Out of This World Read online

  “No! ” Jack screamed, pounding his fist on the ground. “Now is not the time for a mock assassination! God, you guys are so embarrassing!”

  Neither of them was listening. Mom had her eyes fixed on Jodie, staring down the sights of her ray gun. “Back away, Hunter,” she said. “He’s not for you.”

  “You’re threatening her with a toy gun!” Jack yelled. “Could you be any more ridiculous?”

  Then he saw what was happening to Jodie, and he shut his mouth.

  An evil, hungry leer had spread across her face, an expression that did not seem to belong to the girl he had adored. She was making a quiet hissing sound, and a thin, bad-smelling steam was rising from her body. As Jack watched in horror, her features began to melt and run together like hot wax.

  “Two Guardians?” she gurgled. “That’s all you have to defend you? Please.”

  She thrust out her hand, and it became a long, bladed tentacle that lashed out like a whip toward Mom. Mom rolled aside and came up firing her ray gun. Two sizzling bolts of energy flew through the air toward Jodie—or whatever it was that had pretended to be Jodie—but a moment before they hit, two gaping holes opened in her body, and the bolts passed harmlessly through.

  The creature that had been Jodie drew the tentacle back into its body like it was slurping up a noodle. By now it had melted into a huge oily blob, shimmering with strange colors, blorping and oozing toward Mom.

  “I was going to kiss that?” Jack squeaked as Dad pulled him to his feet.

  “Get up!” Dad barked, in a voice more serious and commanding than Jack had ever heard before. “You need to run.”

  “Run where?”

  “Anywhere!”

  A blazing bolt of red energy shrieked out of the undergrowth and hit Mom square in the back.

  “Mom!” Jack yelled.

  She staggered in place. A smoking hole had been blasted right through her. Tubes dangled in the gap, squirting white goop; smashed canisters and crystals leaked little puffs of glowing gas. They were the same eerie colors as he’d seen coming off the spiky device in the attic.

  Jack turned to his dad in shock. “You’re androids?”

  “I prefer the term ‘artificial person’ myself,” said Dad prissily.

  Jack thought for a moment. “You know, this explains a lot.”

  Mom tipped over and crashed to the ground.

  “A hit, by Jove! A very palpable hit!” cried a buzzing voice from the trees. Into the clearing stepped a lanky robot with thin metal limbs and a tall tube-shaped head. He was wearing a monocle over one mechanical eye, a top hat, a tweed jacket, and riding breeches, and he carried a huge shiny blunderbuss in both hands. A drooping mustache, lopsided and off-center, was stuck in the middle of his face.

  “TOF-1 and the Changeling,” Dad muttered. “That means Scorch won’t be far behind.” He drew a ray gun identical to Mom’s. “It’s you they want. Go. I’ll hold them off as long as I can.”

  “They want me? What have I done?”

  They heard a crashing in the trees behind them, the sound of something heavy thundering closer.

  “Go!” Dad shouted.

  Jack didn’t wait around any longer. He sprinted across the clearing, ducking as an energy bolt seared over his head, and plunged into the trees.

  Behind him, he heard his father open fire.

  Branches whipped and scratched at Jack as he staggered through the undergrowth, running headlong into the woods. From the clearing he heard the screams of TOF-1’s blunderbuss and Dad firing back. Somehow he knew Dad didn’t have a chance. He’d heard it in his voice. I’ll hold them off as long as I can.

  He had been saying goodbye.

  Mom. Dad.

  No wonder he’d never been able to love them the way he was supposed to. He’d sensed on some deeper level that something wasn’t right. They weren’t his parents. They weren’t even human. What had the Changeling called them? Guardians.

  His head whirled with confusion and terror. It was too much to take in. All he could do was run, and keep running.

  Because there was someone following him.

  He heard them behind him, smashing through the branches as if they were matchsticks. Heavy, thumping footsteps on the turf. Closer and closer.

  Dad had mentioned a third name. Scorch. Why was his pursuer called Scorch?

  A jet of flames spewed through the forest, setting leaves afire and turning trees to smoldering black pillars that splintered and tumbled to the ground.

  Oh. That’s why, then.

  He tripped, tumbled to the ground, and scrambled back up again. Through the smoke, he caught a glimpse of a hulking shape striding closer. Panic welled within him and he fled, running through the woods at reckless speed, desperate to get away.

  The ground disappeared from beneath his feet. Suddenly he was falling, bouncing, rolling down a steep slope he hadn’t seen coming. Brambles scratched at his face and arms, and he knocked his head on a tree root. At last he skidded to a stop at the foot of the slope in a tangled heap, gasping and dazed.

  A stream of roaring flames cut through the forest above him. He covered his head and squeaked like a frightened possum as burning branches dropped to the ground all around him. When he raised his head, he found he had not been hit, but it seemed that everything around him was on fire.

  A flaming tree creaked nearby. Jack clambered to his feet and got out from underneath a moment before it crashed down in a blazing pile of leaves and timber.

  Coughing, he ran onward, deeper into the woods. Scorch came thumping down the slope after him.

  The woods became thicker, branches knotting together. He ran this way and that, sweating in the heat, until he came up against a wall of twigs and brambles that blocked his way. He looked over his shoulder—could he turn back?—but Scorch was closing in on him, a bulky shadow in the smoky murk.

  No time. Instinct took over. He scrabbled under, crawling on his knees and elbows through the mud.

  Just like on the assault course. Just the way Dad taught me.

  And suddenly he knew. All that training, all the lessons they’d put him through and the knowledge they’d tried to impart. It was all for today, for the day when the Hunters came. All so he could run fast, be smart, escape, and survive.

  He wished he’d listened harder now.

  Jack emerged from under the brambles. More branches crossed his path in a tangled maze. He climbed into them, squeezing through the gaps the way he’d learned to do on the rope nets. It was hard work, but he was used to hard work. Behind him he heard Scorch tearing up the forest, close on his heels, but Jack had found his focus now.

  Make a plan. Survive.

  Then he was through the branches, and now there was a rocky cliff rising before him, thirty feet high. He ran at it without thinking twice, found a handhold, and began to climb. Up, up, up he went, like he’d done a hundred times on the climbing wall. His muscles strained, but he was strong enough. By the time Scorch broke through the branches behind him, he was over the top and running again.

  Frantically he tried to come up with a tactic. He was lost in the woods, and he didn’t know if he could outrun Scorch. His pursuer just battered through any obstacles, and that cliff wouldn’t stop him for long. And Dad had taught him how to deal with angry bears or hungry coyotes, not fire-spewing monsters. At least, he’d tried to; the lessons didn’t often stick. What were you supposed to do if a bear was chasing you?

  Then it hit him. Climb a tree. If he couldn’t outrun Scorch, he’d hide from him.

  He found a likely looking candidate and scrambled up into it. Somehow his hands and feet found all the right places, and soon he was high up among the branches. He nestled into the crook of a bough and went still. Immediately it occurred to him that maybe a tree wasn’t the smartest place to hide from someone who was burning everything in sight, but by then it was too late to do anything but stay put and hope.

  From the direction of the cliff, he heard a creak of metal and a
lumbering step. Scorch was out there, looking for him.

  He walked slowly now. Listening, perhaps. He didn’t know where Jack had gone and was waiting for him to give himself away. Jack clung tighter to the branch and held his breath.

  Please don’t find me, please don’t find me—

  Then, through the leaves, Jack saw him.

  He wore an enormous suit of black power armor, covering him from toe to neck, which whirred and buzzed as he moved. Huge three-fingered gloves gripped a massive, dirty flamethrower, which was attached by a pipe to a fuel tank on his back.

  But it was his face that was the strangest; or rather, the lack of it. His head, if he had one, was covered by a transparent dome rising from the neck of his armored suit. Within the dome was only a thick cloud of gas and smoke, swirling red and black, flashing now and then with hidden lightning. Visible through the gas were two glowing chips of light—Scorch’s eyes—but nothing else could be seen of the thing inside the armor.

  He stomped closer, until he was standing directly below where Jack hid. Sweat beaded on Jack’s brow. He could smell sulfur and the reek of fuel. If Scorch looked up, it would all be over.

  Don’t. Look. Up.

  Somewhere off in the woods, a branch cracked loudly, as if someone had stepped on it, and he heard a muffled grunt. Scorch straightened, alert, and hurried off in that direction.

  Jack dared to take a breath again. He listened as Scorch plowed off through the trees. When he sounded far enough away, Jack began to climb down. Instinct told him to stay hidden, but there was always a chance the others would come searching after they’d dealt with Dad. Better to get as far from here as possible.

  He checked to make sure the coast was clear, then dropped to the ground and dusted himself off.

  “Hey,” said a voice behind him. He whirled around and was hit by an energy bolt straight in the chest.

  The next thing he knew he was slapped hard on the face. He jerked awake and found himself lying on the ground, looking up at the branches overhead. Bright sunlight forced its way through the leaves and the drifting smoke from the nearby fires. His whole body ached, his cheek hurt, and his head was pounding.

  A girl wearing purple overalls, her hair dyed half a dozen colors, had her hand raised to deliver another slap. She lowered it with a look of slight disappointment as she saw his eyes were open.

  “Well, he’s awake, just about. You did set it to stun, right?”

  A man, in his late thirties by the looks of him, came to stand next to her. He had black hair and a black beard, both clipped short, framing a wry brown face. “Might have put the power a bit high,” he said. His voice was deep and smooth.

  The girl knelt down and examined Jack closely. Rows of glowing symbols hurried across her eyeballs in a line, followed by a blur of diagrams. It went by so fast that Jack wasn’t sure he’d seen it at all.

  “He’s not permanently injured. Won’t be able to move for a while, though.”

  Jack didn’t much want to move, even if he could have. He just wanted to lie there and wait for the pain to go away.

  “You all right in there?” the girl said, waving a hand in front of his face. “One blink for yes, two for no.”

  Jack thought about that for a moment, then blinked.

  “Okay, good. I’m Mazzy, and this is Boston.”

  “Boston Sark,” said Boston. “Bounty hunter. Smuggler. Adventurer. You might have heard of me.”

  Jack blinked twice.

  “Well, now you have,” said Boston. “I just captured you. Tell your friends.”

  “Are we leaving or what?” rumbled another voice. “Won’t take Scorch long to work out it was me who lured him away.”

  Another man stepped into view, or at least he was like a man. He had a flat wide face, a shaggy beard, big ears, and a forehead like a cliff, and his skin was the color of clay bricks. It was as if a bodybuilder had been squashed in a mechanical press until he was almost square: four feet tall and four wide.

  “Just waiting for you, Dunk,” said Mazzy. “Let’s go.”

  “Who wants to haul the prisoner back to the Epsilon, then?” Dunk said. “Must be someone else’s turn to be the mule. Any volunteers?” He looked from Mazzy to Boston. Mazzy and Boston looked back at him. “I see. Old Dunk here gets to carry him, is that it?”

  “You’re twice as strong as both of us put together,” Mazzy said.

  “That’s not the point,” Dunk grumbled. “This is exploitation, that’s what this is.”

  “Maybe we can talk about this somewhere we’re not in danger of getting killed at any moment?” Boston suggested, scanning the trees.

  “Oh, it’s never the right time, is it?”

  “Just pick him up!” Boston snapped.

  Jack felt himself lifted as if he weighed no more than a blanket. Unable to move any part of his body, he flopped limply over Dunk’s shoulders like a slain deer. The strange little man was hard as oak and burning hot—Jack could feel the heat radiating through his clothes. He smelled faintly of boiled cabbage and old socks.

  They set off through the woods, Jack jogging against Dunk’s back. Boston had a blaster in his hand, keeping an eye out for anyone following. Mazzy hurried alongside, her eyes scrolling with numbers and symbols.

  “We’re losing the rift,” she said. “It’s becoming unstable.”

  “We’ll get there,” said Boston. “I’m not getting stuck on this dirt ball planet for weeks, I’ll tell you that!”

  “I hate Earth,” Dunk complained. “Just being here makes me feel dirty.”

  “You are dirty,” Mazzy told him. “There’s stuff in your crevices that’s been there since before I was born.”

  Dunk scratched behind one big ear and pulled out a flaky blob of something sticky. He held it up next to Mazzy, as if to compare it. “How old are you again?” he asked.

  They came into a rocky clearing on a slope, a small patch where no trees grew.

  “Epsilon!” said Boston. “Where are you?”

  “Here I am,” said a soft female voice that seemed to come from nowhere. The air shimmered in front of them, and out of nothingness, an aircraft swam into view.

  Jack’s jaw would have dropped if it hadn’t already been hanging open from the paralysis.

  The Epsilon was a thing of beauty, a long, sleek needle with swept-forward wings and engine casings along its flanks that glowed with a soft green light. It stood on five skids, towering over them, and there was an entry ramp in its belly that was lying open.

  “Welcome back, Boston,” it said.

  They hurried over to it and up the ramp. As they went, Jack caught sight of something in the trees behind them. It was hard to see properly since his head bounced with every footstep Dunk took, but it looked like … it looked like the front wheel of a bike, poking out from behind a tree.

  Why was there a bike out here in the woods?

  There was no more time to wonder about it, because now they were inside and hurrying down a dim corridor. The walls were covered with mysterious panels, little blinking lights and transparent cylinders that swirled with strange energy. Boston made his way straight to the cockpit at the end, and the others followed.

  The cockpit was large enough to accommodate several seats, a complicated dashboard, and a dozen screens of various sizes, some of which were showing views of the outside. One of the seats was occupied by a tall, thin young woman wearing a black cloak, with the hood pulled up over her head. She turned to them as they entered. Her face was beautiful and delicately boned, her skin light gray, her eyes bright yellow and slitted like a cat’s.

  “The mighty hunters return,” she said scornfully. “You managed to capture a twelve-year-old boy, then?”

  “Hey!” said Boston. “This twelve-year-old boy is one of the most dangerous spies in the Nexus!”

  Jack blinked frantically, but nobody noticed.

  “Shackle him to a chair,” Boston told Dunk. “If he tries to escape, you have my permission to
punch his face into the next plane of reality.”

  “Roger, boss,” said Dunk.

  “Epsilon, make ready to leave.”

  “Retracting ramp now,” came the infuriatingly calm voice of the aircraft.

  “You don’t need to announce every step of the process,” said Boston.

  “Ramp closed. Lock engaged. Entry secure.”

  “Epsilon, what did I say?”

  “Engaging engines.”

  “Just hurry up!”

  By now Jack had been dumped in a swivel chair, sitting the wrong way in it so his chest leaned against the backrest. He could do nothing to resist as Dunk handcuffed him to it.

  “Gghhh” was all he could say, since his lips didn’t work.

  “Couldn’t have put it better myself,” Dunk told him. He gave Jack a slap on the back, nearly dislocating a rib, and stomped out of the cockpit. “I’ll be in engineering,” he told the rest of them grumpily. “Like always.”

  Mazzy ignored him; she was scanning the screens. “No sign of them yet,” she said.

  “Soon as we get up in the air, they’ll be after us,” said Boston. “Strap in, everyone. Epsilon, take us up.”

  “Ascending.”

  “Hunter craft decloaking to starboard!” Mazzy cried.

  “Already?” Boston muttered, working at the dashboard. “That was fast.”

  “Must’ve realized they lost their target and headed back to their craft.”

  “Boost it, Epsilon!”

  “Engaging boost—”

  “Oh, forget it. Manual control.”

  “Are you sure?” The computer sounded hurt.

  “Yes, I’m sure,” said Boston through gritted teeth.

  “Pilot has manual control.”

  The engines roared, and everyone was flung back against their seats. Jack slithered and slumped against his chair as the cockpit shuddered and shook. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the gray-skinned woman watching him with a tiny smile on her lips.