Authors: John Luke Robertson
Si in Space (12 page)
“WELL, WE’VE HEARD REPORTS
that some of these are not working,” you tell the woman.
“Are you sure?” she asks. “You’ve heard that those bombs in particular don’t work?”
You nod.
“That’s strange.” She touches her wrist, which appears to have some kind of device on it.
Maybe it’s one of those smartwatches. Like having an iPhone as a watch. It’s the latest technology, and you’re really hoping to get one when you’re back on Earth.
“Yeah. Strange, Jack,” you say, letting
Jack
accidentally slip out of your mouth.
“Want to know the strangest thing about that?” she asks.
You notice her eyes have become dark. Like all black.
That can’t be good.
“Maybe the fact that they look like cans of diet soda but are actually bombs?”
She only shakes her head. “No. It’s strange because we
just
got those in. They’re brand-new. Never been used. Never been tested out. But I have an idea.”
This definitely can’t be a good idea.
Soon the door opens, and some pirates from the seven spaced-out seas come and put handcuffs on John Luke and you.
“I think it’s finally time to see how these bombs work,” she says. “In person.”
Then she starts to laugh, but the laugh becomes something awful and horrific
—a squealing, wailing scream.
She sounds like a monkey.
And she just keeps laughin’ and laughin’.
They take both of you away. You’re not laughin’.
You especially don’t laugh when you end up holding a can of Diet Coke and are told to open it.
This is just not the right way to end the story, Jack.
Hey
—you don’t even
like
diet cola!
THE END
TAKING OUT THEIR LEADERS
seems as good a starting place as any. John Luke guides you down a sleek, clean white corridor and opens a door marked with some strange symbol.
“You know where you’re going?” you ask him.
“Yeah.”
“What’s the skull and bones stand for?” you ask as you examine the image on the door more closely. “It can’t be a good sign.”
“Haven’t figured that out,” John Luke says. “Unless it’s for the pirates
—the aliens dressed as pirates.”
You come to a winding stairway heading up and begin climbing it.
“I can use the cowbell,” John Luke says.
“For?” you ask, already out of breath after a dozen steps up the stairway.
“On the misters. The leaders.”
“So these guys are the misters? Like Mr. Mister?” you ask.
“Just the misters. That’s what everybody else calls them.”
Soon you can hardly talk anymore, the steps being so steep and so many.
“Just a few more, Uncle Si.”
“I’m . . . fine. It’s just . . . climbing stairs . . . in space . . . is a little . . . more . . . difficult.”
You’re nearing the top and can see a door up there with a small slot, like the kind a mailman might put letters through. Except this slot is higher, at eye level.
The slot happens to be open
—you see light coming through it. The stairwell is mostly dim, so it’s easy to see the light.
You start to walk toward it, but John Luke pulls you back.
“Maybe we shouldn’t look through it,” John Luke whispers.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Just a feelin’ I’m getting.”
“A feelin’?”
“Yeah.”
Maybe it’s something minor, but still. You gotta choose.
Do you look through the slot? How harmful could it be?
Go here
.
Some things are best left to the imagination. And some slots shouldn’t be spied through. So if you
don’t
look through it,
go here
.
AT THE BOTTOM OF THE STAIRS,
you take a doorway that leads into some strange chamber with light-blue walls, like one of those places where you play laser tag.
Oh no.
This can’t be good.
It’s a large room. Strike that, Jack
—it’s gargantuan!
“Uncle Si?” John Luke asks.
He’s not sure about this either.
Do you stay here in the light-blue laser tag room?
Go here
.
Do you try to get out of here and find another escape?
Go here
.
YOU REACH INTO YOUR POCKET
and produce an official Duck Commander folding knife. You were one of the few to get an early prototype of this model, and now you finally get to use it.
Something rumbles underneath you again. It’s a low, vicious sound.
“Uncle Si?” John Luke’s worried.
But you have everything under control. “I got this. It’s all good.”
The sound is louder now. You’re surrounded by debris
—metal, wood, plastic, Chinese food take-out boxes (hey, wait a minute), machine parts. It’s also wet and gunky like a swamp in here. Anything could be hidden in this garbage.
Something blasts up and hits the wall. Then you see a tiny head popping out of the debris.
The first thing you notice are the eyes.
They might be the cutest things you’ve ever seen.
These large eyes are positioned on a round head with a narrow snout. This is an animal that you’ve seen back on Earth
—in the zoo, anyway.
“Wait
—what’s that thing called?” you ask John Luke.
“I think it’s a slow loris. I remember doing a report on those.”
“Aw, look at it,” you say, closing your knife.
“Uncle Si
—they’re dangerous. Their bites can be lethal.”
“This tiny thing?” you ask. “It’s harmless.”
You start to head toward the loris until it opens its tiny mouth. It lets out an awful howling sort of sound.
“You were really gonna try to get me with that knife, weren’t you?”
You jerk your head around. Who said that? You peer into the corners of the square garbage disposal unit but can’t find the source of the voice. It sounds like a New Yorker.
“Yeah, that’s right. I’m talkin’ to you. You think you’re gonna do that to me? Nobody does that to Johnny.”
You look back at the slow loris.
“Did that thing just talk?” you whisper to John Luke.
“Yeah.”
“That’s right, boys,” the loris says. “And you know what? There’s more of me where that came from.”
With that, little heads emerge left and right. There might be fifty of them surrounding you.
“You can’t see what you’re really standing in,” the one with the New Yorker voice says. They all start to laugh.
What an awful way to end. Stuck in a pile of garbage and being mocked by a clan of slow lorises.
Or is that slow
lori
?
THE END
YOU REACH THE DOWNED ESCAPE POD
in about an hour via dune buggy. It’s intact, and both Ben and Jada appear to be okay inside. They grab their necessary gear and accompany you back to the landing craft.
Once inside with your helmets off, able to breathe in oxygen and talk without your headsets, you all discuss the obvious: the explosion of the
DC Enterprise
and your chances of survival.
“There is still the
Starsailor
,” Ben says. “And we haven’t heard yet from Wade, Kim, and Franco. But we’re gonna keep trying.”
“Did something go wrong?” Commander Noble asks.
“No. All signs report that they got on board safely. Last transmission I heard came from Wade. He said everything looked fine and he’d report if and when he found any signs of the
Starsailor
crew.”
“Well, hey
—isn’t that the moment all chaos is supposed to rain down?” you say. “When someone says everything looks fine?”
“So we head back up there and try to connect with them,” Ben says.
“Hold on,” Commander Noble replies. “Let me think about our options.”
The small landing craft you’re in is already tight. It’s sorta like the
Millennium Falcon
, except the outside is just round and not that cool-looking. But it’s the only ship any of you have right now.
“What
was
that duck call thing, anyway?” Ben asks.
“That thing was dancin’ to the groovy tunes,” you say.
“We won’t fully know until we can conduct some experiments,” Jada says. “That’s why I picked this up.” She shows you a few pieces of dark glass. “It’s from that object. We’ll take it back home and try to figure out what it was made of.”
Commander Noble appears agitated. “Look
—we need to either make our trip back up to the
Starsailor
or figure out what to do down here.”
Suddenly a telephone rings. Everybody looks at each other with strange faces.
Who’s calling, Jack? And how in the world are we getting cell coverage way out here?
The commander answers the call, listens for a minute, then gives the phone to you. “It’s the publisher.”
“No,” you say.
Everybody looks like someone died. No, worse. This could be lights out. All it takes is
one simple press of the Delete button
. Then boom. All of this, gone.
You put the phone to your ear. “Hello?”
“Uncle Si?”
“You got that, Jack.”
“This is Karen Watson, associate publisher at Tyndale House. First off, I’m a big fan.”
You’re not quite sure what to say. “Okay.”
“Look
—we’ve got a bit of a problem. I understand your spaceship just blew up, and I’m very thankful nobody died way out on Mars. And I also realize that you’re about ready to get on board the
Starsailor
to check things out. I’m
sure
that could be exciting and funny, but the thing is
—we have a bit of a word count problem.”
“A what?” you ask.
“A word count issue. See, the story’s going a little long. And we can’t have that. I know you guys have some things to figure out and all that, but could you just
—you know, skip ahead? Hurry it up? Make one choice and go for it.”
Everybody is looking at you with grave concern.
“Well, of course, Mrs. Watson. You’re the boss.”
“That’s great. Thanks. I’m also gonna need you to come in here on Saturday. Yeah, thanks a bunch.”
The phone goes dead.
So now you have a quandary. Do you
disobey
the lady at the publishing house and continue your adventures? Or do you make one choice and get everybody home safely?
Hey, Jack, is that how it works here in this universe of words?
Disobey and
go here
.
Obey and
go here
.