The Prom Goer's Interstellar Excursion (8 page)

He presented me with another cheeseburger, this time handing it to me instead of whipping it at my chest.

“You're lucky I only ate a couple hundred,” he said. “I'm dieting, you see.”

“A couple hundred?”

“My metabolism is extraordinary. One needs such a prodigious number of calories when one performs onstage at the level I do. But right now I'm trying to fit into a Gucci suit I picked up when we flew over Italy. It's a beautiful thing. Kingfisher-blue charmeuse. You'll
die
when you see it.”

My body stiffened.

“Ah, my band's reputation precedes us, I see,” said Skark. “I
didn't mean you're
literally
going to die when you see it, though if you
did
die, I assure you, you would go with a smile on your face and you'd be in very good company. Look for yourself.”

Skark gestured with a gold-tipped cane to a row of close-up photographs of alien smiles—some fanged, some drooling blue spittle, some double-tongued—which were hanging on the wall of the bus.

“Are those all pictures of creatures who died smiling in here?” I said.

“Some individuals can't keep up with the lifestyle, I'm afraid,” said Skark.

“Are you going to keep talking down there, or are you going to introduce me?” said a voice above me.

I looked up. Dangling inches from my head was a guy in his late twenties or early thirties who was doing pull-ups on a bar bolted to an apparatus that looked a bit like an air conditioner. He was obviously human, and he was wearing a brown knit hat and a white tank top printed with the Statue of Liberty, which showed off his defined biceps. He looked like he hadn't shaved in a few days, and his cheeks were smeared with brown and black whiskers.

“Bennett, I give you the second member of my band and our only thoroughbred human…bassist Cad Charleston.”

Cad dropped to the floor and shook my hand.

“Good to meet you,” said Cad. “Sorry about how much of a pain it was to get a burger. We don't come here often, and you know how singers and drummers have appetites.”

“Who's the drummer?” I said.

“
I
am the drummer,” said Driver. “And the driver, and the band's manager, ever since we ran into financial—”

“I will
not
talk about money with new friends,” said Skark. “It is the
pinnacle
of impoliteness. I'm sure such a young fan has questions he is burning to ask the band, so let us hear them.”

Skark, Driver, and Cad looked at me.

“Well?” said Skark.

“What…band is this?” I said.

Skark's eyes went wide, and he lifted himself to his feet. He was easily eight feet tall, and he towered over me, which had become increasingly uncommon for anyone to be able to do in the wake of my growth spurt.

“
What band is it?
You
snuck
onto this bus, and now you're pretending you don't know the name of the band?”

“He came on the bus for a cheeseburger, not to ask the band questions,” said Driver.

“I don't care
why
he got on, I'm insulted,” said Skark. “Bennett—you are standing on the tour bus of one of the musical treasures of the universe. The band whose music forged peace between the Bluebranch Lantern Galaxy and the Mosaic Mauna Cluster. The band whose tight clothing caused a sexual revolution in Poochicana Nebula B-67. The band who with
one slow jam
created the building blocks of
life
on the barren Spindlefan Asteroid. We are the Perfectly Reasonable.”

I chuckled.

“I'm so tired of people laughing whenever they hear the name of our band…,” said Driver.

“The Perfectly Reasonable is a
wonderful
name,” said Skark. “It captures our good looks and our judicious minds in three small words.”

“
Reasonable
isn't that small a word,” said Driver.

“We're
not
one of the musical treasures of the universe,” said Cad. “
Universal Beat
magazine just ranked us out of the top
billion.
”

“We're one billion sixteenth,” said Skark. “Let's not blow it out of proportion. Nobody reads past the first fifty or so anyway.”

“We used to have our own space station, with
swimming pools
,” said Cad.

“I miss our private chef,” said Driver.

“I miss our menagerie of exotic animals,” said Cad.

“Would you please
stop
bitching,” said Skark. “We are playing the Dondoozle Festival in less than a week, and when we do, our comeback will be complete.”

Skark turned to me.

“Forgive me if it sounds like we're speaking in code here,” he said. “Dondoozle is a bit like Lollapalooza or Coachella that you have here on Earth. I don't know why these festivals always seem to end in vowels. There's one in the Nardo Cluster that's just called Auooooaouuuo. It's almost impossible to order tickets for.”

Skark turned back to the band.

“
One performance and we'll once more be on top,” he said. “Plus, those rankings aren't scientifically accurate—they're used more to provoke discussions among critics, who aren't our core audience now.”

“Who is our core audience now?” said Cad.

“Fans who remember when we were
good
,” said Driver.

“We are a
brilliant
three-piece,” said Skark. “We are fiery coral in an ocean of mediocrity. We are an amplified earthquake in the fault line of recycled melody. We are—”

WHOOP

A police siren exploded behind the bus.

“Cops!”
yelled Driver, running toward the front seat.

“Hide everything,”
said Cad.

“Relax,
please
,” said Skark. “The more you panic, the more suspicious you look. This is a moment that calls for calmness and clarity of thought, as all moments of great seriousness do.”

Skark opened the ottoman and hid several bottles of wine inside. From the way the band members were scooping up bottles and powders and pills and hiding them in the nooks and crannies of the bus, it was obvious they were carrying a significant amount of illegal contraband on board.

WHOOP WHOOP

The voice of Officer Welker erupted through a megaphone.

“I told you to go
home,
kid. I told you I didn't want to see you again tonight. If you're not in your truck, I
know
you're on that bus. It's the only other vehicle in the lot.”

Through the window, I saw Officer Welker get out of his cruiser and walk over to my truck with a pad in his hand, writing me a ticket.

“If he's telling us to go, I suggest we listen,” said Cad. “It's a bad idea to mess with bored cops who live in the wastelands.”

“I think he's talking to me…,” I said, but nobody was listening.

“I'm getting us out of here right now,” said Driver, whacking a rainbow of buttons on the dashboard. Without his disguise, it was clear he was definitely of the same tweaked Viking pedigree as the individuals who had abducted Sophie.

Driver pushed a long, flat lever with his foot, and the bus began trembling violently, rivers of electricity running over its outer shell.

“Good Lord, man, shut that
window
,” said Cad, running over and closing the window where I'd been looking at the cop. “If you leave one open, we'll be sucked outside. In space you have to pay attention to these sorts of details.”

“Space?”

“You're coming with us, right? I assumed you were because you're wearing a trucker hat and I noticed the crutches in your car. You must have wanted
somebody
to abduct you.”

I felt the bus lift off the ground. The back end pitched upward first, nearly sending me somersaulting into Driver's flabby chest, before its front finally lurched upward as the vehicle balanced itself out.

“I'd
normally
suggest you buckle up!” yelled Cad over the
sound of the engine. “But Driver ate the seat belts last week when we got stuck in an asteroid field and couldn't get to a decent restaurant before closing.”

“I mistook them for fruit leather at the time,” said Driver. “I was buzzed.”

“You were drunk out of your
mind
,” said Cad.

“I don't think anybody here can pass judgment on me for that,” said Driver.

“When I drink, at least I don't destroy the
bus
,” said Cad.

“Just marriages,” said Driver.

“
Please
shut up,” said Skark. “Everybody in this band drinks, everybody has been with each other's lovers, there's no sense yapping at each other about it.”

Skark turned to me. “Hold on and try not to get any blood on the couch. There are no decent upholsterers where we're going, which is an unending source of irritation for me. I can't even
think
about how I would redo the interior design of the bus without feeling woozy and overwhelmed.”

For the briefest moment, the bus became still, hanging in the air above the In-N-Out drive-through, and I heard Officer Welker one more time:
“Put that
bus
back on the
ground. License
and
registration.
Where are those license plates from? The Yarkson Cloud? What is that? Is that a state I don't know about? Some East Coast place?”

The engines roared and the bus shook like it was about to come apart at its joints.

“There's still time to get off if you want,” said Cad. “Space is no easy place to visit.”

“It's fine,” I said. “I'm looking for someone up there.”

“Always good to have a goal,” he said. “You're stuck with us now, young Bennett.”

The front of the bus jerked sharply upward, as if doing a wheelie. Through the window, I could see currents of power running over the bus and changing color from blue to green. On the other side of the windshield, stars blinked like ocean phosphorescence.

“Welcome to the tour,” said Cad.

And with that, we shot into space….

BANG!

In the hours following my departure from Earth, I learned that the Perfectly Reasonable, the one billion sixteenth greatest band in the universe, had been in America because they were looking for a record deal anywhere they could get one.

“We drove this bus to every record company in Los Angeles and dropped off old demos,” said Skark, filing one of his fourteen fingernails into a sharp point. “Nobody responded, no doubt because they found our sound confusing. You see, we can do anything—a cappella, dream pop, reggae fusion, Tropicália. It's the natural instinct of humans to want to categorize
everything
, but that is quite impossible when it comes to my band, and I refuse to be categorized by something as asinine as just
rock.
The goal should always be to move an art form forward.”

Skark used his fingertip to extract the cork of a wine bottle, removing it with a twist and flicking it aside.

“But we're broke, so we need any record deal we can get,” said Cad.

“It's not my fault that the cost of travel has gone up. Inflation is bad everywhere,” said Skark.

“It
is
your fault all our other labels dropped us,” said Cad.

“I admit no such thing. Foreign businessmen have no patience when it comes to nurturing genius.”

“I think it's more that they have no patience when one of their artists has stopped writing songs and is spending all his money on Spine Wine,” said Cad.

“Oh, shut up,” said Skark.

“Is that what the wine is called?” I said, pointing to the bottle Skark was holding. “Spine Wine?”

“Ah, sweet siren Spine Wine,” said Skark, wistfully looking over the bottle. “Friend, lover, inspiration, companion. That is its name.”

Skark explained that Spine Wine got its name from the tingle felt at the base of the neck upon drinking a great deal of it—provided the imbiber had a neck, which was by no means common among all alien races. Made from the triangular grapes of the Blado Constellation, Spine Wine was expensive because it was meant to be an after-dinner drink—a small glass helped with digestion following a large meal—though apparently there were also cheaper blends, the existence of which Skark dismissed with a wave of his hand.

Spine Wine was also what Driver had made me drink when I got on the bus, but I hadn't consumed quite enough to get the treasured tingle.

“If you drink several glasses, the world
brightens
and the ego disappears—or so I've heard, I'm afraid my ego is a bit too large to ever be fully displaced—and the mind begins operating independently from the rest of the body,” said Skark. “It's a marvelous liquid, and fully non-habit-forming, which is its finest quality.”

“But you're all drinking it constantly,” I said.

The band reacted like I had sprung a licensed interventionist on them.

“
Easy
there,” said Cad.

“Whoa now,
addiction
is a strong word,” said Driver.

“I didn't say
addiction
,” I said.

“I've met addicts,” said Skark. “And we are
not
addicts.”

“
All right
, I'm sorry,” I said. “You're right, I'm an outside observer, I don't know anything about the dynamics of your band. And as much as I appreciate hearing about the
difficulties
of securing a record contract in the modern universe, I'm not here to go out on tour. I'm here because I'm looking for someone, and I need your help navigating
that.
”

I pointed out the window of the bus at the universe.

I'd always imagined outer space would look a lot like it did through the telescope in my backyard—thousands of pinpoints of white light, with the occasional comet whizzing past—but the endless horizon here was glowing with clouds of electric blue gas and newborn galaxies shaped like seashells and
red-and-purple nebulae that made me feel like I was staring into the eye of a god-sized feline. The universe was on fire with color.

“Here's my situation: On Friday, I'm supposed to go to prom with a girl I have wanted my entire life. She's beautiful. She's unique. She's got the cutest laugh I've ever heard. She is cooler than me, and I still have
no idea
how she ended up agreeing to be my date. Everything was going
perfect
for once in my stupid life—and then she was abducted by aliens.”

The members of the Perfectly Reasonable nodded their heads, seemingly unsurprised to hear Sophie's fate.

“What did the guys who grabbed her look like?” said Cad.

“A lot like Driver, to be honest. No offense, Driver.”

“None taken. People always think I look like someone they know. I have one of those faces.”

“They had a van, and they tossed this stuff at her that looked like confetti and caused her to roll around on the ground.”

“Brainsnuff,” said Driver. “It grows naturally on Jyfon, and incapacitates any creature with an IQ of less than two hundred.”

“Jyfon?”

“The planet where he's from,” said Cad. “He's a Jyfo.”

“I hate to say this, but if your girl got kidnapped by the Jyfos, kiss her goodbye,” said Skark. “Or I suppose you should
imagine
yourself kissing her goodbye, because you're not going to see her again.”

“Knock it off, Skark,” said Cad. “The kid's emotional.”

“I don't think the reality of the situation needs to be
disguised
from him,” said Skark.

“What are you talking about?”

With that, Skark explained that the Jyfos were a well-intentioned yet inept race—always trying to
save
and
preserve
species but accidentally destroying them in the process.

To illuminate his point, he told a story about how, years before, the Newman Solar System had been suffering from mild solar warming. All the planets in the system had seen their surface temperatures tick up a couple of degrees, which concerned the Jyfos greatly, so to fix the problem, they simply blew up the solar system's sun. This stopped the solar warming—and by definition also stopped the solar system from being a
solar
system—but rendered the thirteen planets in the system lifeless granite spheres floating forever in limbo, sailing silently across the heavens.

“What does that have to do with Sophie?” I said.

“Pretty name,” said Cad.

“If I had to guess, I'd say she's been taken by the Ecological Center for the Preservation of Lesser Species,” said Skark.

According to Skark, the Ecological Center for the Preservation of Lesser Species was Jyfon's primary charitable cause—or at least he assumed it was based on the amount of
mail
they sent him asking for money. The Ecological Center for the Preservation of Lesser Species was a rescue operation for species the Jyfos viewed as close to extinction, in which they tried to make the species feel like they were at home.

The problem was, in researching what kind of environment might be best for humans, the Jyfos looked at the wars that were constantly taking place all over Earth, they watched movies
depicting people getting blown to shreds for the audience's entertainment, they read books about games of death and unsolved murders, and from all that information they gleaned that what humans really enjoyed was violence (and plentiful access to low-quality foods, which was another issue, separate from what we were talking about).

Furthermore, Skark explained, the
reason
the members of the Perfectly Reasonable were so knowledgeable about the Jyfos and their misguided conservation efforts was that the Ecological Center for the Preservation of Lesser Species had its own in-house documentary team broadcasting the various creature environments the Jyfos had created, day and night. The Jyfos' public relations rationale behind these broadcasts was that allowing the universal population to see their efforts helped with fund-raising—but, Skark said, in reality they were simply gluttons for credit who wanted to show everyone how morally superior they were because they “cared” about the miserable animals everybody else ignored.

“So wait…if it's a conservation society, that means she's safe, right?”

The band looked at each other. There was something they didn't want to tell me.

“What?” I said.

Cad went back to the idea of violence. Though the Jyfos generally liked to keep a well-managed, docile herd of humans at the Ecological Center for the Preservation of Lesser Species—having people sedentary made it easier for the documentary
crews to record their behavior—every now and then, to spice up their programming, they would drop someone who didn't look like the other residents—a pretty girl, a weight lifter, a couple of twins—into the compound and tell the rest of the inhabitants to hunt the newcomer down. Cad told me to think of it like a
National Geographic
special that showed predators stalking an animal that the audience wasn't used to seeing flee for its life—for instance, a group of leopards going after a sick lion—with the exception in this case being that the predators here moved
slowly.
However, there were so many of them, they were impossible to avoid forever.

“So you're saying she's bait,” I said.

“Most likely,” said Cad. “Next time we're around a TV, I'll show you what I mean.”

I felt sick, but there was one thing I didn't understand. If the humans at the Ecological Center for the Preservation of Lesser Species had all the food and clothing and cigarettes they could ever want, why would they even
care
if the Jyfos brought somebody new into their environment?

“Is there a
prize
or something?” I said.

“Yeah,” said Cad. “The Jyfos tell them that whoever hunts down the new blood gets to go home.”

“Oh God.”

It was even worse than I had allowed myself to think it might be. Sophie wasn't just having to deal with her abductors—she had been dropped into a
population
of individuals who were after her. I felt desperate.

“This is
insane
,” I said. “We need to go get her
now.
”

“We won't be anywhere near Jyfon until next week,” said Skark, finishing off his bottle of Spine Wine. “We've got two gigs to play before Dondoozle, and we can't afford any distractions.”

Skark pointed at a schedule hanging on the wall above my head:

MONDAY

Berdan Major Arena

TUESDAY

Dark Matter Foloptopus

WEDNESDAY

Travel Day

THURSDAY

Leisure Day

FRIDAY

Dondoozle Festival (Opening)

“I still can't believe we have to play the opening slot,” said Skark. “We used to
close
festivals, and now we're playing first.”

“It was the only slot offered,” said Driver. “We're lucky they're letting us play at all.”

“Tour aside, Bennett needs our help, Skark,” said Cad.

“If he requires help, it will be provided
after
the Dondoozle Festival. I didn't
know
he had ulterior motives when he got on this bus, I think I've been very accommodating in welcoming him, and for now, this discussion is
over.
If you need me, I'll be chatting with the ram. I must get my head straight before my performance.”

Skark pivoted on his heel, opened a door, and disappeared into what looked like a walk-in closet, where he was greeted
by a long
baaaaa
, followed by a sarcastic “Hello, Skark. Really good to see you.”

“There's a goat in the closet?” I said.

“An adult ram,” said Cad. “That's Walter. Skark kidnapped him from the Nevada desert a few years back. He thinks Walter's his spirit guide, but he's clearly only a ram. It's a side effect of Skark constantly battering his brain with wine.”