by Austin Aslan
“A safe bet,” Aukina offers. “This is a lone ship. He’s not part of a fleet. He’s spray-painting it. I’m starting to wonder if he is lōlō. A renegade crew?”
“Gone rogue,” Dad says. “I’ve wondered, too. Why don’t you ask him, Lei?”
Are you a rogue ship?
The response is a pulse of anger.
“The question pissed him off,” I say.
“U.S.S. Sawfish!” Dad exclaims. “Of course! On the Beach. Commander Towers was Gregory Peck’s character in On the Beach. His submarine was the U.S.S. Sawfish.”
“That’s right!” Aukina says.
“You know it?” asks Dad.
“One of my old man’s favorite movies.”
“What’s On the Beach?” Keali`i asks.
Dad says, “It’s a movie from the 1950s. Post-nuclear war. A classic. About the years after World War Three, as a bunch of Australians wait for nuclear winter to roll over the continent, even though the warheads were dropped in other places.”
Gregory Peck? I ask my adversary. He played Towers.
Very nice.
I’m an old-movie buff, I half lie. I don’t get it. Do you want nuclear winter to roll over the globe? Is that why you pretend you’re Dwight Towers?
No, Rose, I’m just seeking out the source of the nonsense Morse code. I just want to shut off the nonsense, help make the world work again.
“Nonsense Morse code?” I ask aloud.
“Yeah. Big part of the movie,” Aukina explains. “Towers hears a message transmitting from San Francisco. He hauls his crew all the way across the Pacific from Sydney to investigate. The last hope for humanity, they’re thinking. But when they get to San Francisco, the city is in ruins. Turns out the telegraph machine they’re chasing down is just being jostled by a Coke bottle tangled up in a flapping window blind.”
My mouth drops open. “What’s wrong with this guy? That’s a terrible thing for him to bring up.”
“Says a lot about him, actually.” Dad sighs. “He’s stark, raving mad. Or a suicide.”
“Oh, perfect,” I say.
Is that what you think I am? A Coke bottle bullied by the wind?
Might as well be.
How can you say that? What I’m doing is working. I’m keeping nuclear winter away. You can’t have it both ways. If the globe fills with radiation, it doesn’t matter if the power is back on.
I see it the other way around. We’re on the verge of losing our country. You have no idea how screwed up things are.
I pause, check my tone. Patiently, caringly, I ask: Then tell me.
He pulls back.
What happened to the military? Why did they all leave Hawai`i?
I was in the Middle East. But we were pulled from everywhere.
I sense a strong desire to be heard. This commander feels deeply wronged. He wants to be understood. I let the silence between us do the work. Finally he responds:
It was a bad call. Washington was a complete mess. We didn’t know that until we got there, though. The wrong person called the entire fleet home. The president was still alive, but he had lost the confidence of enough people that all hell had broken loose. Two people were claiming the White House. The fleet was in the Atlantic, thinking we were at war with Russia. But it was just…confusion. Our military had no idea how to comport itself in the absence of instantaneous communication.
We lost a nuclear sub in September. The wave took twenty ships with it. They were too close, in order to talk with one another. A mistake any seventeenth-century naval cadet would have known to avoid.
I saw that happen. New York.
I know you did. I had already tapped into the mother alien at that time. I was having strange visions, realized the alien was behind them. I could sense your rooted human presence. Putting the pieces together but not quite there. No one would listen to me, though. I have a history of PTSD. I was injured when I served in the Gulf. An explosion shook my screws loose. Everyone in authority knew my special case history, but I always kept my small seizures a secret. I would have been discharged if they knew. I mentioned my sudden ability to hear the alien’s simple thoughts, though. I couldn’t keep that a secret. Too important. But my higher-ups intended to label me unfit to serve. Long story short, I proved them right: took my ship and my crew and broke off. My crew thinks we’re on a priority top-secret mission. We are! I’m not a renegade, Rose. I’m the only brass who knows the truth. And I’m here to stop you. Our country’s leadership is ready to snap right at the highest levels. We need order more than we need a radiation-free world. Just like Chernobyl, the disasters you prevent will dissipate in time. But if our Constitution snaps, it’ll never get put back together.
That’s not true! I tell him. The Chernobyl disaster was one-tenth as bad as any of these plants. The technicians at Chernobyl worked hard in real time to prevent the worst-case scenario. Now there aren’t the resources to blunt the explosions as they happen. They go unchecked. They’re massive beyond anything we’ve ever known.
I’m not leaving here without accomplishing my mission.
I take a deep breath, physically grip my head with my hands. He truly believes. He’s not crazy at all. Well—maybe, but his actions have a logic. He will never back down.
I also believe. I’m doing the right thing. I can think of only one way to stop him: meet conviction with conviction. He must know that I will never back down.
Instead of letting go of the Orchids, I pull on their tow ropes as forcefully as I can. Drawing them down.
Down.
Whatever happens to this bay is on your head. You’re leaving me no choice.
I don’t believe you.
I’ve kept these creatures in orbit for months. You claim that I’m hurting the world because of it. But I know that keeping them here is the right thing to do. What makes you think I’d suddenly flinch if it meant destroying Hilo? Billions of lives are at risk, not one small town.
In a burst of inspiration I add: The volcano’s taking Hilo anyway. What’s a tsunami compared to that?
The world beyond the cab windows grows emerald-green.
Buzz leans forward to peer up through the broken windshield. “Lei, I hope that’s you.”
“It is. Do you see them both?”
Dad whistles, head stuck out of his window. “I could reach up and touch them both.” Lights around the dashboard blink to life, accompanied by several low warning sounds. The light show and the commotion die out at once, as if a master wire were jostled, then cut. The engine hiccups but recaptures its rhythm.
Buzz eyes me nervously. “You’re busting the simplest circuits now.”
“Drive mauka,” I tell Keali`i. “As fast as you can.”
“Wait, toward the erupting volcano?” he asks.
“Safer there,” I say.
Four sets of eyes turn to me.
“K’den,” Keali`i says dryly. He shifts into gear and peels away from the curb.
“Lei,” Dad begins, his voice gravelly. “You’re not—?”
“He’s leaving me no choice. He can’t come on this island. If he comes ashore with a landing party, he’ll seize the array, use it himself. He’ll hunt us down with trained soldiers. His men think they’re following orders from Washington. All the Manō in the world would do us no good. It’s not a bluff anymore. I’ll really do it if I have to.”
Aukina eyes me closely. I stare back with rock-hard resolve. “Jesus,” he says.
CHAPTER 23
We race up the streets to higher elevation, blow past a yellow-and-blue LEAVING TSUNAMI ZONE sign.
“Lei. No,” Dad whispers. A plea. A prayer. He looks frightened. But the fear isn’t for himself; it’s for my sanity.
“Dad. I know. Quiet.”
“What about my family?” Aukina asks. “They’re not out of the way.”
“Shh!”
Deep down, of course, I know I could never destroy Hilo. I’ll flatten the top of Mauna Kea if worse comes to worst, de
stroy my array. He’ll never muscle me out. Then we’ll run and hide…somewhere. But I push that knowledge far, far back in my mind. Commander Towers needs to feel my conviction. I need his eyes to fill with genuine fear. “I could still release a pearl at the ship—if it’s small enough,” I whisper to myself. It all depends on what the mother has at the ready inside her.
It’s time to find out.
You have five minutes to start backing out of the bay, or I hit you.
We rapidly climb the steep ascent of Ponohawai Street. Distantly before us the fountain of lava appears to have abated somewhat, but a river of black scales with orange gaps continues to course out of sight beyond the fold of the hills. Ash lingers in the sky. We now have an unobstructed view of Hilo Bay. I turn and see the U.S.S. Sawfish, minutes away from the docks. Is it still advancing?
“Stop,” I tell Keali`i. “Everyone out. We need to watch, make sure he’s leaving.”
“Leave the car running,” Buzz says. “I’m worried the starter won’t work again with the mother so close.”
We pour out of the truck, stand in a line on the steep road, watching the bay. Both Star Flowers hover straight above, clearly visible and distinct against the blue sky and the creeping bronze layer of haze.
I’ve told you: I’m not retreating. Release the aliens.
The battleship continues toward the docks at its slow pace.
In the pit of my stomach, I feel it: the mother’s new pearl, growing larger, layer by layer, until she must eventually eject it. It’s already too big to fire at the ship. The bay would empty of water. Hilo would disappear. I cannot use it as a weapon. It’s over.
I shake my head in disbelief. I’d scream if I could.
“I wish we could have it both ways,” Tūtū said only yesterday on our way up to Mauna Kea. But I can’t have it both ways: I’ll never get my tūtū back. I’ll never hear him sing again. His smile: gone. Nothing but a memory around my neck. I clasp my locket, press my fist to my heart.
He’ll hunt us down. We’ll have to abandon the lives we’ve built to stay safe. Unless I release them. But we need them still.
Them.
Both ways.
My jaw drops.
“Buzz,” I croak. “What did you just say about leaving the truck running?”
He offers me a grim smile. “Don’t worry. Do what you need to. It’s just that I’m worried that bringing the Orchid so close is packing a super wallop of interference—”
“No,” I interrupt. “Why did you only mention the mother?”
“The little one isn’t behind the blackout. Its aura is too small to envelop the whole…” He trails off.
“But it can absorb radiation,” I say. “Right? It builds pearls, too. We know that. And I know the baby feeds on leaks. More like—like a hummingbird, not a mop.”
Dad turns and considers what I’m saying carefully. We had thought of this months ago. But it was only a theory then. The baby wasn’t mine back then. Dad and Buzz share intense looks of dawning hope. Their eyes drift back to me. They nod uncertainly.
“I’m going to do it,” I say.
“Yes,” Buzz says. “You have enough control of the baby?”
I nod. I do. It was only this morning that I lassoed her—this morning!—and so much has happened since then. We haven’t had time to explore the full significance of what it means. This solution flashed in my mind when I was washing the electrode glue out of my hair. It danced there. It’s why I was so happy. But then the sheriff arrived and…
Focus. Here. Now.
I control the little one just as well as I’ve ever controlled the mother.
“Do it,” Dad says.
“No,” I almost say. But I stay quiet. I’m surprised for only a second by my reaction, then I remember: epilepsy.
Can the baby keep away the storms as well as the mother has?
I don’t want my fits to return to the way they were before all of this started. I don’t have meds anymore. There are no ambulances to rush me to safety if I fall badly, or if I choke, or if I seize too fiercely—or if I don’t wake up.
How will I cope in this broken world without the Orchid?
I’ll miss her. I still want to learn more about her, where she came from, where she goes to. I can train her to talk if I just have more time. Can I drift in orbit with the baby the way I’ve been able to inhabit the mother’s consciousness? What if the baby can’t absorb radiation as thoroughly? Isn’t it too cruel to try to separate them? Can the baby even survive without the mother? Should I even allow the power to come back on? Do we deserve another chance?
I can think of a hundred reasons to keep the mother here. Just a little longer. Towers has no right to force this moment. We’re not ready. We need more time.
“No, Leilani. Stop.” I hear Tūtū’s voice as if he’s beside me. “Not reasons. Excuses. What you’re saying is, you’re not ready. You need more time. But the moment is here.”
He’s right.
I can’t hold on.
Grandpa’s recent advice to me echoes:
“This is the path forward. You’ve been asked to do so much, but this burden is all of ours. It’s time to let it go, Mo`opuna! Find your path.
“The right or wrong of it will work itself out.”
I nod, feeling the blood drain from my face. I take a deep breath, turn back to my view of the battleship.
Commander Towers, I’ll do it. I’ll release the mother Orchid into space. She’ll go. Right now. But you have to turn around, or there’s no deal.
The silence in my head is deafening. I wait.
No. That’s not good enough. Both of them—
No. Listen. The baby doesn’t disrupt electronics. When the mother goes, the problems you want to solve go with her. You’ll get your power back, your victory. I get to keep lapping up radiation spills. But only until that’s done. Then I’ll release the baby, too. She can find her mother on their journey home. I want her to find her mother. I won’t wait a second longer than I need to.
Am I convincing him of that, or myself?
Silence. It’s not only in my head, though: the entire world has gone mute. The group surrounding me holds its collective breath. No wind. The trees are still. The birds are hiding from the afternoon warmth. The fountain of lava behind us is a world away, as silent as a comet racing around the sun. Minutes pass.
The battleship pauses.
White water churns behind the ship’s stern. It lurches into motion, backing away from the docks.
My companions cheer. I hold my hands to my mouth, take a deep breath.
They pat me on the back. My cheeks are warm. But I’m two places at once.
I better see some movement.
Yes. She’ll go.
Now.
She’ll go. I promise.
How do I know it’ll stay gone?
How do I know you will stay gone?
Fair enough. You still have the small creature, right? We’ll keep an eye on each other?
Guess so. Meanwhile, go back to your generals and presidents. Do your victory lap. Then come back with food and gas and medicine and help us.
We’ll see. Aren’t you forgetting something?
Don’t worry, I’m sending her away. Get out of here. You got what you want.
So long, then, Rose, or whatever your name is. A rose by any other name…
…is just as sweet, I finish, broadcasting warmth to him.
I was going to say thorny.
He won his battle, didn’t he? How come I sense disappointment?
The U.S.S. Sawfish is backing toward the mouth of the bay between the coast and the breakwater. A door pounds shut in my mind. Commander Dwight Towers has stormed away.
But I wonder with dread: is my storm just beginning?
CHAPTER 24
I gaze up at the Star Flowers and feel a lump in my throat. Tears sting my eyes, a vast lake of grief and worry heaving forward.
Goodbye, Flower of Heaven, I say.
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We do the long fastness now. The other pools are good. It is good to leave the shores and go to the dark. I crave the depths. The comfort of no tides.
No. We do not go. You go. The one that you gave will stay awhile. She will grow strong on the sweetness for a while longer. It is a good thing. She will follow you soon.
I want to go, too, the baby cries. Do not leave me.
The cry of the baby stabs at me, but I croon, No, little one, you must stay.
We are many there, the mother remarks. You will see others during the fastness. You will find me on the way. We will be long in the ocean between the pools of fires. There are many pools of fires.
I feel immense relief. Yes. The one you gave will find you on the way. It is a good thing.
And then in a flash I see it: another planet. Like ours but different.
Slowly I release all of my breath.
I’ve accessed a memory. She wants the baby to see it, but I see it, too: Blue waters, brown and green continents. Swirling clouds. Large polar ice caps. But in no combination of shapes I have ever seen before. Mountain ranges like wrinkles, rivers like ropy veins, deltas like burst arteries.
Two moons.
And visible along the horizons of the perfect sphere: countless racing dots of reflected sunlight.
Satellites.
Another world. Out there beyond the stars.
I remember to breathe.
The mother speaks to the baby: It is good to go. But a pain of leaving, too. But there is a return. When it is your time to give, you will return to these shores.
Go with you! the baby insists.
I will keep you for only a while, I explain. So difficult. I love you. I will keep you safe. You are not alone. I am here with you.
I will stay. I want to go. It is a good thing to stay awhile.
Good, yes, I say, though it makes me feel wretched to manipulate her. It must be done. Just for a while longer. It is good. We stay, and it is good.
My connection to the mother already feels faint. She has turned away. I don’t think I could pull her back with all the radio telescopes in the world. Has she forgotten me already, like a sea turtle dismissing a passing scuba diver? I hope not. I feel a sharp pang of loss and regret, but I can’t pull her back. I hope I’ll always be a part of her. I hope a part of my consciousness will linger with her when she reaches those fantastic far shores, that a part of me will arrive there with her, however many thousands of years hence, and maybe even speak on her behalf…to another girl on the ground…not so different from myself.
