Jillian vs Parasite Planet Read online

  “Jillian vs Parasite Planet is a thrilling middle-grade sci-fi novel, with a plucky and ingenious hero who never gives up, and an A.I. partner we all wish we could have.”

  —Samantha M. Clark, author of The Boy, the Boat, and the Beast

  “Huzzah! Great space fun (with a lot of ick thrown in as well).”

  —Jane Yolen, author of Owl Moon and The Midnight Circus

  “The Martian for kids—a fun yet surprisingly gritty story of resourcefulness and survival in the wilds of outer space.”

  —Sophia McDougall, author of Mars Evacuees

  “Action, science, and creepy crawly creatures. This is everything I ever wanted in an all-ages space adventure.”

  —Landry Walker, author of Star Wars Adventures

  “With fantastic worldbuilding, a hero you can’t help but root for, and the best sidekick this side of the galaxy, this engaging, inventive tale of survival will leave readers turning pages.”

  —Katie Slivensky, author of The Countdown Conspiracy

  “Not many books have worms. This one does. It’s a romp. It’s a space romp. It’s a romping story in which food is mentioned, and there are worms, and a neat kid who’s realer than some kids you meet in books.”

  —Daniel Pinkwater, author of Adventures of a Dwergish Girl

  “A fast-paced story of survival—in the face of alien worms and your own anxieties—with a hero kids will relate to and a robot sidekick they’ll wish they could take to school!”

  —Gareth Wronski, author of Holly Farb and the Princess of the Galaxy

  Also by the Author

  Archivist Wasp series

  Archivist Wasp (2015)

  Latchkey (2018)

  Novels

  Desideria (2008)

  Firebreak (2021)

  Tachyon

  San Francisco

  Jillian vs. Parasite Planet

  Copyright © 2021 by Nicole Kornher-Stace

  This is a work of fiction. All events portrayed in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. All rights reserved including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form without the express permission of the author and the publisher.

  Cover art and interior illustrations copyright © 2021 by Scott Brown

  Interior design by Elizabeth Story

  Author illustration by Elizabeth Story

  Tachyon Publications LLC

  1459 18th Street #139

  San Francisco, CA 94107

  415.285.5615

  www.tachyonpublications.com

  [email protected]

  Series Editor: Jacob Weisman

  Editor: Jaymee Goh

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61696-354-5

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-61696-355-2

  Printed in the United States by Versa Press, Inc.

  First Edition: 2021

  9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Dear Reader

  Thank you so much for purchasing this book. We hope you enjoy it.

  Please absolutely do not share, reproduce, post, or resell this e-book. Piracy is illegal. This book is protected by international copyright law; all rights are reserved without the express permission of the author and the publishers.

  Most importantly, piracy keeps authors from getting paid. It also keeps publishers from putting out more great books like this.

  If you have any questions about copyright, or if you think this copy was pirated, please immediately contact us at [email protected].

  Thank you,

  Tachyon Publications LLC

  1459 18th Street #139

  San Francisco, CA 94107

  415.285.5615

  [email protected]

  For Julian, my biggest and most unexpected adventure

  Chapter 1

  Jillian had no idea what she expected a space-exploration facility to look like, but whatever it was, it wasn’t this. For one thing, the StellaTech building looked like any other office building in the city, all metal and glass, nothing interesting about it. For another thing, it smelled like a hospital. It looked like a hospital, too, on the inside: all squeaky clean and white like the teeth in a toothpaste commercial. But the smell was what hit her first.

  On a normal day, this would have brought back memories of when she had her tonsils out three years ago, or when she fell out of that tree last summer pretending she was exploring the underwater skyscrapers of old San Francisco. It would have made her palms sweat, her heart race. And it would absolutely, positively have made her want to run straight to the car and tell it to drive her back home.

  But today was not a normal day. Today was the furthest possible thing from a normal day. Today was the closest she was ever going to get, in her whole entire eleven years of life, to an actual adventure.

  Most of her friends from school thought Take Your Kid to Work Day was going to be boring. And for them, maybe that was true. Tara’s mom was a dentist, Scott’s dad owned a smart-clothing store, and both of Kyle’s moms worked in advertising together. Angelique had the worst luck—her dad was the assistant principal. Jillian felt kind of bad for her, having to sit in the main office and do paperwork or something in an empty school.

  But Jillian’s parents weren’t dentists or clothing store owners or advertising people or assistant principals. They were materials acquisitions surveyors for StellaTech, and today they were going to space.

  Without her.

  At least I’m here, she reminded herself for the millionth time that morning. At least I’m finally here.

  And she reminded herself, also, of the plan.

  Step one: finally go with her parents to StellaTech and see where all that sweet, sweet space magic happened. (Obviously not actual magic, she corrected herself, but close enough.)

  Step two: be on her absolute, positive, one-hundred-percent best behavior. Do whatever her parents and the other StellaTech people asked of her with zero complaints. Even volunteer for extra work. For a solid month she’d been practicing saying things like, “Would you like me to bring you some coffee?” and “Let me help you with that” and “No, please, after you; I’ll hold the door.” Basically, make herself useful in any and every way possible.

  Step three: by accomplishing step two, make her parents and the other StellaTech people realize how responsible and helpful and un-leave-behindable she really was. Specifically: how useful she’d be on an actual mission. In actual space.

  Step four: not today, and probably not next year either, but someday, some distant Take Your Kid to Work Day sometime in her future, when she was old enough to be allowed to go to space, the StellaTech people would look at Jillian and say to themselves: Here is a person who is ready.

  Here, now, after weeks of planning, Step One was finally a reality. Step Two started the second she set foot in the StellaTech building.

  The pressure was doing wonders for her nerves. Her palms were sweating. She wiped them on her jeans.

  Don’t you screw this up, she told herself. Don’t you dare.

  “Don’t worry, kid,” her mom said over one shoulder as they walked across the lobby. Even without looking, she always knew when Jillian’s anxiety was spiking up. Though she sometimes misunderstood the cause. “You’ll do great.”

  Her doctor had explained anxiety to Jillian like this: that her brain saw threats that didn’t exist. That it went straight to fight-or-flight when there was nothing there to fight or flee from. It felt like an itch in
her brain, impossible to reach.

  But to say why her anxiety was spiking up now would be to give away the plan. The last thing Jillian wanted was for her parents to give her that look. The one that meant she was asking for something they’d love to give her, but was simply impossible. She’d gotten the look when she’d begged for a puppy last Christmas (“not allowed in the apartment”), and when she’d asked to be homeschooled (“logistically impossible”), and when she’d planned out a whole camping trip last fall, outside of the city and in the actual real-live wilderness upstate . . . and then her parents had been called into work last minute because the scheduled survey team had caught the flu.

  She didn’t need to hear about how she was too young to go to space. She knew that. But since when did that stop her planning something out way, way, way in advance? It was how she kept her mind calm, her thoughts in order. Not only that, but it was fun.

  Up until the point where that fight-or-flight thing had swept in to ruin everything for her.

  “Shut up,” Jillian whispered at her brain, out loud this time, but not so loud that anyone else would hear. She’d never been in the StellaTech facility before. She’d seen it in the documentary from last year, of course, just like everybody else, but watching it on a screen wasn’t remotely the same as being there herself. It looked bigger, shinier, more intimidating. People walked into this place and walked out onto other planets orbiting other stars in other solar systems. Her parents did that. It was their job. Plan or no, it didn’t really hit her until she was looking up at those same high ceilings, her sneakers squeaking on that same floor.

  Materials Acquisitions Surveyor sounded like somebody had spent a week trying to think up the most boring-sounding name possible for a job that didn’t actually sound boring at all. It actually sounded awesome. Her dad said they were like scientist-explorers. Her mom said they were more like treasure hunters, looking for usable resources on other planets. Earth had all been explored long ago already, even to the bottom of the sea in the early 2040s. That had showed up on Jillian’s science tests every year since fourth grade. It had all been explored, and way too much of it had been used up. They needed to look somewhere else.

  So her parents went on lots of work trips. The StellaTech documentary had taught everyone that while there were thousands of people working in the facility, only about thirty actually went to space, in teams of two to four, on five-day expeditions. Jillian already knew all this, of course, because her parents were two of those thirty explorers.

  Her friends had lost their entire minds when they saw that little two-second shot of Jillian’s parents in the documentary, but really all their fancy job meant for Jillian was that for one school week out of every six, Jillian had to stay with her Aunt Alex, who let her stay up late and eat whatever she wanted but wouldn’t let her play video games.

  Today was going to end just like all those other days—Jillian at Aunt Alex’s—but everything up until that point was within her control. She could sulk and not be invited back next year. Be stuck on Earth forever, or at least until she was an adult and did whatever her parents had to do to get this job in the first place. Or she could take matters into her own hands.

  She pictured herself handing space suits to her parents. Walking around with a clipboard. Making coffee for mission control. Waving goodbye as her mom and dad rode the quadpod through the portal onto another planet without her. And then going to Aunt Alex’s for a week like usual. She even had a worksheet from school to fill out on what she learned today, which didn’t seem fair at all. Her teacher had seen the StellaTech documentary just like everybody else.

  Jillian could feel the not-being-able-to-go-to-space disappointment rising up in her. So she shoved it into a big box in the back of her mind, slammed the lid down, and sat on it. This was her chance. Her one chance. She wasn’t going to let it go that easy.

  She followed her parents across the lobby, shiny and white and huge like an airport terminal. They passed some uncomfortable-looking chairs and tables with fake flowers in vases and a fountain decorated with StellaTech’s starry logo.

  They stopped at a desk. A long line had already formed there. Other parents. Other kids. Other workers without kids. One by one, they stepped up to the desk so the receptionist could scan the ID badges implanted in their temples. Some workers had implants that were yellow glass squares, some orange, some red. Jillian’s parents were the only workers in the line whose badges were blue.

  “Visitors just get wristbands,” her dad reassured her, noticing Jillian staring. “Nothing permanent.”

  What she got first, though, was a scan. It turned out to be nothing scary at all, just a silver dot on the end of the receptionist’s index finger that beeped when she pointed it at Jillian’s eyes.

  Then Jillian had to put her hand into the front of a box and keep it there for the count of three. On three there was a faint whirring and a click, and when she pulled her hand back out, there was a shiny blue stripe of something on her wrist, like it had been printed straight onto her skin.

  “Hold it out toward me,” the receptionist said. When she pointed the scanner at the band, words appeared, projected on the air just above her wrist. The letters were tiny but neat enough to read. The receptionist just glanced at them and nodded, satisfied.

  Jillian held her wrist up to the light. The letters were much more visible from certain angles. She made out her name, her birthdate, and today’s date and time. 04/28/2113, 09:32 AM.

  Under that it read CLEARANCE LEVEL: BLUE.

  Blue made sense, Jillian realized, thinking of the color of her parents’ badges. Clearance was a word she’d heard only in movies, but seemed to mean being allowed to know things. Having the same level clearance as her parents felt like a good sign for steps Two through Four of her plan.

  Her dad caught her smiling. “You’re doing great,” he said. “Sorry about the long line.”

  “No problem,” Jillian said in her best fellow-scientist-and-colleague voice. “It happens.”

  “Better than school, huh?” her mom asked, elbowing her playfully.

  “No giant portals to space in school,” Jillian said. “So that’s a definite yes.”

  They led her out of the lobby and onto a moving floor that relayed them down a sparkling white hallway. On the walls were photos of landscapes like Jillian had seen at doctor’s offices and hotels. Except these landscapes were all labeled with the planets they came from, and none of them were Earth.

  Jillian squinted to read them as she walked past.

  82 Eridani b.

  Gliese 832 e.

  Kepler 16 b.

  Even at the names, dry and boring-sounding as they were, a shiver went down her spine. These pictures were taken in space. By people like her parents, or robots or smart cameras that had gone to space with them. For all she knew, her parents might have taken some of them.

  The photo of Saturn’s moon Enceladus brought her up short. It looked like the world’s greatest snow day—white as far as the eye could see—up until the starry black horizon, with Saturn’s rings in the background.

  Jillian’s parents noticed she wasn’t following them anymore and doubled back to stand with her. “Pretty, huh?” her dad said.

  Jillian could only nod. “Did you take any of these?” she asked when she got her words back.

  “None of these ones,” her mom said. “One of our shots from Proxima Centauri b made it into the documentary, but you’ve seen it. That’s the one we have framed above the couch at home.”

  “Where are you going today?” Jillian asked, although standing here, looking at these photos, she knew it might only hurt more to know. She cleared her throat, removing any traces of whininess. Curious was good. Inquisitive. Studious. “On your mission?”

  “80 UMa c,” her mom said. “It orbits Alcor in the Big Dipper. Alcor and Mizar are a binary star system, which mea
ns—”

  “Double,” Jillian rushed to say. “They have a shared orbit.”

  “Of course you’d know that,” her mom said. “Sorry.”

  “What’s the UMa in the designation, then, smart guy?” her dad asked jokingly.

  Jillian thought for a second, but only a second. “Ursa Major,” she said. “The Big Dipper is part of it.” She grinned. “Too easy. Give me a hard one.”

  “Oh, I like to think we have some challenges in store for you,” her mom said. “Don’t you fret. Now come on. Take Your Kid to Work Day Rule Number One: Get Your Kid to Work on Time.”

  At the end of the hall there was a bank of elevators. Jillian followed her parents into one. “Hold your wristband up,” her dad said. “Let the elevator scan you.”

  “More scans?” Jillian asked, then immediately wished she hadn’t, because she didn’t know if it sounded like complaining. “I mean, it doesn’t bother me,” she added, holding her wrist up extra-still. “I just want to know everything about how this place works.”

  “We know you do,” her dad said. “You’ve been waiting ages for this. We know you’ve been excited. Do you want to press the button?”

  It took Jillian a second to realize he meant the button for the elevator. Part of her wanted to say that stopped being exciting when she was about five years old, but the rest of her refused to say that out loud. “Sure,” she said. “Which floor?”

  “First basement.”

  This struck her as weird. For some reason when she’d pictured her parents’ lab, Jillian had expected something like in a movie, all glass and chrome and light-up panels, and an amazing view through full-wall windows on the fiftieth or whatever floor. What she hadn’t pictured was a basement. But she pressed the button all the same.