Mothership Page 20

  It kinda makes a girl wonder why she should even bother to take Preventra (the supposedly 99.999 percent foolproof pregnancy and STD prevention pill) if the very first time she does the dirty she gets knocked up. The added pregnancy alert fail-safe feature of the pill almost seems more like a rubbing-your-nose-in-it feature.

  By God, that Cole must have some Olympic-class swimmers.

  Well, I think, staring down at the irrefutable evidence of Cole’s and my little dalliance, I guess now’s as good a time as any for Cole to break up with Britta, huh?

  I yank my phone out of my pocket and type a quick message to Cole before the lunch bell rings.

  can u come over tonite? i want to tell u something.

  It’s not thirty seconds before I get a reply.

  sure thing. always luv our chats.

  And at that I can’t help it. I smile.

  I know there are a thousand and one reasons I should be freaking out right now, in the minutes after I’ve just discovered that I’m pregnant.

  I’m too young.

  It’s too soon.

  I’ve only known Cole for a few months, and been speaking to him for a few weeks.

  But.

  But.

  Just at the moment I’m not freaking out. I’m pretty positive there will be lots of time for freaking out later. Just at the moment I’m letting myself revel in the fact that there’s a tiny little life inside me. A tiny little piece of Cole.

  As the bell rings I stick my phone into my pocket, flush the toilet, and head off to French class.

  cole? whats going on? why wont u call me back?

  It’s been seven days since Cole and I slept together. Six days since I told him the news that I was pregnant.

  Six days since I last heard a peep out of him.

  It’s Easter Sunday, and I’ve been sitting on my bed all morning gnawing on a gigantic milk chocolate bunny that Ducky got for me, my legs curled up to my chest, alternately trying to call Cole and looking up pics of fetuses online.

  A poppy seed. Our baby is the size of a poppy seed.

  Cole hasn’t been to school all week. Not since I dropped the baby bomb and he raced out of my house, face ghostly pale, with some lame excuse about an orthodontist appointment. Which, given Cole’s perfect teeth, I should have realized was bull honky. There are rumors that he’s sick, rumors that he hooked up with a girl in Pittsburgh and skipped school to be with her, rumors that he witnessed a murder and is just lying low for a while. Yesterday I pulled my bike out of the garage to take a secret stalking trip past his house, before realizing that the dude never even told me where he lived.

  I’m picking up the phone to call him again—for the thirty-third time, not that I’m counting—when I finally allow it to sink in. Maybe he doesn’t, as I’ve been trying to convince myself, “need time to process.” Maybe he’s already done his processing. And maybe the outcome of all that processing was that he decided not to call me. Or see me. Again. Ever.

  I put down the phone, and place a hand on my stomach, trying to feel the tiny thing growing inside of me.

  I know, the way you know something in a dream—when it just hits you, and you understand immediately that it is absolutely true—that I will never see Cole Archer again. He’s gone, for good. Which means that he didn’t love me, and he won’t love this baby. And that’s when the tears come. Because suddenly it’s crystal clear, the entire situation.

  I’m pregnant.

  I’m alone.

  I’m screwed.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  IN WHICH SACRIFICES ARE MADE AND PLOTS ARE FOILED

  As I hurdle down the garbage chute, a lot of things should be racing through my mind. Instead my only thought is, Way to go, Elvie.

  I am often incredibly sarcastic when addressing myself.

  Really, I try to reason, I had no alternative. I didn’t want to knock poor Cole’s stupid lights out, but neither could I sit idly by and let my destiny be decided by warring factions of extraterrestrial hotties. As far as they’re concerned, I’m nothing but a disposable incubator—and especially now that I know the Goober was swapped for some evil Jin’Kai broodling, the safest place for me is on my own. Bob has shown that he’s no one to trust. And Cole? When I look into his eyes, I believe that he loves me, but the fact is that he lied. If he knew I was going to be squirting out another alien’s freaking fetus, what would he do then? One thing I know for sure is that when I get home, I’m getting a termination, STAT. Because sixteen isn’t exactly the age I planned on being when all my junk dried up and became useless. And I will not—I repeat, not—play mommy to some evil Jin’Kai infant baby killer.

  I land with an unnerving splat in the ship’s refuse reservoir. All of the garbage, waste, and trash from the entire ship travels via chutes into this one Dumpster, located along the hull on the bottom of the ship. It measures roughly twenty-five by ten meters, so that’s a lotta space crap, and it’s about as lovely as you’d expect. I’ve made a little Elvie-size crater in the muck, and various unmentionable liquids ooze and drip down on me as I try to right myself. My hand finds something slick and clammy, and as I push myself up, there is a queasy-sounding pop-crunch. My hand slips on the viscous substance, and I fall back, getting a nice view of the ceiling, which is dripping with garbage juice condensation. For a sickening moment I think about what it may be that I’ve just slipped in, but then a more pressing worry takes center stage: I can’t find Cole’s ray gun. It must have slipped out of my hand when I landed. A few panicked seconds later my hand slides over its smooth casing and I extricate it from under an empty carton of Chunky Chocolate Chipotle Craving Cream. I slide it safely into the back of my pants.

  I pick my handholds more carefully as I attempt to lift myself up a second time. Soon I find myself standing waist-deep in shit. Or, to be more literal than figurative, shit and urine and old food and who knows what else. I’m suddenly nostalgic for when I had something in my stomach to barf. The dry heaving that follows is the worst.

  I do my best to compose myself, and look around for the side hatch, which is usually only utilized if someone accidentally drops their retainer into the trash or something. Naturally it’s on the opposite side of the Dumpster. I pick my way through the muck, wading slowly through things so awful that I’m sure I’ll be having nightmares about them for years. Once I reach the hatch, I tap a few keys on the control panel to disengage the lock, and to my relief I hear the hiss-pop of the clamps releasing right away. It wouldn’t have been too slick if I had escaped two groups of alien masterminds only to die in an oversize garbage can.

  I step out through the hatch into the underbelly of the Echidna, leaving trails of Dumpster goo as I go. It’s hells cold. Not freezing like the hangar but cold enough, especially now that I’m covered in unmentionable soggy garbage. Twenty decks down from where I left Cole and the rest of the group, this area of the ship is about as bare bones as you can get. Instead of finished deck floors, a series of narrow catwalks crisscross the length of the ship. They’re so thin, they wobble as I walk, which is fairly unnerving, considering that they hang a good ten meters above the bottom hull. There doesn’t appear to be any damage down here, and the air seems breathable, so I busy myself with preparing for my escape. Let the other girls take off with Bob and Cole. This pregnant lady is taking the classy way home: Dumpster cruising.

  I can hardly hear myself think over the chattering of my teeth as I pry the front panel off the Dumpster’s regulator module. The unit gauges the weight of the refuse in the Dumpster, and when it reaches, um, critical mass, it sends a signal to the United Recycling HQ in New Jersey. Then HQ bounces back a response code that tells the regulator which of the hundreds of recycling centers across the globe are open for reception, at which point the Dumpster unit automatically disengages from the ship and moseys down to the designated center to have its contents emptied, cleaned, and recycled. Not the most convenient way to travel, but hey, it beats taking the local. I figure once the Dumpst
er lands on Earth I can hitch a ride back home. Ideal? No. God forbid I get dropped off in Mumbai or somewhere like that. But I’d rather ride down with the trash and risk what comes than await my fate with Captain Bob’s goons.

  Still, it’s going to be a tricky ride. The Dumpster isn’t exactly designed for personnel transport, so it’s unlikely that there will be enough air inside to last the thirty-six hours or so it will take to get back to the surface—not to mention the fact that the temperature will probably drop to sub-subzero. Luckily, thanks to Papa Bear’s unyielding quizzing about the layout of the ship, I know that there is a maintenance locker not far from here. Once I’ve scrambled the regulator’s sensors to make it think it’s full, I’ll have roughly ten minutes to grab a thermal suit and an oxygen tank before the signal bounces back from Jersey. I’m thinking I won’t need any food for the trip. Despite my usual cravings, somehow I don’t believe I’ll be that hungry.

  I fiddle around with the regulator’s wiring and cross the appropriate connections. Three seconds after I press the reset button, the regulator beeps and a code flashes across the display, indicating that it has registered the Dumpster as full and is sending the signal back to Earth. With nothing left to do but grab a suit and O2 tank, I trot briskly toward the locker.

  I try to push thoughts of Ramona and Natty out of my head. Somehow I feel like I’m ditching the two of them more than any of the others. Assuming they get off the Echidna safely—and, God, I hope they do—what will happen to them? Will these Almiri jokers just let them go after their precious babies are delivered? Or will they keep them prisoner so the Almiri can protect their identities? Or maybe . . . eliminate unneeded loose ends? And what will happen to Cole if Britta really does squeal on him?

  I squash the thoughts in my brain. I can’t worry about that, I tell myself, trying not to look down as the metal of the catwalk wobbles underneath my sticky feet. I’m doing the only thing I can. I’m saving myself. And when I get back home safely, Dad and I can contact the authorities, inform them about this whole Almiri-Jin’Kai debacle. Save all the girls in one fell swoop.

  The bowels of the ship echo with the irregular clanging and churning of failing systems, and the catwalk beneath my feet is making a fair amount of noise as well. So I almost don’t hear the beep. I stop immediately, eyes darting around to make sure I didn’t set off some kind of motion sensor. A few seconds pass, and I hear the beep again. It’s coming from my back pocket.

  It’s my phone.

  I let it slip out of my pocket and check it. Sure enough, there’s a signal, albeit a fairly weak one. The screen beeps again.

  YOU HAVE 31 NEW BLINKS.

  I tab through to my in-box. Thirty-one new blinks from Ducky since this morning. My God, it was just this morning, wasn’t it? When everything was normal? I scroll down and read:

  thought u’d wanna see this: gulliver/monkey_target_pooping/html

  hey do u remember my old jetman psswrd? have itch 2 play.

  argh did u see oscar noms today? al grant robbed again! sooo mad.

  what’d u think of monkey poop?

  elvie u there?

  drop ur phone in the toilet again? if so PLEASE disinfect this time.

  where r u?

  hellooo?????

  And so on. Leave it to Ducky to realize something is wrong when we haven’t communicated in forty-five minutes. I fumble for the return tab and quickly type as I continue my way down the catwalk.

  Ned help!

  Thank you, SmartText, for knowing how pressing my need for Ned is at this very moment. But like an old reliable Saint Bernard, Ducky replies anyway. I open his new blink to find:

  Britta’s maternity look: gulliver/hippo_in_muumuu/farmfab

  Dammit, Ducky. Although, I bet the vid is hilarious.

  The phone’s signal is still weak, but I notice that the farther along I go, the stronger it gets. Strong enough that after a few moments I can get an actual call out. I hit Ducky’s speed dial tab. The phone doesn’t even ring one full time before I see his goofy, wonderful face pop up on the tiny screen. Finally, contact with the outside world!

  “Well where . . . oody hell ha . . . you been?” he asks, breaking up a bit from static. He’s sitting at his desk in his pajamas, a bowl of cereal next to him. I can hear the tinny sounds of the original Jetman playing from his speakers. So I guess he found that password after all.

  There’s so much I need to tell Ducky—about the attack, about Cole, about the Almiri, the Jin’Kai, my parasitic alien baby, nearly suffocating in the hangar, how he should call my dad, help me get off this junker, mobilize the freaking army, everything. But instead of any of that, what comes out of my mouth is a sudden, and very unexpected, stream of bawling. I can’t stop. I just sob and sob. I’m completely unable to form words. When I try to get them out, it sounds like I’m storing marbles in my mouth.

  Ducky raises an eyebrow. “Elvie, you okay? I think you’re breaking up or something. And, like, what the heck have you been doing?” His eyes drift down to examine the state of my clothes. “Mud wrestling?”

  I force myself to stop crying and wipe my nose with my forearm, momentarily forgetting that it is covered in sewage. “I’m not breaking up, donktard,” I respond. “I’m crying.”

  “I know you’re crying, but you’re also breaking up. What’d Britta do this time?”

  “Ducky, listen very carefully to me.” I make my voice as ominous as one can while picking flecks of old egg off one’s upper lip. “The Hanover School is run by aliens.”

  “Must be an epidemic,” Ducky says, attention drifting back to his video game. “I’m pretty sure my new Spanish sub is from Uranus.”

  “Ducky!” I shout at him. “Listen to me. I’m not pulling your leg. I’m not speaking in metaphor. I mean it. The Hanover School is run by a group of parasitic evil aliens, and there was an attack, and a lot of the girls are dead.”

  And bless whatever inner fantasy nerdiness lies behind it, but Ducky looks at me, and I know that without any further explanation he believes me.

  “Jesus, Elvie, are you all right?” There’s genuine concern in his voice.

  “Well . . .” I think about how to answer that. “At the moment. The Echidna is about to crash. I’m planning to hitch a ride back to Earth in the Dumpster.”

  “Holy . . .” Apparently years of video games have not prepared Ducky for this scenario. And then he asks the one question I wish he wouldn’t. “Where’s everyone else? Are they escaping in the Dumpster too?”

  “I . . . I had to get away,” I reply simply. “Look, I don’t have much time to talk. I only have”—I check my watch—“seven minutes to get what I need from the maintenance closet and make it back to the Dumpster.”

  “Elvie, you can’t . . .Won’t you run out of air, or freeze, or something?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Five Minutes Ago. I’m on it.” And then, because I can’t keep it to myself any longer, I tell him. “Ducky . . . Cole’s here.”

  Ducky’s eyes go wide, whether in disbelief or jealousy, I don’t know. Funny how this seems to send him for a loop more than anything else.

  “Cole Archer? What in the hell is he . . . Oh my God he’s an alien!”

  I love Ducky.

  “I always kind of suspected he was evil,” he continues.

  “Cole’s not evil,” I correct him. “He’s . . . well, it’s a long story. There’s good aliens and—Ducky, turn off the damn Jetman. I’m in a life-and-death situation up here!”

  “Sorry,” Ducky replies sheepishly as he flicks off the screen, eyes focusing on me once more. “I’m going to call your dad, okay? He’ll be able to help more than me.”

  “Thanks. I . . .” Suddenly the thought of talking to my father is making me well up again. But I swallow the tears down. There’s no more time for that. “Don’t tell him about the aliens, though, okay? Just tell him the ship is in trouble and I’m escaping in a manner he would find incredibly ingenious. Oh, and maybe you guys can find out whic
h recycling center the Dumpster’s programmed to . . .” I trail off as I turn the corner and reach my destination.

  Inside the maintenance locker room is a desk that clearly doesn’t belong in such a tight space, and on top of it are several lap-pad computers, wired into the wall where the intercom panel once was. Each lap-pad’s screen is scrolling through a series of various ship functions: atmosphere, door locks, what have you. And sitting on a bench next to the lockers is a device I immediately recognize as a high-tech variation on a run-of-the-mill pulse emitter, not unlike the kind used by schools, cineplexes, or other institutions that want to block external phone signals. In my attempt to escape the Hanover School for Expecting Parasitic Host Mothers, I have stumbled directly into the saboteur’s center of operations.

  “Elvie?” Ducky says. “What’s the matter? You’re making your Oh, shit face.”

  Oh, shit is right.

  “Shhh, Ducky. Be quiet!” I whisper. The saboteur is nowhere in sight, but still. Ducky’d never forgive himself if I got a ray gun in the back because he was such a loudmouth. I need to get what I came here for and get out before the creep comes back.

  I pick my way across the mess of wires to the lockers against the far wall. Hanging there are several thermal suits, with the oxygen tanks behind them. I pull out the first suit I can reach, set my phone and Cole’s ray gun down on the bench beside me, and then step into the thin silver mesh outfit one foot at a time. The zipper strains as I yank it over the not-Goober, but it holds. The suit is huge up top and comically tight around the middle—I probably look like a giant misshapen mirror ball—but it’ll do the trick for now. I flip up the hood, tuck Cole’s gun down the front of the suit so that it rests rather comically between my boobs, and scoop up my phone.