I catch a glimpse of my miniature tsunami crashing toward Chuy, but then I’m underwater. When I return to the surface in chest-deep water, Chuy is already charging. She jumps at me, catches the top of my head, and shoves me back down.
When I come to the surface a second time, she’s laughing—until Hildy splashes the two of us.
“Oh, it’s on now,” Chuy says.
Before she can return fire, two more cries of derring-do tear through the air. Morton and Burnett, neither of them brave enough to shed their BCSs, run into the water. They make it shin deep before losing their collective balance, stumbling forward, and falling before the water gets deep. They sit up together, covered to the waist, laughing, and splashing.
Chuy and I share a knowing glance. A little bit of parental pride. We’ve gone for dips before, but the boys have never been brave enough to join us. Like Hildy, this is the first time they’ve ever been immersed in water.
It’s a baptism of sorts—a public declaration. The galaxy might be mired in oppressive doctrines…but we are free.
Carter, on the other hand, watches from shore, not quite smiling. Her arms are crossed. Can’t tell if she’s trying to hide amusement, or if she doesn’t approve. She’s loose when it’s just the two of us—in a few ways—but still mostly business when everyone else is around.
It’s too bad. She’s missing out. These people are the only chance she has left to form a family. Our blood relatives are long since gone. The only familial bonds we can have now are those we forge without the aid of DNA.
She’ll come around, I decide, and I jump into the air, arms open wide. I belly flop down, slapping the water with my hands and absolutely drenching Morton and Burnett.
Behind me, I hear Chuy. “¡Uno, dos, tres!”
I turn around just in time to see her launch Hildy into the air. Hildy’s stark white body glows in the sun, only half as bright as her smile. But then six feet up, looking down at me, gravity tugs her—and that smile—down. Laughter becomes a shout of fear, and—sploosh. I slip to the side, avoiding collision. Then I dip my head beneath the surface, find a flailing Hildy, and help her to the surface.
She breaks the surface, sputtering and coughing. For a moment, I fear she’ll have almost drowning imprinted on her first experience with water, then she laughs and turns to Chuy. “Again!”
Over the splashing and frivolity, I nearly miss Drago’s voice in my ear.
“What was that?” I ask, and to everyone else, I say, “Hold up, hold up.” I put a finger to my ear. It won’t help me hear him any better, but it’s still a universal sign for ‘I’m trying to hear a call.’ “Drago, say again.”
“I said, ‘We have incoming.’”
I tense. “The Zorak?”
“Uhh, no.”
I slosh toward shore. Chuy is hot on my heels. “Union?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Aggressive?” I ask.
“Who? Me?”
“The…ugh. The damn ship approaching you!”
“Ooh,” he says. “Sorry for confusion. I said ‘we’, but I meant ‘you.”
“You what?” I shout.
“Have incoming.”
“I have incoming?”
“Da,” he says. “Look up.”
23
A ball of fire slowly resolves into what looks like a black cube, plummeting from the sky. It’s not on a collision course, but it’s going to touch down close enough that it can’t be a coincidence.
“What is it?” I ask, hoping that someone will have a clue. It doesn’t look like a bomb or a missile, but I’m not ruling anything out. Problem is, we have about thirty seconds before it reaches the ground, and that’s not nearly enough time to get everyone on board Lil’ Bitch’n and on the move. Especially if it’s a nuclear warhead or something.
“I don’t recognize it,” Hildy says. She’s standing next to me, dripping wet, eyes to the sky. Her insane puffball hair has been tamed by the water, but individual strands are already starting to spring free as they dry in the sun.
“Stay close to me,” I whisper to her.
Chuy gives me a sidelong glance.
“You, too,” I tell her.
She gives me a nod. Understands the message. We might need to rotate to safety. And if that’s the case, I’m taking the two of them. Chuy because she’s essentially a part of me, and Hildy because I’ve just yanked her out of her life and made her an outlaw. I’m not about to abandon her on Day One. She’s an innocent in all this.
I’ve only rotated with Carter. I don’t know if it can handle three people, but I’m ready to give it a shot. If we survive, I’ll be plagued by guilt for not saving everyone, but I’ve already got a long list of things to talk through with my future therapist.
“You’re a Predictor, though,” Morton says. “You must be able to identify every vessel in the Union.”
Hildy nods. “I can.”
“So that’s…” Burnett says.
“Not part of the Union.” I put an arm around Hildy. Pull her closer. Chuy stands close to my other side. We look like we’re posing for a family photo.
And Carter notices. Frowns. Then she returns her eyes to the sky. “It’s a dropship.”
Morton shields his eyes from the sun. “How can you t—oh, I see it! There are boosters on the underside. I think. They don’t look like anything I’ve ever—”
Blue light blossoms from the object’s underside.
I wrap an arm around Chuy, about to trigger the PSD.
With a few hundred feet to go, and seconds before impact, the object starts to slow, which supports Carter’s guess. Someone is coming to pay us a visit. And if Hildy is right, it’s not someone from the Union.
It’s Whip, I think. He was spooked before, but now he’s ready for a face-to-face. Nothing else makes sense.
We lose sight of the dropship when it dips behind a hill, half a klick away.
“Morton, grab the weapons kits, and then prep Lil’ Bitch’n for takeoff.” Morton scrambles into action, running for Lil’ Bitch’n.
“Burn…” He smiles at my use of his requested callsign. “…finish filling the tank with water.” He takes the hose. Gets to work.
“Hildy…” I hitch a thumb to the open cargo bay. “Get on board. Stay on board.”
I turn to Carter.
“I’m coming with you,” she says, stepping forward, assertive and self-assured.
“Not this time,” I tell her. “I need you here in case something goes wrong. Get them off planet and back to Bitch’n. Chuy’s got my back.”
“You want me to babysit?” She’s pissed. Probably not just about this. I was going to leave her here to die.
I must enjoy digging my own grave, because I respond with, “I want you to follow orders. My ship. My crew. My call. If you don’t like it, we can drop you back with Beatrice. You want to question me when we’re floating around in space or exploring a new world, fine and dandy. Want to debate strategy before or after a mission, I’m cool with that. When we’re facing any unknown threat that puts my people in danger, I’m fucking Kim Il-sung. Do what I say, when I say it.”
Chuy and I start tugging on our clothing. “Okay?”
Carter stares at me. Her eyes lack the kind of interest from the past two days, which sucks, but if I bend this rule for her, in front of everyone, people are going to start debating every call I make, and that’s going to get us killed eventually.
“Whatever you say, Supreme Leader.” She gives me a salute and heads for Lil’ Bitch’n. She bumps into Morton on her way up the ramp. He spins around on his way down, carrying two hard cases with our gear inside.
“That went well,” Chuy says.
I pull my shirt on. “Not the first time I’ve pissed off a woman.”
“Won’t be the last,” she says.
Morton lays the cases down in front of us while we finish dressing. Opens them both to reveal our custom weaponry.
“Whoa,” Hildy says, reac
hing for my rifle. “This looks straight out of Predator.”
I swat her hand away, and then say, “Thanks, but no touching.”
She pouts at me, but she can’t hide her unceasing positive vibes. “Can you teach me? Eventually. How to use this stuff? I mean, I’m a rebel pirate now, right? I should know how to defend myself.”
Chuy slings her sniper rifle over her shoulder. “She’s got a point.”
“But not today.” I slap a magazine into my rifle and chamber a round.
“Badass,” Hildy says.
“Kid,” Chuy says, “he’s already got a big head.”
“You, next,” Hildy says to Chuy. “Say something good. I mean, cool.”
“¡Vete a freír espárragos!” Chuy says.
Hildy’s eyes blossom like a nuclear mushroom cloud. “What does that mean?”
“Means ‘get your ass inside Lil’ Bitch’n and don’t come back out until we get back.” I nudge her toward the open hatch. “You copy?”
“Copy,” she says, and starts moving toward the ship. “Copy… I don’t even know what that means. Copy!”
“Ready?” I ask Chuy.
She tilts her head to either side, popping vertebrae. “Ready.”
I raise an arm toward her. One hand on the PSD. An invitation. She gives me a ‘Did you just fart in my mouth?’ look and says, “Seriously?”
“Tactical advantage,” I say. “Plus, I’m pretty sure it won’t kill us.”
With a sigh, she steps up close. I wrap an arm around her waist, and I’m struck by the fact that this is the closest we’ve ever been. We’ve high-fived, picked each other up, and tended wounds, but in all the time I’ve known her, we’ve never once shared an embrace.
I clear my throat, feeling awkward.
“Calm down, vaquero,” Chuy says. “If Carter doesn’t castrate you, I will.”
I activate the slew and rotate away from the beach.
A flash of white, a quick twist, and we emerge in the forest near the landing craft’s position. I release Chuy from my grasp. “Good to go?”
“Affirmative,” she says, and she starts moving downhill.
Below us, in a clearing, is the cube landing craft. It’s touched down in a field surrounded by tall trees. I don’t see any open hatches, or people outside, but I’m pretty sure it’s not going to explode. So that’s good.
While Chuy moves into position, I toggle the PSD and rotate to the field’s far side, just inside the trees. After a quick scan, I step out in the open, rifle shouldered, ready to fire. I stand like that for a full sixty seconds.
Then I lower the rifle, but not my guard.
When no hatch opens and no one bothers to say ‘hello,’ I take a step closer and call out, “Yo! If you’re here to talk, start talking. If you’re here for a fight, I’m getting bored and—”
“Drop the weapon.”
The deep voice belongs to someone large and as stealthy as a ninja. I am not an easy man to get the drop on. With a subtle twist of my head, I get a periphery peek at my adversary’s weapon. I can’t tell what kind of weapon, only that it’s aimed at the back of my head, slightly to the right.
“Not going to happen,” I say.
“And I’m not going to ask you again,” the man says. “Three seconds and then you die.”
“One,” I say, kicking things off. “Two.”
I tilt my head to the left, nice and calm like I’m stretching.
“Three,” the man says.
Heat registers on my neck. I feel a subtle vibration on my skin. I hear a subtle buzz. All of it at the same time, a fraction of a second before the man’s weapon shatters and falls to the ground.
“Nice shot,” I say to Chuy, who has been listening through comms and watching from the forest.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I should have told you. That was my countdown. If you wanted to shoot me at the count of three, you should have started counting first. Then, I’d really have been in a pickle.”
I turn to face the man, raising my weapon. He’s wearing black body armor with a red X spray painted over the chest. Definitely not Union. A black mask—cooler than mine—hides his face. “Who are you?”
“Don’t point that at me.” He nods toward my rifle.
“Seriously? I don’t mean to sound like a school kid, but you started it.”
The man sighs.
If he wanted to kill me, he could have. He’s no longer armed. And a bullet leaving Chuy’s sniper rifle will take just a fraction of a second longer to remove his head. So, I do as he asks, and I take a subtle step to the side, making him an easy target. “Happy?”
He says nothing.
“Now…who are you?”
He lifts his hands, palms forward, then reaches toward the back of his mask. He moves slowly, aware that he’s still got a weapon aimed at his head. He takes hold of the mask and peels it off, blocking his face with his arms. The mask comes away.
I stare at him for ten seconds before Chuy says, “Moses, what the fuck?”
I’d normally complain about her using my real name, but I’m just as dumbstruck, and I find myself able to only repeat her question. “What the fuck?”
24
The man, staring at me through cool, blue eyes, has skin that’s just a shade lighter than mine.
“Like looking in a mirror,” the man says. “Right?”
Not exactly. The Union might see us as twins, but he’s two inches shorter than me, his hair is unruly, like an awkward afro. Mine is high and tight. But there is something…maybe the way he carries himself, or the way he’s scrutinizing me while I do the same to him, that feels familiar. Like a younger me.
I’m not sure if that makes me like him or dislike him. But I’m not going to trust him just because he magically doubled the number of black men in the galaxy.
“Answer the question,” I say.
“In a minute.”
“Waiting for something?”
He doesn’t answer. Just has this cocky look on his face. A subtle grin. Knows something I don’t, and he’s feeling smug about it.
“Chuy, I’m going to give this guy another countdown. Feel free to remove his kneecap if he doesn’t answer.” When she doesn’t reply, I know things have just gone from annoyingly intriguing to full-on FUBAR.
“Over there,” the man says, pointing behind me.
I raise my rifle again, just in case, and turn to look. Chuy stands at the forest’s edge, hands raised. There’s a man and a woman to either side of her, weapons pointed at her head. Both of them are shades of very much not white.
Ho-lee shit. What is happening?
A question for later. Right now, Chuy is in danger, and that’s not something I take lightly, or that I’m going to let stand.
When I turn to face the stranger again, I’m smiling. It’s not a sheepish grin, or an honest, ‘Happy to meet you’ smile. It’s a ‘You just opened a can of crazy,’ smirk. “Second question. Do you know who I am? Because if you did, and you wanted to survive long enough to answer question number one, you wouldn’t be threatening my people.”
His hesitation to answer lacks all of the previous bravado.
“Don’t sweat it,” I tell him. “I’ll ask you again in a minute. Just…” I raise an index finger. “Hold on.”
Before his face is done expressing confusion, I’ve rotated out of the field and appeared behind the man and woman holding Chuy hostage.
“Howdy,” I say.
The duo flinch and spin around to face me. It’s a natural instinct, to face an attacker that’s caught you off guard, but it leaves them open to attack from Chuy.
Knowing I’m not fond of fighting enemy combatants of the feminine gender, Chuy delivers a crushing punch to the woman’s side. She crumples to the ground, dry heaving.
I handle the man by taking hold of his rifle. When he attempts to pull it free, I push. The heavy weapon collides with his forehead and knocks him unconscious. As the man falls to the ground, Chuy slides int
o my arm, and we rotate back across the field, right behind the cocky wannabe doppelganger. Chuy draws her pistol and shoves it against the back of the man’s head. I stroll around in front of him. “So. Back to question one. Who the fuck are you?”
Chuy steps to the man’s side. If she puts a bullet in his head, I won’t get slathered in brain matter.
The man chuckles. “He said you were good. I mean, I knew you were. It’s why you’re here. But that—rotating back and forth—that was poetry.”
He’s trying to control the conversation, redirecting me to what is now question number three: Who said I was good?
“Your name,” I say. “Last chance.”
He lets out a sigh. “Bighead.”
“Bighead?”
“It’s a callsign,” he says. “I didn’t pick it.”
His big hair combined with his cocksure attitude makes the name a perfect fit. Whoever gave it to him has a sense of humor and an understanding of his character.
“Who did?”
“Can’t tell you,” he says. “Not yet. Not until he’s sure.”
“Sure about what.”
He shrugs. “Who you are. Who you’ve become.”
“If we get any more cryptic Yoda bullshit out of you, I’m going to shoot you out of spite,” Chuy says.
“I don’t know who Yoda is,” he says.
“So, you were sent here to what?” I say, “Deliver a message?”
He nods.
“Ha,” Chuy says. “I’m literally going to shoot the messenger.”
“I don’t think you will,” he says. “That’s not who you are, Chuy.” He turns to me. “Or you, Dark Horse.”
My instinct is to low blow the guy, let a fist in his gut help loosen his tongue. But his knowledge of our whereabouts, and of our callsigns, suggests that the person who sent him knows us well. And right now, there’s only one prime suspect: Whip.
If this really is a character test, I want to pass with flying colors.
I glance behind me. His two partners are on their feet and hobbling in our direction. Will be several minutes before they reach us.
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