Steal the Stars

by Mac Rogers

  “All good?” You were wiping down the van, erasing our prints and making sure we’d left no other identifiable marks. Another van, a beaten-up old VW Transporter, was parked almost ass-to-ass with ours.

  “So far. No wanted posters yet.”

  “Maybe all is forgiven.”

  “They’re burning the earth to find us. They just don’t want to put our faces out there and risk some local idiot nabbing us and meeting Moss.”

  You grunted in mock disappointment. “What do you want to move first, Moss or the Harp?

  “Harp last. They’ll be looking for freak power outages. I want us almost ready to go if that happens.”

  The vans were physically close enough that it probably wouldn’t be an issue. But when you’re this close to achieving something, it’s usually the tiniest of things that can really fuck you over, so my stomach knotted all the same.

  You got into the old van and pushed Moss out to me. I took his legs and helped guide him out. The sun was directly above us.

  “Shit…”

  “What?” You tried to prepare yourself for some new calamity.

  “Seeing him in the sunlight like this … the moss is a lot less, isn’t it? On his chest?”

  You peered out of the van to see. “Um … yeah, I guess.”

  It was, though. Significantly less. We weren’t dealing with microns anymore. Moss was going through some sort of reverse puberty, losing his bluish green chest hair by the day.

  “Just, if it happens this fast, he’ll be dead in, like—”

  “Dak,” you said from your shady metal alcove.

  “What?”

  You stared at me for a good, long, patronizing moment. “He’s already dead. Probably.”

  Seeing the alien in the sunlight, though, I was torn between two realities. He’d never felt so distinctly real before. As real as the rocks beneath us, the cactus to the left of us. And the warmth radiating from inside him was notable even in the hot summer sun. But also, here he was, catatonic as always, with not even a drop of shade to hide the fact that there was no reaction from him whatsoever … besides the shrinking of this mysterious growth on his skin. He was like that old cat in a box: dead and not dead at the same time.

  “Right.” I tried to sound convincing.

  “Besides, even if it was true, and we knew it was true…”

  “We couldn’t do anything about it.” The Chinese didn’t need him to be alive. Just to be real. Still. “I’ll just tell them to put him on ice or whatever.”

  There had been a shift in my feelings toward Moss and I hadn’t registered it until right now. Back at Quill I’d never really felt this way—he was the objective, literally the object—but now out here in the cruel alien world, I was realizing he felt more like … my responsibility. My charge. A soldier under my command whose body had to be brought home.

  We finished loading up the new van and got back on the road.

  * * *

  IT WAS your turn to drive. We were making good time now—a full day’s drive from the rendezvous. I knew we couldn’t avoid them forever … but we didn’t need forever.

  “What do you think is, like, the nice part of China?” you asked from behind the wheel.

  We’d had to turn the radio off—too much Bible and static.

  I shrugged. “I mean, China’s huge, I’m sure there’s all kinds of nice places.”

  “Wow. Can’t believe you haven’t figured that part out.”

  “We’ll have a lot of time on our hands. What’s the rush? We can look around.”

  “You think they’ve got good Mexican food there?”

  I’d opened my mouth to call you out on that stinker of a joke when the phone in my pocket chimed.

  “Jesus,” you gasped. “Was that your burner?”

  “Sounds like a text.” I shrugged. Even before it was out of my mouth, though, I realized the problem.

  “Dak—”

  “I know.”

  No one should have this number.

  There came that numbness—that combat-readying wash of adrenaline that turned my body into a willing pin cushion. I pulled the phone out. There was a text message waiting for me. From an unknown number:

  When I call, put it on speaker.

  “But it’s a … that was the new phone, right? It’s impossible.” You were having a hard time focusing on the road and looking back at me. “What’s it say?”

  I told you. “It’s either Sierra or … is anyone following us?”

  “Not that I’ve spotted.” Same for me. I’d kept looking for any vehicles riding behind us for more than a few minutes. There’d been nothing.

  The phone started to ring. A nauseatingly chirpy chime. An unknown caller.

  “We don’t answer, right?” You were gripping the wheel with knuckles turned ghost white. It suddenly felt very hot in the van, despite the air-conditioning.

  “Maybe it’s Zhang?” I knew it was a stupid question even as I asked it. “Maybe our contact?”

  “How would he have your new number?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know how anyone has it!”

  The ringing stopped. We held our breath.

  “Okay, look,” you said. “I guess there’s nothing to do but keep making time until—”

  The phone chimed again. Another text.

  I read it silently. My stomach curled in on itself.

  “Jesus, tell me,” you whispered.

  I read you the message:

  Put it on speaker or Patty suffers.

  The phone began to ring again.

  “Okay.” I swallowed. “Don’t say anything.”

  “Wait, wait, are you seriously—”

  I accepted the call and you shut up.

  Haydon’s voice cooed over the other end.

  “So, you’re gonna want to hang up. Don’t. Put it on speaker. I wasn’t kidding.”

  I gave you another look, one that said stay quiet, and I put the phone on speaker.

  “Now here’s what you’re gonna do next: you’re gonna confirm we are, in fact, on speaker by saying, ‘Yes,’ each of you, in turn. Think we can handle that?” The cheap device made Haydon sound even more inhuman than normal. “Again, lovebirds, that’s ‘yes.’ First one, then the other.” Neither of us said a word. “Come on, I know who’s in the car! You’re not keeping anything secret from me. Handsome Dak and Young Matt! Now. Say. ‘Yes.’”

  “Yes,” I croaked.

  “Yes,” you echoed.

  “Thank you! You’ll want to hang up fast, so I’m gonna say it all in a row. Sierra has a reciprocal relationship with the Bureau to use their updated facial recognition system. We got a hit near the store where you bought the burner and we leaned on the owner for this number. Take a second to think about what that means. How close we must be.”

  I checked the rearview mirror again: different cars from last time, no repeaters.

  “Want another piece of interesting trivia? Everyone in law enforcement contracts with Sierra! At this moment we are rapidly and exhaustively reviewing reports of stolen vehicles large enough for what you’re carrying. We’re onto traffic cams, toll cams, everything with a lens between that store and Mexico. And every vehicle that could possibly contain my property will be searched comprehensively at the border. You’re cooked. It just hasn’t happened yet.”

  I hovered my thumb on the button to hang up. He cleared his throat.

  “But this is weird for me, guys, ’cause the thing is: I’m not really a manhunter by nature. I mean, I have to be right now because you guys have sorta made my whole fucking reputation dependent on mopping up this little spill of yours, but what I really am is a dealmaker. And a dealmaker never comes to the table without an offer. So here it is: stop, call in your location, and wait for us there. You’ll get a year each. Then you’ll be released to separate locations, unburdened from your contracts. You won’t do more tours, you won’t go to Zones. You’ll have nothing, but you’ll be free. This offer expires when we f
ind you first. All right? All right. And, really”—his voice dropped low, an absurd secret—“congratulations, Handsome Dak. I’ve never called anyone as wrong as I called you.”

  The call disconnected. Haydon had hung up first. I couldn’t think of what else to do so I snapped the phone in half and threw it out the window.

  We continued driving in silence. Neither of us wanted to be the first person to say it. We were fucked. Again.

  But we’d been fucked before. Finally I spoke.

  “There’s a solution.”

  “What solution?” Your voice sounded dried and cracked.

  “I don’t know.” I dug my fingers into my legs. “But you’ve lived the same life as me; how many times did it look like there was nothing until there was something?”

  “Lots of times,” you whispered. “And lots of times there was just nothing.”

  “Okay. Okay. Keep driving.”

  “Driving to what?”

  There was no way they could check every large vehicle at every crossing-point. That was insane.

  But also, so was Haydon. He would do anything. This was personal. He and his quadrillionaire father might be searching cars on the border themselves.

  “We need … we need … okay, first we need another van.”

  “Which’ll get reported as stolen and then Sierra will have the description—that won’t make a difference!” I didn’t like the panic that had crept into your voice. It sounded like giving up. “Dak … seriously … I don’t see any—”

  “Jesus, you know what we actually need?”

  “What?”

  “We need another person who no one’s looking for, with a big-enough vehicle that isn’t stolen to drive us to the rendezvous. I mean, we need … we need a fucking friend!”

  We thought on that in silence for a while. There was still no one following us that I could see.

  Where are they?

  I felt like I could chart the sun’s progress above us, time slipping away, as surely as I could chart the almost microscopic regression of Moss’s moss back in the lab. I was about ready to burst out in apology for being so fucking stupid, for being so utterly useless, when you spoke.

  “There might be someone.”

  “What?”

  You wouldn’t look at me.

  “There might be someone.”

  * * *

  WE FOUND a dead-end exit, bought another burner phone at a gas station with our heads down like two children buying something forbidden and embarrassing. Now I was watching you pace in the sand, talking to someone. It was taking forever so I tried to distract myself by opening up the back doors and taking another look at our silent companion.

  The moss is definitely receding.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered to Moss. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  At last you hung up and came back to me, wiping your sweat off the phone with your shirt.

  “I don’t know about a vehicle or anything, but I at least know where we can get off the road for the night.”

  I’d had plenty of time to pick apart this little plan, though. “Matt, we have to assume they’re camped outside all our known associates—”

  “I never put her down. On any of the vetting forms.”

  Uh … “Who?”

  “Some of the stuff she does … I wanted to protect her. If they investigated her…”

  “Who?”

  “Her name’s Teresa.”

  “Teresa.” I didn’t know what the fuck I was feeling anymore.

  “It’s four hours out of our way. In Odessa. Means we’d have to double-back to make our rendezvous tomorrow night.”

  “And Teresa is…?”

  “Someone I trust.”

  I nodded, trying to process.

  “Wait—‘if they investigated her’? What kinda stuff is she into?”

  24

  TWO PEOPLE, on the run from an insidious global corporation that owns much of the privatized world, after stealing one of its most prized possessions …

  So what the fuck were we doing eating pasta and drinking wine on a screened porch during a beautifully cool summer night?

  Well, I was biting my tongue hard enough to worry about bisecting the thing accidentally, while kneading my hands under the table.

  A couple hours earlier, we’d made the mostly silent four-hour detour to Odessa. It was a risk (what wasn’t these days?), but we decided not to steal another van—no point in gifting them another potential hit on their radar. Thank goodness for small favors: at least my nerves quieted down for the trip. We had a plan, and, just maybe, heading in the opposite direction would throw them off a bit more.

  However, pulling up to a beautiful ranch home, miles away from anything other than flat Texas plains, the nerves returned. They just had one question: Who the fuck is Teresa?

  “She said the driveway goes around back. She said pull all the way in; she’ll see me and come out.”

  “This is where she lives?”

  “No,” you said absently as we pulled up behind the house.

  The moment we stepped out of the van, several bright yellow lights clicked on, stabbing through the darkness and casting long, alien shadows behind us. I jumped.

  “Shit!”

  “It’s just motion lights,” you said. “Just a sensor.”

  That’s when we heard her voice from just inside.

  “Matt?”

  “Yeah!” you answered, a little too excitedly for my taste.

  The lights were bright and in my face, so at first all I could see was her silhouette. I watched it bound out the back door, babbling, “Oh my God, oh my God,” and when my eyes fully adjusted, I could more clearly see the goddamn absolutely gorgeous woman throwing her arms around your neck, pressing her hips toward yours, and kissing you firmly on the mouth.

  When she finally detached herself, she sighed. “You came back. Oh my God, you came back.” Then she kissed you again.

  I stood frozen. I was never the type to freeze, yet here I was: overloaded. I could only … watch.

  You moved her gently back, about half an arm’s length. My rational mind knew this was all right—this was somebody we needed, somebody who could help us—but, holy hell, the baser part of me wanted you to fling her away like a spider on your hand, for me to stamp in the dust.

  “T … T…,” you stammered. “I’m sorry, can you—”

  Her eyes went wide as if she’d just realized something. “No! I’m sorry! God, I’m so—that was totally wrong of me!”

  “It’s okay.”

  It was?!

  “No, it’s not, you don’t just kiss people. It’s just—your call brought me right back to…” She shook her head, smiling. To what? “That’s no excuse. I didn’t even ask; I’m so—”

  Your call brought her right back to what?!

  You smiled and told her it was okay. Again. And that’s when she noticed me.

  The way she looked at me, I knew instantly you hadn’t told her to expect two people.

  “Oh,” she sputtered. “Hi! Sorry, you’re catching me in the middle of melting, apparently I don’t even have basic manners—hi! Teresa Pérez.”

  She stuck out a hand. I took it. It wasn’t petite or delicate—much worse, it was firm and capable and calloused and still somehow fucking glamorous. It was the hand of someone with a bone structure they could’ve coasted on their entire life, but who also clearly lacked the temperament to know how to coast.

  What am I, twelve? Why am I freaking out like this? Who am I—

  “Dak,” I said, suddenly aware of how leaden and graceless my name fell out of a mouth. It was short and clumsy. In fact, Teresa even looked at me, confused—warm, charming, embarrassed, but confused. “Short for Dakota,” I clarified.

  “What did you mean,” I heard myself asking, “that his call ‘brought you back’?”

  “Dak,” you warned. I wanted to glare at you. I stared at Teresa.

  She smiled. It was a warm smile—humbl
e, charming. “Sorry. It was a stupid thing from when we were—”

  “From when you were—” I began.

  “Together,” she said with a nod.

  “Dak,” she repeated. “It’s very nice to meet you, and welcome to … not my house.”

  “Whose house is it?” I asked. But before I could get that minimal amount of information, you cut in.

  “We should probably get the car into a—”

  “Yes!” Teresa exclaimed. “Yes. Let’s do that right now. Time’s a-wasting!”

  * * *

  THE GARAGE was spacious and uncluttered. The kind of garage you can find only at a house where nobody really lives. Teresa and I stood to the side while you pulled the van in. I was busy silently castigating myself, so she startled me a bit when she leaned over and asked:

  “I’m sorry, can I ask you something really fast so I know how to act around you?”

  “What?”

  “Are you guys together?”

  “Yeah.” I was wary—how would she react to this, why was she asking? Was this a gauntlet being thrown or—

  Her face lit up with a warm smile that almost physically changed the temperature in the garage.

  “Great,” she said. And meant it.

  * * *

  NEXT CAME the tour. Along the way I learned a little bit more: Teresa was a pediatrician (“mostly,” whatever that meant), you liked to call her “T,” and I was a petty, jealous, and insecure child.

  Last, but distinctly not least, we made our way down carpeted stairs to the basement and I was struck immediately by the clutter. Thus far, it had been the sort of house you might assign to a rich, older bachelor. Clean, minimal, modern fixtures, straight out of a full-page color ad in a fashion magazine where people sit around all night talking about watches and cars. But the basement: nine beds, two cots, two TVs, board games, games for babies, air hockey, five mini-fridges. It was a completely different story.

  The two of you were giddily reminiscing.

  “This is way better than what you had before!”

  “Right, God, when would that have been?”

  “I mean, at least three years ago, right?”

  “Yes! We would’ve still been in that old church! Saint … Whatever, I’m forgetting!”