The Nerdy Dozen #2 (4 page)

“SO WE'D BE ASTRONAUTS?” NEIL ASKED IN DISBELIEF.

“That depends. By now, I assume all you recruits are experts at Shuttle Fury,” Commander Finch said.

Neil felt sweat prick out of every pore on his body, his stomach twisting like a wet towel. He was the opposite of an expert at Shuttle Fury. He was an expert at being the worst.

“I know I'm taking Jonesey's word on a lot of this, but we at least need one hundred and fifty hours logged from you all on Shuttle Fury. You've all at least managed that, correct?”

Finch's eyes scanned the group and abruptly turned to Neil.

“Of course,” Neil squeaked out the lie. “Sir.”

Give or take 149 hours. . . . It's not too late to back out, right? Everyone would understand.

“Commander Finch, sir,” Neil said, clearing his throat with a nervous cough. “Why us? Why can't you guys just use normal astronauts?”

Neil's friends shot him a look, like he'd just asked the worst question in existence. Obviously everyone wanted to go to space.

Finch twitched his nose and mustache like some kind of furry animal. “It's all part of Plan 'Zee,” Finch reassured, which wasn't all that assuring. The group paused as it felt like a dark cloud passed over their ideas of glory.

“We're down to Plan Z? What happened to A through Y?” asked Jason 2.

“Great. You're already thinking like astronauts, recruits,” Finch said. “You must question everything.”

“Well, we're questioning, my man!” said Waffles. “Because I could make Plan W happen if need be.”

Finch gestured for both Waffles and the incognito superhero to calm down. Neil wasn't sure what Plan W would look like exactly, but it probably involved gallons of face paint Waffles likely smuggled with him.

“Plan 'Zee. Short for ‘chimpanzee,'” Finch explained, clicking the remote still cradled in his hand. Another, tinier craft appeared in the blue-projected orb. “Recruits, let me introduce you to the
Fossil
. The only Whiptail shuttle we have left. An experimental model, as I told you. It's a smaller, simpler design.”

“The
Fossil
was the first Whiptail to be manufactured, made to cut rapidly through deep space,” Finch said. “It's designed to be flown by a squad of highly trained chimpanzees.”

“Is that what you guys think of us? A bunch of dirty apes?” shouted Waffles.

“Easy, Charlie. Because it was designed for primates, the ship's height clearance is far too short for any astronaut,” said Finch. “You're the only people with any sort of applicable flight hours logged who are capable of flying it.”

“Oh. Cool,” said Waffles.

Neil knew piloting a vehicle meant for apes was a new twist, but the mission was suddenly too tempting to back out now—if a chimp could fly the Whiptail, Neil could, too.

“We made the controls easy enough for chimpanzees to understand. From what Jones has told me, you all are an impressive lot. I have full faith in you,” Finch explained.

Neil knew the blessing from a NASA commander was a big deal, and he was pretty sure it was all going to be fine. No one would just send kids into space unless it was completely safe. Right?

“But to be clear, the
Fossil
is our only chance at stopping the thieves who have our ship,” Finch said. “There's no telling what they intend to do with it, but we basically have a craft with enough explosive liquid fuel to act as its own nuclear device. Big enough to destroy an entire country.”

Gotcha. Okay, so maybe not
completely
safe.

“Commander Finch? How are we supposed to find a missing rocket that could be anywhere in
space
?” Trevor demanded, probably using arguing tactics picked up from his lawyer father.

“Yeah!” Corinne added. “I can't even find my mom in a grocery store. How are we going to find anybody in space? It's huge!”

“Once you're in orbit, your rocket will initiate a specifically tuned radar to lead you directly to the missing spacecraft,” Finch responded. “While the thieves hacked almost everything else, from space we can still ping the missing ship's homing beacon to force its coordinates and catch up to it in the
Fossil
. It's the only ship we have that can keep up with the
Newt
's speed.”

Across the table, Sam raised her hand with a question.

“Yes . . . ,” Finch said, skimming his manifest of young soldiers. “Samantha?”

“Pretty much everybody calls me Sam, but whichever you prefer, sir,” she replied. “More important, how are we actually going to go to space within twenty-four hours? Astronauts train for years before they attempt something even remotely close to this.”

Neil watched the NASA commander subtly shift. He knew Sam had a great point and that her knowledge of space far surpassed his own. Up until the age of seven, for example, he had sincerely believed the moon was made of cheese, or some kind of lactose-free space equivalent.

“Good question,” Finch responded, lowering his clicker-wielding hand onto the podium to give Sam his full attention. “We have data that insists this experience shouldn't be harder on you all than your previous mission. And I'll be right with you to ensure you're all okay,” Finch said. “But I can't stress enough the importance of this mission's success. You are the only people alive able to return our stolen ship.”

Neil knew after a speech like that, there was no turning back.

“Now, as Sam so astutely put it, you'll be in training for the next twenty-four hours. We'll meet up with my mission capsule communicator, or CAPCOM, Colonel Dallas Bowdin. If any of you cannot pass training, we won't send you on the mission, simple as that. It would be a risk to the crew and mission. These are standard rules for all astronauts.”

Astronaut
. Neil repeated the word over and over in his head, his heartbeat steadily racing in excitement. Space was the ultimate adventure, the only place left for true exploration. He knew he had to prove himself worthy of the title.

But there was a level of danger to the mission that Finch hadn't expanded upon yet.

Who actually steals a space shuttle in the first place?

“Tomorrow, all of you who passed training will board the
Fossil
to pursue and recover our stolen ship, the
Newt
,” Finch said, discontinuing the video projection. He turned to the group, his words stern. “There is no dishonor if you want to leave now.”

Everyone silently listened for movement—but not a noise was made.

Silent, just like in space. Where we're going. In real life.

“Well then, it's settled, recruits,” said Finch. “Welcome to NASA. We've got some work to do.”

NEIL LOOKED AT HIS NEW NASA-ISSUED WATCH. HE LOOSENED
it a notch and watched the face blink to read 20:53. He wanted to be early for the start of training, something he thought Commander Finch would appreciate. He also hoped timeliness would be valued more than mastery of the video game simulator he should have been playing all summer.

Before darting out of the conference room, Finch had handed everyone a short test to complete. It was full of random questions about space, medical attention, and physics. Neil took his time, knowing science wasn't exactly his strongest subject. Only last year he had asked for dismissal from biology to take gym for two periods, which was saying something.

So while everyone else finished and headed to the locker room, Neil was last. He did a quick change into his powder-blue uniform in a bathroom stall. Within a minute Neil was squeaking down the facility in double-knotted black boots. He stood by the double doors leading into the hangar, where Finch had instructed everyone to meet. Busy technicians ran past him in pairs but saluted the lone gamer as they passed.

“Mr. Andertol,” said a woman a few inches taller than Neil, clad in a sterilized white jumpsuit, as if she were touring a chocolate factory.

“Miss, ah, Space-traveling Astronaut,” Neil replied with a salute, wishing her uniform had some sort of name patch. She smiled and kept moving down the hallway, her hair neatly tucked into a bleached white hairnet.

Neil's eyes drifted from the hustling NASA employees to the walls around him. They were lined with a slew of mission achievements and memorials; each corridor was dedicated to another feat of science and space. This was even better than the Greater Colorado Museum and Planetarium and Homestyle Buffet. It was like an astronaut hall of fame.

Closest to Neil were photos of NASA's astronaut classes, framed and hung in order by year. Ranging from 1959 to the present, each photo showed a smiling group of jumpsuit-wearing astronauts, all in a hangar, space station, or science lab. Only recent shots showcased astronauts in their full suits and helmets, and they all featured cheesy smiles, posing in front of the blue NASA logo. It was reassuring to see that brave and fearless galaxy adventurers still looked awkward on class photo day.

I should see what Commander Finch looked like
with
hair.

Scanning each photograph intently, Neil tried to find the broad shoulders and impressively square jaw of his new commanding officer. His search soon stopped at 2001 and the glistening, curly locks of a young Draymond Finch.

He stood alongside three other astronauts. One was a strapping man with a neck like a small birch tree, and another a bookish astronaut who was about a foot shorter. The only lady of the class had curly blond hair and a beautiful, slightly rectangular face.

“Can't believe it's been so long,” Finch said, sidling up to Neil.

“Since that hairstyle was okay? I know,” Neil said, getting Finch to crack a half smile for the first time.

“Well, that, too,” Finch replied, the two of them standing in pools of reflected light on the shiny floor. “Our class was the best NASA had, or has, ever seen.”

“Who were the others?” Neil asked. “And were you the best? I bet you were the best.”

Finch exhaled, but the half smile was gone, almost turning into a half frown.

“No, that honor belonged to Astronaut Jon Dewett,” Finch said, gesturing to the man on his right in the picture. “Best pilot and astronaut I've ever seen.”

He was the taller, olive-skinned man from Finch's graduating class. He was equally mustachioed, with brown hair that tapered back into a tasteful mullet. From what Neil had seen, 2001 was a pretty rough year in terms of hairstyles.

“I'm the only one still with NASA.”

“Really? Where is he now?”

“Something of a disagreement. The participants of the program parted ways, and he left for the private space race.” Finch groaned. “Commercial missions, the wave of the future.”

“And who were the others? Did they go with him?”

“Clint and Elle Minor. They were married during training,” Finch said, his normally stoic voice cracking slightly. “They piloted the first manned mission to Mars.”

He turned to the wall opposite him and Neil. It displayed a framed photograph of the married astronauts, both climbing into a craft that looked like the stolen Whiptail from the video Finch played earlier. It wasn't as streamlined, but it was still similar to the craft now joyriding through the galaxy.

“Lost in space—terribly tragic. Almost a year ago to the week,” Finch said delicately. “They were in the first human-sized Whiptail we constructed,
The Golden Gecko
. With our new technology, one-way missions were thought to be a thing of the past. They left behind two kids.”

“Did you know them? The kids?” Neil asked.

“I only met them a handful of times,” Finch answered before erupting into a small coughing fit. “Excuse me for a moment. Think I need a little water. Back at twenty-one hundred hours—you know, I've heard a lot of good things about you, Andertol.”

None of them regarding shuttle simulators, I hope!

The commander exited the hallway, and Neil was alone once again. He stared at the faces of immortalized space travelers and wondered if any of them had also lied during the application process.

Oh, the Minors.

The name of the missing couple struck a bell. Neil remembered his parents glued to the nonstop footage of the first manned mission to Mars, and when it went awry. Neil's mom watched all day, hoping a distress call or radio signal would offer their whereabouts.

Unfortunately Neil had a pretty good score going in Chameleon, so his attention was elsewhere. After a few weeks, his mother finally gave up hope, along with everybody else.

“Neil Andertol, you slippery serpent!” Biggs yelled, appearing from the locker room to wrap Neil in a bear hug.

Biggs looked at least two inches taller, like a stretched-out version of himself with a pointier Adam's apple. He'd apparently hit something of a growth spurt over the summer, but still looked like a shaggy, unwashed mop that had come to life.

“Biggs! So good to see you, too,” Neil said, muffled by his friend's chest. He pulled his head back and took a gasp of fresh air. “Just don't crush my lungs with your giant adult man arms. Did you get that operation where they put horse bones in your body to make you taller?”

Biggs dropped Neil and straightened his jumpsuit.

“No, but good to know that's always an option for later in life,” Biggs said to Neil. “Man, Neil Andertol. In the flesh. There's so much I want to catch up on with you. You gotta see the new game—Harris and I are really close to having something!”

“Oh, that's right! You're actually helping with
Feather Duster 2
?” Neil questioned, remembering Biggs's offer of support to Harris for all smell-related game additions.

“It's been a blast. Harris is, like, really smart. I'm talking Wikipedia smart,” said Biggs. He probably had Jones pull a few strings to get him off the hook for capturing a Chameleon. He wasn't a truly evil person, really.

“Your smell thing is working? You ever get past bacon?” asked Neil, remembering Biggs's last enterprise.

“Smells . . . well, smells are getting there—maybe a bit too much wet-dog smell at times, but we're close.”

“Dude, that's so awesome. I can't wait to play it. And smell the parts that don't smell like golden retrievers.”

“And that's not even the good news!” Biggs said, his face lighting up. “You, sir, are looking at a man making a new language.”

“Like a whole new one?” Neil wondered, waving quick hellos to the rest of the group as they trickled into the hallway. Everyone tried doing a slow-motion, space movie walk, decked out in official-looking uniforms.

“Are you making up new words?”

“We'll use standard words, all the greatest hits. It's a new sign language,” Biggs said, moving his hands like two swimming octopi.

“Right now people in America only have one option for sign language. So I'm making The Universal Biggs Language, or TUBL for short. For anyone interested in switching things up. Or learning thirteen different hand symbols for the word
pancake
.”

“It sounds to be a noble enterprise, Master Biggs,” said Riley, his pudgy frame stuffed into a half-zipped jumpsuit.

“Riley!” Neil exclaimed.

“Salutations, my fellow space cadets!” Riley shouted, tugging on a sleeve to get his outfit to cooperate. Trevor, the Jasons, and Yuri joined everyone, forming two makeshift lines at opposite sides of the hallway.

“Been a bit tough with long-sleeved garments since the stocks,” said Riley, in his comforting but bizarre way of speaking.

“Like, the stock market?” Trevor questioned Riley.

“No, 'twas out in the town square's stocks for a few moons,” Riley replied, referring to a wooden contraption, designed for public ridicule, that locked his head and hands in place. “Standard Renaissance fair punishment for an undutiful swineherd. I'll be fine, just have a fanciful popping sound in one shoulder is all.”

Formerly Neil's online nemesis, Trevor was more filled out since the beginning of summer, having lost a bit of the baby fat from his face. His freckled cheeks were subtly tan, and he still had what most people would consider a huge head.

“I had a hunch they'd want us to beat that Shuttle Fury game,” Trevor said to Neil, closing in on Neil's spot at the front of the line. “You didn't finish it either, did you?”

“No, not really. More like Shuttle Furious, am I right?” Neil answered, completely ripping off Jones's joke. The group laughed, and Neil felt a bit of unearned relief. The truth was getting easier to twist with each pass.

“I figured you couldn't beat that space thing. Nobody could; it's impossible,” Trevor said. “I tried to find any kind of cheat code just to see what happens in the end but couldn't find anything online. Nobody's beaten it—that game must be completely top secret. Or just so awful nobody played it.”

Neil nodded slowly, choosing not to reveal the true origin of the game. It felt cheap to steal Jones's joke one second and credit him the next.

Sam and Corinne filtered in from the girls' locker room, gleefully catching up with each other. Neil wanted to go run and talk to Sam and poke fun at her braces, but farther down the hall appeared a determined Finch. Sam stopped in her tracks at the sound of the commander's voice.

“This way, everyone,” said Finch, and strode toward a red emergency exit. It was the opposite direction from the hangar, where Neil had thought a sweet aircraft would be waiting for them.

Must be a ship already warmed up outside.

The group hustled down the hall, each one doing their best not to joyously dash toward whatever adventure awaited.

“You guys talkin' about the NASA game?” whispered Yuri, strands of greasy, long black hair covering just his right eye. “I couldn't make it much past halfway. Too hard.”

“It might be the hardest game I've ever played,” said JP, whose gelled hair still retained the properties of cave stalagmites.

Jason 1, now wearing a handmade beanie, and Jason 2, probably wearing a superhero costume under his jumpsuit, groaned in unison.

“Yeah, I got to that warp speed level, but everything was super difficult and technical,” Jason 2 chimed in, his boots looking to be triple-knotted.

Finch pushed through the emergency door and onto a large patch of grass softly lit by a half-moon.

The group hesitantly followed as Finch continued off paved ground into lush Bermuda grass. With a few more strides he was almost to the edge of the salty ocean waves, which Neil had smelled earlier.

“Excuse me, sir? Aren't we supposed to be training to fly space shuttles or something?” asked Corinne. “I think they're that way—in the hangar. Where shuttles live.”

Neil agreed, and also wondered which ocean it was. The tops of waves curled over in plateaus of white water as moonlight melted onto everything. If Neil were home like any other Friday night, he'd be hours into a game of Chameleon.

A bubbling and gurgling started about thirty yards from shore. It charted a course toward Neil, slowly revealing the top of a grayish-black vehicle.

It was a stealthy craft that shared sleek angles with the design of the Chameleon and Whiptail, but was shaped a bit like a stingray. Maybe twenty yards across, its thin edges tapered up to a bulging center. What would normally be the head of the sea animal was the cabin of the ship, its eyes the cockpit's two windows.

“NASA public transportation,” Finch said. “Always on time.”

The craft smoothly spun in the water, and the main cabin's rear hatch opened toward Finch and his gaming crew. Saltwater beaded off its shiny exterior as Finch stepped onto the back of the ship.