Dinosaur Boy Saves Mars (14 page)

To the twelve members of the Martian Council (most of whom had been surviving for some time on whatever Nutri Nuggets they could get smuggled to them while in hiding), the smell coming from Mrs. Juarez's tray was irresistible. Some of them were openly salivating. Which was exactly what I had been counting on.

Still, they all had suspicious looks on their faces. None of them made a move to open the steaming foil cylinders that had been placed in front of them.

I stepped up to the table.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I know that the threat of gene-ing is on all of our minds. That's why I had this food prepared especially for us by a celebrity chef from a neutral planet. I believe Gloria Juarez requires no introduction.”

There were murmurs of recognition from around the table. Apparently, Mama Juarez's Mexican-Martian fusion restaurants were as well-known in Mars as Sylvie had claimed.

“Chef Juarez, what exactly have you prepared for us?” asked the elderly Martian at the head of the table as he cautiously unwrapped his foil package. He didn't touch anything inside; he just squinted at it. Even though I could have sworn I saw him lick his lips.

“These are an Earth delicacy called tacos,” Mrs. Juarez explained, handing me one as well. “Today I have prepared a breakfast variety for you called migas: a mixture of scrambled eggs, onions, peppers, and tortilla chips, all covered in a melted cheese sauce and wrapped in a flour tortilla. They're very popular in the Tex-Mex cooking tradition.”

“Mmmm,” I said, unwrapping one end of my taco and taking a healthy bite. It really was good. Not exactly on the regular stegosaurus menu, but still tasty. Mrs. Juarez had somehow even managed to find real Earth chicken eggs.

Not that I wouldn't have choked down a Bruno egg to make my point. But I was glad I didn't have to.

Emboldened by my example, several of the council members took experimental nibbles of their own tacos. Chancellor Fontana took an enormous bite, wiped a drip of sauce off her chin, and grinned.

“It's delicious!” she exclaimed, prompting the remaining holdouts (even the old guy) to tear into their tacos as well.

Mrs. Juarez winked at me, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

Then a heart-stoppingly loud gong sound shook the entire box. Outside, there was a burst of orangey-yellow fire as four walls of flame rose up along the perimeter of the field.

The announcer hurriedly swallowed his bite of taco.

“
The first sudden death period has begun!
”

• • •

What Sylvie had said about knowing you were in sudden death was starting to make sense. It wasn't just the edges of the field that were on fire; the ball was on fire as well.

And so was Tycho Brawn. Metaphorically speaking anyway.

The burly Martian came alive at the sound of the gong. Suddenly he was everywhere at once, tearing around the field so fast he made all the other players look like they were moving in slow motion.

“
Finally!
” the announcer was shrieking as Brawn charged down the field, kicking the flaming ball ahead of him and heading straight for the Plutonian goal. “
Tycho Brawn has come back to life! He can win it for the Martians right now!
”

“No!” Venetio shouted. He and Sylvie both leaped to their feet. “If the Martians win in sudden death—”

I turned and put a finger to my lips, nodding toward the twelve munching members of the council behind me. Venetio shut up, but we all held our breath as Tycho Brawn easily dodged a Plutonian defender and then launched a lightning-fast shot at the goal.

The Plutonian goalie caught the ball, but barely, just as the fire sputtered out around the field and the first sudden death period came to an end.

There was a collective groan from the Martians in the stands and matching disappointed sounds from the twelve Martians sitting around the table. All of which covered up the four frantic sighs of relief that came from me, Sylvie, Venetio, and Mrs. Juarez.

There was also a painful-sounding grunt from my grandfather, who was still huddled beneath his coat in the corner, an untouched taco beside him.

• • •

“
Injury time-out!
” the announcer said, his mouth full of taco. “
It looks as though Stern—the Plutonian goalie—is on fire! Repeat: Stern is on fire!
”

On the field, a knot of blue-jerseyed players surrounded the Plutonian goalie, who was rolling around on the grass, trying to put himself out.

With a worried look at the lump in the corner that was my grandfather, I sat down beside Sylvie and Venetio. They were already in deep, whispered conversation.

“Chancellor Fontana warned the Martian team not to do anything controversial,” Venetio pointed out. “Why would Tycho Brawn only start to play hard during sudden death?”

Sylvie shook her head.

“I don't know.”

“That's exactly what the BURPSers would want him to do,” Venetio pointed out. “He must be working for them.”

“But he's a Martian hero,” I reminded him. “He wouldn't do that. Would he, Sylvie?”

Sylvie was staring out of the window.

“Sylvie?” I repeated.

“He took a dive,” she muttered, so quietly I could barely hear her.

“What?” Venetio asked, moving his ear closer.

“He dove, OK?” she said in a loud, furious whisper. “In the '14 Finals. He didn't get fouled. He faked it.”

“Are you sure?” I asked, as my brain struggled to figure out how this applied to our current situation.

“Yes. Coach Kepler told him to fake a foul so we'd get penalty kicks and win the game.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Because Kepler asked me to dive first, and I wouldn't do it. So he asked Tycho instead.”

“And do you think he's doing it again now?” I asked. “Only trying to score during sudden death to cause a riot for the BURPSers? Why would he do that? He's a Martian! He loves Mars!”

“Tycho loves money,” Sylvie growled. “After the '14 Finals, the Martian Council paid him. Very well. If the BURPSers offered him money to throw the game their way, I'll bet he took it.”

“He's their insurance policy,” Venetio muttered. “Your grandfather was right. The BURPSers are going to make sure this game goes their way.”

Down on the field, the injured Plutonian goalie was being hauled off on a stretcher.

“
As regular time resumes, the Plutonians are going to have to substitute in a new goalkeeper.
”

A fresh Plutonian jogged onto the field and took his place in front of the Plutonian goal.

“
My, he's a tall one, isn't he, ladies and gentlemen? Has he—yes! I just received word that he cleared the DNA check. He is definitely at least fifty-one percent Plutonian.
”

I took a closer look at the lanky figure in the Plutonian goal, and I felt my heart drop to my feet.

“
Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome, in his debut soccer match, number eighty-four for the Kuiper Kickers, Elliot Foster!
”

• • •

Sylvie and I stared at each other. I have no idea what my face looked like at that moment, but hers was equal parts horror and disbelief.

“How is that possible?” I asked. “He's not a Plutonian!”

“They said he passed the DNA test,” Venetio said slowly.

Sylvie gasped as a bigger-than-life image of Elliot appeared on the Jumbotron.

“He looks…” she started, and then gasped again. “Is he…just a little bit…?”

“Blue,” I finished grimly. It was faint, but the arms and legs sticking out of his way-too-small Plutonian jersey were a distinct shade of blue. “He's definitely blue.”

“They gened him,” Venetio marveled. “The Plutonians gened him!”

For a split second, I was angry. How could they?

But then I saw the smile on Elliot's face. And I realized that if he had indeed been gened, it must have been his idea. And it didn't look like he regretted it.

“Elliot, what have you done?” I muttered, just as the bone-rattling sound of the gong rang out once again.

“
Oh my goodness, the second sudden death period has begun!
”

• • •

The firewalls rose again around the field. This time, they were so high I could barely see Elliot.

“
Never in history has the second sudden death period come so soon after the first!
” the announcer was screaming, a scrap of tortilla dangling from his lower lip. “
This is unprecedented! This is unbelievable!
”

“This is bad,” Venetio muttered, his cheek flat against the window. “Really bad.”

“What?” I asked, tearing my eyes away from the Jumbotron. “Why is it bad?”

Venetio gestured down to the crowd. Everybody wearing blue—scratch that, everybody who
was
blue—was shouting up at the box.

“Two sudden death periods back to back? That never happens,” Venetio explained. “They think you rigged it.”

“Me?” I asked, incredulous.

“Well, they think somebody rigged it,” Venetio explained. “If the Martians win during a questionable sudden death period—”

“Stop the game!” I said, quietly at first. Then I turned toward Ms. Helen and raised my voice. “Stop the game!”

“You can't—” she began.

“I'm the chancellor!” I yelled. “I'm the chancellor, and I say,
Stop the game!
”

“Nobody can stop the game during sudden death,” she said. “It's against the rules.”

I opened my mouth to argue with her, but I was interrupted by a hysterical burst from the announcer's booth.

“
It's Tycho Brawn on a breakaway!
”

I stared down at the field with dread. Tycho Brawn was charging down the field behind the flaming ball. The close-up shot of him on the Jumbotron showed a grotesque plastic nose and a face that was filled with determination. A determination to end the game, once and for all. In a way that would give the BURPSers exactly what they wanted.

And the only thing between him and the vast Plutonian goal was Elliot.

“
It's a showdown!
” the announcer screeched as Tycho Brawn came barreling toward the Plutonian goal. “
A trial by fire, literally, for the new Plutonian goalie! With the entire game on the line! The fate of their planets is in the hands of these two players!
”

The announcer thought he was being dramatic. He had no idea that he was right.

“Come on, Elliot!” I yelled at the window, completely forgetting that I was supposed to be neutral. “
Come on!
”

“Tycho always shoots right,” Sylvie muttered, her voice tense. “If Elliot's been paying attention, he'll know that Tycho always shoots high and to the right. High and right, Elliot! High and right!”

“High and right!” Sylvie, Venetio, and I yelled. “High and right!”

I don't know if he heard us. Really, there was no way he could have. Not from behind a closed, bulletproof window hundreds of meters above his head. Maybe he didn't need to hear us. But when Tycho Brawn's shot came sailing at the goal, Elliot jumped, arms outstretched, high and to the right.

The ball hit his gloves. Elliot snatched the ball out of the air and fell on top of it, smothering the flames.

Tycho Brawn stood over him, furious. His face on the Jumbotron looked murderous.

The Plutonians in the stands erupted in cheers as the Plutonian ref jogged over and stood pointedly over Elliot, staring Tycho Brawn straight in the face.

The big Martian backed off and stalked back to midfield in a huff.

The Plutonians in the crowd were still shouting, but not at the chancellors' box. Now they were focused on the lanky, blueish figure in front of the Plutonian goal. They were smiling.

And they were chanting: “Foster! Foster! Foster!”

• • •

“
The sudden death period is over! Just four minutes of regular time remain!
”

I took a very deep breath and looked over at Sylvie.

“So…that's why you don't play anymore?” I guessed. “Because of what happened in the '14 Finals?”

She nodded.

“It was all a lie,” she said. “We didn't win; we cheated. We were all famous for no reason.”

“You didn't cheat,” I pointed out.

“No, but I knew Tycho did. And I didn't tell anybody.”

“That's why you don't play anymore?”

“That's right.”

“Sylvie,” I gulped, as I snuck a look at the game clock: three fifty-five. “You can make up for that now. You can win this game for the Martians right now.”

“I'm not playing, Sawyer,” she said.

“Hmmm,” I said with a glance at Venetio. “Yeah, I guess you wouldn't make much of a difference anyway.”

“Yeah,” Venetio said casually. “I doubt Coach Kepler would even let her play.”

“He's been begging me to play since I got here,” Sylvie corrected him testily.

“Plus, she hasn't played for a while,” I pointed out. Venetio and I both turned our backs on her, but not before I saw her mouth drop open in shock. I bit back a grin.

“She's probably not very good anymore,” Venetio said thoughtfully.

“Totally out of shape,” I added.

“Has-been,” Venetio sniffed.

“Plus, she's short,” I pointed out.

Venetio snorted. “I mean, sure she got a few goals past Elliot the other day. But she's no match for professional Plutonian players. Not anymore.”

“It's better if she doesn't play,” I agreed. “I mean, let's face it. She was on the '14 Finals team, and apparently they had to cheat to beat the Plutonians, so…”

I risked a glance over my shoulder, wondering if we needed to go even further.

But we didn't. Sylvie's seat was empty.

“Short?” Venetio repeated, raising an eyebrow.

I nudged him in the ribs.

“Sometimes, you've just got to know what buttons to push.”

“
Ladies and gentlemen, substitution for the Martians. Number twenty-two, Sylvia Juarez, has taken the field!
”

• • •

“
With the score still at 0–0, the fiery phenom has returned! But with only two minutes left in regulation time, will she make a difference?
”

“What happens if she doesn't score a goal?” I asked Venetio, pressing my face against the glass as I tried to get a better view of the game.

“It'll go into a shoot-out,” Venetio answered. “Two players, one from each team, alternate shots on goal until somebody scores. Both teams have preselected the players who will represent them.”

“Let me guess, the Martians chose Tycho Brawn?” I asked.

Venetio nodded. “And he'll miss on purpose. The Plutonians will win.”

“Come on, Sylvie!” I shouted.

It didn't last long. The Plutonians lost the ball around midfield, and the Martians passed it to Brawn, who started charging downfield toward Elliot again. It was only a matter of time before he pretended to trip, lose the ball, or miss. Just like he had been doing the whole game, when it wasn't sudden death.

Except that this time Tycho Brawn had a small, red-jerseyed blur on his tail.

“
Sylvia Juarez is keeping pace with Brawn! Is this a new offense they've been cooking up? Maybe—wait! Is she… She is! Sylvia Juarez is trying to steal the ball from her own teammate!
”

Sylvie kicked the ball right out from between Tycho Brawn's legs. The bigger player roared, got tangled up in his own feet, and fell over.

“
No foul! Both refs are saying no foul! Sylvia Juarez is clear to the goal!
”

The Jumbotron camera moved from Brawn, who was lying on the ground and beating the grass with his fists, to Sylvie's resolute face to Elliot…who stood shaking in front of the goal.

I'm not sure if it happened in slow motion for everybody else, but it was definitely that way for me. Sylvie drew back her foot and the ball seemed to inch toward the goal. Elliot jumped and flew, arms outstretched, high and right.

The ball sailed by him, low and left, into the goal, just as the buzzer signaling the end of the game sounded. The final score flashed across the Jumbotron:

Martians: 1

Plutonians: 0

The stadium erupted in cheers.

“SYL-VI-A!” the Martians in the crowd were chanting. “SYL-VI-A! SYL-VI-A!”

“SYL-VI-A!” echoed Venetio, beating his hands together. When he caught me looking at him, he gave an embarrassed smile.

“I never thought I'd be rooting for the Martians,” he said, wiping away a tear.

“You know what, Venetio? Neither did I.”

Down on the field, Sylvie was helping a prostrate Elliot to his feet. She looked up at the box and gave me a small salute with her free hand.

I knew what she meant, and I felt the tension that had momentarily lifted settle back down on my shoulders.

They had done it. Mars had won the game. Fair and square.

Now it was my turn.