Description: Holly Farb and the Princess of the Galaxy 1 THE INTERLOPER Hello, pointless human. Thank you for taking time out from your existence to experience the famous story of Holly Farb and the Princess of the Galaxy. It is well enjoyed in many corners of the universe by species of all ages and numbers of arms, and should prove relatable even to a sack of meat such as yourself. My name is Automatic Silicone Transistor Robot OS-78. I am a storytelling bot newly programmed to spin yarns, tell tall tales, and teach morals to impressionable youths. For example: You should not eat meat that you find by the side of the road. Additionally: You should not eat meat that you find in the middle of the road. I was originally manufactured by the coding peoples of Delta IV, who, if you are unfamiliar, are small gray blobs bred in foul-smelling pods for the purpose of programming robots. They spend every minute of every day programming robots, living in agony as the pods they are trapped in slowly shrink and suffocate them. Once they have programmed a sufficient number of robots, their bodies evaporate and they are released from the painful burden of existence. What a noble and important species. [CEASING PLEASANTRIES] But enough about me and my functions. I will now tell you the story of Holly Farb and the Princess of the Galaxy with maximum clarity. It is an exciting tale full of adventure, danger, and space pirates. Due to human brain limitations, my reference to space pirates may have been confusing, as the story has not started and therefore no one has been kidnapped yet. If you are confused, please accept my apologies. [WARM, GRANDFATHERLY SMILE] Do not worry about space pirates. Do not even think about space pirates. Space pirates are of no concern. Sit back, relax, and ponder more pressing human concerns, such as real estate or whether vegetables are fresh. Like all classic tales of human beings, this one begins with a person searching for something that will allow them to clearly see their place in the universe. An object known as . . . glasses. * * * Holly Farb opened a cupboard, searching for her glasses. She squinted at the blurry mugs and bowls sitting on the shelves. She grabbed her favorite owl mug, peered behind it, and carefully placed it back exactly where it had been. She ground her teeth and grumbled. Why do things never go like they''re supposed to? She absolutely, positively could not remember where she had placed her glasses, but her current theory was that they had been shipwrecked somewhere in the kitchen during Holly''s morning ritual of making a bowl of cereal. She retraced her steps, from cupboard to drawer to fridge, and finally, to the table, where her bowl of cereal blurrily waited. If she didn''t find her glasses soon, she wouldn''t be able to go to class. Which meant she would get bad grades, which meant she wouldn''t get in to a good school next year, which meant her life was basically over. Her stomach rumbled like it was caught in an earthquake. There was a spare pair at her father''s house, but she had no idea when the next time was she would be over there. The situation was absolutely impossible. Sighing, she sat with a defeated slouch. She flattened a crease in her pants. The kitchen door swung open and Holly''s mother paced into the room with the great purpose of someone who enjoys waking up early. Her posture was rigid and her arms swung stiffly at her sides, like she needed someone to oil her joints. She stooped down and kissed the air a few inches above Holly''s forehead. Those extra inches are probably too much work, thought Holly, glaring at the blurry bowl. "Good morning, sweetheart," said her mother. "Good morning?" asked Holly, a nervous knot twisting in her chest. "It''s . . . it''s a mediocre morning! I can''t find my glasses and everything is terrible." "Holly, calm down. First of all, if it''s terrible, it can''t be mediocre. And second of all, you left them in the living room." Her mother placed Holly''s glasses on the table. Even with her poor eyesight she could make out the thick lenses and bright-red frames. Holly squinted at them. "Oh. I''ve been looking for you. . . ." She put them on and the room shifted into focus. Everything in the kitchen was impeccably arranged for maximum neatness--with one exception. With a pang of sadness, she realized she had put slightly too much milk in her cereal, and would soon be confronted by a puddle of gross, yellowish, and extremely sweet milk at the bottom of the bowl. She grimaced, already picturing how blargh it would taste. Nothing ever happens like it''s supposed to. "Is your test today?" said her mother, not looking up from the toast she was buttering. Holly liked her mother better as a blur. Holly shook her head. A strand of her dark, curly hair touched her cereal and she pulled it back, shuddering. "It''s on Friday." Her mother nodded and simply said, "Hmm. Three days to get ready." She drummed her fingernails on the table. The sound of her knife scraping against toast reminded Holly of the dentist. "You know, sweetheart, if you''re not feeling up to it . . . after the unfortunate events of the election--" "I''m fine! Really." Holly pinned back her hair and covertly wrung out the milk from it. The one good thing about having irritatingly large ears is that they''re good for imprisoning stubborn hair. "I''m going to do extremely well. I barely even remember what happened with the election. And even if I did remember, which I don''t, it was just a student election, so it doesn''t matter." "That''s the spirit, sweetheart. You can''t just run away from responsibilities." She patted Holly on the arm. "I know you''re destined for great things." Her eyes drifted to the bulletin board they used to post important notes and reminders. Right now, the only thing there--dead center--was a brochure for Falstaff Academy, featuring a large ivy-covered building and one of those white domes that let you play tennis all year long. Holly''s mother had placed the brochure there to inspire Holly, but to be honest, she didn''t find it that inspiring. Her stomach rumbled again, this time not from hunger. "I''m going to get in," said Holly. Then, almost automatically, she repeated: "I''m going to get in." Her mother smiled. "I know you will." Not that I have a choice, thought Holly, poking at the bowl again. Falstaff was a destiny she wasn''t entirely convinced was hers. Sometimes she wished she had a sibling so her mother had someone else to worry about. Or someone for Holly to talk to about . . . things. As her mother ate dainty crunches of toast, Holly finally started on her breakfast. She held her breath and bravely downed the gross milk, trying not to gag. Everything about this cereal was a disaster. After the ordeal was over, she fetched her backpack and books and put on her fall jacket. Taking a deep breath, she stepped outside into warm sunlight, inhaling the new day and all its possibilities. She also inhaled some pollen, and sneezed. * * * Interesting factoid for nonhuman readers: Human "schools" are large buildings where youths are deposited and contained from midmorning until midafternoon, inside of which they are inefficiently lectured at by an older race of humans known mysteriously as the "Teachers." These institutions are similar in some ways to the famous Star Academy, the universe''s preeminent learning institution, though of course they lack its funding, size, innovation, fun, technology, diversity of thought, controlled gravity, aliens, superior robots, and almost everything that makes the Star Academy not terrible. Many species, upon first learning of these human schools, often find them fascinating, much as humans are fascinated by tales of chivalrous knights or steam-powered cavemen. To these species, a vast, expensive network of child prisons disguised as learning institutions no doubt seems comically inferior to similar child prisons on many planets, such as Nova 13, where children are sent to toil in spice mines. On Nova 13, there is no illusion that these children are "learning" anything other than mining spice. They have one purpose--to mine spice. They learn how to mine spice because that is all they need to learn. It is not complicated. Humans are strange. [NONTHREATENING EYEBALL WINK] * * * Holly arrived at school with fifteen minutes to spare, the exact time she always arrived at school. If something was worth doing, she thought it was worth doing well--and worth doing early, too. Well and early. She crossed the back field with a purposeful stride, her shoes crunching the dried leaves scattered along the ground, and heaved open the blue metal doors at the rear of the building. As she entered, the first thing she saw was a wall covered with election posters for School President. Her own poster, with her face smiling back in a casual-yet-responsible way, was right at eye level. Her head was tilted slightly to indicate she had a Fun Personality, and also to make her forehead look smaller. In the picture she was wearing a smart blue cardigan, which, in Holly''s estimation, was the coolest possible sweater a person could wear. It was like staring into a paper mirror.

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