My Gym Teacher Is an Alien Overlord (11 page)

“Kiss me?” said Zack in a tingly voice.

“Really?” said Christopher Talbot. “Robot impostor? Alien Overlord? End of the world?
No?
”

“You have to believe us,” I pleaded.

“Us?” replied Zack.

“Don't look at me,” said Lara, taking a step away from me.

“I know it seems . . . unlikely,” I said, including Christopher Talbot with a gesture, “but we've teamed up to fight the aliens.”

“What aliens?” Zack looked at me like I was nuts. I'd been seeing this expression a lot lately. “I don't see any green, bug-eyed monsters.”

“They don't look like green, bug-eyed monsters,” I said.

“Then what do they look like?”

I paused and then mumbled, “Miss Dunham.”

I decided it would be wise to hold back the bit about the whole invasion being a reality TV show.

“I don't know what's going on here, and right now I don't care,” he said, with an air of finality.

“Star Guy, can we go?” The Cara-borg hugged her arms to her body. “I'm getting cold.”

Zack marched over and placed an arm around her. Finally, he turned to me and said, “And for the last time, stop bothering me at work.”

There was a whoosh of splitting air as the two of them shot into the sky. I watched helplessly as the Cara-borg placed her free hand around the back of Zack's head and pulled his masked face toward her. Her cold cyborg lips homed in on his.

I heard Lara's puzzled voice at my side. “But she's got a boyfriend.”

The Cara-borg kissed him.

They bobbed in the breeze for a moment. Far below, the world carried on as usual. Shoppers trawled for bargains. Buses grumbled along Main Street.

A heartbeat later, I flinched as a bright green bolt of light split the sky. Silently, it arrowed down from its orbital weapons platform to strike Star Guy squarely between the shoulder blades. The flash seared my retinas, leaving a shadow across my vision. When it lifted I saw a shape falling out of the sky.

It was my brother plummeting to earth.

“Mom,” called Zack, his voice thin and reedy, “can I have another pillow?”

I stood on the landing outside his bedroom, listening to him cough and sniffle.

Zack wasn't dead. We'd found him lying next to some Dumpsters in an alley behind the mall. The fall hadn't broken any bones, and other than a twisted ankle, he seemed at first to be unharmed, if a little shaken. But the aliens' long-range viral agitator turned out to be a fiendishly clever device, with a far more twisted purpose than any of us could have dreamed. Not a death ray, or a heat ray, or even a shrink ray.

“Achoo!” There was a wet thud as a wad of stringy mucus blew out the back of a man-size tissue.

It was a snot ray.

By the time we brought him home yesterday afternoon, the true nature of the alien weapon had revealed itself in all its catarrh-drenched wickedness. The beam that brought down Zack was a flu shot. And it had given him a bout powerful enough to lay him up in bed for days. I could hear the Overlord's mocking laughter—at Earth's greatest defender, reduced to watching the invasion of the planet on daytime TV.

As for what had happened to the threatened invasion, I was mystified. Why hadn't it started yet? Star Guy was down. His superpowers hadn't gone, exactly, but they were submerged in a soup of phlegm. The greatest obstacle to the sue-dunham's plans was currently tucked in bed with one nostril clamped onto a decongestant spray. Right about now the sky should have been filled with alien attack ships, the streets ringing with the screams of fleeing humans. If I were the Overlord, I wouldn't hang around—there'd be plenty of time to gloat afterward. It didn't make sense. What were the aliens waiting for?

“Mommm!” Zack called again.

“Coming, sweetheart!” She hurried past me, clutching a fresh pillow and muttering, “I didn't think anyone could be worse than your dad.”

It was true. Dad was an awful patient, but a superhero with a cold is the worst. As soon as Zack's butt hit the mattress, his demands had started. Theraflu, but not too lemony. And soup: chicken soup, not tomato soup, but not the chicken soup with bits in it, and not the one from the corner store, the one from the deli. Another blanket. But not the blue one.

Mom paused outside his door. “It's a touch of the flu.” She raised her eyebrows. “You'd think it was the end of the world.”

Little did she know.

Fixing a smile on her face, she went into his room. I followed behind at a cautious distance. The curtains were drawn, and the air was thick with a scent like cooked socks. Zack lay shivering in bed, wrapped in his comforter like an Egyptian mummy. I could just imagine the kind of mummy he'd have been: “I want a pyramid, but not too pyramid-y.” On his bedside table lay a pile of textbooks and a bowl of fruit.

“Here you are, darling,” said Mom, gently cradling his head and slipping the pillow underneath. “Looks like you'll be missing the big event.”

For a moment I thought she meant the invasion.

“Heck of a way to get out of a wedding,” she said, plumping up the pillow.

Of course. In all the business with the sue-dunham I'd forgotten about my cousin Jenny's wedding. It was tomorrow, and my brother had evaded it easier than an F-35 spoofing a ground-to-air missile attack. Zack shot me a sly grin. This was
so
unfair.

“Mrs. Wilson will be here to look after you,” said Mom. “And if you need us, my phone will be on.”

He laid his head against the fresh pillow, first one way, then the other, all the while making little grumbling noises.

“Something wrong, sweetheart?” asked Mom.

“It's a bit too . . .” He paused. “Feathery.”

Instead of whacking him about the head with the pillow, which is what any reasonable person would have done at this point, Mom just smiled. She yanked it out from under him, saying, “Fine,
darling
. I'll fetch you another one.”

“Thanks, Mom,” he wheezed after her, as she walked quickly from the room. “You're the best.”

The door slammed shut, rattling his “Famous Mathematicians” poster set on the wall. Sir Isaac Newton came off his hook and landed in the fruit bowl. I wondered if it was the first time that Newton had fallen on an apple.

“What do you want?” moaned Zack, turning his bloodshot eyes to me. “I'm sick. I can't be bothered listening to any of your usual nonsense.”

I perched at the foot of his bed, out of sneezing distance, I hoped. “It's not nonsense. As we speak, the aliens are in orbit, preparing to invade. Why won't you believe me? It's not like you don't believe in aliens. Zorbon the Decider is an alien.”

“Yes, but that's different,” he said, drawing breath like Darth Vader with a chest infection.

I felt my hackles rise. “So
your
alien—who I've never met—is perfectly real. It's just that you don't believe in
my
aliens.”

Zack groaned. “This is Miss Dunham all over again. You see supervillains and aliens because you want to. Not because they're real. Because the only power you have is the power to make stuff up.”

That didn't sound like much of a superpower. Even Arm-Fall-Off-Boy's power was better than that.

“I mean, come on,” he continued, coughing into his fist. “Cara finally kisses me, and you try to explain it away by inventing some ridiculous
War of the Worlds
scenario.”

“Great,” I said, throwing up my hands, “so
now
you get it.” I was mad. How was my alien invasion any more ridiculous than what he'd faced in the mall? “Where do you think the giant robot came from? Best Buy?” I shook my head. “Don't you see—it was part of the aliens' nefarious plan.”

“The aliens who all look like Miss Dunham?”

“Yes.”

“Who sent a robot that looks like Cara to kiss me?”

“Yes. Though technically she kissed Star Guy. Not you.” I had a horrible thought. “You're not planning to, y'know,
reveal
yourself to her, are you?”

Zack propped himself up on his elbows. “Just to be clear, Luke, you mean take off my mask, right?”

Strange thing to say. What else could I possibly mean?

He rescued Sir Isaac from the fruit bowl and set him down carefully on the floor. “When we kissed there was this incredibly bright light, and I felt a tingling sensation all through my body.” A faraway look came into his eye. “Do you think that happens every time?”

I think he'd drunk too much Theraflu. “Uh, or maybe it happened because you were shot by an alien super-weapon, you goon.”

Under normal circumstances I could expect a thump for the “goon” comment, but he just gave me this dreamy look and said, “Why am I asking you? It's not like you know anything about girls and stuff.”

The sue-dunham's distraction plan had proved even more effective than the Overlord could have hoped. All Zack cared about was kissing Cara.

I had one last move. Maybe Zack wouldn't believe me, but he had to believe his own eyes. I reached into my pocket. “If there aren't aliens, then what do you make of this?” In my palm lay the sue-dunham remote control.

“Now
that
looks like it came from Best Buy,” he said. “A TV remote. So what?”

“Yes, but this one can turn your voice off and on, and open security doors, and who knows what else. It's advanced alien technology. Allow me to demonstrate.”

Before I could continue, Zack raised a hand. “I don't doubt it can do what you say. But is it alien tech, or is it one of Christopher Talbot's crazy inventions, hmm?” He fixed me with a hard stare. “Why were you at the mall with him?”

I could have told him about my team-up with the former supervillain. About how he'd faced down the alien commando like a Jedi knight. But I'd already wasted too much time trying to convince him about the invasion. “It's complicated,” I said, and slid off the bed. Even if the flu hadn't blunted Zack's superpowers, it was obvious that he was going to be of no help. My path was clear, and Star Guy wasn't on it.

As I reached the door, he sat up. Our conversation had tired him out, but when he spoke his voice was firm.

“Luke, you have to listen to me. You can't trust Christopher Talbot. He's dangerous.”

“Yeah, he's dangerous.” I shrugged. “But at least
he
believes me.”

I left my brother to stew and headed downstairs. Somewhere an alien clock was ticking. There was no telling how much time remained before the invasion, and I had a lot to do. The absence of sue-dunham attack ships over town gave me a sliver of hope.

I decided to call the army, hoping that they had some secret weapon designed for this eventuality. But the only number I could find was for the local VFW office. They couldn't put me through to the experimental weapons division, but they did sign me up for a sponsored bike ride to raise money for veterans.

I put down the phone. What was the point? If I couldn't even convince my own brother that the invasion was real, I had no chance with some general, even if I could get through to one. It was my responsibility now. Somehow, I had to come up with a plan to defeat the invaders and save Earth—without Star Guy, without the military, without my friends. The fate of the world rested on my shoulders. It felt a lot heavier than I ever imagined.

I didn't have the first idea about how to overcome the sue-dunham. They'd been successfully conquering planets for centuries; I'd barely made it through half a semester of junior high.

I paused next to the hall table, my eye caught by one of the framed photographs that always sat there. The photo was in a slightly different spot than usual, which is the only reason I noticed it. Someone else must have picked it up for a better look. It's one that Mom took of Dad, Zack, and me. We're at the beach. I'm four years old, and I'm sitting on Dad's shoulders, holding an ice-cream cone smothered in chocolate sauce. We look happy (a lot happier than we would be ten seconds later, when I got spooked by a seagull and accidentally deposited the ice cream on Dad's head).

I studied the smiling seven-year-old Zack in his Superman T-shirt, and I remembered that he only wore it to please Dad. Of course we had no idea then who Zack was going to turn into. Even now, I still had no idea who
I'd
become, and the thought scared me. So much about growing up seemed dark and uncertain. It hit me that if the aliens invaded, I wouldn't have to worry about any of that stuff. My future would be decided for me. Along with everyone else on the planet, I'd be a mindless zombie sitting in front of a screen. But would that be so bad? Everything would stay the same. I'd never have to be scared about growing up again.

“Luke, are you OK?
Luke
?” A gentle touch on my arm broke my trance. Mom stood over me with a concerned look. She'd been saying my name over and over, but I hadn't heard her. She placed a hand against my forehead.

“Well, you don't have a temperature,” she said, relieved. “We wouldn't want you missing the wedding too.”

“No,” I mumbled. “That would be awful.”

She wanted a little mom-to-second-son chat, so we went into the kitchen. I sat at the table while she set out a bowl of disgustingly healthy snacks. Carrots? I mean, seriously, who in the history of the multiverse ever wanted to snack on carrots?

“It's your dad,” she said, pulling out the chair opposite me. “He's been a bit down about everything lately.”

Something about this conversation felt different from our usual ones. Most of the time Mom made it perfectly clear that she was in charge. And as much as I disliked being told what to do, there was comfort in knowing that Mom or Dad always had the answers. But now her voice was filled with uncertainty. The safety net suddenly looked like it was hanging by a thread.

“He'll get another job, won't he?” I asked, for the first time unsure of the answer.

“Of course he will.” She fiddled with the button on her collar. “But right now . . . well, he feels . . . what's the word?” She thought for a moment. “Powerless.”

I knew the feeling.

“He's been watching old TV clips on the computer again,” she said. “All day. Would you go in there and sit with your dad, Luke? You could give him a hug, if you felt so inclined.”

I didn't have time for this—I had to save the world. But it wasn't as if I had any idea how. I could spare a few minutes. I nodded.

A minute later I tipped open the living room door. The curtains were drawn, the only light the glare from the computer. It flickered across my dad's face as he lounged in front of the screen, a party-size bag of M&M's open on his lap.

He glanced up as I came in and then patted the seat. I slid in beside him. Playing on-screen was an ancient black-and-white film.

“
Flash Gordon
,” explained Dad. “The 1936 vintage. They don't make 'em like this anymore. Rocket ships held up by visible strings, garden lizards pretending to be dinosaurs, cliff-hangers with actual cliffs.”

The current scene was set in a futuristic palace, represented by a shiny curtain and a throne that looked like it came from IKEA. A woman with curly white-blonde hair was talking to a bald man wearing a cloak with a pointy high collar, and a mustache and beard that were obviously stuck on. Baldy sat on the throne, stroking his fake beard.

“Who's he?” I asked.

“Emperor Ming the Merciless. The big bad.”

“And her?”

“Dale Arden. Flash's main squeeze. Though if you ask me, Flash picked the wrong gal
.
Y'see her?” He pointed to another woman in the shot, wearing what looked like a sparkly bikini top and a tiara. “That's Princess Aura—she's Ming's daughter.” He studied her. “I think your mom looks a bit like Princess Aura.”

I couldn't see it myself, but Dad seemed pleased at the similarity.

“What has become of Flash Gordon?”
demanded Dale Arden.

“You will never see the Earthman again,”
crowed Emperor Baldy.
“You are to be mine. I, Ming the Merciless, will take you as my bride this very day!”

“Aaand she's fainted again,” said Dad. “Quick, have an M&M. Every time Dale Arden faints, you have to eat one.” He shoved the pack under my nose. “She faints a lot.”

We sat side by side, crunching. “Why is she marrying him if she doesn't want to?” I asked.

“She has no choice,” said Dad. “Ming's planning to use his Dehumanizer on her. It's a device to make her forget all about her true love, Flash Gordon.”

I noticed Mom hovering at the door. Dad hadn't seen her.

“Did you use a Dehumanizer on Mom before you got married?”

“Naturally,” said Dad. “A woman like that'd never agree to marry a man like me, not without an alien mind-control device.”

I saw a smile appear on Mom's face.

“What powers does Flash Gordon have?” I asked Dad.

“Powers? None, unless you count his handsomeness. He's not technically a superhero. In the original comic strip he was a polo player from a fancy university.”

I couldn't hide my surprise. “So he's just an ordinary person?”

“Well, yeah,” said Dad, “apart from the polo ponies and the two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar education.”

An ordinary person who saves the earth. I'd never considered the possibility.

“But he can't do it alone—he has great friends and allies. Like Dale Arden, Dr. Zarkov, who's a brilliant scientist, and Prince Vultan of the Hawkmen.” He patted my leg. “Now sit back and enjoy. We've got thirteen episodes of this, and then a sequel, and then we can move on to Buck Rogers.”

Flash turned up. He'd been right about the strings showing. It was tempting to sit there with my dad and watch ancient space adventures until my eyeballs fell out of my face, but then I caught Mom's expression. She wasn't angry. She just looked sad. And in that instant I understood the true evil of the sue-dunham. Sitting in front of a screen all day, every day, might sound appealing—it could even be fun for a while—but the reality was, I didn't want to spend my life watching someone else have adventures.

I wanted my own.

“You have to turn it off,” I said.

“I will,” said Dad, with a longing glance at the screen. “Soon.”

I laid a hand on top of his. “Ask yourself this: would Flash Gordon spend all of his time watching old TV shows?” I didn't wait for his answer. “No! He'd much rather be out there, soaring through the galaxy in an old laundry detergent bottle spray-painted silver, fighting for humanity, wearing infeasibly tight shorts.” I paused. “Dad, put down the keyboard.”

He glanced down as if noticing it for the first time and then slowly set it on the coffee table. Mom came softly into the room. The two of them looked at each other for a long time.

With a click the laptop entered sleep mode. The dark screen pulsed like a starless galaxy. A shudder went through my body.

I had an idea.

Half in a daze, I tripped out of the living room.

“Luke, are you OK?” asked Mom as I floated by. “What's going on with you today? I really hope you're not coming down with your brother's flu.”

I barely heard her. Threads of ideas spun in my head. One by one I wove them into a single perfect plan. In fact, a plan not so much woven as
knitted
. I knew how to defeat the Overlord, but I couldn't do it alone.

It was time to activate S.C.A.R.F.