by Nic Stone
Now the princess has gone all starry-eyed.
“Don’t talk nerdy to her, Ms. Ororo Storm,” K’Marah says, lifting her head to prop her chin on her hand. “She’ll fall in love with you.”
“Oh, will you shut up?”
Storm laughs again, but it doesn’t bring Shuri any joy this time. “I just need to figure out what’s wrong,” Shuri says to no one in particular. “I thought that maybe since Vibranium might’ve come to us through some storm cloud–controlled galactic gateway, perhaps you would know more about how that works. And if there was a way to use a similar mechanism to—ugh, I don’t know!”
And she truly doesn’t. In fact, the longer Shuri sits here in Ororo’s sweet and simple little kitchen, the dumber she feels for coming. What did she think would happen? Ororo would kick into Storm mode, do some thunderhead sorcery to open a cosmic energy funnel, and suck the solution down, vacuum-style, from wherever it’s waiting in the universe to be found?
Ororo’s warm brown hand lands on Shuri’s bare arm. Her nails are polished white. “While I’m sorry I don’t have the solution you’re seeking, Princess, I can assure you that no interdimensional space portals have opened recently, and nothing extraterrestrial has entered the Earth’s atmosphere. Not within the past couple of weeks, at least.” She winks.
Shuri sighs. “Well, thanks anyway.”
At this, K’Marah huffs. “So much gloom and doom. Shuri, we’ve been to one place and spoken to one person. Surely an amazing scientist such as yourself has heard of a disproven theory and subsequent need of a new hypothesis …”
Shuri looks at K’Marah, affronted, yes. But also mildly impressed.
“Well?” the other girl goes on. “Pull your pretty little head out of the toilet and think. First idea didn’t work. What’s the revised one?”
Shuri’s eyes narrow of their own accord, and part of her bottom lip finds its way in between her teeth.
“That’s her thinking face, Ororo Storm,” K’Marah whispers.
“Shush.”
But K’Marah is right: It is her thinking face.
“You know, we’ve also experienced some vegetation shifts as of late. I don’t know the forecast in Wakanda, but these global climate fluctuations have caused quite a bit of instability in our organic matter.”
Which makes Shuri wonder … barring the small copse of dead trees the girls passed on their way out of the forest, Yasha was correct in her assumption that Wakanda doesn’t seem too terribly affected by the environmental concerns plaguing other nations in the region. At least when it comes to the organic matter.
But we’re all inhabiting the same Earth, Shuri thinks. The only thing that makes Wakanda different is the presence of Vibranium …
Then it clicks: The only plants experiencing problems are the ones infused with, or adjacent to, the bizarre meteoric mineral. Maybe the issue isn’t with organic matter … but inorganic. Could ecological changes be affecting Wakanda’s most valuable resource? Mutating it somehow? Is that also why she can’t get it to bond with a new fabric for T’Challa’s suit?
Shuri smiles as a new theory solidifies.
K’Marah sees and smiles, too. “Attagirl, Princess.”
Shuri turns to Storm. “Ororo,” she says with renewed enthusiasm, “do you know of anyone with extensive knowledge of celestial elements?”
Ororo does know of someone.
But.
“I hate to be the source of disappointment for a second time, Princess Shuri, but I’m not entirely sure I could even get to the person I’m thinking of,” Ororo says sadly. “He’s … detained at present.”
“Detained … ?”
Ororo looks back and forth between the girls and sighs. “Is there something happening in Wakanda, Shuri? I understand your concern for saving your herb, and I want to be of service, but I need to know what I am walking into, and—not to discredit your very valid concerns—whether or not sharing highly confidential information with you is worth the risk.”
Now Shuri is nervous.
“What I understand from what your brother shared with me years ago, this herb is a vital component of the Black Panther mantle, yes?”
Shuri nods. “In order to fully become the Black Panther, an individual must ingest the herb. It enhances speed, strength, agility, and kinesthetic sensory processing. Makes a man …” or woman, she thinks, “into a giant cat while simultaneously augmenting the advanced cognitive capabilities we already possess as members of the Homo sapiens species.”
“Maybe I should eat a leaf or two …” K’Marah says.
“You’d die,” Shuri replies.
Ororo draws back. “Well, that’s a bit harsh.”
“Yeah, seriously!” K’Marah says. “I was kidding!”
“Well, I wasn’t.” Shuri focuses her attention back on Ororo. “Anyone who eats of the herb unworthily won’t survive it.”
“Huh,” Ororo says. “I guess that makes sense. I’m sure it prevents would-be megalomaniacs from finding and eating it and becoming instantly powerful. Not that Wakanda has any citizens like that.” She grins. “How often does a sitting Black Panther have to take it to maintain its effects?”
“Uhh, as far as we know, only once.”
“So … and forgive me if this question seems dense,” Ororo says (and Shuri knows they’re about to head downhill), “but if the Black Panther never has to ingest it again, why the urgency to save it now?”
Shuri sighs. Why are grown-ups so thickheaded sometimes?
“The ritual Challenge Day is coming. That’s the day when—”
“—any number of self-selected opponents can challenge T’Challa to a bout of hand-to-hand combat for the throne. I’m familiar.”
“Right. Well, at the current rate, the herb will die out completely on the day of the Challenge. So if T’Challa loses—though I don’t believe he will,” she adds for good measure, “the new king and Black Panther will be nothing more than a regular dude who happened to kick T’Challa’s butt. This might be fine within Wakanda—provided no one decides to run a coup and overtake the throne by force. But what if forces attack from outside?” Shuri says. “What happens if the enhanced abilities of the Black Panther are needed, but unobtainable?”
“And then there’s you,” K’Marah says, jumping in.
Which makes Shuri’s already-racing heart leap up into her skull so she can hear just how nervous she is. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I don’t know what your future plans are, but I certainly hope that you’ll one day become queen and Black Panther—Pantheress, really.” She stretches out a hand to look at her fingernails. “It’s the only reason I’m training to become a Dora Milaje. So I can go kick butt with you.”
A new light flickers on inside Shuri. “K’Marah, that might be the kindest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Well, don’t get too excited.” K’Marah yawns. “If you don’t figure out how to save the herbal thingy, no Pantheress action for you. I guess T’Challa can keep being Panther once you’re queen since he’ll allegedly still have the juice in his veins. But not even he will be able to fight forever.”
Ororo sighs again. Her gaze drifts out the window, and Shuri sees a flash of lightning in the distance. Had “Ororo Storm” done that just now? Are random lightning strikes a part of her thinking face?
“Okay,” she says, turning back to Shuri. “I will tell you this, but understand up front that I cannot get you access to this person. But knowing you, I’m sure you’ll find a way.”
Shuri accidentally kicks K’Marah beneath the table in excitement.
“OW!”
“Sorry!” the princess says.
Ororo shakes her head. “Your brother is going to put a price on my head,” she says more to the air than to Shuri. “Steve Rogers will, too, if he finds out I shared this intel with a pair of eighth graders.”
K’Marah’s eyes go wide and she leans in to whisper to Shuri: “Is she talking about Captain Americ�
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“Hush, K’Marah!”
Ororo continues: “There is a man named Dr. Erik Selvig who is an expert in … cosmically derived paraphernalia, we’ll call it. I would be stunned if he didn’t know all about Vibranium. I’m almost sure he could give you more information about it than anyone else on Earth could.”
Barring my father’s murderer … The thought pops into Shuri’s mind unbidden, and she does her best to shake it away. The one person she would never actively seek out is the man who took her and T’Challa’s father away, not only from them, but from every citizen of Wakanda.
“The access issue, though, is twofold. One: Everyone believes him to be dead. Which means you can’t just ask around for how to get to him. Two: From what I understand, he’s a bit … unhinged. Steve—Captain America—saved him for reasons he hasn’t disclosed, but know that even if you manage to get to him, there’s a chance he won’t have anything useful to say.”
But Shuri has to try, anyway, doesn’t she? “Do you know where this man is being held, Ororo?”
The older woman looks right into Shuri’s eyes. There’s a steadfastness there that Shuri hopes to one day emulate. “He’s in London.”
A gasp of delighted surprise escapes the princess’s lips. “London?”
Ororo gives her a single nod of confirmation. “Correct.”
“YES!” And the princess is on her feet with her fist in the air. “K’Marah, we’re going to London!”
“Now just a minute, Shuri,” Ororo says, rising to her feet. “What I will not do is permit you two to leave my care on a wild goose chase in a city where you have no contacts—”
“But we do have a contact in London!” Shuri exclaims. “There was an entire Hatut Zeraze base there!”
“Hatut Zeraze …” K’Marah rolls the phrase around on her tongue. “Dogs of War … Wait! The Dogs of War are real?” she exclaims. “I thought they were urban legend!”
Which doesn’t surprise Shuri in the least. Before T’Challa disbanded the group upon his ascent to the throne, there were members of Wakanda’s most elite group of spies (and assassins, though Shuri tries not to think about that part) stationed across the globe. Their existence was kept so tightly under wraps, however, most Wakandans believed the Dogs of War to be little more than modern myth. An unconfirmed watchful eye whispered to keep enemies—and disobedient children—on their toes. “They’re technically not active anymore, but they were as real as the beads on your braids,” Shuri replies. “Though you’re not supposed to know that, so shh!” She shakes a finger at K’Marah, then turns back to Ororo. “I’ll just touch base with the contact in London, then we’ll be out of your rather glorious hair.”
“No,” Ororo says.
“No?”
“No. Not to go all ‘big sis’ on you, but I won’t allow you two to leave this country until I have spoken with an adult at your destination.”
“But I—”
At the literal lightning flash of try-me-if-you-want-to in Ororo’s eyes, Shuri’s shoulders slump in surrender.
“Yes, ma’am,” she says. “We’ll have to return to my transport vessel to make contact, though.” Shuri lifts the arm with her Kimoyo bracelet to eye level and taps a bead. The words No Service illuminate in an arc above her palm.
K’Marah falls asleep almost as soon as the door of the Jeep is shut, so they ride in silence for the first few minutes of the journey back to the plain where the Predator is parked, this time with Ororo sitting “shotgun,” as Shuri’s heard it called.
But a kilometer or so outside the town proper, the weather-wielding woman rotates in her seat and levels the princess with one of her signature (read: abject terror–inducing) narrowed-eye glares. “Who, exactly, are you planning to contact, Dada?”
Shuri feels Ororo’s sudden suspicion pass over her like a heat wave.
In truth, the princess is surprised it took her this long to ask. Shuri is certain that Ororo, as T’Challa’s first flame, previous pen pal, and present greatest ally, knows more about Wakanda’s government and intelligence networks than even she does. Surely Ororo Munroe is aware of which Hatut Zeraze were stationed in London—she should know exactly whom Shuri intends to reach out to.
She’s even met him. He was still in Wakanda back when Ororo and T’Challa were getting acquainted.
“Well …” Shuri says. “Not that T’Challa would approve, but …”
Based on Ororo’s expression now, Shuri would say she’s finally caught on.
“You’re not serious, Shuri. Him? Really? Not only will T’Challa not ‘approve,’ he’ll short-circuit!”
“Which is why we aren’t going to tell him,” Shuri replies.
Ororo just shakes her head. “I guess on the bright side, if anyone can get you to Dr. Selvig, it’s him.”
“Right?” Shuri says, her excitement building. “That’s what I was thinking. He knows everyone.”
They lapse back into quiet, and the air around their moving vehicle seems to crackle.
“Shuri?” Ororo says.
“Yes?”
“I’m coming with you.”
MISSION LOG
IT’S A GOOD THING ORORO DECIDED TO ACCOMPANY US: IN MY EXCITEMENT ABOUT HAVING A CLEAR PATH TO THE NEXT LEAD, I NEGLECTED TO CONSIDER THE GREAT DISTANCE BETWEEN HAIPO AND LONDON, AND THE TIME IT WOULD TAKE TO MAKE THE JOURNEY.
At top speed, the Predator (and fine: The name has grown on me) should’ve been able to cover the 7,237-kilometer distance in just under three hours. But since I didn’t get an opportunity to test “flight at that speed with this precise amount of weight,” as Ororo put it, we’re flying at 75 percent of the maximum velocity, and with the time change, will arrive ninety-three minutes before sunset.
Which means there’s a good chance we’ll be staying overnight.
And losing more time.
T’Challa didn’t blow a gasket and decide to send our entire Air Force after me like I expected him to, and he did agree to stay mum about our little trek and cover for us so Mother won’t come after me, either. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s because Ororo was standing beside me, smiling and batting her silvery eyelashes, when I made the call.
I told him about the outpost K’Marah and I saw as we left—though he didn’t seem too concerned or alarmed. Not entirely sure what to think of that, but at any rate, our contact is expecting us and has been briefed on the purpose of our visit.
All that to say: Everything is in order, and I should be able to recline in my impeccably ergonomically designed, shock-absorbent captain’s chair and enjoy our smooth, invisible flight …
But I can’t. The Challenge is in just over two days, and with each minute that ticks by, my wariness grows.
Something odd: When we returned to the Predator—which had been in Invisi-mode the entire time it sat on the plain just outside Haipo—there was a new security image. It was the same sunglasses and kufi-wearing man as before, but in this image, he didn’t seem to be looking up as much as straight ahead—right into the camera. What’s more, it seems this new photo was captured at a much closer distance than the previous one.
I’m not entirely sure what to make of it. I’ve checked both the software and the security mechanism itself to see if there might be a glitch that would result in the delayed processing or delivery of a captured image, but all appeared to be in working order. It’s possible that there was a network issue in flight that deferred the upload …
Or there’s someone who can, not only see the vessel while it’s “invisible,” but also managed to follow us to Kenya. (Which is totally and completely improbable. Isn’t it?)
Trying not to think too much about it. Especially with so many other moving parts.
So. New objectives:
- Get to the White Wolf.
- Get the White Wolf to get me to Dr. Selvig.
- Very quickly gather all the very helpful information Dr. Selvig has stored away in his brain just waiting to be set free.
&nb
sp; - Return Ororo to Haipo and get back to Wakanda as quickly as possible (without her being all Safety first! I think we’ll be able to fly at closer to 90 percent of maximum velocity).
- Save the herb, and by extension, the country.
Because this is the way things have to go.
There are no other options.
Oh! A note: Ororo’s X-(Wo)Man stretchy—and moisture-wicking—Storm suit is made of something called polyelastane. I shall begin Vibranium-infusion trials as soon as I manage to acquire a bolt of the fabric.
Shuri is just dozing off when the alarm begins to blare. She bolts upright and a sharp pain shoots across the center of her back—might need to reexamine the “impeccable” ergonomics of her captain’s chair—but it’s nothing compared to the ringing in her ears.
“What is it?” K’Marah shouts, also jolted from her sleep by the shrieking noise. “What’s happening?”
“I’m … I’m not sure,” the princess replies.
What she is sure of? She must stay calm.
Thoughts of Baba and predawn mornings spent “meditating” (read: wriggling at his side while he meditated) fill her head. “You must maintain your center at all times, child,” he used to say in a voice that rang like the deeply resonant music of an upright bass. “Tether yourself to that which is unshakable: the glory and endurance of our great nation.”
Shuri takes a steadying breath and attempts to do just that when her Kimoyo bracelet and card begin to vibrate almost simultaneously.
Mother on one, and T’Challa on the other.
A glance around at the cockpit meters and gauges reveals consistent altitude and air pressure within the cabin, and it hits her: The alarm she’s hearing is the one she connected to her homeland’s nationwide emergency alert system.
Something terrible is happening in Wakanda.
“Oh no,” she hears K’Marah say behind her. “Grandmother is calling …”
“I think there’s something going on back home—”
“SHURI, WHERE ARE YOU?” A hologram of Queen Ramonda leaps up from Shuri’s now-illuminated Kimoyo card, and the princess stumbles back. “Mother! I—”