Tom yawned as he leaned back in his desk, crossing his arms over his faded Metallica T-shirt and stretching his legs, knees flexing through the frayed holes in his jeans. The day’s starting bell rang and a group of stragglers ran through the door—another Monday morning in high school physics. Tom wanted to sleep, lay his head down on top of his desk and forget about class. He had spent all evening staring through his father’s old telescope into the worlds beyond, wondering what was out there; something inside him wanted to know.
Mr. Hastings, a middle aged man with a shiny bald head and bushy eyebrows liked tired caterpillars, frowned at the tardy students as he began taking role. His pleated khaki pants, white sleeve shirt, and sweater vest, gave him a dutiful look. Mr. Hastings was new to the school, but his passion about science interested Tom. Every lecture turned into an interesting story about other worlds.
Space had become Tom’s new obsession. His tired mind dreamed about the star’s he saw in the night’s sky. In his head he could hear his father’s warm voice, chronicle made-up stories about distant worlds and telling him that he was special. Tom smiled as he reminisced. He was ten years old, when his father was killed in a car crash.
“Tom Maxwell…” called Mr. Hastings. “Tom, I see you, are you going to answer?”
Tom snapped out of his daydream, stiffening in his seat. “Yes—I mean, here, Mr. Hastings.” The class snickered and Tom slumped down in his chair, as the teacher finished the role call.
Mr. Hastings turned on the class projector, laying a piece of cellophane on top with images of space. Pictures of galaxies and colorful nebulae filled the dull white screen that hung in front of the classroom’s chalkboard.
“Last class we talked about the physics of large celestial bodies,” said Mr. Hastings. “Scientist often times focus on the mechanical, overlooking the beauty and mystery that is indeed the universe.” He strolled among the rows of students. “The universe is so big, we still see light from stars that died millions of years ago. Each star, likely orbited by planets. NASA launched the Hubble Telescope last year and I believe we’ll find other planets much like our own. Maybe even blackholes, the swan song of stars.”
Tom sat up straight, flipped open his notebook and wrote: Where does a star go when it dies? His notebook was filled with alien glyphs that haunted his dreams every night since he turned fifteen. Every morning he would wake trying to remember the swirling patterns, scribbling them down in his notebook before they faded. Faint memories called out from the back of his mind, as if he had seen the strange symbols before. Looking at the glyphs made him want to look at the stars. He was searching for something; but what, he didn’t know.
Mr. Hastings continued his lectured, his voice muffled by Tom’s wandering mind. He doodled in the notebook, copying the symbols over and over again, letting time slip by. A bell blared in the hallway, ending the first period. The students filed out of the room and Tom fumbled with his books. His notebook fell to the floor, landing open at Mr. Hastings’ feet.
Mr. Hastings picked up the notebook, eyeing the strange patterns. “Tom are you ok?” he asked.
“Yes, Mr. Hastings,” answered Tom. “I’m just…a little tired.”
Mr Hastings raised an eyebrow as he handed the notebook back. “Interesting drawings. Am I that boring?”
Tom smiled in a self-conscious way, taking the notebook, stuffing it into his backpack, and scurrying out the door. The day dragged on and Tom kept mostly to himself. The social jungle of high school was splitting middle school friendships and he thought it best to let the dust settle before trying reaching out. His small school didn’t have much to offer in social diversity. He wasn’t a jock, couldn’t stand drama, wasn’t part of the popular crowd, and didn’t play in the band, leaving him no-man’s land until he picked a side. Tom liked not being part of any group. As he got older, he felt more out of place, as if he didn’t belong.
After school, he walked down the sidewalk that led through the small town. He took the same route every day, passing by the simple brick building that was the post office, a soda shop that had been in business for over forty years, and the dilapidated movie theater that was once the town’s center piece. A cool breeze rattled dead leaves in a nearby tree, giving Tom an unsettled feeling, something nagged at the back of his mind. He glanced behind him and noticed a black van with tinted windows, crawling up the street. Two figures sat up front, watching him. A chill came over Tom and felt the urge to run.
A firebird honked its horn, stopping Tom from accidentally walking into the intersection. The driver frowned, shaking his head as he drove through the stop light. The van pulled up at the stop, its tinted passenger window reflecting Tom’s nervous face. He decided to cut down the side street to see if they would follow, picking up his pace. Behind him, the engine of the van revved as it turned down the street.
Tom didn’t look back. He ran along the sidewalk, turning down the back road that ran behind the line of shops. His heart pounded in his ears, his book back bounced as his stride hit the broken pavement. The van followed. Tom cut across the back parking lot, running over a set of train tracks, to an old car wash that overlooked a nearby river. Tom had played along the river’s banks as a kid and knew he could lose his pursuiters through the thick brush. His legs pumped as he sprinted, the roar of the vans engine grew louder. Tom lost his footing on loose gravel and tumbled forward, his backpack spilling open. The impact against the broken asphalt knocked the wind out of his lungs, and he gasped for air as he scrambled to his feet. His side ached, but adrenaline masked the pain.
The van squealed to a halt in front of him. Two large men in black jackets, shirt, and pants stepped out. Aviator glasses covered their eyes. The late autumn sun reflected off the lenses, giving them an inhuman quality. Panic surged through Tom’s mind as he stumbled backwards.
“Help!” screamed Tom, but there was no one to hear him.
The whine of a four cylinder Toyota corolla caught them off guard. Its square frame clipped the two men. The first man tumbled over the roof, while the second smashed into the window, spraying a blue goo across the hood. The breaks screeched, bring the car to a stop. The door opened and the sounds of Right Said Fred’s I’m Too Sexy filled the air as Mr. Hastings stepped out.
The first man hit by the car, staggered to his feet. Mr. Hastings retrieved a pistol-like weapon from his pocket and let loose a burst of lasers into the man’s chest. The assailant fell to the ground, twitching in a puddle of blue sludge that leaked from the wounds. Tom stood still in shock, trying to understand what he witnessed.
Mr. Hastings turned to the boy. “Tom, are you ok?”
Tom stepped away, reflexively.
Mr. Hastings put the weapon back into his pocket, and picked up Tom’s notebook, looking at the swirling symbols. “I’m sorry, Tom. I should have gotten to you sooner.”
“What—what just happened?” stuttered Tom. “Did you just kill those guys?”
“No…” Mr. Hastings paused, looking at the bodies. “Well yes, but there not “men” persay, Tom. They’re called Mimics. Real nasty ones by the looks of their juices.”
“Mimics,” quietly motioned Tom’s lips.
Mr. Hastings said, “Tom, its time. I got to take you away from here.”
“Away? I…I can’t go, I have to tell my Mom what happened.” Tom turned, slowly walking back to the main road.
“Tom, the woman in your house is not your mom,” came Mr. Hastings voice from behind.
Tom stopped and faced his teacher, wearing a confused look.
Mr. Hastings glanced at the notebook and back at Tom. He smiled warmly and slowly approached. “I know this is going to be a lot to take in. Your fifteen and trying to figure out where you belong in the world. But I’ve got a big surprise. Your actually not human. Well not fully. Your father was a Zatarian fighter pilot, but your Mom is human. She’s the lead scientist for the Earth Defense Force and married your father, my brother, fifteen years ago.” He placed a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Zatari are explorers and warriors. We’ve been defending the galaxy against the Mimics for centuries, and you’re one of us.”
Tom stood trembling, listening to a man he thought was a stuffy science teacher. “Where’s my Mom?”
Mr. Hastings pointed up to the sky. “She’s waiting on a ship in space for us. She desperately wanted you to have a normal childhood, so we kept you here on earth. We spared no expense in replicating her.”
“Replicating…” said Tom, his voice trailing off.
“Yes, you’ve been living with a robot since fourth grade. We thought it safe to move her off world, after your father passed. But don’t worry, she’s kept an eye on you everyday. I however, was suppose to bring you up, before any Mimics found you.” He looked at the carnage. “She’s going to be mad, but at least you’re in one piece.”
Mr. Hastings reached back in his pocket and pulled out out a small oval metallic device. “C’mon grab your stuff.” He handed the notebook to Tom.
Tom stuffed his notebook and books that littered the ground into his backpack. He clutched the backpack in his arms as he watched Mr. Hastings fidget with the device.
“I know this is a lot to take in, but I’ll let her explain.” He clicked the device, shooting out a beam of energy that opened a doorway from the air. “This device is a wormhole extractor. It lets us cross time and space back to the capital ship.”
Tom peered through in amazement. On the other side was busy command deck. Beings, human in shape, but a little taller, with long slender arms and smooth grey skin in a blue tunics hurried about. The women he knew as his mother smiled at him. She wore the same blue uniform.
Mr. Hastings slapped Tom on the back, nudging him through the doorway. “Welcome to your new life.”
