by Nic Stone
Once they’re on the ground, though—three hours and seventeen minutes later than anticipated, and after having to park on top of a two-story building in stealth-mode post letting K’Marah and Lwazi out on the ground—the girls quickly discover that getting away from Lwazi will be more difficult than they anticipated.
He’s … more skittish than Shuri would’ve imagined. Wants both girls by his side at all times. Not out of some instinctive urge to keep them safe, but because he is wildly uncomfortable in this new place.
Which, to Shuri, is baffling. As her head swivels to take in their surroundings—they’re in a place called Merkato, where merchants of all sorts have their wares on display for purchase—she can’t help but beam. At the brightly colored garments and head wraps, the petrol-powered vehicles, and the hustle-bustle of the place. There are laughing children, and people on bicycles, and varying shades of beautiful brown skin, and the air smells of coffee, herbs, and spices: cinnamon and rosemary and black pepper. Shuri’s heart swells when one shopkeeper shouts across the way to another one in Amharic. Good day, she makes out from her brief encounter with the language in East African studies during primary school.
Clothier Lwazi just about jumps out of his skin. The three of them are leaving a “deeply disappointing,” as he put it, fabric kiosk, and Lwazi grabs both K’Marah’s and Shuri’s upper arms more tightly than either girl feels is strictly necessary.
Shuri and K’Marah exchange a look. “Uncle, you’ve been outside Wakanda before, yes?” K’Marah asks.
“Of course, of course,” he replies, peeking around as though some known assassin is lurking nearby, out to get them all.
“But never to this city, I presume?” Shuri says upon being pulled into a vaguely absurd (speed) walking pace.
“Oh, I’ve certainly been to this city,” he replies. “I love this city. Once found the most gorgeous printed linen I’ve ever laid eyes on.” He kicks a furtive glance over his shoulder.
“So why do you seem so nervous?” Thank Bast for K’Marah. Gets right to the point, that one does.
“I’m not really into crowds,” he says. “Ooh, come on! I see another fabric stand just ahead!”
They continue on like this—Lwazi clinging to them like that elastane fabric Shuri used to make T’Challa’s latest Panther Habit, while zipping around in abject terror—for the most excruciating seventy-three minutes of Shuri’s young life. Lwazi has collected multiple reams of myriad fabrics, but Shuri and K’Marah have accomplished little more than being promoted from fabric-shopping mascots to textile-stuffed-bag carriers.
When Lwazi begins the bartering process with yet another merchant, K’Marah gets as close as she can to Shuri (the young Dora’s uncle is still between them, holding one of each of their hands as if they’re five-year-olds). “We need an intervention,” she whispers to the princess.
“Oh, you think?”
“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Princess. Got any ideas?”
“He’s your uncle! What do you think we should do?”
“If I knew, I would’ve done it alrea—”
“Ladies, I’m famished,” Lwazi cuts in, wholly oblivious to their scheming. “What do you say we snatch a bite to eat and then head home? I’ve certainly found more options than I expressly needed. Don’t mention that to your mother, Miss Shuri.”
“Oh, I would never!” Shuri replies. She looks back at K’Marah, who rolls her eyes in her uncle’s direction … but then her brows rise, and her face lights up brighter than Wakanda’s capital on T’Challa’s birthday.
“I know where we should eat!” she shouts. More enthusiastically than Shuri feels is warranted considering the circumstances.
“Oh, you do?” Lwazi says. “And how would you know that?”
“I sought out some food options last night in case we got hungry. Didn’t know how long we’d be here.” She tugs her hand from Lwazi’s grip and removes her Kimoyo card from her pocket. Taps for a second and then: “Come on. It’s this way.”
Shuri and the clothier can do nothing but follow. Though the princess does manage to free up her hand as well.
K’Marah’s bizarre behavior continues once they are all seated. She orders the same dish as her uncle, though he asks for his without butter, then proceeds to doodle on a paper napkin with a pen she borrowed from the server until the food comes. And then once it’s on the table, she (over)excitedly points out a pregnant woman in a beautiful wrap-style sundress with matching head scarf. Shuri and Lwazi both turn to look. It is a lovely outfit. (“Oh my! I wonder where I could find that fabric!” Lwazi says.)
But then five minutes into the meal, Lwazi sits up, straight as a pin. “Oh no,” he says.
“Uncle? Are you all right?”
He turns his body to her without moving his head. “They definitely cooked my meal in butter. If you ladies will excuse me—” And he stands and waddles in the direction of what Shuri guesses is the bathroom.
“Whoa—”
“Let’s go,” K’Marah says, jumping up from her seat. She takes the napkin with her doodles—and words, Shuri can now see—and places it beside the clothier’s plate. “We’ll even take the bags so he won’t have to.”
“Go?” from Shuri. “Go where?”
“To those coordinates!” K’Marah practically shouts. “We need to move now. There’s no telling how quickly he may come back.”
It clicks. “K’Marah, did you switch your uncle’s plate to the one with butter?”
“Hmm? Oh, that reminds me!” And she switches them back. “He’ll be fine, I promise,” she says with a wave. “Lactose low-tolerant. Just a little gas, I’m sure. Now, come on! We have some girls to save!”
And with a forlorn look at her uneaten doro wat, Shuri stands and takes off behind her friend.
The girls have just begun their ascent when K’Marah’s Kimoyo card and bracelet ring out not quite simultaneously. Like a cacophony of Hey, you two are going to be grounded forever alarms.
“It’s Uncle,” she says, looking at the card screen. (Duh.) “And … Okoye.”
Oh gods. “We are in so much trouble.”
“The Okoye call might be nothing.” K’Marah slides her bracelet from her wrist and stretches it out to the princess.
Who looks at it like it will make all of her fingers fall off. “What are you giving it to me for?”
“To answer, obviously! I need to take this call from Uncle! Here.” And she tosses it at Shuri, who catches it with one hand to keep from being thwacked in the forehead with it. “Nice hands!” K’Marah adds with a wink as she leaps from her copilot seat and bolts toward the back of the Predator.
Within Shuri’s fist, the ringing piece of jewelry continues to vibrate, a purple glow pulsing from somewhere deep within. It’s dramatic, she knows, but in this moment, it almost feels like holding the fate of everything she knows in the palm of her hand.
The first time she opened a Kimoyo bead, she was six years old, and she’s been instrumental in updating the technology. So she knows to turn off the Predator’s GPS signal before answering the call. She keeps the untraceable one on her Kimoyo card going so she can manually keep the vessel on course, but still: Cutting their sole way of being tracked means the lies she’s about to tell the general are premeditated. The whole thing makes Shuri feel as if her insides are coated in that mutated toxin K’Marah’s former flame, Henbane, used to decimate Wakanda’s heart-shaped herb supply. (The princess’s best friend sure knows how to pick ’em …)
She swallows back the sick feeling, and taps the bead to answer.
“Ahh … Hi, Okoye!” The general’s upper half blooms from the bead in hologram form. (Shuri, of course, is not projecting back. She is also thankful for the audio only feature she added a few years back at T’Challa’s request. He snuck out way more often than she could in a lifetime.)
Okoye’s majestic features smush together as her head drops to one side. “Shuri? Is that you?”
“Yep!”
“You did!” Shuri says. Way too cheerfully. She clears her throat and tries to tone it down: “My apologies for the confusion, General. K’Marah is …” Shuri peeks over her shoulder, where she can barely make out K’Marah’s muffled voice through the lavatory door. Hopefully, if Okoye can hear it, she’ll chalk it up to Addis Ababa background noise. “She’s in the restroom.”
“Ah,” Okoye says. “Strange that she would remove her communication beads for such a thing, but I won’t play at comprehending you young people and your ways. Whereabouts are you all? I can’t seem to locate a signal.”
“Oh, umm … Still very much in Ethiopia! The clothier is very picky about fabric—”
“WOW, that was a close one!” K’Marah practically hollers as she steps out of the small washroom. Shuri makes a slicing motion at her throat and nods toward Okoye’s floating half form. The shorter girl claps both hands over her mouth, but it’s too late.
“K’Marah? Is that you?” the general says. “Will you two project so I can speak to your faces, please?”
“Ahh, sorry, General Okoye!” K’Marah shouts, grabbing a sheet of tissue paper from around one of the fabric bolts. “The service here isn’t great!” She crumples the thin paper so it makes a loud crackling sound. “We’ll have to call you back!”
Okoye lifts a cupped hand to her ear. “What was that? I can’t really hear you—”
“Precisely!” K’Marah says, rustling the paper more fervently.
Now Okoye’s eyes narrow. “This better not be some sort of trick, K’Marah. We need to discuss your most recent failed evaluation—”
“You’re breaking up!” K’Marah shouts. Then she makes a gods-awful noise in the back of her throat. “We’re losing you—”
She ends the call.
“WHEW,” she says, dropping back down into the seat beside Shuri. “All bullets dodged. I told Uncle we needed to go scan some terrain for science class and wanted to spare him the additional time in the air.”
Shuri’s eyebrows rise. “And he bought that?”
“Oh, surely not,” K’Marah says. “But I’m sure he’s appreciating the time alone to shop. He did confess that much of his anxiety was rooted in having to keep an eye on us. Never been one for babysitting, Uncle,” she goes on. “I told him we’d return for him in a couple of hours. Hopefully that’s enough time for us to complete the mission.”
The princess is fighting hard to regain what little chill she typically possesses, so she keeps her eyes straight ahead.
“How much longer until we get there?” K’Marah says, tapping at the navigation screen. “Wait, why isn’t it working?”
After a long and exceedingly deep breath, Shuri turns to her friend. “We need to go back,” she says.
“What? No way,” comes K’Marah’s response. “Those girls need our help and we’re, what, fifteen minutes from giving it to them?”
“How exactly are we going to help them, K’Marah?” Shuri surprises even herself with the calmness of her voice. Because inside? She’s screaming. This is an infinitely bigger deal than either Shuri or her almost–Dora Milaje best friend are prepared to handle. Yes: She is princess of a sovereign nation with access to more resources than she’s sure any of the potentially missing girls have ever seen. But last she checked, Wakanda isn’t in the habit of involving itself in matters that … are not pertinent to the continued safety and prosperity of Wakanda.
And for good reason, as far as the princess is concerned: Enemies, known and unknown, are everywhere. If there’s one thing Shuri has retained from Scholar M’Walimu’s courses, it’s the understanding that if your nation has something another nation feels they should have, the latter will stop at nothing to acquire what they’re after. As far as Shuri is concerned, “war” could be an acronym for “Wanting Another’s Resources.”
Even with all that aside, there’s no one here but them right now. A relatively powerless princess of an unknown nation, and a royal guard … who hasn’t even completed her training. How much help could the pair of girls really be?
“What do you mean?” But Shuri can hear the waver in K’Marah’s voice. This has crossed the Dora trainee’s mind.
“You know exactly what I mean. Even if the girls are at this mystery location—which I highly doubt, considering the images I’ve seen of it—what exactly are you … well, we, planning to do to ‘help’ them?”
“Well …” When Shuri peeks over, K’Marah is fidgeting with the hem of her (ridiculous coral-beaded) tunic. “I mean. We can alert the authorities—”
“What authorities? These girls’ parents didn’t alert any authorities. We could tell my mom and brother, obviously—which then involves my sharing where I got the information and being grounded quite possibly forever—but there are too many unknown variables here, K’Marah.” Shuri stops there, but her thoughts are swirling. What if—Bast forbid—the girls’ guardians got rid of them on purpose? Or … sold them off? Shuri came across a number of horrifying stories while investigating this whole deal with Riri. This is all so far above the princess’s pay grade.
K’Marah huffs, straightens her back, and lifts her chin. “We’ll have to at least try, Shuri. Especially if no one else is!”
At this, Shuri breaks. “This is a … wild-duck hunt—”
“Goose chase,” K’Marah says.
“What?!”
“The expression is wild-goose chase. And you can’t know that, Shuri. Those girls could be in serious danger! What kind of people would we be if we don’t check out this lead?”
“But it might not even be a lead! We’re running off and telling lies and potentially ruining everything we’ve worked for, and for what?”
“Oh, come on, Shuri. You’re like a wizard of Vibranium and a master inventor. You’re the smartest person I know. There is no way on earth or the ancestral plane that you would be here if you truly believed this to be a wild-goose chase.”
Shuri has nothing to say to that.
“I know you’re scared.” K’Marah’s hand lands on Shuri’s arm. “I am, too. And fine: I don’t know what we’ll do if we find something at those coordinates. But you and I both know we have to at least look. If we don’t, it’ll eat away at us for … our entire eternity in the Djalia!”
Shuri takes a deep breath and turns the Predator’s GPS back on. And within four minutes, a disembodied voice fills the air: “You are arriving at your destination.”
* * *
All of Shuri’s high-tech tools are useless: The combination of high heat, sulfur-poisoned air, and complete lack of atmospheric moisture make the landscape virtually unscannable. Which means they’ll have to land. (“Can’t have come this far for nothing, right?” K’Marah says, coaxing when the princess wavers. “If we’re going to get grounded, we might as well make it worthwhile.”)
The closest city—Mekele—is approximately 112 kilometers due west, so hopefully there won’t be any emergencies. Where K’Marah was lying about spotty service when talking to Okoye fifteen minutes ago, she’d certainly be telling the truth now.
Shuri puts the Predator down one hundred meters or so south of their coordinate spot. Then she goes to the small closet on board. “Here,” she says to K’Marah, tossing her what looks like a rolled-up purple trash bag. “Vibranium-enhanced polyethylene coveralls. With an Invisi-mode. And once you zip in and exhale, the carbon dioxide in your breath will activate the oxygenation system built into the hood. The mask part is made from a special polymer I created, so we’ll be completely protected without any obstruction to our vision.” With a snap, the princess unfurls a matching jumpsuit for herself.
“You have hazmat suits just sitting in your hovercraft’s closet?” K’Marah asks. “Actually, don’t answer that. Because of course you do.”
Shuri shrugs. “You never know when you’ll need one.”
Once they’re off the Predator—
which Shuri leaves in Invisi-mode—the girls … have no idea what to do next.
K’Marah speaks first: “Where is the exact spot?”
“Right over there.” Shuri points, holding her Kimoyo card over her head to get a signal.
“Mmmmm …”
Shuri looks at the spot.
There’s nothing there.
But then—
She gasps. “Did you see that?”
“See what?” K’Marah asks, looking around. “All I see is … alien paradise.”
“There was a flash just ahead,” Shuri replies. “At least I think there was.”
“Okaaaay … So now what?”
Under any other circumstances, Shuri would assume her eyes had played a trick on her—especially in a deeply unforgiving terrain like this one.
But she has a feeling. Not that she’d say such a thing to K’Marah. “Let’s get closer to the exact spot, and then we can go.”
“Uhh, okay.”
So they walk. And the farther they go, the more the air in front of them seems to … bend.
“Huh,” K’Marah says.
There’s a ping! and a choppy, garbled sound issues from the device in Shuri’s hand. You ha—each—you— estin—a—on.
A seed of dread buries itself in the center of the princess’s chest, and the roots spread: out to her arms and down into her belly and legs.
In front of them is … nothing. Hot, salt-flat landscape as far as the eye can see.
And yet—
“I think I’m having déjà vu,” K’Marah says, slowly stretching her hand forward.
“K’Marah, wait!”
But the other girl’s hand stops dead in midair. Against something solid.
There’s a flicker in front of Shuri, and her head whips back just in time to catch a brief glimpse of her own reflection.