Perrone laid a firm hand upon Valentin’s shoulder.
“And you, Specialist Bouchet?”
“I want his head,” Valentin said through gritted teeth.
“And why?”
“To hand it to my parents, to remind them I am their only son.”
“Revolting, albeit spirited.” Perrone sipped café. “I think James is smarter and more dangerous than you realize, which would make the prize more deserving. Yes?”
“Sir?”
Perrone stepped away. Just before he re-entered the cloak, he admired the brothers.
“Ah. Family. Pain and grief. Yes? Young gentlemen, in less than an hour, one of you will be dead at the other’s hand. All things considered, I am not sure where the advantage lies. Surprise me.”
Valentin’s searching eyes showed hesitation: A warrior caught off-guard by receiving exactly what he wanted.
“A gift horse,” Ignatius whispered against the winds of the Gulf of Mexico. “He will be suspicious. The seed of doubt you planted will be your greatest weapon.”
“I’ll need every weapon I can find, and maybe something else.”
“Yes.” Ignatius pointed south toward the horizon to a line of purple clouds. “Is it stirring?”
“It is.” James felt a sudden, terrifying hunger. “The dark wants to be fed. I have to release it, Ignatius. It’s my only chance.”
“Then time to drown them. Begin with your brother.”
12
M ICHAEL COOPER HAD HIS FIRST CHANCE to think about food. He recalled having eaten sandwiches in the hours before crossing the fold, but those moments seemed like excerpts from a dream. He salivated. Pork chops with mushrooms, fried chicken, Mississippi roast, meatloaf.
“What kind of food do you eat, Chief?” He asked Patricia.
“Strange question. We eat what we grow, what we process. Why? Do you have a special regimen we should know about?”
“Hell, no. I ain’t no damn vegan, and I ain’t allergic to nothing. Put it in on a plate, and I’m good.”
They strode a few yards ahead of the other three, now less than half a kilometer from the shuttle.
“If I carried portable rations, Michael, I’d share them. We have reserves in the ship. I have a question myself. I noticed your friends call you Coop. Should we adopt that nomenclature?”
“Nomen-what?” He sighed. “No. Michael’s fine. I get Mike sometimes, too. I think maybe I’m outgrowing Coop.”
“Hmm.” She checked her stream amp to verify tracking to the shuttle. “A new name for a new life? In my experience, I find little difference to be had. You are not supposed to be in this universe.” Their eyes matched, and Michael saw sympathy. “Are you?”
“I made a choice. You saying I made a mistake?”
“Enormous. Possibly fatal.” She tapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll find I am direct, if nothing else.”
“You think I’m gonna die here.”
“On Earth? Yes. Your odds will improve if you make passage to one of the colonies – especially Zwahili Kingdom. But even there, they’ll know you’re different. You must find the proper tribe.”
Hairs stood up on the nape of his neck. “See, right there! The same whites-only vibe I got from Ophelia first time she saw me. What happened on this Earth? All the Nazis and the Klan shack up and spill out a few billion babies? Am I the only brother?”
She ducked beneath a low-hanging pine branch. “I have no idea who those people are, any more than I’d recognize a vegan. And as for a brother, I thought you had no fam …”
“Dude. Seriously. Just … never mind.”
“I apologize, Michael. Our language development is similar, but not our history. You’d be served well to keep it in mind. I have no time to explain ethnic sovereignty. Nor will I recap the rise of the Chancellory or a millennium of colonization.”
“Then how am I supposed to learn?”
“A few hours connected to a pre-tier educate stream will provide the basics. History, economics, military. They’ll fit you for a training amp.” She dropped to a mumble. “If time allows.”
Michael caught her passing words. None of them took him seriously. He saw in these people the cold madness that drove Walter Huggins and Agatha Bidwell to their ends. He should have learned before stepping through the fold. Yet something nudged him on, said this universe might yet be a revelation. He wanted to be in awe of them, to stand beside Jamie on their next adventure, to travel in ships like the computer-generated wonders from film. He wanted Star Trek, but Michael realized his vision was too naïve.
He looked back to where Sammie and Ophelia continued in close dialogue, like Chancellors who’d been acquainted for years. She’s my friend, he thought. But for how long, dude? Michael did not forget how Sammie played everyone for a sucker. He did not forget how she and her parents would have allowed Jamie to be reborn as a Jewel with no memory of his first seventeen years. Or how she let Jamie run off so he could put a gun to his own head. And yet, without her, he’d never see Jamie again.
What if you’re gone, J? What the hell am I supposed to do? Can’t be a wingman. Can’t be a dumbass with one-liners.
He trudged onward until deciding to broach a new topic.
“So, Chief, how many people you figure you’ve killed?”
“Today? Or do you want my full record?”
“That specific, huh?” Michael wasn’t surprised. “Back home, my people who served in wars, they’d never talk about it. But over here, I get the feeling you lot take pride in your kills. That’s why I asked. Well, that and the blood on your bodysuit.”
Patricia laughed. “The blood is not mine. Someone on the science team. Never knew his name. But you are correct, Michael. We carry our kill record with honor. The Unification Guard has maintained order for centuries. No small task - there are far more indigos than Chancellors. Only extreme force maintains control for so long.”
“I’m betting the indigos are everybody who ain’t a Chancellor?”
“Correct. You see? Learning. My count is one twenty, with today.”
“Shit.” He continued his inquiry. “Is this what you always dreamed of doing?”
“The UG? Yes. Most Chancellor children choose the military track. We value glory. We must all aspire to something great, Michael.”
“I reckon. But you’re not in the UG anymore – at least, that’s what it sounded like when the admiral raked you over the coals.”
Her tone stiffened, and Michael sensed impatience.
“Correct. I do this line of work because I have few options. I suppose the society you left behind is morally pure, Michael?”
“Hell, no. Our weapons ain’t as pretty, and our soldiers don’t look like terminators, but I reckon it’s just as crazy. Look, I’m sorry, Chief. I am. I just don’t know how you do it. It’s no damn business of mine what you been through, or why your hair’s about gone, or why you ain’t broke up about your whole unit getting slaughtered back there. I’m sorry, Chief. Seriously. I thought I was ready for all this.”
Patricia turned her attention elsewhere as he rambled. She pointed to their shuttle, which sat in an open pasture one hundred meters ahead, across a small creek, its lights cutting through the dusk. When the others caught up, she told them the plan.
“I’ll hook up with your pilot, assess the damage. We’ll slide Brey’s hand into a medboost. We’ll tap the dispensary for water and field rations. With luck, we’ll be on our way within the hour.”
“Where are we headed?” Michael asked.
“Dr. Tomelin’s call.”
Ophelia nodded in silence, which didn’t sit well with Michael.
“As long as I can hitch. Those field rations any good?”
They weren’t bad at all. Tasty chunks of meat blended with red peppers and white beans, a spice that smelled Cajun, on brown rice. Better than the school cafeteria, short of his mom’s standards, but stomach-filling. He drank three cups of water, not realizing how dehydrated he’d be
come. He found a quiet spot on the grass, fifty feet from the ship where everyone else dined while repairs proceeded.
Night fell, but the air was as humid and unsettling as every summer evening in Albion. He took a brief glance at a brilliant star field then returned his focus to the ground. “You think I’m gonna die here.” “On Earth? Yes.” Staying here terrified him, but the notion of space travel – once so awe-inspiring – petrified him more.
Michael drowned in his confusion until Sammie approached, silhouetted by the ship’s lights. A waft of purple smoke followed. He smelled it as she came near – sweet, like marijuana, but also perfumed. When he adjusted to the light, he realized she was smoking from a small pipe. She sat on the grass a few feet away.
“It’s called poltash weed,” she said. “Daddy said it was his favorite. It’s amazing, Coop. It’s only grown on three colonies. The pilot had extra. He loaned me his pipe. Would you like to try?”
It smelled more intoxicating than any pot or cheap cigar he’d ever smoked, but the notion of trying it made him sick. She cut a figure both foreign and dangerous.
“A couple hours, and you are all-in,” he told her.
“This is my home, Coop. Yeah. I’m all-in.”
“Fine. I get it. Look, Sammie, I got to tell you something, and I need you to hear me out. Just stay with me cause … I’m scared out of my fucking mind. OK?”
She lowered the pipe and slid closer. “Tell me.”
“When we were there with Christian Bidwell … when I had that bastard in my sights … point-blank … I could’ve made him do anything. Told him to run. But I didn’t because I knew what he was, and every-damn-thing he’d ever done to us. I never hated anybody like that before. I pulled that trigger the first time because I couldn’t tell myself to do anything else. But the second time, Sammie? I shot him the second time because I wanted to kill him, and I did not care. I saw him lying there and … I was glad. Good goddamn riddance to a sorry sack of shit.” Michael fought back the tears. “But he was eighteen. I took classes with him. And most people liked him. Truth is, I stayed with you and Jamie because I couldn’t face what I’d done. I couldn’t go back there … walk those halls … knowing what I did. I’d always see his face.
“Then we get here, and what happens? His father shows up looking for him, and the dude is an admiral. And now he has Jamie … my brother. J … we connected on day one … we had all these plans about what we would do after high school … we … if he hurts Jamie, if Christian’s dad does anything …” He took a breath. The rage he’d been trying to temper overwhelmed him.
“I know what I got to do, but I ain’t strong enough. I got to be like these people.” He nodded toward the ship. “Gotta be like you.”
Sammie took a small puff from the pipe. “What do you mean?”
“When we were ambushed, you blew that guy away like it was nothing. I covered for you when the others woke up because I thought they’d be angry … maybe they’d say you should have kept him alive to interrogate him. But I was wrong. They weren’t mad; they’d give you a medal. The chief would’ve told you to keep track of your kills.” He leaned over. “Answer me one question, Sammie, and I promise I’ll never mess in your business again.”
“Anything, Coop.”
“That story you told the admiral about killing a guy last spring? That wasn’t in our script, but it was true. Wasn’t it?”
She did not hesitate. “Yes. He was my prey. In Dacha, there’s only one outcome. Somewhere along the way he broke his leg, and I found him hiding behind a stump. I executed him.”
“He wasn’t the first, was he?”
“No. There were two others.”
“Only a stone-cold killer does what I saw today.”
She looked away. “It’s the life they trained me for. Don’t expect me to apologize. You’ve seen what it’s like here. There will be more.”
He heard confidence and self-assuredness: The first honest conversation he ever had with her.
“If I’m going to make it here,” he said, “I’ll have to do it again, too. Won’t I?”
“What do you want from me? To teach you how to kill people?”
“No. I did that once. I reckon I can do it again.” He pushed himself up from the grass and looked to the stars. “I want you to teach me how to live with it.”
Michael thought those words crossing his lips would settle his conscience. Acknowledge the truth, prepare for the inevitable. See the man you must become. Instead, his stomach churned. He felt the press of his gun, tucked in his pants behind his back.
A whiff of smoke blew past carrying the fragrance of poltash weed. Samantha leaned in, wrapped an arm around Michael.
“There are no lessons for that,” she said. “Only time. I’m sorry we dragged you into our fight, Michael. You’re a good guy.”
“Sure,” he said. “Sometimes, good guys do bad things. Right?”
His eyes latched upon the stars – or more specifically, their strange configurations. He beheld an alien universe – the constellations unrecognizable, the glow of the Milky Way more luminous - the most striking sign yet how far from home he’d come. But something more specific bothered him: A tiny movement between two of the brightest stars.
At first, it seemed like the burst of a meteor hitting the atmosphere. However, this meteor did not swoosh across the horizon and burn itself out in a twinkle, like so many he’d seen. Instead, this object maintained a steady, vertical course, like a tear rolling down a cheek. Even as it lost its tail, the object held together – orange/red like Mars through binoculars.
“Sammie, do you …?”
The words fell short when he realized the object changed course. It lost its sunset shades, a compact orb now bright yellow. Michael didn’t have to guess its heading.
He wished he had said goodbye to his mother and father.
13
M ichael had a sneaking suspicion he would not die if he convinced himself to wake. He’d fall out of bed, see his belongings, and realize he dozed off waiting for Jamie to reply to his text about their school prank. No Christian Bidwell, no bullets in the back, no adventures with Wonder Woman, no lunatics from another universe. Most important, no energy weapon about to incinerate him.
Someone tugged him, another screamed, then he plunged forward as searing heat dressed him. Michael rolled in the tall grass and beheld flames rising twenty feet high after an energy slew smashed into the earth yards away. The fire danced, as if lava spewing from a volcano.
Sammie slapped him. “Coop! Michael! Snap out of it.” As he realized his hopes of a dream were dashed, Sammie told him to run. “They’re trying to kill us.”
He gathered himself up and chased after her. Most of the open pasture burned as they sprinted toward the shuttle, which whirred as it hovered inches off the ground. Ophelia Tomelin stood in the open doorway, begging the teens to hurry.
He heard nothing, save his own desperate panting. Another scream, a glance to the sky, and a furious sun exploded on the far side of the shuttle. Flames mounded into a halo. The concussion threw Michael from his feet and rocked the shuttle out of its hover. The ship rocked, jade green nacelles flickering on its undercarriage. As the pasture crackled, embers drifted around them.
“Reach,” someone told Michael, and he grabbed.
He regained his senses in time to leap onto the shuttle. The ship listing, Michael flipped and rolled to a hard stop against the supply compartments on the starboard bulkhead, banging his head. He winced as Sammie stumbled after him, but she grabbed one of a series of ceiling handles.
Ophelia, who reached an interlocking pod of what she called “still-seats,” signaled to the pilot all were onboard. Michael glanced forward and aft, and while he saw Brey locked into a still-seat, he did not see the chief, Patricia. The pilot, Rikard, who showed zero interest in Michael when they first arrived, struggled from the forward navigation chair. His still-seat, to which his upright body was magnetized, pivoted inside a cylindrica
l shield. He raced hands through kinetic holographic displays. Beyond him, the forward viewports glowed yellow.
And then a lurch. The ship buckled but rose.
Michael felt the shifting g-forces as the ship traveled laterally for several seconds, gaining speed although still listing. When it leveled out, Rikard fired the retros.
As Michael held on and rubbed the lump above his right temple, he looked up at Sammie. She was pale. A panicked warrior, those dreams of becoming a full-fledged Chancellor almost up in flames.
Ophelia ordered Rikard to take the shuttle to cruising altitude. As Michael found his footing, he saw movement aft. Patricia rose from a position behind the still-seat pod. She tapped her stream amp. Michael couldn’t hear what she said, but her thumbs-up was good enough. He turned in time to see Rikard respond in kind.
“You’re OK?” Sammie asked him, examining his lump.
“You want me to answer that?” He laughed.
“We’re still here, Coop. I think …”
“Michael,” he said, with sudden conviction. “I mean, if you don’t mind. I reckon a guy named Coop ain’t got much chance in a world like this. If you get my speed.”
She kissed him on the cheek. “I do.” They shared a wide-eyed connection, and just for an instant, Michael thought she wanted to share something but pulled back. “We’ll talk.”
He looked past her to Ophelia, who disconnected herself from the still-seat. “How long you figure this bucket is gonna fly?”
She nodded toward Patricia, who repaired the damaged nacelle. The mercenary seemed the most confident since they met.
“Barring a direct hit from an energy slew, she’ll take us wherever we need. Four stable nacelles, enough Carbedyne to circle the planet three times.” She pointed to the pilot, who brought down his navigation cylinder and faced what was left of the crew. “Remarkable job, Rikard. That’s two narrow escapes today.”
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