The Vanished

by Nic Stone

  All the princess can do in this particular moment is try and remember the differences between Dambe and Nuba. If she knows anything about the Kocha, it’s that the old woman is likely to combine moves from both martial arts practices in a hand-to-hand combat contest, and then “assess” Shuri by making her say which strike/block/kick was from which discipline.

  She tosses one last glance over her shoulder at the black of the powered-down computer monitor, and her reflection stares back at her.

  Yes.

  She’ll do what she can: She’ll nail this evaluation.

  * * *

  Shuri … doesn’t. Nail the evaluation.

  In fact, she doesn’t even get the opportunity to complete the evaluation: When she and Nakia step into the Kocha’s training facility—a thatched hut out at the eastern edge of the baobab plain (though the woman lives in the penthouse of the sleekest building in Wakanda’s capital)—M’Shindi takes one look at the princess, rolls her eyes, and turns away with a dismissive wave of her hand. “She is not ready,” she says. “Bring her back when she has conquered her distraction.”

  And though Nakia spares Shuri the embarrassment of conversation en route back to the palace, what the Dora says once the hovercraft is parked in a palace-garage charging port is like salt in the Kocha stab wound: “Soooo … would you like to tell your mother, or should I?”

  Shuri’s head whips right. “Come again?”

  “She is expecting a report of your results, Princess.” The Dora meets Shuri’s surely horrified gaze. “One of us will have to tell her you … weren’t assessed. Unless you would prefer that the Kocha deliver the ne—”

  “NO!”

  This makes Nakia chuckle.

  “Don’t laugh at me, Nakia!” Shuri says, putting her face in her hands.

  “My apologies, Your Majesty. It wasn’t meant to be derisive.”

  Shuri sniffs. Not because she’s crying, mind you. More because she’s trying not to. Insult to injury, this whole shebang. The day began terribly, yet has somehow managed to get progressively worse.

  “I hope you’ll forgive what may be an imposition, Shuri, but ambitious woman to ambitious girl, you’re a smidge hard on yourself. You are very near and dear to me, so understand that this is stated in love: The pursuits of your heart will neither hide nor flee from you. I know that this training regimen is important to you, but perhaps the source of your preoccupation in this moment should be given greater consideration.”

  Of all the things Shuri expected Nakia to say, this certainly wasn’t one of them.

  “Huh?”

  “Well … I peeped in on you four times while we were at your laboratory. But you didn’t notice. You were very much engrossed in whatever it is you were doing on your computer. I suspect from your shock at being reminded of today’s assessment that your cyber activities were not related to your training?”

  Shuri looks away. Which is enough of an answer.

  “Perhaps more credence should be given to this other pursuit for now. It is clearly important enough to draw the whole of your attention.”

  Again, Shuri doesn’t respond.

  “You won’t forsake your destiny by following your instincts, is all I’m saying. Give it some thought?”

  Shuri’s gaze falls to her hands. Her fingernails are bitten to nubs.

  She sighs. And nods. “Okay,” she says.

  * * *

  To Shuri’s annoyance, the queen mother seemed pleased when Shuri mumbled the truth about what’d transpired at the Kocha’s über-old-school training hut. “Hmmm,” she’d practically purred, a twinkle dancing in her kohl-rimmed eyes. “Well, better luck next time, ey?”

  The princess returned to her quarters with so much frustration swirling inside her, it’s a wonder steam didn’t shoot from all her facial orifices.

  Now she’s … pacing. Which is very much out of the ordinary. It’s just … well, she has precisely zero sense of what to do. She could attempt to study, but that is likely to be an exercise in futility: “The capacity to retain information” is near the top of her things I am presently lacking list.

  She could practice the martial arts moves she didn’t get to exhibit today … but then she’d just hear M’Shindi’s voice in her head, barking critiques of her form. (No, thank you.)

  The telescope currently set up in her reading nook catches Shuri’s eye. She’s been using it to study celestial bodies—constellations, the rings of Saturn, a couple of different nebulae—for her Vibranium course, but in this moment, it reminds her of the missing girls. Didn’t one of them discover a planetary system similar to the one Earth is a part of?

  She stops pacing and sighs. Is Nakia right? Should she shift her focus to this … other matter? It’s clearly not going to leave her alone. (Or perhaps it’s she who can’t leave it alone.)

  But where to even begin?

  Shuri returns to her pacing, hands clasped behind her back. She could start by telling Riri about the hit on Pilar’s name. And the location. Maybe the region will spark something for Riri. Are any of the missing girls known for research that would make a mineral-rich—and funky-colored—salt flat valuable?

  The other option, of course, is for Shuri to just go there. Maybe a quick flight, in stealth-mode obviously, to scope out the area from above. Do a few scans of the terrain—a topographic one, but an electromagnetic and maybe a thermodynamic as well.

  She could probably talk Nakia into joining her under the guise of a study-related something or other … but then Shuri recalls her mother’s seeming satisfaction at her lack of a training evaluation today. She wouldn’t put it past the queen to shut down any request to leave the country even with a Dora Milaje in tow. Especially if the stated intentions are training-related.

  A framed photograph on the small table beside Shuri’s bed catches her eye. It’s of Shuri and K’Marah kneeling in a field of glowing plants. Heart-shaped herb plants. The ones that have grown back since the girls’ successful quest to rescue them.

  Just the two of them.

  But will K’Marah even speak to Shuri right now? Their last interaction wasn’t exactly pleasant. If she calls, will K’Marah even ans—

  There’s a series of pounds on Shuri’s door just before it flies open. “SHURI!” K’Marah shouts, rushing in like she’s fleeing a chemical fire. She waves her Kimoyo card in the air. “Shuri, you will never believe it!”

  “Believe what?” the princess says, so stunned to see K’Marah, she can’t respond any other way.

  “THIS,” K’Marah says, shoving the smartphone-like device into Shuri’s face. On the screen is a digital photo of what looks like an open greeting card. An exceedingly fancy cream-colored one with gilded edges. There are hieroglyphic-style symbols all around the margins, and the slightly blurred words are written in elaborate calligraphy. In French.

  “It’s an invitation,” K’Marah says, just as Shuri parts her lips to ask what it is. “I just heard from Jojo—”

  “From whom?”

  “Josephine,” K’Marah says. “My friend in France. She got caught sneaking out to pursue a lead on Celeste, so her parents confiscated her phone. That’s why I hadn’t heard from her.”

  “Ah.” So K’Marah’s panic had been unfounded. Shuri gulps down the impulse to point that out.

  “Anyway, a few days ago, she received that in the mail. It’s a … summons.”

  “Okay …” Shuri says. “To what?”

  “That’s the thing.” She looks Shuri right in the eyes, worry coating her face like the wrong shade of makeup. “She wouldn’t say. Do you remember how I told you she told me her cousin received an invitation she wouldn’t tell her about?”

  “Wait … who wouldn’t tell whom—?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Point is, I think this might be the same thing.”

  Now Shuri’s face scrunches. “Huh? Why would you think that?”

  “Well, she said she was going away for a while, but she wanted to tell me so I wouldn’
t worry.”

  “Okay …”

  “But then she goes, ‘I’d rather not emulate my darling cousin and vanish without alerting my loved ones.’ ”

  “Okay …”

  “Which totally means she went to the same place, doesn’t it? She got her phone back and then went to join her cousin. Likely in the same place where all the other missing girls are being held!”

  Shuri opens her mouth to respond, but then thinks better of it. Because in truth, the princess isn’t entirely certain how to reply. Even with Shuri giving credence to the possibility that all the “disappearances” are interrelated, K’Marah’s conclusion would be … a stretch (euphemistically speaking).

  But how to express that without hurting her friend’s feelings again?

  “Uhh,” Shuri begins. “Is there mention of an address on the invite?”

  K’Marah rolls her eyes. “It’s in French, remember? I have no idea!” She lifts the Kimoyo card to her face. “It looks like there may be some numbers here. Perhaps it’s a street address?”

  “Let me see,” Shuri says, stalling to figure out how to bring her friend back to Earth.

  Except what she sees on the screen snatches the air straight from her windpipe. Because those numbers? Shuri recognizes them. She spent a decent portion of the morning so distracted by them, the Kocha refused to evaluate her.

  13.519, 39.423.

  Coordinates. In the Danakil Depression.

  I DO BELIEVE WE ARE IN OVER OUR HEADS.

  Because I “have no chill,” as K’Marah put it, she noticed my reaction to the numbers on the invitation. And I couldn’t bring myself to lie to her … Actually, that is untrue. I, 100 percent, would’ve lied to her had I been able to come up with something viable quickly enough. And I wish I had.

  Anyway, that’s neither here nor there now. I told her everything. From the addition of Pilar Bautista’s name, to the ping, to the bizarre location it revealed.

  Of course K’Marah wanted to leave immediately.

  It took some coaxing, but after a series of reminders about what happened the last time we snuck out of the country—“Yes, but this is Ethiopia, not London! It’s much closer!” she said at first—she began to see sense. But she wouldn’t relax completely (and leave so I could think) until there was a *Plan* with a *Timetable* and *Logistics.*

  So thirty-six hours hence, she and I will be given a two-day reprieve from our respective training regimens to accompany Clothier Lwazi on a fabric hunt in Addis Ababa. And since everyone is convinced the trip will be “good” for us, we are being permitted to travel with no Dora guard in tow. (Which might be due to Mother’s not wanting to offend the clothier by suggesting that he is unable to handle K’Marah and me. Either way: works for us!)

  We convinced him to ask Mother if we could all go in the Predator since it is both the fastest and safest travel vessel in the nation. Which will hopefully permit us to zip over to the Danakil Depression to scan the terrain for heat signatures, and then get back before he can get too angry about us disappearing. The flight between the two points shouldn’t take more than one-half hour each way.

  At least that’s what I told K’Marah. In truth, there are infinite ways the whole shebang could go terribly wrong. Because one thing we didn’t really discuss/plan is precisely what we intend to do once we get there.

  I hate to even consider the possibility (I’ve avoided doing just that up to this point), but what happens if all the missing girls are there somewhere? And … we find them? What will come next? I certainly don’t have the space or time to pile everyone into the Predator and deliver them to their respective homes around the world …

  The fact that neither K’Marah nor I had the courage to bring this up during our discussion feels more ominous than I care to admit. Because surely she was thinking about it, too? I have yet to tell Riri about our plan … What would I even say?

  There is no turning back now, though, I suppose. Perhaps since this is a goodwill mission, Bast/the gods/the universe/luck/whatever-entity-determines-the-outcome-of-these-sorts-of-unpredictable-things will work in our favor, and nothing will go too terribly wrong …

  Here goes nothing, I guess.

  Everything goes terribly wrong.

  First, Shuri oversleeps on the morning of the scheduled jaunt. Which is very much unlike her, but she’d tossed and turned for most of the night before, plagued by terrible dreams that left her sweat-soaked and hopelessly tangled in her sheets.

  Second, what finally does manage to break through to her unconscious mind—after six missed alarms—is a blaring signal from her Kimoyo card. In a haze, she grabs it from the small table beside her bed and manages to swipe in the right direction. As the words on the screen begin to swim into focus, she taps a spot near the bottom that seems important (she thinks it says listen?) … And then two voices fill the air and snatch her awake so fast, she literally gasps:

  “… glad she is taking this breather. This trip with Clothier Lwazi and break from all that combat stuff is the best thing for her right now, I think.”

  “I have zero doubt you think that, Mother. In fact, I am certain the entire palace knows how you really feel about Shuri’s training.”

 

  “I have no idea what you mean, T’Challa.”

  “Uh-huh. Whatever you say, My Queen.”

  “Think what you will. I just feel that this training thing is distracting our girl from what really matters.”

  “And that would be … what, exactly?”

  “Well … her studies, for one.”

 

  “What is that look, T’Challa? You disagree?”

  “I mean you no disrespect, Mother, but Shuri is very much excelling in her studies. Even the additional ones she has taken on as part of her training regimen.”

  (At this, Shuri exhales. Maybe her big-headed brother isn’t so bad after all.)

  “For now she is excelling. But we both know how these things go. Even M’Shindi has expressed some concerns about Shuri’s wavering focus. Thank Bast the woman had the presence of mind to turn her away the other day! Who knows what sort of damage she may have done handling weapons—”

  “There are no weapons in Dambe or Nuba, Umama.”

  “Wellll … either way. I am telling you, T’Challa: That child is not ready for all this. Just yesterday I passed by her near the kitchens, and she didn’t even notice me, she was so lost in thought. The bags beneath her eyes are beginning to rival those of the River Eldress. I don’t want to stifle her ambitions, but I’m not sure it’s wise for her to accompany you to this conclave. Even if she were to pull through on the assessments—”

  “Shuri?”

  The door begins to open, and quick as she can, Shuri silences the transmission and shoves the Kimoyo card beneath her pillow.

  Nakia peeks in. “Ah, you’re awake now. My apologies for the intrusion … Just thought I heard voices that weren’t yours …” Her eyes narrow.

  Shuri clears her throat. “Nope! Just me! I can be a bit … froggy some mornings.”

  “Ah. Talking to yourself.”

  “Do you, umm … know what time it is?” Shuri tosses in a deeply unconvincing yawn and rub of the eyes to sell her supposed bleariness.

  Nakia nods. “The time is nine forty-two, Your Highness.”

  “NINE FORTY-TWO?!” Shuri is out of bed and into her closet faster than she can process how she got there. “OH MY GODS!”

  By the time she comes back out—approximately thirty-seven seconds later—Nakia is fully inside the room.

  “Are you all right, Shuri?”

  No. She is not all right. “I’m fine!” Where is K’Marah? Why didn’t she wake Shuri up? There’s no way she overslept …

  “You didn’t happen to see K’Marah anywhere this morning, did you?”

  “Oh yes! She came by a few times.”

  Shuri freezes in the midst of pulling on a sock. “She did?”

  “Yes. I told her
you were sleeping. She was none too thrilled when I sent her away for good after her third try—I told her you would contact her when you woke. But she’ll be fine. I know the two of you have plans today, but you needed your rest.”

  Shuri sure hopes she will be fine once she does contact her best friend. K’Marah will certainly be in a mood considering how behind schedule they are.

  The princess slips her shoes on, fishes her Kimoyo card from its hiding place (Nakia’s brow lifts at this), and shoves it into the cargo pocket of her favorite pants before grabbing her knapsack and rushing to the door. “Well, thanks for looking out for me!” she says to the Dora as she approaches.

  “Ahh, Princess?” Nakia steps into Shuri’s path, her hands clasped in front of her.

  She doesn’t have time for this! The princess stops and forces a smile. “Yes?”

  “You’re, umm … missing a shirt.”

  Shuri looks down. There’s her purple sports bra … and then her bare midriff. “Oh,” she says. “Right.” She spins on her heel and heads back to the closet. Fully aware from the feeling in her gut that things will only get worse from here.

  * * *

  And worse they do get. While the Dora-in-training doesn’t seem as upset as Shuri expects her to be, when K’Marah’s dear uncle, darling clothier of Shuri’s mother, sees the Predator, he outright refuses to travel within it. It takes K’Marah committing to cleaning his workshop from top to bottom, Shuri promising him an additional week of paid vacation time (her mother will certainly “ground” her for that one), and both girls asking him to make the gowns for when they graduate from their respective training programs—“You can choose those fabrics today as well!”—to get him to budge.

  By then, they’re an additional twenty-eight minutes behind.

  The flight to Ethiopia is relatively smooth, barring one particularly powerful pocket of turbulence during which the clothier has to lie down. Not that Shuri would tell the others, but the only reason the Predator gets caught in the shifting winds is because she zones out thinking about the overheard conversation between T’Challa and her mother, and she fails to climb the vessel to a higher altitude in time to dodge the rough air.