Animorphs: 30 Years Later

My name is Ash.

Sorry, I know that’s kind of lame.  We all read the hero journals in school, right?

I guess I thought it would honor them to mimic their format, but maybe this is just a pitiful emulation.  Maybe my story isn’t important enough to write down.  I’m just a guy, you know?

But I think this is something you need to know, so I’m writing it down anyway.

I have to protect myself in case anyone finds these journals.  If they find me and my friends. . .  Well, we aren’t children anymore. No need to mince words.  If they find me and my friends, they’ll kill us.  

Or maybe they won’t.  Maybe they’ll shove a Nazi worm in our heads and parade our bodies around as some sort of demonic war trophy.  Or maybe lock us underground and keep us there until our brains disintegrate.  Or maybe something worse that I can’t even imagine yet.  

So you’re going to have to trust me a little here.  Because I can’t tell you my last name, or where I live, but I’m a real person.  And I live in a real place, full of real people.  And I really want those people to be okay.

Maybe I’m writing this down in the hopes that if more people knew the truth, we might find a way to save ourselves.  We have to find a way to save ourselves this time.  Because the Andalites aren’t coming.  If you take anything from this story, I hope it’s this:  No one is coming to save us.

We have to save ourselves.  

I wish I could start this story with the one moment where everything changed.  I really do.  I could tell you a story about how I woke up one day a normal dude, and on the way home from school, I saw an alien crash in my neighbor’s backyard, and bam!  Life would never be the same.  It would make a nice story, right?  But my life wasn’t like that. 

 Things *used* to be normal.  I went to school, had friends, failed gym class, yadda yadda. . .  I graduated, tried college, failed college.  Normal life stuff, you know?  

Even the morphing was normal.  I mean, I wasn’t born morphing or anything (you should see some of what Itzy can do), but I barely remember touching the cube.  I must have been. . . What, seven?  

It was like that for a lot of us.  Morphing cures almost any illness or injury, you know?  Parents would spend their life fortune to get that for their kids back then. The Andalites weren’t happy, but they lost control of the tech the moment they put it in the hands of human teenagers.  By the time anyone realized maybe it should be regulated, it was too late.  It was already part of everyday life.  It happened that fast.

But for us kids, it was just fun.

Until it wasn’t.  

I don’t remember when I stopped morphing in public.  I definitely didn’t know it would be the last time.  One day, people were just kind of looking at us all kind of sidelong, you know?  It just stopped feeling safe.  Then there was that morphing kid who held his class hostage, and maybe there was more to the story or maybe it was exaggerated, or maybe he was just fucked in the head, but does it matter?  All anyone cared about was how dangerous morphers could be.

Suddenly, some people didn’t want their kids in class with the morphers.  People started pulling their kids out in favor of anti-morphing private schools, but I didn’t really notice how common it was.  I was already in college by then, and it just seemed like some fringe weirdos being weird.  I didn’t know how bad it could get.

But then people started listening to the fucking Yeerk propaganda.  

I know, right?  

But they didn’t know it was from the Yeerks, obviously.  I guess people were just scared.  And scared people are stupid.  

Anyway, when it all came to a head, I wasn’t even thinking about the Yeerks or morphing or anything like that, because I had just found out Uncle Jack had cancer.  

Uncle Jack, who raised me.  Uncle Jack, who stepped up when my parents couldn’t.  Or wouldn’t.  I dunno.  They were grieving, it’s a long story.  The point is, he wasn’t just an uncle.  He was Uncle Jack.  And he had cancer. 

Here’s the thing about morphing.  It can cure all sorts of things.  Cold, flu, AIDs. . .  But it cures you by “resetting” your body to its default state.  I’m not really a scientist, so I can’t tell you how the tech works. I’m not sure there are very many humans who can.  But I do know it relies on DNA, because it can’t cure cancer.  

The really shitty thing about cancer is that it’s your own body conspiring to kill you.  It’s your own DNA gone haywire.  So sure, you can morph your way out of a cold, but if you morph with cancer, you come back to a body with cancer, exactly like you left it.  

So the morphing cure was out, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t other fancy tech the Andalites could offer.  

Andalites can be kind of dicks sometimes, but they aren’t prey to the precise kind of bigotry that humans fall for.  Or maybe it was all the tourism.  I mean, it wasn’t long after the War ended when Andalite civilians showed up, running around in human morph, eating all the cinnamon buns. 

Andalite civilians kind of went crazy for human culture.  Turns out it was mainly the Andalite military that had a problem with humans and Andalites mixing.  Or maybe it’s more like their aristocracy? Who knows with aliens.

The point is, as soon as Andalites started socializing with humans, some of them got interested in studying our weird illnesses, and they were *good* at genetics.  I mean, they could literally change into other animals.  Obviously, it didn’t take them that long to figure out cancer.

You’d think that would be the end of cancer on Earth, but remember how unhappy it made the Andalite goverment/military/aristocracy when the morphing tech got out among the humans?  Yeah, they were pretty determined not to let that happen again, so they’re pretty tight-fisted with their science these days.  There’s only one way to get the magical Andalite cancer cure, and it’s locked behind a cross-galaxy journey.

So that’s how we found ourselves packing our bags for the spaceport.  Destination:  Andal.  

I don’t mean to make it sound like it was that easy.  Space travel is hella expensive, especially for humans.  The one thing the hero journals left out was the god-damn paperwork.  You have to pay a fee for an off-world passport, but to get the off-world passport, you have to pay the fee for the background check, but to get the background check, you have to pay the fees to get copies of all your documentation, then pay the fees for fingerprinting and retinal scans and blah blah blah…  It just never ends.  And that’s pocket change compared to the actual cost of the shuttle flight.  

We would never have afforded it, except that I work at the spaceport.  I’m just a glorified baggage handler, but everyone who works at the spaceport can apply for reduced fare.  There’s even a program for people who have “extraordinary need” and it turns out that “dying of cancer” counts.  At least, once you jump through all the extra paperwork.  

Yes, more paperwork.  I know, right?

So anyway, we were at the spaceport, with our carry-ons.  (No, the program didn’t cover checked luggage, and who has money for that?)   Me, Uncle Jack, and Itzy.  

Itzy was sweating in what appeared to be five layers of clothes.  They had decided to cope with the “carry-on only” rule by literally carrying on half their wardrobe.  I’m not sure what all the underlayers were, but I could definitely spot some sequins peeking out under the collar of the oversized hoodie that covered the whole ensemble, turning their tall, slender figure into a lumpy blob of fabric.

Itzy has been my friend since kindergarden.  I don’t even know how it happened because we couldn’t be more different.  Itzy is the sort of person who walks in a room, and everyone looks up. They have that much charisma.  Maybe it’s because they got the morphing power from birth, or maybe it’s just how they were destined to be, but everywhere they go, heads turn. 

“How long is this line going to be?” Itzy complained, adjusting their multiple collars.  “I feel like we haven’t moved in six hours.”  

“I think it’s been fifteen minutes,” I answered, but I was also starting to get a little concerned.  Uncle Jack was already looking tired when we arrived at the port.  He was always tired, these days, overly thin with hollows under his eyes.  Being stuck in line on his feet wasn’t helping.  “How are you holding up?” I asked him.  

He smiled, a tight simulacrum of the wide, toothy grin I remembered from childhood.  “I’m fine,” he answered.  

“Are you sure?” I persisted.  “I could go find a chair.  The port has wheelchairs for—“ 

“I’m fine,” he interrupted, in the tone that he used when he didn’t want to talk anymore.

I let it go.  You can’t force Uncle Jack to do anything he doesn’t want to do.  Instead, I leaned to the side, trying to see if I could catch sight of the security checkpoint. 

“Can you see anything?” I glanced back to find a scrawny dude with a sparse but carefully-trimmed goatee, artfully tousled hair, and a slightly glazed look in his eyes.  He was in pajamas and sneakers, and kind of looked like he’d fallen out of bed with exactly enough time to shove his feet into shoes and race to the port.  

“Nah,” I answered.  “I can’t tell what’s—“ 

I was cut off by a commotion from the front of the line, and when I looked back, I saw an elderly middle eastern couple.  The woman was wearing a sari, and she looked visibly upset.  The man (her husband?) wore a suit, and was raising his voice in obvious anger.  Something about having paid for his ticket.  There was a younger man, possibly their son by the resemblance, who seemed to be trying to make peace, but he wasn’t getting anywhere.  

I spotted a familiar face pushing a trash cart across the concourse.  An older woman with wild red hair and a sour expression.  “Brenda!” I called, waving my arm to get her attention.  

She glanced over with a sour expression, but reluctantly paused.  When I waved her over, she rolled her eyes, but dragged the cart closer to the line.

“It’s Marge today,” she snapped.  “What do you want?”  

Brenda is an odd duck.  She was around for the Great War.  She’s also a volunteer host.  ‘Marge’ is the Yeerk that shares space in her head.  

I heard rumors that they were a key part of the Resistance back then, but who knows?  All I know is that she’s never tried to infest me, and Brenda seems pretty free to live her life.  Apparently they control the body on rotation.  

Anyway, we sort of work together.  She’s on the janitorial staff, so not *together* together, but I can’t complain about her.  She always pulls her weight, and I’ve never seen her try to infest anyone.

I stepped out of line with a little gesture to Uncle Jack and Itzy to hold our place in line. I lowered my voice slightly to avoid catching the attention of any of the other passengers in line.  No point getting people antsy, thinking this wasn’t a normal delay.    

“Sorry, Marge.  What’s the hold up?” I asked.

“Beats me,” she answered, sourly.  “Security isn’t letting anyone through, but they aren’t giving any info either.”  

“Well, did you see anything?  What’s going on at the terminals?” I asked.  

She huffed a sigh, as though I were being particularly dense.  “They aren’t letting *anyone* in.  Not even employees.”  

I frowned.  “That’s not normal, right?”  I had only been working there a year, but I’d never seen the port completely shut down by security.  “Or is it like some sort of drill?”

She gave me a long look through hooded eyes.  “It’s not normal,” she finally said.  “But I can’t help you.”  

Before I could ask her anything else, she pointedly turned her back and with a faint grunt of effort, got her trash cart moving again, presumably trundling off to the complex web of service corridors that would lead to the nearest dumpsters.  

I returned to the line, where Itzy waited with an antsy, bored look.  “Any news?”  

“Nothing,” I answered.  “It’s just a normal delay.  These things happen.  Probably just a maintenance issue on the launch pad or something.”  

I could tell that Itzy knew I was lying.  They know me better than I know myself, sometimes, but thankfully, they also knew better than to call me on it. 

We waited.  

And waited.  

And waited some more.  

Our feet were sore, and I was just about ready to give up for the day when I noticed another commotion from the front of the line.  I leaned out to try to see what was going on, wondering if the couple from earlier had decided to put up another fuss.  

Everyone else seemed to have the same idea, because I couldn’t really see the front of the line around bobbing heads.  I caught some snippets of conversation that just made everything more confusing.  

“—What’s going on?”

“—pulled out of line—“

“—Finally!  Things are—“

“—Is that the Men in Black?—“

Gradually, the line was morphing from an organized queue of travellers to an amorphous, vaguely-line-shaped crowd of nervous humanity.  Through a gap in the crowd, I spotted several men in black suits at the security checkpoint, carrying some sort of wand that they were using to scan travellers, one-by-one.  Based on whatever they saw on the readout of their device, they either waved people on, or pulled them out of the line.  

Extra security?  Maybe there had been some sort of bomb threat?  

Something niggled at the back of my mind.  It didn’t feel normal, and those didn’t look like the hand-held metal detectors that security normally used.  These didn’t look like our normal security guards, either.  

Looking back, I kind of wish I had listened to that instinct.  Maybe things wouldn’t have ended up any different, but maybe. . . 

But Uncle Jack was clearly dead on his feet, and Itzy must have been just as miserable because they had started shedding clothing in desperation.  They’d worn their least valuable clothes as the outer layer, and were now down to a form-fitting, eye-watering orange suit, with the sequined collar more prominently visible underneath the lapel. 

As we neared the head of the line, we could see the benches just on the other side of the security checkpoint.  I nudged Uncle Jack to the front, in the hopes that he’d get to sit down a few moments sooner.  The stoic security guard solemnly waved the wand over him, checked the readout, then gestured him on to the other side.  

Then it was Itzy’s turn.  This time, when the wand waved over them, it made a quiet, cheerful beeping sound.  The guard gave no reaction as he glanced over the readout, then made a sharp hand gesture.  The other guard stepped forward to take Itzy’s arm and tug them out of line.  

“Hey, wait—“ Itzy started, but the guard didn’t relent.  

“Standard procedure,” he grunted.  “You’ve been selected for additional screening.”  

Itzy glanced back at me, wide-eyed, clearly wondering what the heck was up.  I felt a nervous thump in my chest.  Unlike anyone else in line, I knew the guard was lying.  This was no standard procedure that I had ever seen.  

But what could I do?  The guard had an iron grip on Itzy, and Uncle Jack was already on the other side of security, sitting on the bench and watching us with tired, worried eyes.  

I smiled reassuringly at Itzy, waved them on, and stepped forward to be scanned.  

*Beep!*  

Of course it beeped for me, too.  The guard glanced at the readout, and gestured me out of the line.  With my heart sinking, I followed Itzy and the other guard.  I glanced across at Uncle Jack, who had started to rise to his feet, watching worriedly as we were pulled out of line. 

“We’ll see you on the other side!” I called over, hoping he could hear me.  “Don’t wait for us!  Board the ship!”