by Steve Rzasa
Loya sighed again, more deeply this time, and plopped back in the chair. “You’ve already been paid, and your—temporary incarceration by Special Agent Carpenter has been voided. I’m not authorized to make any other promises to anyone except Mr. Fortel.”
“We figured that, so you can put it on my tab,” I said.
“You’re not satisfied with your compensation?” Loya balked. “The money itself should’ve been enough. That golden ticket of a transit visa you have now attached to your passport will let you travel anywhere in the Consociation that a Big Ring exists. Chaperoned, of course. How can that not be satisfactory?”
“Well, A) I’m selfish, and B) You guys would be completely toast without me,” I said. “And C) It’s a promise I made to Ally, and I’m not going to break it. Besides, this will be an easy one. Roundtrip airline tickets.”
“Oh.” Loya relaxed. What, did he think I was gonna try to bargain for my own Ghiqasu shuttle? Tempting. “That we can probably manage. How many and where to?”
I smiled at Isaac, who gave me a wink in return. Ally grabbed my hand. “Four. To Seattle.”
<<<>>>
So that’s where I’m at, a couple weeks later.
It’s the Fourth of July, a Monday of all days, fifteen years and a handful of change after aliens landed and changed our world. My hair’s blond again; beard’s back. The eyes are hazel. Real me. I’m driving a bright red BMW F10 M5 sedan, with a 4.4-liter V8 turbo engine that purrs like a contented mountain lion as we roll down Sunset Avenue in the waterfront suburb of Edmonds, Washington. Fancy one- and two-story houses to our right, open beach to the left. The ferry to Kingston is on its way in. The foghorn bellows, momentarily drowning out the seagulls.
With the windows rolled down, the smell of salt water is everywhere. The air’s damp as the bathroom after a shower. I suck in a lungful. Same as my childhood climate down at the shore. Beautiful.
I drum my left hand on the outside of the car door as we drive. A Ghiqasu ship soars overhead, the sky rumbling with its transit. I don’t mind and give a wave with two fingers.
“It’s up there on the right.” Ally points from the passenger’s seat.
I’ve already spotted it. A single-story house, dark gray siding with white trim, sits on a little hill. There’s a compact garden out front packed full of flowers, shrubs, and ferns. A stone path rises up from a cut in the garden to meet the front steps.
The kid’s sitting on the top one, butt planted on the welcome mat.
He’s just like the picture: tall, skinny, sandy brown hair, and tons of freckles. I pull into the driveway. His stare’s a hunter’s scope watching me.
Ally pats my leg. “You want to come with?”
My hands would be shaking to pieces if they weren’t welded to the steering wheel. “No, it’s okay. He knows you. Go ahead, make the intro. I’ll be right out.”
She kisses me. No more late nights with some girl whose name I can’t remember, that’s for sure. Let’s just say I’m planning a relocation to the West very soon.
Ally gets up to the front step with a very nice bounce in her step. They hug each other. The kid grins at Ally. Man, I’ve seen that in the mirror before.
There’s a chuckle from behind me. Isaac pokes my shoulder. “You gonna climb out on your own or do we get to drag you?”
“Shut up.”
“It is a sensible suggestion,” Nil rumbles. “Six arms should be able to achieve our goal efficiently.”
“Also, shut up.” Okay. Easy. Does. It. This is a kid, a teenager, not a Nivax warship or aliens with ray guns.
Look at it this way, Caz. You have to do this. He’s your son. This is your responsibility. The kid has a family, sure, and probably a good dad, but you’re his father. Fathers are there for their sons. Think about you being a son to a certain Father. Not the best job done in the world, right? That didn’t stop Him from hunting you down.
“We are here as your team, Caz,” Nil says. “This is the moment for which we have prayed.”
“Amen. We’ve got your back,” Isaac adds. No joke.
I get out of the car and walk around to the path. Do it as casually as I can. Even from this far off I can see the kid tense up. Ally’s there, though. She smiles and keeps her hands on both his shoulders. His T-shirt is black, I realize, but the blue jeans are the same as in the picture. The Death Star is pale gray in the center of his shirt.
I stand at the bottom of the steps. They stand at the top. “Hey.” I clear my throat. “Hi.”
“Hi.” He doesn’t sound mad or bored. Only curious.
This is stupid. I’m being stupid. I climb the rest of the stairs and offer my hand. “Caz. Casimir Fortel. I’m . . . well, I’m your father.”
The kid stares at me. He gives my hand a shake. Palm is sweaty and hot. Of course, so’s mine. We shake for a while.
Then he pulls me in and hugs me.
My heart’s breaking. Cracking right open. I can’t see past the tears. So I blink them back and suck in a ragged breath. We pull away. His eyes are just as bleary as mine feel.
But he smiles. “Too bad my name’s not Luke.”
I stare for a second. And laugh. “You got good taste, kid.”
We both laugh. Ally joins us. It fades, and we’re staring at each other again.
I rub at the back of my head. “Look, Kyle. Your mother told you the deal with us, right?”
He nods.
“It was a long time ago. I was wrong. She’s forgiven me, and now I’m here to ask you the same thing.”
Kyle shrugs, his expression uncertain. “I dunno. It was . . . I wasn’t born then. So it doesn’t matter.”
“No. It matters. You’ve already got a family and a home, but listen: I won’t ever abandon you again.” I reach for Ally’s hand. “Or her. Ever.”
She smiles. Tears cover her cheeks. Come on, are we all a mess or what?
Kyle nods. “Okay. It’s a lot—I guess it’s a lot to think about. Can you, uh, like stay? It’s the Fourth, so Mom and Dad want you to . . .” He trails off. Suddenly he looks horrified.
I shake my head. “They’re Mom and Dad. You call me Caz. For now, anyway. Got it?”
“Okay. Caz.” He relaxes again. Then he points to the car. “You can invite, like, your friends in, if you want.”
“Thanks.” I gesture at the car. Doors open, and Isaac and Nil start their way up the path.
Kyle’s smile fades. “Whoa. Is that a qwaddo?”
“Hey. Watch it, kid. We don’t use that word. It’s Ghiqasu.”
He makes a face, like who is this dude to tell me what to do, but his cheeks go red so I know he’s ashamed a bit. “Sorry.”
“Not a problem. It’s a bad habit for us humans.”
“But who is he?”
Nil climbs the steps next to me. I put a hand on his upper shoulder, and he doesn’t flinch or growl. “This is Aphu Nil Hemilh Jeq, alien cop and soon-to-be preacher to the galaxy,” I say, grinning at my son. “He’s my friend.”
Author
Steve Rzasa is the author of several novels of science-fiction, steampunk, and fantasy—with a bunch more in progress. He was first published in 2009 by Marcher Lord Press (now Enclave Publishing). His third novel, Broken Sight, received the 2012 Award for Speculative Fiction from the American Christian Fiction Writers. The Word Endangered (2016) and Man Behind the Wheel (2017) have both been nominated for the Realm Award in recent years.
Steve grew up in Atco, New Jersey, and started writing stories in grade school. He received his bachelor’s degree in journalism from Boston University, and worked for eight years at newspapers in Maine and Wyoming. He’s been a librarian since 2008, most recently earning his Library Support Staff Certification from the American Library Association. He is the technical services librarian in Buffalo, Wyoming, where he lives with his wife and two boys. Steve’s a fan of all things science-fiction and superhero and is also a student of history.
Email: [email protected]
Website: www.steverzasa.com
