Risktaker (Book Two of the Based on a Dream series)

By Kea Alwang

Digging for truth is a risky business, but living without it is pointless.

Armed with an unlikely ally and a new philosophy on coping with bully drama, Chloe (aka Star) navigates life on Earth one day a time, (not so) patiently waiting for her alternate life to kick in on any given night. But when life on Jacondor grows dicey thanks to aggressive mentors, a troubled newbie, and worsening nightmares, Star, CK, and Leada can't leave fast enough for an assignment to planet Criterion, their utopia from years ago.

Despite a huge welcome, it isn't long before the trio witnesses everything they thought they knew about trust, truth, and their Ethimarrow's sanity unravel before them. Struggling to gain ground against a mysterious, vicious cult that threatens Criterion's way of life, the team feels like little more than inept security. Are they simply off their game, or is twisted Professor Kroter breaking them from afar through old wounds and sinister new taunts? Do the heart-pounding and questionable decisions Star, CK, and Leada make come from the hearts of warriors or the fears of children?

Normally, when Star’s heart pounds, she tackles the cause with creative solutions, stun rays, or a good fight—none of which is useful for taming her pulse when an old friend causes unexpected emotions to hit her like a supernova on illegal steroids.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kea Alwang
• Release date: May 13, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301061648

Kea Alwang

Kea Alwang lives in New Jersey building worlds, reading, and indulging in severe caffeine and chocolate addictions. Her podcaster husband, film-obsessed son, book-munching daughter, and self-absorbed parakeet are among those who put up with her unnatural attachment to the keyboard. Despite creating characters who can’t wait to leave this planet, she actually loves the Earth, but wishes bullies and the word moist would just [e-mail]@kea_alwangwww.keaalwang.comwww.basedonadreambooks.com

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The trees in Silvere Forest stand ginormous and strong, and I am small hiding in their shadows, pretending they can protect me. I hide beneath them often, unless CK and Leada are near. Life is like that now, but it wasn’t always. The days are long and full of peace on this world, but sometimes I wonder if any of us will really find peace in our hearts again. Then there are days like today when, even though CK and Leada are far away, I send my Ethimarrow zooming overhead to rustle the tree branches, making dead leaves rain down. A year ago, I would do that on any world just to dance beneath whatever falls. Only something won’t let me dance these days; it’s too carefree a thing to do.

Lay down, Starry, he tells me, pointing to the dewy grass. His smile is gentle.

Why? I nearly laugh, because everything he says has that effect on me. Why would I lay down in dirt, pebbles, and moldy leaves? I might ruin my brand-new sneakers—size two, by the way! My feet are catching up to Leada’s.

Just do it. When we’re finished, you will be a new person—reborn from the old you.

I raise an eyebrow and cross my arms over my chest in defiance of such weirdness. One day I won’t be so distrustful of everything. I will laugh out loud again—a true belly laugh that goes on and on until no sound comes out.

He extends one hand and shoves me. Startled, I fall backwards and sit there, anger instantly brewing. He kneels, smile gone. You didn’t want me scared of heights, so you made me climb trees with you, he says. You didn’t want me to fear water, so you taught me how to swim. Well, I don’t want you sad or jumpy anymore. We’ll make that Star end and a new one begin. The empathy in his eyes almost makes me believe he can do this for me. But I don’t believe it. I can’t. Still, I lie back. He is a good friend; I don’t want to hurt his feelings.

Hey! I shout when armfuls of fallen leaves land on my stomach. They are pale yellow, pink, and lavender pastels, some already crunchy, others wilted and rubbery.

Shh! he says, returning with another batch that lands on my legs. You’re dead. We’re burying you.

But it’s just sad to die when you’re eight! I point out. He says nothing, and I don’t like this, but I do have enough trust in him to believe he won’t hurt me. For months we have run through Silvere forest holding hands, playing with strange reptiles, imagining we reign as king and queen of a city nobody knows about. We make mud pies, hold stick-fight battles, and reenact stories out of his world’s history books. And still I have panic attacks over the memories of my abduction on that mission to the planet Jilto—that mission that went so horribly wrong. But I do talk now, thanks to his mother, the doctor. I just don’t really laugh or get over-the-top excited about anything as much as I used to. Leada is starting to speak, too. And CK … well, he couldn’t stop talking day and night. But now he thinks before he speaks again. Yes, Doctor Lors and her talks have done a lot for us. But her son and I have developed a strange sort of companionship over the past six Criterionese months. And everything about it has nothing to do with my Ethimarrow.

Close your eyes and mouth, he commands. A pile lands on my head. Grit from the leaves itches my eyelids and settles in the corners of my mouth. When I feel it fly up my nose, I lift my head—only to have it pushed down again. Dead, remember?

He doesn’t have Ethimarrow, and he isn’t all that brave. In fact, he’s still afraid to climb trees unless I’m with him. But he’s ten and so smart for a kid who has left his small city only on rare occasions. He pulls me into his easy way of creating fun before I realize it, and he’s the first non-Jacondorian in my whole life who likes me just as I really am.

This is getting heavy, I try to shout without moving my lips too much. I mean how many more batches of leaves can he add?

Heavier than the nightmares and panic attacks?

Well, no. But shouldn’t CK and Leada be at my funeral?

When will they return?

CK is on a mission for two more days, and I don’t know when Leada will be released again from Fendor. I spit out grit. Maybe by tomorrow morning. Hopefully, I won’t be back on Earth by then.

For a while, I hear nothing. Then, We’re not waiting. Ready?

I raise one arm out of the leaf pile and give him an Earthen thumbs up, which he always finds funny; on this world, it means ‘see you soon—be full of unending happiness.’

Star of Earth was an amazing sentinel. Brave, fast, beautiful … and sometimes ridiculously silly—

Only when you are— I say through nearly closed lips.

Shh! She had her life before her. But she met a tragic end on a mission that went wrong through no fault of her own. Her spirit, her bravery, and her guts died that day. However, she did remain … um … beautiful.

I cough, then try spitting debris through my lips without sucking in more.

As her friends cried over her passing, a magic spell fell from the sky and landed on her grave. He knocks the wind out of me by pouncing on my stomach.

That’s one heavy spell! I croak.

Its purpose? To bring Star back to life stronger than ever, fiercer than ever, bolder than ever—all the fears from her tragic mission left buried and behind her. Star of Earth, are you ready to be reborn as Star of Jacondor, a sentinel with a new beginning? A warrior who has left her wounds behind her?

Unexpected tears ooze down my cheeks; suddenly, his silly little game isn’t so silly.

Ready to rise, Star of Jacondor?

I nod fiercely to make the leaves move.

One … two … three! He gets off me.

And up I come from under the leaves, straight into his arms, sobbing for the Star I hope I have left behind, for Leada, for CK, and for Tarthimum—because every time I look in his eyes, I see him blaming himself for that mission that turned so bad.

Zarre Lors holds me tight and lets me cry for a good long time.

I’m sorry, I sniffle, thinking I have failed in leaving fearful Star behind. I guess it didn’t work.

What makes you say that? He pulls away, hands sliding down to my wrists. He swings them back and forth, giving me one of his shy smiles that fold in at the cheeks. Don’t all newborns cry at birth on Earth?

I nod and snurfle, I think so.

Well, then … I think you’re doing just fine.

ONE

I bite my lip and swallow a lump the size of Pluto. Planet or not—it hurts. Beside me, all Rodent can do is peer into my locker and groan.

No words do the sight justice. Funny? No. Surprising? Well, no. Depressing? Certainly, but what’s the point in saying that out loud?

Shayna Darwin, bouncing through the hallway, has no problem finding words—ever. Eeewww! She’s bleeding. Sick!

A thick stream of red goo oozes from my hand down to my elbow. I can’t help but stare at it, thinking that much worse things have clung to my arm throughout my double life: odd beings, acid, slime, Gip sludge, real blood. Suddenly, I have to suck in my lips to keep from laughing. I could win big money betting on being the only girl on Earth today who reached into her locker and pulled out an armful of—"

Rodent spins toward Shayna, his wild hair a flurry. It’s ketchup, you stupid—

I hold up a hand—the one not covered in ketchup. So not worth the name calling, the detention, etcetera. Besides, I’m sure she didn’t do this.

We turn back to my locker. Books, hairbrush, mirror, jacket—everything—coated in ketchup. Now what?

Well, you win, Rodent says. I’ll pass the pencil back to you at lunch.

I try to smile. Thanks.

What I have won is the Freakazoid Humiliation trophy, a neon-green pencil with Camp Waste Management printed on the side in orange. Rodent and I have passed the pencil between us many times during these first six weeks of high school. He’s relinquishing it after only two days, but won it by face planting up the stairs after a junior varsity quarterback tripped him.

Rodent—Sal Rodoso—is an unlikely ally. As the off-beat pet of the junior high ‘in’ crowd, he mortified me over the summer at Tara Hendricks’ birthday party. Little did he know he would find himself shoved into the freak category with me on the first day of high school. I suppose at this point we could be called friends, still nobody is more surprised than me when he offers the bottom of his tie-dyed T-shirt to wipe my hand on.

I’m not smearing ketchup on your shirt, I say.

Like anyone’s going to notice? he gestures at the haphazard crimson patterns.

I just stare, so he grabs my arm and wipes the ketchup onto his shirt, then gestures to my locker with his chin. Why don’t you pull the stuff out. I’ll get paper towels from the custodian’s office. He turns to go, muttering, Damn, they must have squirted an entire bottle through those vents.

They did this because I tried running for student council, right? I ask. Sort of a message to stick to my status as a nobody?

Sal stops, turns back. Probably. Who knows? I still don’t get why you bothered. I mean with a slogan like, ‘Reap what you sow, vote for Chlo!’ what were you expecting? What does that even mean?

I tried to do something positive. I didn’t think I would win.

Sal shakes his mane. Next time, try something less dangerous like walking the third rail on the train tracks. Sure, it’s just as messy, but at least you wouldn’t have to deal with the humiliation afterward. Sal’s dark side never fails to amuse me.

****

If I thought the day could only go up from there, I’d be the definition of an idiot. So it’s no shock that my entire biology class smirks when I walk in. Word had time to get around since half this class is in my homeroom, which I missed while cleaning my locker. My Ethimarrow, the powerful yoctoorganism living within and around me, tingles across my shoulders and pinpoints the ketchup culprits in seconds: Jessica Reardon and Kerry Nolan beam from their seats at the back of the room. Jessica hates me for not letting her copy during a music test last year, and Kerry has it in for me simply because Jessica does.

I place imaginary blinders on my vision so the path to my desk is the only thing I see. The chair squeaks when I yank it back, drawing more unwanted attention. My Ethi issues a mild warning as soon as I sit by quickly tensing my biceps. Its cue tells me there is a situation taking place that is not life threatening, is nothing I’m not used to, and the best thing I can do is ignore it. Only the laughter that began when I entered the room has not stopped—it’s louder. I open my binder, pull out a pen, place my best friends, CK and Leada, in my thoughts, pray Ms. Staufenbaum will arrive quickly, and look up at the interactive board to see if there is a ‘Do Now.’

What’s worse than wishing you could disappear? Knowing you could, but having to steel yourself against doing so at all costs.

My underwear—that pair Sal pulled out of my overnight bag to wear on his head at Tara’s party over the summer—hangs from the top of the board, front and center. Purple hearts and green peace symbols, for all to see, once more. I swear, you just can’t make this stuff up.

****

Tater tot? Sal offers after dropping his lunch tray next to mine.

I want to hit him, only he had nothing to do with the biology class incident. Well … at least not today.

No, thanks. A heart attack from popping those little sacks of grease is the last thing I need.

He shrugs, pulls the green pencil out of his drawstring bag. Here … it’s all yours.

I stuff a watery piece of iceberg lettuce in my mouth, then zip the pencil into my binder pouch. After a few chews, I say, You owe me more than that, bub.

Sal tugs sheet music out of his backpack. How so?

You mean you haven’t heard about my latest humiliation?

Sal drops a tater tot. "You mean since the ketchup?"

I tell him the story and wind up feeling worse for him because he looks so low.

At last he turns to me, eye to eye, which is rare. Look, I don’t know how many more ways I can say it, but I’m really sorry about what I did to you at that party. I left it at Tara’s house. Someone had to have grabbed it.

I know. You were just a dumb junior high kid back then, I laugh.

A junior high kid with a buzz.

Really?

Of course. Who acts like that completely sober?

"That’s so not cool."

He slowly punches me in the shoulder. Not to a goody-two shoes.

Hey, it’s your stupid life. I’m not going to lecture you.

My stupid life, for sure. So what did you do about biology class? Or is your underwear still hanging from the board?

I spit a tomato into a napkin. This salad is disgusting.

Chloe? His eyes grow round. What did you do?

I grab a tater tot off Sal’s plate, suck the grease out, then chew on it thoughtfully. The real question is what could I have done. The answer? Lots of things. Only I no longer have excuses for acting like a complete imbecile. CK and Leada are back in my life, and even if they were not, I learned a huge lesson recently: If I don’t operate within the guidelines of being a proper Jacondorian sentinel through and through, I’ve got nothing. Rebelling against the Ethimarrow and its gifts turns me into a sulky, unworthy, lonely sack of sorrows. Translation? Loser.

I left my seat, walked to the front of the room, yanked the underwear off the hook, marched to the back of the room, and dropped it on Kerry’s desk.

Sal’s hand slaps the table. Why? How do you know she put them up there?

I just know, I say.

But—

So I leaned in and said, ‘Wow, Kerry! You still have these? I feel like a celebrity. Maybe you can make a lot of money off them on eBay—if you can part with them, that is.’ Then, I walked out of the room as Staufenbaum walked in. Killed time hanging out in the back stairwell until now.

Sal’s heavy features wince. You realize you just made life worse?

Yes and no. What should I have done? Smiled, removed my bra and hung it alongside the underwear in complete surrender of my dignity? Last year, I wouldn’t have said or done a thing about it, gone home and cried. What am I missing, Sal?

He shakes his head. Well, you probably won’t be missing a detention for cutting class.

Whatever.

He leans in. Honestly, Chloe. You bring this crap on yourself by being so … so—

What? I push away my lunch tray and prop an elbow on the table.

Sal wipes a hand down his face and sighs. You send out signals that set you apart. You’re not playing the same game as the rest of us around here.

What signals are those? My nails dig into my palms. What have I done throughout grade school and junior high other than keep my mouth shut?

You mean other than the weird creatures you used to draw in art when other kids drew houses and normal stick people? Or maybe you’ve forgotten third grade when you decided to give your book report in some language you made up.

I had thought everyone would think I was super creative. It was actually Angisian—a fascinating alphabetic language much like German—but a bit high-pitched.

And you wear that silver bracelet band thingie every day.

So? I hold up the brushed-silver cuff with the squiggly lines etched into the sides. What I wouldn’t give for the smooth rectangle in the center to suddenly flash into a screen calling me to Jacondor.

It wouldn’t be so strange, but you’ve worn it since kindergarten. How does it still fit?

It gets adjusted, I say, then sip at my apple juice. It’s special to me. True that. It belonged to my favorite grandmother. Liar.

Sal hesitates, then looks me straight in the eye. Then there was that time in second grade when you hid under the desk screaming.

People remember that, huh? A clown from the circus came to talk about clowning. He had purple hair, and his makeup gave him a really wide mouth. He showed us a skit where he was a doctor in a wacky lab coat who didn’t know how to used his stethoscope. That day was soon after CK, Lea, and I had endured crazy Professor Kroter with his wild lavender hair, horribly stretchy mouth, and battered lab coat. Needless to say, my reaction to the clown made sense to nobody, especially since I had mysteriously stopped speaking shortly before. Then word got around that I was in therapy because of my sudden silence. My parents rave about that therapist’s methods for curing selective mutism to this day, but he had nothing to do with it when I began speaking again.

I don’t know, Chlo. You just—

I pick up my binder, loop my backpack onto one shoulder. But before I can swing my leg over the bench, Sal grabs my knee.

Quit it. I’m not trying to hurt your feelings. You were just a weird kid before you got real quiet in fifth grade.

I stopped trying.

Let’s face it, whatever offbeat signals you’re sending out really aren’t much different from the ones I must be sending. I mean there are only two of us sitting at this table as if we have the plague, right?

I shrug.

You could say I was only part of Jessica’s crew last year because they saw me as some iconic, guitar-rocking anarchist. And it might look like that novelty simply wore off on the first day of school when Jess and Maura sat with those jock sophomores at lunch. But everyone knows that isn’t the reason my junior high friends avoid me.

I chew on the inside of my cheek realizing I have no idea why his old friends dumped him.

Either way, I know I have to keep myself off everyone’s radar. But you? I don’t get why you don’t fit in these days. You’re nice. You’re funny. You’re a good person.

I throw a hand up. You should have been my campaign manager! I could have avoided the ketchup.

Sal presses at the air with his palms. But you’re radiating something … off. It’s like you read the rules to social survival over and over, but can’t understand them. Don’t get me wrong; that’s not a crime. It just doesn’t help you get through high school. Neither does that weird thing around your neck.

One hand instinctively closes around the talisman CK gave me from an Ethi-rich planet called Furst. I close my eyes and run a finger over the sky-blue wiaath gem centered in a lacy pattern of black metal. Maybe some would see it as gaudy. For me, it’s a symbol of everything important in my life. So if you have everything figured out, I make eye contact again, why don’t you fit in, Sal? What does everyone supposedly know?

Um … duh? He stares at me in disbelief, but all I can do is wince cluelessly.

Sal smacks the table again. You don’t watch the news?

I cough.

This is what I mean, Chloe. You’re the only person I talk to in this damn place, and everyone knows what’s going on but you. I know I don’t talk about the elephant in the room, but sometimes I could swear you’re on another planet. Where is your head?

Does he mean at any moment? On Jacondor and half a dozen other worlds. More recently, I lapse into daydreaming about forest warfare training with CK and Lea—about new ways we can up our scores.

Chloe, my step-father is the guy they indicted for the murder of that college sophomore up in Midcreek Township. Remember? The middle of August? Right before school started?

I just stare at him.

A unique personality becomes a freak factor pretty fast when people are creeped out.

Oh, hell. I had heard about the murder, but didn’t connect it with Sal. Local news isn’t something I pay much attention to since I’m usually forbidden from meddling in any of it. It’s sort of like avoiding a tantruming toddler; I have ideas for fixing the situation, but it’s not my place.

I lay a hand on his. You’re right. I don’t pay enough attention to the news in my own backyard. I had no idea. I’m so sorry.

He looks away, pulls his hand out from under mine. It’s not a big deal to me—just to everyone else. Never liked the man. My mother was getting ready to split from him, anyway. And … it’s not like I killed anyone.

True.

So I just fly low—which is what you need to do. You should have acted oblivious in biology. How much longer were they going to laugh? Staufenbaum was due in any moment.

I play with the strap on my backpack. I can’t win here.

I know the feeling. But you have to think of a place that makes you feel good inside. Then stay there … in your own head … until you can actually be where you feel good. For me, it’s when I’m jamming in my cousin’s band. I’m accepted there. I’m a rock star there. And there’s a girl that hangs with the band who I can imagine would make me really happy if she knew I existed.

I smirk. That’s sweet, Sal. But did you just tell me to find my happy place?

He rolls his eyes. I guess so … if you want to put it that way. Where is your happy place, Chloe? Where do you feel lucky to be you?

Of course, I can’t answer that truthfully. My happy place is far away through vocipholes, haphazard times lines, and quirky wormholes. I carry my happy place with me via the Ethimarrow, but that doesn’t mean I can be who I really am on Earth. No. Telling Sal that I’m an agent for a powerful organism that has me working to tip the scales of good and evil in favor of the good is not an option. Instead, I say, Crush on a girl? The search for a happy place? Who knew Sal Rodoso has a mushy side? Look … I appreciate your honesty, but I’m tired of being bullied for not meeting some status checklist that seems to change from day to day. I should be able to be the person I am without having my me-factor rated by others. You have that right, too.

Rodent cups his hand around my ear and whispers, Yeah, and the world should be one giant ball of peace with a friggin’ cherry on top.

****

Hearing about Sal’s murderous stepfather should have been the stunner of my day. The outright pity in Ms. Staufenbaum’s voice when she decided not to give me detention for cutting class should have been the final rock in my stomach. But planet Earth wasn’t finished with me yet.

Within moments of arriving home and sifting through the mail, I am met by the words, I regret to inform you…

TWO

You’re up early, I croak, trailing green pajama-pant hems. My toes happily sink into their preferred living room carpet, the charcoal one with a light, almost feathery texture. The ticklish sensation gives me hope of losing my grogginess. The last few nights have been full of insomnia. But I’m here now, on Jacondor. Home.

A sleepy CK startles on the couch, then snaps his fingers in mock irritation. Ah! Leada won.

Huh?

Placed bets on your ETA. She said you’d show this morning.

I drop beside him, tuck cold feet under my cranberry robe, and nestle under his outstretched arm, glad to feel real … connected. This, Sal … this is my happy place. How long have I been gone?

Long time. Four days, he yawns, then drops his head onto mine. Of course, Lea disappeared to Fendor the same night you left. Both of you should know better than to leave me home alone for two days.

Why? What did you do with that opportunity?

Let me just say, this place was a real bachelor pad. Had four girls from Dimension Three stop over. One had eight arms. She was all over me, he rasps.

"Yeah, and I went on a romantic world tour with the lead singer from Faithless Scavengers while on Earth, I say. Keep dreaming, pal."

I would be, he yawns, except that I’m on edge and can’t sleep. It’s like my Ethi knows something, is excited about it, but can’t tell me anything. Hey … where you going?

Come on. I grab his hand to drag him off the couch. We’re groggy. Why don’t we force ourselves outside to play catch? Lea can join us when she’s up.

He shakes his head, yawns again. I’m working on motivating myself to watch that Bimpfian film Zeratelva told me about. He points at the opposite wall where our viewing screen hangs. Beneath it, on top of the low cabinet where we keep our entertainment tech, sits a clear, jelly-like triangle. See the device she brought us? Film chip is already in there. Some comedy about a man whose shifting skin tones are messed up so they don’t relay his true emotions. Zera says it’s hysterical. He yawns longer and louder, slapping his leg to get through it. Zalt 91 hooked it up for me yesterday. Just need the motivation to turn it on.

Later. The brisk morning air will wake us.

Not into brisk.

Okay, then … think fast! I throw the image of a red rubber ball into his head, then laugh as he jolts upright in surprise. He recovers quickly, thinks it back to me, and there we go, tossing this imaginary ball back and forth, from mind to mind, with speed balls, curves, spirals….

Catch this one! I say, sending CK a smaller green ball with yellow spots. He laughs and crosses his eyes when he receives it, then responds by sending it back over my head and into a tree that pops into my mind’s eye. Now you get it! I sputter, and we’re laughing so hard that I wind up right back on the couch next to him with a sigh.

What’s that? I nod toward the teleportation tube in the corner of the room. A round container sits on the one shelf within it.

Lea and I went to Tenoo last night. Ordered too much Angisian norp soup. He wipes the back of his hand across his eyes. Too much even for me. Leftovers are yours if you want them.

Hey, guy….

CK throws both legs across my lap. Yeah?

Are you sure you’re tired from edgy Ethi and not—

No. No Kroter nightmares last night. Can’t say the same for the two nights before that, though.

I suck at my teeth. Ever since our intergalactic guardian, Tarthimum, admitted that the insane scientist who had kidnapped CK, Lea, and I as seven-year-olds might still be alive, the three of us suffer sporadic nightmares that dig up memories of terror and torture.

Sorry. I hate when CK dreams of the wackadoo. The Ethi-induced regression Tarthimum put me through to review a piece of that life-altering mission on Jilto unlocked the place in my mind where the worst of those memories lived. So it only makes sense that I have nightmares involving Kroter. And when Leada heard that Bettle of Zimich ran into him, well … that was enough to ruin her nights; she fears him the most. But when CK dreams of him? Well, then Lea and I know we need to fear the bastard.

You? CK pulls his legs off me, sits up straight, and gets serious.

I shake my head. No. I told you, I usually don’t get them on Earth. Only here.

Not fair, is it? Guess it makes you a little less enthusiastic to leave Earth these days, huh?

Not quite.

Still, what a trade-off. You get to leave the place you can’t stand, but you have to pay for it in nightmares. Anger pushes sleepiness off CK’s face.

I raise a finger. Whoops! Don’t forget yourself there, pal. Remember, Earth is not a place I can’t stand; it’s a place about which I try to reassess my opinion.

CK rolls his eyes. Pardon me! I forgot. On top of tackling my nightmares, I have to provide positive reinforcement for your new outlook on life. He pokes a finger into my ribs, causing me to leap to the opposite end of the couch.

I did have a different sort of lousy dream last night, I say. It came from some bad news—

A screech of happy hysteria erupts in the distance.

Lea? we call simultaneously.

You two did not check the schedule for today, did you? she shouts, ripping into the room and pouncing onto the couch between us. But I did!

Leada, darling, CK waves long strands of Lea’s staticky blonde hair out of his face, I haven’t even checked if my head is on straight.

I have a secret! she sing songs, her emerald eyes shining. The reflective pigments at the corner of each eye glimmer in the light as she rocks back and forth, hugging her knees beneath a long ivory nightgown.

Oh? I stretch. Do I get to hear this one or are you going to join the ranks of our resident Mystery Man? I create the image of a deep-red question mark over CK’s head, sending Leada into giggles. He might have to stay silent about where he was for a whole year, but I don’t have to make it easy on him.

Nice, Star, CK says, waving away the image. See if I ever tell you my huge, fantastic, unbelievable, super-stellar secret now.

By the way, Chendarcoe, Leada gloats at CK, but points at me, I won! You owe me the last veltnic bun, and you have to replicate the new batch!

You bet on me with food? CK, I’m so honored!

Don’t be silly, Earth Girl. You’re worth more to me than a veltnic bun. Had we just one serving of ice cream left, well … that would be another matter. Now, what’s your secret, Lea?

Just as Lea opens her mouth, CK holds up a hand. Wait. Star has bad news. Bad news goes first so whatever you’re smiling about can make up for it.

Lea turns to me. Agreed.

I draw a deep breath. Aunt Miranda died.

Their expressions become an animation flip book, thumbed through slowly and unevenly. They don’t know what to say, and it’s easy to understand why. Aunt Miranda, my father’s sister (and the so-called ‘family lunatic’) has had a profound impact on my life, yet I haven’t seen her since I was a baby. Other than a couple of letters to me that got past my parents, I really never knew the woman. She was a world traveler who sent postcards from London one month and from the most remote areas on the planet the next. The postcards established a pattern of working as a waitress, store clerk, or stock room employee in the world’s biggest cities right before she would run off again to aid in some cause close to her heart. In a sense, she was my hero, but I didn’t really know her well enough to call her that, and nobody—not my parents, not even the Ethimarrow—allowed me contact. I understand why the Ethi kept silent: It thought I might attach myself to Miranda and lose focus on my supposedly typical Earth life. If I’m honest, it made the right call; I would have missed school to materialize on any continent to hang out with her. Naturally, an ability to do that would have raised questions in Aunt Miranda that I have no right to answer.

It’s okay, I say. I haven’t quite figured out what I feel. I mean, I am sad, but it’s sort of like when you discover a celebrity died.

What happened to her? Lea asks.

The letter was from some current travel companion, I laugh. According to my parents, she went through those like toilet paper—their words, not mine. Apparently, she was found dead in Cross River, Cameroon—actually in the river.

CK asks, Which continent is that … Africa?

Yes, Leada says before I can. When she and CK went missing for a year, she tackled a mission that took place on an alternate dimension of Earth where she traveled among continents more than would suit most people. Sort of like Aunt Miranda, I guess—only unwillingly.

I slide to the floor, then push myself around to face the couch. She was taking part in a volunteer program that works to save endangered gorillas and chimpanzees. Her friend—supposedly her fiancé—said her death was ruled an accident. I don’t know what to make of that. The authorities sent copies of reports, but my parents wouldn’t let me see them. Naturally, I found a way to sneak a look.

I haul myself off the floor to retrieve the leftover soup from the teleport tube.

What did your parents say? CK asks.

Exactly what I expected them to: ‘Well, that’s what you get when you live life according to your own rules, not caring what the rest of the civilized world does.’ The topper came from my mother. She said, ‘It’s probably for the best. After all, she wasn’t getting any younger, and it’s not as if she had saved money to support herself once frail.’

CK makes a face. Ouch.

I pop the lid on the container and suck down the room-temperature vegetable soup. Pureed smooth, it would have been nicer warm. Anyway, her death is under investigation to see if the head wound resulted from falling in and hitting her head on a rock, or if someone slugged her with one, then dragged her into the river. I slurp the last of the soup down loudly, the tangy golden stuff hitting a spot in my stomach that suddenly aches with a strange sort of loss.

Well, Lea reaches for my free hand and swings it back and forth, No matter how you feel over Aunt Miranda, I am sorry.

Thanks, I say, surprised when my throat briefly constricts.

Me, too. CK throws an arm around me, takes the soup container from my hand, then steers me through the doorway and into the corridor. Leada follows, practically dancing behind us.

Entering the kitchen, CK chucks the container into a black recycling bin, the contents of which will disappear at some point during the week via Jacondor’s thick network of designated Ethimarrow. Then he disappears behind the door of the cooler built into one wall.

Lea shifts from one foot to the other before sputtering, Really, CK?

What? he murfles, coming back into view with a grainy Tensween breakfast stick hanging between his lips.

I have exciting news! Remember?

I pull up a stool by the black-marble table and reach for the fruit basket. Let’s hear it.

Grid teleportation drills, Lea says as if trying to restrain herself from bounding around the room.

Hate those, CK says mid-chew.

Lea isn’t finished. Gang-specialized diplomacy lectures. Pyramid practice. Telekinesis of heavier objects. The forest-terrain maneuver drills we love so much. Grappling combat. Multiple attacker drills…

CK and I exchange glances as he pulls up a chair next to me. There might be something to get excited about, indeed.

… required hours at the new flying gym. It opens next week.

Or not. I bite into a canna angrily, excitement dwindling like a leaky balloon. So hate flying without the framework of a ship around me.

Oops, CK grabs a napkin from beneath the table top and swats at the canna juice dripping down my chin. You ticked Star off.

Lea beams. Ah, but she is in for some linguistics sessions.

I do love languages. Their patterns are easy for me to pick up, which helps with reading things on other worlds. The Ethi only translates what we hear, typically not what we see.

Going to be a long week, girls.

Lea laughs sharply. Um … many of these classes are daily … over several weeks.

Whoa! I nearly choke. "There’s a huge mission coming our way." My pulse kicks up, and I lose interest in my canna. I can’t be certain, but training schedules such as this usually involve extended missions where you stay on location for the duration, only bouncing to and from your homeworld.

Lea beams and grabs both my hands to ripple my arms like waves. Yes. And I believe I know where it will take place!

Where? CK is fully awake.

Well, what language are we studying? I ask.

Lea’s cheeks puff as if holding back the best news in history, which means the mission must have nothing to do with Professor Kroter. Otherwise, she would be sitting here puking.

Spit it out, Lea! I breathe.

Her laughing eyes shift between us, the sparkles gleaming, her slim features lighting up in a non-Fendorian way. If she showed this much emotion on her homeworld, they would have her locked up and analyzed her for mental instability.

Girlie! CK reaches across the table to pinch Lea’s wrist. Must I look up the schedule myself?

Lea turns her gaze to the ceiling and begins whistling—quite badly.

And we’re done with the guessing games, CK announces. He leaps off his seat, grabs Lea around the waist with a swoop of one arm, and throws her over his shoulder. She doesn’t fight. She just hangs there, upside down, laughing.

You know he’ll keep you there all day until you answer, I say.

Okay, okay! Leada concedes. The language we will study is … Criterionese!

I scream, and CK nearly drops Lea on her head.

THREE

Jacondorian life has become a blur of drills, lecture buildings, late night studying, and giddy conversations over what we hope is an approaching mission to Criterion. Along with all of that, I endure a series of more-frequent-than-usual, middle-of-REM-sleep transports between here and Earth. I can only hope this means I’ll find myself on my homeworld less often once we settle in on Criterion. More likely, space is simply flipping, flopping, and folding in some new crazy pattern.

CK, Lea, and I find ourselves happily exhausted. And my strength, dexterity, and speed assessments have never scored better. I could do without the muscle and bone pains, though; that new flying gym kicks my butt in so many ways that even CK feels bad enough not to tease me. Miraculously, I learned that my klutzy flights outside the gym make me look like a graceful feather compared to my indoor drills. The gym’s uneven walls demand precise control and little compromise on following instinct. Consequently, I crash into walls, misjudge my altitude, and get distracted by stupid things. Yesterday, the single optical lens we pop in for flight practice folded over itself in my eye. The lens works with the gym’s navigation system, providing a readout of current height, speed, and rotation in an overlay across our vision. This way, we learn to maneuver our bodies according to mathematics and physics. When the lens folded, I was heading for a landing. Instead, I lost my sense of direction and smacked into the domed ceiling. Since the entire inside of the facility projects a faux environment, I wound up zooming directly into some water-world’s sun. Truthfully, the new gym is exactly what I need, but it will be a while before I fly like CK and Lea. So far, my favorite part of the place is the heavily-cushioned ground.

Tonight’s schedule is free, so I decide to sit upon my bed and read an old Criterionese fairy tale I acquired at age nine. I’m so excited about visiting my favorite world that I’ll eat up any sort of early contact with it. Since the Ethi typically won’t translate the written word, I have two choices for reading the text: decode the language as I read silently in my head or try pronouncing it out loud well enough for the Ethi to translate it for me. Either way, I’m in for a tough evening. Criterionese is one of the most difficult humanoid languages I’ve ever come across, and while I never had a super handle on it, I’m surprised at how my linguistics sessions reveal that I remember next to nothing.

And it occurs to me that I can’t remember the voices of those we knew on Criterion, either. Worse, while I remember names, faces, and places, I can’t seem to recall much of what I did on that planet I loved so much. I press my palms to my temples; the amnesia-like feeling is uncomfortable, like someone stuck a huge wad of gum between my ears. Odd.

I move my finger over the title, debossed and filled with gleaming-gold ink. A picture of a surprised little reptile sits beneath the strange characters, its green and purple skin as bold as the day I received this hand-bound book. I turn to the first page, thick and colorful. Fortunately, this copy is typeset, so handwriting quirks won’t mess with character recognition. Reading in my head, I try to make sense of the first story, Tamuke the Tuke Goes Wandering, a tale as familiar to the Criterionese as Little Red Riding Hood is to Earthlings, I recall. Tukes are amphibious creatures similar to salamanders. Their deep-purple bodies and forest-green stripes make them hard to see in Criterion’s green- and plum-tinted foliage, so finding them basking on a rock is a sign of good luck. CK, Lea, and I named one of the index-finger-sized creatures after Tamuke years ago while playing with three Criterionese friends. The six of us spent many afternoons inventing Tamuke tales. I place the book face down on my chest and think about that—how the memory startles me—as if I haven’t thought about it once in five years.

Who gave me this book? I turn it over and smile at more illustrations of the tiny reptile dressed in clothing and a tiny crown. Keerka! The answer pops into my head as if the lock on a gate just clacked open: Keerka Lors, a doctor. The mother of our friend Zarre Lors.

I return to the text. Translating the loopy symbols is tough going, linguistics talents be damned. But I press on, propping myself up, determined not to nod off. These days, our mega drills demand serious sleep. But deep sleep comes at a price….

I do not like to be frustrated, child.

Okay…. My chin shudders.

Nor do I take failure lightly. Tell me what they are. Tell me how they work. My cuff sits in his gnarled hand, just out of reach, my swollen wrist evidence of the vicious tugging he did to remove it.

I concentrate on the salty taste of tears lingering on my lips. Seven-year-old Jacondorians don’t cry, I think. Of course, seven-year-old Jacondorians aren’t mean to run into this much evil, either.

Do you want her to suffer? Kroter abruptly shouts, pointing at poor Leada. She sits tied to a chair in black gauzy ropes, enveloped in hazy blue light. One arm sticks out from her side, held there by rigging that extends from the floor. The mechanism clamps her wrist in place and holds a small metal disk a mere inch from her palm.

I don’t know what he’ll do to Lea, but I start talking just to stall him. They are … they just are! They work because … I don’t know … they just work. We don’t make them work. They just do.

Kroter’s lilac hair flails around on his head wispily as his hands grab at the neck of my T-shirt. Vague! he shouts. Vague nothingness from you! The cords of his scrawny neck bulge. His eyes fixate with hatred, close enough for me to see the outline of transparent lenses sitting on his eyeballs. And I wonder: Wouldn’t a genius have figured a way to fix bad eyesight without needing contacts?

I shrink in my chair knowing I can’t get out of it—not this chair, not this heavy metal band around my head, not this situation. I’ve tried. I’ve pulled a muscle in my stomach fighting to bust through the ropes. But the same light that holds Leada’s Ethi in place coats me, too. My Ethimarrow is silent, unnaturally still. Its life force sustains me—I know because I breathe this air—but its consciousness is on vacation.

Kroter’s face changes again—morphing in a way I have quickly grown to dread. Elation animates his mouth, his cheeks, his mad eyes. Kroter and Leada wear copies of the device encircling my head. Tiny diodes stick to the same spots on our temples and jaws. I assume this is how he understands me and how I understand him, because my Ethi is not talking, thinking, translating … nothing.

Little Star! Tell me. Who do you think would be easier to convince to talk? You or Leada? No! No, don’t tell me. He cups my chin in his palm. Show me.

From a corner of the room, Kroter drags a copy of the rig that holds Leada’s hand. He secures the bottom of the post to one of many small ports in the floor. After yanking my right hand out from beneath the bindings, mindless over the rope burn inflicted across my knuckles, he attaches my wrist to the clamp-and-disk device. Then he wedges a round remote of sorts in my left hand, still secured to my side. More gadgets, I think. Where does it all come from? He is one man. Why so many sets of this brainwave-reading headgear ready and waiting? How?

Watch, he spits, sinister again. He forces my thumb to press something on the remote.

Leada screams. The disk