Bring On the War Mice

Parker’s eyes shot open.

  Dim yellow light emanated from the artificial window above the tiny desk.

  What time was it? Where was the stupid clock? Every room in a Top Secret underground installation needed to contain a prominently displayed clock. Artificial windows were notorious for falling one hour behind the Atomic Clock.

  Parker sat up. The overhead lights flickered and buzzed to life, triggered by a hidden motion sensor. He made a mental note to put tape over the sensor once he had located it. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and dropped to the floor. He realized he’d slept in his clothes, even his shoes. He grabbed the bowl of liquefied strawberry ice cream and bolted for the door.

  He ran down the deserted hallway to the stairs, holding the bowl before him. The melted pink goop sloshed against the white bowl. He leaped down the stairs two at a time. He emerged on the landing and burst into the Mess Hall. The door banged shut behind him. Sunny, Colby, Bubba, Igby, and General Ramsey all turned and looked at him. They sat at the same table. Parker hid the bowl of melted ice cream behind his back and walked over to them.

  “Good morning, Mary Sunshine,” said Colby. “We saved you some eggs. I made them myself. Bubba ate all the bacon, though. Sorry.”

  Bubba stood and clapped Parker on the shoulder. “Morning, soldier.” He went to the kitchen and returned a moment later with a plate bearing a mound of scrambled eggs and two pieces of toast. Bubba leaned in close, so only Parker heard him say, “I told him you were polishing your boots. So why aren’t you wearing them?” Parker gave him a look of frustrated appreciation. Bubba answered with the slightest of nods.

  “Surely Mr. Perkins isn’t hungry, Bubba,” said General Ramsey. “If he had an appetite, he would have been dressed and ready in time for breakfast, as were the four of you. I can only assume, Mr. Perkins, the bowl of pink liquid behind your back was at one time frozen strawberry ice cream. I can further assume you were eating it in the Barracks. Did I not say chow is never to be taken to the Barracks?” The General looked steadily at Parker. Parker forced himself to return the look but chose not to speak. General Ramsey looked him up and down, surveying his appearance. “Going casual, I see.”

  Parker looked down at his clothes. His jeans and red T-shirt were wrinkled and disheveled now from having been slept in. He looked at his friends. They each wore the black pants, shirt, and boots they’d found in the footlockers beneath their bunks. They looked good.

  “Was the uniform not to your liking, Parker? Or perhaps the garments were the wrong size.” General Ramsey looked at him, eyebrows raised. It seemed the General expected an answer.

  “Well—”

  “No matter,” said the General, cutting him off. “Perhaps tomorrow morning you’ll find time to follow my simple instructions. We were just enjoying a nice cold glass of Twang to start your training on the right foot.” General Ramsey held a glass toward Parker.

  Parker didn’t move. Being publicly humiliated didn’t make him feel exactly trustworthy. Or thirsty.

  “Please, drink up,” said the General. He again extended the glass of Twang. “I’d hate to send you downstairs for all those tests on an empty stomach. You’re not afraid of needles, are you?”

  “No.” Many frightening things swam around in Parker’s sleepy mind, such as being buried alive or attending his dad’s funeral. There were many things of which he was deathly afraid, such as leading his friends into an aerial dogfight against Dr. Red and Go-Boy Ultra and seeing them get shot. At the moment, needles ranked relatively low on the list. Sunny, however, didn’t look as calm. Her face looked ghost-white.

  “N-n-needles?” she squeaked.

  “Don’t worry, my dear,” said General Ramsey. “We need a small sample of your blood. You won’t even know it’s gone. I promise.” General Ramsey stood up and approached Parker. He handed Parker the glass of Twang. Parker held his breath and downed it. “Good boy. Perhaps tomorrow you’ll find time to enjoy breakfast with your friends. For now, let us all move this party downstairs to the Infirmary.”

  General Ramsey took the empty glass and the bowl of pink goop from Parker’s hands and carried them into the kitchen along with the plate of scrambled eggs. He emerged empty-handed and strode toward the elevator. “Follow me.” The kids stood up and followed him. “The flight surgeon and his team are waiting.”

  “Waiting for what?” peeped Sunny. “Why are we going to see a flight surgeon?”

  “Are we going to have an operation?” asked Bubba. He sounded excited.

  “No, no,” replied General Ramsey. “Just a routine physical. A flight surgeon is specially trained in aeromedical factors. He’ll make certain you’re all fit to go flying. Standard test battery. Health, physical fitness, eyesight, mental acuity, reflexes. Typical pre-flight medical exam. It’ll be over before you know it.”

  “We’re going to find out who has the right stuff,” said Colby. “We’re going to have six-inch electrified needles inserted into our hands and inflatable bulbs inserted in our rectums.”

  Ding!

  The elevator arrived and they all boarded. General Ramsey tapped the screen and the elevator car rumbled quietly as it began its ascent.

  The elevator stopped and the doors opened. “Follow me. And don’t touch anything,” ordered the General. The kids followed him down a long white hallway and through a white door into the Infirmary. Rows of beds lined the white walls, surrounded by complex life-support machines and equipment Parker hoped he never needed to use. Everything looked clean and white, sterile. General Ramsey handed them hospital-style gowns. “Put these on. You may change behind those partitions. The flight surgeon will be with you shortly. If there’s anything wrong with you, he’ll find it. Igby and I have work to do but he’ll return shortly. Enjoy your physicals.” Igby and the General left through the same white door.

  “There’s definitely something wrong with you,” muttered Parker. His stomach gurgled and growled. He decided he could have used a second glass of Twang. He also didn’t like the thought of waiting two to three hours to eat some actual food. He almost wished he could drink the warm, melted strawberry ice cream straight from the bowl General Ramsey had confiscated.

  “Now what?” asked Sunny, snapping Parker out of his daydream. Everyone stood watching him.

  “Change, I guess,” answered Parker.

  “Everyone take a separate curtain,” said Bubba. “Sunny, you change behind that partition.” He pointed to a long curtain hanging from a track in the ceiling. “We’ll change behind those over there.”

  They dispersed as Bubba suggested and a few minutes later emerged one at a time wearing only the gowns. Everyone except Bubba.

  “We’re waiting!” called Colby.

  “Hold your horses!” said Bubba from behind the curtain. “Wizard of the sky, my bu—”

  “Everything okay, Bubba?” asked Sunny.

  “I think mine is too small. The back won’t stay closed.”

  “Come out so we can help you,” said Parker.

  “No way!” said Bubba.

  “You want me to come back there?” Parker threatened.

  “Oh, all right then,” said Bubba. “But you better not laugh.” The curtain slid open. Bubba stood wearing the gown and looking as silly as Parker assumed he himself looked, except even more so, as Bubba’s backside protruded visibly from the small gown. Colby burst out laughing. “It’s not funny,” said Bubba. He began rubbing his backside with his hands. “It’s freezing in here.” At this they all burst out laughing. Even Bubba was unable to stifle a grin.

  “Here,” said Sunny. She grabbed another gown and handed it to Bubba. “Put this one on backwards, like a coat.” Bubba slipped it on. Sunny helped him tie the strings of both gowns together, forming a kind of hospital-style smock.

  “Thanks, Sunny,” said Bubba.

  “No problem.”

  The door opened and Dr. Seabrook entered, followed by Igby. Parker noticed Igby now wore his green flight suit. Upon seeing
him, Parker decided he didn’t mind missing breakfast and enduring a lot of silly tests. He wanted a flight suit of his own. That would get him closer to Go-Boy. And closer to finding his dad. He still wasn’t sure about finding and actually stopping Dr. Red. For now, he would try not to think too much about what was to be expected of him later on.

  “Where’s the flight surgeon guy?” asked Colby.

  “I am the flight surgeon guy,” replied Dr. Seabrook. “I am not only a doctor of science but of medicine. Aerospace physiology is my specialty. However, if you are concerned about my qualifications, Mr. Max, I’m certain Igby would be kind enough to show you the exit.”

  Colby didn’t speak. Nor did anyone else.

  “Don’t blow this for the rest of us, Colby,” said Bubba, breaking the silence.

  “Okay, okay,” said Colby, “I was just asking.”

  “We shall begin with nanocular cornioretinopothy,” said Dr. Seabrook. In his hands he held a small brown vial. “Everyone look up at the ceiling please while I administer the eyedrops.”

  “Nano-what?” asked Parker.

  Dr. Seabrook held the vial up for their inspection. “Suspended in this harmless saline solution are millions of tiny robots. They’re going to give you perfect vision. You must have perfect vision to pilot a Go-Boy.”

  “You’re going to put robots in our eyes?” asked Parker. “What are they going to do?”

  “They’re going to reshape your cornea so it perfectly focuses the light onto the back of your eye, which is called the retina. If this image is distorted or is focused in front of or behind the retina, it can’t be relayed to the optic nerve. The optic nerve attaches to the retina in a place called the fovea.”

  “Foh-vee-uh,” Bubba said slowly, savoring the word.

  “Foh-vee-uh,” said Colby, mocking Bubba.

  “That’s right,” said Dr. Seabrook. “Your eyes will become almost like a built-in pair of high-power binoculars.”

  “So you can see stuff that’s really far away,” added Igby.

  “Tiny robots?” asked Parker. “Will it hurt?” He glanced at Sunny. She watched Dr. Seabrook, wringing her hands together, awaiting his response.

  “Not at all,” replied Dr. Seabrook. “They’re so small you won’t even feel the insertions. It’s more of a tickling sensation. Like an itch you can’t quite scratch. But don’t worry, it only last a few hours. By dinner time your eyes will be right as rain.”

  “‘There is no spoon,’” whispered Colby. He became suddenly stern, speaking softly, slowly. “‘Do you hear that, Mr. Anderson? That is the sound of inevitability.’ ‘I told you . . . my name . . . is Neo!’”

  Parker waited until Colby was done speaking. “What happens when the little robots are done?”

  “They exit the eye via your tear ducts, through the sinus cavity, then down the back of your throat and into your stomach. There they will be destroyed by your gastric juices.”

  “‘Congratulations, Jack. You just digested the bad guy,’” said Colby. He belched loudly.

  “You mean I’m going to have tiny robots for dinner?” asked Bubba.

  “Gross,” said Sunny. “I’m not doing it. My eyes are just fine.”

  “It’s your right to refuse, of course,” said Dr. Seabrook. “But you won’t be able to pilot a Go-Boy. The nature of flying demands supreme eyesight.”

  “Do they know they’re going on a suicide mission?” asked Parker.

  “Kamikaze,” said Colby. “Just like me.”

  “You wish,” said Bubba.

  “Shut up, smock boy,” said Colby.

  “You shut up, Mr. Kami-Crazy,” retorted Bubba.

  “Don’t worry,” said Dr. Seabrook, overriding them. “It’s not like you’re going to have millions of little robot skeletons floating around in your stomach.”

  “Yuck,” said Sunny. “I’m definitely not doing it now.”

  “What about you, Igby?” asked Parker. “You’re wearing glasses right now. How do you fly?”

  “I wore glasses before I came here. I was so accustomed to wearing them that, even after my eye adjustment, I kept wearing them. But the lenses are lightweight plastic. They don’t actually do anything.” He took the glasses off. “I see very well. So will you in a few hours.”

  “You look really good without your glasses,” said Sunny.

  “I do?” asked Igby. His cheeks and forehead slowly turned red. Sunny smiled and nodded. Igby looked down at his boots. He slid his eyeglasses into a pocket in his flight suit.

  “Bubba, you want me to go first?” asked Parker.

  “No way! I want to go first!” said Bubba. “I want to be able to see far away stuff at night.” Parker had to admit he, too, found the concept intriguing. Bubba plodded toward Dr. Seabrook with his eyes turned toward the ceiling. He held his arms out in front of him, his hands feeling for any obstructions. He looked like a mindless zombie wearing a hospital gown. Dr. Seabrook squeezed a couple drops of silver liquid into each of Bubba’s eyes.

  “Why is it silver?” asked Sunny.

  “The solution also contains colloidal silver. Tiny bits of silver act as an antibiotic to prevent infection. Just in case. Now Bubba, keep your eyes closed for a minute to give them time to pass through the cornea,” instructed Dr. Seabrook. Bubba closed his eyes.

  “Tiny sensors, tiny robots, tiny bits of silver . . .” said Colby.

  “Does it hurt, Bubba?” asked Sunny.

  “I feel a draft,” he replied. “But not on my eyes.

  “Maybe it’s on your foh-vee-uh,” Colby mocked.

  “Keep it up and as soon as I get to open my eyes I’m going to kick your plasma,” warned Bubba.

  “It really doesn’t hurt?” asked Sunny.

  “Nope. Don’t sweat the small stuff, Sunny,” said Bubba.

  “Har-har, smock boy,” said Colby.

  “I told you to put a sock in it, Kami-Crazy,” said Bubba.

  “Next,” said Dr. Seabrook. He stepped over to Colby. “Look up, please.” Colby looked up and Dr. Seabrook squeezed a couple drops of the silver liquid into his eyes.

  “Ow! Ow! It hurts, it hurts!” cried Colby. He brought his hands to his face, digging at his eye sockets as he flailed around. Sunny recoiled in horror, covering her mouth with her hand.

  “Knock it off, Colby,” demanded Parker. “It’s not funny. You’re scaring Sunny.”

  Grinning, Colby stopped flailing and stood still. He put his hands in his pockets, as though he were waiting for an overdue bus. “I had you going, didn’t I?” he asked, his eyes closed. “You thought I was really in agony, didn’t you? I told you I’m a good actor.”

  “Yeah, you’re the brightest star in the sky,” said Bubba.

  “It’s okay, Sunny,” said Parker. “You want me to go next?”

  “Yes, please,” peeped Sunny.

  Parker stepped over to Dr. Seabrook and looked up. “Bring on the war mice.”

  “That’s the spirit,” said Dr. Seabrook as he prepared the eyedropper.

  “What did you say?” asked Colby.

  “Bring on the war mice,” said Parker.

  Colby’s brow crinkled above his closed eyes. “Bring on the war mice?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” asked Colby.

  “That’s your line. You say that in every show, in both movies.”

  Colby laughed. “It’s not ‘Bring on the war mice.’ It’s ‘Bring on the warm ice.’”

  “What’s that?” Parker asked.

  “Tell ’em, Ig,” said Colby.

  “It means bring on the Battle-Suit,” said Igby. “The canopy is made of warm ice. It’s water that’s solid but not frozen. I call it ‘warm ice.’ It’s the only thing strong enough to withstand the heat and stress of flying as fast as we do.”

  “How can you have water that’s solid if it’s not cold and frozen?” asked Sunny. Her eyes stayed on the vial.

  Igby grinned proudly. “Molecular manipula
tion.”

  “‘Bring on the warm ice’ is my line,” said Colby. He was right; he said it once in the course of each SV episode.

  “You mean we’ve been saying it wrong all this time?” asked Bubba, eyes closed and head tilted back.

  “Apparently,” said Parker.

  “War mice,” Colby mumbled to himself.

  “I like war mice better,” said Sunny. “It’s cuter. Like Bubba’s mice, Igby and Colby.”

  Igby grinned. “You have mice named after us?”

  Bubba smiled, too, his eyes still closed. “I do indeed.”

  Colby huffed.

  “Ready, Parker?” Dr. Seabrook stood waiting.

  Parker saw the blurry image of the eyedropper hover over his face. He struggled not to blink as a drop of cold liquid landed in each eye. He closed his eyes as Dr. Seabrook had instructed and waited. He didn’t feel anything. After a few seconds, however, his eyeballs started to feel strange. At first it was just on the outside, the cornea, but then the sensation moved inside his eyes. After a minute, the backs of his eyes started to itch and tingle, as Dr. Seabrook had said they would. Parker imagined a sub-microscopic wrecking crew in there rebuilding his eyes.

  “It’s okay, Sunny,” he said. “It feels kinda funny, but it’s not bad.”

  “Will you hold my hand?” asked Sunny. Parker sensed her step forward and felt her take his hand in both of hers. Her hands were cold and sweaty. She must be really nervous. Even more than when she spelled ‘subsuperdumbatoonerismology’ and won the spelling bee in front of four thousand people.

  “Sunny, look up, please,” said Dr. Seabrook.

  A moment later Parker heard Sunny make two distinct peeps, one for each drop as it landed on her cornea. “It’s cold, but it’s okay,” she said.

  “How long do we have to keep our eyes closed?” asked Parker.

  “Good question,” said Colby.

  “Yeah,” agreed Bubba. “Are we going to have to eat lunch like this?”

  “Don’t you think about anything besides food?” asked Colby.

  “Don’t you think about anyone but yourself and your dumb acting?” Bubba replied.

  “If my eyes weren’t closed right now—”

  “That’s quite enough, gentlemen,” said Dr. Seabrook.

  “Say, Doc,” began Colby, “how long have you guys had this nanocular retino-whatever technology?”

  “It was perfected nearly fifteen years ago,” replied Dr. Seabrook.

  “So it’s been around since before any of us were even born?” asked Colby.

  “It seems that is correct.”

  “So, why is it that this technology isn’t available to the public? I mean, I’ve never heard of it and I’ve been to the eye doctor lots of times. Are you afraid you’re going to put all the eye doctors out of business?”

  Dr. Seabrook didn’t respond. Parker tried to listen for any clues as to what he may have been doing. Silence filled the room. “‘Qui tacet consentire videtur,’” Colby said quietly. “‘He who is silent is understood to consent.’ Regarding Henry, I had enough so I said ‘when.’”

  “Weirdo,” murmured Bubba.

  “I heard that,” said Colby. “You can’t do that on television.”

  “What’s television?” asked Sunny.

  “You may all open your eyes now,” said Dr. Seabrook. “We’ll move on to the other tests. Please have a seat on a nearby bed.”

  Parker opened his eyes and looked around. His vision blurred a little. He wiped the corner of his eye. Silver liquid glittered on his finger. Tiny robots. He smeared them on his jeans.

  They all looked at each other as they sat down and waited. Dr. Seabrook began his examinations with Bubba. Igby followed closely, pushing a small cart on wheels bearing a touch screen. They moved quickly and efficiently. Dr. Seabrook checked their reflexes by pounding just below their knees with a small rubber hammer, looked in their ears with a small flashlight, and checked them physically with his hands, tapping out notes all the while on the touch screen. He drew two vials of blood from each of them. Sunny held Igby’s hand and looked up at the ceiling when Dr. Seabrook inserted the needle into the vein in the crook of her arm. Dark blood squirted into the little vial. Parker thought she might cry. He realized how difficult all this must be for her, being the only female in the group. Igby pressed a square of antimicrobial adhesive onto Sunny’s arm after Dr. Seabrook removed the needle. Sunny managed a smile. Parker felt very proud of her.

  “Everyone on your feet, please,” Dr. Seabrook said. “I want each of you to stand on your tip toes and squat down and up until I tell you to stop. Igby, if you’ll please demonstrate.” Everyone looked at Igby.

  “Demonstrate?” asked Igby. “Why me?”

  “Because I asked you to,” replied Dr. Seabrook.

  Igby glanced at Sunny. After an awkward moment of silence, he complied with Dr. Seabrook’s request. He stood on his toes, stretched his arms out before him, and began squatting up and down.

  “Everyone, please do like Igby,” announced Dr. Seabrook.

  The kids looked at each other and then hopped down from the beds on which they sat. Bubba joined in first, followed by Sunny.

  Parker and Colby looked at each other, and then at Dr. Seabrook, who stood waiting for them to begin.

  “That was not a request, gentlemen,” said Dr. Seabrook. “If you don’t pass all the tests, you’ll fail your flight physical. If you fail your flight physical, you can’t pilot a Battle-Suit. You can’t go on the mission.”

  “Without all five of us, there is no mission,” said Colby.

  Dr. Seabrook remained silent.

  Parker and Colby looked at Sunny, Bubba, and Igby all squatting up and down.

  “C’mon, Park,” said Bubba, “My legs are getting tired.”

  “I will if you will,” said Colby. “Bring on the war mice.” Colby winked.

  “Fair enough.” Parker put his arms out and stood on his toes. He squatted up and down along with his friends. Colby joined in.

  “All together now, please,” called Dr. Seabrook. He tapped his touchscreen repeatedly. After a few moments the kids were in sync, squatting and standing in perfect unison. “Excellent,” said Dr. Seabrook. “Now remain in a squatting position and walk around on your tip toes.”

  The kids did as instructed. They moved in meandering paths, occasionally bumping into each other.

  “Hey, look at me,” called Igby, “I’m a duck!” Igby folded his arms to his sides, elbows out. “Quack! Quack-quack! Quack-quack-quack!”

  “Me too!” said Bubba. He imitated Igby’s movements and sounds. Sunny and Parker laughed. Even Colby couldn’t help but grin. In mere moments, all five of them were doing the duck-walk around the Infirmary, quacking loudly and flapping their arms. Dr. Seabrook abandoned his touchscreen. He waded into the cacophonous sea of duck-like children, trying without success to corral them.

  “Enough!”

  All quacking ceased.

  Everyone looked around. General Ramsey loomed near the entrance, hat in hand. Behind him stood three people wearing yellow jumpsuits. Parker recognized them from the hangar yesterday.

  “Is this an Infirmary or a barnyard?” demanded General Ramsey. Without saying another word or waiting for a response, he turned and left, leading the people in yellow jumpsuits with him.

  “That’s enough of that,” announced Dr. Seabrook. “Everyone get dressed and follow me.”

  The kids went behind the curtains. Once dressed, they followed Dr. Seabrook around the corner to an impressive fitness center. Five large electronic treadmills stood lined up side by side. “I want each of you to stand on a treadmill.” The kids did as he instructed, with Parker between Bubba and Sunny. Colby stood on the machine next to Sunny. “You too, Igby.”

  “I had a stress test last month,” said Igby.

  “I want to see how you do against competition,” said Dr. Seabrook.

  “Get on up here, Ig,” said Bubba, poised on th
e treadmill next to Parker. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Igby mounted the treadmill on the end, next to Bubba.

  “Now that you’ve so colorfully demonstrated your orthopedic health, we shall proceed with Cardio-Pulmonary Restructuring, or C.P.R. This will maximize the uptake of oxygen in your bodies. If you need to stop for any reason,” said Dr. Seabrook, “press the red button in front of you.” He moved down the line, attaching a wireless electrode to each of their chests. “If at any time you feel faint or dizzy or experience pain of any kind, notify me immediately. The belts will tilt upward to simulate walking up a hill. I want each of you to keep walking as long as you possibly can. Begin.”

  Dr. Seabrook tapped his touch screen and the treadmills whirred to life. Each of the kids began walking. At first, they moved awkwardly, looking sideways at each other, craning their necks to see what the others were doing. The belts gradually moved faster and the degree of incline increased. The sidelong glances and silly smirks decreased. Each of the kids focused more and more on keeping pace with the advancing treadmills.

  Dr. Seabrook watched each of them closely, making notes on his touch screen as their breathing became more and more labored.

  After a few minutes, drops of sweat fell from Parker’s forehead onto the treadmill. Sweat ran into his eyes, making them sting along with the fuzzy feeling inside them from the retinal conversion taking place. He looked around and saw the others were sweating, too.

  “You’re each doing very well,” announced Dr. Seabrook. “Keep it up.”

  Parker felt his legs beginning to burn. He wondered who would be the first to slap the red button. He really hoped it wouldn’t be him.

  Drops of sweat dripped steadily from the tip of Bubba’s nose and he was breathing heavily.

  Sunny’s brow shined with perspiration as she stared determinedly off into space.

  Next to her, Colby breathed heavily but looked to be doing all right.

  On the other end, Igby looked to be the most fatigued. He stumbled, and then caught himself. Parker hoped no one would actually fall. He and Bubba had once learned the hard way that a treadmill is not a toy. Actually, it was the seat of Bubba’s pants that discovered this one afternoon in the Sky City Fitness Emporium. They went up there to find out how fast a treadmill could be made to turn. Their ulterior motive had been to procure a treadmill to use as a kind of catapult, a device with which they could launch themselves into the lake at Canary Downs. They found a treadmill in a corner and cranked up the speed. When at last the belt spun wildly on its rollers, Bubba sat down on it, expecting to be launched off the end. This is precisely what happened. Their plan worked. Save for the enormous holes burned clear through the seat of Bubba’s pants. They immediately abandoned the plan. For weeks, Bubba had to sleep on his stomach. And Mrs. Black insisted he apply a special aloe-mentholatum salve every night before bed. To this day, Parker couldn’t stand the smell of menthol. He suspected Bubba like it even less.

  Parker glanced over at Bubba. Bubba was sweating profusely but breathing steadily. Sunny seemed to be doing well enough considering the ever-rising treadmill beneath her feet. Colby appeared to be going strong as well. Igby, however, looked to be in bad shape. He breathed shallowly in and out as he hustled along. His eyes looked wide and his head listed badly to the left.

  Igby reached out and slapped the red button. The treadmill slowed steadily to a halt. Igby jumped off of it and knelt on the floor, fighting for breath.

  “You have your inhaler, Igby?” called Dr. Seabrook.

  Igby nodded his head. He rooted around in his flight suit’s multitude of pockets. He finally procured a silver bottle with a nozzle on one end and a red button on the other. He put the nozzle to his mouth, closed his lips around it and depressed the red button. He took a deep breath as the medicine rushed into his lungs. He held his breath a moment and then exhaled, finally breathing normally.

  “Igby has asthma,” said Dr. Seabrook. “Once a month we test his respiratory and circulatory systems, to see how they’re responding to his therapy. As long as he has his inhaler, there’s nothing to worry about. Though why, Igby, you are never able to open the correct pocket, I fear I shall never know.”

  “When you’re suffocating and panicking,” said Igby between breaths, “your short term memory goes right out the window. Sometimes, I can’t even remember my own name.” Igby stood up and took two slow deep breaths. He seemed to almost will his body to slow its breathing.

  “And I know I don’t need to explain again how dangerous it can be to fly while you’re in the middle of an asthma panic attack,” said Dr. Seabrook.

  “No, you don’t need to explain,” said Igby. “But thank you for your concern.”

  “That’s what I’m here for,” said Dr. Seabrook.

  “What does it feel like to have an asthma attack?” Sunny asked.

  “It’s like suffocating,” said Igby. “You’re breathing but you’re not getting any air. Try breathing through a plastic drinking straw for ten minutes and you’ll know.”

  The treadmill belts rose to an alarming angle. The pace increased. Parker’s legs burned. A sharp, stabbing pain in his ribs caused him to lose his balance and nearly fall.

  “How’s everyone doing?” asked Dr. Seabrook.

  Parker noticed Dr. Seabrook examining him. He stood taller and tried to appear in control.

  Colby slapped the red button. The belt slowed and stopped. Bubba smiled and seemed to pick up the pace. Colby collapsed onto the floor, flat on his back, breathing loudly.

  “It’s best to walk around, Colby,” suggested Dr. Seabrook. He tapped his screen.

  “Whatever, dude,” Colby gasped. “I’m tired.”

  Thirty seconds later, Sunny slapped her button. She jumped down and bent over with her hands on her knees, breathing heavily.

  Parker clutched his ribs against the pain. He glanced at Bubba. Bubba breathed heavily but both arms swung freely and he took long, confident strides up the artificial mountain moving beneath his feet. The red digital numbers on Parker’s treadmill display counted steadily upward.

  Four more minutes passed.

  The pain in Parker’s side felt like he’d been stabbed with a spear. Any moment his legs would collapse and he’d fall.

  Finally, after eighteen minutes, exhausted and able to go no further, Parker slapped his button. He jumped off the treadmill and collapsed on the floor next to Sunny.

  “Congratulations, Bubba,” said Dr. Seabrook. “You are our winner.”

  “Awesome!” chanted Bubba. He victoriously slapped his button and rode the belt to a halt.

  “I thought you said not to sweat the small stuff,” said Sunny.

  “I did,” said Bubba.

  “You all did very well,” announced Dr. Seabrook. “Igby, you exceeded your previous score by nearly two minutes. Your oxygen uptake has increased an additional seven percent. That’s excellent. Everyone is in excellent health. I proclaim each of you fit and ready to proceed to the next phase of your training. Congratulations. Let’s all head up to the Mess Hall for some refreshments and a snack.”

  “Nice work,” said Parker.

  “Thanks, buddy,” said Bubba. “You didn’t let me win, did you?”

  “Heavens no,” replied Parker. “That was fair and square. It felt like someone stabbed me in the ribs.”

  “Just like Jesus on the cross,” said Colby. He still lay on the floor with his arms and legs spread wide.

  “I thought my ribcage was going to explode,” said Parker.

  “Me too,” said Sunny.

  “Me three,” gasped Colby. “If that was C.P.R., next time let me die.”

  “I felt the same way,” said Bubba.

  “Then how did you outlast us?” asked Igby. “You even beat Parker.”

  “Never underestimate the power of sheer determination,” Bubba replied.

  Bubba’s words echoed in Parker’s mind as they headed for the elevator. He rode up to the Mess H
all with his friends, and made himself a solemn promise: He would find his dad. As soon as possible.

  The elevator doors opened and the kids stepped out.

  “General Ramsey or I will return after lunch to escort you downstairs. You will be fitted. Have a nice lunch.”

  “Fitted for what?” asked Parker.

  Dr. Seabrook pressed a button and the elevator doors whisked shut. “Fitted for what?!” Parker yelled as the doors closed.

  “Grown-ups can be so obtuse,” said Igby.

  “What’s obtuse?” asked Bubba.

  “Clueless,” said Sunny.

  “All I want is to know what’s going to happen next,” said Parker. “So it won’t be so scary.”

  Chapter 10

  A Big Puddle of Ketchup