The Lost Tribes, page 2
To the west, fluffy white clouds punctuated a sunlit sky. But something about their movement struck Ben as odd. The clouds elongated into tentacles of mist. Ben swiveled his head in the opposite direction. An enormous black cloud approached rapidly from the east, light flashing from inside.
Ben dribbled while he counted; one Mississippi, two Mississippi … He reached twelve before he heard a distant crack of thunder. There was still time to get into the house before the storm arrived.
A fierce gust of wind blew chairs off the deck. The temperature grew uncomfortably hot and yet goosebumps erupted on Ben’s arms as if the storm was an omen. All the while, his father stared at the sky.
Searching.
Watching.
Searching for what?
The clouds flowed east as if the storm was sucking them in. That didn’t make sense. The clouds should have been moving in the same direction as the storm. Ben’s eyes followed a flock of birds fleeing to the west.
“Dad? What’s wrong?”
His father tensed and scanned the yard as if he expected someone or something to appear out of thin air. His eyes narrowed into tight slits as his prayer beads swayed and clicked in the wind. He glanced at the beads, then blew out a lungful of air. “Cumulonimbus, Jeremiah. Just a thunderhead.”
Now Ben was confused. His father was the ultimate Zen master. Not much bothered him. He braced against the wind and tapped his father on the shoulder. “Dad? We should go in before the storm gets here. We can play later.”
His father frowned. “Go get your sister. Your uncle’s going to be joining us for dinner.”
Ben groaned. The incoming storm was an omen. His father was home, but he’d brought trouble home with him.
CHAPTER TWO
The Nature of Things to Come
“Human history becomes more and more a race between education and catastrophe.”
H. G. Wells
“Theory of Evolution? Natural selection?” Uncle Henry’s booming voice filled every square inch of the dining room and he wasn’t even yelling — yet. He snared a piece of steak and eyed it as if it were prey.
Ben grimaced. Smooth move, Webster, bringing up Darwin in front of a world-class archeologist with a galaxy-class ego. When he asked about your school project, you could have said crystal growth or recycling. Heck, you should have just said you were making weapons of mass destruction. Ben tried to explain the class assignment, but his uncle kept on barking.
“Centuries of contributions and we’re not even a footnote! I suspect it would suit the world if we disappeared off the face of the planet.” Uncle Henry stabbed his steak as if trying to kill the animal one more time.
Ben tuned out. His uncle’s rants were as predictable as a morning sunrise. Next up on Henry Webster’s greatest hits:
1. Know your ancestors — easy, all dead.
2. Know where you came from — the shady side of Sunnyslope.
3. Cradle of life — covered. Ben wondered if he should tell his uncle he’d caught up on the “Cradle” by watching Tomb Raider at a classmate’s house. Nope. That would be suicide.
4. Never settle for second place — Ben was still working on that one.
“Well?” asked Uncle Henry.
Ben blinked and wondered how much of the lecture he’d missed. “Huh?”
“You were explaining what passes for a seventh grade education these days. By all means, continue to enlighten me with your evolutionary theories.”
“Pick a new tune, Henry.” Ben’s father frowned then shoved raw spinach in his mouth.
Massive as a redwood, Henry Webster rested the elbows of his silk shirt on the table and looked incredulous. Ben’s father stared back, his slender frame dwarfed by an oversized blue sweatshirt that read, “Sunnyslope University”. Ben found it hard to believe they were brothers. Ben’s mother called them “Yin” and “Yang.” Polar opposites — but a perfect balance.
“Wait until you hear the best part!” April blurted out. “Ben’s teacher said humans evolved from some people called Cro-Magnons!”
“April,” Ben’s father spoke gently, but his narrowed eyes meant business. “Drop it!”
“Well I think it’s a stupid theory,” she continued.
“Oh? And why is that?” asked Uncle Henry, one eyebrow raised beyond the normal limits of facial expression.
“Because Ben’s a mutant alien.” April shot a sly smile at Ben.
Ben fumed and fantasized whether his sister would fit through a basketball net.
“Wouldn’t that make you a mutant as well?” asked Uncle Henry.
Ben’s mother shot an ice-cold glare across the table, clutched her amulet and thrust her right hand forward. “Henry, it appears you have neglected daily meditation. May I be of assistance?”
She smiled the kind of half-smile that always warned Ben he should seek asylum in a foreign country.
Uncle Henry abruptly moved his hands into his lap. “Fine. Have it your way. What new tofu recipe did you synthesize this time, Medie? I’d swear this was steak.”
“It’s real, Henry. One hundred percent, open-range, grass-fed beef from Argentina. Compliments of Frank Lopez.”
“Frank Lopez? Did you check it for arsenic?” Uncle Henry poked at a chunk and inspected every inch before popping it into his mouth. Eyes closed, he shuddered in delight as juices dripped down his fork and formed a red puddle on his plate.
For Ben, the revelation was a welcome relief. His mother’s vegetarian cooking could be considered a lethal weapon in most of the fifty states — especially her bioorganic tofu steaks. The next-door neighbors, on the other hand, were the world’s biggest carnivores. Real steak. Ben snagged a small filet and took a bite. Seasoned with garlic, onions and spices, the meat melted on his tongue.
His mother frowned and snatched the remaining portions out of his reach. Ben groaned, popped soybeans out of a pod and sloshed them in meat juice to make them more edible.
“Henry, it would be appropriate to say a prayer of thanks to the animal that was sacrificed for this meal,” his mother said.
“If the circumstances were reversed, do you think it would pray over us?” Uncle Henry asked.
Ben stifled a laugh. But his mother leaned forward as if she were searching for weaknesses in his uncle’s defenses. Ben’s father glanced back and forth between them as if watching the ball in a tennis match.
Uncle Henry finally growled and bowed his head. “Thank you, anonymous steer, whose spirit now nourishes the cosmos and whose flesh will now nourish me.” He shoved a super-sized chunk of beef in his mouth.
April giggled but Ben and his father ducked as if World War III were about to break out.
Instead, Ben’s mother offered a withering glare. “Now, change the subject. No more philosophy, no more anthropology, no more doom and gloom. Don’t utter another word unless it’s something happy. Do I make myself clear?”
Uncle Henry pursed his lips. “I know something that would make me happy. Why don’t you let Ben come along on the next expedition?”
Ben nearly choked on a piece of tofu. “Dad says I have to wait until I’m older.”
“Indeed? And why is that, Jeremiah?” his uncle asked, sarcasm dripping from the words.
“Drop it,” Ben’s father said quietly.
Uncle Henry seemed amused. “I just thought you might want to clarify your position.”
Ben’s father glowered and kept eating.
“In many cultures, boys Ben’s age are already hunting with their fathers.” Ben’s uncle leaned back in his chair and folded his muscular arms against his chest.
“Give it a rest, Henry.” Ben’s father said, his voice a low growl.
“A rite of passage to prove their manhood,” Uncle Henry continued, unfazed. “The next mission starts in eight days.” He paused. “The last mission.”
Ben’s heart sank as he realized his safari dreams were about to slip away. “Last?”
“Afraid so.” Uncle Henry glanced at Ben’s mother then sighed as he shoved soybeans in his mouth, pods and all. “It’s time to move on.”
“Dad?” Ben pleaded.
“I said, no.”
“I think the children should explore their roots,” Uncle Henry mumbled through a mouthful of vegetables.
Jeremiah Webster’s eyes grew dark. “Henry, I’m warning you.”
“Oh! We’re learning all about history in fifth grade.” April waved her hands with excitement. “All sorts of stuff like in fourteen hundred and ninety two, Columbus sailed the ocean blue and … ”
Activate full body shields now!
Uncle Henry shifted in his chair. Veins pulsed on top of his bald head. “See what I mean? Even the Dogon have known about — ”
“HENRY!” Ben’s father slammed his fists on the table and rose from his chair.
April gasped. Ben held his breath until his lungs hurt. His father NEVER raised his voice.
“Welcome, Jeremiah. I knew a spark of fire still burned inside of you.” Ben’s uncle speared a chunk of meat with his fork and tossed it across the table. “Have some steak to celebrate your reawakening.”
“Forgive me, Henry,” said Ben’s mother, a hard edge creeping into her voice. “I now see that your bad mood is caused by constipation.”
Ben looked in horror as she tossed tofu casserole onto his uncle’s plate.
Jeremiah Webster pointed an index finger at his brother. “Ease up, Henry. Do you understand me? Ease up!”
The arctic chill that settled in the room was enough to send penguins scrambling for shelter. Even April remained frozen in her chair, her mouth gaping and her fork hovering midway to its destination.
Searching for a way to defuse the argument, Ben reached into his pocket, smoothed the wrinkles from a letter and held it up. “I have some news! I’m trying out for the basketball team. Just wait. In a few years I’m going to be famous — like Jackson Carter!”
“Basketball? Now there’s a useful skill,” said his uncle. “Years from now, what will history remember of Mr. Carter? If the world were to end tomorrow will his sky hook have made a difference?” He rested his chin on the top of his clasped hands. Three African masks hanging above the buffet flanked him like bodyguards.
Score zero for the home team. Thirteen years of trying to impress his uncle, thirteen years of failing even with a home court advantage.
Aris leapt on the buffet and joined the opposing team.
Ben bared his teeth. Aris arched his back to up the ante.
“Aris!” Ben’s mother hissed.
The cat relaxed his posture but stayed put on the buffet.
“Henry, we encourage the children to choose their own path,” Ben’s father said, his voice calmer but firm.
“So it appears. And how does one decide on a path without the relevant facts?”
“My children are doing just fine.” Ben’s father snatched the permission slip and scribbled his signature on the bottom. He winked and gave Ben a thumbs up. “Ben has many years to decide what he wants to do with his life.”
“Perhaps,” Uncle Henry said. “Perhaps not.” He tilted his head as if seeing Ben in a different light. “I see you cut your hair.”
“I thought it would make me more aerodynamic …”
“I know,” Uncle Henry interrupted. “For basketball.” His eyes bored through Ben as if he were analyzing every strand of his DNA. “The initials over your ear are crooked.”
Personal foul. Game over.
Ben caught a glint in his uncle’s eyes. He braced for another lecture on history, ancient empires and civic responsibility. Instead, his uncle stood and left the room. He returned with an elaborate leather saddlebag.
“That new?” asked April. “It’s cool!”
“It serves its purpose,” Uncle Henry said, unlatching the carved silver clasp. He reached inside a pocket and produced an emerald green disk.
“What’s that?” Ben’s father asked, his eyes narrowing.
“A game for Ben to try,” Uncle Henry said. It isn’t as exciting as a real safari — ” he paused. “or basketball. However, Ben should find the challenge sufficiently stimulating.”
Ecstatic, Ben reached for the disk. His parents glared, but remained silent.
“It’s a new level of interactive gaming,” Uncle Henry continued. “It will run on any computer but there are special effects if you use your own. Perhaps you could beta test it with your friends and tell me if it’s any good.”
“You programmed this yourself?” asked Ben.
Uncle Henry nodded. “With help from some business associates.”
“I thought you were an archeologist.”
Uncle Henry’s sly smile grew a centimeter. “I am many things.”
Ben swallowed hard. There was no label on the disk, only an etched star shaped like his uncle’s earring. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch,” Uncle Henry said. “Think of it as a mini-adventure to whet your appetite.”
“Awwww man! How come Ben always gets all the good stuff?” April whined.
Ben grinned at his sister. “Okay, I’m in. What’s it called?”
“The Lost Tribes of Xenobia,” Uncle Henry said.
The color drained from Ben’s parent’s faces.
His mother snatched the disk from his hand. “It’s a school night and Ben’s got homework.”
“Mom! It’s just a game! What’s the big deal?” Ben pleaded.
Uncle Henry clucked his tongue. “It’s harmless, Medie. A bit of mindless fun with a few educational things thrown in so not to be a total waste of time.”
Ben’s excitement deflated like a spent balloon. His uncle’s gift was really a top-secret way to get Ben’s grades up.
“You’ll have fun with this,” his uncle said. “But don’t be fooled. It will challenge you.”
“Bet it won’t. Grace and I solved a safe cracker game in two days.” Grace Choedon had been his buddy since kindergarten. It came in handy that she lived across the street. “What do I have to do?”
“Search for lost treasure around the planet. If you solve all the puzzles, there’s a surprise ending.”
“What’s the surprise?” asked his father. The words spilled out as more of a threat than a question.
“Now, if I told him, it wouldn’t BE a surprise, would it, Jeremiah?” Uncle Henry’s eyes sparkled. He tugged the disk away from Ben’s mother and gave it back to Ben. “You’ll have to have your wits about you to get through this. No asking your parents for help.” He winked. “Solve it and I’ll persuade them to let you tag along next week.”
Ben’s jaw dropped wide enough to drive a truck through. Basketball and an expedition? How could life get any better? “But they already said no.”
Uncle Henry leaned across the table, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m pretty sure I can get them to change their minds. Trust me on that one.”
Ben didn’t know how his uncle was going to accomplish that miracle and he didn’t care. “Seriously?”
“I always keep my end of a bargain,” Uncle Henry said. “ But you’ve only got a week. Think you can handle the challenge?”
“Are you kidding? It’s a slam dunk!”
Ben shot up from the table. His father pointed a single index finger in his direction. In both human and dog language it meant “sit, stay and shut up.”
Ben slumped back into his chair.
“What about me?” April asked, batting her eyes at twice the speed of light.
Ben’s uncle slid a red case across the table. “You can link your programs and play as a team.”
“Not a chance! I’m going to beat Ben and get the safari all for myself.” April grinned and twirled the disk in her hands.
“Dream on, bird brain!” Mimicking his mother, Ben attempted to freeze April into a block of ice with an arctic stare. It didn’t work.
“Remember,” Uncle Henry said. “The clock is ticking. You’ve got one week. After that, the game is over.”
“Deal!” Ben felt a surge of adrenaline and clutched the DVD as if it were a treasure in itself.
His parents, however, looked as though they were plotting his uncle’s funeral.
CHAPTER THREE
Secrets and Lies
“If you reveal your secrets to the wind, you should not blame the wind for revealing them to the trees.”
Kahlil Gibran
Ben raced up the staircase just as angry voices erupted from the dining room. He was torn between starting the game and sneaking back downstairs. The decision was easy — Ultimate Fighting match now. Game later.
“What were you thinking?”
“ … been over this before.”
“ … you had no right!”
Ben strained to hear. His father and uncle sounded so much alike he couldn’t tell which voice belonged to which person. The voices were garbled and fragmented, like a radio tuned between stations.
“ … isn’t a request!”
“ … made our decision … all of us!”
After a few frustrating minutes, Ben ran to his room and pulled a voice-activated recorder from his desk drawer. He fastened a leather belt around it then returned to the landing and slid his makeshift surveillance equipment down the staircase.
“ … seen the signs.”
“ … been there for years.”
“… calling the teams in.”
“ … won’t make a difference …”
“ … cover’s blown!”
The voices came into focus, but the strain gave Ben a headache.
“We can’t stop it … might be able to outrun it.” Uncle Henry shouted.
“We have time!” Ben’s father said.
“Time’s up!” snapped Uncle Henry. “It’s time to introduce the children to the family business!”
A door slammed.
Ben rushed to a hallway window in time to see his uncle cut across the lawn, trampling two rose bushes in the process. He stormed toward the main road, passing in and out of the pools of light cast by street lamps.
Ben lifted the window sash and leaned out. In the darkness, a tiny flash of red light hovered above the ground then winked out.
Ben allowed his eyes to adjust to the low light. A car entered the cul-de-sac. The Choedon’s headlights focused on the area where Ben last saw his uncle.
Ben dribbled while he counted; one Mississippi, two Mississippi … He reached twelve before he heard a distant crack of thunder. There was still time to get into the house before the storm arrived.
A fierce gust of wind blew chairs off the deck. The temperature grew uncomfortably hot and yet goosebumps erupted on Ben’s arms as if the storm was an omen. All the while, his father stared at the sky.
Searching.
Watching.
Searching for what?
The clouds flowed east as if the storm was sucking them in. That didn’t make sense. The clouds should have been moving in the same direction as the storm. Ben’s eyes followed a flock of birds fleeing to the west.
“Dad? What’s wrong?”
His father tensed and scanned the yard as if he expected someone or something to appear out of thin air. His eyes narrowed into tight slits as his prayer beads swayed and clicked in the wind. He glanced at the beads, then blew out a lungful of air. “Cumulonimbus, Jeremiah. Just a thunderhead.”
Now Ben was confused. His father was the ultimate Zen master. Not much bothered him. He braced against the wind and tapped his father on the shoulder. “Dad? We should go in before the storm gets here. We can play later.”
His father frowned. “Go get your sister. Your uncle’s going to be joining us for dinner.”
Ben groaned. The incoming storm was an omen. His father was home, but he’d brought trouble home with him.
CHAPTER TWO
The Nature of Things to Come
“Human history becomes more and more a race between education and catastrophe.”
H. G. Wells
“Theory of Evolution? Natural selection?” Uncle Henry’s booming voice filled every square inch of the dining room and he wasn’t even yelling — yet. He snared a piece of steak and eyed it as if it were prey.
Ben grimaced. Smooth move, Webster, bringing up Darwin in front of a world-class archeologist with a galaxy-class ego. When he asked about your school project, you could have said crystal growth or recycling. Heck, you should have just said you were making weapons of mass destruction. Ben tried to explain the class assignment, but his uncle kept on barking.
“Centuries of contributions and we’re not even a footnote! I suspect it would suit the world if we disappeared off the face of the planet.” Uncle Henry stabbed his steak as if trying to kill the animal one more time.
Ben tuned out. His uncle’s rants were as predictable as a morning sunrise. Next up on Henry Webster’s greatest hits:
1. Know your ancestors — easy, all dead.
2. Know where you came from — the shady side of Sunnyslope.
3. Cradle of life — covered. Ben wondered if he should tell his uncle he’d caught up on the “Cradle” by watching Tomb Raider at a classmate’s house. Nope. That would be suicide.
4. Never settle for second place — Ben was still working on that one.
“Well?” asked Uncle Henry.
Ben blinked and wondered how much of the lecture he’d missed. “Huh?”
“You were explaining what passes for a seventh grade education these days. By all means, continue to enlighten me with your evolutionary theories.”
“Pick a new tune, Henry.” Ben’s father frowned then shoved raw spinach in his mouth.
Massive as a redwood, Henry Webster rested the elbows of his silk shirt on the table and looked incredulous. Ben’s father stared back, his slender frame dwarfed by an oversized blue sweatshirt that read, “Sunnyslope University”. Ben found it hard to believe they were brothers. Ben’s mother called them “Yin” and “Yang.” Polar opposites — but a perfect balance.
“Wait until you hear the best part!” April blurted out. “Ben’s teacher said humans evolved from some people called Cro-Magnons!”
“April,” Ben’s father spoke gently, but his narrowed eyes meant business. “Drop it!”
“Well I think it’s a stupid theory,” she continued.
“Oh? And why is that?” asked Uncle Henry, one eyebrow raised beyond the normal limits of facial expression.
“Because Ben’s a mutant alien.” April shot a sly smile at Ben.
Ben fumed and fantasized whether his sister would fit through a basketball net.
“Wouldn’t that make you a mutant as well?” asked Uncle Henry.
Ben’s mother shot an ice-cold glare across the table, clutched her amulet and thrust her right hand forward. “Henry, it appears you have neglected daily meditation. May I be of assistance?”
She smiled the kind of half-smile that always warned Ben he should seek asylum in a foreign country.
Uncle Henry abruptly moved his hands into his lap. “Fine. Have it your way. What new tofu recipe did you synthesize this time, Medie? I’d swear this was steak.”
“It’s real, Henry. One hundred percent, open-range, grass-fed beef from Argentina. Compliments of Frank Lopez.”
“Frank Lopez? Did you check it for arsenic?” Uncle Henry poked at a chunk and inspected every inch before popping it into his mouth. Eyes closed, he shuddered in delight as juices dripped down his fork and formed a red puddle on his plate.
For Ben, the revelation was a welcome relief. His mother’s vegetarian cooking could be considered a lethal weapon in most of the fifty states — especially her bioorganic tofu steaks. The next-door neighbors, on the other hand, were the world’s biggest carnivores. Real steak. Ben snagged a small filet and took a bite. Seasoned with garlic, onions and spices, the meat melted on his tongue.
His mother frowned and snatched the remaining portions out of his reach. Ben groaned, popped soybeans out of a pod and sloshed them in meat juice to make them more edible.
“Henry, it would be appropriate to say a prayer of thanks to the animal that was sacrificed for this meal,” his mother said.
“If the circumstances were reversed, do you think it would pray over us?” Uncle Henry asked.
Ben stifled a laugh. But his mother leaned forward as if she were searching for weaknesses in his uncle’s defenses. Ben’s father glanced back and forth between them as if watching the ball in a tennis match.
Uncle Henry finally growled and bowed his head. “Thank you, anonymous steer, whose spirit now nourishes the cosmos and whose flesh will now nourish me.” He shoved a super-sized chunk of beef in his mouth.
April giggled but Ben and his father ducked as if World War III were about to break out.
Instead, Ben’s mother offered a withering glare. “Now, change the subject. No more philosophy, no more anthropology, no more doom and gloom. Don’t utter another word unless it’s something happy. Do I make myself clear?”
Uncle Henry pursed his lips. “I know something that would make me happy. Why don’t you let Ben come along on the next expedition?”
Ben nearly choked on a piece of tofu. “Dad says I have to wait until I’m older.”
“Indeed? And why is that, Jeremiah?” his uncle asked, sarcasm dripping from the words.
“Drop it,” Ben’s father said quietly.
Uncle Henry seemed amused. “I just thought you might want to clarify your position.”
Ben’s father glowered and kept eating.
“In many cultures, boys Ben’s age are already hunting with their fathers.” Ben’s uncle leaned back in his chair and folded his muscular arms against his chest.
“Give it a rest, Henry.” Ben’s father said, his voice a low growl.
“A rite of passage to prove their manhood,” Uncle Henry continued, unfazed. “The next mission starts in eight days.” He paused. “The last mission.”
Ben’s heart sank as he realized his safari dreams were about to slip away. “Last?”
“Afraid so.” Uncle Henry glanced at Ben’s mother then sighed as he shoved soybeans in his mouth, pods and all. “It’s time to move on.”
“Dad?” Ben pleaded.
“I said, no.”
“I think the children should explore their roots,” Uncle Henry mumbled through a mouthful of vegetables.
Jeremiah Webster’s eyes grew dark. “Henry, I’m warning you.”
“Oh! We’re learning all about history in fifth grade.” April waved her hands with excitement. “All sorts of stuff like in fourteen hundred and ninety two, Columbus sailed the ocean blue and … ”
Activate full body shields now!
Uncle Henry shifted in his chair. Veins pulsed on top of his bald head. “See what I mean? Even the Dogon have known about — ”
“HENRY!” Ben’s father slammed his fists on the table and rose from his chair.
April gasped. Ben held his breath until his lungs hurt. His father NEVER raised his voice.
“Welcome, Jeremiah. I knew a spark of fire still burned inside of you.” Ben’s uncle speared a chunk of meat with his fork and tossed it across the table. “Have some steak to celebrate your reawakening.”
“Forgive me, Henry,” said Ben’s mother, a hard edge creeping into her voice. “I now see that your bad mood is caused by constipation.”
Ben looked in horror as she tossed tofu casserole onto his uncle’s plate.
Jeremiah Webster pointed an index finger at his brother. “Ease up, Henry. Do you understand me? Ease up!”
The arctic chill that settled in the room was enough to send penguins scrambling for shelter. Even April remained frozen in her chair, her mouth gaping and her fork hovering midway to its destination.
Searching for a way to defuse the argument, Ben reached into his pocket, smoothed the wrinkles from a letter and held it up. “I have some news! I’m trying out for the basketball team. Just wait. In a few years I’m going to be famous — like Jackson Carter!”
“Basketball? Now there’s a useful skill,” said his uncle. “Years from now, what will history remember of Mr. Carter? If the world were to end tomorrow will his sky hook have made a difference?” He rested his chin on the top of his clasped hands. Three African masks hanging above the buffet flanked him like bodyguards.
Score zero for the home team. Thirteen years of trying to impress his uncle, thirteen years of failing even with a home court advantage.
Aris leapt on the buffet and joined the opposing team.
Ben bared his teeth. Aris arched his back to up the ante.
“Aris!” Ben’s mother hissed.
The cat relaxed his posture but stayed put on the buffet.
“Henry, we encourage the children to choose their own path,” Ben’s father said, his voice calmer but firm.
“So it appears. And how does one decide on a path without the relevant facts?”
“My children are doing just fine.” Ben’s father snatched the permission slip and scribbled his signature on the bottom. He winked and gave Ben a thumbs up. “Ben has many years to decide what he wants to do with his life.”
“Perhaps,” Uncle Henry said. “Perhaps not.” He tilted his head as if seeing Ben in a different light. “I see you cut your hair.”
“I thought it would make me more aerodynamic …”
“I know,” Uncle Henry interrupted. “For basketball.” His eyes bored through Ben as if he were analyzing every strand of his DNA. “The initials over your ear are crooked.”
Personal foul. Game over.
Ben caught a glint in his uncle’s eyes. He braced for another lecture on history, ancient empires and civic responsibility. Instead, his uncle stood and left the room. He returned with an elaborate leather saddlebag.
“That new?” asked April. “It’s cool!”
“It serves its purpose,” Uncle Henry said, unlatching the carved silver clasp. He reached inside a pocket and produced an emerald green disk.
“What’s that?” Ben’s father asked, his eyes narrowing.
“A game for Ben to try,” Uncle Henry said. It isn’t as exciting as a real safari — ” he paused. “or basketball. However, Ben should find the challenge sufficiently stimulating.”
Ecstatic, Ben reached for the disk. His parents glared, but remained silent.
“It’s a new level of interactive gaming,” Uncle Henry continued. “It will run on any computer but there are special effects if you use your own. Perhaps you could beta test it with your friends and tell me if it’s any good.”
“You programmed this yourself?” asked Ben.
Uncle Henry nodded. “With help from some business associates.”
“I thought you were an archeologist.”
Uncle Henry’s sly smile grew a centimeter. “I am many things.”
Ben swallowed hard. There was no label on the disk, only an etched star shaped like his uncle’s earring. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch,” Uncle Henry said. “Think of it as a mini-adventure to whet your appetite.”
“Awwww man! How come Ben always gets all the good stuff?” April whined.
Ben grinned at his sister. “Okay, I’m in. What’s it called?”
“The Lost Tribes of Xenobia,” Uncle Henry said.
The color drained from Ben’s parent’s faces.
His mother snatched the disk from his hand. “It’s a school night and Ben’s got homework.”
“Mom! It’s just a game! What’s the big deal?” Ben pleaded.
Uncle Henry clucked his tongue. “It’s harmless, Medie. A bit of mindless fun with a few educational things thrown in so not to be a total waste of time.”
Ben’s excitement deflated like a spent balloon. His uncle’s gift was really a top-secret way to get Ben’s grades up.
“You’ll have fun with this,” his uncle said. “But don’t be fooled. It will challenge you.”
“Bet it won’t. Grace and I solved a safe cracker game in two days.” Grace Choedon had been his buddy since kindergarten. It came in handy that she lived across the street. “What do I have to do?”
“Search for lost treasure around the planet. If you solve all the puzzles, there’s a surprise ending.”
“What’s the surprise?” asked his father. The words spilled out as more of a threat than a question.
“Now, if I told him, it wouldn’t BE a surprise, would it, Jeremiah?” Uncle Henry’s eyes sparkled. He tugged the disk away from Ben’s mother and gave it back to Ben. “You’ll have to have your wits about you to get through this. No asking your parents for help.” He winked. “Solve it and I’ll persuade them to let you tag along next week.”
Ben’s jaw dropped wide enough to drive a truck through. Basketball and an expedition? How could life get any better? “But they already said no.”
Uncle Henry leaned across the table, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m pretty sure I can get them to change their minds. Trust me on that one.”
Ben didn’t know how his uncle was going to accomplish that miracle and he didn’t care. “Seriously?”
“I always keep my end of a bargain,” Uncle Henry said. “ But you’ve only got a week. Think you can handle the challenge?”
“Are you kidding? It’s a slam dunk!”
Ben shot up from the table. His father pointed a single index finger in his direction. In both human and dog language it meant “sit, stay and shut up.”
Ben slumped back into his chair.
“What about me?” April asked, batting her eyes at twice the speed of light.
Ben’s uncle slid a red case across the table. “You can link your programs and play as a team.”
“Not a chance! I’m going to beat Ben and get the safari all for myself.” April grinned and twirled the disk in her hands.
“Dream on, bird brain!” Mimicking his mother, Ben attempted to freeze April into a block of ice with an arctic stare. It didn’t work.
“Remember,” Uncle Henry said. “The clock is ticking. You’ve got one week. After that, the game is over.”
“Deal!” Ben felt a surge of adrenaline and clutched the DVD as if it were a treasure in itself.
His parents, however, looked as though they were plotting his uncle’s funeral.
CHAPTER THREE
Secrets and Lies
“If you reveal your secrets to the wind, you should not blame the wind for revealing them to the trees.”
Kahlil Gibran
Ben raced up the staircase just as angry voices erupted from the dining room. He was torn between starting the game and sneaking back downstairs. The decision was easy — Ultimate Fighting match now. Game later.
“What were you thinking?”
“ … been over this before.”
“ … you had no right!”
Ben strained to hear. His father and uncle sounded so much alike he couldn’t tell which voice belonged to which person. The voices were garbled and fragmented, like a radio tuned between stations.
“ … isn’t a request!”
“ … made our decision … all of us!”
After a few frustrating minutes, Ben ran to his room and pulled a voice-activated recorder from his desk drawer. He fastened a leather belt around it then returned to the landing and slid his makeshift surveillance equipment down the staircase.
“ … seen the signs.”
“ … been there for years.”
“… calling the teams in.”
“ … won’t make a difference …”
“ … cover’s blown!”
The voices came into focus, but the strain gave Ben a headache.
“We can’t stop it … might be able to outrun it.” Uncle Henry shouted.
“We have time!” Ben’s father said.
“Time’s up!” snapped Uncle Henry. “It’s time to introduce the children to the family business!”
A door slammed.
Ben rushed to a hallway window in time to see his uncle cut across the lawn, trampling two rose bushes in the process. He stormed toward the main road, passing in and out of the pools of light cast by street lamps.
Ben lifted the window sash and leaned out. In the darkness, a tiny flash of red light hovered above the ground then winked out.
Ben allowed his eyes to adjust to the low light. A car entered the cul-de-sac. The Choedon’s headlights focused on the area where Ben last saw his uncle.
