Mr. Grant past security.

  "Well, then, son, you pay attention! That's one important daddy you got!"

  "Yessir!" I replied.

  13 The boyish enthusiasm worked like a charm. I've found that if you act like a moron, adults tend to leave you alone. It's when they think you might be as smart as they are that they give you a hard time.

  I led Mr. Grant to the elevator. Let me make it clear that I had no intention of morphing this man. I just needed him to get me past security and to the elevators.

  Where Visser One was standing with her enormous metal case.

  Mr. Grant was waking up. I let go of his hand.

  "My," he muttered, putting his hand on his stomach. "That jelly donut is not sitting well."

  I looked up at Mr. Grant with an Adam Sandier idiot grin.

  Worked like a charm. Mr. Grant looked away and waited impatiently for the elevator with the rest of the men and woman in suits.

  I pulled my hat lower over my face.

  DING! The elevator door opened. An old guy with a rolling cart full of interoffice envelopes and UPS packages made an attempt to get out of the car.

  "Let 'em off, people!" he muttered as the crowd surged around him and into the elevator.

  Visser One passed on the mail guy's right. I went to his left. The mob prevented her from getting a glimpse of me.

  14 The doors closed. We were packed in the elevator like crayons in a crayon box. The important thing was Visser One was the crayon close to the button panel, and I was the crayon in the opposite back corner.

  But that's not good, I thought suddenly. I have to get out when my mom ... the Visser gets out! If I miss the floor, I lose the Visser. And my mother. Again.

  At the same time, I couldn't allow Visser One to see me. There was only one thing I could do. A morph. In the slow-moving elevator. Surrounded by fifteen people and evil incarnate.

  A woman whose back was about three inches from the bill of my baseball cap dropped a section of her Wall Street Journal and I pretended not to notice. I slid down against the elevator wall, back straight, and with my fingertips, picked it up off the grubby red carpet. Behind the suited backs of fifteen adults, I opened the paper as wide as I could and held it in front of my face and over my head, like a tent. And then I began one of my least favorite morphs - the common housefly.

  Insane! It was insane. But what was my other choice? Lose Visser One? No. Not happening.

  I started shrinking almost immediately. In a moment, the newspaper blanketed me. My vision went dark and then flashed on again, pixilated.

  15 Two fly legs spurted from my chest. My hands shriveled into pincers. My skin hardened.

  And nobody noticed. It was bizarre! No one looked at me. Everyone continued to stare blankly ahead at the door or up at the ventilation grates on the roof of the elevator car.

  I was in an elevator full of people, turning into a fly, and no one so much as glanced back at me. I fought down the lunatic urge to say, "Hey, I'm turning into a fly, here. Hello? Are you people or statues?"

  The elevator slowed and stopped at a floor. The woman who had dropped the paper earlier bent to pick it up.

  Problem. I wasn't done morphing!

  I was about the size of a rat, with pink skin and a human nose. The other nine-tenths of me was housefly. Wings, six hairy legs, compound eyes, a big sticky tongue where my mouth had been. And I was sitting in the middle of a mound of clothes.

  A more disgusting sight I cannot imagine.

  The woman picked up the paper, stared back at a piece of nothing two feet above the head of the person in front of her, then froze.

  "Argh!" she said.

  Through my 360-degree multifaceted fly vision I watched her look slowly back down to the dirty red carpet. But it was too late.

  16 Totally fly now, I kicked on my wings, zoomed crazily into the air, sped over the woman's head and landed on a corner of the Visser's briefcase. The elevator door opened. The woman who was positive she had just seen a rat-sized fly-boy on the elevator floor rushed out with her hand to her mouth.

  A few other business people filed out after her and the Visser pressed the clos
e button.

  The twenty-first floor. Mr. Grant got off.

  The Visser pushed close once more.

  And I was alone in the elevator with my mother.

  Twenty-second floor. The elevator slid to a stop. The doors opened and Visser One stepped out into the hallway. I rode on her briefcase to where she stopped just outside the third door on the right.

  It was all I needed to know. Time to get out of there and tell the others.

  17 4

  I let go with my sticky, pincher fly feet. I buzzed my gossamer wings and lifted up off the Visser's metal case.

  Up, circle back and away toward ...

  SCHLOOOOP!

  Wind! A tornado of wind!

  My wings beat with a speed only an insect could achieve. But I was too close! A vent, ribbed steel, as high as a ten-story building to me, and twice as wide.

  Air cleaner! Industrial-strength. Suction. Suction like a vacuum cleaner!

  WHAM!

  I hit a metal crossbar.

  Then I was through. Hurtling down an aluminum

  18 shaft. And now, concentrated in the enclosed space, the air current was unbelievable.

  «Aaaagh!»

  I was spinning, out of control, wings almost useless. And I wasn't alone. Pieces of lint and human hair. Dust and the circles of paper a three-hole puncher leaves behind. An assortment of dazed mosquitoes, gnats, and other flies, all zooming around me like the tornado scene from The Wizard of Oz. All of it shattered into the thousand tiny TV sets of my fly eyes. All of it in weird, distorted colors.

  I tumbled faster and faster toward a giant filter. Bundles of flying-bug parts and lint were scattered at its base. There was only one thing to do.

  Demorph!

  I started growing almost immediately and almost immediately I stopped tumbling. Anything over the weight of a flicked booger pretty much canceled out the power of the industrial-strength air cleaner.

  My wings shriveled and sucked into the now-supple skin under my shoulder blades. My eyes rotated from the sides of my head back to the front of my face. Two fly legs shot back into my chest.

  FLOOR! FLOOR!

  My other fly legs rotated to where my human

  19 legs and arms should be and everything started to grow. Suddenly, I realized that the aluminum shaft that had seemed as big as the school gym when I was a fly just might not be big enough for my human self.