2015 Young Explorer's Adventure Guide Read online

  Whistler walked right past her, waving its claws and hooting happily.

  “Whistler, wait!”

  The Mantiks turned. They moved to surround Whistler, then one stepped forward and knocked the big alien to the ground. Kaela barely had time to scream a warning before they were all on Whistler, smashing and tearing at its shell.

  “Stop! Go away!” Kaela shouted, but the Mantiks ignored her this time.

  She stooped to grab a stone, then ran forward to help her friend. She hit the nearest Mantik. The alien turned, knocked the rock from her hands and scooped her up.

  Kaela kicked and punched at the Mantik but couldn’t break free. As the alien carried her away, she looked back to see Whistler disappear under a swarm of Mantiks. There was one last whistle, then silence.

  Kaela went limp in the Mantik’s grasp, feeling like someone had emptied her out.

  The alien carried her through the castle, but Kaela couldn’t seem to focus. Even when it set her down on a soft pillow, she lay still, too sad and angry to think.

  Welcome, Human. The voice echoed in Kaela’s thoughts. She felt light and warm, like she was about to fall asleep.

  Kaela sat up. The room looked like a greenhouse, with panes of clear crystal suspended in a rocky frame. There were piles of pillows on the floor and soft drapes hung from the ceiling.

  An alien sat across from her. It was smaller than Kaela, with arms and legs as thin as twigs and large eyes that broke the light into rainbows. Its body seemed to be made of frosted glass and looked so delicate Kaela thought it might crack every time the alien moved. In its hand was a globe of blue crystal.

  “Did the Mantiks trap you here, too?” she asked.

  I am a Mantik. The blue crystal glowed as the Mantik talked. Kaela knew the alien wasn’t speaking her language, but the words in her head made sense. You asked the children to bring you to me.

  “Children?”

  Yes. As the alien spoke, images of the Mantiks from the ship filled Kaela’s mind, but instead of the scary mantis creatures, she saw them as young explorers. It seemed strange, until she realized she was seeing them from the alien’s perspective.

  “How?”

  The translator. It held up the blue globe, and Kaela realized it was translating more than just the alien’s words.

  Your child wished for us to speak. An image of Kaela’s father appeared in her mind, and she snorted.

  “That’s my dad.”

  But he is larger than you. Kaela saw images of the big Mantiks cracking open like cocoons and the tiny adult ones crawling out.

  “Humans start out small then get big.”

  We have made a terrible mistake.

  Kaela could feel the alien’s confusion and sorrow but didn’t care. She crossed her arms, anger over Whistler breaking through the warm, fuzzy feeling the translator was projecting. The Mantiks had made more than one mistake.

  “Your children killed my friend.”

  Whistler.

  “How did you—?”

  Like you understand me, I understand you. The alien raised the translator globe. Your friend is not dead.

  There was a scuffling noise behind Kaela, and she turned to see one of the bigger Mantiks in the doorway. It was shinier than the others, the edges of its shell less worn. It regarded her for a moment then cocked its head.

  “Whistler!” She was up and across the room in a heartbeat, hugging the Mantik. After a moment, it hugged her back.

  “Why is Whistler so quiet?” Kaela asked.

  As babies we listen, as children we watch, only as adults do we speak. We come from the stone, and like the stone we wear away. Kaela saw images of boulder crabs—baby Mantiks—hatching from rocks then wandering the woods until they cracked open and became children. They went out to see the universe before returning home to become adults—old and wise, but too fragile to move. Each was hidden within the one before like so many nesting dolls.

  You taught Whistler much. Kaela felt the alien’s gratitude as well as sadness for all the trouble they’d caused her. You will be returned to your people, with our apologies and a gift.

  “Gift?”

  Your father wished to trade. We cannot do this—your people are not ready yet. But we will allow you to choose one thing to take back with you.

  “I want Whistler.”

  The alien made a soft hissing noise, which Kaela realized was laughter. The universe is open; Whistler can go anywhere. Although we do not look in on other races unless we’re invited.

  Kaela looked up at Whistler. “Will you come visit me?”

  Whistler cocked its head then patted Kaela on the shoulder.

  Kaela chewed her lip. There was so much to pick from. With the Mantik’s weapons, Earth could defeat the Vex. Once, paying the Vex back for her mom would’ve seemed right to Kaela, but now all she could think about was how many Vex kids might lose their mothers to Human bombs. She didn’t want anyone, Human or Vex, to have to go through that.

  With Mantik engines, Human ships could travel anywhere in the blink of an eye. There were so many places to explore, so many other aliens to meet. They might not all be friendly, though, or might be so different that Humans couldn’t talk to them. She didn’t want any more misunderstandings. All that Kaela had been through had happened because the Mantiks and Humans didn’t understand each other.

  Kaela smiled. She knew what she wanted.

  “The translator.”

  The Mantik paused, and Kaela knew the translator was explaining her reasons—Earth didn’t need more weapons or ships or engines. It needed a way to understand and to be understood.

  That is a wise choice, Kaela. Are you sure you aren’t an adult?

  They both laughed.

  The Mantik handed her the globe.

  “Thank you.” Kaela stood and gave the bow she’d practiced with her father.

  Whistler will carry you back to the ship. The journey should be much quicker this time.

  “That’s something I’ve been wondering,” Kaela said as Whistler picked her up. “If you live here, why do your ships land so far away?”

  The Mantik gave a little hissing chuckle. We don’t want to disturb the babies, of course.

  Whistler carried Kaela from the castle and down the mountain. She couldn’t help but think of how far she’d come in the past few days. Kaela wondered if her father and Captain Lee would be mad she hadn’t picked a laser or an engine. After thinking about it for a bit, she decided it didn’t matter.

  She held the translator tight and smiled. Whatever happened, she knew they would understand her.

  The Rocket Maker

  Mike Barretta

  Mike Barretta is a retired U.S. Naval Aviator who currently works for a defense contractor as a pilot. He holds a Master’s degree in Strategic Planning and International Negotiation from the Naval Post-Graduate School and a Master’s in English from the University of West Florida. His wife, Mary, to whom he has been married to for 23 years, is living proof that he is not such a bad guy once you get to know him. His stories have appeared in Baen’s Universe, Redstone, New Scientist, Orson Scott Card’s Intergalactic Medicine Show and various anthologies.

  We’ve chosen to end our anthology with a slightly different story. In the following piece, Mike Barretta reminds us that sometimes the heroes are the people who believe in us and make our adventures possible.

  Miguel Cervantes leaned his broom against the chain link fence. He grasped the fence as high as he could reach and stretched his aching back. His left shoulder was higher than his right, his right hip higher than his left. His back described a gentle S-curve that in some circumstances could be considered elegant. Instead, it was a birthright into constant pain. If he had been born in a richer or smarter country, he could have been fixed. In Haduras it was not possible.

  He walked back to the broom and swept, wincing with each careful step and sweep. The airport paid him to keep the fence line clean. He collected great drifts of paper food wrapper
s, cigarette butts, and newspapers. Anything thrown from a car window accumulated along the fence that separated the road from San Paulo International Airport. The airport had two permanent residents, an ancient DC-3, stripped of its engines and a slightly less ancient Boeing 767 that comprised the entire state-run airline.

  The sky moved and the tropical sun vanished behind a thunderhead. A storm front breeze washed over him like hot breath. Miguel mopped his brow with a red bandanna and returned it to his back pocket. He turned his face skyward and caught a few raindrops on his face. It felt good for now, but soon it would turn into a drowning afternoon torrent. A crack of thunder split the sky, and Miguel turned to look so he could decide the best direction to seek shelter.

  The clouds brightened from within. Some inner incandescence burned as if the occluded sun was falling to earth. A fiery orange and red glow suffused and spread within the humid hovering mass. The thunder did not stop. It changed into a continuous rolling roar, a guttural fury that shook Miguel’s bones. The roar increased in pitch and turned into a pointed shriek. Miguel clapped his hands over his ears.

  “Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros pecadores,” said Miguel. He dropped to his knees and watched the sky, alert for his grandmother’s second coming.

  A lance of white fire stabbed from the cloud base and a silver needle descended. He knew what it was. The machine fell like an angel suspended on a pillar of light. Spindly legs extruded from stubby fins as it slowed its descent. The engines roared louder and puddles from the earlier rain shower flashed into steam and roiled away in billowing white clouds. A hot wave of air washed over him and scattered his piles out into the road. He shielded his eyes with his hands, peering between his fingers. The silver ship touched down. Springs compressed with a springy groan as the rocket felt its weight again. The ship settled, its round landing feet splayed and sunken into molten tarmac. Its engine bells trembled with immense powers. Itinerant weeds burst into flame and blew away in gobs of gray smoke. The beautiful ship, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen straddled the blasted and glassy ground. The engines roared over his pounding heart. His eyes captured the magnificent sight of it all. He could smell the acrid tang of hot metal and feel the moist heat prickling his skin. The engine guttered out and the world stood still.

  Bacigalupi, the capital city, enjoyed a brief moment of silence after the upset and then started again as if nothing extraordinary had happened. He heard sirens and saw the presidential limousine barreling down the road towards him. Motorcycle riders flanked the big black SUV. He pressed himself against the fence and they roared past. The windows were tinted a deep black so it was impossible to see who was within, but it had to be El Presidente rushing to greet the astronauts or perhaps to take them hostage depending upon his mood. A pickup truck followed, its bed crammed with police officers in shabby sweat-stained uniforms and assault rifles. They hooted like school children and banged on the roof of the truck exhorting the driver to catch up to El Presidente. A beer bottle flew from the truck, missed Miguel, and shattered on the road. They were gone and he turned back to the rocket.

  The rocket ticked and pinged with the music of cooling metals. Miguel knew what he must do. Twisted spine or not, he would fly. It was his destiny and even as garbage from others richer than he swirled around his feet he knew it did not matter. He would ascend the mounting sky on a pillar of fire and gaze upon unfiltered starlight.

  He leaned into the broom pressing the straw into the dirty ground to finish sweeping the road.

  …………………………

  He walked home in a wondrous daze, thinking about the rocket.

  “Monstruo! Monstruo!”

  He turned and saw three children from the village.

  “Monstruo!” they shouted and ran away. They knew he could never catch them, and even if he did what would he do with them?

  As Miguel lay in bed, night drifted in the window and wrapped around him. Raindrops pattered on broad tropical leaves and sang on the rusted tin roof of his home. He rolled over trying to get comfortable, but his twisted spine would not let him. Nightsong colored the dark and he knew the bird. He had seen it once with his grandfather. It was an omen, a phoenix. The birds were so rare as to be considered nonexistent or even mythical, but he knew they were not. They were not the burst-into-fire kind, but they were equally fabulous. Miguel’s memory of the sighting was undulled by time.

  The bird sang its song and he fell asleep to music that rich men would spend fortunes to hear. Miguel dreamed of his own phoenix, sleek and silver, exploding from a nest of fire into the infinite sky.

  Without weight he would float free from gravity’s pain.

  …………………………

  Miguel finished sweeping the court’s steps. He packed his cleaning supplies and walked to the national library. The library held little interest to El Presidente so it was always short of funds and located in an industrial district. He limped past boxes of books soaking in the humidity. A blast of unexpected cool air wrapped around him as he left the light and entered the relative gloom of the library. Books were stacked here and there, in no particular order, under scattered fly-specked industrial lights. A little old lady with thick glasses approached him.

  “Buenos dias,” said Miguel.

  “Eh,” she muttered.

  “I am looking for books on rockets.”

  “Cohetes, cohetes, cojones, eh, come this way.” She cackled at her obscenity.

  He followed her down twisting turns. The library was a labyrinth, a maze of books donated from other countries and indifferently cared for. She stopped and scratched her whiskered chin

  “No, no, this way.”

  She backtracked a bit and after a few moments touched a cardboard box on an industrial pallet. A hand-lettered sign on the side of the box proclaimed “Espacio.”

  She left him.

  Miguel approached the box and saw it was half filled. Overhead, an industrial light gleamed like a star upon heaps of Amazing Science magazines with outrageous covers and pulpy, yellowed paperbacks without covers. He reached inside but could not touch any books. His back would not let him bend over. He dragged over a box to stand on, but still he could not reach. He looked around and saw he was alone. He took out his pocket knife and cut a door into the box. He opened the door, climbed in and sat inside the box labeled “Espacio” and thought it marvelously prescient. Dust motes swirled and spun above his head like galaxies. He sorted and shifted not finding anything pertaining to the construction of rockets, but he read nonetheless lost in the wonder-filled articles. He dug deeper becoming increasingly dismayed and then he found it: Visions of the Future. The book had a sticker on it that said “discount” and as he perused through the fantastic pictures within he wondered how something so fabulous could be discounted. Space shuttles plied the stars. Great cities orbited the earth. Men floated free in bubbles of air. Mars beckoned. Were dreams so cheap in the north that they could be discounted?

  The book did not tell him how to build a spaceship, it told him why. It was good enough. He took the book to the front counter to check it out. The old lady was gone replaced by an equally old man.

  “Bah, you may have it.”

  “Gracias.”

  “Useless,” offered the old man.

  Miguel knew better.

  …………………………

  A horde of wood, pipe, sheet metal, angle iron and other miscellanea, taken from structures that his grandfather had disassembled for money, sheltered under scavenged tin roofs. Nothing was thrown out. Ever. Only the rich could look at something and say it had no value. What Miguel’s grandfather had not devoted to plantain and banana he used for storage for his horde. Everything was useful sooner or later.

  “Fools,” he remembered his grandfather saying. “They pay me money to take useful things away.”

  Miguel remembered toddling along after his grandfather. His grandfather always made him walk except when he couldn’t. The ol
d man always understood the limits of Miguel’s endurance, and then he would pick him up and say, “Mi amor, I will carry you now.”

  Miguel had gone to school for all of three days. So brutal was the taunting that his grandfather withdrew Miguel and taught him himself. Old and poor did not mean stupid. More often than not it meant clever and honest.

  Miguel’s mother died in childbirth. His twisted back would not come from her womb easily and she had bled before a doctor could get to her. His father tried to love him, but turned to drink and vanished into the city never to be seen again. Miguel’s grandmother waved her hands in strange patterns to ward off misfortune and evil when he entered the room. Once, she cursed Miguel openly, and her husband slapped her to the ground. From that day on she only cursed him with her eyes.

  Miguel was as loyal as any grandson could be. When his grandmother died, Miguel wept for his grandfather’s sake. When his grandfather died Miguel wept from the depths of his heart. He inherited the small farm and a modest amount of money.

  Miguel sat straddling the great beam salvaged from who knows where and began to hew it into the shape he desired. It took him all day to carve and shape the first piece of his rocket, and he was happier than he had been in a long time. As the sun set, Miguel ate a meager dinner of rice and beans. He fell asleep in his chair and dreamed of soaring. His feet slipped from the earth and he careened across the sky wrapped in silver and trailing fire.

  Outside his window a phoenix roosted in the tree communing with Miguel’s dreams. It regarded him solemnly and then began its soft nightsong considerate of the dreaming man.

  …………………………

  The children came. They lingered at the edge of his property testing their bravery. They watched the rocket’s skeleton rise from the ground. They were not rich enough to go to school, and something strange was going on. Typically, they would yell Monstruo! Monstruo! And then run away shrieking and laughing, but today something irresistibly different was happening. They stayed. Miguel gestured and the littlest one approached cautiously. Two or three others followed. Then more till they surrounded him.