The Nerdy Dozen #2 (6 page)

“OKAY, ANDERTOL,” SAID FINCH, “THIS IS A PTT TO RUN
through an EVA.”

“Um, what?” replied Neil, standing alongside Biggs at the edge of a pool. Or at least what looked like a pool. It was a rectangle of open ocean water, all swishing around a submerged Whiptail. The bubble of the training tentacle must've been pressurized, or else the whole ocean would have been rushing inside.

“Sorry. We can get heavy on the abbreviations,” Finch answered. “This is a part-task trainer, running a simulated extravehicular activity. Space walks. Or anytime you're outside of a craft in space. You should've seen something similar in Shuttle Fury.”

“Oh. Yes, exactly,” Neil fibbed. “More like Shuttle Furious, right?”

Biggs looked at Neil with a bit of joke déjà vu.

“That's a good one. I'll have to remember that.” Finch chuckled. “But let's get moving. The rest of the group is with Dallas, running through other simulations. I'll be facilitating you all here in training tentacle three.”

“Oh nice, that's always been my good-luck tentacle,” Biggs said. The two gamers wore official space suits, complete with clear helmets that snapped into place. Finch communicated via a headset.

“I'm not sure what's about to happen, sir, but I just want to say I love it,” said Biggs before cannonballing into the cool water.

Finch took a seat in a thin metal chair and planted both hands on a laptop computer. He began tapping keys as Neil splashed a toe through the water below.

“Hop on in, Andertol. The water's fine,” said Biggs with a giddy excitement. Neil put his arms straight out to his sides and leaned forward with a belly flop.

“Now in this simulation, you'll both start at the starboard side of the ship,” Finch said. Neil and Biggs swam over to the right side of the ship.

“The mission is to traverse the shuttle, close a leaking valve, and return to the airlock, sealing it without consequence. It's important to remain with your ship. Any second without contact could mean drifting out into space,” Finch said over his headset. “You have eleven minutes of oxygen . . . starting now.”

“Like, now or once we take a breath?” asked underwater Biggs.

“Ten fifty-five . . . ,” replied Finch.

Neil turned to his shaggy-headed friend.

“Time to move, dude!”

The two began swinging around the waterlogged spaceship, making their way to its front. Neil propelled himself along the side of the ship, grabbing metal poles as if they were jungle vines.

This isn't so bad. Just keep your momentum going.

He guided himself to the nose of the ship and shinnied around the windows of the cockpit.

Just then, Finch's voice crackled over Neil's and Biggs's headsets.

“A patch of space junk has been detected in your orbit. You now have nine minutes to complete your mission,” said Finch, relishing the drama of the simulation.

“Okay, let's motor,” said Neil. Biggs agreed, and they pressed onward. Neil heard a broadcast in his ear.

“Specialist Andertol, you are the only one receiving this transmission. Your space suit is malfunctioning. Your helmet is slowly filling up with water from a clogged air filter.”

Neil paused, wondering if he should return to the surface.

This is the whole challenge; you've got to keep going!

Biggs kept shuffling along the port side of the ship, and Neil slowly followed. He could see bubbles spraying out from the leaky valve they needed to reach.

“Specialist Andertol, your communication radio has been compromised by water damage.”

So now I'm stuck out here without oxygen, and I can't talk?

Neil tugged hard at a metal pole bolted to the ship. He flew toward Biggs, snagging a corner of his oxygen pack.

“Specialist Andertol, your helmet is now half-filled with water. You've only got two minutes, maximum, of oxygen in reserve.”

Neil turned to his friend and tried to communicate that his radio was broken. He kept pointing at his ears, making a slashing motion and an X with both forearms, but Biggs just didn't seem to get it.

Use The Universal Biggs Language!

What is The Universal Biggs Language?

Neil tried to imagine what would qualify as speech in his weird friend's head. He decided to make a gasping motion with his mouth, like a catfish. He flicked his tongue a lot, just to be dramatic.

“You okay, Neil?” said Biggs, gliding toward the problematic valve they were sent to fix.

Neil met eyes with Biggs, and his friend could instantly tell something was wrong.

“What's up, man? You okay?” Biggs asked.

Neil tried yelling, but Finch had disconnected his radio, just like what would happen in space. He knew he had to get himself out of the situation. There wasn't enough oxygen left for Neil to stay underwater while Biggs finished the mission, but he didn't know that. Neil had to let him know they needed to get back in the air lock immediately.

“Andertol, your suit is now rapidly filling up with water from your cooling unit,” Finch said over a speaker near Neil's head. “Your suit will be filled in less than forty-five seconds. What do you do?”

Neil threw caution to the wind and began trying to make hand movements that looked like horses or centaurs, or some other kind of mythical four-legged animal.

“Whoa! You in trouble, Neil?” Biggs yelled. He turned his attention from the bubbling valve outside of the fake Whiptail to his friend.

Neil made his mouth open wide, like a puffer fish suffocating onshore.

“You have a leak in your suit? Well, let's get back inside!” yelled Biggs, realizing the safety of his partner was more valuable than ship repairs. They floated back around the ship. Biggs ushered Neil into the ship's air lock, and Finch announced that the training was over.

Yellow-fin-wearing SCUBA divers, who had been overseeing the safety of the procedure, escorted Neil and Biggs to the water's surface.

“Well done, you two,” the commander said. He typed a few more keystrokes into his laptop computer and stood up as Neil and Biggs were helped out from the pool.

“A huge key to being an astronaut is always thinking. Always being ready,” Finch instructed, tapping a few buttons on his laptop. “And to—”

“Always ask questions,” Neil and Biggs said in unison.

“We know,” added Neil.

“Nicely done, Andertol,” said Finch, preparing the simulation for the next pair of gamers. “Can't say I've ever seen an EVA quite like that, but the point is you passed. With flying colors, might I add.”

Neil blushed. He felt ready. For what, he wasn't sure, but ready nonetheless.

“Dallas is still running simulations, so now's a good time for a nap. Go get some rest; we've got a planet to save.”

“See you up in the main SQUID, Neil. I'm beat.” Biggs walked off ahead, hoping to add the new gestures to The Universal Biggs Language before collapsing onto his bunk.

Neil nodded and confidently walked up to the central hub of the SQUID. But as he headed for the guys' bunks, he repeated what Finch just said.

What does he mean, “a planet to save”? Aren't we looking for a ship?

“EVERYONE UP! THIS IS NOT A DRILL!” CAME AN EXPLOSIVE
voice that echoed through every tentacle of the SQUID. It belonged to Dallas Bowdin, and it was interrupting some fantastic deep-sea shut-eye. Neil tried to wake up, but his eyes were stuck shut, refusing to open. Between eyelashes, he spied flashing blue emergency lights dotting the ceiling of the interior of the NASA complex. They pulsed on and off, twirling like tiny police sirens.

“What's going on?” asked a confused and groggy Biggs. “Aliens? Is it aliens?”

“Um, no. Not yet, at least.” Neil sat up in bed and rubbed his eyelids with clenched fists. His eyes stung looking at his watch, which read 03:51.

“You guys want some questions? I've got a few,” said a yawning Neil. “I'm beginning to question your guys' approach to a wake-up call. A fella needs time for a nice morning bag of dehydrated juice.”

“Hurry up. It's our missing ship, the
Newt
,” said Dallas from outside the room, heading to the center of the SQUID. Neil and Biggs scrambled to follow, with the others trailing behind. They had gotten into their bunks shortly after Neil and Biggs, and they wore the same exhausted expressions.

Dallas was waiting for the group with a few papers clutched in her hands. The fleet of NASA technicians bustled around her, heading to and from the
Ray
's air lock. Sam and Corinne appeared from the girls' barracks, wearing matching baggy gray NASA T-shirts.

“So no continental breakfast?” asked a cranky Neil of Dallas. The kitchen counter was empty, and his stomach grumbled. Even bad hotels offered a few free bagels in the morning.

“We'll get you a zero-gravity granola bar,” said Sam. “They found our ship.”

Neil's eyebrows arched in surprise, and he turned toward Dallas, his eyes finally adjusting to the crisp LED lighting.

“The
Newt
is hiding in a pile of floating junk. Whoever it is that hacked our whole system did the same to all our online satellites, and they figured they wouldn't be seen,” explained Dallas to her group of tired recruits.

“But they forgot about one, the Hubble. The space telescope had a camera installed years ago that transmitted photos back over a dedicated fax line.”

“What's a ‘fax'?” asked Biggs.

“It's a facsimile transmission device. Old-school. It's how we received this.” Dallas held up a piece of paper, which showed a blurry, pixelated patch of debris. “Right
there
is the
Newt
,” she said, pointing to a glob of black ink with the tip of a red pen. It barely looked like anything, let alone a top-of-the-line spacecraft. “Now it's time to go get it.”

“And save the planet?” asked Neil, recalling what Finch had told him. He remembered Sam's weird feeling about the mission. He was starting to get the same impression . . . something was wrong.

The Chief CAPCOM cocked her head curiously.

“Finch told me everything,” said Neil, making sure the rest of the group was out of earshot.

He was really getting the hang of the whole lying thing.

“I see,” Dallas said, her forehead wrinkling. “Well, Finch is putting the final touches on the mission, and he'll update you at the launch pad.”

“Plan 'Zee,” said Neil.

“Right. So you know the ultimate threat that Q-94 poses.”

“Yes. I do,” Neil said. Q-94 was the name of a local radio station playing hits from forgotten decades, but apparently it was also the name of a world-destroying threat.

“The Q-94 might be the most dangerous asteroid that's ever headed toward Earth, but we'll be with you the whole mission.”

Neil did a double take. Did Dallas just say
asteroid
?

Neil and his crew huddled together in a huge industrial elevator leading to the
Fossil
. Commander Finch stood in the center, a foot taller than the ragtag crew surrounding him.

People talked, but
asteroid
was the only word in Neil's head.

“As I assume Dallas briefed you all, we've found the orbital path of our missing ship, the
Newt
,” Finch said, clutching a clipboard in his hands. “Weather conditions are currently perfect for a launch, so the mission must start immediately.”

“What's going on, Commander?” asked Sam.

“With the intel from that photo, we've mapped the orbit of the ship. As of the last transmitted photograph, it hasn't moved, so we'll be able to send the
Fossil
on a course to intercept.”

“That's nice. But what's going on with Q-94?” Neil said bluntly. He couldn't help it.

Finch's face remained calm.

“I see Dallas has briefed you all,” the commander said.

“Something like that,” Neil replied.

“Well, it's best you all know anyways,” Finch started. “For a few years now, we've been following and tracking near-Earth objects massive enough to pose a threat to our planet. Our attention was drawn to an asteroid. Q-94. At its current velocity and angle, it is due to collide with Earth.”

Neil felt a little light-headed. The group was silent.

“We've been hoping that its collision course would alter, but it's headed directly for our planet. NASA has been preparing the fleet of Whiptails in case we need to face the worst. Fortunately we still have time. By our calculations, the asteroid will collide in two weeks. But the
Newt
is our last chance at stopping the asteroid before it gets too close. That's why it is so valuable to us.”

“Why doesn't everybody know about this?” asked a concerned JP. “This type of thing should be public knowledge.”

Neil agreed. Even if they couldn't stop it, people at least deserved to know there was precious little time to secure high scores in favorite games.

“By the way, great questions, everyone. I'm very proud,” Finch said, in a giddy, geeked-out way. “Yes, people should know, but it's a tricky balance. We always want to solve the problem without inciting panic. That's why getting the
Newt
back is our top priority.”

“We can do it, sir,” said Trevor, catching everyone a bit off guard. “You can count on us.”

Others nodded in support. While Neil was surprised to hear Trevor be so positive, he did agree wholeheartedly. If he and his friends were the only people able to get this ship back, well, then they had to. And if a kid like Trevor was being heroic, backing out would look pretty bad.

“Now if you'll bear with me, I'm going to dole out crew positions. I'd hoped to have more time to run simulations with all of you and not base your talents off a written exam, but it is what it is.” He scribbled a few more words down on the clipboard in his hands.

“Payload specialists will be Waffles and Dale. Guys, you'll be in charge of the auxiliary features of the ship, like the pulse cannon to disable the
Newt
. And anything that blows up.”

“Awesome,” said the twin brothers in unison.

Finch read on, his voice exuberantly bouncing up and down in pitch. Neil thought he sounded like his dad before a days-long camping adventure. They seemed to share the same zest for trips to locations without running water.

“Medical specialists are Sam and . . . well, Sam, you'll be alone. Your scores were off the charts. JP, you'll be in charge of radar. Most of our electronics have a few lingering bugs from whatever the space thieves have done, but it should work.”

Finch kept reading the list of new positions.

“On consumables will be Riley and Corinne. There should be enough dehydrated food for two weeks on board, so food shouldn't be an issue. Plus the ship's made to launch carrying enough bananas for twelve chimpanzees, so you'll be loaded up.

“Hurbigg, you'll be our communications specialist. You'll be the point of contact with the mission CAPCOM, Dallas.”

Neil couldn't help but feel that putting Biggs in charge of communication was dangerous. At the very least, he would set a record for the most times
dude
was said over official NASA airwaves.

“Now for pilots and deputy pilots,” Finch said as Neil's heart began to thump. “Jason 1 and Jason 2, from what Dallas has told me about your simulation, you'll be my deputies. We'll need both of you ready to fly back in our stolen bird.”

The two high-fived gloved hands.

“And at the top of the chain of command will be Andertol and Grunsten,” Finch explained. “They'll report to me, and all of you will report to them.”

Neil wished he had enough time to explain to Finch how awful an idea giving Trevor power would be, and how he'd probably make everyone watch him do fencing exercises. But the commander was all business, and he didn't allow for a word edgewise.

“Your next-generation Whiptail, like I said, should be bug-free,” Finch said. “Since I won't be in the ship with you, I'll need to be alerted of any issues. We've got one shot. One shot to make it count. Let's make it successful.”

Neil felt the seriousness of the moment. It was like a hot wave quickly washing over him. The subtle whirring of the elevator heaving them upward was still constant.

“So if you're not coming with us, who is commander? What are we supposed to do?” asked Trevor, his voice sharp and demanding. Neil could sense Trevor was vying to be selected.

“I'm no longer cleared for flight. During a space walk a few years ago, I had to save a satellite from drifting into orbit. Held on to the shuttle with my left hand and grabbed the thing with my free hand,” Finch said, demonstrating with an intense clenched fist. “Tore basically everything in my right shoulder. Now my body can't withstand the g forces associated with space travel. Plus I can't fit in that spaceship; I'll feel like I'm in a dollhouse.”

Finch took two steps toward the lift's doors, spinning to face all eleven gamers-turned-Air-Force-pilots-turned-astronauts. He placed a hand on Neil's shoulder.

“But, Andertol, I believe you've got what it takes to lead this crew,” Finch said confidently.

Neil could feel sweat building on his palms as his throat slowly began to close.

“From what I've seen, and what Jones has told me, you're the person for the job,” Finch said to Neil before pivoting his head to the group. “You know, at first I didn't know if this would work, but I've got faith in you. In all of you.”

“Hail Lord Commander Andertol!” shouted Riley. “May he be a fair and wise dictator! A friend to man and beast, particularly hogs and their overseers!”

“Well, I don't know about that part, but sounds good to me,” said Sam. “Just know we're counting on you, ManofNeil.”

This seemed to be the final opportunity to come clean, to let Finch and the group know how Neil had stretched the truth. How he had a maximum of forty minutes logged in Shuttle Fury, which included bathroom breaks.

“If I had any doubt in Neil, the mission wouldn't happen,” eased Finch. “Now, we've got minutes until takeoff. We'll be in constant radio contact. I'll be with you the whole way, as well as the astronaut flying with you in the middeck.”

“An astronaut? I thought you said nobody could fit in the
Fossil
?” asked a befuddled Neil.

“Correct, but there's a retired Russian cosmonaut we're bringing in to fly with you. He'll handle the technical aspects of flight. He's trained for monitoring pressurization and fuel levels,” said Finch as the hulking elevator came to a stop. The doors opened to a cream-colored spaceship.

Waiting for them on the bridge was a chimpanzee in a green-and-white jumpsuit, his name stitched onto it in bright-red cursive lettering. He had a wrinkled, agitated face complete with a small scar on his left cheek. Gray hair framed his face. He looked at Neil and the others and spit on the metal floor of the walkway.

“Recruits, meet Boris.”