Arthur Christmas (11 page)

Turkey sandwich in the fridge.

Mum and Dad

Steve fumed, blaming his brother for the disaster. “That idiot, Arthur!” He opened the dock door and scrambled under. To his horror, Steve saw the S-1 heaving forward, straining at the steel cables holding it to its moorings.

The ship slammed against an ice wall, denting its shiny hull. Steve's fists clenched. Arthur had really made a mess this time! This was even worse than flooding the elf barracks. This was an outrage of epic proportions; enough to get the fool banished from the North Pole—if Steve had anything to say about it.

Steve ranted, “He's driven everyone crazy! He'll destroy Christmas!”

Peter added the very worst thing he could imagine, “And you'll never get to be Santa!”

Steve glanced back at the loyal-but-boneheaded elf. Then he dashed forward and closed the door behind him, locking Peter out.

“Steeeevennn!” Peter protested.

The chaos aboard the S-1 was even more maddening than that on the dock. Alarms blared. Screens flashed. Doors swished open and closed, and the special red Santa carpet rolled and unrolled rapidly as Santa pushed random buttons trying to get the complicated ship off the ground.

With two clumsy, chubby fingers, Santa pecked Gwen's address into the ship's navigation system. “Um … 23 Mimosa Avenue … Trelew.”

The S-1 smashed into a wall. Everything shuddered! Mrs. Claus picked up a huge manual and scolded, “Really, Malcolm, there's no harm in using a manual.” Then she muttered, “Men.”

Santa felt sweat suddenly dampen the armpits of his red suit. He barked, “Margaret, I order you to disembark! It's not safe!”

He pressed a button and a coffee machine popped up.

Mrs. Claus made no move to obey her husband's command. “Piffle. I did a microlight flying course on the Internet. It can't be that different.”

But it was! She started pressing buttons. A door opened and the couple spun around to discover Steve glaring at them.

Santa felt as helpless as a rat in a trap. “Steve!”

His son wasted no time accusing, “You've dented it! You take it out without asking and …”

Mrs. Claus jumped in. “Malcolm, you told me he knew! You know how Steve feels about his S-1.”

Santa struggled to defend himself. “It's my S-1!
S
for
Santa
.
I'm
flying to this child …”

“Of course, she's all that matters,” Steve replied. “Not me, your son. Not the two billion things I did right tonight, nooo!”

Santa sighed. “This is about the pool table I never gave you, isn't it? I told you, you should've written to me.”

Steve hated being treated like just another child. “I was eight! You're my DAD!”

Mrs. Claus raised her voice, “FOR GOODNESS SAKE! Arthur and Grandsanta are out there, probably not wearing nearly enough layers, and you two are bickering over a big red toy?”

Santa tried to regain control. “If Steven could just stand back and …”

An airbag exploded into Santa and oxygen masks dropped. Santa's shoulders slumped in defeat. “You drive, Steven.”

Steve nodded, “Thank you.” Then he put on his red leather driving gloves and took the helm. Steve went on, “So, since gift delivery to Child 47785BXK is all that seems to matter, I'll do it myself. Then we'll pick up Arthur and Grandsanta from whatever ditch they ended up in.”

He switched the S-1 into Premium Velocity.

In seconds, the high-tech craft rocketed down an ice tunnel, gathering speed with every yard.

Steve wasn't the only one awakened by the S-1's roaring engine. Support elves swarmed Mission Control to stare at screens showing the ship's sudden departure.

Helmsman Tankenson jumped to a grim conclusion. “They're deserting us!”

The Scottish elf beside him agreed, “The Santas are leaving!”

An older Scottish elf moaned in his thick brogue. “It's like 1816! Elves, into hiding with you!”

“Abandon the North Pole!” another elf shouted over the general panic.

“No, stop!” Peter yelled over the crowed, but no one listened.

An elf ran to one of the control panels and lifted up a little flap with a red button underneath. Its label read, DELETE CHRISTMAS. The elf paused, then pressed the button. Immediately alarms started sounding. Flashing lights added to the chaos. Computer screens began shutting down, as if a terrible virus had infected the system.

Suddenly, a robotic voice sounded, “North Pole Meltdown in 10 minutes.”

“Everybody panic!” an elf yelled.

Peter stood in the middle of a crowd, horrified. “It's Arthur! He's destroying Christmas! And Steven will never come back!” he yelled. But no one was listening. They were too busy running for the exits.

EVEN AS PETER
spoke, the sleigh rose higher than any sleigh has ever gone before. Beyond fear, Arthur held Eve's side giddily.

Grandsanta exclaimed, “I know where we can find a map, lad!”

As the sleigh kept climbing straight up into the stratosphere Grandsanta hit a button and old World War II gas masks popped up. Eve shook and the reindeer snorted with the effort.

“A bit risky this. Never tried it before,” Grandsanta admitted as the sleigh rose even higher, and suddenly the reindeer started to float!

The sleigh soared into space, past a huge satellite hanging silently in the black void. As the shivering, weightless passengers hung on for dear life, Grandsanta pointed in triumph. “There! THE BIGGEST MAP IN THE WORLD!”

Arthur followed the old man's finger. What did his grandfather mean? Then he suddenly recognized the round, marbled object below them:
It was Earth!

The blue masses were oceans; the white swirls, clouds; and that greenish, brown patch was Europe. He could see England. They would find Trelew!

Grandsanta, Bryony, and Arthur cheered. Then a bright flash glinted over the rim of the globe. Dawn crept west, toward England!

Grandsanta flicked the reins, and the sleigh dashed back down toward their destination. As Eve touched the exosphere, her runners turned red hot. Would the sleigh burn before they could reach Cornwall? Arthur remembered the crayon drawing of the burning Santa Claus on Gwen's postcard. Was it about to come true?

Unknown to the young man, there also lurked another danger. The craft's fiery progress excited the military leaders gathered at UNFITA's headquarters.

Chief De Silva addressed them gravely. “Friends, on this night of peace we stand confronted by an unknown enemy.”

Her aide interrupted, handing her a phone. “Ma'am. The British Prime Minister.”

De Silva spoke into the receiver. “Prime Minister? Chief De Silva.”

A surprisingly shrill voice replied. “Um, hello? Shoot down the red thing!”

The Chief felt confused. Had she heard the high voice correctly? She asked, “I'm sorry?”

“It's not a sleigh … it's aliens! Bad aliens! From space!” the shrill voice shrieked over the speakerphone.

The assembled generals reacted to this strange assertion. “Aliens!” “Bad aliens?” “Thought so …” “Oh dear!” If they thought the voice sounded too high and even childish to belong to the Prime Minister, no one dared mention this.

The shrill rant continued. “They're heading for England! Tell the British army to shoot 'em down!”

Chief De Silva did not recognize the voice. “Who did you say this was?”

In the North Pole's Mission Control, Peter panicked. His plan had seemed so perfect. But now he feared his fib would fail. So he quickly concluded, “I'm the British king … I mean Prime Minister! I'm not an elf!”

Then he slammed down the phone and drank another espresso.

When the odd voice gave way to a dial tone, De Silva hung up, too. Then she addressed the generals. “Even if that wasn't the British Prime Minister, we must take this seriously.”

“But … what if the aliens come in peace?” the French general wondered.

The Canadian general reminded them, “It terrorized Toronto. I say we shoot it from the sky. Shoot down the red thing!”

Other generals agreed. “Shoot it down!” “Come on! “Shoot down the red thing!”

As Eve entered the atmosphere, gravity made her go even faster! “Hold tight, lad, this is where it gets really rough,” Grandsanta warned.

The sleigh shuddered. Rivets and panels rattled. The harness smoked and singed in the heat.
SNAP!
A rein broke, and another reindeer left the team.

Grandsanta struggled to control the speeding sleigh. He handed one of the reins to Arthur, pleading, “Help me out, lad!”

Together, the two Clauses managed to hold the sleigh on course, even as sparks shot out of Eve's joints and the magic dust tank rattled ominously.

BOOM!
A small explosion rocked the speeding sleigh and two reindeer were blasted free in clouds of sparking dust.

Arthur and Grandsanta looked at the harness. Only one “deer” remained—the hollow metal logo swiped from the roof of the tractor dealership. The sleigh nose-dived, and the logo started to melt!

Grandsanta felt a familiar hoof climbing over him. “Not now, you sack of antlers!” he groused at his pet.

But Dasher wasn't trying to cuddle in his master's lap. The loyal reindeer was determined to pull that sleigh!

Dasher climbed over Grandsanta to the front of the sleigh. He jumped into the stream of sparkling magic dust. Dasher grabbed the harness in his teeth and kicked the molten logo away.

Their hope rekindled, the passengers cheered. “Woohoo!” Grandsanta whooped.

In the UNFITA war room, claxons blared, and the speaker system reported, “Alert Level 6. Shoot Down Red Thing. Shoot Down Red Thing.”

De Silva's aide announced, “Red thing reentering troposphere, ma'am.”

An operative staring at a screen added, “On radar in 40 seconds.”

Another counted down, “Visual in 46 … 45 …”

With each passing second, the globe grew closer to the hurtling sleigh. Bryony worried, “They'll be watching, sir. They tracked us all around the world. Any minute now they'll have us in their sights.”