The Nerdy Dozen #2 (8 page)

COMMANDER ANDERTOL AND HIS CREW FINALLY ARRIVED
at the arctic outpost.

Pale-yellow sunlight illuminated the shack. It was just bigger than a semi, with a blue light flashing on top of a pole.

Up a tiny stairway was a door and a small window.

“Hello? Anyone?” Neil said as he opened the door. The station was a big open room, with papers messily strewn about over tables and laboratory equipment. Low static warbled over a radio telecom system. It looked deserted, but Neil soon saw what they'd come for: a telephone.

“Biggs,” Neil said, tipping his head toward the phone.

“On it, my good man,” Biggs said, confirming with a new piece of sign language that involved lots of finger twisting.

“I'm gonna try and call NASA first,” Biggs said, bringing the old brown phone to his ear. He cocked his head to the side to pinch the receiver between his shoulder and his cheek. “You think it's just 1-800-NASA?”

Biggs smashed the number into the keypad and soon heard a busy signal. He called again, this time getting through for a ring, but then he only received a recorded message about early registration for Space Camp.

“No luck,” said Biggs as he hung up the phone. Neil, Dale, and Waffles had all continued riffling through papers, which seemed to be in both English and Russian.

Biggs dialed another number and held an arm high with a thumbs-up as it successfully started to ring.

“Whoa, jackpot!” yelled Dale as he opened a small refrigerator in the corner of the room. He pulled out cans of Coke and tossed one to each fellow adventurer. Neil popped the top of his drink and listened intently to Biggs. He glanced over to the flimsy wooden door on the other side of the room and took a quick gulp of his drink. The fizzing bubbles tickled his throat.

“Are you there, Harris? It's me, Biggs,” Neil's friend said, twisting the phone cord around his index finger. “First, great news on the smell front. I think we're close to working those kinks out. Which is to say, about only half of the stuff still smells like dirty wildlife.”

Neil cleared his throat, respectfully reminding Biggs of the task at hand.

“Oh, right,” Biggs continued. “And more important, Neil, you remember Neil, right? Well, we're actually flying a plane made by your father's company.”

Biggs continued on, explaining as much as he could. Waffles then ran up to him, excitedly pointing to a map with specifics on their location.

Neil knew Harris was their only chance, and Harris needed to understand how serious the situation was. Neil walked over to Biggs and motioned for the phone before plucking it from Biggs's hand.

“Harris, I hate to be demanding, but I could really use a favor right about now. We have to fix this spaceship and get back to our mission,” Neil begged. “
Please
, come help us.”

Neil started to hear a voice on the other line, but the connection cut out.

Well, better than nothing.

“Uh, guys?” said Waffles, moving into his friends while purposefully backing away from the door.

Commotion sounded from outside. A crash was followed by a menacing growl.
What was that, a yeti? Santa?

It was, in fact, a polar bear. And it was blocking the door they had just come through.

“
Run!
” Neil screamed as the group bolted out the door on the other side of the building. It might as well have been marked “Polar Bear Escape Route.”

“So how do we outrun a polar bear? Is that in the game?” Neil wheezed, turning to Dale. They watched the wild animal race toward them across the snow.

“I have no idea!” Dale exclaimed. “Truth be told, Yeti Bobsled got pulled from the shelves for overly realistic Abominable Snowman violence. Every game ended with some kind of snow monster using your femur as a toothpick.”

“Why didn't we hear about this before sledding down a mountain?” yelled Neil. The bear had followed them outside and was in pursuit.

Neil was panicked, and he knew he had to do something. The bear was right on their heels when Neil remembered his hand was still clutching a can of Coca-Cola. And based on his extensive television watching, Neil knew that polar bears
loved
Coca-Cola.

He turned and faced the bear, which reared up on its hind legs and growled dangerously, strands of saliva dangling from its sharp teeth.

“I hope this works,” Neil gulped. Waving the can of Coke like a stick in a game of fetch, he hurled it as hard as he possibly could. Neil had hoped to throw it beyond the bear so the bear would chase after it. Instead, the half-full can spiraled wildly, exploding in a shower of carbonated, sugary goodness.

Neil closed his eyes in terror, sure that the bear had a taste for sugar and that it was smelling the Swedish fish coursing through his veins. But as his breath fogged up against his clear helmet, Neil opened his eyes to see nothing had happened.

The bear was on all fours, licking at the Coke that had landed in the snow. It was like a Coke slushy, and Neil appreciated the bear for its good taste. Neil would do the same with his friend Tyler, eating syrup-stained chunks of snow one snowball at a time.

“Come on, guys!” Neil said. The bear was certainly under some sort of sugar-high trance, so they had to move fast.

Neil, Biggs, Waffles, and Dale followed their snowy footprints from earlier and dragged the inflatable raft behind them. It seemed impossible to move fast, though. Sliding downhill was a breeze, but climbing back up was proving impossible.

Neil and the others stopped, panting. They had made it maybe ten meters before doubling over, out of breath.

“Man, we didn't really think about how we were gonna get back up this thing,” said a tired Waffles. But as everyone looked up the imposing face of the jagged mountain, Neil heard a voice behind him.

“You called for help?”

“HARRIS!” SHOUTED NEIL, IN TOTAL SHOCK.

He was wearing full puffy winter wear, riding on an ostrich decked out in a furry insulated vest and ski goggles. They both wore Feather Duster–branded gear, everything light blue apart from a yellow ostrich symbol.

“Did you guys miss me?” he said, pulling his orange snow goggles down around his neck. His skin was still dark from the sun, the remnants of a few recent pimples dotting his forehead. He had the same piercing eyes Neil remembered, but this time they didn't seem evil. Neil had to admit Harris had a pretty intimidating and confident presence.

“How'd you get here so fast?” shouted Biggs.

Harris dismounted from his winter ostrich, which crunched at the snow with insulated boots with holes for talons. He began collecting a few of the canvas tethers attached to the raft.

“So wild,” Harris said, taking off a white helmet that looked like the kind professional snowboarders wore. “I'm up north doing research for
Feather Duster 3: Aviary Avalanche
. My dad's company has an outpost not far from here.”

“Oh, we got the full tour, my man,” replied Waffles.

“Oof, yeah,” Harris said. He began rigging his ostrich to the yellow sled. “Been abandoned for a bit. It's Fuzzy's home now. He was my old pet, but he started getting too big for his cage. So he lives here. I think he likes it.”

As the caretaker of a backyard ostrich, Neil saw an alarming trend with Harris and his pets. Unfortunately Neil's family didn't have some kind of subzero outpost to which they could ship away an overgrown bird.

“Well, that should about do it,” said Harris, tugging on the harness he'd just created. “You guys hop on. We're following the trail you left coming down, I assume?”

“You've got it,” said Neil. He was relieved to see Harris, but more excited that he no longer had to trudge back up the mountain. Harris nudged his ostrich, and they began heading uphill.

“Biggs, how're the smells for the game going?” Harris continued.

“We're, ah, getting there,” said Biggs. “I've got a few scents I'm cooking up in some jars back home. Really think I've figured out how to get rid of ‘wet dog.'”

The crew soon went silent, hunkering down to dodge snowdrifts. Harris and his ostrich finally lugged the group back to the
Fossil
. Everybody was inside, but Neil could see Riley and Corinne waving through the cockpit windows.

Everyone filed back outside in the swirling cold winds, and Harris's eye caught sight of the damaged wing.

“That the problem?” Harris asked as he walked over to the wing, leaving his ostrich to peck at big clumps of snow. He stooped down and ran a gloved hand over the small corner of sheeting.

“Ah, I see,” Harris said calmly, pulling out a tool kit from the ostrich saddle.

“See what?” said Biggs.

“I know we were having issues with some of the spacecraft paneling as it came off the line. Could've been what happened here,” Harris said, pulling out what looked like a shiny blowtorch. “But we can fix this. No problem.”

Neil could sense some of the group was hesitant about having a former evil lunatic helping them out.

“Are we sure we can trust him?” Sam whispered to Neil.

“What choice do we have?” Neil mumbled back, taking a wide-legged stance that hopefully made him look bigger than he was. “Harris, do your best.”

With a nod, Harris sparked the handheld welder and began repairs to the ship.

“So, mind telling me what, exactly, you're all doing up here?” Harris said, closing his eyes to avoid the blue spark of his torch.

Neil told Harris about the mission. How they'd been selected to retrieve a stolen spaceship. Neil chuckled as he wondered what was more random, the mission he'd just described or the fact that Harris rolled around with a spot welder at all times.

“Okay, this should do it,” Harris said after a couple of minutes.

“Thanks,” Neil said. “You've literally saved this whole mission.”

Neil opened his arms for a hug good-bye, but Harris took a step forward and lowered Neil's arms back down to his sides for him.

“Nope, I'm coming with you,” Harris said.

Neil laughed, but as Harris began to leave behind his winter gear in his ostrich saddle, he could see the face of someone who'd made up his mind.

“Really,” he insisted, determined. “I owe you guys from last time. And I love a good mission. Who doesn't?”

“It'll be dangerous,” Neil replied, but Harris was unflinching. “We're basically chasing someone who has hacked an entire government branch.”

“Only one?” he said to Neil, taking his snow-caked scarf off his neck. “Neil, I'm coming. I've done four flights with my dad and his pet space project, Beed-X. We've been making supply runs to the ISS for months now.”

Neil had heard about private companies doing flights to the International Space Station. It made sense Harris's billionaire father was getting into the mix.

“And besides, there's normally twelve of you, right? From my count I only saw eleven.”

Man, this guy is good.

“Yeah,” Neil said. “Yuri didn't make the mission. You might remember him as the dude who smashed that huge window in your dad's old warehouse.”

Harris bobbed his head in acknowledgment.

“Fine. You can be the engineering specialist on board, in case anything else breaks,” said Sam, reluctantly welcoming her newest teammate.

“Well, what are you?” Harris asked her.

“Medical specialist. Basically I just slap anti-nausea patches on people who look like they're going to hurl.”

“I'll take one of those. And we're in luck if you need backup; my CPR card is up to date, and I've seen the first three seasons of the reality TV hit
My Big Fat Rural Disaster.
”

“Well, welcome aboard, Astronaut Beed,” Neil said with a salute.

Harris gave a salute with two fingers and, with a whistle, sent his ostrich running home. He followed Neil into the main flight cabin containing all twelve seats, Neil's up front next to Trevor's.

“Here's the only spare space suit we have,” said Jason 1, holding out a vintage burned-orange suit. As it was designed for a chimpanzee, it was a little long in the arms and short in the legs, but Harris could make do. The name
Pickles
was printed on its front in block letters.

“I know some of you may not be excited to see me, but I want to help you guys out. To do what I can to make up for last time,” Harris said as everyone began reattaching their seat belts and fastening them in place. “Oh, and one more thing.”

All eleven gamers went silent, wondering if this was when Harris would unleash a thousand ostriches to overthrow the mission and NASA as a whole.

“We're going to need to fly off the cliff.”

“What?” everyone exclaimed.

“Listen, I know it sounds crazy, but trust me,” Harris explained. “I did something similar with my dad during one of his commercial flights.”

“Like a TV commercial?” asked Jason 2.

“No, the private company Beed-X. He's trying to be the first private team that makes it into deep space.”

“Lucky,” said Sam.

“My dad showed me all the specs for these things. The engine on this ship was probably designed to work like a booster rocket, right?”

“Correct,” said JP from his seat.

“So for the thrusters to work properly on this thing, we really need to be moving,” Harris said. Neil could tell he had a take-charge personality—perfect for unexpected problems on top secret missions, horrible for board games.

“So in order to take off, we, well . . . ,” Harris said, trailing off.

“We'll have to free-fall from the cliff for a minimum of eight seconds. It's a three-hundred-foot drop, so we
should
be okay,” JP said, interrupting. “By my calculations.”

Neil was beginning to get slimy palms. The pressure of commanding the ship and mission, without radio support, was mounting. He could feel more eyes looking his way for direction.

Am I really about to give this order?

“Crew, you've received the orders,” Neil said in his best Jones impersonation. “Now let's get a move on it. Fasten yourselves in and prepare for takeoff. On my mark, we'll disengage our flaps and, ah, fly off the cliff, I guess.”

While the speech probably wasn't up to his standard, Neil hoped Jones would be proud. Maybe there were some freeze-dried sunflower seeds on board, to make his impersonation complete.

Neil put a hand on the flap controls.

“Everyone ready?” Neil asked his team, and himself.

“Let's do this, baby!” shouted Waffles.

“We'll follow your lead, my liege! We've got a mission to finish! The cosmos calls us!” added Riley.

At the edge of the frozen ice cliff, the craft creaked on tightly packed snow.

Terrified, Neil pulled the handle. The flaps of the ship lifted up, and the rocket instantly slipped forward, careening off the lip of the cliff.

It fell faster and faster toward the ground, building speed as it tore through the cold arctic air. Trevor was counting down from eight.

“Four . . . three . . . two . . . ,” he said through everyone's radio communication.

“The engine isn't catching!” JP shouted, frantically checking every gauge and control in front of him.

“We can't die like this!” shouted Corinne. “My body is supposed to be turned into ashes, then converted into pages for encyclopedias!”

But in the final second, the engine of the ship fired a glowing red and blue. JP shot the ship forward, and Neil and Trevor pulled hard to guide the nose upward. With force that was five times that of a Chameleon, Neil and his crew launched forward. Everyone held on tightly as the rumbling ship soared up, up, up.