Val Vega, page 20
“What you did for Umberto’s friend was very kind,” Mami says. “You were right to help her get to the hospital.”
“Yeah, we couldn’t have done it without them,” Johnny says, gesturing at Pash-Ti. “What with Patrece being extra extra tall, it was def a four-person job.”
Wasala looks up at my mother. “Don’t worry, Ms. Vega, our work isn’t dangerous at all. It’s mostly just shuffling papers. Patrece just tripped on the stairs.” Wasala must be reading Mami’s mind, assuaging her unspoken worries. Wasala seems so gentle, but seeing her next to Mami reminds me how dangerous she is, how she might have been probing Umberto’s thoughts.
“Well, thanks for coming,” I say. “You can go now, really, no need to linger …”
“Vega!” Coach waves her clipboard at me. “First you show up late. Then you play with your head everywhere but the game. Then you run off before things are properly done. Get your butt over here and shake hands with the other team. Act like team captain for a minute!”
“Yes, coach.” I run back to the field where everyone else is already lined up, each team in single file. Kate and a few other teammates shoot me dirty looks as I run by them to take my place up front. “Good game,” I say to the other team captain, shaking her hand, and then do the same for every player on down the line, my teammates following suit behind me.
After the good-game chorus, Kate and Des stand shoulder to shoulder, blocking my way.
“You totally should have hit those last two pitches,” Kate says. “Where’s your brain?”
“Are you okay, Val?” Des says.
“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling under attack from every side. “I’m just … distracted.” Beyond Des, Pash-Ti is still sitting with their “broken” leg stretched on the bleachers. Wasala, Johnny, Mami, my brothers, Will—all of them are standing, in animated conversation. Wasala is right next to Will. “Sorry,” I say to Des and Kate. “I have to take care of something.”
Kate follows my gaze to the group by the bleachers. “More nonsense with those weirdos from your uncle’s office? I’m out of here.” She runs toward the locker room.
I ignore Kate and jog to the bleachers. I can’t stop thinking about Wasala reading all their thoughts. Wasala! I think, the words loud in my mind. I need to talk to you in private.
Wasala raises her eyebrows. In her true form, her ears must be pricking up. She walks over to me. “No need to shout,” she whispers. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say. “I just don’t feel comfortable with all of you being here. I’m not ready for my worlds to collide like this.”
Wasala smiles. “Is this about Will? Their feelings for you run deep, and they—”
“Stop!” I say. I’m dying to know more about how Will really feels about me—but not like this! And why is she even telling me these things? To manipulate me? I ball my fists, trying to contain the anger welling up inside me. “It’s one thing when you do this with me, it’s another thing with my family and friends. You can’t go invading people’s thoughts.”
“I’m not invading anything,” Wasala says. “You know it’s just how I’m built. What’s really wrong?” I try to steer my thoughts, but know I’ve failed as Wasala’s eyes widen. “You still think I may have killed Umberto!”
I don’t know if it’s you, I think.
Johnny and Pash-Ti approach, Pash-Ti taking long strides on their crutches, just like they do when running in their true three-legged form. I wonder if the two crutches are actually two of Pash-Ti’s legs holographically disguised.
“What’s all the tea, fam?” Johnny says.
“Val thinks one of us killed Umberto,” Wasala says. “She was already suspicious, and then Charism told her the Etoscans are hiding something, and that one of us is a double agent.”
“I didn’t say that!”
“You thought it,” Wasala says.
“Her conclusions are reasonable,” Pash-Ti says, pointing at me with one crutch. “We all suspect Umberto was murdered. Since he died here, it’s likely there was at least an accomplice to his murder here on Terra. And there are only the three of us.”
“Well, which of us does she think it is?” Johnny says to Wasala.
Wasala looks up at Johnny. “You’re the one she least suspects. She most suspects Pash-Ti and medium-suspects me. But she doesn’t trust any of us. Really, Val …”
Pash-Ti leans forward on their crutches. “You’re making suppositions based on your instinctive emotional reaction to each of us, a major attribution error. If indeed the spy is an Etoscan agent, I’m the least likely suspect, given my known antipathy for their superstitious culture. In contrast, Wasala’s parents served in the Etoscans’ Brigades. Furthermore, both Johnny and Wasala have capacities for covert surveillance that I simply lack.”
Johnny gapes at Pash-Ti. “Wow, not you throwing all the shade back at your years-long co-workers, Pash-Ti.”
Everyone falls silent as Mami and Timoteo approach. “Está todo bien?” says Mami.
“All’s well, Ms. Vega,” Pash-Ti says. “The long night simply took a toll on all of us.”
“I’m exhausted, Mami,” I say, avoiding contact with Johnny, Pash-Ti, and Wasala. “Let’s get home.”
The broken-leg story works, but the whole drive home Mami still yells at Timoteo and me for not finding a way to call her when she was up all night, preocupadísima con ansiedad.
Timoteo holds his purse tight against his lap—he hasn’t let it and the vial out of his sight since we got back. We decided we have to wait until nighttime to analyze it. Hopefully no one else will be at the interstellar consulate at that hour.
We both crash into a deep sleep the second we get home.
I wake up at three a.m. I can’t believe I slept that long. Timoteo is still snoring on the floor. I flick his ear.
“Ow!” he says, eyelids heavy. “Just a little more sleep.”
I pull on my jeans and a clean t-shirt. “It’s already 3.a.m.”
“Really?” he says. “This interstellar jetlag is the worst.”
“Welcome to my world,” I say. “Get dressed.”
We sneak out of the house and bike to the Jersey consulate.
We walk into the science lab I’ve seen Wasala use, and Timoteo and I both stop abruptly at the entrance. Timoteo and I look at all the equipment and then at each other with raised eyebrows.
“Um,” says Timoteo, “do you have any idea how to do this? Because I have no idea how to do this.”
“Let’s ask our suits,” I say, tipping my newsie cap at him. “Hey, Checkers? We need to test that vial we got in the Outlands to find out what’s in it. Can you help us? And can you make it so that no one except Timoteo and me can see the results?”
“At your service, Madame Ambassador,” says Checkers. “And as ambassador, you may compartmentalize information as you see appropriate.”
“Perfect,” I say. “And you can project your voice so Timoteo can hear all this too.”
Timoteo pulls the vial out of his purse and passes it to me. It has that same eerie lightness, as if a helium balloon were tugging it away from me. “So where do we start?”
“I already have,” Checkers says. “My sensors indicate the sample includes exotic matter. Your human senses should be experiencing it as inverted gravity.”
“Yeah, my suit told me that a while ago, BTW,” Timoteo says.
“We’ll need more sensitive equipment to analyze the composition in more detail,” Checkers goes on. “There’s a quantum analysis panel on the table to your right.”
We go to the table and find a transparent tray that’s filled with a dark red liquid. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was a baking dish filled with jello. “This one?”
“Indeed,” Checkers says. “Any substance that contains exotic matter is likely to be unstable, so it’s important that the sample not make contact with the air. I’m taking the liberty of providing you with gloves to protect your hands.” A black liquid oozes across my hands, then congeals itself into two form-fitting gloves. “Place the vial in the tray, then close the lid.”
I follow Checkers’ instructions. Even through the gloves, the gooey red liquid feels cold. “I assume you’d like a full spectral quantum analysis?” Checkers asks.
“Um, yeah,” I say. For a split second, the tray crackles with energy, like ripples of lightning trapped in the clouds.
“The analysis is complete,” Checkers says. “The sample contains 73 percent exotic matter, 16 percent common Hoshan minerals, 10 percent entangled quantum threads, and less than one percent graphotons.”
I remember the Tumasra storm is graphotonic, but I’m not sure what to make of all the rest. “Checkers, could you walk us through what each of those is—what they’re used for?”
“Exotic matter is an essential component of much advanced technology, including anti-gravity, the creation of traversable wormholes for the Interstellar Subway, and the complex cybernetic systems used for military bots. The Hoshan minerals are unremarkable, likely the result of sample contamination. Entangled quantum threads are also used in much interstellar technology, particularly observation and communication across great distances. Graphotons are rare, naturally occurring only in the Tumasra storm.”
“That seems like it could fit any of our theories,” Timoteo says.
“Yeah,” I say. “Okay, Checkers, I’m going to give you three theories about what this sample could mean, and I’d like you to tell us how feasible they are.” I explain all three theories: the Etoscans building a secret weapon, the Levinti spying on Tumasra, and the Hosh-Unam Front building more advanced weapons, maybe with the help of the Etoscans.
“All those theories seem plausible,” says Checkers. “The exotic matter and entangled quantum threads would allow the Hosh-Unam Front to create war-bots that would be faster and more advanced than any they’ve possessed before. The entangled quantum threads could also be Levinti technology to study Tumasra—and the presence of the graphotons could support that theory. The Etoscans could also be using these components to construct weapons, such as highly advanced swarms.”
Timoteo presses his glasses against his face. “Majel,” he says to his suit. “Can you think of any weapon of this composition that the Etoscans would be prohibited from building within their own territory on Northern Hosh?”
“None,” Majel says, projecting her soft voice for me to hear as well. “And there are public records of both the Etoscans and Levinti amassing large quantities of military swarm technology across Hosh in recent months.”
“Well,” Timoteo says. “At least we’ve eliminated one possibility.”
“I guess,” I say. “So either Pash-Ti is helping the Levinti spy on Tumasra, maybe set up a base there. Or the Etoscans are secretly arming the Hosh-Unam Front with weapons way more advanced than before. If that’s the case, Johnny or Wasala might be helping them. Or both. But most likely Johnny. I don’t think Wasala would ever help the Hosh-Unam Front.”
“I still can’t imagine Johnny hurting Umberto,” Timoteo says. “But it is suspicious, the way he disappeared for so long, then came back so easily. And he did have that map.”
I slump against the table. “All this effort to get to the Outlands and find Ferus and get this sample, and it’s all been for nothing. We still just have a couple theories, and the negotiations start next week. Without knowing who’s trying to sabotage them, it feels like there’s no way we can succeed.”
“Madam Ambassador,” says Checkers, “I’ve just received a transmission for you via the Interstellar Subway. I believe it has some relevance to your discussion.”
“Play it for us,” I say.
“Ambassador Vega,” comes Marrow’s voice. “You have one week left to respond to my demand for a voice in the fate of my world. If you continue to be complicit in my people’s oppression, we will not allow your so-called peace talks to continue. We will raise a horde of destruction on our Etoscan and Levinti oppressors with a merciless precision that will at last win freedom for the Hosh-Unam.”
Timoteo and I stare at each other, eyes wide with horror.
Chapter 18
Timoteo and I stuff his purse and my knapsack full of trail mix, protein bars, and plantain chips. There’ll be food we can eat on Hosh, but the final treaty talks will last at least three days, so it will be good to have some Terran comfort-food snacks.
“I just hope I made the right call ignoring Marrow’s threats,” I say.
“You did,” Timoteo says, trying on a different vest. “And the Etoscans insist their security at Tumasra is impenetrable.”
“For whatever that’s worth,” I say. “Let’s go, Johnny’ll be here any minute.”
“Right behind you,” Timoteo says, switching for yet another vest.
I roll my eyes because I know he’s going to try on at least three more vests, then grab my knapsack and bound down the stairs. At least we already said good-bye to Mami when she left for work this morning. That should save us 20 minutes.
I get downstairs, surprised to find the couch populated by all my friends—Will, Des, and Kate sitting in a row, plus Miguel in the armchair in the corner. I guess they want to send me off before my trip to “Istanbul.” Though I really don’t have time for long good-byes.
Kate pats a spot next to her on the couch. “Come sit down, Val.”
I stay standing, a nervous flutter running across my skin. “Uh, what’s going on?”
“We know your uncle’s death was hard on you, but it’s been a month now,” Kate says.
“We all care about you a lot,” Will says, their hand on Des’s knee. “But you need help.”
“What are you talking about?” I say.
“You haven’t been yourself,” Des says. “Skipping practice. Falling behind in school.”
“Hanging out with your uncle’s weird friends all the time,” Kate interjects. She presses her palms together as if she were praying. “You can’t run away from your grief, Val. We want you to pay attention to the things that matter—like school, softball, and us. We don’t think you should go on this trip.”
I look from serious face to serious face. “So this is like a grief intervention? So I’m doing an internship where my uncle used to work. So softball doesn’t seem as important as it used to. So what?”
“We know, Val,” Will says, “but it’s not just softball or the internship. It’s the way you never talk to any of us, and even when you do your mind is like a million miles away.” Probably because my mind literally is on things millions of miles away. “You need therapy. That’s why Kate thought we should all get together and, yeah, do a bit of an intervention.”
I look at Kate. “This was your idea?” I’m feeling more defensive by the second. If Will or Des had organized this, I’d believe it was out of concern. But if this was Kate’s idea, then it’s just her latest manipulation, some weird way to boost her ego. “You’ve got one thing right. It has been hard on me. Let me deal with it my own way.”
“Val,” Kate says, “all we want is for you to get counseling. And to delay this trip until you’ve had more time to heal.”
“I can’t delay this trip,” I say. “It’s too important.”
“What makes it so important you have to go now,” Kate says. “It’s just an internship.”
My mind races for a reasonable-sounding explanation, when I hear footsteps coming down the stairs. “Okay,” Timoteo says, modeling a purple vest, “now I’m ready.” He looks at the couch and sighs. “Oh, God, I told you guys not to do this.”
“You knew about this?” I say.
Timoteo swivels his head back and forth. “Sort of. But I told them they were blowing things out of proportion.”
“You’re as bad as she is,” Miguel says from the armchair, his usual relaxed smile replaced by tight-lipped anger. “The two of you have been acting nuts. Staying up late. Running around with weird old people. Talking about nonsense like Levitiri and whatnot. You think I can’t hear? Are you in a cult or something? You guys both need help.”
From outside comes the rev of Johnny’s motorcycle. Timoteo and I exchange an exasperated look.
“I know you guys are doing this because you care,” I say, “but none of you get what’s happening. You have to trust me. But I swear I’ll be back soon. And if you want, I’ll do this therapy thing when I get back.”
Timoteo hugs Miguel and salutes the others. “I promise I’ll take care of her.”
I go over to the couch to hug Miguel and my friends goodbye. It’s awkward, but they all hug me tight to let me know things are still good. Except for Kate. She shrinks back from me, her face stone. “Stay, Val.”
Without answering, I walk out of the house.
It’s night on Hosh when we arrive at Tumasra. Our vehicle crests the hill, and the swirling fiery tower comes into view, lighting up Hosh’s evening sky with a gentle orange glow.
Timoteo coughs and covers his nose. “Ugh, I forgot how harsh the smell is.”
“The scent will be minimal once we’ve entered the Citadel, even to your delicate Terran noses,” says nose-less Pash-Ti. “We’ll exit momentarily. Guard your thoughts.”
We step out of the vehicle. Thousands of Hoshans are crowded around the stone Etoscan Citadel towering above us. They’re here because the fate of their world is at stake today. My shoulders tense under the weight of it all.
As we approach the entry, dozens of small grey machines fly toward us, circling each of us. Though far fewer in number, they’re similar to the swarm of weapons at the border between Northern and Southern Hosh. “Standard security measures,” Pash-Ti says. “Scanning for weapons.” That makes me think of my phone, but I quickly steer my thoughts to the negotiation.
“Standard culture of paranoia,” Johnny mumbles. Several bots hover in a circle around him. He looks up at them. “Hey, I’m as powered down as I can get! It’d take at least ten seconds for me to make anything dangerous.” Most of the bots whiz away, but three mosquito-sized bots stay in orbit around Johnny. “Fine. Keep a detail on me.”
