There's an Alien in My Backpack Read online

  FOR MARIE LANGE, KEEPER OF THE KEYS, ODDLY ENOUGH

  CHAPTER 1 [TIM]

  MISSING LINNSY

  “Hey, monster maker,” said Jordan Lynch as he sauntered into our classroom. “Why don’t you go back to space where you belong?”

  I sighed and slid down in my chair, trying to disappear. Jordan has always had a large collection of names he likes to call me—things like “boogerbreath,” “dootbrain,” and “buttface.” But after Pleskit and I returned from our adventures on Billa Kindikan, Jordan decided his new nickname for me was going to be “monster maker,” which hurt worse than all the others put together.

  He calls me that because he blames me for the fact that our former classmate, Linnsy Vanderhof, is now a veccir—that is, she is locked in a symbiotic union with a crablike creature named Bur, who lives on her head. Linnsy vec Bur (the proper name for the combined being) decided not to return to Earth. The two of them—or maybe I should say “the one of them” since they claim to be a single unit—are off somewhere exploring the galaxy, or doing business deals, or who knows what.

  Anyway, it’s hard enough to return to everyday life when you’ve just saved the entire civilized galaxy from collapsing into chaos. If you happen to have lost one of your classmates in the process, it’s infinitely worse—especially if she was one of the more popular kids in the class.

  It doesn’t help the churning that starts in my guts whenever Jordan calls me “monster maker” that sometimes I do blame myself for what happened to Linnsy. I know this is stupid. It was Maktel who got us trapped in Ellico vec Bur’s spaceship. And it was Linnsy’s own choice not to come back. Well, Linnsy vec Bur’s choice.

  Half of me is worried sick about her. The other half is crazy jealous because she’s doing what I had always dreamed of—exploring the galaxy.

  I think about that at night, when I am trying to get to sleep, which hasn’t been so easy lately. It’s one thing to dream about leaving home for the stars, and another to actually do it. Until Linnsy made her choice, I had never really thought about how my going would affect my mother. Now I have a better idea, partly because I go to talk to Linnsy’s mom and dad a couple of times a week.

  The Vanderhofs live in the apartment two floors above ours. Fortunately, they don’t seem to blame me for what happened—at least, not entirely. It helps that the Interplanetary Trading Federation brought them to Traders’ Court, so they had a chance to see Linnsy before she took off with Bur.

  Still, it’s hard for them.

  I think that’s why Mrs. Vanderhof keeps inviting me up for cookies and milk.

  “We all have to let go of our children sooner or later,” she’ll say, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “I just wasn’t r-r-r-ready t-t-to… Oh, Mr. Timothy!”

  That’s as far as she ever gets before she breaks down crying.

  I’ll confess that sometimes I cry too. I miss Linnsy more than I could have imagined. Even though she had dropped me as a best friend when she’d sprinted ahead of me in the social decathlon (which hadn’t been hard to do, since I’d pretty much tripped over the starting line), we had known each other for years. Yeah, she made fun of me sometimes. But I also knew I could go to her for help and advice on just about anything.

  I even miss the “little punchie-wunchies” I used to get from her when she thought I had said or done something particularly dorky. Really, that was another reason why I wished she were still around: I wanted to ask her if I was getting less dorky. I know that would count as a miracle of some sort, but I’ve noticed this odd thing happening since we got back: some of the girls—particularly Rafaella Martinez and Misty Longacres—have started to act as if they actually think I’m a human being or something.

  Rafaella has even smiled at me a couple of times.

  It’s hard to get used to.

  As if getting hassled by Jordan and feeling lousy about Linnsy weren’t enough, I was also having a problem with Ms. Weintraub. She actually expected Pleskit and me to make up all the classwork we had missed while we’d been off saving the galaxy!

  “Sheesh,” I complained. “You’d think a guy could get extra credit in social studies for saving galactic civilization from total collapse.”

  “I give you all the credit in the world, Tim,” said Ms. Weintraub. “I still want you to know why the Civil War took place.”

  “Good luck,” snorted Jordan. “He doesn’t even know who’s buried in Grant’s Tomb.”

  This earned him a laugh from Brad Kent, who I think must have been a dog in a previous life, since that’s the only way I can explain his total devotion to Jordan. I always expect him to lick Jordan’s face and ask for a biscuit after he barks out one of those pathetic suck-up laughs.

  Pleskit had missed as much work as I had, of course. The difference is that he has a truly mighty brain, so he was able to make it up more quickly. Which meant I was the one who ended up staying after school to get extra help.

  One Friday afternoon I left school after one of these sessions. It was a beautiful spring day, which was nice, except it was also sort of weird, because it had been winter when we’d left for Billa Kindikan. I was riding my bike, and when I got to the bridge, I stopped to stare at the embassy for a while. Basically it’s a huge flying saucer dangling from the tip of a two-hundred-foot-high hook that thrusts up from the big hill in Thorncraft Park. Even though it’s been there since last fall, I still sometimes think I’m dreaming when I see it—especially since I’m the only kid on Earth who gets to visit it on a regular basis, on account of Pleskit being my best friend.

  A light rain started, and I decided I had better get going. But just seconds after I crossed the bridge, a kid I had never seen before jumped out from behind a tree.

  I screeched to a halt, barely avoiding crashing into him.

  Eyes wild, face desperate, he gasped, “I’m in terrible trouble, Tim! You have to help me!”

  CHAPTER 2 [PLESKIT]

  THE PERILS OF WEALTH

  “Okay, Pleskit,” said Robert McNally, the Earthling hired to be my bodyguard. “Help me get this straight: if this urpelli thing works out, your Fatherly One actually has a chance to become the richest guy in the galaxy?”

  McNally and I were in the embassy kitchen for an after-school snack. We were discussing what it meant that a previously unknown Grand Urpelli had been discovered so close to Earth that it was part of the Fatherly One’s trading franchise. I wanted to answer my bodyguard’s question, but I had just taken a sip of fizzing feezlebort, and my tongue was not yet ready to resume working. So I couldn’t explain, again, that an urpelli is a sort of hole through time and space.

  A Grand Urpelli—and the one located near Earth is only the second we know of in the entire galaxy—connects all the rest of the urpelli. This makes it sort of a huge central station for faster-than-light travel.

  Barvgis, the Fatherly One’s round and slimy personal assistant, took up the conversation for me. After plucking an inch-long squirmer from the bowl in front of him, he held it up and said, “Pretend this squirmer represents all the money possessed by the Earthling known as Bill Gates.”

  McNally nodded. “Okay. I’m pretending.”

  “Good,” said Barvgis. Ignoring the squirmer’s tiny screams and frantically wriggling legs, he tossed it into his mouth. He chewed once, swallowed, then burped in satisfaction. Patting his stomach, he said, “Now, if that represented the current fortune of Bill Gates, the potential fortune Meenom could earn from the Grand Urpelli would engulf it as easily as my vast and mighty stomach engulfed that squirmer.” Bargvis belched contentedly, then said proudly, “My stomach, by the way, has been known to contain thousands of squirmers.”

  McNally sh
ook his head. “It’s hard to imagine anyone having that much money.”

  “It’s certainly hard to imagine my Fatherly One having that much,” I said, now that the feezlebort had released its grip on my tongue.

  “I think your Fatherly One is having a hard time imagining it too,” said Barvgis. He shoveled more squirmers into his mouth, then clamped his lips shut and began using one of his thick, blunt fingers to poke in the squirmer parts that were still sticking out.

  “That’s one reason the ambassador has asked me to stay on for a while longer,” said Wakkam Akkim, the birdlike being who serves as the Fatherly One’s spiritual massage-master.

  “You’re staying?” I asked happily. “I thought your visit was temporary.”

  “Yeah,” said McNally. “I thought you had only stayed this long because Meenom was so distraught while Tim and Pleskit were lost on Billa Kindikan.”

  The wakkam waggled her feathery brows at us. “That was the main reason to stay. But yesterday the ambassador asked me to become a permanent staff member.”

  Barvgis swallowed, belched, then said sincerely, “Wonderful news! Care to explain the ambassador’s reasons?”

  “Gladly,” said the wakkam. “Pleskit’s Fatherly One is concerned about the danger a sudden influx of incredible wealth poses to one’s spiritual well-being.”

  “What’s wrong with sudden wealth?” asked McNally. “I think I could handle that kind of problem!”

  The wakkam smiled. “Money is like gravity. Life would be hard without it. But in excess it can pull things out of their established orbit, twist and contort their shapes, even cause them to crash and burn.”

  “So you’re saying money is bad?” I asked, feeling puzzled.

  She waggled her feathery brows again. “As Wakkam Faluda puts it, ‘The only thing worse than having money is not having it!’ ”

  I wanted to ask more about this, but just then the dreaded Ms. Buttsman, who has a personality like a grindlezark, stalked in. “Your Fatherly One wishes to see you, Pleskit,” she said. “You too, Mr. McNally.”

  Then she smiled—a pleasant expression when seen on the face of most human beings but utterly terrifying when displayed on the face of Ms. Buttsman.

  McNally sighed. The two of us got to our feet and headed for the Fatherly One’s office.

  * * *

  We found him floating about five feet above the floor in his command pod, tapping commands into the keypads on the armrests. The command pod has a well-padded chair surrounded by a clear blue shell that curves around and over it, with a two-foot-wide opening in the front. It should be a relaxing place to work. However, I don’t think the Fatherly One ever truly relaxes, in the pod or anywhere else.

  When he noticed us, he moved his sphen-gnut-ksher in a gesture that meant he wanted us to wait while he finished what he was doing. I interpreted this for McNally, who nodded and stood in silence, hands behind his back, feet slightly apart. He looked calm and relaxed. Despite the relaxed look, I knew that even in this seemingly safe place, he was ready to spring into action instantly should any threat arise.

  The Fatherly One farted a signal to the command pod. It floated slowly to the floor. He stepped out and said, “I need to speak seriously with both of you.”

  Uh-oh, I thought, wondering what I had done now.

  He led us to the Alcove of Intimacy, a small space at the back of his office used for private conferences. Twisting a knob mounted on the wall, he adjusted the table to make it the right size for three beings to have a private conversation.

  We took our places. Face solemn, the Fatherly One said, “I know you are both aware that the stakes regarding our mission here on Earth have risen enormously.”

  “We were just discussing that, sir,” said McNally.

  “Let me see if I can make the situation more clear,” said the Fatherly One. “This Grand Urpelli is one of the most significant discoveries in the history of galactic commerce. Many groups would like to control it, and there is much anger that it chanced to be included in an obscure franchise for a minor planet. Of course, it is universally agreed that unexpected rewards are one of the joys of being an entrepreneur. But sums of money this vast can change people’s opinions—warp them, almost.”

  I thought of Wakkam Akkim comparing money to gravity.

  “Some of our past troubles make sense now that we know others were already aware of the urpelli and wanted to have me removed from my position before I became aware of it as well. Now that the urpelli is public knowledge, the challenges to my authority will continue, perhaps even increase.” He put his hands flat on the table. “We must not give our challengers any reason to claim I am not capable of handling the franchise.”

  He turned to McNally. “Please understand that while I greatly desire to protect my financial position, this is not just about personal wealth. With the discovery of the second Grand Urpelli, Earth has become the main topic of conversation across the Milky Way, from beings in the street to the top levels of power. Because your planet still ranks as barely civilized—”

  McNally started to object, but the Fatherly One raised a hand. “Please, Mr. McNally, take no offense. You know the reasons as well as I do. A planet with so much war, hunger, racism, and environmental degradation cannot possibly be called civilized. Even so, I believe Earth could be truly wonderful if you can only overcome the things holding you back. Many beings of power and prominence disagree; they see the planet merely as a place to be exploited.”

  He paused and took a deep breath. “Now, the reason I called you in—called you both in,” he stressed, turning to look directly at me, “is to inform you that an official galactic inspection team will be arriving soon to look over our operations. We must not provide them any excuse to revoke the Earth franchise.” He turned back to McNally. “You have been protecting my childling, Mr. McNally. Now I ask you to protect me as well.”

  “In what way, sir?”

  “I need to be shielded from Pleskit’s occasionally rash actions. Foolish behavior on his part could be very costly—not just for me but for the entire planet.”

  “I’ll do what I can, Mr. Ambassador. But keeping Pleskit and Tim in line is like herding cats.”

  “You are not responsible for Tim,” the Fatherly One said sharply.

  McNally nodded. “I’m glad we’re clear on that. But unless you ban Pleskit from seeing him, the two of them are going to be together.”

  I cringed inside. Why did McNally have to say this?

  “You bring up a difficult subject,” said the Fatherly One. “I have already concluded that for the present, it would be a good idea to limit the time Tim and Pleskit spend together.”

  “Fatherly One!” I cried.

  He farted a command for silence. “It may also be time to reconsider my decision to send you to school outside the embassy, Pleskit. I fear we have reached a point where the dangers of public exposure outweigh the benefits.”

  I stared at him in horror. It had taken me months to learn to fit in at my new school. Now I had friends, and I felt as if I belonged. “You can’t do this to me!” I cried.

  The Fatherly One’s answer came in a voice that was hard and cold. “I will do what is necessary.”

  CHAPTER 3 [TIM]

  ILLEGAL ALIEN

  I like to help people well enough, but with all that’s happened in the last few months, I’m more suspicious than I used to be. So I didn’t say anything right away, just studied the kid for a minute. He was a little taller than me, athletic-looking, with dark hair, big eyes, and a face that would have been right at home in one of those dweeby rock bands girls are always going nuts for. At least, it would have if it hadn’t been all twisted up with panic.

  “What do you want?” I asked cautiously.

  “I need to meet the alien kid.”

  I sighed. I’m so used to being friends with Pleskit, I sometimes forget that almost everyone else on the planet is dying to meet the aliens. “Sorry,” I said. “Can’t be arra
nged.”

  “But I have to talk to him!” cried the kid, gripping the handlebars of my bike as if they were a life preserver.

  I was starting to get nervous. “What’s the deal?” I asked. “Are you just an alien groupie—or are you working for some multinational corporation that wants to put Pleskit’s face on their cereal boxes?”

  He shook his head. “No, no, it’s nothing like that! I swear. I’ve just got to meet him.”

  I actually had some sympathy, since I would have felt the same way if I hadn’t been lucky enough to be in the school Pleskit got assigned to. But I also knew how many people were trying to get at my friend, and how stressful it was for him.

  “Sorry,” I said again. “Can’t happen.”

  The kid burst into tears. “You don’t understand!”

  “No, you don’t understand,” I snapped, wrenching my handlebars out of his grasp. “You’ll have to find some other way to meet him.”

  I started to pedal away.

  The kid ran after me and grabbed my elbow. I tried to pull myself free, but he was surprisingly strong.

  “You really don’t understand,” he said. “My name is Beebo. Beebo Frimbat. I’m an extraterrestrial, like Pleskit. I’m stranded, and I need help.”

  Not long ago I would have at least listened to someone who claimed he was an alien, no matter how crazy it might have seemed. But that was before so many reporters and businesspeople started trying to use me to get to Pleskit. “If you’re an alien, then I’m Conan the Barbarian,” I said, disgusted that he thought I would fall for such a stupid story.

  “I’ll prove it!” he said angrily.

  “What are you going to do? Peel off your face?”

  It was his turn to be disgusted. “Don’t be so dramatic.” He glanced around, then pointed at a nearby branch that was lying on the ground. “Watch this!”

  He wiggled his finger.

  The branch floated into the air.

  “You’ve got a friend in the tree pulling it up,” I said, a little desperately.