Maybe that had been a mistake.
Night was falling, cloaking the old barn in darkness. Rusty metal doors guarded the storm cellar that lay beneath. At his dad’s request, Clark threw open the heavy doors. Jonathan stepped forward and shone a flashlight into the murky cellar.
The beam exposed a large, roundish object, partially covered by a dusty tarp. Clark gaped at the oddly organic looking curves of the object, which resembled no piece of farm equipment he had ever seen. What was this buried secret, and what did it have to do with him?
He cast a puzzled glance at his dad as they descended into the cellar. Jonathan Kent yanked off the tarp, exposing… what?
The object, which was the size of a tractor, looked like a cross between a space capsule and a piece of abstract art. An empty cavity rested inside a bulbous shell molded out of a slick, pearly material. The capsule’s outer plates were scorched and blackened, as though they’d been through a crash landing—or been burned in a fire.
“We found you in this,” Jonathan explained. “At first we thought maybe the Soviets sent it up. We were sure the government was going to show up at our doorstep.” His gaze turned inward, as though he was looking back through time. “But no one ever came.”
Clark tried to process what he was seeing and hearing. It was almost more than he could take in.
His parents found him?
In a spaceship?
What does that mean? he wondered. Where did I come from?
Turning away from the capsule, Jonathan guided Clark to a work area that had been set up at the back of the cellar. He shined the flashlight beam over the wall above the workbench. Dozens of Xeroxed articles and newspaper clippings were pinned up there, many of them faded with age. Clark quickly scanned them. It didn’t take long to pick out the common thread.
UFOs.
There were articles on the Roswell incident. And a sighting in Delphos, Kansas back in 1971, which left a luminous ring on the ground afterward. And glowing red fireballs seen above Manitoba, Canada, for several weeks in 1975 and 1976. Every article was about some sort of alleged extraterrestrial encounter.
“We kept searching for evidence of someone like you,” Jonathan said, “but we never found any.”
What are you saying? Clark thought, too stunned to speak. That I’m an alien? But try as he might, he couldn’t give voice to his questions.
His father pulled out a drawer and took a small object swaddled in oil-cloth. He unwrapped the object, exposing a palm-sized black spike or nail, and handed it to Clark.
“This was in the chamber with you,” Jonathan said. “It was fitted into a slot, like a key. I took it to a metallurgist at Kansas State. He said whatever it was made from didn’t even exist on the periodic table.”
Wondering briefly how his father had persuaded the scientist to keep quiet, Clark held the object up to the flashlight. It refracted the beam in ways that were strange even when seen by ordinary vision. The spike felt peculiar, too—more like a horn or shell than metal, but somehow different. It had a texture like nothing he had ever touched before.
“Just think, Clark,” he father said. “The fact that you’re here means we’re not alone in the universe.” He smiled warmly. “You’re a miracle.”
Clark knew his dad was trying to put a positive spin on things, but it was no good. He felt dizzy. His whole world had just turned upside down. All this time, he had thought he was human—sort of—but that was a lie.
“I don’t want to be,” he said. Tears welled up in his eyes. His throat tightened.
“I don’t blame you.” Jonathan placed a reassuring hand on Clark’s shoulder. “It’d be a huge burden for anyone to bear. But you’re not just anyone, Clark. And I have to believe that you’ve been sent here for a reason. All these changes that have been happening to you, one day you’re going to think of them as a blessing. And when that day comes, you’ll have to make a choice whether to stand proud in front of the human race, or not.”
He sounded like he’d been thinking about this for a long time.
“Can’t I just keep pretending I’m your son?” Clark asked.
His father pulled him close.
“You are my son,” he said emphatically. “But somewhere out there, you’ve got another father, too. Who gave you another name. He sent you here for a reason, Clark, and even if it takes you the rest of your life, you owe it to yourself to find out what that reason is.”
Another father? On another planet?
Clark wasn’t sure where to begin. His dad’s answers had only left him with a brand new set of questions. He turned the odd spike-like object over in his hands, examining it from every angle. Was this nameless artifact the key to his origins? The beam of the flashlight fell upon the triangular head of the key, revealing a symbol inscribed there.
It looked like a capital “S.”
CHAPTER TEN
The Bearcat was a rough-and-tumble bar outside of Yellowknife, catering mostly to truckers and miners. Several semi-trailers were parked outside, alongside a couple of light utility vehicles belonging to the Canadian Armed Forces. Clark was bussing tables when he heard another big eighteen-wheeler pull up to the bar.
The door swung open, letting in a chilly gust of wind, and a hefty truck driver stomped across the threshold. Stubble carpeted the man’s surly features. The bartender called out a greeting.
“Evening, Ludlow,” Weaver said. “What can I get you?”
Clark went back to his work. It was after five and the bar was packed with heavy drinkers determined to put a dent in the Bearcat’s liquid inventory. Raucous laughter and dirty jokes competed with the Edmonton Oilers game on the TV behind the bar. Sawdust coated the floor, soaking up spilled drinks. Clark stooped to pick up some empty bottles. A greasy apron shielded his flannel shirt and jeans.
He paused as his ears picked up on one particular conversation, a few tables away, where three uniformed Canadian airmen were chatting in the corner. Most people wouldn’t have been able to eavesdrop on the discussion, especially through the noisy din, but Clark had no trouble listening in.
“—found something strange on Ellesmere. AIRCOM’s been making runs out there all week.”
“That rat-hole? You gotta be kidding me.”
“I know, crazy,” the first airman agreed. “But the Americans are there, too. A lot of them. Space Command. NASA—”
Another conversation, much closer at hand, distracted Clark. He looked up to see the newly arrived trucker hassling one of the waitresses, a tired-looking brunette in her early twenties. He pawed at her blouse.
“—c’mon, Chrissy. Give me a peek.”
She pulled away from him, balancing an empty tray.
“Back off, Ludlow,” she said. “I’m serious.”
A leer and a snort indicated just how little he cared what she thought. He grabbed her backside, eliciting a roar of laughter from his drinking buddies. Clark scowled. Chrissy was just trying to make a living. She didn’t deserve to be manhandled by an obnoxious trucker. Still, he tried to concentrate on what the airmen were saying.
“—they’re calling it an ‘anomalous object,’ whatever that means.”
Like a UFO? Clark wondered. Like the ones my folks found?
“Knock it off!” Chrissy protested.
She slapped Ludlow’s hand away and took a step backward, but he grabbed her wrist to keep her from leaving. He yanked her back toward the table.
That’s enough, Clark thought. He’d hoped to avoid to getting involved, but he couldn’t ignore this any longer. He straightened up and headed over to Ludlow’s table. Reaching it, he cleared his throat to get their attention.
“Let her go.”
Ludlow sneered at him, like every bully Clark had ever known.
“Or what, tough guy?”
“Or I’m going to ask you to leave.”
The trucker shoved Chrissy aside. He lumbered to his feet, obviously spoiling for a fight.
“I’ve been coming here for fifteen years,” he said. “I’ll leave when I’m ready.” He snatched a foaming glass off the table and hurled the liquid in Clark’s face. “But my buddy here needs a new beer, so why don’t you help us with that?”
Beer ran down Clark’s face. His expression darkened and he clenched his fists at his sides. Ludlow had no idea who—or what—he was messing with.
The trucker snickered at Clark’s anger.
“Hey, Weaver!” he called out to the bartender. “I think your busboy’s about to go postal.”
The bartender shrugged and kept on wiping the bar counter. He weighed the value of a busboy against a steady customer.
“You’re fired, kid,” he said casually.
Ludlow grinned triumphantly. Laughter spread across the bar. Even the airmen looked amused by the episode. Nobody came to the Bearcat expecting good manners and a tranquil atmosphere. Brawls were considered a good night’s entertainment.
“There,” Ludlow gloated. “Crisis averted.” He nodded toward the exit. “Now out!”
Meaty hands shoved Clark in the chest. He seethed, wanting nothing more than to pound the crap out of the trucker. Solar fire smoldered behind his furious blue eyes, ready to be unleashed. A hush fell over the bar as the staff and patrons waited to see what the humiliated busboy would do next. Was he going to stand up to Ludlow after all?
“It’s not worth it, sweetie,” Chrissy said, looking worried.
He knew she was right. Even though it killed him, he backed down and unclenched his fists. He tossed his beer-stained apron onto the floor and headed for the door.
Ludlow lobbed an empty beer can at him. It bounced off Clark’s back.
“Here’s your tip, asshole!”