“Who are you people?” I asked.
“FBI. On your knees. Now.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m not big on bowing down before people, especially when they’re dressed up like oversized FedEx envelopes.”
“I repeat: We are with the FBI.”
“Really? I guess that makes sense, if FBI stands for Freak Boy Institute.”
“You want me to cuff the smart mouth?” barked another one of the guys in what I now recognized to be hazmat suits, those Tyvek outfits people wear to clean up nuclear meltdowns, biological waste, chemical spills—that sort of thing. Tough Guy slung his weapon over his shoulder and brandished a pair of FlexiCuffs so he could hog-tie my hands behind my back.
I focused on the plastic straps.
And turned them into strawberry Twizzlers.
Chapter 8
“WHAT THE…”
Tough Guy dropped the Twizzlers like they were glowing strands of red-hot plutonium.
“Okay, son,” said the leader, making a big show of lowering his weapon. “We’re impressed. We know what you’re capable of. We’re special agents with the FBI’s IOU.”
“IOU?” I laughed. “You’re making that up, right? Like I owe you?”
“I assure you, son, this is not a joke. The Interplanetary Outlaw Unit functions under the radar as a liaison between the United States federal government and visitors from planets unknown.”
“Like me, you mean?”
“No, son. We’re on the same team.”
Impossible, I thought. In all my battles with alien outlaws, never once had the United States cavalry come riding over the ridge to my rescue.
“We’re your friends,” he continued.
“No. My friends just left so you wouldn’t hurt them with that Opus 24/24—if you even know how to fire it.”
“We’re not here to hurt anyone.”
“Then tell me: Why are you carrying a weapon known to be the galaxy’s most heinous, most hurtful, not to mention most outlawed, instrument of pain?”
“We thought carrying the alien weaponry would prove that we are who and what we claim to be. We confiscated these weapons in firefights.”
“Right. The IOU. A super-secret branch of the FBI that deals with alien outlaws, just like Mulder and Scully used to on The X-Files. ‘The truth is out there’ and all that. Sorry, Agent, I want to believe, but, frankly, I don’t.”
“You should, Daniel. I promise you, I’m telling you the truth.”
“Okay. That was good, calling me Daniel. I only have one question: How did you know my name?”
“Easy,” said a tall man who stepped out of the shadows. “I told them.”
Chapter 9
THIS NEW ARRIVAL wasn’t wearing a hazmat suit or a sealed helmet.
In fact, he was wearing a two-piece suit so rumpled it looked like he had slept in it for maybe a month.
“Come on, guys,” the tall man said to the others. “Put away those weapons before you hurt somebody. You act like you’ve never met an alien before.”
All around me, weapons clattered as they were lowered. Clearly, the guy without a helmet, mask, or respirator was the man in charge.
“Daniel, I’m Special Agent Martin Judge. I head up the FBI’s IOU, which, yes, is a lame name, but we’re stuck with it. It’s already printed on all our top secret business cards.”
“Okay, Agent Judge,” I said. “Same question for you: How, exactly, do you know my name?”
“Also easy, Daniel: I knew your mother and father.”
“Impossible.”
“Graff, Atrelda, and I worked together.”
I had to hand it to the guy; he was pretty good. Graff (my father) and Atrelda (my mom) aren’t your standard-issue parental-unit names—even in California, where people call one another stuff like Sunshine and Moonbeam. Special Agent Martin Judge had definitely done his homework.
I wondered for an instant if my mom and dad had ever filed an income-tax return, which would have put their names into the massive federal database. Maybe they filled out a census form. If so, I’d love to see what they put down for “race” and “ethnicity,” since Alpar Nokian is never one of the standard check boxes.
“I was at your house several times for supper,” Judge continued. “I never once had to wear a hazmat suit.” This he said while shaking his head at his agents, who still refused to peel off their protective gear.
“Really? What’d my mom cook for you?”
“Pancakes, of course.”
“For dinner?”
Judge shrugged. “You ever taste your mom’s griddle cakes, Daniel?”
I played it nonchalant. “Once or twice.” Truth is, my mother makes the most amazing flapjacks in this or any other galaxy.
“Pancakes that exceptional cannot and should not be confined to breakfast,” said Judge.
“And where exactly did these pancake suppers take place, Agent Judge?”
“Like I said, Stinky Boy—at your house.”
Okay, this was getting seriously weird. How did a special agent from the Federal Bureau of Investigation know my childhood nickname? The one my relatives had given me back on Alpar Nok, when I was what Huggies might call a toddler and my diapers were anything but snug or dry?
“I’m impressed with your research, Agent Judge.”
“It’s not research, Daniel. It’s memory.” He tapped his nose. “I helped your dad change you once when you were maybe two years old. You guys were living in Kansas at the time, remember?”
I froze.
Of course I remembered Kansas.
Kansas is where my mother and father were murdered.
Chapter 10
I WISH THAT I didn’t sometimes, but of course I remember everything about that cursed, unspeakably horrible night back in Kansas.
I was three years old, playing in the basement of our home, building the Seven Wonders of the World out of Play-Doh. Yeah, this power-to-create-whatever-I-imagine thing kicked in way early, during my childhood development process.
Upstairs, I heard a horribly deep and strangled voice.
“The List! The List! Where is it?”
That heinous creature known as The Prayer (still Number 1 on The List of Alien Outlaws on Terra Firma) was upstairs attacking my parents. Later, the foul beast would come after me, and I will never forget what it looked like: a six-and-a-half-foot-tall praying mantis with a stalklike neck and stringy red dreadlocks hanging down between its antennae.
Upstairs, I heard my mother sobbing, and my father pleading calmly: “Wait, hold on…. Lower the gun, my friend. I’ll get The List for you. I have it nearby.”
“The List is here?” the deep voice boomed once again.
“Yes,” said my father. “Now, if you’ll just lower the—”
The next thing I heard was a string of deafening explosions. Shooting. I realized, in a flash of instantaneous knowledge, that the weapon being deployed was an Opus 24/24.
Guess you understand now why I totally hate the fiendish things.
I know the pain they can inflict, what they can destroy.
My whole world.
Chapter 11
I PRETENDED THAT I had a mild case of the sniffles brought on by an allergy to Georgia pine pollen and quickly swiped the back of my hand across my face. I didn’t want Special Agent Judge, or any of the other Fibbies, to see the tears welling up in my eyes.
“What do you want from me?” I asked.
“We need your help, Daniel. Like my guys told you, the IOU is a top secret covert unit operating within the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Our mission is to seek out and establish working relations with any and all friendly extraterrestrials residing in the United States of America.”
“And the unfriendlies?” I asked, knowing there were a jillion more of those here on Earth than peace-loving planet-hoppers like me.
“The unfriendlies,” said Judge, “we seek out and, whenever possible, terminate.”
I gestured t
oward the agent who had been holding his double-barreled vaporizer backward. “Really? How’s that been working out for you?”
My question made Agent Judge wince.
“Not very well, Daniel. Not without the expert assistance of Protectors such as your father, your mother, and, now, you.”
“Look,” I said. “Why should I help you guys?”
“Because Number 2 is planning something big. What it is exactly… well, frankly, we don’t know.”
Because the IOU hadn’t been able to infiltrate the demon’s underground pep rally, like I had. I knew exactly what Number 2 had up his sleeve: the destruction of cities and towns all across the globe, coupled with the enslavement of the entire human population—all seven billion of ’em.
Judge tugged a simple silver chain out from under his shirt.
“I wanted to show you this, Daniel.”
“What is it?” I asked. “A Saint Jude medal? Because Jude is the patron saint of hopeless causes, and if you ask me…”
I shut up when I saw what Agent Judge held in his hand.
“Where’d you get that?” I asked.
“Your father gave it to me.”
It was a silver elephant pendant, an emblem of Alpar Nokian homeworld solidarity. My mother and father both received them when they graduated from the Academy and accepted positions in the Interplanetary Protectorship. One of my earliest memories: I’m in my crib. My mother is singing me a lullaby. The silver elephant pendant dangles from her necklace.
Little-known factoid: Elephants were brought to Earth about three million years ago. From my planet. They were Alpar Nok’s gift to Terra Firma. So, if you’re taking notes, jot this down: Elephants are aliens, too. Friendly aliens.
Agent Judge gripped the silver pachyderm tightly in his fist.
“Earth has never needed assistance from the Interplanetary Protectorship more. And you’re the best Alien Hunter to ever come out of Alpar Nok.”
I blushed when Agent Judge said that. Turning bright red at the drop of a compliment? It’s one of my most well-developed alien skills.
“Really?” I said. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Your father. He took me aside one day and said, ‘Martin, keep an eye on Daniel. One day, my son will make all of Alpar Nok proud. He will grow up to become an Alien Hunter’s Alien Hunter.’ ”
Now my ears had gone to code purple, and of course my heart was lodged in my throat because I was thinking about how my father never really got to see what kind of kid I turned out to be.
How he would never know what sort of man I might become.
“But I’m only a teenager, sir,” I mumbled.
Agent Judge winked at me. “Well, for the sake of the planet and all humanity, let’s hope you grow up real fast. Come on, Daniel. We need to leave here ASAP. I’m afraid the time for fun and games is over. We need to deal with Number 2.”
Agent Judge turned and headed down the Splash Water Falls exit ramp. His crew of hazmat guys followed after him. I hesitated.
“So, where exactly are we all going?” I called out.
“Kentucky. You need to meet Xanthos.”
“O-kay. And who, if you don’t mind me asking, is Xanthos?”
“Your father’s spiritual advisor. He lives with me at my horse farm.”
Chapter 12
THEY CALL IT Kentucky Bluegrass, but I have never seen rolling pastures so green.
We were making our final approach for a landing at Fort Campbell, Kentucky, home of the 101st Airborne. The lush ground below looked like the world’s best-kept golf course.
Special Agent Judge and I had flown from Georgia to Kentucky in an unmarked government jet even though I could’ve just teleported. Agent Judge, on the other hand? Not so much.
As we were cleared for landing, the FBI special agent once again apologized for his “overzealous subordinates.”
“A lot of those guys in the hazmat suits are rookies, Daniel,” he explained. “IOU is in a total rebuilding mode. Six months ago, eighty percent of my team was wiped out during an unfortunate encounter with a four-sided killing machine.”
“Attila,” I said.
“Come again?”
“My nickname for Number 33, the cubist Varladrian warrior your team bumped up against. But don’t worry—he won’t be giving you guys any more grief.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah. I hear he recently had a heart attack.”
Agent Judge’s horse farm was a two-hour drive from the Fort Campbell airbase. Ribbons of bright white fencing penned in pastures of emerald green, where magnificent horses lazily nibbled on the grass.
“We have a hundred and thirty-two acres,” said Agent Judge as he piloted his Jeep up a long asphalt driveway toward a Victorian-style farmhouse. “The perimeter is secure and patrolled, so don’t worry—you’ll be safe here, Daniel.”
The picturesque farmhouse sat perched on a shady knoll dead ahead, but Agent Judge turned his Jeep toward the open doors of a bright red horse barn.
“Um, isn’t Xanthos waiting for us?” I asked.
“Roger that,” said Agent Judge. “That’s why I thought we’d swing by his place first.”
The barn was beautiful. It had those quaint Dutch doors, and a bunch of sliding panels decorated with white X’s inside white squares. Looked like the picture-perfect barn from an “Old McDonald” play set. But still…
“You make my father’s spiritual advisor live in a horse barn?”
Agent Judge brought the Jeep to a stop. “Where else? Xanthos is a horse, Daniel. A champion Thoroughbred.”
Chapter 13
THE MOST MAGNIFICENT white stallion I had ever seen stood nibbling hay in a pristine stall.
He was a noble steed straight out of a Disney cartoon. Golden sunlight streaming through an open window made his coat and mane shimmer like freshly fallen snow. His bright blue eyes, the same color as mine, sparkled. Every inch of the beautiful beast was white on white on white. Picture vanilla ice cream topped with whipped cream and wispy cotton candy.
Ah, Daniel, the horse said in my mind. Welcome! It is so, so good to see you once again.
Now, if you ever start hearing horse voices in your head, you should probably call 911 or check in with the school nurse. But I had held telepathic conversations with animals before, including my all-time favorite, Chordata, one of the elephants back home on Alpar Nok.
Hello, Xanthos, I thought back. I don’t remember meeting you before….
The horse let loose a laugh. It wasn’t exactly a high-pitched horse laugh. More like a jolly Jamaican chuckle.
Of course you do not remember, Daniel. You were very, very young. Stinky Boy they called you, yah?
Okay. Time out. Does everybody I meet, including barnyard animals, have to remember that particular nickname?
“Um, I’ll leave you two alone,” said Agent Judge. “It looks like you have a lot to, uh, talk about.”
Shaking his head, the special agent strolled out of the horse barn.
Poor Agent Judge. He does not understand how we communicate. Xanthos rumbled up another soft chuckle. You would like to know more about me, yah, mon?
I nodded.
Very well. I come to Earth from the far, far reaches of the Milky Way, from the planet Pfeerdia, in what your Earth astronomers call the Dark Horse Nebula—a name, I must say, that greatly amuses me.
Xanthos shook out his sleek white mane and flicked his feathery white tail. There was absolutely nothing dark about this horse, unless, of course, you counted his hooves.
My Pfeerdian ancestors were among the first quadrupeds to settle in the Arabian Peninsula.
Of course, I thought. That’s why champion Thoroughbred racehorses all trace their ancestry to Arabian stallions!
Yah, mon. But when we race against Earth animals, we rein ourselves in. To do otherwise would not be sporting. You see, Daniel, four-legged Pfeerdians can easily trot at one hundred miles per hour.
I was impres
sed. Um, what do you guys consider “galloping”?
When we break the sound barrier, brudda. Heh, heh, heh.
So, I inquired, why did you come to Earth?
For Kentucky, Xanthos replied with a contented sigh. For us, this is heaven. We are treated here like royalty. And the grass? Oh, my, Daniel. It is sooo delicious. Very, very tasty and sweet. I would be so, so sad if anything bad were to befall this beautiful place….
Xanthos’s thoughts drifted off. For the first time since meeting this fellow alien, I sensed a non-mellow vibe. Fear? Dread? Something was definitely upsetting his laid-back mojo.
What is it you are afraid of? I asked.
Much, Daniel. Much. The coming battle. The final struggle. Your mission to take on Number 2.
I needed to clear up that little misconception. Um, taking out Number 2 won’t be the final battle, Xanthos. The Prayer, the most evil alien residing on Earth, is still my primary objective. My mission on Terra Firma won’t be complete until I do to him what he did to my family.
Ah, yes. Revenge. A very powerful, very exhilarating emotion.
I’m not doing this for laughs. That beast killed my parents!
Take care, my yute. Beware of darkness. For in the darkness, it is sometimes difficult to see where the good ends and the evil begins. Do not give sway to the negative way.
Right. I’d almost forgotten: Xanthos was supposed to be my spiritual advisor. Luke Skywalker had Yoda; I got a reggae rocking horse.
Look, I communicated, first things first. I need to prepare myself to take out Number 2. Can you help me or not?
Of course, Daniel, of course. You must know this: a red horse shall be a sign.
A sign of what?
Of all that is written, of all that must be.
Gee. Could you be a little more vague? I was starting to question the whole notion of “horse sense” meaning sound and practical. This particular equine specimen kept speaking to me in riddles. You’re my spiritual advisor, right?
The stallion dipped its head slightly. That I am, mon.
Then come on: Advise me! What do I need to do?