“No, you could not,” J.Lo said with an apologetic smile. “You have not a Time River, because you have never traveled faster than light.”
“Not even on the trip from Earth?”
“Not even for a moment, no.”
We stared at each other for a bit; then he shrugged and went back to his tinkering. One of the taller koobish walked over to where I was sitting and didn’t stop until he was standing directly over me like a canopy bed.
“J.Lo,” I said, “you can’t go back in time.”
“Probablies not. I mean, I think the theory is good, but where would I get so much energies?”
“Mah!” the koobish agreed. I shoved it away. It made a noise like fuff and wandered off.
“No,” I said. “I mean...you can’t. If you go back and make it so you never sent the signal, then...then you and I would probably never have met! And it was only together that we figured out how to defeat the Gorg!”
J.Lo looked up. “But without the signal there would have been no Gorg to defeat.”
“Maybe. Or maybe they would have found you guys again anyway.”
J.Lo nodded. “Or maybies they never would have found us guys again.”
After I was rough with that one koobish, all the others seemed to make a point of bumping into me.
“Anyways,” said J.Lo. “You will like this big-time.” He held up a springy set of plastic teeth, like a big hair clip. “Waveform device!”
“Waveform device!” I cheered as a koobish head-butted me.
“Yes!” said J.Lo.
“I don’t know what that is!” I said.
“Ah. Well. I made it fromto Mister M’Pillowclock’s microwave, and some other things. When I clamp it on to these tubes, I will be able to broadcast a message. Break into all the live video feeds, probablies. And send my message into everyBoov’s message box, alls at the same time.”
“Hm,” I said. Usually in stories when someone interrupts all the TV broadcasts it’s to threaten to poison the reservoir or something. “What are you going to tell everyone?”
“I’ll to explain about the antenna-farm mistake, and figuring out about cloning and teleporting, and sending the Gorg packing with all those cats. Captain Smek will not be able to silence me if everyone knows.”
So that’s what we did. The little liver-shaped box he’d been playing with had a tiny camera and a microphone, like a laptop. J.Lo clamped the waveform dealie on the cables, and suddenly there was his face on the TV. He flipped the channels and they all showed his face, plus the occasional koobish wandering through the background.
And he told them his story. Our story. In his own language he told all of New Boovworld our story, and he even waved me over to share the camera with him. I think I mostly fidgeted and nodded from time to time. I didn’t know what to do with my hands. After a bit Bill flew into the frame and settled lightly on my head.
J.Lo was silent a moment. It made me uncomfortable, so I said, “Yeah,” and then a koobish ran into me.
“That is all,” J.Lo finished, and he unclipped the waveform device.
Immediately the television switched back to its regular programming. A Boov chef holding a knife and a fish said, “Are we back? What was that?”
In the bubble house I smiled at J.Lo. “You did really good,” I said.
“I sent it also to Tipmom’s e-mail,” he said, grinning. “It will take maybe an hour to get there, but—”
I leaned over and hugged him. The koobish came up from all sides and smooshed us.
FIFTEEN
I was sipping a milk shake that J.Lo had made me with Mister M’Pillowclock’s telecloner. I was too hungry to care where it came from. J.Lo filled a bag with some of the gadgets he was working on, left a note of apology to Mister M’Pillowclock, and went up to the bedroom to arrange for a shuttle to pick us up and take us back to Slushious. Nothing to do but go for it and see what happens, we agreed.
A second presidential debate was about to start. On the debate stage were three podiums. Smek and Landry stood unhappily behind two of them. On the third was Smek’s parrot. Sandhandler’s party had panicked after their candidate was forced to drop out, so they were running the parrot instead.
“An election shocker!” said Chad. “Captain Smek running against not one but two Earthlings. A human and a...” The newscaster checked his notes. “Bird.”
“Lower taxes!” squawked the parrot. “Dynamic future!”
“That parrot is saying all the right things,” observed Chad.
“Does the parrot have a name, Chad?” asked Bish.
Chad shuffled some papers. “At this time we believe it’s Pop-Tart.”
“Captain Smek,” said the debate moderator. “Today in his broadcast the Squealer alleged that he told you about his connection to the Gorg retreat, and that you believed him. What do you have to say to that?”
Smek patted at the air with his hands. “Look: I think we are all now very confused about what is and what isn’t. I can promise you that we will get to the bottom of the Squealer’s claims, which I learned about at the same time as everybody else. But confusing times are no time for new leadership!” He leaned and looked slyly at Dan Landry. “Do not the humans themselves have a saying, ‘You should not change horses in midstream’?”
This caused a ripple in the audience. Mostly a confused ripple—the Boov didn’t know what a horse was, nor why you’d consider changing one in the first place. A poll taken after the debate would show that most assumed they were a kind of undergarment.
“New leadership!” said Pop-Tart. “Crackers!”
Landry was too canny not to notice all the puzzled looks in the debate hall.
“On the contrary,” he said with a smile. “Midstream is exactly where you want to change horses! The stream just washes the old horse away! No fuss!”
“Aha,” the audience seemed to be saying at once. There was a lot of thoughtful nodding.
“Mr. Landry,” said the moderator. “The Squealer’s story casts doubt on your claim that you are the one responsible for the Gorg retreat—”
“Let me stop you there, if I may, to say that I never claimed to be a hero,” said Landry, whose autobiography, Just a Hero, was projected on a screen behind him. “The Gorg retreat was the result of many good souls working together. I’m told that you Boov have a saying, ‘Many fingers make a hand.’ I believe that too. I believe in all the Boovish people, such that I even brought my son here to learn from your great wisdom.”
The camera cut to Emerson, in the audience. He looked bored.
“I think we all have a lot to teach each other,” Landry concluded, “but we’ve learned everything we can from Captain Smek. He’s the leader who either knowingly imprisoned an innocent Boov or allowed a guilty one to escape. New Boovworld deserves better, and that’s why I want to be your president.”
“A strong showing from Dan Landry tonight, Bish.”
“Agreed. But environmentalists have to be wondering: What are his plans for our nation’s streams? Will he fill them with horses?”
J.Lo came down the ramp from the bedroom. “I have arranged the shuttle!” he said. “It will arrive now in maybe thirty Earth minutes.”
I was all butterflies. Anything might happen. The shuttle driver could recognize our faces and take us right to the police. Or we might get up to our parking space and find out our car had been impounded.
On the debate stage, someone new was joining Pop-Tart at his podium.
“Horses!” Pop-Tart was saying. “Brighter tomorrow!”
This new Boov put out an arm, and the parrot stepped onto it.
“We in the opposition party thank Pop-Tart for his service,” said the Boov. “But the time has come for a candidate who is of the people and for the people. We nominate folk hero the Squealer for the position of HighBoov president of New Boovworld!”
“Ha!” I said, and choked on my milk shake.
“Whas?” said J.Lo, his English failing him. ??
?No!”
The audience on TV was really reacting to this. Kind of a lot of cheering. Some boos, too, but not as many as you’d think. J.Lo dashed across the living room, dug the waveform device out of his bag, and snapped it over the television cables again.
“Um, hello?” he said, his big face all over the TV—which went “umhelloumhelloumelloumelloelloello” because we still had the sound on. J.Lo muted it. “Sorry. Sorry to interrupt a second time! Just wanted to say thank you, but I do not want to be president HighBoov. Thank you. Sorry.”
He unclipped the waveform device, pressed mute again, and the TV snapped back to the debate. The audience was still cheering.
“That is just the reason why the Squealer is the people’s choice!” said the guy with the parrot. “Who wants a leader who wants to be leader?” And I could see his point there. I’ve always sort of thought we ought to keep a close eye on anyone who wants power over others. But then the Boov added, “We want a leader who is just like us, but famous!” and he kind of lost me there. I want a leader who’s a humble supergenius.
Anyway, the audience was eating it up. A couple of them had already managed to make signs. Smek and Landry blanched and winced at each other.
J.Lo had the waveform clip on again. “No, looksee,” he told them. “I am no leader. I am just a simple maintenance Boov. A Boov who made a mistake and wanted to fix it. I—”
“Maa-aa-a-aa ma!” cried some of the koobish as they bolted across the living room, colliding and careening off me. It was like getting pelted by beach balls.
I looked to see what had scared them, and there was Funsize again in his bad-guy mask, every inch of his body just dripping guns.
One of the koobish kicked the TV box on its side, and now it wasn’t J.Lo on the screen but the assassin, drawing a pair of pistols. He shouted, “DEATH TO—” in his robot voice before Bill gave him a face full of bubbles.
“FUH!” said Funsize. “WHAT?”
J.Lo unclipped the waveform device and began tossing koobish as he skirted around the room. He grabbed his bag and then my hand, and we dashed down the ramp to the street with Bill trailing behind.
Half the ramp got suddenly erased, and the rest collapsed with J.Lo and me still on it. We tumbled onto our arms and faces, and I turned to see Funsize appear in the doorway above us. I was blocking his shot now, and I’d swear he was hesitating again. His mask made it impossible to tell if he was looking at me, but still—he was looking at me. The hovercart was out here, so I swung that around and hurled it at him as J.Lo got to his feet and started hopping and waving.
I thought he’d gone crazy until I looked up and saw the hot dog–shaped parking shuttle descending down into the alley. It extended a hoseleg for us.
“You firstnow,” said J.Lo, trying to maneuver me under the hose. But I’m heavier.
“Don’t be dumb!” I said, and I picked J.Lo up and threw him right up the hose. FOOMP. “He’s not trying to kill me,” I shouted after him, and turned to see Funsize pointing his guns, ready to prove me wrong. Then, FOOMP, the hose got me and Bill, too.
I popped up inside the shuttle, which was empty apart from J.Lo and the driver and was already rising slowly away from the alley.
“Can’t you go faster?” I shouted, worried that Funsize would just shoot the whole thing full of holes. But as I watched out one of the windows, he disappeared back inside the bubble house.
“We made it!” said J.Lo. “Champions of the Galaxy! Thank you for picking us up, shuttle lady!”
The driver was actually saying something like “Anything for the Squealer” when Funsize appeared on the top of the bubble house and took a running leap at the shuttle.
Whap, he smacked into the side and held fast to the ledge of one of the porthole windows, the wind whipping him around. I watched him aim a pistol with his free hand and had only a moment to tackle J.Lo before the beam cut through the bus where his head had been. Funsize began climbing into the hole he’d made, so I rolled onto my side and kicked, knocking the gun out of his hand. But he had plenty more guns. Holsters held five more eraser pistols and a trombone rifle across his back and something that might have been a samurai sword. I tried to kick again, but Funsize grabbed my leg and used it to pull himself up.
Meanwhile, something was wrong with the shuttle. For starters, it was full of suds. Bill had clearly worked out that Funsize wanted to hurt J.Lo, so he was trying to make J.Lo impossible to find. But that hole Funsize had made with his pistol must have erased something important, because now the bus listed and turned, and the whole thing tipped upward and sent Funsize, J.Lo, and me sliding together through a bubbly blizzard toward the back seats. The driver was screaming. J.Lo caught hold of a handrail, but the assassin and I collapsed in a heap.
“GRATUITY!” he squawked as we wrestled. “You must not try to stop me!” I grabbed at him, trying to pin his arms, and ended up with one of his guns instead. He had so many guns it was hard not to grab one. Then the shuttle turned and tilted back and we separated—and in a moment we were both on our feet again, aiming pistols.
He had a gun pointed at my head. I had a gun pointed at his head. A couple of seconds passed.
You’re probably waiting for me to tell you that I didn’t shoot because I just couldn’t take a life, right? I’m sorry to disappoint you. I was scared. I was scared, and full of fight-or-flight fizziness, and if I’d had a button I could have pressed in that moment to make Funsize disappear forever, I would have pressed it. I did have such a button. But so did he.
Honestly, whenever I’d see these kinds of standoffs in the movies, I’d always wonder why they didn’t end right away. Wouldn’t each gunman be trying to beat the other to the trigger? But it turns out you just stand there, watching the other guy’s finger. If it twitches, you die. But he’ll die too. You’ll have just enough time to make sure of that. You don’t want to die, and he doesn’t want to die, so you both end up standing there. Watching fingers.
Meanwhile, your brain’s busy firing all over the place. You think of your mom, and J.Lo, but you also remember your third-grade dance recital for some reason—the one where you played Potassium and tripped on your own banana peel. And you remember something important, suddenly, about a Boov you met in a pagoda made of garbage.
“You called me Gratuity,” I told the assassin, my hands trembling. “Twice now you’ve called me that. I told Funsize that my name was Grace.” I squinted at him. “Who are you?”
The shuttle was nodding forward, slowly somersaulting. The driver had stopped screaming, which was nice, but it was only because she’d fainted, which was less so. J.Lo loosed his grip and dropped to the front of the bus, where he shoved the driver out of her seat and tried to grapple with the controls.
The shuttle was still tipping, and leaking bubbles, and the assassin and I were still pointing guns at each other. I could reach a handrail from where I was, but in a second the assassin was going to lose his traction and fall into me. I don’t think either one of us knew what was going to happen after that.
“How you doing back there, J.Lo?” I called.
J.Lo took a while to answer. “Fine,” he said finally.
“J.Lo?”
“Yes. Out of curiosity, how many buildings are too many buildings to crash into?”
“THIS IS NOT OVERNOW,” said the assassin, and he raised his gun and made a hole in the roof of the bus, and the side. Then he inflated his suit, and out he jumped.
“Jeez,” I whispered. I let go of the rail and joined J.Lo in the cab. He couldn’t get the controls to do anything he wanted. Directly ahead was a bell-jar tower, coming up fast as the shuttle swiveled and spun.
“The assassin—he left?” asked J.Lo.
“He left,” I panted.
“Why did he leave?”
“He probably thought we were doing a pretty good job of assassinating ourselves,” I answered, nodding at the looming tower. “Anybody live in that?”
“No! Is a supercomputer, filled
to with computer gas!”
I aimed my gun and made a hole through the front window of the shuttle, and then another in the side of the tower. Pressurized gas shooshed out, and I held my breath, trying to inhale as few microprocessors as possible. I couldn’t see anything, but I kept firing, and what was left of the bus tumbled into the tower, and downward through the tower, and out another hole I made in the opposite side. The gas cleared, and a big telecloner came up fast.
“AAH!” said J.Lo, straining against the steering column, his knuckles hot pink.
I erased the telecloner, too. I was starting to enjoy myself a little. But now a football field was closing in.
Well, not a football field, obviously, but that was my first impression. A ring of stadium seats surrounding a big expanse of powder-blue grass with two end zones. No yard markings, but three chalk circles topped with bubbles. Boov on the field, playing stickyfish. Boov in the stands. So many people.
“J.Lo!”
“I know!”
If we kept diving in the same direction, we were going to hit the stands. J.Lo pulled the bus into a tight spin, and we did doughnuts as the whole craft slowly sank toward the grass. Uniformed stickyfish players ran to avoid us, and now the bus was only a few meters above the ground.
“Can you straighten us out?” I yelled. He did his best. Then I grabbed his wrist and ran for the rear of the shuttle, shooting all the way—shooting left and right and up and down and blasting as many holes in the bus’s walls as I could. We jumped and rolled out onto the field as mere bits and pieces of what was once a functioning parking shuttle skidded and came apart behind us.
We lay there for a minute, scraped and bruised, our chests rising and falling. Bill circled once and perched on my face.
The stickyfish game was still in play. Apparently the rules don’t let you call a time-out for something as trifling as a bus crash.
Without stirring, J.Lo asked, “How dead are you?”
“Only a little bit dead,” I told him.
“I am less dead than I had anticipated.”
I got up on my elbows. There was a Boov in pink standing inside the closest bubble and looking for a teammate to pass the fish to. Other Boov in yellow guarded the bubble but apparently weren’t allowed inside. But while the pink guy with the fish was in there, a Boov in yellow entered a different bubble and shouted “Safetybubbletrouble!” and play paused as possession of the fish changed sides. The referees decided this was a good time to break and clean pieces of parking shuttle off the field.