Space Taxi--Aliens on Earth Read online

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Wendy Mass and Michael Brawer

  Illustrations by Keith Frawley, based on the art of Elise Gravel

  Author illustration © 2015 by Elise Gravel

  Cover art by Keith Frawley. Cover design by Kristina Iulo.

  Cover copyright © 2017 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Little, Brown and Company

  Hachette Book Group

  1290 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10104

  Visit us at lb-kids.com

  First Edition: May 2017

  Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Mass, Wendy, 1967– author. | Brawer, Michael, author. | Frawley, Keith, illustrator.

  Title: Aliens on Earth / by Wendy Mass and Michael Brawer ; illustrated by Keith Frawley, based on the art of Elise Gravel.

  Description: First edition. | New York ; Boston : Little, Brown and Company, 2017. | Series: Space taxi ; 6 | Summary: “When the space taxi navigation systems go down, stranding dozens of aliens on Earth, eight-year-old Intergalactic Security Force deputy Archie needs to think quickly to keep them hidden from his unsuspecting neighbors!”—Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016031989| ISBN 9780316308427 (hardback) | ISBN 9780316308465 (trade pbk.) | ISBN 9780316308434 (ebk.)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Interplanetary voyages—Fiction. | Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. | Fathers and sons—Fiction. | Science fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Science Fiction. | JUVENILE FICTION / Science & Technology. | JUVENILE FICTION / Action & Adventure / General. | JUVENILE FICTION / Animals / Cats.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.M42355 Ali 2017 | DDC [Fic]—dc23LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016031989

  ISBNs: 978-0-316-30842-7 (hardcover), 978-0-316-30846-5 (pbk.), 978-0-316-30843-4 (ebook)

  E3-20170418-JV-PC

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Chapter One:

  The Furry Alien

  Chapter Two:

  Trapped on Earth

  Chapter Three:

  Aliens on Parade

  Chapter Four:

  Gone Missing

  Chapter Five:

  A Clue!

  Chapter Six:

  Cracking the Code

  Chapter Seven:

  Secrets and Sisters

  Chapter Eight:

  B.U.R.P. Underground

  Chapter Nine:

  Hello and Good-bye

  Three Science Facts to Impress Your Friends and Teachers

  About the Authors

  To all the Space Taxi readers/passengers

  who’ve come along for the ride,

  this one’s for you!

  —WM and MB

  For Shay and Josh.

  —KF

  Chapter One:

  The Furry Alien

  One of my favorite parts of being Dad’s space taxi copilot is the moment a new alien climbs into the backseat. Sometimes they jump, hop, slither, or roll in, too! That’s the thing about aliens—you never know who you’re going to get!

  Usually the customer meets us at Barney’s Bagels and Schmear, but today we’re picking up an alien with the strangest name of any I’ve met so far. I couldn’t believe it when Minerva sent Dad the assignment. His name is—wait for it—Toe Fungus.

  Toe. Fungus.

  I am not kidding. That is his real name. We’re taking him back to his home, a small planet in the Sombrero Galaxy.

  A thrill buzzes through me when Dad parks at the pickup location, a large warehouse by the river. This is the first time I’ve been to this part of town. The riverfront is full of old couches with torn cushions, a broken-down bumper car from an amusement park, and rubber tires laid out in a pattern perfect for jumping from one to the next. Dad has to pull me away from those. Mom says the riverfront is “no place for a child,” but I think it’s exactly the place for a child. This place rocks!

  We knock on the dented metal door of the warehouse. While we’re waiting, I say, “I bet this Toe Fungus guy is really hairy and smells like freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.” I pause, then add, “And I bet he sings instead of talks.”

  Dad chuckles. “No way. He’s probably two feet tall, with scales instead of skin. And really wonky toes, of course.”

  “Of course,” I reply.

  “But he doesn’t sing,” Dad says, knocking again. “He can only make clicking sounds with his tongue.”

  I grin. This is a fun game. We can call it Guess That Alien! Although I’m pretty sure my guess will be right.

  The door opens an inch. A black-gloved hand shoots out, palm open.

  Dad pulls out his space taxi driver ID card and hands it over. He is used to this. Aliens can’t just go with anyone who rings their bell. What if that person was just selling Girl Scout cookies or stopping to ask directions and then an alien suddenly opened the door? 99.99 percent of people on Earth don’t know there is life on other planets; Dad says that one day humans will be ready for it, but not yet. That’s why alien visitors usually have their business meetings in out-of-the-way places like this.

  The arm disappears from view, and a few seconds later the door swings open. It is very dark inside the warehouse, so we hear the alien before we see him. And he’s singing a rap song!

  “Welcome, driver of the sky, how nice of you to come on by!”

  The alien steps out of the doorway and into the sunlight, a briefcase in his no-longer-gloved hand. The distinct odor of chocolate wafts out with him.

  Dad turns toward me, his hands on his hips. “Archie Morningstar, you cheated!”

  I laugh. “Maybe it was a lucky guess!” But truthfully, Pockets looked up his species for me before Dad and I left the apartment this morning, which is why I knew so much about him. Pockets was going to come with us, but he had some last-minute police business to take care of and closed himself in his office (otherwise known as my closet!) instead. When you’re a highly decorated officer with the Intergalactic Security Force, your work always comes before a routine taxi run.

  Besides singing and smelling like cookies, the alien is in fact covered completely in thick, brown, fur-like hair. Dad was right about the toes, though. Big and green—definitely wonky. And his height—he only comes up to my hip. Basically, he looks like a big stuffed animal.

  After one last race through the obstacle course of tires (which Toe Fungus does with me!) we drive down to the airfield. We are eighth in line for takeoff.

  “Why is the airfield so crowded today?” I ask, unrolling the space map that helps me navigate our trips.

  Dad finishes his pre-flight checklist and says, “Actually, we have Pockets to thank for that. Now that everyone
can use Camo-It-Now to disguise their Space Taxis, more drivers have been stopping here to refuel.”

  Minerva buzzes onto the line. “Good morning, Morningstars!” she says cheerily.

  From the backseat, Toe Fungus sings out, “Good morning to you! The sky is so blue!”

  Minerva gives a hesitant squeak like she’s not sure what to make of our singing passenger. “Um, it certainly is?” she says. “Busy day today, so—” Her voice cuts off.

  “Minerva?” Dad asks.

  After a few seconds of silence, she comes back on. “Stand by for a public announcement.”

  Dad throws me a worried glance and flips the com line to PUBLIC.

  Toe Fungus begins to hum. The tune is catchy and I find myself humming along. But Dad’s increasingly worried expression stops me. “Is everything okay?” No one has moved forward in the line. “Why isn’t anyone taking off?”

  The com line crackles and Dad says, “I think we’re about to find out.”

  Chapter Two:

  Trapped on Earth

  “Attention all space taxi drivers and co-pilots.” It’s Minerva again, but she sounds very stern and her voice isn’t nearly as squeaky as usual. “The entire fleet is grounded until further notice. A giant solar flare is heading toward Earth. It will reach us in six minutes, affecting all the satellites in Earth’s orbit, and disrupting electronic devices of human and alien origin, including your taxi navigation systems and communication between the taxis and Home Base.”

  Dad and I look at each other in alarm.

  Minerva continues. “Buses will arrive in two minutes to take all the passengers to Barney’s. Barney is currently clearing out all the human customers. You will wait there for further instructions.”

  Toe Fungus finally stops humming.

  “Please remain calm,” Minerva says. “Once the solar storm passes, we’ll get everyone back into space.”

  “I’m sure it will pass in a few hours,” Dad assures Toe. “We’ll get you on your way home very soon.”

  “What’s a solar flare?” I ask Dad. “Does that mean the sun is in trouble?”

  He shakes his head. “Picture the hot gases from the sun rising up like a tornado and shooting out into space.”

  My eyes widen.

  “Don’t worry, it’s not as scary as it sounds. This one is just a little stronger than most.”

  One of the other taxi drivers buzzes in. It’s Simon, an old buddy of Dad’s. “How long do you expect us to be stuck on the ground?” he asks Minerva. “I’ve got an anti-ox in here. She was only supposed to be on Earth an hour.”

  Minerva doesn’t answer right away.

  “What’s an anti-ox?” I whisper to Dad.

  “It’s what we call any species who can’t breathe the oxygen in our air. They’re allergic to it, so they don’t usually come to Earth. Must have been on a short layover.”

  Minerva finally answers. “The Intergalactic Weather Station estimates at least a day or two for our equipment to recover. Until then, all the extra solar energy will make our readings inaccurate. You could aim for the Delta Quadrant and wind up in the Horsehead Nebula.”

  At that news I could hear groans coming from each com line. I glance behind me to see a long yellow bus pull into the airfield. It pulls up next to the line of taxis.

  “Once again, stay calm and await further news at Barney’s. Do not let your passengers be seen by earthlings.”

  A lot more grumbling follows, but one by one the drivers start moving their taxis off the runway. I hear a few complain about losing their place in line.

  “I need to send word to Pockets,” Dad says, parking and pulling out his phone. “He needs to know that he’ll be cut off from Friskopolus and the rest of the ISF.”

  But before he can dial, the phone rings and Pockets’ voice fills the car. “Good, I caught you. Solar storm headed this way. A big one. Meet me at Barney’s.” He hangs up, then calls right back. “Order me a tuna sandwich if you get there first.” Then he hangs up again.

  “Well,” Dad says, slipping his soon-to-be-useless phone into his pocket, “guess I don’t need to call him after all.”

  I watch out the window as aliens and their drivers stream from the taxis and climb onto the bus with an assortment of suitcases and bags. Many just have briefcases or handbags. They must have only been planning a day trip on Earth. I grab my space map and the lunch Mom packed us and we join the crowd. “This will be fun,” Toe sings as we escort him to the bus. “Our adventure’s just begun!”

  The bus ride to Barney’s is insane. Between my visits to Akbar’s Floating Rest Stop and our ISF missions, I’ve seen a lot of different aliens. But never this many different kinds in this small a space. It’s not working out so well.

  “Get your giant foot off my ear!” a slugbot in the third row warns a uni-pod. “Or I’ll slime you so bad you’ll be pulling goop out of your ear for a year.”

  The uni-pod tries to hop down the aisle away from the slugbot, but he gets wedged between two morphdoodles whose heads grow and shrink each time the bus hits a pothole.

  It’s also very loud, as everyone wants to use these last few seconds to tell whoever is waiting for them that they’ll be late. I try not to stare at one alien who’s having a very heated discussion with his thumb. There must be some kind of communication device hidden in there, but I can’t see it from where I’m sitting, squished between Dad and Toe and Toe’s suitcase.

  Two rows in front of me I can see the top of what looks like a plastic blue bubble. When I peek over I’m surprised to see that inside that bubble is a girl sitting cross-legged, reading a book!

  Now that’s a new one for me! Other than the bubble—and if you overlook the pointy ears and two extra fingers—she looks like she could be a regular human girl.

  “Do you need to call anyone, Toe?” Dad asks while also giving me a look that clearly says, It’s not polite to stare. I sit back down in my seat.

  Toe shakes his head. His fur gets in my mouth and I have to spit out a clump. (This is not as gross as it sounds. I’m used to it, since Pockets still sheds a lot.)

  Then, suddenly, the bus goes quiet. Time’s up and all the devices have cut out! I thought I’d feel something when the solar flare hit, like a wave of heat or a burst of light, but I don’t feel anything. Some of the aliens shudder, and one of them burps and doesn’t say “excuse me.”

  Then the eating begins. Maybe without the electronics to keep them busy, they realized they were hungry. Or maybe they’re just eating to pass the time. Some of the food smells sweet and fruity, but the stuff that smells like raw fish (and probably is raw fish) overwhelms the rest and I try not to gag. It’s almost worse than the slog-eating contest we went to on Akbar’s.

  We finally get to Barney’s, and everyone climbs over each other to get out. The taxi drivers try to keep order, but it’s impossible. The three of us wait until everyone else pushes by before we even try to stand up.

  The bus is a mess. Half-eaten globs of goop drip from the seats, and something that looks like thick spaghetti dangles from the ceiling. The cushion on the seat across from us is all sliced up, compliments of the porcupine-like alien who was unable to keep his spiky legs still enough.

  The bus driver—a burly man with a mustache—stands and turns around. Since he works for the space taxi company, he clearly knows aliens exist. But his eyes widen and his face begins to turn purple as he takes in the condition of his bus. Dad, Toe, and I hurry past him, not wanting to be anywhere nearby when he sees the puddle on the floor of the back row. I don’t even want to KNOW what that is!

  The chaos continues inside the restaurant. It takes a lot to get Barney worked up, but right now he’s shouting at the slugbot to stop leaving a trail of slime over the sandwiches he’s laid out on the front counter.

  Aliens and luggage are strewn across the room. A few aliens have spread out blankets and, unbelievably, are trying to nap! Two thin, pink alien women are fighting over the last pack of ketchup
for their French fries.

  I spot the bubble alien sitting alone in a corner, hugging her knees and looking around with wide eyes. She’s younger than I thought, probably around my age. It’s hard to tell with aliens, though. They may be a hundred years old but just grow slowly. This girl could be old enough to be my great-great-great-grandmother!

  I’m about to go over and tell her she doesn’t have to be scared, but then Simon, Dad’s taxi driver friend, moves to stand in front of her and protect her from all the activity. Seeing Simon makes me realize that the girl is the anti-ox! The bubble must be keeping the air away from her.

  We don’t see Pockets anywhere, so Dad goes up to the counter to order a sandwich for him before the restaurant runs out of tuna and Pockets loses his mind.

  “So…” I say to Toe, who is doing his best to stay out of the way of the other aliens, too. “What brought you to Earth?” I have to nearly shout to be heard.

  “Back on Crollis 9 I’m studying to teach,” he sings. “Math and science and mostly speech. Got a one-month gig at a school on Earth where I thought they’d find me weird or scary, but they thought I was just a kid who’s really hairy!”

  I peer at him up close. It’s hard to believe any kid would think he was human, but judging from how Penny treats Pockets, little kids see what they want to see. What I see is a cool, furry, singing alien who makes me smile.

  Dad joins us, tuna sandwich in hand. “Pockets show up yet?”

  As though he’s heard his name (which he may have—he has excellent hearing), Pockets bursts through the door. His fur is wild and windblown, and I’m sure he raced all the way here. He stares at the scene around him and puts his paw in his mouth. A sharp whistle pierces the air. Everyone stops their eating/playing/sleeping/arguing and turns to look.

  Holding his badge high over his head, Pockets announces, “As the only agent of the ISF currently on Earth, I am in charge of this sensitive situation.”

  But the aliens aren’t ready to let Pockets talk. “I really need to get back to Yargon Prime,” the uni-pod calls out. “I have an important business meeting tomorrow.”