

### Hallowed Be Thy Name

Book Two of THE GO-KIDS

by

Ryan Schneider
Copyright © 2010 Ryan Schneider

All Rights Reserved

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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First Edition

Also By Ryan Schneider

The Pillow Book

A Shadow Passed Over the Son

Book One of THE GO-KIDS
Chapter 1

A Single Prayer

Back in the chaos and noise of Sky City Hobbies and Toys, Sunny and Bubba turned and looked at one another, their mouths still agape.

"What just happened?" shouted Sunny.

"Some guys just stole Parker," shouted Bubba.

"Wait 'til they hear from my lawyer!" shouted Colby.

Sunny and Bubba exchanged a look: Colby had clearly missed the point.

Colby's dad and Mr. Alvin shouted and called each other names, spittle flying from their wet, shiny lips. The people in the front of the line yelled and waved their arms, commiserating with the people behind them and fighting to get Mr. Alvin's attention.

"Come on!" said Sunny, and she ran for the warehouse door. Bubba ran after her.

Colby watched them go. "Hey! Wait for me!" He ran for the door.

"Bye, Colbeeeee . . . ."

Colby stopped as he reached the door. He looked back and saw his mom still sitting behind the big cardboard cut-out. She waved, smiling proudly at him. He shoved the door open and ran through the warehouse, packed with tall shelves full of toys and games and hobby supplies.

He ran to the back of the warehouse. A big sign suspended from the rafters by chains read Shipping & Receiving. Black and yellow-striped forklifts were lined up along the back wall, all plugged-in to their recharging stations like giant sleeping wasps. Sunny and Bubba exited through a side door and Colby sprinted after them. The door read Freight Elevator.

On the other side stretched a wide, vast hallway. Tire marks left by busy forklifts covered the cement floor. Along one wall lurked a series of metal roll-up doors, the receiving docks for stores on this side of the mall. Colby ran hard and caught up to Sunny and Bubba halfway down the corridor.

"Where're you guys going?" he panted as he ran along side them.

"They went through there," said Bubba. He pointed ahead. Far away, at the other end of the long corridor, loomed another massive roll-up door. Next to it was a regular sized man-door. Sunny, Bubba, and Colby ran for it. Bubba began to fall behind.

"Our father . . . who art in heaven . . ." he yelled, ". . . hallowed be thy name!"

"Are you praying for Parker?" Sunny called over her shoulder.

"I'm praying not to puke!" Bubba yelled.

Sunny and Colby reached the door, turned the handle and yanked it open. Bubba came pounding up behind them.

Inside was a second corridor. Instead of roll-up doors, it held great freight elevators, a dozen or more. Each freight elevator was a massive square platform surrounded on four sides by shiny aluminum fences, the front and back of which was built to slide up, allowing access to the enormous platform inside; load from one side, unload from the other; another lesson in efficiency learned from Sky City South. The closest elevator was descending, its overhead machinery and pulleys and flywheels spun and hummed and whirred loudly.

"Now what?" shouted Bubba.

"We have to follow," said Sunny.

"What?" said Bubba.

"Follow!" repeated Sunny.

"How do we know they're in there?" said Bubba.

"There aren't any other exits, stupid," said Colby.

"Who invited you, anyway?" said Bubba.

"I invited myself, fat boy. Nobody steals my thunder."

"Thunder?" said Bubba. "It ain't raining, you moron."

"Excuse me," shouted Sunny, "but they are getting away. Why don't you guys debate meteorology later."

"He started it, Sunny!" countered Bubba.

"'He started it, Sunny!'" Colby whined, miming Bubba.

Sunny arrived at the elevator. She pulled up on a red handle. The gate didn't move. "Help!"

Bubba and Colby joined her and the three of them pulled with all their might. Gradually, the gate slid upward enough for them to duck underneath it. They rushed inside and with a similar effort managed to lower the gate. They found the controls nearby. Bubba punched the button marked Down and the elevator lurched, then descended slowly into the shaft to the accompaniment of the noisy machinery.

The calamity of the mechanics gradually subsided. "How will we know what floor they stop on?" asked Bubba. The thick cement walls separating the elevator shafts made it impossible to see anything except the interior of the elevator bay.

"I guess we should assume they'll go all the way to the ground floor," replied Sunny. "That's what I would do."

"You should never assume anything," said Colby, "because it makes an ass out of 'u' and ass out of 'me.' 'Hey Boilermaker, I got my curveball breaking inside three-and-a-half feet.'" Colby looked at Bubba. "'Don't jump in, Engelberg, you'll flood the valley.' 'A busted bat and a long fly ball . . . . Any day now Durocher will call!'"

Sunny looked at him in disbelief. "Are you always like this?"

"Not always," Colby replied earnestly. "I do sleep occasionally."

"What if we're wrong?" asked Bubba. "What if we get to the bottom and there's no one there?"

"Well," said Sunny, "it's Friday, so there aren't any deliveries. That means the loading docks should be empty. It'd be a perfect place to stash a get-away car."

"What're we going to do if we catch them?" asked Bubba.

No one said anything. They all looked at each other. No one had thought of what they would do if they met face-to-face with Parker and his captors.

"It's not like we can stop them," added Bubba. "There're more of them than there are of us. Plus, they're bigger and probably have guns."

The elevator continued its descent. It clearly dropped more slowly than the tourist-happy express elevators. Cool air rushed through the gates all around them, tossing their hair.

"We'll follow them," said Sunny.

"And then what?" said Colby, as if this were the dumbest idea he'd ever heard.

"We'll see where they go," replied Sunny, "try to find out who they are. And why they took Parker."

Their bodies grew heavy as the freight elevator slowed. It clanked and whirred and jerked to a halt. They grabbed the handle and lifted the gate and ducked under again. Before them stood another series of metal roll-up doors and man-doors. They ran to the closest door and shoved the handle, pouring out onto a long walkway running the length of the loading dock.

"Look!" Colby pointed.

Two big black Cherrolet Super Urban Vehicles careened around a corner. The big tires squealed and the bodies leaned as the SUVs rounded the building. The tinted windows were almost as black as the paint. It was impossible to see who was inside.

"Think that's them?" asked Bubba.

"Oh, please tell me you're not that dumb," exclaimed Colby.

"Well," said Bubba.

"'Well?' That's all you've got? 'Well?'" Colby rolled his eyes and sighed. "How many conspicuous, unmarked, government-issue SUVs do you see fleeing a loading dock on the one day of the week the docks are empty?"

"We can't afford to be wrong," said Bubba.

"Bubba's right," said Sunny. "We can't."

Bubba stuck his tongue out at Colby, and Colby rolled his eyes again.

"You're both right," said Sunny. "It's definitely them."

Colby stuck his tongue out at Bubba.

"What do we do?" asked Bubba. "We can't keep up on foot."

"We'll have to cut 'em off at the pass," said Colby, "like Igby and I did in act two of our new movie."

"I haven't seen it yet!" said Bubba. "Don't tell me anything about it. I like to go in fresh."

"Oh, like Frank Costanza."

"Who's Frank Costanza?" asked Sunny.

"The founder of Festivus," said Colby.

"What's that?" asked Bubba.

"'These pretzels are making me thirsty,'" said Colby. "'Are you the master of your domain?'"

Sunny and Bubba studied him with raised eyebrows.

"What?" said Colby.

"We're wasting time," said Sunny. "How do we cut them off?"

"How should I know?" replied Colby. "This is your town. Don't tell me you don't know all the secret passageways and unguarded exits and entrances to this building."

"We live in the South tower," said Bubba. "But Sunny used to live here!" He perked up at this last bit.

"Used to," said Sunny. "I don't anymore."

"Well," said Colby, "they're getting further and further away while we stand here flapping our gums. So, if you're going to think of something, hurry up and do it."

Sunny snapped her fingers. "Let's just hope they get stuck in traffic." She ran back up the walkway and through the open door, with Bubba and Colby close behind.

Inside, Sunny stopped. Bubba and Colby nearly ran into her. She hastily scanned the warehouse and doors and freight elevators.

"There!" She pointed. They ran to a door with Mezzanine painted on it.

"What's a . . . mezz-uh-nine?" asked Bubba, sounding out the word.

"Mezz-uh-NEEN," corrected Colby.

"It's like a floor between floors," said Sunny, "kind of like an observation deck. It runs mostly along the inside edge of the tower, but there's also a bridge from one side to the other. If we run straight across while they have to drive all the way around, we might be able to catch up. We might be able to see them and follow them."

"Great," said Colby. "Then what?"

"I dunno," said Sunny. "But let's go!"

She opened the door to the mezzanine level and they found themselves in a stair well. They climbed the short flight of steps and emerged onto a narrow walkway. On their left and right, the walkway followed the perimeter of the building, just as Sunny had proposed. It also extended directly out over the lobby level ten feet below, forming an observational catwalk joining several others in the center of the massive lobby. People walked below, some strolling goggle-eyed at the sheer size and beauty of the structure, others sadly immune to it, having lived there for some time.

The floor of the lobby was constructed of enormous square tiles of gold and emerald green. Sunny, Bubba, and Colby sprinted across the mezzanine bridge. Bubba had the distinct impression they were pawns in a massive chess match, played on perhaps the biggest chessboard in all the world. He decided not to look down again as he ran behind Sunny and Colby. Somewhere, in a small, quiet, far-away place in his mind not overwhelmed with the pursuit, he wondered about Parker, wondered if he'd ever see him again.

By the time they'd reached the center of the bridge a few minutes later, their pace had slowed, their breathing labored. They stopped for a brief rest.

"This place is bigger than an airport," Colby huffed.

"Now . . . what?" asked Bubba. He and Colby bent over with their hands on their knees, drawing great breaths of air. "Should we keep going . . . in the same direction?" Bubba asked quickly between breaths.

"What if we split up?" asked Colby.

"No," replied Sunny, "if we split up we couldn't meet up again. Building's just too big. Let's keep going." She again set off. Bubba and Colby limped after her.

At last they crossed the entire span of the bridge. Their legs burned and their muscles yearned for oxygen. They leaned against one of the giant windows. Bubba looked back but couldn't see the far side of the bridge. They'd run the entire width of Sky City North.

"Hey." Colby gasped for air, his forehead against the window. Neither Sunny nor Bubba had heard him over their own huffing and puffing. "Hey!" he said, louder, "I see 'em."

"What?" said Sunny.

"I see them!" Colby exclaimed. "Look!" He pointed out the window.

Two menacing black SUVs drove down East Plaza Boulevard, beset on all sides by a flurry of dirty yellow taxi cabs all darting in and out of their lanes, oblivious to the blaring of horns and the notion of traffic laws.

"They're coming," said Sunny. She chanced a small smile. "We didn't lose them."

"I don't wanna sound like a broken record," Colby gasped, "but now what?"

The vehicles came steadily on. Sunlight glinted off the chrome grill of the lead SUV. A shiny sterling silver necktie-shaped emblem in the center of the grill denoted both SUVs as Cherrolet, the top-of-the-line vehicle for top-of-the-line driving in all conditions, as boasted by the most recent campaign slogan. The emblem was jokingly referred to as a Cuban necktie, due to the rumors of ruthless tactics traditionally employed by the late Mr. Ford Cherrolet, the company's founder. Such rumors were said to be very much in effect today under the savvy and often ruthless auspices of Canary Cherrolet, Mr. Cherrolet's only son and heir. The brazen disregard for the impending loss of childhood well-being and adult masculinity of a boy growing up with the name Canary was further proof Ford Cherrolet was every bit as ruthless as his impressive reputation. That Canary had succeeded in seizing the reigns of the vast empire from his father and was now one of the richest, most powerful men in the world was more impressive still.

The necktie glowed in the afternoon sun.

"Piggy-back," said Bubba.

"What?" said Sunny and Colby in unison.

"Piggy-back," said Bubba. "We'll ride piggy-back."

Colby rolled his eyes.

"Simply repeating a statement does not clarify matters in the slightest," said Sunny.

"My dad taught me how to tie a necktie by watching him do it in the mirror while I rode piggyback. So, we'll ride piggy-back on those SUVs."

"Are you crazy?" demanded Colby. "Look, I rode on the roof of a car during the shoot for Go-Boy . . . Unleashed."

"I told you not to say anything!" said Bubba.

"I didn't, Frank, it's a minor point," said Colby.

"But now I know I can expect to see you clinging to the roof of a speeding car."

"Anyway, I had a professional stuntman give me hours of tedious coaching. I know what I'm doing and it's still very hard and very dangerous. Why don't we just take a taxi?"

"I think he's right, Bubba," said Sunny. "A taxi's much safer."

"A taxi won't be able to keep up," countered Bubba. "Colby said it himself, those trucks are government-issue. They can run red lights, go anywhere they want. A taxi can't keep up. And even if it could, they'd know we were tailing them in no time. We have to stay close to Parker." He wondered if Parker had been tied up so he couldn't escape, tape stuck to his mouth so he couldn't speak, a black hood forced over his head so he couldn't see.

"How?" said Sunny.

"We get outside and get up on the pedestrian walkway over the street. When they stop at the light, we climb over the railing and down onto their roof. We just have to pray they turn right onto North Tower Drive, so they pass under the bridge."

"Oh, so we're putting all our hopes on a single prayer," said Colby. "Wonderful."

Outside, the twin black SUVs stopped at a red light. A river of people poured across the street through the crosswalk.

"They're stopped," said Bubba. "Come on. Before it's too late."
Chapter 2

Warm Donuts

Sunny, Bubba, and Colby ran for the nearby stairs. Sunny descended two at a time, her sandals slapping the shining marble.

Once on the lobby floor, they ran for the south side of the tower, to the revolving doors which would let them out onto North Tower Drive. They traversed the lobby floor, crossing from giant gold squares to giant emerald-green ones. Bubba again saw himself on an enormous chess board. From this perspective, however, the sensation of being a pawn on the board was even more overpowering. Now that they were down on the board, it was far more confusing; the squares were so big; they, the pawns, seemed so small. He focused on one of the gold revolving doors turning lazily at the lobby entrance and ran harder, determined to keep up with Colby and Sunny, who ran just ahead of him.

They reached the door and piled up on each other in one of the compartments. The harder they pushed, the slower the door spun. It finally spit them out onto the broad sidewalk adjacent to North Tower Drive. A doorman costumed in a long gold-and-green coat and matching green top hat and gloves stood next to the door. He shook his head in disgust as Sunny, Bubba and Colby extricated themselves from the revolving door.

At the corner lurked both SUVs. From this vantage point it was impossible to tell if the vehicles were waiting for an opening in the heavy traffic flow or if they intended to continue their straight-ahead course.

Bubba held his breath while they waited to see what the SUVs would do, in which direction they would go. Colby, meanwhile, investigated the pedestrian bridge Bubba had so succinctly declared would be the mighty stepstool by which they would climb onto the precarious backs of the big SUVs, assuming of course that the trucks stopped at all, that they happened to catch this light as they had the previous one, and that they stopped close enough to the walkway to allow them to drop from it.

"They're turning!" shouted Sunny.

Both trucks made the right turn onto North Tower Drive and charged straight at them.

"This is never going to work," said Colby.

"Then stay here," said Sunny, and she and Bubba rushed past him. They ran to the bridge, hurried up the steps, and ran out onto the walkway. The street below was full of rushing cars honking and changing lanes with woeful disregard for common sense.

Up the street, the SUVs bore down on them like great charging bulls. They picked up speed. The closer they came, the clearer it became that they had no intention of stopping, for the stoplight had recently changed to green.

"Colby!" yelled Sunny.

He mounted the steps to the bridge. "What?"

"Hit the button for the crosswalk!" Sunny yelled over the noise of the rushing traffic.

"What?" called Colby, putting his hand behind his ear.

"The crosswalk!" Sunny shouted. She pointed violently down to the button mounted on the streetlight post near the steps for the pedestrian bridge.

Colby jumped down the stairs and ran to the light post. He slammed his palm against the big silver button.

The black SUVs sped closer.

Colby slapped the button again, then pounded on it repeatedly. He looked up at the light itself and could see the green hue still showing. He repeatedly pushed the button, despite knowing the sensor had been triggered and its continued badgering was useless; even if he hit the button ten-thousand times with a baseball bat it would not expedite the signal light's changing.

The trucks were moments from passing by.

The stoplight flicked to yellow, then to a brilliant red.

The nose of the first SUV dove sharply and it stopped past the red light. Most of the truck protruded into the crosswalk. A gentle roar sounded from the tires of the second SUV, and it and came to rest right below Sunny and Bubba.

"Hurry!" Sunny called to Colby.

Colby bounded up the steps two at a time and reached the railing as Bubba and Sunny both climbed over its side. They stepped onto the girder supporting a small billboard depicting Colby Max inside his Battle-Suit, an ad his new movie. Sunny and Bubba lowered themselves down toward the black SUV rooftop looming below. They hung from the billboard, their legs dangling over the SUV's roof. Bubba touched one foot down onto the roof, then the other. He grabbed Sunny by her waist and softly lowered her down as well. They both waved frantically at Colby but he only stared down at them. Finally, he climbed hurriedly over and easily maneuvered around the billboard. He saw himself on the billboard and pointed and smiled. Sunny and Bubba nodded the requisite appreciation and waved for him to hurry up. Colby hung over the roof and dropped from several inches up. He landed nimbly on his feet and bent his knees, making no noise.

All three of them lay down flat. The stoplight near their heads flicked back to a dazzling, buzzing green and both trucks sped off. The green-and-gold-drenched doorman stared at them, his mouth open, his eyes wide beneath his very tall hat. Obviously he had just witnessed their risky and quite bizarre behavior. Just before they lost sight of him, Sunny waved. The doorman cautiously waved back with one green-gloved hand.

Sunny, Bubba, and Colby lay flat on the roof of the SUV. They held tightly to the bars of the roof-rack, trying not to slide around, or entirely off, as the vehicle sped up and slowed down and turned around corners. The wind buffeted them and blew loudly against their ears, making it impossible to speak.

After many precarious miles, the SUVs slowed and turned onto a quiet side street. Sunny and Bubba lifted their heads and peered around, hoping to recognize something, anything. Trash and old newspaper littered the sidewalks and gutters. Most of the cars had shattered windows and flat tires or no wheels at all. Most of the businesses were closed. No girls played hopscotch or jumped rope on the sidewalks and no boys played ball or drove radio-controlled cars in the street, all familiar sights in Sky City South.

The SUVs drove slowly down the street.

Bubba popped his head up. "I smell donuts."

"You do not smell donuts," whispered Sunny, "now be quiet!"

"But Sunny—" He fell silent when Sunny held her index finger against her mouth.

The SUVs drove halfway down the street and stopped.

Bubba popped his head up again; his nose never lied. Nearby was small storefront. A sign above the store read: Mr. Glaze's Donuts & Fritters. An image of a short, fat, bald man with a bushy mustache and wearing a white apron smiled at them. A silly, triangular hat failed to cover his shiny scalp. He was happily holding a rolling pin.

"Mr. Glaze!" said Bubba. "But he went out of business two years ago."

"Looks like he's back in business," muttered Colby.

"I'm hungry," said Bubba. He inhaled long and deep, smelling the aroma of fresh-baked donuts in the air.

"You just had pizza," whispered Sunny, "and two Frinkies."

"I could go for a warm, soft donut or two," said Bubba.

"You look like a warm soft donut or two," said Colby.

"Who asked you, Wizard of Crap?" said Bubba.

"That's Wizard of the Sky, donut-boy," replied Colby.

"Would you both shut up!" hissed Sunny. "If we get caught we might never see Parker again. Now shush!"

Bubba and Colby fell silent, glaring at each other.

They all waited.

Nothing happened. No one came out of nor went into Mr. Glaze's Donuts & Fritters. Nor did any traffic appear on the small street. The SUVs didn't move. No one got out. The engines idled. The exhaust gurgled deep and rich. Sunny, Bubba, and Colby began to cough as they breathed the fumes, clamping their hands over their mouths in a desperate attempt to stifle any sound. It seemed these SUVs were powered by internal combustion gasoline engines rather than by more expensive, environmentally-friendly hydrogen-powered engines fast becoming all the rage. Hydrogen-based fuel produced only oxygen and water out of the exhaust pipes. As a recent marketing ploy, Canary Cherrolet had chartered a hydrogen-powered bus filled with scientists, automotive engineers, and press personnel. Even late-night celebrity talk-show host Brian O'Conan had been invited to come along for the ride. Naturally, at the end, a rather sardonic Brian was chosen by Canary to pose with him in the photographs as they each collected a champagne glass full of water straight from the exhaust pipe of the bus as it idled. They clinked their champagne glasses together and then drank the clean, clear water. The Sunday edition of America's most prominent and widely-distributed newspaper, The American, ran as its front page story the photo of Brian and Canary toasting their glasses. The article claimed vehicles powered by hydrogen-driven engines would outnumber gasoline engines on America's highways and byways before the end of the decade. The article went on to explain how Cherrolet owned more than seventy patents relating to their new hydrogen vehicles as well as a dozen automobile- and hydrogen-manufacturing plants across the country. It neglected to mention, however, that Cherrolet, the single largest automotive manufacturer in the world, was but a small subsidiary of Canary Unlimited, a multi-national conglomerate with assets listed in quadrillions of dollars. In addition to three airlines, various types of mines and textile plants around the globe, oil platforms in the Aegean Sea, a SuperVision network (which produced and nightly aired Brian O'Conan's beloved show Say 'Goodnight,' America!), and the exclusive rights to all mining and proprietary processes and technologies on the Moon, Canary Unlimited also owned The American. Naturally, the Chief Executive Officer of Canary Unlimited was Canary Cherrolet.

Sunny, Bubba, and Colby struggled to breathe the fumes rising up around them.

A hissing sound emanated from the donut shop. Noisy jets of steam squirted out from the front of the storefront.

The store began to move.

It slid forward onto the sidewalk several feet and then began to move upward. Slowly, it rose into the air, higher and higher, until it was easily ten feet above the street when it finally came to rest, perched atop long, shiny metal hydraulic arms. Where the shop had been was an opening to a dark tunnel. Inside the shop was an elderly man sitting down, eating a donut, and another elderly man wiping down the counter and wearing a triangular paper hat like the one sported by Mr. Glaze on his sign. They were apparently unaware of or unconcerned about the donut shop being lifted by powerful hydraulics, becoming a second-story dwelling.

The SUVs began to move. Sunny, Bubba, and Colby clung tightly to the rack as the trucks drove toward and then quickly into the gaping square hole now visible in the building. Inside was a ramp, down which the SUVs drove. Sunny slid forward into Bubba and both of them slid into Colby, who lay near the windshield. Colby pushed as hard as he could against the roof rack, trying to halt their sliding, trying to prevent their sliding down onto the windshield.

Sunny and Bubba managed to grab the side rails of the rack and take their weight off Colby. Behind them, Mr. Glaze's Donuts & Fritters returned to its proper position, until all incoming daylight was abruptly cut off.

Bright, bluish-white light shot from the headlights of both SUVs. They were in a tunnel, underground. The ramp leveled out and the trucks drove on.

There was definitely no going back now.
Chapter 3

A Day at the Beach

Sunny, Bubba, and Colby lay flat on the roof, hoping to remain undetected.

Bubba looked around at the tunnel, at the row of red lights centered on its ceiling. He very much wanted to tell Sunny and Colby what his dad had told him about red lights being handy for their easiness on the eyes, but he knew Sunny would shush him again. He opted to keep quiet.

After a time, the SUV began to slow. The brake lamps on the SUV in front of them burst forth with brilliant crimson light, painting their faces with red and black shadows, adding to the eerie hue thrown down by the lights overhead.

The tunnel opened up, becoming much, much wider, nearly twice the width as before. Both SUVs slowed nearly to a stop and Sunny, Bubba, and Colby dared to raise their heads a bit. They peered around for any clue as to where they were and what would happen next.

Before them lay a long cement ramp with yellow and black stripes painted diagonally across it. It rose gradually up to a platform. Next to the platform was what looked like one of the sleek, bullet-shaped, high-speed monorail trains back at Sky City. This one, however, was enormous.

Both SUVs proceeded slowly and steadily up the ramp and stopped on the platform. The vehicles paused, engines idling. The sound of a series of metallic latches being released echoed through the tunnel, one after the other. The tail section (or was it the nose cone?) of the train opened, hinged at the top and driven by massive electric-motor-driven push-rods.

Both SUVs drove into the back of the open train and stopped. The engines shut off. The headlamps went dark. The train's end-cap descended and the latches re-engaged. It was darker inside the train, despite the windows on either side. To the left was a second length of railroad track, leading to who-knew-where. To the right was a series of short tracks, all branching off from the track on which their train rested. Several sleek rail cars sat idly, apparently waiting to be added to the train for moving additional cargo.

Nothing happened. Bubba, Sunny, and Colby surveyed the eerie tunnel, glancing occasionally at one another. A sound began to emanate from all around them, a hum, like the surge of massive amounts of electrical current. The train lifted. Bubba and Colby reached out and grabbed the roof rack. Sunny squeaked in fright and clamper her hand over her mouth. The train inched forward, away from the loading platform and additional cars. The electric hum increased. The train accelerated rapidly, smoothly. Wind rushed over the outer skin of the train, whistling all around them, mixing with the eerie hum. The red lights outside passed by slowly at first, then faster and faster, throwing red and black flashes of light all around. Gradually, they appeared as a continuous red light, illuminating the interior of the train.

Sunny closed her eyes and tried to think of something else. She focused on taking long, slow deep breaths, like she did on stage during the spelling bee, when she'd stood there under the bright, hot lights, waiting for her turn. Gradually, she felt herself calming.

After an unbearably long time, she thought of Parker and what he must be experiencing in the vehicle ahead. Slowly, she came back to herself. At least an hour must have passed. She checked the watch on her wrist. In the red light, the little gold hands weren't legible. Had it truly been an hour? An hour of lying as still as possible, staring out the windows of the train, waiting for a change in the scenery? There had been no such change. Sunny's skin crawled with nervous energy, no matter how many long, slow deep breaths she forced herself to take. She wanted to move around, to climb down from the roof and at least be able to walk around. How long had it actually been? Bubba would know. His Go-Boy watch could light up. She tapped Bubba on the ankle.

Someone, or something, grabbed Bubba's ankle. He flinched. He jerked his head around and looked over his shoulder. In the eerie red light, Sunny lay peering back at him. Immense relief washed over him. For an instant, he'd been certain that one of the men in the SUV had gotten out and discovered them. He found himself feeling irritated that Sunny would startle him in such a way.

By the look on Bubba's face, Sunny could see he was cross with her for startling him. She pointed to her wrist.

Bubba pressed the little button on the side of his watch and activated the light.

Sunny waited. A tiny blue-white light appeared in the darkness, shining up at Bubba's face. Bubba looked at her, held up one finger, and mouthed the words, "One hour." Just as she had suspected. Though it sure felt like longer.

Bubba pointed his finger sharply at Sunny, then touched his index finger to his thumb to form a circle, with his other fingers pointing upward.

In the dim light, Sunny could just see Bubba make the OK sign. She was touched that Bubba was concerned about her. She nodded and returned the sign, smiling inwardly. He nodded and turned away. She stared at the soles of Bubba's sneakers and considered tying his shoelaces together, then thought better of playing such a trick on someone under the current circumstances. Parker would have done it, though, and she smiled. She made a mental note to share her impulse with him later if she had the chance. When she had the chance, she corrected herself. She wanted to think positively, as her mom had suggested she do just yesterday while they were scrubbing the bathroom tile grout with their old toothbrushes.

Sunny shifted her gaze to the tunnel and the red lights rushing by on the other side of the windows. She tried to estimate their speed. It sent a ripple through her stomach, the same as when she rode the monorail at home. She was suddenly thankful for the near-darkness. Her fear would be worse if she were better able to see. She tried to change the subject with herself. At least they were out of the windblast, which, she mused, would most likely be powerful enough to blow them right off the roof of the SUV. When they hit the ground rushing by, they would surely bounce against the tracks and be hurtled into the air, tumbling end over end in a tangled mass of broken bones and lacerated internal organs. If they weren't killed instantly, they could lay in the cold darkness of the tunnel for hours. Or until another train came along, its sleek bullet nose bearing down on them as they lay helpless, bleeding from their eyes and ears. She closed her eyes so tight her cheeks began to hurt, disgusted with herself for being a victim of her own imagination.

Colby peered over his shoulder for the umpteenth time and still was unable to discern what was happening behind him in the dim red gloom. He could almost see Bubba but Sunny was just a dark red-black shape beyond him. What am I doing here? he asked himself. This was not how the personal appearance at Sky City Hobbies and Toys was supposed to end. Yet, here he was, hiding atop a government-owned SUV traveling inside a hypersonic subterranean train, headed for who knew where. Maybe he should just lean over the side and knock on the window. Then they could all discuss the situation like adults. He rested his head on his hands and watched the track blurring past. He wondered about the wind blast on the other side of the plastic. The rushing sound reminded him of yesterday's airplane flight, the red-eye from Los Angeles so they could arrive in time for the signing at the toy store. The blurring tracks tired his eyes and he closed them. Maybe he was feeling the effects of the jet lag, although it typically proved more problematic when flying east to west, backward in time across time zones. He had spent most of the past three years on the road, on airplanes, in lavish buses and plush stretch limousines. He traveled for press junkets and to exotic locales for on-location film shoots. He worked odd hours, never knowing when sleep might come next, despite the allegedly strict rules for child actors set forth by the Entertainer's Guild, of which he was a proud, dues-paying member. He always let the directors have their way when it came to breaking these rules. And he made certain they knew that he knew the rules were being broken. This power-play always proved invaluable later when the time came to ask for a favor. His industry was run by favors. Favors were the principal currency in show business. So he made certain he was owed many.

Working such long hours, he had quickly learned to catnap whenever possible. He had learned to sleep sitting upright in a chair. He had even once fallen asleep standing up, on a beautiful beach in the Bahamas, during a location shoot for Go-Boy . . . Unleashed. They'd been filming a stunt in which the director had him blasted into the air by a terrible explosion, one actually driven by harmless compressed air. He landed in the ocean where a team of safety divers came to his rescue. After being blown up seventeen times over five hours, he was exhausted, sunburned, hungry, and dehydrated. He stood patiently in the surf while the stunt crew rushed to diagnose and repair the temperamental kid-launcher, as it had come to be called.

Somehow, he had fallen asleep.

When he awoke, he found his feet buried in the sand past his ankles.

Only the ever-moving sun had saved him from many more blasts of compressed air. They had moved to an interior location, where they shot until after midnight, then woke before dawn and did it all again.

Compared to that, napping on the cold, hard roof of this SUV was a day at the beach. Colby grinned at his unintentional pun as his eyes slid shut. For now, he would stay hidden and see where this train tunnel went. Seconds later, he was asleep.

Bubba saw Colby's head slump as he fell asleep. He gleefully began tying Colby's shoelaces together.
Chapter 4

When It Rains, It Pours

The plastic zip tie dug into Parker's wrists, beginning to really hurt. What he most disliked, however, was the hood over his head. He hated not being able to see where he was, who was around him, where they were going. It was as he'd heard Bubba's mom say many times: When it rains, it pours . . . .

He had an idea.

He tried to open his mouth, but the tape pulled against his lips. He tried again, wincing as the tape stretched his skin until he thought it would rip. That wasn't going to work.

He had another idea. A few years ago he'd heard about a contest at an amusement park on the west coast in which fifty people rode a roller coaster non-stop, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, stopping only once every few hours for bathroom breaks. They ate and slept while riding. Three weeks later, the last person riding the coaster was a housewife from Kansas City. She won a brand new Marauder pickup truck donated by Cherrolet. She got her picture taken with Ford Cherrolet and everything, as he was still alive then. Parker and Bubba saw the story and photo in The American. Bubba's dad said the lady looked ridiculous sitting behind the steering wheel of her big, para-military four-by-four truck. Her feet barely reached the pedals. Parker had wished he could enter such a contest. He loved roller coasters and could last a lot longer than three lousy weeks if it meant winning a shiny new Marauder and getting his picture in The American.

Parker never had been susceptible to motion sickness of any kind. In fact, he'd decided he must be immune to it. Nevertheless, he began making barfing sounds, gagging and retching, laying it on thick. He was quite accomplished at such noises, after all. He and Bubba had once mixed cream corn, clam chowder, Parmesan cheese, and vinegar in a plastic freezer bag, and Bubba hid the bag under his shirt as they paid their way into a movie theater. Halfway through the film, they sneaked up to the closed balcony and Parker began making retching noises. On Parker's third heave, Bubba took the bag, warmed now by his body heat, and dumped the sour, chunky contents over the balcony railing and onto the audience below. Many of the people started getting sick, throwing up on each other. In mere moments, the entire screaming, hysterical theater cleared out. Parker and Bubba both smeared some of the remaining concoction on themselves. Bubba stuffed the empty bag into his pants and they hurried downstairs, where they blended in with the fleeing crowd. The panicked theater manager apologized profusely and refunded everyone's cost of admission. Parker had wanted to do it again the next week in a different movie theater, but Bubba had had dreams about their stunt, nightmares in which he was the one who had been barfed on. He subsequently talked Parker out of an encore performance.

On the fourth big heave, the hood was suddenly removed. The tape was ripped from his mouth.

"Jim!" exclaimed the driver.

"Relax, Jack," said the man in the front passenger seat, who apparently was named Jim. "He doesn't know how we got down here."

"He'll see our faces," said Jack from the driver's seat, adjusting the rear-view mirror so it pointed almost straight up.

"He was going to see us eventually, anyway," Jim added.

"But General Ramsey said—"

"General Ramsey said to go easy on the kid," interrupted Jim. "If he gets there and he has puke all over himself and has to go to bed for twelve hours, Ramsey'll have us back on sanitation before the kid's lunch even has time to dry on the seats. Not to mention the possibility of him choking to death on his own lunch because of the tape you slapped over his mouth."

Jack said nothing. He crossed his arms and stared out the window.

"You gonna vomit?" said Jim.

"Yeah," Parker lied. He tried to sound pathetic.

It was then Parker realized Jack wasn't driving. His hands weren't even on the steering wheel. Parker found he was lying across the bench seat in some sort of SUV. The two men up front wore the same dark suits as the men in Sky City Hobbies and Toys, though he hadn't seen who had grabbed him. It was too dark in the vehicle to see their faces. Despite the darkness, however, both men still wore their bug-eyed sunglasses.

"Why don't you sit up so you can look out," said Jim, "that's what I do when I feel sick." Parker wriggled into an upright position. "But don't try anything." Jim held up a shiny object and made a series of flicks and twists with his wrist. The object opened and a sharp, pointed silver blade whipped out. Parker recognized it as a butterfly knife. Gary Gray, a kid who lived on one-eighty-six, had smuggled a similar knife back from Mexico after vacationing there with his parents and sister. He showed the knife to everyone one day after school. He tried to fling it open and almost cut off his finger. His mom threw the knife in the garbage once she'd returned him home stitched and bandaged from the hospital. Gary said that later that night he searched one-handed through the garbage for the knife but found only greasy chicken bones and old meatloaf. Watching Jim fling open his knife, however, made it abundantly clear he knew how to use it.

"Relax, kid," said Jim, "I'm just messin' with ya. Turn around."

Parker slowly slid to the edge of the seat and turned his back. He felt Jim seize his wrist and a moment later his hands came free. He faced front in time to see Jim pull the blade through the tie around his ankles as well, then whip the knife shut, tossing the zip ties on the floorboard.

"You'll have to forgive Jack for putting those on a bit tight," said Jim, "he just wants to be extra thorough. This is our first real assignment in nine months. We can't afford to blow it."

"And yet you've removed the target's visual obstruction and its restraints," said Jack, arms still folded across his body.

Parker noticed Jack's use of generic pronouns and felt oddly offended, trivialized, even if he were unsure how to articulate it. He wasn't the only one, as Jim said with much sarcasm, "The target can't see anyway because he is a half-mile underground in a hyper-rail tunnel. Restraints aren't needed because he ain't gonna try any funny business because he's a smart kid with nowhere to go. Isn't that right?" Jim fixed Parker with the same look he got from his Physical Education teacher, Mr. Brown, when he refused to shower after gym class.

"Uh, yeah, sure," said Parker, not at all sure what he was agreeing to. But, as Mr. Brown often said, compliance was more important than comprehension. Parker hated that expression, hated being told what to do.

"Try looking out the window, like I said," said Jim. "If you're gonna throw up, let me know. I'll put the window down. I'd rather hose down the car than scrape off the seats."

"Uh, I'm not really," stammered Parker, "I mean, I don't actually feel . . . ."

"See!" said Jack, "he was faking it to get that hood off. He wanted to see what was going on, who we were."

"Course he did," said Jim. "Clever. Sit back and enjoy the ride, kid. We'll be there in no time."

"Be where?" asked Parker.

"You'll see," replied Jim.

"Who's General Ramsey?" asked Parker.

"You'll see," Jim said again. A hint of a smile formed on Jack's lips. He, for one, was clearly enjoying this.

"Are you guys cops?" Parker asked.

"Nope," said Jim.

"C.I.A.?"

"Nope."

"Am I being kidnapped?" asked Parker.

"Kidnapping!" Jim turned to face Parker. "Is that what you think this is?" He waited for Parker to respond.

"Well, the way you grabbed me back at the toy store," replied Parker, "and the hood and restraints, and tossing me in here like you did . . . ."

"That was just 'cause we were in a hurry," said Jim. "Nah, this ain't no kidnapping. Think of this as recruitment. Or an audition. But more like a job offer. But one you can't refuse."

"What happens if I refuse?"

"You go back to your boring ol' life," said Jack. "Lame parties, uptight girls, cheap booze, cheap drugs, rehab. Then more parties, more girls, more booze, more drugs, more rehab."

"Jack!" said Jim, "he's only thirteen."

"And I'm a divorced part-time sanitation engineer," said Jack. "What's your point?"

"My point," said Jim under his breath as he leaned closer to Jack, "is that maybe if you'd laid off all those things, you'd still be a happily-married part-time sanitation engineer."

Parker listened intently and wondered if all non-C.I.A., pseudo-kidnappers were divorced and wore their sunglasses in the dark. He looked out the window for the first time and saw how big the tunnel was. A row of red lights glowed on the roof of the tunnel, filling it with eerie red light. He remembered Bubba's dad telling them red light was used on submarines because it provided minimal yet adequate lighting and required no time for low-light adaptation by the human eye.

"Try these," said Jim, offering his sunglasses. "Go on." Jim dangled the glasses.

Parker put them on. Suddenly he could see everything as though it were an unusually colorful photograph. "Wow."

"Cool, huh?" said Jim, facing front again.

Outside, Parker saw the enormous tunnel in much greater detail. A set of railroad tracks ran parallel on the opposite side of the tunnel. He could see their SUV was inside some other vehicle, most likely a train. And a very high-speed one, judging by the blurring passage of the railroad ties. He looked all around, even turning to look behind them.

His heart nearly jumped out of his chest.

Behind them was a second SUV. Two men were inside it, though their heads were back, mouths open, fast asleep. Neither of them wore their sunglasses. What was remarkable, however, was that on the roof of the SUV were three distinct figures. Two of them looked familiar, though it couldn't possibly be. He pulled off the sunglasses and looked, though in the darkness he saw nothing, not even the sleeping men, and he quickly put the glasses back on. He looked closer. Could it be? Could it really be . . . Bubba? Parker kept watching and gradually recognized Sunny. It was hard to believe, but clearly the third figure was Colby Max, asleep. Parker looked even harder still, positive it was them yet grasping frantically at how all three of them came to be riding on the roof of an SUV, parked inside a speeding bullet train rushing to God-Knows-Where in a massive tunnel deep underground.

"See anything interesting?"

Parker spun around to find Jim smiling at him.

"Uh, yeah," said Parker, "those two guys behind us are both passed-out."

"Neal and Bob," offered Jim, "both short-timers, ready to retire and start collecting their pensions. They've been around awhile and seen it all, so they don't get too excited about a little train ride, even if it takes them more than half-way across the country in under three hours."

Parker's eyes must have widened, as Jim raised his eyebrows and said, "Cool, huh?"

"Yeah," said Parker. "Could I wear your glasses a little while longer?"

"Sure," said Jim. "But I want 'em back when we get there."

"Where?"

"You'll see."

Parker twisted around in his seat, pretending to examine every inch of murky darkness he could find. He sneaked looks backward at his friends perched precariously atop the SUV.

What's next? he thought to himself.

Talk about a bizarre birthday.

Parker tried to calm himself. He tried not to think too much. His mother had always said it was a sin to worry, because worrying wouldn't change anything. Nevertheless, he knew in his gut that when they reached their ultimate destination, he would face something the likes of which he could never have imagined. The knot in his stomach pulled itself even tighter.
Chapter 5

Blowing Chunks

Parker yawned and suddenly realized his eyes were closed. He opened them and a bright image of the never-ending tunnel filled his view, hurting his retinas. He closed his eyes again quickly, blinked, and cautiously opened them again. Had he been asleep? If so, how long?

He spun around and looked behind him. The second SUV was still there. Neal and Bob were both still sleeping inside it. Parker could make out the shapes of his friends lying on the roof, but they weren't moving. Colby was nearest and most visible, and he was asleep, too. Parker relaxed a bit, knowing they were all still together.

Up front, Jim and Jack were awake but not speaking, riding in silence, perhaps enjoying some quiet time to think about whatever it was people like them thought about after snatching a thirteen-year-old boy out of a crowded toy store and shuttling him quickly cross-country via an underground, lightning-fast train.

Parker wondered if the train were classified Top Secret. How secret did something like this have to be before it deserved to be classified? How much more secret did it have to be to warrant designation as Top Secret? What was above Top Secret? Really Secret? He recalled his dad occasionally referencing operations or projects as Black Ops, but he was never able to say much about them. If there was Black, maybe there was Above Black.

He removed the glasses and rubbed his eyes and yawned again, wishing for the billionth time that his dad were home so he could ask him this stuff.

"Mornin'!" Jim smiled from the front seat.

"How long was I asleep?"

"About an hour."

"Is it really morning?" Parker asked, wondering how it possibly could be.

"Nah," said Jim with a grin, "figure of speech. It's hard to stay awake, I know. They keep saying they're going to install some artwork down here, maybe an espresso bar, but they never do. Eventually, even a Top Secret underground train gets on your nerves."

"Top Secret?" asked Parker.

"Of course," replied Jim, "you think any ole Tom, Dick, or Harry can come down here and take a ride to the grocery store? Heck no. You gotta have a Top Secret clearance. And that's not an easy thing to get."

"Am I going to get a Top Secret clearance?"

"Well, my guess would be that it'll be yours for the taking. Seeing as how you've already seen the train and all."

"Who's driving?" asked Parker.

"Nobody," said Jim. "Well, the computer, technically. But not a person, if that's what you mean."

"The train has over four thousand sensors," said Jack, "over ten thousand microprocessors and nanoprocessors, and quadruple-redundant systems. It's better than a human being any day. Automate the whole transportation system, I say. Worldwide."

"How could you?" asked Parker.

"Oh, Lord, here we go," said Jim, shaking his head.

"Easy. Computers are faster and more reliable than people. Put them in charge of the whole enchilada. Have you seen those almond lanes out in Los Angeles?"

Parker shook his head. He'd never traveled anywhere on the other side of the Mississippi River.

"Well, there are special lanes, just for computer-controlled vehicles," said Jack. "See, first there were diamond lanes, for carpooling, with big diamonds painted on the ground in white. Then, they made C-cubed lanes for Computer-Controlled Cars, and on these they painted big diamonds again but in blue. So, the lanes went from being called diamond lanes to blue diamond, like the big nut company, to almond lanes. Plus, lots of people say you gotta be nuts to let a computer drive your car for you like that. But the sensors and on-board computers measure the distance between the cars ten thousand times every second. The cars and trucks and buses drive twelve inches apart. That means ten times as many cars and ninety-six percent fewer accidents, all on the same stretch of road." He brushed his hands together as if he'd just finished shoveling dirt out of a hole, smiling proudly as he did so.

"See, what Jackie-Boy here doesn't understand," said Jim, "is that people will never fully trust computers to replace actual, living people in situations where there are lives on the line. Especially not after The Attack."

Jack opened his mouth to protest but Jim held up his hand, silencing him.

"I know airplanes can take off, fly across the ocean, and land themselves, but there are still flesh-and-blood people on board, sitting there babysitting the contraption. This train is of course an exception to the rule. But as soon as one of 'em derails and splatters us up and down ten miles of tunnel, that, too, will change."

"Hasn't happened yet," Jack stated proudly.

"No, not yet," Jim agreed.

"Like my friend Bubba says, 'You play with plasma, eventually you get roasted.'"

"Who's Bubba?" asked Jack.

"My friend back there." Parker pointed over his shoulder before realizing what he had done.

"Back where?" said Jim.

Parker panicked. "Oh, uh, I meant in the toy store. So, are we almost there, then?" he quickly asked. Perhaps he could divert their attention away from where his friends were sleeping on the roof of the SUV behind them.

"Great," said Jack, "now you've gone and scared him. If he starts bawlin' I'm putting my earplugs in and you're dealing with it."

"No, I'm not scared," said Parker. "Well, I am scared, I mean, maybe a little, but not of riding this train. I guess I just want to get wherever we're going. I'm sick of waiting. Whatever's going to happen, I'd rather get on with it."

"Spoken like a true soldier," declared Jim. He smiled proudly.

Being likened to a soldier intimidated Parker. He suddenly wasn't as eager to reach their destination, even if there were the possibility of being given a Top Secret clearance. For a split second, he thought some good ol' bawling might be just the thing, and he hoped if he lost control of himself it wouldn't be in front of Jim and Jack, that he could find a bathroom or a broom closet or something. Before today, he hadn't cried since Sunny's golden Labrador, Budweiser, passed away, right after her brother was killed. Seeing her cry made him want to put his arms around her until she stopped, and he was unable to stop the tears from welling up in his own eyes. He hadn't even cried this morning when he got the bad news about his dad. He imagined his dad lying in a cave somewhere, dead. Or dying. In accordance with his dad's standing order, he refused to cry.

"To answer your question," said Jim, "we are almost there. The junction should be just up the tunnel a bit."

Parker concentrated on Jim, thankful for having something to pull him out of his emotional reverie.

A short time later, just as Jim had said, the train began to slow. It glided silently into a junction much larger than the one from which they'd come. This one had six different tracks stemming from six raised platforms. Where did those tracks lead?

The latches popped and the hydraulics whined. The front of the train opened on its hinges. Jack drove onto a platform and then down a black-and-yellow caution-striped ramp. Parker shot a glance over his shoulder. Sunny, Bubba, and Colby were still on the roof, awake now and clinging to the rack, trying to stay low. He was heartened to see they were still with him.

They drove through the same brand of dim, unremarkable tunnel, lit by the SUV's powerful headlamps. Parker put his new glasses back on to see if he could find any noteworthy differences between where they had been and where they were going. More than once he had heard Bubba's mom warn, "Those who ignore history are doomed to repeat it!" He had always assumed this pertained mostly to stuff like war and matters of diplomacy between nations, but he guessed it could also apply to Top Secret underground tunnels.

Although it was wider, and therefore, he surmised, able to accommodate more vehicles, it otherwise looked the same. The ground was gradually sloping upward. Parker became quite nervous again. His palms began to sweat. He was getting closer to finding out what this was all about. His immunity to motion sickness notwithstanding, he thought now could be a fine time to start blowing chunks.
Chapter 6

The Other Side of the Rainbow

The train began to slow.

Sunny popped her head up. Outside the window, things looked the same, though she was able to discern the ever-decreasing rate of speed. She tapped Bubba on the ankle. This time he didn't flinch and look back. He didn't even move. She grabbed his ankle and shook it. Finally, his head popped up and he looked around, then down at who, or what, had him by the leg. Sunny held her finger in front of her lips, motioning for silence. She pointed to Colby. Bubba looked him over and then back at Sunny. He put his palms together next to his face, indicating Colby was asleep. She shook her hand in the air and Bubba shook Colby's leg. Colby's head popped up and he looked back at them. He gave them a sleepy thumbs-up.

Sunny felt better knowing she wasn't the only one now awake. By the time she'd managed to rouse her companions, the train was easing to a stop. They heard the electrical hum subside and the train sank gently. Both SUVs cranked their ignitions and their engines turned over. A sliver of red light appeared around the inside edges of the nose cone of the train. It grew brighter as the latches popped and the struts attached to the nose pushed it up and open. The SUVs drove out of their box car.

Both vehicles quickly picked up speed and Sunny, Bubba, and Colby all hunkered down as the wind blasted them in the face. A white napkin whipping from Bubba's back pocket wiggled loose in the airflow and flew backwards, plastering itself against Sunny's face. She clawed it away and threw it aside.

Bubba wondered for a moment if there were insects in the tunnel, if he had to worry about June bugs or dragonflies smacking him in the face, exploding crunchy green bug guts all over his forehead, or maybe even flying into his mouth, or worse yet, hitting him smack-dab in the eye, putting his eye out. His mother was warning him constantly about putting out an eye, as if he were engaged solely in behavior conducive to the putting out of eyeballs. It was not as if he and Parker still threw darts at each other. In truth, they had only done so on one occasion, the result of which was a dart sticking firmly out of the right side of Bubba's bottom. With Parker literally on the floor laughing, it had taken Bubba ten minutes to work up the nerve to yank out the dart. That had been their first and last game of Human Dart Board.

The SUVs pitched upward, following the tunnel as it changed angle. Sunny, Bubba, and Colby held firmly to the roof rack.

Before long, the ground leveled out. White light appeared. Whether this represented the end of the tunnel or the headlight of an approaching vehicle, it was too soon to tell.

Sunny, Bubba, and Colby stayed low, watching intently as the light grew larger and brighter. The tunnel around them gradually lost its red hue.

The white light grew larger and brighter, and then larger and brighter still. Sunny struggled to see what lay ahead, her vision obstructed by Bubba craning his neck in front of her, who was craning his neck to see around Colby in front of him.

Both SUVs drove out of the tunnel. The white light, however, was not daylight, for it shone not from the sun but from what looked like a giant light bulb suspended high overhead, surrounded by a ceiling painted the same shade of blue as the sky on a clear day.

Sunny, Bubba, and Colby looked around, mouths open, for they were driving on what appeared to be a perfectly normal city street, replete with a row of buildings on either side, traffic signals, traffic comprised of various types of vehicles, and even pedestrians strolling down the sidewalk on either side of the street. By all appearances, they were driving through the heart of a city, yet they were definitely still underground.

The SUVs wended their way through traffic, turning left here, right there, then going straight ahead for a time before making additional turns. It wasn't long before Sunny had completely lost track of the way they had come. Bubba glanced over his shoulder at her, his expression conveying a similar sentiment: if they had to get out of wherever they were in a hurry, it wouldn't be easy.

They drove past shops, restaurants, hotels, office buildings, two hospitals, a fire department and police station, a lot of apartment buildings, even a car dealership. They saw signs for the Quantum Physics Café, the Down Under Day Spa, Chainsaw Charlie's Steaks & Chops, Big Mama Boron's Music & Books, even an office with a sign for Dr. Payne's Extreme Dentistry (at this Bubba and Sunny exchanged worried looks). They drove down streets with names such as Rocket Ship Alley and Pitot Tube Place, Einstein Street, Copernicus Way, and Bare Eyeball Boulevard.

They traversed a bridge spanning a blue river. Lush green trees lined the sidewalks, growing at regular intervals out of large squares of dirt.

A queue of chattering people lined the sidewalk leading to The Globe Movie Theatre with a glowing, neon-lit marquee reading: Double Feature! Go-Boy . . . Forever: The Director's Cut! & Go-Boy . . . Unleashed! Colby grinned proudly.

Next door to the theater was the Under Ground Coffee Shop, with plenty of outdoor seating and people chatting and enjoying their beverages. On the corner next to the coffee shop was the Sub-Sonic Drive-In & Eatery. It was a perfect reproduction of a 1950s-style drive-in, a piece of vintage Americana. Smiling waitresses in short skirts and checkered blouses whirled about on white roller skates, carrying trays to and from the parked cars full of jubilant guests, all bathed in a rainbow of neon light. Bubba craned his neck toward the drive-in as they passed. The heady aroma of frying French fries and sizzling hamburgers filled the air.

They took a left onto Sweetwater Street. On the corner was Curly's Not So Newsworthy Stand, a small green building with a red and white striped awning covering rows and rows of magazines and newspapers. The SUVs drove past the newsstand and stopped, pulling over in front a casual-looking office building.

Sunny, Bubba, and Colby lay still, flattening themselves as much as possible against the roof. They heard both engines shut off and then the sounds of doors opening, then closing, followed by footsteps walking away. All three of them peeked up in time to see the men in the dark suits entering the building. Parker accompanied them through the tall, opaque frosted glass doors.

Sunny, Bubba, and Colby slid across the roof of the SUV, swinging their legs over the back. Across the street, the newsstand proprietor looked up from his newspaper. Colby's shoes touched the ground and he immediately fell down. He looked down at his feet and saw his shoelaces tied together.

"Very funny," said Colby.

Bubba dropped down to the street, laughing.

Sunny climbed down and saw the man watching them from across the street. He wore a white apron over his pants, a T-shirt and a long gray mustache under his nose. He nodded his head and Sunny, assuming this gentleman to be Curly, waved. Curly calmly went back to his paper.

Colby quickly untied his shoes and retied them correctly. He huddled behind the truck with Sunny and Bubba. "Something tells me we're not in Kansas, anymore, Toto," said Colby.

"Oh, don't say that," said Sunny.

"What do we do now?" asked Colby.

"Where are we?" asked Bubba.

"The other side of the rainbow?" offered Colby. "'Auntie Em, Auntie Em, get Toto, it's a twister, it's a twister!' 'I just want to tell you both: Good Luck; we're all counting on you.'"

"Enough, already," said Bubba, "you're scaring Sunny."

"I think I'm scaring you," said Colby.

"I think you need to shut up," replied Bubba.

"Well, I think—"

"I think you both need to shut up," hissed Sunny. "This isn't helping Parker. Now think! What're we going to do?"

Colby reached down and grabbed the white paper napkins out of Bubba's back pocket. "Is this your stash of toilet paper?" he asked Bubba, sorting out the napkins.

"No," answered Bubba, "why? You about to poop your pants?"

"You wish," said Colby. "Here, take one and do what I do." He thrust a napkin at each of them. He stood and trotted toward the tall glass doors. Sunny and Bubba followed. "I can't believe I'm going to do this," Colby said.

He pulled the door open and they marched inside.
Chapter 7

Eagles and Ink Pens

Sunny, Bubba and Colby stood in a massive lobby. It was colder than it had been outside on Sweetwater Street. It was very quiet. The silence seemed to echo. A vague aroma of coffee tinged the air.

To their left lay a pleasant-looking sitting area, with the usual sofa and chairs and coffee table and end tables. Pleasant though it may have been, no one was presently sitting there.

A gleaming, well-polished floor filled the center of the lobby. In the center was the image of an enormous, fierce-looking eagle with a piercing gold eye and a razor-sharp beak. Its wings spread out over a solid midnight-black background of polished marble. In each of its talons it clutched two red-and-white striped candy canes, crisscrossing each other. In its beak it held a sweeping banner with strange words.

"What language is that, Sunny?" asked Bubba.

"Latin," Sunny replied. "Aspicio illa dulcis specialis."

"What does that mean?" Bubba asked.

"I'm not sure," said Sunny.

"Can I help you?"

Stationed across the lobby, a receptionist sat perched behind a mahogany desk. She stared at them as if she'd just watched three hissing cockroaches scurry under the door into her pristine lobby.

Colby screamed, a high-pitched wail. Like a teenaged girl at a rock concert.

Sunny and Bubba jumped. Even the bird-like receptionist flinched.

"COLBY!!!!!!!" wailed Colby. He began jumping up and down.

Sunny and Bubba followed his line of sight and saw Parker and the four men in dark suits standing near the elevator, waiting for the car to arrive. Sunny began hopping up and down with Colby and shrieking along with him. Bubba saw her glance sideways at him. He began hopping and leaping and waving his napkin in the air as they were. He followed them as they ran over to Parker and the four men.

"Colby, Colby!" yelled Colby, "can I have your autograph?" He waved his napkin at Parker. Sunny and Bubba joined in. All three of them leaped up and down, shrieking and calling out "Colby! Colby!" They waved their white napkins in the air, shoving them toward Parker.

The elevator dinged and the silver doors slid open. Colby shoved Bubba from behind. Bubba stumbled into Parker, who fell backwards into the four men as they retreated into the elevator. Colby grabbed Sunny by the wrist and pulled her into the elevator just as the doors slid closed.

Sunny, Bubba, and Colby jumped up and down, still demanding an autograph. The elevator became a tangled, crowded cacophony of shrieking kids and angry men in dark suits poking and prodding and jostling for position.

In the center of it all stood Parker. At the sight of his friends, relief surged through him. Then another emotion welled-up within him: concern. Concern for his friends and their safety. Oddly enough, he found himself stifling a laugh at the sight of his two best friends and the one-and-only Colby Max all waving Bubba's extra napkins and jumping up and down in an elevator. This was apparently their attempt at some sort of rescue effort.

"QUIET!"

Sunny, Bubba and Colby stopped jumping up and down. They quelled their exuberant demands for a signature. Jim stood with his hands in the air as if he'd just finished conducting an orchestra. The other three men stood looking at him as well.

"Don't you kids know better than to jump up and down in an elevator?" said Jim.

Parker met Bubba's sly gaze. He knew Bubba was recalling the many occasions on which they had searched Sky City South to find an empty elevator car for the sole purpose of jumping up and down in it, particularly just as it accelerated downward. When combined with an appropriately-timed leap into the air, one was afforded a half second of joyous, slightly terrifying weightlessness. It was a staple of their entertainment diet and had been for years.

"This installation is rather old. The cables could snap," Jim continued. "We'd plummet to the bottom of the elevator shaft and get flattened like pancakes."

"Pancakes?" Bubba said hopefully.

"And not to mention all this yelling," said Jim, ignoring Bubba. "It hurts my eardrums. When we're indoors we use our indoor voices. Do you understand?"

Sunny and Bubba nodded their heads in exaggerated understanding. Neal and Bob stood behind Jim, nodding along absently.

Parker caught Colby rolling his eyes and then quickly pretending to scratch an itch on his brow in an attempt to conceal his disgust.

"Good," said Jim. He smiled kindly down at Sunny, Bubba and Colby. "Now," he continued, in a voice which you might use to address three children who were currently someplace they weren't supposed to be, "I'm not sure how you discovered Mr. Max would be arriving here today."

Colby scowled at hearing Parker referred to as 'Mister Max,' so Parker puffed himself up accordingly.

Jim continued, "Though I suspect you were across the street at the newsstand perusing your latest comic books and happened to see us arrive."

Sunny began nodding enthusiastically at this proposed explanation for their presence. She looked at Bubba, still nodding, and he bobbed his head in unison.

"Normally you'd have been hauled out by your earlobes by now," continued Jim, "but seeing as how we're having a visit from such a big star, I suppose we can make an exception long enough for you to get his autograph." Parker puffed himself further. Colby scowled again. "That is," said Jim, "if Colby doesn't mind."

Parker found Jim grinning down at him, though the hospitality felt a tad feigned.

"Well," said Parker, "since I am such a big star, I don't mind taking time for the little people." He looked directly at Colby and grinned. "May I borrow a pen?" He took the napkin from Colby.

Jim procured a pen from a pocket inside his coat and Parker took it and prepared to write, noticing the pen was covered in red and white stripes. One end of the pen was hooked, and it was sheathed in tight clear plastic wrap. By all accounts it was part writing utensil, part actual candy cane. "What did you say your name was?" Parker asked. He smiled and affected a vague, dismissive air.

Colby, however, did not smile. Nor did he answer Parker's question. The only sound was the distinct whistling of breath through Jack's nose. Everyone turned and looked at him, even Parker and Colby.

"Sorry," he muttered, "deviated septum. Croquet accident last summer at the company picnic." He took a surreptitious gulp of air through a corner of his mouth and then held his breath. The whistling stopped.

"Just make it out to Parker," said Sunny, and everyone's attention returned to the autograph session at hand.

"To . . . my . . . good . . . friend . . . Parker," said Parker as he wrote on the napkin. The pen's ink flowed alternately from green to red, creating a festive scrawl on the white paper. "Pull up . . . to make the houses . . . get smaller. Yours truly . . . Colby . . . Max!" He scribbled the signature in the flamboyant fashion he'd seen Colby use in Sky City Hobbies & Toys. He smelled a pleasant, mint aroma. He looked up at Jim. "Peppermint?"

"With a touch of cinnamon." Jim smiled and winked at him. Parker handed the signed napkin to Colby.

"Gee. Thanks," said Colby. He took the napkin as though Parker had just blown his nose into it.

"Don't mention it. Maybe one day you can get lucky like me and be chosen to be a star despite having no talent whatsoever."

"Actually, I think you're quite brilliant," countered Colby, "and I hear you work long, grueling hours."

"No, not really," replied Parker. "Mostly it's just standing around looking pretty while people fuss over you, followed by thirty seconds of actual work. You know, reciting profound messages of inspiration. Things like, 'Take it to the max.'"

Colby batted his eyes and forced a broad. "But surely flying the Go-Boy suit requires a tremendous amount of talent and bravery."

"Actually," said Parker, "with a bit more special effects, a blindfolded monkey could do my job."

Colby's fists curled into tight balls. His knuckles turned white. The autographed napkin protruded thoroughly crumpled from one hand.

"Can I be next?" chimed Sunny. She'd seen Colby's fury brewing, seen him struggling to choose between maintaining their cover as hapless fans or berating Parker for the assault on his acting profession and allegedly undeserved stardom. Sunny handed her napkin to Parker, coyly turning her head. She fidgeted playfully with the front of her shirt while she kept her eyes on Parker, whose attention was finally distracted from his escalating showdown with Colby. "My name's Sunny," she said. "You're much cuter in person than in the movies."

Parker stopped writing and looked up at her, then at Colby, meeting his gaze. To whom was Sunny referring as cute? To Colby, the actual star of the Go-Boy films, or Parker, his recently-mistaken alter ego? Parker looked up at Jim and Jack, and at Neal and Bob, both of whom were hovering at the rear of the elevator car. They all seemed to be content with their own thoughts as the elevator descended smoothly, but Parker suspected their inattention was disingenuous, and when Neal's eyes darted from whatever was so keenly interesting on the ceiling of the elevator car down to Parker and then suddenly back up again, Parker knew they were all paying close attention.

"I've always wanted to meet you," said Sunny, again capturing Parker's gaze. "All my friends at school say your movies are the greatest. But without you, they'd be really boring."

"Oh yeah?" said Parker. He looked at Colby.

Colby stared grimly back at him.

"Yeah," said Sunny, "and I've saved all the articles about you, about how you work eighteen-hour days for a month straight, and you never get to see your friends, and how, on the Go-Boy . . . Unleashed shoot down in the Bahamas, your agent said you insisted on performing your own stunts, for your fans' sake, and you were nearly killed in a terrible explosion." Sunny was really laying it on thick.

"You know me," said Parker, "You gotta keep your fans happy. First rule of show-business!" He winked at Colby. Colby stared coldly back at him. "The second rule, of course, is always leave 'em wanting more, so here you go." He handed Sunny the napkin with his phony signature scrawled in minty-fresh red and green ink.

"Thanks," said Sunny, "you're the best—"

"Enough!" exclaimed Colby, "I can't take it any more! I am the real Colby Max! Not him!"

Jim and Jack looked at Colby, then Parker, and then looked at each other. Clearly they did not want to go back on sanitation duty.

"What are you talking about, kid?" asked Jim.

"I'm Colby Max!" repeated Colby. "I'm the famous actor. I'm the movie star. I'm the one who almost got blown up in the Bahamas working eighteen-hour days! It should be me autographing these stupid napkins! They wouldn't even be here if it weren't for me!" He threw his crumpled napkin on the floor of the elevator and looked around at everyone.

Silence filled the car, punctuated by the whistling in Jack's nose.

"Well?" said Jim, looking down at Parker.

Parker felt all eyes come to rest on him. "Well what?" he replied. "Obviously the kid is nuts. He's just some crazy fan. I mean, look at his jacket. I wear that on the show but I wouldn't be caught dead in that get-up in real life!"

Jim considered Colby in his flight jacket, as did everyone else.

Colby stood with his mouth open, his eyes so wide they bulged out of their sockets, so clearly affronted was he by the insult Parker hurled at his trademark flight jacket. He blinked once, then twice. His mouth closed then opened again, though he neither spoke nor made any sound at all. The only sound continued to be the whistle of Jack's deviated septum.

Ding. The elevator chimed pleasantly and rumbled gently to a halt. The silver doors opened. Nobody moved.

"Jimbo?" said Jack. "You want me to take these three up stairs and get rid of 'em?"

Parker snuck a glance at Sunny, then Bubba. What did Jack mean . . . get rid of 'em? That phrase presented a broad range of possibilities . . . everything from a train ride back to Kingdom City to . . . what? Incarceration? A bullet in the back of the head, like they did to the prisoners of war shown on SuperVision? Or did it mean a poisoned cheeseburger served by a roller-skating waitress at the drive-in across the street?

"Nah," drawled Jim after a long consideration. "Let's let General Ramsey have a go at 'em. I ain't going back on sanitation 'cause we brought the wrong kid."

Parker chanced another sideways look at Sunny, but she was still watching Jim. This meeting with General Ramsey had to be better for Sunny, Bubba and Colby than being "gotten rid of" per Jack's suggestion. If nothing else, they would at least remain together. Perhaps long enough to make a break for it. Perhaps long enough to find a way home.
Chapter 8

Subsuperdumbatoonerismology

Sunny, Bubba and Colby marched down the long hall away from the elevator. Parker walked behind them, followed closely by Jim, Jack, Neal and Bob. Shiny metal doors lined either side of the hallway suffused with stark, economic white light emanating from light fixtures overhead. Parker noticed as they walked past the many doors that not one of them bore a nameplate, a number, nor any signs of any kind. The doors were identical. He wondered how you navigated a building devoid of information pertaining to your location.

"Through there, please," said Jim. He motioned to a nameless, nondescript door at the end of the hallway.

Sunny reached the door first and tried the handle. It turned easily and the door swung open, revealing a large room with a long wooden conference table in the center flanked by high-backed black leather chairs. Black leather sofas and easy chairs lined the perimeter of the room, punctuated by small circular tables with green-glassed brass reading lamps with little pull-chains. It produced a confusing mixture of corporate board room and leisurely after-dinner cognac-sipping parlor.

"Wait here, please," said Jim. He disappeared through a side door. Parker examined the room and watched Jack exit through a door separate from Jim. Neal and Bob left through separate doors on the opposite side of the room. If he and the other kids hadn't been the unwitting guests in a weird boardroom somewhere beneath a secret underground city, Parker might have been tempted to laugh at the almost Vaudevillian series of rapid-fire departures by the men who hours ago had by all rights kidnapped him, though seemingly accidentally, from an urban toy store.

He hurried to the door through which they entered and tried the handle. The handle wouldn't budge. He trotted to the next closest door, the one through which Jim had exited, and found it likewise impassable.

"What are you doing?" said Sunny.

"Trying to find a way out of here," said Parker. He scurried around the room, trying each door handle in succession, each time without success. "I don't know what's worse, being kidnapped by G-men on my birthday or being mistaken for him." He thrust his chin at Colby, who had taken a seat at the head of the massive mahogany table. Colby propped his feet up, apparently deciding that if he were forced to wait for this mysterious General Ramsey then he would at least do it in the leisurely manner suggested by the room in which he was required to do so. The only articles Colby lacked were a red velvet smoking jacket, a ridiculously large brandy snifter containing an ounce or two of alarmingly expensive thirty-year-old liquor, and perhaps a drooping pipe clamped between his teeth, clicking against his tooth enamel as he spoke, issuing trivial appraisals such as "Jolly good" and "Smashing, darling" as if he strode bored-as-can-be through his Southern plantation home or around the deck of an immaculate ocean liner lazily traversing the Atlantic.

Parker was awakened from this reverie by the violent opening of a fifth door he had failed to see. Its paneling matched the walls of the room and he'd overlooked it entirely. A tall, broad-shouldered man entered the room. His silent approach was made all the more impressive by his undeniable presence. He wore a dark blue military uniform, though it was difficult to tell from which branch he hailed, as there rested a pair of silver wings over one breast, a gold anchor over the other, several gleaming stars on his epaulettes, and a half-dozen stripes decorating his sleeves. Multi-colored bars and emblems gleamed in the usual location over his heart. His forward momentum ceased abruptly and he froze. He stood unmoving. All of his senses seemed to absorb the location and status of every object and being in the room around him.

"Good afternoon." His buttery-deep voice rolled with conviction and authority. There could be no mistake: it was indeed afternoon and a good one at that. "Obviously, I am General Ramsey. And, obviously, I am in charge here." He paused, long enough to study each of them in turn, long enough to ascertain that their appraisal of his authority was absolute. "I am going to ask a question. And as we all agree I am in charge here and am therefore a very busy man, I trust you will not find me rude when I say I only have time to ask this question once." He looked around the room, allowing time for his words to sink in. No one moved.

"I have been informed as to the particulars of your arrival here today," said the General, "including the keen observations of Mr. Constantine Curly. Constantine is our local newsstand proprietor and a notorious gossip. I have been briefed by our operatives in Mr. Glaze's Donuts & Fritters, and also by one Samuel Finchely, astute doorman of Sky City Plaza North. Lastly, I have expressed my appreciation for the help of Mr. Timothy Alvin, our appointed toy store manager as of two days ago. I am man enough to admit I would be lying if I denied being impressed with your actions thus far. So, my question, then, is as follows . . . ."

General Ramsey spoke slowly, annunciating every word, delivering every syllable with the silver-tongued surety of a man seldom questioned.

"Which of you . . . is . . . Colby Max?"

Parker's gaze shot toward Colby. Colby stared starkly back at him. Parker glanced at Bubba, then at Sunny, who gave him the slightest of nods, confirming what he had already decided: it was time to stop screwing around and come clean. It was time to set straight just who was who. This was clearly not a game and General Ramsey was not the kind of man to suffer fools lightly. Even if it had been his own people who foolishly apprehended the wrong Colby Max.

Parker and Colby each raised a finger, pointed at one another and echoed in perfect unison: "He is."

General Ramsey stiffened, almost audibly, and seemed to stand up even taller. He spoke, quietly, soft as a librarian. "This is not the answer I was expecting. If I have to, I'll take you across town to Doctor Payne's dental practice and personally supervise as he slowly extracts one tooth at a time from each of your heads in order to compare them with your dental records until I receive a satisfactory answer to my question." General Ramsey looked back and forth between the boys. "This is not an idle threat. It is a tried-and-true method of personal identification, albeit an extreme one. I don't like pulling teeth to gain information. But we're in the middle of a war, and this is very serious."

General Ramsey snapped his fingers. Side doors opened and Jim, Jack, Neal and Bob entered. Each took a few steps into the room and then snapped to attention. General Ramsey turned slowly to Jim. "Mr. Kelly, do you recall being summoned to my office a few days ago?"

"Yes, sir," said Jim.

"Do you recall being entrusted with a photograph of Colby Max?"

"Yes, sir," said Jim. He sounded nothing like the easy-going guy on the train who'd shown Parker the night-vision glasses.

"What happened to the photograph of Colby Max I gave you?"

"Sir," replied Jim, "the photograph got thrown away, sir."

"Thrown away?" repeated General Ramsey, very quietly.

"Yes, sir," spat Jim. "Two days ago, sir. We stopped at Mr. Glaze's Donuts & Fritters during our preliminary reconnoiter of the toy store, sir. The photograph was, regrettably, mixed up with refuse and discarded."

"And what," muttered General Ramsey, "did you eat during your respite at Mr. Glaze's fine establishment?"

"Jack ate a bear claw, Neal ordered an apple fritter, Bob requested a chocolate éclair, and I enjoyed a glazed donut followed immediately by a maple bar. Sir."

"A glazed donut and a maple bar?"

"Yes, sir," said Jim. "Lacy and I are still trying for a baby and were up late, so I'd overslept that morning and missed breakfast, sir."

"I see. And were there liquid refreshments to accompany your sweets?" asked General Ramsey. He grinned ever-so-slightly.

"Yes, sir!" answered Jim. "Chocolate milks all around."

"Chocolate milk. Of course. That's a fine recollection of your snack, Mr. Kelly," said General Ramsey, most sincerely.

"Thank you, sir." Jim beamed.

"Let me make certain I understand you correctly," said General Ramsey. "You just told me precisely what each of the four of you ate and drank during an on-duty visit to an out-of-bounds food establishment two days ago. Yet you cannot remember the physical appearance and description of your target long enough to properly acquire it. Is that what you're telling me?"

Jim didn't answer. He stopped beaming.

Beads of sweat appeared one by one on Jim's forehead. The only sound in the room was Jack's deviated septum whistling like a teapot.

"Perhaps if you took another six months to practice your sanitation skills, it might also improve your memory in areas less concerned with pastries," said General Ramsey. "You might even find the photograph I entrusted to you."

"Yes, sir!" answered Jim.

Parker could not begin to fathom the meaning of another six months of sanitation duty, whatever sanitation duty entailed exactly. Nevertheless, he felt sympathy for Jim, Jack, Neal and Bob. They had kidnapped him on his birthday, of that there was no doubt, but they had treated him well overall, and he supposed that were he ever again kidnapped, he hoped to be shown the same courtesy and friendship as he had been shown by Jim and his crew, despite the glaring fact that they had indeed snatched the wrong person entirely, a fact so sublimely illustrated by General Ramsey.

"I wonder . . ." said General Ramsey. He took a few steps. His gaze considered the carpet. His hands slid into in his pockets. He resembled a man strolling in the park, deep in thought, staring absently at birdseed scattered on the path around him.

Parker took his eyes off the General long enough to sweep around the room. Jim's Adam's apple bobbed up and down against the knot of his black necktie as he swallowed nervously. Jack's septum sounded as though it were about to boil over. Neal and Bob stared off into space as though they'd been hired as mannequins perched in the storefront window of a men's clothier, perhaps Drab Black Suits 4-Less or What To Wear When You're Being Yelled At By A Really Scary Tall Guy. Sunny stood wringing her hands together like she did last year when she'd won the sixth grade spelling bee at school after the agonizing spelling-out of some really long word. Parker had later learned the winning word had something to do with the study of dog whistles. Bubba looked cool as a cucumber, though Parker knew inwardly Bubba was about as cool as molten lava. Colby was still sitting down, though he no longer had his legs crossed on the table. He suddenly looked more like a scared kid about to get the third-degree than he did an ocean-going yuppie socialite drawn from the pages of contemporary American literature.

"I wonder . . ." General Ramsey said again. He strolled around the room. Almost casually.

No one else moved.

Parker swept his eyes around the room again. Nothing had changed: Jim, Jack, Neal and Bob were staring fixedly into space while Sunny, Bubba and Colby were observing General Ramsey.

The General took a few more paces, then turned on his heel and paced slowly back toward the hidden door through which he'd entered.

The seconds ticked away into minutes that crawled like hours. Parker wished somebody would say something. He wished the General would finish his sentence. He wished Jack's nose would stop whistling. He wished he could yell some four-letter words. He wished he were back home, staring down at the city from his bedroom window as he had that morning, before he knew about any of this, before he knew his dad wasn't coming home.

Most of all, he just wanted to get this over with. Whatever it was Jim had meant on the way here, this audition or interview or whatever, he couldn't stand all this waiting, all this deafening silence. This was worse than the seven agonizing minutes Sunny had needed to spell her winning word.

"I . . ." said General Ramsey, for the third time, "wonder . . . ."

Parker snapped. "What?! You wonder what?!"

Everyone looked at him, even General Ramsey.

Parker studied the General, ready for the coup de gras of angry adult admonishments. General Ramsey, however, smiled.

"There!" he said, and pointed at Parker. "That's what I'm talking about." His eyes flashed around the room, pausing on each one of them in turn. He seemed to expect them to understand precisely what he meant, as though this clarified everything. "That's the . . . the . . . fire! The . . . savvy! The . . . courage I need for this project. That's the go-getter attitude I knew I could expect from Colby Max!" He strode over to Parker and leaned down so they were eye to eye.

This was a strange birthday and growing stranger all the time. Parker was fairly certain he had just been praised for blowing his top, something he seemed to do at least once or twice a week at school, where his reward was usually writing 'I Will Not Snore In Class" five hundred times on the board with laser chalk, or sifting dead crickets out of the sand at the bottom of the gecko tanks with his fingers, the rotten-bug poop smell of which wouldn't wash off for days.

General Ramsey straightened up and looked around expectantly.

Parker marched over to Colby, who still sat at the head of the long conference table, apparently practicing invisibility. He leaned close to Colby, so he could speak quietly. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing."

"Exactly!" Parker muttered through gritted teeth. "This guy thinks I'm you."

"I know."

"Tell him I'm not."

"No way!" hissed Colby. "I wanna get the heck outta here."

"So do I."

"You weren't in such a hurry while signing autographs in the elevator," said Colby.

"That was different. That was a few scribbles on a napkin. This is serious!"

"Is there a problem?" asked General Ramsey.

Parker looked over his shoulder and saw the General standing with his arms folded across his chest. "Uh, yes," Parker began tentatively, "uh . . . I'm not Colby Max. He is."

"Liar!" shouted Colby.

Parker whirled around, mouth open, eyes wide. He couldn't believe the ardor of Colby's refusal to admit the truth.

"Colby!" shouted Sunny. Everyone looked at her, then back at the boys, trying to discern to whom she was speaking, at who she was looking.

Parker looked satisfactorily down at Colby only to find Colby already grinning up at him. They were getting nowhere fast.

General Ramsey walked over to Parker and Colby and looked each of them up and down. "If you like, we can stay here while Jim gets Dr. Payne on the phone," said the General. No one spoke. The General pulled out a chair and sat down, kicking his heels up on the table as Colby had earlier.

Parker stared at Colby. Colby stared back at him for a moment before turning casually away, as if he were a stranger with whom he'd made accidental eye contact. Parker sighed. This was ridiculous. There had to be a simple way to prove his identity. Other than tooth extraction.

He had an idea.

"Subsuperdumbatoonerismology!" he shouted in triumph.

The uncomprehending silence was deafening.

Parker looked at Sunny as if he'd just said two plus two equaled four, as it obviously did. She looked back at him as if he'd said two plus two equaled 14,863, as it obviously did not.

"I beg your pardon?" said General Ramsey.

"Sub-super-dumb-a-tooner-ism-ology," Parker said.

"You'll have to excuse me," said General Ramsey, "whoever you are. I heard you just fine. But I've no idea what you're talking about."

"Sub. Super. Dumb-a-toon. Erism. Ology," said Parker.

"Dog whistles," mused Sunny. All heads turned to her. A smile stole across her lips. "The study of canine hearing loss due to dog whistles. From the spelling bee last year. How did you remember?"

"Because you won," said Parker.

Sunny smiled.

"And because Bubba said he wanted to be a subsuperdumbatoonerismologist."

"I did?" asked Bubba.

"Yeah, you said there had to be a way to engineer a more humane dog whistle," said Parker.

"Oh yeah. I did say that." Bubba smiled. "I love dogs."

"This is relevant . . . why?" asked Colby.

"Brilliant."

Everyone looked at the General.

"Just brilliant," he said again. He smiled as he stood. "Only a friend of Sunny's would have access to such information. And only a true friend would remember such a delightful word. And as Sunny only just met the real Colby Max this afternoon, making him a veritable stranger to her, the real Colby Max couldn't possibly know anything about her knowledge of the study of dog whistles, thereby making it impossible," -he pointed at Parker- "for you to be him! Thus, the real Colby Max . . . ." He whirled and pointed at Colby. "Is you!"

Colby looked none too happy about the General's mental gymnastics.

"However," said General Ramsey, "I'm afraid another problem exists." He immediately became pensive once more. His eyebrows furrowed. He cradled his chin in his hand. He considered Parker and Colby. "I felt sure Colby Max would be brave. Confident. Ready to face any challenge head-on, no matter how great, no matter how grave the potential consequences. I see, now, I was mistaken." He stared down at Colby. Condescension dripped from the medals of General Ramsey's uniform.

"Are you done?" asked Colby. "Because my parents are probably worried sick. My band, Colby's Kids, is headlining at The Crow Bar in Manhattan tonight—Sunny you're invited—which means it's going to be a late night, since we probably won't go on until at least ten, especially if Poo's stand-up routine goes long like it did last week. I'll be lucky if I get two hours of sleep. And I have a front page photo shoot at nine a.m. for this Sunday's edition of The American. At the risk of sounding like an old man, I need a nap. So I'd like to be going now."

"Sir. If I may?" said Jim.

"Yes, Mr. Kelly?" said General Ramsey.

"Would you like me to take care of the excess targets now, sir?"

"And which ones, exactly, are the excess targets, Jim?"

"Everyone but him, sir." He looked squarely at Parker. Parker saw no trace of the easy-going, conversational guy from the transcontinental subterranean bullet-train journey. He found it strange, a little scary even, that a person's demeanor could be turned on and off that way, like the light switch in his bedroom. Maybe that was the way you had to be for government work. Not to mention the fact that Jim was talking about 'taking care of' Sunny and Bubba, his two best friends in the world. What 'taking care of' involved he still wasn't sure. It sounded as ominous and callous as Jim's voice.

"No, Jim," said General Ramsey, "though I appreciate your offer."

"Of course, sir." Jim returned to his stoic position.

"I'm afraid," said General Ramsey, "that you can't leave, Colby. None of you can." Parker, Sunny, Bubba and especially Colby looked hard at the General. His steely eyes swept over them like cold water as he spoke. "As a matter of national security, your departure is, in fact, quite impossible."
Chapter 9

Blast Doors and Mammoth Snot

"Impossible?" said Parker.

The likelihood of his friends finding a swift means out of this mess seemed to be decreasing with every noisome whistle of Jack's nose.

"Yes," said General Ramsey. "Impossible." He turned to Parker. "Let's take a walk."

"Just me?" Parker asked. He desperately wanted to remain with his friends, lest they find out firsthand what it meant to be taken care of as Jim had offered. Parker even wanted Colby to hang around.

General Ramsey surveyed each of them in turn. He narrowed his eyebrows and squinted his eyes as if he'd misplaced his eyeglasses. Parker could feel the anticipation pouring out of Sunny and Bubba. Colby sat stiff and upright in the black leather chair at the head of the conference table. He looked worried.

"For the time being," began General Ramsey, "I think it best if," he paused mid-sentence and Parker wanted to kick him in the shins, "your little friends . . .," General Ramsey grinned, "accompany us. For now."

Parker exhaled, as did Sunny and Bubba. Colby leaned back in his chair. Even the four suited men standing nearby looked relieved.

"Mr. Kelly. Call up to the hangar," said General Ramsey. "Tell them we're on our way. Dismissed."

"Yes, sir!" In perfect unison Jim and the other men stepped back sharply and faced about, then departed through the various doors.

"Follow me." The General turned on his heel, spinning around to face the opposite direction just as the other men had. Parker wondered if the maneuver was meant to impress or if it were more the result of the intense training and deeply ingrained discipline required to fight for freedom. He envisioned his dad, surrounded by empty streets and crumbling buildings. Sweaty in his dirty helmet and salty uniform. Holding his black assault rifle. Snapping off a sharp salute, then turning on his heel as the General had, leading a swarm of proud American teenagers into battle. Into the smoke and fear of a deafening gunfight. The tireless struggle for freedom.

The General cleared his throat.

He stood at the hidden door with Sunny, Bubba and Colby. They were all waiting for him.

"Parker," said Sunny, "General Ramsey asked if you're coming."

"Actually I asked if you preferred I carry you to the hangar by your ankles."

Parker's mom had always told him to respect authority figures. His dad told him to know when he was being mistreated. "You attract more flies with honey than with vinegar, General. Isn't that right, Bubba?"

"That's what my mom says every time I forget to say, 'please,'" said Bubba.

No one spoke. In the absence of Jack's howling septum, the conference room was truly quiet. Parker heard a faint ringing in his ears as air molecules collided with his eardrums.

At last, General Ramsey spoke. "Your mother sounds like a very wise woman, Mr. Black. My apologies, Parker. I meant no disrespect. However, if I am curt with you it is because time is of the essence."

"'I think fast and I talk fast," said Colby, "and I need you to act fast if you want to get out of this. If my help's not appreciated, lots of luck, gentlemen.' 'So he hid the watch in the one place he knew they'd never find it: his ass.' 'I gotta have more cow bell.'" Colby clamped both hands over his mouth, muffling his voice as he continued speaking.

"Is he okay?" asked General Ramsey, looking at Sunny and Bubba.

"He does that," said Sunny. "He's on medication."

General Ramsey nodded, watching as Colby went on muttering beneath his hands clamped over his mouth.

"Why?" demanded Parker. "Why is time of the essence? What are we doing here? What is this place? What is going on?"

"And how do you know my last name?" asked Bubba.

"Time will tell," said General Ramsey. "Please, bear with me just a bit longer. All of you." He surveyed each of them.

Parker was seriously considering plopping his fanny down in one of the big black conference chairs and refusing to bear with General Ramsey one more iota until he started coughing up some actual answers, not this 'time will tell' hogwash. Still, beneath the blatantly forced smile on General Ramsey's tanned face, beneath the calm exterior of his perfect haircut, shiny shoes, and immaculate medals, Parker knew there lurked a man quite capable of carrying him by his ankles to places thus far referred to only as 'the hangar.'

"Parker," said General Ramsey, "would you kindly allow me to escort you upstairs? I think you'll find some of the answers you're looking for."

This was the General's attempt at extending the proverbial olive branch, withered and forced as it may be. Parker went to the door and walked through. The others followed. Colby brought up the rear, with both hands still clamped over his mouth.

General Ramsey led them through a hallway identical to the first. For a moment it seemed they must have left the conference room the same way they had entered. At the far end of the hallway, they boarded another elevator. The shiny silver doors swept shut and Parker opened his mouth to ask the General if they were by chance going back the way they'd come.

"A visually unremarkable structure with a maze-like interior will be disadvantageous to an attacking enemy," said General Ramsey. "You're not the first one to wonder about these boring hallways."

"What do you mean by dis . . . advan . . . contagious?" said Bubba.

"He means they'll get lost," said Sunny.

"Quite right, Miss Harper," said General Ramsey. "Clever girl."

"'S.R. Hadden.' 'The pit is completely enclosed.' 'And it's full of leathery objects, like eggs or something.' 'Oh no, not again!'" Colby began to sing: "'Hello my sweetie, hello my honey, hello my ragtime gal—'" He clamped his hand over his mouth again.

"How do you know our names?" asked Bubba.

"It's my job to know things," replied the General.

"So you knew I wasn't Colby Max?" said Parker.

"That's correct," said General Ramsey.

"Then why go through all that jazz about pulling teeth and Colby's picture getting lost? And all that stuff about Jim and the donuts?" asked Parker.

"It was a test," said the General, "of them. And you." He looked at Parker, then at Colby.

Colby spoke in an out-of-breath whisper, "'Everything is a test.'"

The elevator trundled along to who knew where for several minutes.

"Are we going up or—"

"Down," said General Ramsey, answering Parker's second question, again before he'd had the chance to ask it. "That's a good question," added the General, "it's wise to know your location at all times. You may need to escape. Or, heaven forbid, be rescued."

"Rescued from what?" asked Parker.

"Exactly," said the General.

Parker felt another twinge of disgust and impatience with General Ramsey's return to his archaic form of speech.

At last the elevator chimed, and then shuddered to a halt. The doors slid open to reveal a hallway. This one, however, looked different from the others. Instead of being lined with anonymous doors and nauseating fluorescent lights, the walls, floor, and ceiling were shiny silver just like the elevator doors. It looked like a giant air duct. He remembered the occasion when he'd been left with no other alternative than to go for help after Bubba had accidentally wedged himself into the air duct supplying cool, ionically-filtered air to his apartment. After standing on chairs and deftly unscrewing the air vent from the wall, he and Bubba had been in the process of crawling through the ventilation shaft. They thought surely they could establish a clandestine shortcut between their bedrooms. They hadn't gone more than a few yards before Bubba became lodged in a particularly tricky u-bend in the ductwork. Three hours later, the Sky City South Fire Department had pulled Bubba out by his feet, his entire body covered in a silicone-based industrial lubricant they used in maintaining their firefighting helicopters. Bubba looked like a wooly mammoth had sneezed on him.

Parker smiled to himself, wishing he could share the memory with Bubba. Despite Bubba's insistence that Parker promise to never again mention the incident, he knew Bubba would laugh about it.

General Ramsey stopped at the end of the hallway and opened a small panel hidden in the wall. Inside lurked a computerized keypad. The keys beeped as he rapidly punched a string of numbers. "Blast door," said the General. "A five thousand pound bomb could go off on the other side and you'd hardly feel it." He smiled proudly. There was a longer beep and the wall began to slide, revealing it to be not a wall but a massive door. Behind it lay another long silver hallway, a mirror of the one in which they now stood.

"Confusing, huh?" said General Ramsey, clearly pleased with the notion. He proceeded on and Parker followed him, as did Sunny, Bubba and Colby.

At the end of this identical silver hallway, General Ramsey again opened another small panel and punched a string of numbers.

"You guys sure have a lot of doors," said Bubba.

"You have no idea," said the General.

The wall slid open and behind it was a massive white room, the other end of which was too far away to see. The vast room was divided by a long hallway with walls made of a clear material Parker thought had to be transparent aluminum like on the monorails back home. More transparent walls subdivided each side of the room into many smaller compartments. The hallway and the subdivided rooms were alive with clusters of men and women wearing white lab coats, all bustling about, hovering over workbenches or staring into microscopes, climbing up and down ladders beside bizarre electronic and mechanical objects. The whirring sound of power tools could be heard, muted on the other side of the glass-like walls, along with the sounds of air wrenches and electric drills, even the stutter of electricity from an arc welder shooting up a fountain of blue and gold sparks.

"What's with the shower caps and booties?" said Colby.

Parker glanced over his shoulder at Colby, who until now had been silent, managing to contain his obscure outbursts.

"Those are clean rooms," said General Ramsey. He motioned to the men and women wearing blue and green elastic on their heads and feet. "Helps prevent static electricity, too. A lot of expensive nanoprocessors in here. They don't mix too well with static charge."

The General moved on down the hallway. "Sorry about all that teeth-pulling business back there," said the General. "You gotta look tough when you're the boss. I'm really not a bad guy. I even have children of my own. Of course, they're grown now and are about ready to start families of their own. They don't seem to call anymore or stop by just to say hi to their old mom and pop, like they used to. I guess people just get busy."

Colby burst out in song again, "'Cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon . . . .'" He clamped his hands over his mouth again.

They reached the end of the hallway and the last two clean rooms, between which lurked a massive silver door. The General paused and looked into one of the rooms, at a petite woman preparing to lift a heavy-looking metal block with a sleeve-like robotic arm.

"My dad's away, fighting in the war," said Parker. "And my mom's . . . ."

"My dad's off fighting the war, too," said Bubba, picking up the conversation where Parker left off.

"So are both my uncles," said Sunny. "And my brother died at the Battle of Sydney."

The expectation of an explanation seemed to turn to Colby. "My parents are in New York. My mom is my manager though I doubt she could manage to gain weight. My dad's my agent. He says I'm going to get an executive producer credit on our next film. If I ever get out of here." Colby looked blandly away from the tiny woman wearing the robotic arm as she waved the big metal block over her head like a feather.

"I was a military brat, too," said General Ramsey. "My dad was a decorated fighter pilot. He was shot down when I was about your age." He and Parker's eyes met. "I was in bed asleep when a missile slammed into his plane half a world away. Two days later, at his funeral, my mom cried behind her dark sunglasses as they folded an American flag into a triangle and handed it to her. The guns went off and the jets flew overhead in the missing man formation. Then she handed the flag to me."

"You must have been very sad," said Sunny.

"Yes, my dear, I was," said the General. "But, my dad was fighting for freedom, and for me that's enough. That's what I'm doing, too. And, to be perfectly honest, I need your help. I don't want to sound melodramatic, like in some bad movie," – he turned to Colby – "no offense," – Colby rolled his eyes – "but the whole world needs your help."

"For what?" said Parker. "This little tour has been great and all these science projects look real interesting and everything, but you still haven't said why I – we – are here. And don't say time will tell again."

General Ramsey grinned. "My friends, what I'm about to show you is the culmination of my life's work. And that of many, many other people as well, some of whom have even lost their lives in the process. On the other side of these doors is something you will never forget."
Chapter 10

The Real Deal

General Ramsey pecked out a code on a tiny number pad.

"Another door?" said Colby.

"Third time's a charm," said Bubba.

A yellow light flashed above their heads and a frantic hissing rush of air buffeted them before the door opened. Sunny took a step behind Parker and took hold of his arm.

"Pressurized door," said General Ramsey. "The hangar is open to the outside environment."

The door opened. Inside was what did indeed appear to be an aircraft hangar. An aircraft hangar for a massive aircraft, judging by the enormity of the cavernous space. A shiny concrete floor reflected the white fluorescent lights hundreds of feet above. On the back wall loomed a gigantic mural. An enormous painting. Bigger than any Parker had ever seen. Staring down at him loomed the eagle he had seen upstairs embossed on the lobby floor. It was huge. And completely lifelike. The fierce gold eye sparkled like a giant jewel. As Parker walked closer, the eye seemed to follow him. The pristine white feathers on its head and tipping its enormous brown wings looked so real he wanted to reach out and touch them. He felt sure they would be smooth and soft. The majestic bird held two humongous candy canes in its yellow feet, pinned inextricably by the black taloned claws. The eagle hovered over a midnight black background, creating the illusion of soaring out of a pitch-black night sky. In its beak flowed the same sweeping banner and strange writing. Parker wondered what the symbols meant. They seemed familiar; was it . . . Latin? Sunny would know. Parker looked away from the giant eagle. He still felt it staring down at him. Watching.

The other walls of the hangar seemed cut from the earth itself. Pure bedrock. Cold. Hard. Vast metal doors were cut into the rock at regular intervals, big enough for aircraft to pass through. He wondered what lurked behind them. Along the far wall sat an enormous hydraulic lift leading up to two massive metal doors. They were bigger than any of the others, activated by heavy machinery and perched on sliding tracks. The doors were presently closed but they no doubt led outside. General Ramsey's voice echoed in Parker's mind: it's wise to know your location at all times. You may need to escape. Parker studied the lift. It couldn't be too difficult to operate. If he could just get outside, he could run like the wind, back to Kingdom City. To his apartment. Where he would wait. For his dad, who would come home.

Parker turned his attention away from the lift and realized he had fallen behind the others. They walked quickly behind General Ramsey, who seemed to be leading them to a specific location within the hangar. He heard a whirring sound and looked over his shoulder.

Nearby was a curtained-off area. Through a break in the curtains floated what he could only describe as a flying saucer. An honest-to-goodness flying saucer. It hung suspended from a heavy-duty mechanical arm mounted high up on the rock wall, tethered by thick black cables. It hovered lazily over the floor of the hangar. The long safety cables attaching it to the arm hung slack as the craft floated soundlessly. A small team of researchers in white coats busily scribbled notes on electronic clipboards. Another man recorded the floating disc using a small digital camera.

A row of small windows banded the upper section of the craft. Inside these windows Parker saw a cockpit full of red light. Perched in the center of the cockpit with his hands pressed to a control panel sat a little grayish blue-green man with big black eyes.

Parker stopped and stared. He absently realized his mouth hung open, though he was too distracted and thoroughly flabbergasted to close it. The little man looked up, saw Parker watching him. He held up his hand and with three long, spindly fingers waved at Parker. Before Parker realized what he was doing, he raised his own hand and waved back. The little man smiled. Parker felt a strange sensation wash over him. He felt . . . joy. He smiled.

"Park," said Bubba, "you're missing this."

Parker looked around and saw Sunny, Bubba and Colby standing next to General Ramsey. They stood on the perimeter of a circle of white-coated people frantically writing on their computerized clipboards, all with their backs to Parker and the flying saucer.

"Guys, you wont believe it," said Parker. He watched the UFO hover effortlessly above the concrete floor.

"Parker!" shouted Bubba. The shout jolted Parker from his distracted trance. He knew Bubba meant business when he said his full name.

"What? What?" said Parker, trotting over to the perimeter of spectators. He hated to just walk away from the little pilot in the strange craft. He pushed his way to Bubba's side.

In the center of the small circle of people loomed a walking, moving, fully articulated, life-sized Go-Boy Battle-Suit. It wasn't an artificial shell like the Battle-Suit in the toy store. It wasn't connected to cables like in the movies. It wasn't being hoisted off the ground to simulate flight on a Hollywood sound stage or back lot. There was no computer animation. The Go-Boy Battle-Suit marched inside the circle of people. It moved its arms and legs and torso. It almost looked as though it were exercising.

It stopped, turned, and walked toward them. The massive metal feet clomped on the pavement. The mighty hands balled up into fists. The cockpit canopy shone a smoky black. As with every time he watched one of the Go-Boy movies, Parker felt awestruck. Goosebumps arose on his arms and he felt his scalp tingle. The Battle-Suit drew closer; it began to look dangerous. Parker's instincts screamed that he back away from it. His curiosity, however, kept him rooted firmly where he stood. The Battle-Suit stopped in front of them, no more than six feet away, and then didn't move.

Parker sneaked a peek at Bubba. Bubba's eyes conveyed it all: I don't believe it either.

The Battle-Suit raised its right hand and held it up, palm out. Its fingers wiggled. Was it waving? In the back of his mind Parker wondered about the flying saucer and the little green man inside. Until music began to play. Sound emanated from the Battle-Suit, just a drum beat at first, then the catchy addition of some electronic cymbals. Parker recognized the music immediately: Up, Up, and Away!, the Go-Boy theme song. The toe of one massive booted foot began to tap the shiny concrete floor. The hips started to move. The Battle-Suit swayed slightly, back and forth, back and forth. The music tempo increased as the arrangement progressed, as did the synchronous movements of the Battle-Suit. Parker couldn't believe it. He was looking at a real, fully-operational Go-Boy Battle-Suit.

And it was dancing.

Parker glanced at Bubba again. Bubba's mouth hung open. His eyes bulged. He stared transfixed at the machine dancing in front of them. On and on it went, dancing, bee-bopping as if to an Oldies tune, knees knocking, hips rocking as it did the Charleston. It squatted up and down, kicking its legs out at the knees in an impressive disco display. From a squat, the suit leaped into the air. It executed a crisp back handspring and landed on its hands. It danced while walking around upside down, then popped neatly upright again as the music concluded, arms spread wide.

General Ramsey strode toward the Battle-Suit, clapping his hands. The other scientists all put their clipboards under their arms and joined in the applause. The Battle-Suit bowed deeply like a Broadway star. Parker watched in awe as it blew kisses to the clapping spectators.

The applause subsided and General Ramsey spoke. "Ladies and gentlemen, fellow colleagues, distinguished guests," – he motioned to Parker and the others – "what you have just seen is a successful demonstration of this fully-operational—"

"'Battle Station!' " Colby said in a croaking, hissing, angry voice. He became much more serious, opened his eyes wide and tilted his head back. " 'And now, young Skywalker . . . you will die.' " Colby covered his mouth with his hand again, and his voice was reduced to a muffled mumbling. He held out a hand, inviting General Ramsey to please continue.

"What you have just seen," General Ramsey continued, still looking at Colby for any more interruptions, "is a successful demonstration of this fully-operational Go-Boy Battle-Suit." He looked back at Colby, waiting.

Colby stood breathing loudly through his nose with his hand still over his mouth.

General Ramsey surveyed the crowd around him and said, "I think it is now safe to say that after all your hard work, your long days, nights, and weekends, we are once again on schedule. Without all of you, God only knows where we would be." The General clapped his hands again and looked around at the group of men and women in the circle. They began to applaud as well. Parker really looked at them for the first time. They smiled and shook hands and hugged each other. General Ramsey's praise truly buffered their tired eyes and weary hearts.

Parker turned to Bubba, whose mouth still hung open as he stared at the Battle-Suit. Sunny stood close behind them. Parker's eyes met hers. "What do we do?" He mouthed the words clearly to be understood over the applause. Sunny shrugged her shoulders. Parker turned to Colby. Though Colby's hand no longer covered his mouth, his expression was clear: Don't look at me.

Parker turned back to the Battle-Suit and to General Ramsey. The General shook the hands of the scientists as they continued congratulating each other with hugs and more shaking of hands all around.

"That thing is for real?" asked Parker.

"I beg your pardon?" said General Ramsey, looking around to see who had spoken. The low hum of voices subsided.

"I said, that thing is for real?" repeated Parker.

"Indeed it is," said General Ramsey.

"But it can't be," said Parker. "Go-Boy is just a show. A movie. It's all special effects. It's not real."

"Right you are, Parker," said General Ramsey, "right you are. They are fake. This one, however, I assure you, is very much the real thing. This is the real deal."

Parker thought of the boy at the toy store, dejected and sobbing as his mother led him away after learning the Battle-Suit wasn't real. If only he could be here now.

General Ramsey beamed like Bubba's dad when Bubba won his first cage fight by way of a knockout eighteen seconds into the first round.

"How?" asked Parker. "I mean . . ." he stumbled over the speed of his own thoughts. "Who's the pilot?"

"Ah, yes. How kind of you to ask. Forgive me, won't you? Very rude of me. Everyone, please forgive me." He walked briskly to the Battle-Suit and once next to it Parker realized just how menacing the machine was. It stood like an unfeeling, immovable soldier, taller and wider than General Ramsey. Infinitely more foreboding. The General stood next to it and smiled as he placed a hand up on its massive shoulder. "Doctor, if you please."

One of the robotic hands moved up and tapped a button below the black canopy. It whisked open, revealing the beaming face of Igby Fry wearing a pressurized helmet. He looked just like he did on his life-sized cardboard cut-out at Sky City Hobbies and Toys.

Parker's mouth fell open again.

"I don't believe it."

Parker turned to Bubba and Sunny. They were staring at Igby nestled inside the Battle-Suit. It was Colby who had spoken.

"Thanks, everyone," said Igby. Inside his helmet, his voice sounded electronic as it came through the Battle-Suit speakers, as though Igby were calling from somewhere out in the blackness of space. There was another short round of applause. Igby stood inside the Battle-Suit clothed in a dark green iridescent flight suit. He pulled his arms out of the arms of the Battle-Suit and disconnected several flexible hoses from various locations on his flight suit. He released the red straps of his safety harness, climbed out of the cockpit and jumped down to the concrete floor. The black boots on his feet made barely any sound. They reminded Parker of pint-sized versions of the combat boots he'd seen his dad stow in the back of his closet during his last home visit. Igby pulled off his gloves and disconnected his helmet with a rushing release of pressurized air. He stuffed the gloves inside the helmet and handed it to a waiting technician. He removed his glasses and wiped his sweaty face and forehead on his sleeve. Parker noticed patches on the shoulders of Igby's flight suit. On one side, an American flag hologram fluttered in the wind whenever Igby moved. On the other side lurked the ferocious eagle squeezing candy canes in its talons. On Igby's chest was another patch with gold stitching spelling out his last name: FRY.

"The biofeedback processors need one more tiny adjustment," Igby said, replacing his glasses. Several of the nearby scientists scribbled frantically on their clipboards while Igby spoke. He undid the high neck of his flight suit, pulled the zipper down to his waist and wriggled the top half of his body out of it, then tied the sleeves in a knot in front of him. "The C.U. should've kicked-on while I was dancing. My guess is we forgot to reset the C.P. when we rebuilt the M.C.M. on the L.S.S. Should be an easy fix."

The scientists descended upon the Battle-Suit like a swarm. Parker heard the whirring and clicking of tiny electric screwdrivers as they went to work repairing the suit. A scientist handed Igby a white lab coat and Igby put it on, carefully rolling the sleeves up to his elbows and adjusting the identification badge clipped to the breast pocket. General Ramsey led Igby over to Parker and the others.

"Allow me to do the introductions," said the General. "This is Doctor Igby Fry, fellow star of the Go-Boy films and weekly SuperVision show. Dr. Fry is also Chief Technician for The Go-Boy Project. Dr. Fry, this is Parker Perkins, Sunny Harper and Bubba Black. Of course, you already know Colby."

"Hi, everyone," said Igby. "It's nice to meet you." Igby shook hands with Parker and Bubba, then with Sunny.

"That was some really good dancing," said Sunny. She and Igby shook hands.

"Oh, thanks, I guess," said Igby. He stuffed his fists deep into the front pockets of his lab coat and looked down at his boots. Parker looked back and forth between Sunny and Igby and got a funny feeling. He suddenly wished they were back at Sky City South, sitting on the sofa like they had this morning, with Sunny happily watching while he opened the brightly-colored birthday gift she'd given him.

"I don't believe it," Colby repeated.

"Don't believe what?" asked General Ramsey.

"What are you doing here?" asked Colby. He ignored General Ramsey's question.

"It's kind of a long story, Colby," replied Igby. "How'd the autograph session go at the toy store this morning? I heard things went a bit awry."

"Awry?" said Colby. "Awry? One minute I'm signing my John Hancock on a stack of my best eight-by-ten glossies and the next thing I know a bunch of junior G-men are kidnapping this clown instead of me!" Colby poked Parker in the shoulder.

"Don't do that," said Parker.

"Or what?" asked Colby. "You gonna sic the General on me? Have him yank all my teeth out? I don't think so. I'm getting out of here."

"You can't leave," said General Ramsey.

"Why not?" spat Colby.

"Because you don't yet know why you're here," replied the General.

"Sure I do," said Colby, "it's because I followed these two idiots." He motioned to Sunny and Bubba. "Though I have no idea why."

"Then doesn't that make you the idiot?" said Bubba.

Colby glared at him.

"If you'll grant me just a few more moments of your time, Colby," said General Ramsey, "I think I may be able to clear up a few things for you. Once you've heard what I have to say and you have considered all the information to make a proper decision, you may choose to leave if you still wish to do so."

"After I listen to you, I can split?" asked Colby.

"If you wish," replied the General.

"'As . . . you . . . wish.' 'Hello. My name is Inigo Mantoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.' 'Stop saying that!' " Colby clamped his mouth closed and curled his lips in until they turned white. He looked at Igby, standing there in his white lab coat, then at the swarm of scientists who had already dismantled much of the Battle-Suit. "Fine."

"Excellent!" said General Ramsey.

"'Stephen is my name,'" Colby blurted in an Irish accent, "'I'm the most wanted man on my island, except of course that I'm not on my island.'" His accent changed, became more . . . Scottish. "'But I do not want to go. You didn't want your father to die, either, but it happened.' 'FREE-DOM!'" Colby saw everyone was watching him. "Sorry. It's a medical condition."

"Didn't you say you had medication?" asked Bubba.

"Yeah," said Colby.

"Where is it? You need to double your dose."

"It's in my mom's purse, back at the toy store."

"Now, if you'll all come right this way," said General Ramsey, "I'd like to show you something." He led them toward the nearby rock wall, where several rows of upholstered, padded chairs were divided into two sections by an aisle. The chairs faced an impressive bank of computers and video monitors built into the bedrock. Seated at the station were a handful of technicians wearing blue lab coats.

"Everyone please take a seat," said General Ramsey. "Plenty of room here in the front."

Parker sat down between Sunny and Bubba, across the aisle from Colby and Igby. If not for the fact they were deep underground and there were flying saucers and a real Go-Boy Battle-Suit dancing around, he might've thought they were in a movie theater. A theater full of doctors in white and blue lab coats.

"Dr. Seabrook, are we ready?" asked the General.

A man standing at the console turned around. "One hundred percent, General."

"Excellent. Everyone, this is Dr. Sherman Seabrook."

Dr. Seabrook nodded and waved. Parker wanted to look over his shoulder to see the flying saucer, to find out what the little green man inside was doing. And to get another look at the Battle-Suit. He wanted to touch it. To see what it felt like. To make sure it was truly real.

"Dr. Seabrook is my right-hand man here. He works side-by-side with Igby on Go-Boy," said General Ramsey.

"Where is here?" asked Parker.

"Forgive me. I apologize," said General Ramsey. "In my haste, I've forgotten to fill you in. What I'm about to tell you is highly classified. And because none of you, with the exception of Igby, possess a Top Secret security clearance – yet – you must agree never to repeat nor share with anyone what you are about to see, nor what you have already seen. Agreed?"

He made eye contact with each of them and they each nodded their heads. Parker heard Colby mumbling something about an Everlasting Gobstopper and Veruca Salt, which he remembered was the name on a little bottle of wart remover he'd once seen in the medicine cabinet at the Black residence. When General Ramsey looked at him, he fought an impulse to look away. He nodded and General Ramsey seemed to relax a bit.

"Good. Now, we'll start with the big picture and work our way to the specifics. This," he held his arms out wide, "all of this . . . the city, the lab, the hangar, the entire facility, is technically known as Facility Seventy-Five." General Ramsey pointed to the back wall of the hangar, the wall opposite the giant eagle. Etched into the rock was an enormous "75". A red light illuminated the massive numbers, creating an eerie glow. Parker had failed to notice them when he'd first entered the hangar. The numbers towered over everyone, and made him feel very small.

General Ramsey continued, "This is one of many secret, highly-classified underground bunker facilities around the country used for Top Secret research and development projects. To those of us who work here, those of us who live here, it is affectionately known by another name. I suspect you may have heard of the infamous Area Fifty-One? Perhaps the legendary Groom Lake? The Skunkworks at Wright-Patterson?"

The kids nodded their heads.

"I don't like to speak ill of my colleagues, but those places are for babies compared to what we do here." General Ramsey smiled proudly. "This, my friends . . ."
Chapter 11

Facility Seventy-Five

". . . is a place we like to call . . . Candyland!" beamed General Ramsey.

Silence. Punctuated by the tiny clicks and whirs and subdued conversation of the nearby team operating on the Battle-Suit.

"Candyland?" asked Parker.

"That's correct," said General Ramsey. He motioned to the enormous eagle insignia on the wall. "The eagle in flight. Swooping out of the darkness to defend freedom and guard her treasure. Magnificent, isn't it?"

"Did you know Benjamin Franklin suggested implementing the wild turkey as the symbol for America?" All heads turned to Igby. "He said the bald eagle is a bird of bad moral character," he continued, "and the turkey is a more respectable bird. Not to mention being a true original native of America. Mr. Franklin even considered the rattlesnake as our national symbol because it's calm but has deadly venom. And did you know—"

"Igby."

"What?" Igby looked innocently up at General Ramsey.

"Do you mind? You're interrupting the narrative flow."

"Oh. Yeah. Sorry, General," said Igby.

"Quite all right," said General Ramsey. "As I was saying—"

"If you would not be forgotten, as soon as you are dead and rotten, either write things worth reading, or do things worth the writing." All eyes turned to Colby. "I played Benjamin Franklin in a school play once," said Colby. "That was my favorite quote."

"Well said," said General Ramsey. "As I was saying—"

"General, may I add something?" said Sunny.

General Ramsey took a deep breath and sighed. "Of course."

"In light of Colby's previous statement, I would just like to add that Benjamin Franklin also said there was never a good war or a bad peace. That's all."

"War is never a good thing, Sunny," said General Ramsey, "but sometimes it is necessary. Force only responds to force. Remember that. All of you." He surveyed each of them in turn. "Now, as I was saying, notice the banner the eagle is holding." He gestured once again to the enormous eagle. "Aspicio illa dulcis specialis." The General smiled proudly at the kids sitting in their movie theater seats. They looked blankly back at him.

"Did you just vomit into your own mouth and then swallow it back down?" asked Bubba. "Parker and I saw a bulldog do that once in Canary Downs. Remember that, Park?"

Parker nodded. He did indeed remember the sight, and sound, of the bulldog re-eating its breakfast.

"Allow me to translate," General Ramsey continued. "It means, Behold These Sweet Secrets."

Parker opened his mouth to ask what language the General had just spoken, if it were indeed Latin.

"You named a Top Secret military research and test facility after a board game?" asked Colby.

"Sure," said General Ramsey. "It was my daughter's favorite game when she was little. That's when we first opened this installation."

"It was my favorite, too," said Sunny. General Ramsey smiled at her.

"I've always preferred games which test knowledge," said Colby.

"My mom says knowledge is power," said Bubba.

"She's more right than any of us may know, I'm afraid," said General Ramsey.

"I've always been a Go-Boy man, myself," said Parker. He looked at the others, forgetting the question he'd wanted to ask about the language written on the banner. "I've played that a time or two."

"That's what I meant to say," Colby said quickly. "It's my favorite game, too. Definitely. For sure. I play it a lot. Every day."

"Every day?" asked General Ramsey. "Even during the summertime when you're out of school and all your friends are going swimming?"

"Not that he even goes to school," said Bubba.

"I have teachers come to the set," Colby sneered.

"So you don't play Go-Boy every day," stated Bubba.

"Well, maybe not every day," said Colby.

"Parker plays it every day," said Bubba. "Don'tcha, Park?" Bubba clapped Parker on the shoulder.

General Ramsey raised his eyebrows at Parker.

"Well," said Parker, "my mom's been gone three years now and my dad's been off fighting the war almost as long. So I don't have that much to do. I don't really like sports. And I definitely don't like homework."

"Who does?" said Bubba.

"I don't mind homework," said Sunny.

"Me either," added Igby. Igby and Sunny smiled at each other. Parker got that weird feeling again somewhere below his stomach.

"Well, you guys are definitely not normal," said Bubba.

"That's for sure," said Colby.

"You were saying, Parker?" General Ramsey prompted.

"I do enough homework to get by," said Parker, trying to shake off the tightness in his gut. "It's easier than cramming the night before the test. And you can only watch so much SuperVision before you realize it's mostly a waste of time because they're always trying to sell you something. So I usually head to Skycade. Sometimes Sunny and Bubba come and we all play together. But mostly they're home with their families. Bubba's mom always asks me to stick around after supper, but sometimes I need to be alone. I head over to the arcade and climb into a Go-Boy simulator for a few hours. I guess I just want to be good at something."

Everyone sat staring at Parker, even the technicians sitting at the computer workstation. He glanced at the crowd of scientists still busily repairing Igby's Battle-Suit. Much of the armor plating had been removed. The underlying skeletal metal framework was exposed. The suit looked naked. A computer console on wheels had been rolled up to it and a series of colored cables plugged in. Two scientists stood on step ladders, peering down into the suit with small flashlights. Parker felt as though he were being similarly examined.

"Don't let him fool you," said Sunny, "he's had the top score at the arcade for three months. He's the best." Sunny smiled.

Parker's face grew flush. He pretended to find something wrong with his shoes.

"Very interesting," said General Ramsey. "I guess I've got the right kids, then."

"The right kids for what?" said Parker, looking up. Frustration sprang up within him again. His tone sounded more severe than he'd intended so he politely added, "Sir." He hoped the General wasn't going to threaten him with tooth extraction or fingernail relocation. Or something worse.

"I'm glad you asked, my boy," said General Ramsey, stepping to one side. "Dr. Seabrook, if you please."

"Certainly, General." Dr. Seabrook's fingers danced across his computer touch-screen and a schematic of a Battle-Suit appeared on the large central monitor positioned up on the wall above the technicians. He turned and addressed the kids in their seats. "This is a Go-Boy Battle-Suit, Model One-Zero-One. It's the same as that used by Dr. Igby in the systems test a few moments ago. As General Ramsey stated, it's the real deal. You're probably wondering how it went from being a prop vehicle in the movies to dancing around doing back handsprings and showing off in an underground hangar." Dr. Seabrook fixed his eyes on Igby. Igby smiled. "I'll be happy to fill you in. In a nutshell, the Go-Boy Battle-Suit is a truly astounding piece of engineering and design. It represents the utmost precision in technology and is state of the art in every way. If it sounds expensive, that's because it is. I won't even bother trying to put a price tag on it because at this point we really don't know what the total cost of the program actually is. However, there are certainly more important things than money and I think the Go-Boy Project is an excellent example of that." Dr. Seabrook paused and took a sip from a red-and-white striped coffee mug. "The origin of the Battle-Suit, and the person who knows more about it than anyone, is the one and only Dr. Fry." He nodded to Igby. "Dr. Fry, would you like to explain the history of your concept?"

"No," said Igby, "that's okay. It's more exciting the way you tell it." Igby smiled broadly. Parker had the bizarre impression they ought to be sitting around a campfire roasting marshmallows on sticks, listening to a ghost story, the way he'd seen families on SuperVision do before they were attacked and killed by mosquitoes because they forgot to apply the bug repellant featured in the ad.

"Very well," continued Dr. Seabrook. "A few years ago, the youngest person ever admitted was invited to attend the Global Institute of Technology in upstate New York. G.I.T. is the most prestigious technical school in the world. Igby Fry was that person. Despite being courted by the likes of Cal Tech, M.I.T., and Stanford, Igby chose G.I.T. In an unprecedented eighteen months, Igby earned triple degrees in astrophysics, aeronautical engineering, and robotics. At the age of nine."

"And I feel good when I take out the garbage like my mom asks," said Bubba. Igby laughed out loud and smiled warmly at Bubba.

"Igby is not only the youngest doctoral candidate in history," said Dr. Seabrook, "he is also the only person ever to accumulate three degrees simultaneously. The culmination of his knowledge and study was the Go-Boy Battle-Suit. As Igby originally conceived it, the suit had virtually unlimited applications in firefighting, search and rescue, the aerospace industry, even construction, not to mention personal transportation. And, yes, as the name itself implies, there was of course the potential for military battlefield application. Now, as you can imagine, a nine-year-old genius with three Ph.D.s is bound to get some attention. It wasn't long before Igby was featured on SuperVision as the newest boy-genius. Just as sure as sharks smell blood in the water, Hollywood came calling. A highly successful movie producer named Terry Hawthorne saw Go-Boy as a viable entertainment concept and before Igby had even graduated from G.I.T. the first film was in the can."

"Go-Boy . . . Forever," said Colby, "I remember that. Remember, Ig? The suits kept breaking down and falling apart. We didn't shoot on film, though," he said to Dr. Seabrook, "so it was never really 'in the can.' But I know what you mean."

"What you don't know, Colby," Dr. Seabrook continued, "is that about the time you were appearing on Say, 'Goodnight,' America!, Igby was here, at Candyland, working on the Go-Boy Project, which became militarized long before it was a SuperVision show or a box-office blockbuster."

"You said you couldn't do the show because you were home sick," said Colby. "I looked like an idiot going on national SV without my trusty side-kick."

"If the shoe fits," muttered Bubba. Colby glared at him.

"Sorry," said Igby. "I thought the show went fine."

"Brian kept making chicken soup jokes," said Colby.

"Sorry," Igby said again. "I didn't intend for you to be so publicly humiliated. I was needed here."

"Weren't we working on the Thrust Vectoring System, Igby?" asked Dr. Seabrook.

"Yeah," said Igby, "for our first working prototype. Remember how the thruster models kept exploding and you got too close on one of the tests and it burned your eyebrows off?" Igby suppressed his giggles with his palm.

"I remember," said Dr. Seabrook. "My wife wouldn't kiss me because she said I smelled like burning hair." General Ramsey chuckled, as did most of the technicians sitting at the workstation. "It's not funny. I had to sleep on the floor because our Labrador Budweiser sleeps on the sofa," Dr. Seabrook added. Everyone was laughing now. "It's not funny. Bud snores like a freight train." Everyone laughed harder.

Despite Dr. Seabrook's admonition, Parker had to admit the idea of a man with no eyebrows tossing and turning on the floor beneath a snoring Lab named 'Budweiser' was pretty funny. He chuckled and soon even Dr. Seabrook couldn't suppress a smile. Then Parker realized something. "Your lab is named 'Bud?'"

Dr. Seabrook nodded. "Yeah."

Parker turned to Sunny. "Your Lab was named 'Bud,' too."

"You're right." Sunny's eyes widened as she realized this. She turned to Dr. Seabrook, who was already looking at her.

"You had a lab named 'Bud?'" he asked.

Sunny nodded. "He was my brother's dog, but he liked to sleep in my room, too."

"What color?" asked Dr. Seabrook.

"Yellow," replied Sunny.

"Quite a coincidence," said Dr. Seabrook.

"Mama says coincidence is the physical manifestation of divinity," said Bubba.

"Ah, baloney," said Colby. "Coincidence is coincidence. That's why it's called 'coincidence.'"

"You're sadly misinformed," said Bubba.

"We'll see," said Colby.

"Anyway, as I was saying," Dr. Seabrook continued, "Igby is the youngest person ever to be on Uncle Sam's payroll. Quite an achievement. And an honor."

"Why didn't you tell me, Ig?" asked Colby.

"It's impossible to know everything," said Igby. "Even I know that."

"But we've worked together for three years!" said Colby.

Igby took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Pretend you're me," he said. "Imagine having the biggest, most amazing secret that a kid ever had in the whole, big, huge history of the universe, and you can't tell anyone. Colby, you can't even imagine how lonely that can be."

I might have some idea, thought Parker.

"My parents know about this place," said Igby, "but every time I try to talk to them about what it is I do here, they get bored. Their eyes glaze over and they start talking about their tennis game or how juicy my mom's tomatoes are and how moist the meatloaf is. They can't understand anything about thrust vectoring or life support systems. It's like I'm speaking another language.

"Next thing you know," continued Igby, "I'm back in my bedroom writing updates for the systems manual or trying to find new ways to minimize drag coefficient. Did you know drag coefficient is equal to drag divided by the quantity of density times half the velocity squared times the reference area? Though we do have to consider air viscosity and compressibility."

"Those are negligible below two hundred miles per hour," said Dr. Seabrook.

"True," said Igby, "but how often will you be flying less than two hundred miles per hour? Go-Boy will do Mach ten."

"Mach ten?" asked Parker.

"Sure," said Igby, "it has to be faster than any conventional fighter aircraft."

"That's six thousand, six hundred miles per hour," said Sunny. "Ten times the speed of sound."

"Approximately," said Igby.

"You could fly from Los Angeles to Manhattan in half an hour," Sunny added.

"Depending on temperature, atmospheric pressure, the jet stream, yes," said Igby, "you could. My personal best is twenty-nine minutes, eighteen-point-four-six-two seconds. I would've been faster but I ran into a flock of geese outside Wichitaw."

Bubba laughed.

"By my calculations," said Igby, "Go-Boy can go even faster than Mach ten. I just haven't had a chance to find out." He looked hopefully at General Ramsey.

General Ramsey shook his head. "No way."

Deflated, Igby again looked at Parker. "But don't worry. The faster it goes, the more stable its flight characteristics become. It's all part of a unique, one-of-a-kind exoskeletal inverse myoamplification system I invented." Igby sat on the edge of his seat, eyes bright, gesturing with his hands. "It's like a bunch of robotic muscles to help you overcome weight, stiffness, or pressure. Wait til you try it."

"Igby . . ."

"What?" He looked at General Ramsey, who was looking a bit irritated.

"I think we're getting a bit ahead of ourselves, aren't we?" said the General.

"Oh, yeah. Sorry, General. Anyway, what was I was saying?"

"The oath," said General Ramsey.

"Oh, yeah. The oath, right. Thanks, General." Igby turned back to Colby. "I'm truly sorry you had to suffer through Brian O'Conan's chicken soup routine. But I took an oath to uphold the secrets of this place and of the Constitution of the United States of America. I promised to do everything and anything I could in the interest of fighting for freedom. The late President and General Dwight D. Eisenhower once said, 'History does not long entrust the care of freedom to the weak or the timid.' So when you make a promise, you do everything you can to keep that promise. No matter what."

"Well said, Dr. Fry," General Ramsey said softly.

A contemplative silence followed Igby's words. Parker saw most everyone looking down or off into space, struck by Igby's sentiment, remembering in their own way what they were doing here, remembering the scope and magnitude of what it meant to defend freedom.

Parker suddenly felt completely out of place. "I still don't understand what we're doing here." He hoped he managed to sound less accusatory than he felt.

"Dr. Seabrook, please continue," said General Ramsey.

"Of course, General," said Dr. Seabrook. "You are here because we have a problem. And believe me, it was a tough nut to crack. But I think we're getting close. Real close." He tapped the touch-screen again. The large central display screen showed the face of a man with wild, unkempt brown hair and big eyes. "This is Doctor Lascivious Red. Dr. Red is a former associate of ours. He was brought in to work on The Go-Boy Project due to his military background and his expertise in neuroprocessors. Igby and I were having issues with the bio-interface between the pilot and the Battle-Suit on Go-Boy Ultra. Dr. Red had us up and running in less than a week."

"What's Go-Boy Ultra?" asked Parker.

Dr. Seabrook didn't answer. He turned to General Ramsey. The General looked steadily back at him.

"I think we should show 'em," said Dr. Seabrook.

"We've already discussed this," said General Ramsey.

"I know," said Dr. Seabrook. "And I still think we should show them. Imagine yourself in their position. Wouldn't you want to know what you're up against? It's only fair."

"What if they get scared?" asked the General.

"I think it's too late to be concerned about that, Martin. I mean, General."

General Ramsey looked at the kids, then at Parker. Parker tried to appear tough, as though he weren't already completely intimidated by everything he'd seen and heard and done.

General Ramsey took a deep breath and loudly exhaled, rubbing his face. "Fine. Show 'em."
Chapter 12

First Impression

Dr. Seabrook typed quickly on his keyboard. "This is a compilation of all available security footage from that night." He tapped his touch-screen.

The large image of Dr. Red vanished and the screen went dark. Time code began to tick away at the bottom of the screen, presenting the day and date and time accurate to a hundredth of a second. Then an image appeared, a vantage point from the back seat of some kind of vehicle. It was night. Both front seats were empty. The dashboard gauges, climate controls, and radios glowed orange. A large assault rifle was mounted on the dashboard. The only sound was a dull rumbling, somewhere in the background. It was the interior of an all-terrain security vehicle parked with its motor idling and its dashboard and parking lights illuminated. Beyond the windshield, hood, and knobby front tires, two men stood side by side in the night, surrounded by sand and desert scrub. The vehicle's parking lights cast an orange glow on their backs. They stood with their feet apart, heads down. A fine stream of liquid glittered between each pair of camouflaged legs.

A tremendous buzzing filled the night, alternating off and on, off and on. Both men jerked their heads up and looked off into the night. They turned. For an instant they looked at each other. Each man ran toward the idling vehicle, fumbling with pants and zipper, shining droplets of liquid still arcing away from the glow of the lights.

The men wrenched open their doors and flung themselves inside. The man behind the wheel slammed a shift lever into gear and the vehicle leaped forward. The sound of dirt and rocks flying and tires spinning. The vehicle fishtailed and drove through its own plume of dust. It careened down an embankment and onto an endless expanse of asphalt.

A broken white centerline and enormous white numbers meant it was not a road.

It was a runway.

Jackrabbits appeared in the bright white wash of the headlights. They bounded across the runway, zigzagging in great leaps and hops, trying to escape the oncoming vehicle.

From out of the darkness came the beams of bright headlights, the growing roar of engines, and the sliding and crunching of all-terrain tires tearing across the sand and scrub of the desert.

Dozens of perfectly-camouflaged, nearly invisible off-road vehicles melted out of the night and converged on the runway. Plumes of dust rose into the darkness, illuminated by the headlights. Tires squealed as the trucks turned onto the runway and accelerated, gunning their engines and picking up speed. More vehicles poured out of the blackness. The lead vehicles reached the end of the runway and turned at high-speed, veering onto the vast expanse of paved ramp which extended several hundred yards toward the mountains.

The vehicles screeched to a halt, headlights lighting up the surface of the rock. Cut out of the mountainside was a massive door. Tracks at its base suggested it could slide open, retracting and disappearing into the rock on either side, revealing an entrance to what could only be an enormous aircraft hangar. A red light above the door spun wildly, spitting red light onto the ramp in a series of flashes.

The white trucks fanned out as more and more of them arrived. They screeched to a halt beside the others, forming an ever-growing arc around the gigantic door, whitewashing its sandy color with their headlights. The doors of the trucks sprang open and men in desert fatigues jumped out, perched behind their open doors, all of them pointing heavy assault rifles at the door in front of them. The squealing of tires and pounding of boots was almost drowned-out by the pulsing, buzzing alarm.

The man in the center of the formation keyed the small microphone clipped to the epaulette on his left shoulder. "Biscuit! This is Papa One! Everything I've got is on the door. Can we do something about the alarm? Over!"

A few seconds later, the alarm ceased. The only sound was the purring of dozens of engines as they idled, and the low rumble of the exhaust pipes.

The men sighted down their rifles, watching the door for any sign of movement. Their fatigues all bore the same patch on their left shoulder: a fierce-looking eagle with a piercing gold eye and a razor-sharp beak, with wings spread out over a solid midnight-black background. In its massive talons it held two red-and-white striped candy canes, crisscrossing each other and dripping with blood. Below these was a banner with the same arcane gold symbols. Behold These Sweet Secrets. The drops of blood were a nice addition to the crest.

The soldiers aimed at the door.

"Hold your fire," the driver called out.

"This ever happen to you before, Bud?" said the passenger. He stood behind his open door, looking across the hood to the other man. A white glare over-exposed his face.

"Hold your fire," the driver, Bud, called again. He looked across the hood at his comrade. "Nope."

The red light flashed above the door.

The troops began to look sideways at each other, first a quick glimpse to see what the other guy was doing, then a bit longer, trying to see what everyone else was doing.

Something hit the huge metal door in front of them. Everyone jumped and secured their grip on their rifle. Another pound on the door, deep, echoing, and metallic.

"Steady!" Bud shouted.

A third pounding rang out. The door dented outward. Sounds of metal creaking and tearing, the metallic clanking of steel being dropped on a concrete floor.

"Steady!" Bud yelled.

Then a creaking sound and one entire door moved. It began to roll on its tracks, screeching and popping as the door's machinery was forced open. The gap broadened, revealing darkness inside the hangar, painted intermittently by the red light flashing overhead. The metal continued to protest its losing battle; the door rolled open and came to a rest. From out of the darkness stepped a hulking mechanical figure. It took two heavy steps and stopped directly under the flashing red light. It stood at least nine feet high at the shoulder. The metallic skin on its arms and legs and chest and body was dark gray, with silver covering the joints at the hips and shoulders, knees and elbows. Its body was broad yet lean-looking, almost chiseled, with a broad breastplate sweeping upward to even broader shoulders. Two arms culminated in two powerful-looking metal hands. Its head resembled the cockpit canopy of a fighter jet, laid nearly upright. The smoky black canopy hid whoever was inside. On its back lurked a pack of some sort, with two thick, menacing masts sticking up on either side of its head.

It didn't move.

Neither did Bud or any of his troops.

Everyone waited.

"Bud?"

Bud glanced across the hood of his vehicle. The other man stared at him.

"Yeah?"

"What is that thing?"

"How should I know?" said Bud. "I only work here."

"I think we gotta do somethin'."

Bud exhaled deeply. "Yeah." He surveyed the scene. "Man I need a smoke."

"Those things'll kill ya."

"Like I'm worried about that right now." Bud cleared his throat and stood up a little taller. "You are under arrest!" he shouted. "Lie down on the ground . . . and put your hands on your head! If you fail to comply . . . we will be forced to open fire!" He looked sideways at the other man. "How was that?"

"That was real good. Except it ain't down on the ground, and it ain't put its hands on its head. Now what?"

As if it had heard his question, the hulking figure slowly raised both its arms and held up its hands, the universal sign for a person who isn't armed.

This was Go-Boy Ultra.

Go-Boy Ultra looked like it could pick up one of the off-road vehicles and throw it.

"Looks like it ain't armed. I think it wants to give up."

"I would too if I had this much firepower staring me in the face," said Bud.

The figure rotated its hands inward and curled its silvery fingers inward as well, so that just one long middle finger remained extended on each hand.

"Bud, I do believe that son of a gun is givin' us the bird. I am too old, too tired, and been divorced too many times to stand in the middle o' the desert at three o'clock in the mornin' gettin' flipped the bird by a darn-fool nine-foot can-opener on the fritz."

"I couldn't agree more—"

Bud was cut off by the blaring sound of one of the troops accidentally honking the horn of his vehicle. Someone else yelped and squeezed the trigger on his assault rifle, causing an instantaneous chain-reaction of fear and frayed nerves, until the entire perimeter of troops was firing madly at the hangar doors. Bright orange starbursts of fire spat from the muzzles of their rifles. Hundreds of crackling reports filled the night air, the sounds bouncing back, echoing off the face of the mountain and the steel door.

"HOLD YOUR FIRE!" yelled Bud. Even his partner had opened fire on the hulking figure in the doorway. Veins stood out on the side of the big man's neck as his rifle kicked against his shoulder. "CEASE FIRE!" Bud yelled again. No one heard him. The firing continued until the magazines ran dry and the muzzles of the rifles glowed orange with heat.

Go-Boy Ultra was still there.

It hadn't moved.

Its front now bore countless little smudges, smoky ricochet smears.

The metal doors behind it were deeply pocked, riddled with hundreds, perhaps a thousand bullet holes, and grey from where the bullets had sucked the paint off the steel.

Go-Boy Ultra curled its hands into fists and spread its arms to the sides.

Parker knew what was going to happen next. Perhaps it was his hours in the sim or all the fights he'd had at school. Or perhaps it was pure, natural-born survival instinct. Whatever the case may have been, he knew an act of aggression when he saw it coming.

"Uh-oh," he heard someone off camera mutter.

"TAKE COVER!" yelled Bud and ducked out of view. Up and down the line of vehicles, men disappeared from view, diving toward the backs of their trucks. They hit the ground and Parker could almost feel the warm pavement scrape the skin off his elbows. Men wriggled behind the back tires and pulled their legs under. Many of them lay on their belly under the truck, hurriedly replacing the cartridge in their rifle.

Massive bursts of orange fire erupted from Go-Boy Ultra's wrists. Bullets sprayed out at an imperceptible rate. Parker winced at the deafening sound, the whine of a jet engine mixed with the roaring buzz of a very high-power machine gun, the kind of firepower usually strapped to armored vehicles and light tanks patrolling cities in the desert. Bullets tinked and plinked into the off-road vehicles. Engines clunked to a halt, radiators ripped open and steam hissed out, tires popped, glass shattered, and men screamed and scrambled desperately for cover.

Bud pulled his face behind his door just as the spray of bullets washed over his own vehicle. He ducked his head as the front of the truck sank, both front tires going flat. Bullets tore into the concrete all around him, sending chips into the air and hitting him in the face, making tiny cuts in his chin and neck and anywhere he couldn't cover with his arms. The other man dropped his rifle and covered his head with his arms.

Then, just as quickly as it had begun, the firing stopped. Quiet filled the desert air. Only the heavy breathing and gasping of the troops as they hunkered down inside and underneath their smoking, bullet-riddled vehicles.

Go-Boy Ultra lowered its arms. A blue glow emanated from the feet of the figure. The light grew brighter and bluer and Parker could almost feel warm air wafting across the pavement and hitting him in the face.

Go-Boy Ultra took a step forward, then another, bigger this time, and in seconds it was running at a trot, coming straight ahead. Its enormous feet made heavy clomping thuds on the pavement. When the Battle-Suit reached the row of mangled off-road vehicles, it leaped into the air and jumped over the row of trucks, clearing them easily. It passed directly overhead, and a blue glow illuminated the hood of the truck. The distinct hiss of plasma jets. Go-Boy Ultra shot upward into the night, where it disappeared among the millions of bright desert stars, and was gone.

The image froze. The time code stopped. Rainbow-colored test pattern bars appeared, and the screen went dark.

Parker looked around.

Sunny sat with both hands covering her mouth in pure disbelief.

Bubba sat with his mouth open and his eyebrows raised, his forehead wrinkled, equally stunned.

Parker looked across the aisle at Colby and Igby. Igby's hands were stuffed into the front pockets of his white lab coat. He stared at the shiny concrete floor of the hangar. Colby's legs were extended straight out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. His arms were folded across his chest. His body language couldn't have been more closed-off.

No one spoke.

"What is your impression of the footage?" General Ramsey asked.

Parker waited, to see who would respond.

No one did.

Parker found the General looking directly at him.

"Parker, what is your impression of the footage?"

"My impression?" said Parker. He didn't know what to say. He decided to be honest. "We're screwed."

*** ***

To learn more about this author and to read more of his work, please visit him online:

Ryan Schneider

Website/blog:

http://www.AuthorRyanSchneider.blogspot.com

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https://twitter.com/#!/ryanlschneider

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Thank you for your interest in this installment of THE GO-KIDS. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. THANK YOU!

~Ryan Schneider

And now, here's a sneak peek at the next installment:

Chapter 1

Milk, Milk, Lemonade . . .

Parker caught Dr. Seabrook glance sideways at General Ramsey: I told you so.

"You know something, Mr. Perkins?" said Colby. "For once you and I are in total agreement."

Dr. Seabrook tapped his screen and a new schematic appeared up above. It was a diagram of a Battle-Suit, of Go-Boy Ultra. It was bigger and leaner than Igby's One-Zero-One, more refined. "This is Go-Boy Ultra," said Dr. Seabrook. "It's a prototype, the latest and greatest in the never-ending quest for the ultimate Battle-Suit. And as you've just seen in the surveillance video we cut together documenting its escape, it's pretty serious. It also doesn't suffer the same problems that plague the original Go-Boy Battle-Suit. Don't get me wrong, the One-Zero-One is very impressive. But Go-Boy Ultra can fly circles around it. It's lighter, faster, more maneuverable, and it's better armored. And better armed."

"So what's the problem?" asked Bubba.

"The problem," said General Ramsey, "is that Dr. Red stole it. It's gone. That's what we just watched. The greatest, most amazing, most potentially horrifying machine ever built, ever conceived, is out there somewhere, flying around, doing God knows what. It is literally in the hands of a mad scientist."

"So I guess your Top Secret underground base has some really super-duper security, huh?" said Colby. Despite his irreverence, Colby had a point.

"If he's mad, why did you ask him to help you?" asked Sunny.

"Good question," said General Ramsey. "Dr. Seabrook? Would you care to answer the young lady? Because I still can't figure this one out."

"As I said before," said Dr. Seabrook, clearly working to maintain his composure, "Igby and I were having difficulty with the new pilot interface. Without the pilot interface, the suit is useless. We were stuck for almost a month. So we found someone we thought could help us. We didn't give him access to the entire project. At least, not at first. But as we worked the problem, we realized it went deeper than we thought. That necessitated giving Dr. Red more and more information. Eventually, he had everything he needed. Though at what point he decided to steal the suit I don't know."

"Don't cry over spilt milk!" said Bubba. "And, if life hands you lemons, make lemonade."

"Lots of it," said General Ramsey.

"Milk, milk, lemonade, around the corner fudge is made," said Colby. Igby giggled.

"I hate to sound like a broken record," said Parker, "even though I've only seen records in the Smithsonian when my parents took me there after I got straight-A's on my report card, but you still haven't said what you need us for. What's the deal?"

"The deal," said General Ramsey, "is this: you're going to track down Dr. Red and capture Go-Boy Ultra!" His face was one gigantic smile, as if he'd just given Parker the secret for spinning straw into gold.

Parker had only one thought: You've got to be kidding.

*** ***

Will General Ramsey's plan actually work?

Will Parker and the others be able to find and recover Go-Boy Ultra?

What happens if they don't succeed?

Read Book Three of THE GO-KIDS to find out!

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