Free Cosmic by Frank Cottrell Boyce

dads.”
    “Okay.”
    “You can let go of my hand now, Mr. Digby.”
    “Sorry.”
    I hadn’t known until then that Dinah Drax was Chinese. Drax isn’t her real name. Her real name means something like “Victorious Over Life’s Tribulations,” but she changed it to Drax because “Victorious Over Life’s Tribulations” didn’t fit on the side of a phone.
    She took me to the back of the plane, where the dads were sitting around. One of them was a skinny man with a big fat book about prime numbers. Now I thought I knew all about prime numbers, because of being Gifted and Talented, et cetera. But what I know about them comes to about a page. This book was at least a thousand pages long, and he’d nearly finished it. So he was roughly a thousand times cleverer than me. He looked up from the book and smiled.
    “I’m Samson Two’s father,” he said. He pointed over atSamson Two, who was sitting next to Florida, also reading a big fat book.
    “I’m Liam,” I said, and before I could ask him why Samson Two had such a weird name, he said, “And my name is Samson One. I am from Waterloo,” he said.
    “I’m from Waterloo too,” I said, “but not the one with the neighboring jungle, the one on the bypass.”
    He went back to reading his book.
    The next dad had a bald head and a nice blue suit. He gave me a card with his name and phone number on it and pointed to a boy who was hogging the games console. “That dear, lovable boy,” he said, “is my son, Hasan Xanadu. And I’m his father, Edhem. You can call me Eddie.”
    A man with very short hair and a big chest gave me a nod and said, “Martinet, at your service.” He took my hand and gripped it so tight that I wasn’t sure whether he was greeting me or trying to initiate unarmed combat. “I’m the father of Max. Max! Greet the gentleman.”
    At the far end of the plane a boy with exactly the same haircut as Mr. Martinet jumped up and gave me exactly the same nod. “Max is short for Maximum,” said his dad, “which is what Maximum is. He’s the Maximum Martinet.”
    “My name’s Liam Digby,” I said. “Please call me Liam.”
    He said, “Please call me Monsieur Martinet.”
    “Okay.”
    I said, “I’m Florida’s father.” That was the first time I’d ever said it out loud. I could feel everyone looking at me. Any minute now, I thought, one of them is going to say, “No, you’re not. You’re twelve.” So I said the most convincingly dadly thing I could think of. I said, “Anyone watch the game last night?” They all answered at once.
    “They need to buy a big defender,” said Eddie Xanadu.
    “The back four lack discipline,” said Please-Call-Me-Monsieur Martinet.
    “The laws of probability say that you can’t win the Champions League just on goals. Preventing opposition goals is equally important,” said Samson One.
    So easy. I hadn’t even seen the match!
    I didn’t even know if there was a match!
    I just seemed to have a natural talent for being a grown-up.
    “Well,” said Dr. Drax, smiling, “I must fly! That’s my little joke, by the way. I do fly the plane myself. I find it’s the best way to keep our destination top secret. I’m not much of a pilot, but I’m sure I’ll pick it up as we go along.”
    Everyone stared at her.
    “Another of my little jokes!” she laughed. “Caught you all again! In fact, Daddy gave me my first flying lesson when I was still small enough to sit on his knee. I’m really rather a good pilot.”
    And off she went to the cockpit. I’m not sure if it’snormal for pilots to be jokey like that, but if it is, it’s not a good idea. I grabbed hold of the arms of the seat, closed my eyes and tried to think of the plane as just another ride.
    As rides go, the flight to China was a bit lengthy—twelve hours, I think. And once you got used to the idea that you were thirty thousand feet in the air, it wasn’t that much of a thrill. But the view was pretty cosmic—miles and miles of clouds,