Stealing Air (2 page)

Brian unclamped his hands from the back handlebars, fingers aching. They were on a bridge over a small creek, and he staggered with shaky legs to sit on the big steel guard-rail by the side of the road. Max walked his bike over to join him. Smoke still rolled out of the end of the rocket.

“Thanks, Max. You know, for helping me get away from —”

“Stand by!” Max dumped the bike on the ground with the rocket side up. The rocket was making a quiet hissing sound — a small whistle that seemed to be getting louder and higher pitched. Brian noticed the boxy black letters
NX-02
painted on the side of the rocket.

“Oh no! Not again. Just like the NX-01!” Max grabbed one of the clamps on the metal bands securing the rocket to the bike. He grunted as he yanked on it. “Try to get the other one loose.”

“Why?”

Max pulled on the clamp again. “It's critical to remove this rocket quickly.”

Brian grabbed the other one and tugged hard. It gave a little bit. In another pull he had the clamp released and the metal band off. Max had done the same. Now the whistle had reached a crescendo with a horrible, high-pitched shriek.

“Why is it making that noise?” Brian shouted.

Max grabbed one end of the rocket. “Pick that up! Hurry!” Brian lifted the other end. It was surprisingly light. They sidestepped to the edge of the bridge. “Throw it!”

They heaved the rocket over the side. Max dropped to the pavement and Brian followed. They heard a splash and then the
crack
of an enormous explosion blasting from below. Water and mud splattered down all over them.

Brian stood up, wiping some globs of mud off his shirt. He followed Max to look over the side of the bridge. Water was rushing in to fill a new crater in the bottom of the creek bed.

“What was that all about?” Brian asked.

Max frowned as he watched the water run into the hole. “I'm not sure,” he said. “It's possible that I didn't pack the fuel mixture correctly. Or else the internal heat shield is overheating and sealing up the exhaust port, causing an overpressure. I can never tell, because all I ever have left to analyze are small fragments.”

“You mean you made that thing? You've done this before?” Brian could hardly believe it. “And what's with the markings? NX-02?”

“It was a reference to the TV show
Star Trek: Enterprise
,” Max said.

Brian nodded. It had sounded familiar. One of the best things about moving to Riverside was that it was famous for being the future birthplace of
Star Trek
Captain James T. Kirk.

“My mother is Dr. Mary Warrender, your father's partner in Synthtech,” said Max. “Your mother sent me down from your house to bring you home for the investor presentation.” He pointed toward the trees. “Come on. The abandoned railroad tracks run back in those woods. We can follow them in case Frankie's waiting for us on the road.”

“Lead the way,” Brian said.

Max walked his bike down into the ditch toward the trees, and Brian followed. A breeze rustled through the corn stalks. He could see Riverside's church steeple and grain elevator in the distance. It was all so different from Seattle. He ran his fingers back through his hair. “Thanks for helping me get away from Frankie,” he said. He owed Max that, even if the escape had almost killed him.

“It was my pleasure,” said Max. “It was also a good opportunity to try out my latest rocket. Clearly there's still some work to do,” he mumbled.

They walked up the slope to the tracks and headed toward town. Tall trees and thick shrubs lined either side of the railroad bed. Neither one spoke for a while as they walked. The only sound was the bumping of Max's bike tires on the wooden ties.

Brian finally broke the quiet. “Why did you do all this anyway?”

“I find rockets rather fascinating. Ever since —”

“No, I mean, why did you help me get away from Frankie?”

“I have had some unpleasant encounters with Frankie in the past,” Max said. “The more frustrated he becomes, the more dangerous he is, and he looked rather angry when your skating was superior.”

Brian's goal in going to the skate park was to meet people and make friends. It hadn't gone the way he'd expected, but who could expect a rocketbike? He looked at Max and smiled. “Well, thanks for an awesome ride.” He had made one friend, at least.

“Welcome to Riverside,” Max said.

Thanks to the rocketbike adventure and the long walk home, Brian and Max were late. They entered through the back door into the kitchen as quietly as they could. Brian could hear his father and Max's mom giving their presentation in the living room.

His own mother was at the counter making drinks. “Brian, where were you? Your father was hoping to introduce you at the start of the presentation. Why are you all dirty? Never mind,” she said before he could answer. “Just get upstairs and change. I put a shirt out for you.”

Brian led the way to his room, where Max nodded toward the
Let It Be
poster as he took a seat at the desk. “Who are these guys?”

“Are you serious?” Brian said. “The Beatles.” Max stared at him blankly. Brian shook his head. “From England? Huge in the sixties? John Lennon? Paul McCartney?”

“I mostly enjoy listening to the instrumental soundtracks from the
Star Trek
films,” said Max. “Also Weird Al Yankovic. His songs are very humorous.”

Brian picked up the new shirt Mom had bought him for tonight. It was white with buttons and an annoying collar.

Max leaned forward and looked at Brian's model jet. “This is excellent work.”

“Thanks,” Brian said.

“The SR-71 Blackbird still holds the record for the fastest jet plane. It could exceed Mach Three. That's roughly two thousand three hundred miles per hour. At top speed, the Blackbird could cross Iowa in …” He poked his finger around in the air as if writing calculations on an invisible chalkboard. “Under ten minutes.”

“Wow,” Brian said. “That's a lot of information.”

Max shrugged. “I could tell you more.” He put the model down. “The details are painted with remarkable accuracy.”

“My grandfather gave me that kit for Christmas last year.” It had been one of just a few gifts he'd received, with Mom and Dad's money tied up in Synthtech.

“Are you interested in aircraft?” Max ran his finger along one of the big engines on the sleek black spy plane.

“Oh yeah!” Brian slipped the shirt on. “My dad's got his pilot's license, and we used to own a single-engine airplane. A Cessna Cardinal II.” He smiled, remembering the preflight checks with Dad while the Beatles played on Dad's CD player. He thought of the fun of taking the Cardinal up flying some weekends. There was nothing like checking out Mount Saint Helens from the air.

“It seems as if you and your father are close.”

“Yeah, I guess so, but we don't do as many fun things as we used to.”

“Both of my parents have important jobs at the University of Iowa,” Max said proudly. “My mother is a professor of chemical engineering. My father works in the senior levels of administration and finance.” His enthusiasm faded, and he looked down, speaking more quietly. “They sometimes have time to assist me with especially difficult mathematical or scientific enquiries, but they prefer that I work things out on my own.”

Brian buttoned his shirt. Max did “mathematical or scientific enquiries” at home? What must life be like for him?

“Do you miss flying?” Max asked after a brief quiet.

“Well, yeah,” Brian said, grateful for the subject change. “It used to be tons of fun. Plus, we'd go to air shows all the time, see antique planes and stuff. We even toured an old World War Two B-17 bomber.” He paused. “But Dad had to sell the Cardinal to help pay for the company.” Brian threw his dirty shirt in the hamper. “He's always busy now.”

Someone knocked on the door. It was probably time to go downstairs for Dad's whole impress-the-rich-lady meeting thing. “Come in,” Brian said.

It was Grandpa. “Ah, Brian, I see Max found you without too much trouble. Hope you boys are getting along okay.” Grandpa lived on a farm at the edge of town. He kept this house as a rental property and was letting Brian's parents live there for free since money was tight. “Anyway, good news, boys. I've talked to your folks. They said you only needed to be here for the initial introduction. But …” He coughed a little. “Since you missed that, we're just going to skip this whole thing. I'll take you both out for ice cream and then to my farm for a bit. You can have leftovers for dinner later tonight.”

“Thank you, Mr. Davis,” Max said quietly. He stood up and hurried out of the room.

Brian scrambled back out of his uncomfortable shirt and pulled on his
Yellow Submarine
T-shirt.

Grandpa cleared his throat. “Listen, Brian …”

Uh-oh. Whenever an adult started a conversation with “Listen, Brian,” a big, serious lecture was bound to follow.

“I'll try to keep this short. I know that you probably just lost track of time, but your father had really been hoping you could be here for this meeting. He wanted to show you off to that lady down there, Mrs. Whatshername.” He grinned. “Now, I'm not trying to make you feel bad about tonight. Just telling you that these next few months, your parents are going to be very busy, maybe a little tense, while your father is getting this business up and running. You're going to be on your own some, and I need you to promise to help out and be on your best behavior.”

Brian nodded. It was a good thing he'd done that whole almost-get-in-a-fight thing
before
he had to make this promise.

Grandpa reached over to muss his hair. “Good man.”

Downstairs, Grandpa stopped them in the dining room so they wouldn't interrupt the presentation. He spotted Mom in the kitchen and went to talk to her. Max looked impatient to leave, but as long as they had to wait for Grandpa, Brian peeked into the living room to watch Dad work his business magic.

Dad was dressed in his jeans and a suit-type coat, standing in front of a big screen. Dr. Warrender stood next to him in black dress pants, a shiny purple shirt, and a black jacket with shoulder pads. Her dark hair was pulled back tightly and she wore the same sort of glasses as Max. Another man, wearing a tan jacket with fancy brown patches on the elbows — probably Max's father, with hair just like his son's — sat stiffly at the end of the couch.

A short woman with shoulder-length gray-flecked black hair was seated on a chair facing the screen. She handed a plate of food to a little man next to her and stood up as if to speak.

“Do you need something, Mrs. Douglas?” Dad said.

“Yes, Mr. Roberts.” Mrs. Douglas put her hands on her hips. “Proof.” She paused for a moment, and the room was completely silent. Dad's smooth smile didn't fade at all. “The idea is intriguing, and you're a charming man. But if charm made money, I'd be a billionaire by now, and I won't be razzle-dazzled by scientific figures, some charts, and a lot of vague promises. That didn't work with any of my three ex-husbands or hubby number four here” — she nodded toward the man sitting next to her — “and it certainly won't work with you.”

Dad chuckled as if the woman had just told a joke. “Mrs. Douglas, I certainly didn't mean to —”

“You know why I agreed to come down for this meeting?”

“Well, you strike me as a sharp businesswoman who knows a great opportu —”

“Cut the donkey diddle, Mr. Roberts. I got so much money now, I have to hire accountants just to monitor my accountants. I do little side projects like this for fun.”

This little “side project” was a company that Brian's parents were risking everything for. What must it be like to have money like Mrs. Douglas had? She was still talking.

“Now I come here and you show me a lot of boring facts and figures. You have no proof. No demonstration. I'm not having any fun with this. You gotta impress me.”

Max's mother took a small step forward. “I assure you, Mrs. Douglas, that Plastisteel is a very impressive substance. With your money to help us develop faster and more efficient ways of manufacturing it —”

“I expected to see a car made out of this magic plastic of yours. You can't even make me a wagon!”

Dr. Warrender fidgeted with a sparkly pin on her lapel. “We did have samples to show you, but we had a bit of a security —”

Dad clapped his hands. “Security in knowing that Plastisteel is so great that we, um … don't need samples. It's fantastic enough without samples!”

Mom entered the living room. “Mrs. Douglas, dinner's about ready. If you'd like to come into the dining room, we could get started.”

Dad gave Mom a grateful look. “Ah, let's all head into the dining room, and we'd be happy to answer any more of your questions over dinner.”

Grandpa pushed Brian and Max out the door before Mrs. Douglas could see them. When they had all climbed into his truck and he'd started the engine, he leaned back in his seat. “Whew!” He pulled a cigar from his pocket and held it in his teeth, then flicked his lighter open and puffed the cigar to life. “I thought we'd never get out of there. That investor woman was almost tougher than some of my old army drill sergeants.”

Brian relaxed and enjoyed the warm smell from Grandpa's cigar. “Don't worry, my dad can handle anything.”

Max only looked back toward the house.

Grandpa rolled his window down to let the smoke out, put the truck into gear, and started to drive. They soon reached his house on the west edge of town. Instead of turning into his driveway, though, he pulled the truck over and parked on the street. Grandpa blew out a long puff, flicked his ashes out the window, and then set the cigar in the truck's ashtray. “We have arrived.”

“What are we doing?” Brian asked. “I thought we were going to get ice cream.”

“Want to introduce you to my neighbor boy here across the street. He's a good guy. Does chores for me around the farm sometimes.” Grandpa put his hand to his back and groaned as he climbed down out of the truck.

Brian wasn't totally thrilled by the idea of his grandpa introducing him around, but Grandpa was already halfway up the path to the front door. He waited for Max to open the passenger door so he could get out.

“I do not believe this is the wisest course of action,” Max said.

“Can't stop him now, though,” Brian said. He scooted across the seat to climb out the driver's side door, then hurried to catch up with Grandpa. Max followed slowly behind.

A moment after Grandpa rang the doorbell, the door opened, and Brian realized why Max had thought this was a bad idea. Out stepped Alex, the gambler from the skate park.

“Hey, Mr. Davis,” said Alex. He leaned to see around Grandpa and spotted Brian and Max. “Um … hey,” he said to Brian. He nodded. “Max.”

“Hello, Alex! I think you know Max Warrender here, but I want you to meet my grandson Brian,” Grandpa said. Brian tried to smile, though he felt a little strange being introduced to someone he already knew. Max just stared at the ground. Grandpa patted Brian on the back. “He just moved to town and will be starting sixth grade with you and Max tomorrow. I figured you'd all have a lot in common and maybe you'd like to come get ice cream with us. My treat. Then you might show Brian and Max around the farm, since you've gotten so familiar with it, working there this summer.”

“Sounds great,” Alex said.

Soon all four of them squeezed into Grandpa's truck and headed out toward the Tasty Freeze drive-in. Grandpa said he was fine with his cigar, but he bought a chocolate ice-cream cone for Alex, vanilla for Max, and a chocolate-and-vanilla twist for Brian.

“Thanks for this,” Alex said when they were in the truck on the way back.

“Yeah, this is great, Grandpa,” said Brian. Grandpa nodded.

Max didn't say anything, and a quiet settled over the cab.

“Brian here is pretty good on the skateboard,” Alex said.

“Is that right?”

Brian felt his cheeks go hot. If Alex told Grandpa about the near fight with Frankie, Grandpa would worry again about him staying out of trouble.

“Best skateboarder I've ever seen,” Alex said. Brian smiled.

“I've seen some of those boys at the skate park.” Grandpa flicked ash out the window. “I don't understand how they can go so fast on those things.”

Max grinned behind his ice-cream cone, and Brian nodded at him. Grandpa had no idea just how fast a skateboard could go.

Finally, Grandpa pulled the truck into the gravel driveway back at his farm. He reached over and crushed his cigar out in the ashtray. “You boys have fun and take a look around. I've got to check on some things in the house.”

Then it was just the three of them, standing out in the driveway, licking their ice-cream cones with the sun low in the west. Nobody said anything at first, and Brian made sure Grandpa had gone inside. “Thanks,” he said to Alex.

Alex frowned over the top of his ice-cream cone. “For what?”

“For not telling my grandpa about Frankie, and for not being mad about me taking your money at the skate park.”

“Your grandfather's totally cool,” said Alex. “He pays really well for the garden work, mowing, and other jobs I do around here. And as for the money you won …” He laughed. “If Frankie hadn't ruined all the action, I would have probably made my ten bucks back on the commission.”

“Your commission?” Brian asked.

Alex glanced at the door to the house, like he too wanted to make sure Grandpa was really gone. “I arrange and keep track of all the bets in our class. Then I take a five percent cut of all the winnings.” He started toward the barn, motioning for Brian and Max to follow. “Five percent may not sound like much, but it adds up. Basically —” He took a huge bite out of his crunchy cone and spoke with his mouth full. “I never lose.”

Brian followed Alex into the barn. A couple horses shifted in a stall in the back. The stinging, salty smell of manure burned his nose and eyes as Alex led him to a wooden ladder in the middle of the building.

Brian stopped when he noticed Max had fallen so far behind. “Max, you coming?” he called.