The Weird Adventures of Jack Galaski

“Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say,” read the last line of an essay I had just written. My name is Jack Galaski and I’m a New Jersey middle schooler with aspirations to be an astronomer working for NASA.

I didn’t know it while writing, but those words were about to launch me into a great adventure where I would be hurled into three new galaxies, ultimately saving two of them from destruction.

Finals week at school included all sorts of tedious activities. The essay on space was part of an exam—nothing noteworthy or otherwise out of the ordinary—and it being on my favorite subject didn’t make it more enjoyable to write. I handed in my essay, took a deep breath, and dragged myself into the traffic in the hallway.

Normally, I might look for Elias or Ivy to walk to the bus with, but finals had really drained me; I chose to travel alone today. My bus wasn’t full, so no one was forced to sit next to me, nor I to them. Many of us were quiet and solitary today.

My eyes were directed out the window, though I wasn’t looking at or seeing anything in particular. Every so often a flash of blue light seemed to come from behind the bus. Maybe if I paid attention to what was going on outside I would know where it was coming from, but no one else seemed to notice it. I figured my eyes were as tired as the rest of me. Maybe this is what Mom meant when she was talking about having migraine auras.

The bus slowed to a stop at the corner nearest to my house. I liked the elementary bus better—it went all the way to my house. Being a little kid had its perks. On the other hand, some kids had to walk all the way home from school, a longer walk than I had from the bus, so it could be worse.

As I stepped off the bus, I remembered the book I bought weeks ago and abandoned on my nightstand. No time to read preparing for finals. The realization that my time was mine and I could read what I wanted the rest of the day was enough to lift the brain fog and put a bit of life in my step.

Once inside the house, I kicked my shoes off and took the steps two at a time to my room, dropping my backpack in its usual spot while still in motion toward my bed.

I flopped on to the bed and grabbed the book from its place. Grateful for the quiet of the house, the comfort of the bed, and the promise of the book, I saw it again: the blue light that had followed the bus flashed outside my bedroom window.

Equal parts irritated and curious, I went to the window. The light flashed closer and I could see it coming from something in the air.

It came into focus. A small disc with a translucent dome on top. Two things popped immediately into my head.

“What is happening?!” (a reasonable response to seeing a flying saucer approaching your bedroom window) and

“Seriously? The stereotypical spaceship shape is real?” (a response more tailored from the disdainful middle school mind)

The disc approached my bedroom window then hovered outside it. I wondered why everyone else wasn’t making a big deal about it. It couldn’t be that they didn’t care. Maybe they couldn’t see it! Did it have a cloaking device? Invisibility?

The people on the ship—they weren’t really people, but they looked remarkably like us—opened the lid exactly the way you’d picture that kind of ship to open and said, “Hello. You seem like a fine and impartial sort. We’d like you to help us with some ... things.”

Later, I’d have a translator and very quickly after that, I’d be able to speak their language without help, but for this encounter, their speech sounded like my one-year-old cousin trying to talk. Gibberish.

The language barrier prevented me from picking up on their somewhat ominous introduction, but I understood their invitation to enter their ship.

I boarded their craft, book still in hand, socks on my feet.

It was much larger than it appeared from my bedroom window, and it exemplified steam punk.

How many cliches could one space ship embody?

Wires in a maze covering the ceiling. Brass gears and little glass bubbles everywhere, crackling with electricity. I felt inappropriately dressed without a top hat.

One of the people handed me a small piece of something plastic-looking and motioned for me to put it in my ear.

“At least it isn’t a fish,” I thought as I fumbled with which way to insert it. My assumption was correct, and the small device allowed me to understand their speech.

The whole situation was intense and inexplicable, but I didn’t feel unsafe and I hadn’t noticed yet that I had left my shoes by the front door of the house.

“We saw the essay you were writing, and we saw your conclusion that no one could hear you scream in space,” one of them said while the others watched closely. “That is incorrect. We have heard 32 laser screams from seven galaxies over the past several years. This can only mean bad things.”

Laser screams? From seven galaxies?

“What the heck are you talking about?”