Author's Note: As you might've guessed, this is the traditional part of any story in which the heroes are separated and everyone's kind of depressed. How long will everyone be depressed? Who can say? (Probably until I work out what happens next. I've got a 2013 document called 'starlight plan' that I keep adding dot points to whenever I have an interesting idea… which means it's full of interesting ideas, but absolutely no coherence regarding how they fit together. I am literally making this up as I go along.)

Also, I'm sorry for any delays between chapters. I like writing this story – a lot – but it's hard to justify the time it takes sometimes. Either way, if I'm taking a while, I'll append any updates to this author's note.

Thanks for reading! And thanks for your comments – you guys are awesome!

UPDATE 14/07/18: Hey, so I'm still alive. I'll be honest, I haven't done much work on this, but rest assured the story isn't dead. It's... hibernating? Apologies to everyone anxiously awaiting the next part (looking at you, Dedicated Reader) but you'll have to wait a little longer. Basically, I've wanted to write my own novel for YEARS, but any time I could've spent doing that was usually spent on this fanfic instead. I decided I'd better at least start the original novel while I was still excited about it, so I've been working on the first few parts of that. I'm still planning to finish A Sky of Starlight though, since I do really hate it when fanfictions go unfinished. Even if they're already 400,000 words long, like this one is. (If you are mildly interested in my other writing, I'll probably start putting it online soon.) Thanks for your patience... and yeah, sorry about the wait.

Scars, Part 3

The river was ten metres from bank to bank, the water dark and swift – making that distinctive liquid chatter as it swirled about rocks and branches, tugging insistently at the long, drooping willows that leaned from the bank. Sunset light glittered between their leaves, sparkling on the water.

Preston left his clothes in a neatly-folded pile on the bank, then waded into the river. The current pushed against his legs. He stepped carefully across the slick, slippery stones until he was waist-deep. The water was cold but bearable – better than he'd expected. Stung like the blazes though when he dipped his hands under, the grazes on his palms and forearms not yet fully healed. That's what you get for jumping off a train, you idiot. The air smelled as sharp as his pain, the water sweeping aside all else.

He took a deep breath, then ducked his head under the surface. That few seconds as your body adjusted was always the worst part. He came back up, shivering, then started scrubbing all the dirt off – weeks and weeks of it, dust, mud, sweat, packed into every exposed patch of skin (and plenty of unexposed patches too). There were so many layers that a geologist could've mapped it.

Around a bend in the river, out of sight, he could hear Alice doing the same. There was definitely some vigorous splashing going on. Because he was a teenage boy, he couldn't help wondering what Alice looked like without any clothes on and decided, upon reflection, that she probably looked pretty good. Better than me. Haha.

He grabbed a piece of bark to scrub the dirt from under his fingernails. Then something slimy wriggled against his leg. He yelped. "Aaaah!"

Alice's voice floated round the bend. "…you still alive?"

"I think – I think a fish touched me!"

"Question: are there alligators in Missouri?"

"Uh. Probably not?"

She didn't say anything else. Preston blushed, then sank till only his head was above the surface, wiping his hair out of his eyes. Problem was, now he couldn't stop thinking about people without clothes on – Alice was incredibly pretty, obviously, but she had her thing with Joe, so better stop thinking about her, but then he couldn't help thinking about Martin, mostly because he missed Martin a lot (and everyone else), but then his thoughts slid like a well-oiled fish into thinking about Martin without any clothes on, which was somehow pretty good too, and when Martin had joined the swim club last year that was maybe why he'd considered joining the swim club too despite not really liking swimming much and oh gosh, brain, please stop.

He wondered if, sometimes, Alice thought about them without their clothes on.

Of course she did. Everybody did. That was just people.

He glanced at his pile of clothes on the bank, though there wasn't much worry of being seen. The willow trees were thick and ancient, concealing the river from view until you'd nearly fallen in it. The gnarled branches reminded him of matted, tangled hair and a constant stream of their feather-light leaves swept past him on the current. He finished washing himself with vigorous intent, making sure to get all the cracks.

All.

The.

Cracks.

"Alice?" he called out.

"Yeah?"

"I'm going to make a fire."

"Okay. I'm right behind you."

He climbed out of the river and got dressed quickly. The sun was already low, cirrus clouds drawing fire across the sky. He felt much much better as he made his way back to their campsite. There was something identifiably freeing about no longer being encrusted in crap, like a robot that'd had its joints oiled. Good to go, for at least a few more days.

An overgrown trail led through the woods. He followed it for a couple of minutes until he came to an old junkyard. There was a gap in the rear fence and he climbed through, taking care not to rip his shirt on it like last time.

The junkyard didn't appear to be in use. It was still filled with junk, sure, but the sandy ground was thick with uncut grass, its gate padlocked shut. Stacks of rusted-out cars leaned amidst piles of white goods and plastic sheeting. In the far left corner was a small shack – probably where the supervisor had worked, directing and sorting the new arrivals – and hey, even if it was falling apart, a roof and four walls was nothing to sneeze at.

He dragged the door open with a hideous creak. Inside, they'd cleared a bit of space, and Preston set about making a pile of branches, enough for a small fire. He whistled as he worked, a formless blend of half-remembered TV show theme tunes. I wonder if we can find a working TV? People throw out good stuff all the time. His teeth chattered, his fingers slow and numb, the sky was turning dark as the day's heat fled. He stuffed some scraps of newspaper between the wood, then found the box of matches which he was 99% sure Alice had stolen.

Alice was good at stealing, he'd noticed. Nevertheless, it was infinitely better than doing the boy scout thing and rubbing sticks together for an hour. He struck a match and cupped the flame until the papers caught alight. Soon he had a moderately-sized fire, warming the entire shack.

"Good job," Alice said, squeezing through the door. She held out her hand.

Five seconds later, Preston realised it was meant for a high five. He reached out, tried to slap her hand, nearly missed because he was standing too far away.

Alice smiled, hair wet. "How is everything?"

"We'll need some more wood later," he said.

"Do you feel like doing that while I make dinner?"

"…Dinner?"

"Yeah. I went past the church this morning and talked to the priest. He gave us a bit of food."

"Wow. Really? What did he say? What did you say?"

Alice shrugged. "I just… explained we were on our own, and that we could use some help. He asked a bunch of questions, obviously, but I avoided saying much. He was really nice though. Pretty young. Said we could come back and talk to him whenever."

"…Should we?"

"I don't see the harm," Alice said. "As long as we're careful. He didn't seem like the type who'd call the police."

"Maybe we could sleep there," Preston said cautiously. "In the church."

"Maybe."

They stared at the fire, watching the flames. Alice held out her hand.

This time, the high five was better.

Preston gathered all the dry wood he could find while Alice heated a tin of baked beans. They had eggs, too, and a few slices of ham, sizzling as they cooked on a sheet of scrap metal. Preston was suddenly incredibly hungry. Mom probably wouldn't approve of the diet, he thought, if she's alive to approve of anything.

After dinner there wasn't much else to do, so they cleared a place to sleep. The junkyard had gifted them a very stained, very moth-eaten mattress that was nonetheless far more comfortable than the dirt. They lay down, facing opposite ways, as Alice dragged a blanket over them.

"G'night," Alice said.

"Goodnight."

Preston wasn't sure how long he stayed awake, his thoughts running in circles as the fire grew low.

Zalma, Missouri: it was the only town in Missouri beginning with 'z', as far as they could tell. The junkyard was on the outskirts of town, and the town itself was extremely small – a population of just over a hundred. It didn't have a McDonalds, or a Burger King, or a Wendy's.

It did have a church.

But there's no one here. The one thought that'd kept them going – the ridiculous hope that maybe Joe, or Charles, or Martin or Cary or Rachel might've had the same hope – was a lie.

Maybe we ARE the only ones left. Maybe we are alone.

It's an interesting question. What are you supposed to do, when you run out of things to wish for? We spent all this energy and all this time thinking about this one stupid thing and now I don't know how to think about anything else. But I have to. I have to I have to I have to. Lying alone in the night, it felt so much worse and as the fire dimmed his hope dimmed with it. At least when they'd been travelling there had been the possibility of everything going back to normal. The possibility of spending time with his friends again. Of hearing Cary laugh. Of seeing Martin smile. He heard tiny feet scurrying across the roof – perhaps a rat, or a squirrel on a night-time mission.

Shit.

Shit shit shit.

He held back a sob and squeezed his eyes shut and tried to go to sleep.

"Preston?" Alice asked. "You awake?"

He shifted a little. "Yeah."

"I hate this," she said quietly.

He didn't reply.

"I hate this a lot. I hate everything about this."

"Yeah." He nodded. "Me too."

Alice rolled onto her back. "What the hell can we do? We have to – we have to figure things out. We can't live in this dump for the rest of our lives."

"The others haven't arrived but… it's only been three days." It took us weeks to get here.

And here we go again. Stupid, stupid hope.

"But how long do we wait?" Alice asked. "What's the thing that makes us stop? Do we stay here a week? A month?" She paused. "How long?"

"Until they get here," Preston said. "Or until we have a better idea." He heard the scratching noise on the roof again, and sighed. Sleep wasn't happening anytime soon.

After a moment, he got up and walked to his backpack. He dug around until his fingers closed around a battered, dog-eared paperback, rescued from the side of the road. It was a copy of The Phantom Tollbooth; he vaguely remembered reading it when he was much younger, perhaps too young to actually enjoy it. He shuffled closer to the dying embers of the fire, their glow barely sufficient to lift the words up out the darkness.

"Can you read it out loud?" Alice asked.

"Oh! Uh, sure." Preston swallowed. "Should I start from the beginning?"

"Wherever you're up to is fine."

"Okay." He cleared his throat. "Chapter Three: Welcome to Dictionopolis."

Alice listened.

'You must excuse my gruff conduct,' the watchdog said, after they'd been driving for some time, 'but you see it's traditional for watchdogs to be ferocious…'

Milo was so relieved at having escaped the Doldrums that he assured the dog that he bore him no ill will and, in fact, was very grateful for the assistance.

'Splendid,' shouted the watchdog. 'I'm very pleased – I'm sure we'll be great friends for the rest of the trip. You may call me Tock.'

'That is a strange name for a dog who goes tickticktickticktick all day,' said Milo. 'Why didn't they call you—'

'Don't say it,' gasped the dog, and Milo could see a tear well up in his eye.

'I didn't mean to hurt your feelings,' said Milo, not meaning to hurt his feelings.

'That's all right,' said the dog, getting hold of himself. It's an old story and a sad one, but I can tell it to you now…'

Martin knelt on Zila's back, peering through the undergrowth. She and Cooper were crouched in a gully ten yards from the highway, their grey-skinned bodies almost invisible among the thick vegetation and mud. Which was good, because a military convoy was driving past – a big one. Trucks and jeeps were strung out along the road, and tanks too, the same ugly model they'd encountered that night in Lillian. Cary had called them M-60s. Their tracks rattled, chewing up the bitumen, engines growling like a pack of Rottweilers. There were also heavy, eight-wheeled APCs, soldiers sitting on either side manning large-calibre machine guns. Some had white stripes spray-painted on their helmets. Martin wondered what it meant.

He felt Zila press herself into the dirt. Cooper had emphasised the danger they were in, enough to scare her. The convoy was alert, travelling at speed and in the distance there were sounds of battle: great, echoing booms, the snap of rifle fire, and altogether stranger noises like low, mournful bell strikes. According to Cooper it was the sound of a T'chorak shield being hit. It was far enough away to not be immediately worrying, but for the soldiers it must've been pretty intimidating.

Martin couldn't help but wonder how a proper alien battle would go. Cooper was already capable of neutralising a entire US battalion – forcing their weapons to misfire, ruining their guidance systems, literally ripping the guns from their hands. He'd explained it was a natural ability of his species, a consequence of the telepathic field he generated. It wasn't precisely controllable without equipment but was nevertheless extremely effective against human technology. Martin figured the T'chorak had to be at least as capable. We did do okay against one of them, under the hill, but I think that's mainly because we caught it by surprise. I wonder how useful conventional weapons really are. But the army's still fighting, which means something must be working… Maybe they're trying to take out the towers?

Martin ducked back down. He'd seen enough. It'd suck to get spotted by a trigger-happy soldier.

They waited in the undergrowth until the convoy passed.

Cooper stood up, stretching. [Should keep going] he said. [Continue our work.]

The aliens loped onwards. Cooper was carrying, with relative ease, several tons of discarded (a.k.a. stolen) machinery: microwaves, car engines, TV antennas, radiators, a lawnmower, god knows what else. To Martin it looked like a whole bunch of nothing, but apparently it was all part of the plan.

Step one: track Joe down.

Step two: get stuff.

Step three: use stuff to get to Joe and the others.

Step four: don't get caught. (Cooper was mostly concerned about the T'chorak in that sense, since they'd done such a good job of shooting down Zila's ship.)

Either way it made Martin feel a bit useless. The plan sounded mostly like 'stay out of the way while the aliens do all the work'. Which made sense, he told himself. They were bigger. Faster. Stronger. Smarter. He was just… human.

It made sense. Still didn't feel good. His stomach dropped as Zila jumped a gap. "Woah!"

[Okay?]

"Yeah, yeah. Fine." He'd ridden a horse before – hadn't particularly enjoyed it – but Zila's six-legged gait was an entirely different challenge. Suddenly, he noticed he couldn't hear the battle. No gunfire, no weird, booming gong sounds. It was worryingly quiet. He wondered what'd happened. The convoy was likely still en route.

A quarter-hour later they arrived at their latest hiding spot: a secluded copse along the Illinois River, concealed by an overhanging cliff-face. Martin slid gingerly off Zila's back, wincing his feet touched the muddy ground. Although his blisters were mostly gone, they'd been replaced all-too-quickly by an ingrown toenail, and that crap was just unpleasant.

Cooper went on ahead, dropping his treasures by the cliffs. Martin sighed, then limped after him. Keep going, Smartin. No point feeling sorry for yourself. The pain, at least, was something he could use. Something he could feel with every step. Something he could push past to a better place. Like the feeling when Cooper had told him that his friends were alive… that was a better place.

He had the chance to help them. And he was going to do it.

He stopped before the pile of electrical equipment, which now sat beside two more piles in the grass. It didn't look like much but there was definitely order there, a structure taking shape. Zila had worked on them all last night.

If Martin didn't know any better, it looked like they were making a ship.

"Anything I can do to help?"

Charles swallowed. Rachel sat on the end of his bed, her body half-turned towards him. "We can't stay here," she said.

She was surrounded by ghosts. She was one of them herself, unexpectedly pale and thin.

"I don't know if I can leave," Charles replied. His chest hurt with each and every breath; the ghosts whispered at him, as they always did, from the shadows of the infirmary. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to not have to think. 'Here,' at least, was safe. Here, he didn't have to worry about anything but himself.

And her, a small part of his brain reminded him. You should be worrying about her.

Rachel sighed, touching the marks on her neck. Her fingers shook. "Do you remember… three, four months ago… you dragged us down to the lake to film a part of your movie. And I didn't want to do it, but you made me. I'm glad you did. It was fun. I remember you directing everyone like you knew exactly what you wanted. Like the world was yours to take. I remember you standing on the roof, framing a shot with your hands. The sun was behind you, and you were smiling… and you said it was perfect." Her voice quivered. She looked down. "Where did that go?"

Charles didn't reply, but he knew the answer. The ghosts knew. I messed up. I messed everything up.

"We need to leave," Rachel insisted. "Find our friends. Do what we're meant to."

And what's that? What if this is where I'm meant to be? I can't run. I can barely walk. It still hurts to breathe, and stretch, and shit. He wanted to explain that he couldn't leave, it was impossible. He wasn't strong enough.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Rachel sighed. "For what?"

Being shitty. Ignoring you. Thinking about myself when I can't even imagine what you've been going through. "You should go. Alone." He sank back into his pillow, away from the light. "I can't."

"Charles." Rachel shook her head. "I'm here whether you like it or not. Either you're coming, or I'm not going. Get over it."

He was caught off-guard by the firmness in her voice.

So many thoughts, fighting for space inside his head. He couldn't articulate them all, not to himself, let alone to her. Pain. Anger. Shame. Love. Helplessness. He wanted to stay. He wanted to die. He wanted to get up and hug her. He wanted to cry. He wanted to see his parents. He wanted to be back in that moment at the lake, holding his camera, and he hated her for reminding him of it. He loved her for reminding of it. He wanted to be better. He wondered if he could. The ghosts laughed. He wanted to go home, more than he could bear. He hated the thought of what he might find. It was maddening. It was beautiful. It was nothing.

You're the strongest person I've ever met.

Rachel stared at him, her face expressionless. "Tonight," she replied. "Just be ready to leave."

Cary saw the flames when he slept. Their heat was tattooed on the insides of his eyelids, branded there, burned there, ever-chasing with claws of shame. He ran, but they always caught him. He wasn't fast enough. There were some things you couldn't run from. The fire chased, and his friends screamed, and their white-hot fingers closed around his neck.

Then he'd wake up.

Eyes open, eyes closed, wasn't much different. Couldn't get shit out of his head either way. Besides, he could barely see out of his left eye at all, ever since the guards had socked it. He touched the skin tenderly, bruised and swollen.

You're a real piece of shit. You're a dumbass and you keep being a dumbass and now you're stuck on this dumpster fire of a plane and you goddamn deserve it.

Sarah and Joe sat beside him in their cell, waiting for the guards to come. The plane hummed.

Joe gave him a sympathetic look. Cary smiled back.

You're a piece of shit.

Eventually, the guards did come – the same pair as always. Sarah had nicknamed them Baldy and Butt-Face, which, while not particularly mature or original, fit them to a tee. Baldy was (surprise!) bald, with a big egg-shaped skull that'd been polished within an inch of its life. Butt-Face possessed a cleft in his chin which unfortunately made it look a whole lot like a butt. It was a real round butt too, which Sarah found endlessly fascinating.

The medic – 'Bigfoot' – was nowhere to be seen. That was a good sign.

Baldy unlocked the door, as was tradition, while Butt-Face observed with a squinty glare.

"Up," said Baldy gruffly.

Obediently, they got up. Butt-Face produced two pairs of handcuffs, gesturing at Cary and Sarah. "Hands out," he growled. "No sudden movements. No funny business."

They stepped forwards, holding their wrists in front of them. Cary glanced at Joe, who gave a barely perceptible nod. It meant: Let's try it.

Cary gritted his teeth. Time to stop being a piece of shit and start making up for all those other times you didn't. He waited patiently as Butt-Face handcuffed them, the cold metal locking around his wrists. The soldier stunk of too-strong deodorant. At the edge of the cell, Joe moved subtly towards the door.

"Do not move!" Baldy barked. "Back. Back." He pointed at the corner.

Joe raised his hands placatingly. The other soldier checked their restraints and, satisfied, stepped away. "Both of you. Come with me."

Sarah shook her head. She moved to the back of the cell, kneeling stubbornly. 'I'm not gonna move unless you make me.' Butt-Face had no choice but to grab her, lifting her by her arms.

Then Sarah sank her teeth straight into his bicep. The guard yelled more in shock than pain – her jaws couldn't pierce his fatigues – and he struggled, trying to throw her off.

"Stop! STOP!" Baldy shouted. He hadn't moved, not yet, staying between them and the door.

The door. A slab of aluminium, doubly-thick to ensure it couldn't be easily breached. There was a small window above the locking mechanism, which they'd spent a fair bit of time examining whenever they had the chance. Butt-Face grabbed Sarah and shoved her heavily into the wall. She held on like a demon. Joe tried to edge towards the door again but it was clear Baldy wouldn't let him get close.

Cary stared at Baldy, and kept staring until the big Russian had no choice but to look at him. Look over here, asshole! Then he smiled – his widest, most manic smile.

"Don't—" Baldy began.

Cary didn't give him a chance to finish. He danced forwards threateningly.

Baldy moved in.

C'mon. C'mon! Cary charged at him, trying to push sideways, feet scrabbling on the slippery floor as Sarah did her best to keep Butt-Face occupied. She shouted something unintelligible. Cary tangled his legs up with the guard's, the blood pounding in his head. He went for the groin. Missed. Found the wall. He grunted. Baldy grunted.

It gave Joe time to slip out of sight and take something shiny and mess with the door lock.

It only took a few seconds. Sarah suddenly went limp in Butt-Face's arms, and Cary did the same, but Baldy couldn't resist sticking him in a headlock for what felt like longer than necessary, the air growing stale in his lungs. "I'm cooperating! I'm cooperating," he wheezed. "Lemme go."

Eventually, Baldy did.

Butt-Face seemed understandably pissed-off; he muttered something in Russian to his companion, who shook his head slightly. Cary and Sarah were pushed out of the cell, the door locked tight behind them. As they left, Cary stole a glance through the window.

Joe gave him a subtle thumbs-up.

Why are you like this? Cary's brain asked him.

They were marched quickly through the guts of the plane, the soldiers keeping close. Cary kept a lookout for two important things: exits, and parachutes. So did Sarah. (Was it worrying that Cooper had asked them to look for parachutes? Probably.)

Why are you like this?

There was an exit over each wing, close to their cell, lockers nearby marked with emergency symbols – fire extinguishers, life jackets and yes, parachutes. The soldiers led them downstairs to the plane's cargo level. By now, they were getting a pretty good idea of its layout.

What are you even doing.

The cargo hold stretched for nearly the plane's entire length. The area near the loading ramp was stacked with crates, and a single row of seats lined either side. The cargo ramp was technically another exit, he supposed. And there were more parachutes near the cockpit end, next to a bunch of electrical panels.

The guards instructed them to sit.

And wait.

Cary closed his eyes. He willed himself not to think of the flames. Before… he wasn't sure how to describe it, but before, it almost been like a river in his head, a river of ideas, flowing through a canyon that made it faster and stronger and splash everywhere and he could just ride and be… free. Now, the river was all dammed up. Your head used to be filled with fun stuff. Colours. Fireworks. Ways to annoy Martin.

Where'd that go?

Sarah tapped him on the shoulder. "Why do you keep saying you're a piece of shit?" she whispered.

He stared at her. "Uh – no I don't."

"You definitely do. I hear you talking in your sleep. And it's legitimately serial-killer creepy, so… what's the deal?"

He could almost literally see the curiosity leaking out of her. Sarah always wanted to know stuff; wanted to be in control. When she wasn't, it was a bit like watching a Jenga tower and waiting for the inevitable collapse, but up to that point she was frickin' persistent. Cary realised he liked that about her. He wondered if she liked anything about him.

"I messed up," he said, without his brain really agreeing to it.

"OK. That's not super specific?"

Don't tell her. But the words tumbled out, like clothes in a dryer. "I keep messing up. I do the same frickin' thing over and over and I know it goes bad but I keep doing it because it makes me feel weird and happy and it's like there's this other thing inside me, controlling me, making my hands move and making me say and do all this stupid stuff because I guess it feels good? And it does? But afterwards, it doesn't. I dunno."

"Uh-huh."

"I really like fire. For as long as I can remember fire has been like, the best thing. It just – I can't – I can't explain it. Ask Charles feels about movies, or Joe how he feels about freaking seals – that's how I feel about fire, except more because I can do stuff with fire and it like, it like, listens. It changes. It does what I want it to. I nearly killed them."

"Who?"

"Joe. Martin. Preston. I nearly killed them. I wanted to see… I wanted to see what it would do. The fire."

"Oh," Sarah said. She stared at him, not unkindly.

"I nearly killed my baby sister too, a few years ago, 'cause I was listening to that part of me."

"Oh."

"On that crashed ship, they nearly died. They nearly died. And I know Joe knows it's my fault. He never says anything, because he's Joe, but it's my fault and I know he's angry and I hate being in that room with him even though he's one of my best friends." Cary shrugged. He realised he was sort of staring at Sarah's eyes, except more like staring through them so he didn't have to look. "And when the other me takes over there's nothing I can really do, right? It's crazy. I know I sound crazy. But it – it feels good. People like that part of me. That's Cary to them. Maybe that sounds like not taking responsibility, or whatever, but one day I reckon I'll do something and I'll – I'll—" He swallowed. "Hurt… uh, hurt people. Bad. Because I'm stupid. And a piece of shit."

"That is pretty stupid," Sarah agreed.

"Yeah," Cary said.

"And I'm not totally sure what to say here, because seriously, you just laid a ton of stuff on me. A ton."

"Yeah."

They fell silent. The roar of the plane was constant, deafening. The seats wobbled as they passed through a patch of turbulence.

"I think the point," Sarah said eventually, "is to learn from those times you're being a drongo."

"A what?"

"It means idiot." Sarah rolled her eyes. "For example, I have often been known to do stupid things, which my dearest father is always very concerned about – that's mostly why I do 'em, by the way – and for God's sake it's all really dumb but my brain tells me it's great and then it just happens. Bonus points if there's peer pressure."

"What kind of stupid stuff?"

"Eh, y'know. Casual vandalism. Light shoplifting. Being a dick to old people. Point is, I did all that stuff, felt bad about it, then held onto that feeling – that shittiness you're feeling now – and kept it, didn't forget it, and pushed it to the back of my mind where it's still useful but not a complete downer. Everyone feels shitty, so just try and feel usefully shitty, y'know? Don't be afraid of it. Then when part of you is telling you to do things, egging you on, you've got a voice to balance it out. It's tricky, I know. But I get it."

"You do?"

"Colours in the sky – that's what you said, right? I see 'em too, all the time. Colours make sounds, sounds make colours, feelings make other feelings. That part of it, at least, is a proper psychology thing. It's called synaesthesia." She smiled slightly, her eyes sparkling. "It makes fireworks look really special."

He felt an almost-audible shiver run right through him, like slipping a drumstick across a cymbal.

She does get it.

The guards were coming back.

"Ever been skydiving?" Sarah asked, more quietly.

"…What? No. Have you?"

"One time." She frowned. "I sort of hated it."

There weren't any clocks in the infirmary. Charles decided it was probably morning.

He opened the curtains. The sunshine was blinding.

The ghosts faded but didn't disappear. What are you doing? they asked. It's no use. It's better if you stay behind. You'll ruin things for her.

Gritting his teeth, he walked from the window, to the bathroom, back to the window, to the bed, to the window, leaning and panting on the sill when the pain and effort became too much. Knives of agony shot through his shoulder. For once, he wished he could see the world like Cary; the little asshole was stupid, but at least he never had doubts. Cary did whatever he damn well wanted. I could use some of that right now.

I'm doing this. We're leaving. WE ARE.

The ghosts disagreed, but he did his best to ignore them.

The doctors came through an hour later, forcing him to lie down. They measured his blood pressure, his body temperature, and gave him some tablets which felt too big to swallow. He hoped the medicine wouldn't make him sleep.

Tonight, Rachel said.

It's your fault, said everyone else.

He spent fifteen minutes picking at his lunch before compelling himself to eat. He managed to walk round the entire room before nearly blacking out. On his knees, he crawled back to bed. She should go without me. I'll only slow her down.

Yes, said the ghosts.

At one point, a nurse came to change his bandages. He wasn't bleeding as much anymore. Inside, his wounds were healing.

The sun set with unexpected swiftness. It was nearly winter, he realised; soon it'd start to snow back home. He looked out over the desert, inky black apart from the guidelights and fortifications around the edge of the complex.

"I'm doing this," he said aloud.

The words sounded hollow, even to him.

"I'm doing this."

He closed the curtains and sat down to wait.

Rachel breathed.

It was pitch black, inside her room. It helped her concentrate. Helped her stay calm.

She massaged her neck where the pale man had touched her. The skin was raw, peeling like a burn. She wasn't sure what he'd done, or what he'd meant when he'd said 'you're like me.' They were opposites, complete opposites; or perhaps not. He, too, might be sitting in a pitch black room, alone, thinking, just like her. Still, she found the darkness calming – because here, in the darkness, she could be anyone she wanted. And right now, she wanted to be their worst fucking nightmare.

Rachel breathed. A few days ago, she'd hidden a few items under her mattress. Now, she reached for them.

A lighter. A cutlery knife. Masking tape. Paperclips.

Remarkable what you could get away with when they thought you were a helpless girl. All those blood tests and interrogations and mess-hall meals and prison-yard walks had given her tools. Enough, hopefully, to escape. She was already very good at picking the lock on her door, but that wasn't the obstacle she was worried about. There were guards everywhere. First, she needed to draw them away.

Rachel flicked on the lighter. It glowed.

She held it up to the fire alarm in the corner of her room.

Charles waited by the door of the infirmary.

He was ready, ready as he'd ever be. Earlier he'd heard alarms in a distant corner of the complex – thought maybe that was the moment, heart racing – but that was hours ago now, with nothing since. What if she wasn't coming? What is she'd changed her mind… or worse, been caught? His skin prickled.

When the door moved, he jumped like a rabbit (or would've, if his legs worked – it was more of a jiggle). Someone was trying to get in, someone who didn't have a key. He stepped back. It had to be her. Right? What if it wasn't? What if it—

The lock clicked. The door swung open.

Rachel stood in the doorway, a gun in her hand. A fine red spray dappled her left cheek, more red peppering her shoulder. Blood. Not hers. She looked icily calm, as if she was on a regular night-time stroll, the hallway behind her empty.

"Ready?" she asked.

Charles was suddenly frightened. No – he was petrified. Screw it, no time to be petrified. He limped to the corner where his wheelchair was kept.

"This'll make it faster," he said. The fact he needed it at all was slightly embarrassing, but – eugh. It WAS sat down.

"Good idea," Rachel said. She clipped the gun to her waistband, and turned him around, and pushed him out of the infirmary. The long corridor stretched ahead of them, lit by moonlight falling through the windows.

The base was quiet. Empty. He could barely believe it. "Where are the guards?" he asked.

"Good question," Rachel murmured.

Another good question: how the heck would they escape? There was a big difference between sneaking out of the infirmary and leaving the base proper. He assumed Rachel had a plan. She jogged down the hallway. The wheelchair squeaked, too loudly for comfort. He listened intently for the slightest movement, quick, shallow breaths. At the end of the hall Rachel turned left.

Charles was very surprised when they nearly collided with her dad.

Rachel: also very surprised.

Her dad: even more surprised.

Rachel let go of the wheelchair. Charles went careening towards the wall, barely stopping himself with his arms. Pain flared in his shoulder.

Frozen stillness.

Then Rachel raised her pistol. "We're leaving."

Her dad raised his hands. "Okay. Okay."

To his credit, the man composed himself surprisingly quickly. Charles had met him once or twice – back at school, before everything had gone to shit – and he'd seemed like a nice guy, if a little quiet, sort of like Rachel herself. Definitely not one of those strict military dads. Although he had the typical neat haircut and disciplined posture, he'd given Rachel the freedom to do basically whatever she wanted (and it was obvious they had a good relationship, even if Rachel wasn't the type to talk about it.) The fact that her dad was here, in the base, was an entirely separate mess Rachel had avoided discussing. From what Charles had gathered it was a difficult situation. Still, he suspected the only reason Rachel had gotten herself captured in the first place was because she had that potential way out. In way, he's probably the only reason I'm not here on my own.

Right now, though, the man looked exhausted. His face was drawn, eyes shadowed.

"Rachel…" he began.

She cut him off. "Why are you here?"

"I was actually coming to visit you. To check if you were alright." The ghost of a smile passed across his lips. Slowly, he put his hands in his pockets. "Clearly, you're doing fine."

Rachel kept the gun on him. "We're leaving," she repeated.

"Ryoko, think about what you're doing."

"I am. Don't worry."

"In here I can protect you. Out there I—"

"Stop."

"Okay. Okay. Then put the gun down."

"No." Her voice was iron. Subtly, she pointed the gun at his leg.

And Charles could tell meant it; she'd really, really shoot. He shivered. Rachel didn't.

Her finger curled.

She's going to goddamn do it—

Clearly, her dad had realised the same thing. "Don't," he said. "Please." He glanced at Charles. "Your friend should know how much that hurts."

There was a long, knife-edge moment in which the world could've tipped either way. It probably lasted a couple of seconds. To Charles it felt like minutes; minutes waiting in the hallway, watching the tip of the pistol stay rock-steady, then wobble slightly, then fall as Rachel slipped it back on her belt. Charles blinked. His eyes stung, in that way they did after you'd stared at the same spot too long.

"Do you have a way out?" her dad asked, remarkably calm.

"Yes."

"Then I suppose I can't stop you." There was that fleeting smile again, unnoticeable unless you were looking for it. "But I want to realise something. Please." He paused. "The military… ninety-nine percent of of people here want to do the right thing; they truly believe they're doing the right thing. It's just that they're being influenced, led in the wrong direction. Do you understand? The wrong man in the wrong place can make all the difference in the world…"

Rachel nodded.

"I'm sorry I couldn't help you more." He stepped forward. Delicately, he took his sleeve, and wiped the blood from her cheek. "You don't want much of that on you – no more than you need."

Rachel bit her lip. For a moment, it looked like she might hug him. But she didn't.

"Come with us," she said suddenly.

"You know I can't."

"I know you can. You're compromised. They'll suspect you once we're gone, or worse."

"Rachel, I…" He trailed off. His face fell, and kept falling. Eventually, it stopped, roughly at the level of a dog trapped at the bottom of a well. "Did you really have to do this tonight?" he asked plaintively. "It's a very sudden last day at the office."

"Sorry," Rachel murmured.

There were guards at all the exits, so Rachel decided she'd make her own. There was a quiet clatter as the wall burst outwards, bricks and mortar skidding across the sand. The dust cleared to reveal a person-sized hole in the eastern wall of the complex.

"Very smooth," her dad said. "For somebody who promised they'd never do that again."

Rachel ignored him, doing her best to keep it stealthy (if busting through a wall could ever be considered 'stealthy'). She peered through the hole. No soldiers nearby. She wheeled Charles ahead of her as they skirted the building, then darted across open ground to a carpark dotted with jeeps, staying low. The moon was half-full, the desert midnight blue, the spotlights of distant watchtowers cutting slices from the dark.

They dumped the wheelchair, climbing into the nearest jeep. Rachel's dad had spent twenty agonising minutes gathering his things, which now came in handy. He inserted his keys; the vehicle coughed to life. Rachel and Charles climbed into the back, hiding under a canvas blanket. Hopefully, two vague lumpy shapes wouldn't draw any extra attention. It was deathly cold. Their breath misted. Wind pushed the sand in listless spirals.

"You okay?" Rachel asked.

He nodded.

Under the blanket, she took his hand. Her skin felt rough. Warm.

They reversed out of the carpark, turning onto the main road. It wasn't that unusual to see vehicles driving late at night – at least, that was what they were counting on. Charles heard a few others pass them on the road, his heart throbbing in his chest. The alarm hadn't been raised. They were still OK. He was tempted to ask Rachel how she'd organised her escape, but her eyes were closed. He closed his too. Couldn't see much under the blanket, anyway.

He held her hand.

Soon, they arrived at the gates of the complex. Ryan wound down the window to talk to the guards on duty.

Charles only heard snatches of their conversation. The guards would probably ask where he was going; who'd authorised it; were there any passengers. Would they check or just believe him? Everything sounded OK so far, nice and calm. Charles kept his breathing light, ignoring his discomfort and the sudden urge that he really, really needed to pee.

Then the jeep moved forwards.

And kept moving. It accelerated, crunching through the gears, wind whistling through gaps in the canvas. Which meant…

He sat up. Poked his head over the tailgate.

The lights of the army base were receding into the distance. There were still subsections of the complex scattered nearby – communications towers, runways, warehouses – but as far as he could see, the way ahead was open.

Open road, leading into the night.

Holy crap.

The jeep barrelled swiftly around a curve and the main buildings disappeared from view, reduced to a subtle glow on the horizon. There were no vehicles in pursuit. No soldiers. It was just them and the road, double yellow line snaking under the headlights, wind against their faces, sky beautifully sharp. It was as if the whole universe was waiting, just out of sight around the next corner.

He'd almost forgotten how that felt. Man, I am SUCH a dumbass. Stuck in that room for a month, and I didn't even want to leave. For what? WHY?!

Dumbass.

He glanced at Rachel, kneeling beside him. There was blood trickling from her nose. She wiped it away.

He grinned. She grinned back, eyes sparkling.

This is all 'cause of her.

I am so freaking lucky.

"Where to?" she asked.

"I think I love you," he replied.

Out loud. He totally hadn't meant to say that out loud.

Martin sat cross-legged on the riverbank, winding copper wire around a metal rod. The key was to make it tight; to leave no space between each coil and the next, creating an even spiral. Above, the wintry sun glinted. Purple flowers dotted the bank, awakening from the remnants of last night's frost. Every few minutes a chunk of ice would come floating down the river, surviving for its last few moments before melting away. He tugged the wire to make sure it was tight, then cut it with a knife, securing it with his finger.

Four completed rods lay beside him, each an inch thick, the length of his forearm. They were electromagnets – he'd made similar ones in science class. When you ran an electric current through the wire, it created a magnetic field concentrated by the rod in the center. He got up, cracking his knuckles, then carried the rods to Zila. The aliens weren't so good with activities that required fingers smaller than a pool noodle.

"I'm done," he announced.

[Wonderful] Zila replied.

[Good] Cooper added.

[Brilliant.]

[Good.]

[Amazing.]

[Very good.]

Zila seemed to have – well – some kind of sense of humour, but with Cooper, it was harder to tell. Martin was so used to his seriousness that anything else felt wrong. Probably a good sign, though, if he feels comfortable enough to joke around. Or maybe he's just being his slightly-off self.

The aliens' ship was quickly taking shape. Its design echoed the purple flowers by the river: five unfolded petals around a central ball-like cockpit. Each petal was outlined by metal scaffolding, supporting a web of wires and batteries. The central ball held most of the heavy stuff, a precarious mess of bolted-together machinery. Three 'stems' supported the entire assembly. It was perhaps half as tall as the maple trees nearby, still far too small for the aliens to fit inside.

[You must climb inside] Zila said. [Help us connect the rods.]

"Uhh." Martin glanced at the ship. "Is it safe?"

[It will not collapse, if that is what you mean. Muktians are fine engineers. Even with primitive materials] \affronted.

"Then where do I connect them?"

[There are five microwaves. You must—]

"Five microwaves? Why do you need five microwaves? Where did you get five microwaves?"

[We found them] Cooper said. [They produce radiation for onboard sensors.]

"Uh-huh. Fine." Martin sighed. "Please continue."

Zila's third eye swivelled towards him, while her main pair continued looking over the ship. [There are connecting sockets at the rear of each microwave. We require your assistance to attach the rods.]

"Alright, alright. I'm going."

He had to climb one of the ship's legs, searching the rusty metal for handholds, before squeezing through a gap in the cockpit wall between two gutted TV sets. He fit, barely, but had to stay crouched – there wasn't room to stand upright. He was surrounded by machinery, everything a jagged edge. Sunlight poked through the gaps. It was like being trapped in a hamster ball, sort of, but with the distinctly claustrophobic sense that the ball might collapse inward at any second. He stepped gingerly across a tractor engine block – the whole structure wobbling beneath him – and found the first microwave at the base of a petal.

Much of the microwave's casing had been removed, leaving just the magnetron that converted electricity into radiation. It fed into a cylinder, which probably focused it, or something like that, with a notch to attach the rod. Martin lay flat, contorting himself to within arm's reach, and fiddled around until he'd twisted the connecting wires together. Then he did the rest of the rods, climbing over air conditioners, under a gas heater, balancing on scaffolding.

The whole process took roughly ten minutes. When he'd finished, he climbed down, fingers coated in grease.

"I think that's okay?" he said. "They're connected, anyway. I hope it's tight enough."

[Good] Cooper said. [Then it is almost complete.]

Martin frowned. "Really? It doesn't look very complete to me—"

Cooper raised a finger, as if testing the wind. He looked skyward. And – as if he'd been waiting for that exact moment his whole life – a swarm of white cubes came flooding through the trees. There were hundreds, buzzing and tumbling, a dense white cloud that surrounded the ship's skeleton in an instant. Despite their swiftness, there was an odd tenderness to Cooper's gaze, and under his guidance the cubes began darting inwards, filling the gaps in the half-constructed ship. It was like he was conducting an orchestra. The cubes seemed to slot in perfectly, flattening, changing shape, their colours morphing from white to silver until the entire structure had been dipped in chrome.

And just like that, the ship was no longer a junkyard scrapheap. It was a smooth, silver flower.

It was more than tenderness in Cooper's eyes; it was love, almost, swirling in those big green orbs. [Always useful to have spares] he said. [For special occasions.]

"So… is it finished?"

[Yes. Finished.]

Martin coughed. The ship was, well… small. Very small. It'd fit right in with Joe's shelf of spaceship models. (Well, that was an exaggeration, but barely.) If you considered the amount of space inside, forgetting all the vital bits that presumably made it fly, there was barely room for a decent-sized pony. And as far as he knew, it wasn't a Narnia situation in which there was a whole other world inside. I don't see how this is going to work.

"Is it remote control?" he asked.

[Meaning?]

"Can you fly it remotely? Like, fly it from the ground. It isn't big enough to carry you."

[It is big enough to carry you, however] \amused.

"Sure. But… why?"

[The ship is for you] Cooper said.

Martin blinked a couple of times. "It's for who now?"

[The ship is for you. You will fly it.]

"Well that's just insane."

A bird landed in a nearby maple tree, staring curiously at the gathering below.

"What you're saying is insane," Martin repeated.

[Why?] Zila asked. [It sounds fine to me. Wonderful. Fantastic. Pleasing.]

"I can't fly a spaceship! I can't even drive! I didn't know this was part of the plan!"

[It was always part of the plan] Cooper said. [Not enough materials to make a bigger ship.]

"Well d'you think you could've told me? This is the most ludicrous thing I've ever heard! And I'm friends with Cary, so that's SAYING something." Martin sank to the grass. "No. No. I'm saying no. I can't do it."

[Then your friends cannot be saved] Zila said.

"I don't think you understand! It's not like I don't want to help them, of course I want to help them, it's just that I don't know how to fly a freaking spaceship."

Cooper snorted, almost a laugh. [Flying is the easy part, human. Think of your objective and the ship will obey. It lives to serve. Little skill is required.]

[Little skill] Zila agreed. [The skill of babies.]

[We give this type of ship to babies] Cooper added.

[I have been led to believe that you are not a baby. Are you?]

They're ganging up on me, Martin thought. They're frickin' ganging up on me. The ship loomed, a couple of bluejays already perching on its nose. This is insane. It's the insan-est thing anyone's ever said. I can't fly a spaceship. I mean… I guess it's technically not a spaceship because we're not going to space, but…

[Joe is being moved] Cooper said. [We must leave soon if we are to mount a successful rescue.]

"Great. Just great." Martin knelt on the grass, gazing at the clouds. They drifted sluggishly across the blue, taunting him. "You're lunatics."

[Soon] \emphasis.

"I know. I realise that. The problem is that I can't fly that thing on my own. I don't care how easy you think it is—"

[You can] Zila said.

"How do you know! I don't understand why you thought this was a good idea!" It was probably their ONLY idea… and now you're stuck with it. He swallowed. No, Smartin. No way. "I really, really, really don't think I can—"

And so Martin found himself lying inside the spaceship, very much alone. The Muktians had stuck an old car seat inside (fancy chairs weren't a huge priority), tilted so that he was facing the sky. The ship's petals rose on every side, bordering his view. He stared at the patch of blue between them.

He wanted to feel like one of the Apollo astronauts. Like Luke Skywalker. Like Captain Kirk.

Instead, he felt like an insect.

Slowly, silently, the petals folded inwards. The patch of sky contracted, becoming a star, then a circle, then disappeared altogether as the petals met at a central point. Inside the ship it was suddenly dark. He couldn't see, couldn't hear, except for his breathing which was suddenly very loud. The ship was an egg. A cocoon. A bullet. In his head, the walls kept contracting, tighter and tighter until they were inches from his skin.

He was just beginning to panic when he heard a soft whine. The ship powered up, coming to life, filling with a soft blue glow. Silver material flowed around his hands, enveloping them in a way that looked perfectly solid but felt like melted cheese.

Well that's weird.

I'd love a grilled cheese right now.

The interior of the ship was rougher than its exterior, metal beams and plastic piping embedded in a silver skin. He barely had enough room to stretch out; although there was theoretically space for passengers towards the nose, he had a hard time imagining three more people inside.

"Okay, dude. Time for a rescue mission."

No backing out. No running away. It was like God had suddenly tapped him on the shoulder and whispered, 'you're it.'

He gulped. Faaaar out. I have no idea what I'm doing. I can't drive. I suck at Asteroids. I can't even SKATEBOARD.

[Martin?] \concerned.

"Yeah?"

[The data is good. The ship should work.]

"Should work? Or—"

[Will work] Zila interrupted. [I built it. It will work. Flawlessly.]

"Good to know," Martin said. "Good… to… know."

[The ship is small and will be hard to detect] Cooper said. [There will be no trouble. Human weapons are too slow. It is possible that the T'chorak may attack, if they are nearby.]

"What do I do then?"

[It is unlikely. Do not worry.]

That just makes me want to worry. "Can't I dodge them? Or outrun them?"

[Not with your flight abilities] Zila replied.

"I thought you said this ship was for babies."

[Babies do not need to outrun missiles. That is outside the ship's performance parameters.]

"Really wish you could've told me all this before I was about to leave," Martin said helplessly.

[Then you would not have left] Zila said.

He could only shrug.

[Believe in the ship] the alien continued. [Imagine your path, fix its course in your mind, and your control will come. The process is difficult to describe without experience, but it is straightforward. Believe] \encouraging.

[Time to go] Cooper said.

"Okay." He took a couple of breaths. "Okay."

For the first time in a long time, he thought about home.

He thought about his mom. His dad. His sister.

On the one hand: he missed them. He missed them a lot. He missed his dad's bad jokes; his mom's chicken pasta; Abigail's ability to sneak him into R-rated movies. Having an unconditional support network was freaking great.

On the other hand: what a mess. And that was before the whole 'cheating' thing. Every day, he'd been afraid of coming home from school, afraid of what he might find, afraid of everything falling apart. The shittiest part was, he kind of understood. I've lived with mom for fourteen years, but dad's been with her for… twenty? It's not easy, sometimes. She's always been controlling. At first, he'd been glad to leave that all behind.

He wondered where they were right now. Had Abigail had won her hockey game? She'd been due to play, the night he'd left.

Guess what, mom. Guess what, dad.

Turns out I don't need you.

Everything I've done, I've done without you.

I'll make it on my own.

As if in response, the ship glowed. It felt stupid but he concentrated on the ship – visualising its smooth, conic shape, sitting as it was now on the riverbank – and imagined it leaving the ground.

It did. With a jolt, his stomach dropped and he saw – imagined? – no, he saw the ship rise, its legs retracting, hovering five yards above the earth. It was like he was in two places at once: there was the Martin inside, confused as heck and lying in a car seat, and a Martin that was outside, who understood the ship, who was the ship, who knew how to make it soar as naturally as he could walk.

Fuuuuuaaaaar out!

The ship hovered, poking above the trees. Martin swallowed. He felt nauseous, light-headed, the adrenaline coming through and threatening to push his stomach out of his mouth. But he also felt in control.

He thought about going higher.

And the ship did. Oh boy, it did.

"AAAAAAAHHHH!"

Forget cocoons, forget butterflies – the ship was a bullet, he was a bullet, speeding through the atmosphere like frickin' Superman. The atmosphere slid round his nose, forming vortexes at his back, clouds thrust aside in a great pale 'V' stretching to the horizon. The engines burned blue. They felt warm. They felt good. Martin gripped the sides of his chair, acceleration pinning him in place. His lungs were being crushed by bricks. He could barely keep his open. It was the strangest sensation he'd ever experienced, human-Martin and ship-Martin fighting for dominance in his head.

[Handling it?] Zila asked.

"Like a baby!" He lost control for a moment as human-Martin took over, the ship dropping like a stone. "Aah! Holy sh—"

[Fly here] Cooper said, passing him a location.

He planted his feet and did his best to follow. Ship-Martin operated more on instinct more than conscious thought. He felt panic. He felt calm. He felt balance. He felt everything. Air currents, engine forces, the air in his lungs, all in equilibrium, like being on a rollercoaster while also sitting at your school desk. The ship sliced over patchwork fields and quilted forests and cloud-wreathed hills and blue-ribbon rivers faster than anything humankind had ever made. It was almost like acting, he realised – being yourself and losing yourself at the same time. The ship was a character. You had to act like you weren't some kid named Martin, but instead take bits of Martin, and bits of other people, and mix them together into something new, something more. No thinking. No being afraid, or embarrassed. Just… instinct. Then when the cameras rolled, and the ship flew, people wouldn't see Martin. They'd see an ace detective. They'd see a fighter pilot.

Martin was swiftly discovering he had some fighter pilot in him. The ship skipped across miles like a stone across water. There was a line of hills winding northward and he jinked from side to side, descending, skimming above the treetops and the racing, churning landscape. He dived through a gap between two peaks. The ship rolled. Sweet move. He was heading east, towards the sun and adjusted his course after Cooper's directions, flying higher, northward, the Earth turning beneath. Thrusters fired, steadying him as he cut through a jetstream.

Wish you could see me now, mom.

Wish you could be here, sis.

The ship climbed. The Earth fell away and Martin shivered. The land was so far below that it was hard to comprehend it as something that existed, something he'd walked on ten minutes past – a collage of colour, wrinkled and hazy and oddly beautiful with splashes of deep green and pale yellow and smoggy grey. It slid underneath him with eerie slowness.

Above, the sky was turning dark blue.

Below, the land was turning white.

I'm near the Arctic. He barely had time to register how amazing that was before Cooper told him to descend.

The ship dived. Hard. Martin nearly fell out of his chair, the silver restraints barely keeping him in place. There were several seconds of pants-shitting terror before he wrestled back control. Level out! Level out! The ship pierced a thick bank of clouds, arcing again into stable flight. Rain lashed at him. Lighting cracked in the distance, blinding white. He instructed the ship to maintain its course and wondered how it'd feel if the lighting struck. The clouds made everything seem unreal, dreamlike, no sky, no ground, no orientation – just endless, endless grey.

And suddenly, he was himself.

He was Martin Basso. Fourteen. Sitting in a tiny metal ball hurtling through the air at Mach 10.

I am supposed to be at SCHOOL.

I am supposed to be worrying about BIOLOGY TESTS and GIRLS and BAD CAFETERIA LUNCHES.

What the heck happened?

Ugly fear bubbled up inside. He'd said no to this whole idea. He distinctly remembered saying no. He remembered saying no to Charles, and saying no to Joe, and to Cooper, and generally saying no to a lot of things which they'd ended up doing anyway. Because they were reckless, and never listened. Because he was sensible. Because he was scared. He'd said no for a lot of reasons but it always turned out like he'd said yes. He felt like a swimmer being dragged out to sea, floundering, drowning, nothing to hold on to.

The sky was grey. He was sitting in a tiny metal ball hurtling through the air at Mach 10.

And do you know why? Do you know why you're doing this? It's because you've got a freaking good reason to. A great reason. The best reason in the world, 'cause Joe and Cary are your friends. You're part of this mess. Now get out of it.

His glasses were fogging. He wiped them clean. Martin Basso doesn't run. He ACES biology tests. He gets ALL the girls. He brings his OWN FREAKING LUNCH.

You've come a long way, dude.

Ahead in the clouds loomed a wide, dark shape, and Martin slowed to match its speed. It was an aeroplane, the biggest he'd ever seen – a six-engined monster painted steel grey, with swept-back wings and a two-pronged tail that sliced trails through the pounding rain. It appeared to be a cargo plane. No weapons, Russian flags on the tail. Martin instructed the ship to stay close.

[Joe is inside] Cooper said. [Keep following.]

Suddenly, they broke free of the storm, bursting into clear blue skies. Far below, there was sun-speckled ocean, as far as the eye could see. The plane was the size of a football field. Its distant shadow slid across the waves.

"What now?" Martin asked.

[There is a panel] Cooper said. [A blue panel. Do you see it?]

He glanced around the cockpit. "Next to the chair?"

[Press it.]

He leaned sideways and gave the panel a firm shove. It glowed red. Inside the ship – and outside, over the hurricane of passing air – Martin heard capacitors charge.

[Get ready.]

Twin beams of iridescent blue light lanced from the ship's nose. They covered the distance to the plane in an instant and sliced across the two left-most engines. The engines were there one second, then gone, nothing but jagged metal and a cloud of burning fuel. It sounded like… he couldn't decide what it sounded like. Martin stared, open-mouthed. Debris whipped past, thick black smoke trailing from the wing. The plane started listing to one side, tilting alarmingly, fighting to stay level as the other engines struggled to compensate.

"Holy crap."

[Again.]

"But—"

[Again!]

Two more beams, vibrating with energy. Two more engines simply disappeared, spewing fire. The plane shuddered and started to descend. Quickly.

Joe waited in their cell. He closed his eyes. It was easier to concentrate that way.

"What's Cooper saying?" Cary asked.

Joe held up his hand. The alien was literally on the other side of the world and trying to pick up his messages, on a good day, was like trying to hear whispers in a hurricane. I'm amazed this works at all. But if he stuffed his ears, and held his breath, and properly cleared his head…

It reminded him of chatting with Charles via walkie-talkie on a particularly stormy night. You had to get the antennas pointed just right.

[Cooper?]

[Joe-human! Joe. Get—]…[—is close. One minute.]

[Did you say get ready?]

[…signal. Go to the exit. Quickly.]

[We will! But… what are you going to do? What's happening?]

[…descend—retrieve you…]

[Cooper? Something about a signal? Cooper?]

Something tickled his brain but he couldn't decipher it. "Cooper says one minute."

"So what's the plan?" Cary asked. He hugged his own shoulders, arms wrapped like armour.

"Wait for a signal. Then run."

Cary snorted. "Awesome."

"It'll be fine," Sarah said. "C'mon, it'll be fine." She stretched, a sprinter preparing for a race.

"We've got like, an 80% chance of pancaking ourselves," Cary retorted. "That's not fine."

"Don't be daft," Sarah said.

"Skydiving? Like, we're going skydiving? Seriously?"

"Only if we have to."

"Dude, we're thousands of feet up – we're gonna have to!"

Joe shrugged. To be honest, he hadn't considered the skydiving part. He probably wouldn't consider it until he was three seconds from jumping, and by then, he suspected he'd agree with Cary. Bad plan. It was weird, though. A year ago, Cary would've, well – jumped at the chance to jump out of a plane. Then through the walls came a wave of sound, a rumble that made his bones rattle and plane shift under them a couple of feet sideways. He stumbled into the wall. Planes were not supposed to move like that—

Cary grabbed his wrist. "Joe," he whispered.

"Yeah?"

"We'd better not get lost again." His grip hurt, tightening like a vice, and there was fear in his eyes, the kind of fear that made a lump form in Joe's throat.

"We won't." He tried to smile, but ended up frowning.

He put an arm around Cary's shoulders, a flimsy sort of hug, and felt him tremble against his chest.

I had no idea he…

Well, I guess I did.

We're all the same kind of broken.

Sarah put her arms around them too, tilting her head close. Her hair smelled of salt, and sweat, and the citrus-y soap that was used to clean their cell. It felt strange; almost like saying goodbye.

"Let's do it," she said. "Let's do it." The plane was shivering, more and more. "Whatever happens… I hope you find your friends."

Joe nodded. "I hope you get back to your family."

Sarah sniffed. "Man, this is so effed up—"

BOOM! A second blast, even louder. Their teeth rattled, and their ears popped, and the floor tilted left, slightly at first, then more and more until Sarah lost her footing and slid into the far corner and Cary followed, nearly crashing on top of her. Joe somehow managed to hook his fingers into an air vent as the plane tipped way too much, emitting a feral mechanical SHRIEK like a dying elephant. Probably the engines, he realised. Or what's left of them. Uh-oh.

Sarah picked herself up, wedged in the corner. "Sorry! Sorrysorrysorry!"

"We need to get out of here!" Joe shouted. He held on, hanging from the vent. One of his fingers was already bleeding.

"No shit!" Cary shrieked. "I didn't know Cooper was shooting the friggin' plane down!"

"He isn't, I think? I can't feel him close by, so it has to be something else—"

"Doesn't matter! Details later!" Sarah scrambled up the inclined floor, propelling herself upward so she could grab the door handle. She hung from it, swinging, fiddling with the lock. Boxes and debris tumbled down the hallway outside. Suddenly the plane rolled level, the engine screams lessening slightly – then, slowly, it started to turn a different way.

It felt to Joe like it was tipping forwards. Going down.

"Hurry it up!" Cary said.

"Gimme a sec, gimme a sec— ta-da!" The cell door swung open.

Joe breathed a sigh of relief amidst the chaos. Turns out you CAN break one of those locks, if you've got enough foil and cutlery.

"Told you it would work," Cary said. "I freaking told you—"

"Let's GO!"

One by one, they pulled themselves through the door.

They were free.

Well, sort of. The plane's central corridor stretched ahead of them, towards the nose, until it was blocked by a T-junction. The lights flickered. Joe smelled smoke. There were more cells nearby, all empty, but he could hear voices shouting from up ahead. Split-second decision: which exit to go for? The other passengers would be busy strapping themselves down in the main cabin. That left the cargo level.

They ran towards the junction. The plane shuddered, squeaking and shivering like rubber. His stomach rolled.

"I never wanna board another plane! Ever!" Sarah hissed.

"I think most planes don't—" Joe began.

"EVER!"

At the junction was another short corridor – stairway to the left, the main cabin to the right. Joe caught the barest glimpse of panicked soldiers as they scampered past, the plane continuing its dive. It was like walking down a steep hillside, fighting gravity with every step. The engines shrieked. Thick black smoke spewed from the vents. The stairs were nearly vertical and Joe hugged the handrail with both hands, half-climbing half-sliding down it like a fireman's pole. He reached the bottom first, Cary and Sarah soon after.

"HEY! Stop!"

Joe looked up. Atop of the stairs stood a scared – and angry – soldier.

"Crap!" Cary yelled. "Run!"

They sprinted around the corner into the cargo bay, hearing boots thump as the soldier dropped down. Why are you chasing us! Joe thought furiously. Don't you have more important stuff to do?!

The cavernous hold was roughly half-full of crates. Sarah and Cary went to grab parachutes while Joe ran towards the cargo ramp. The plane somehow tipped even further and he fell back, sliding on his butt for a couple of metres before scrambling to his feet. A panel on the starboard side contained the cargo ramp controls. He scanned it quickly; despite the Russian text he could make sense of the symbols. It was obviously bad to lower the ramp in flight, and to make sure you couldn't do it accidentally there were five separate switches.

Joe flipped all five. Beep! Beep! Beep! The locking mechanism hissed. Sirens on the walls flashed red.

Sarah threw him a parachute. "Here!"

He caught it, strapping it around his chest and shoulders.

"Stay close to me," she said. "I'll show you how to use it when it's—"

The ramp cracked open. Gale-force winds blasted into the bay, a whistling scream, lessening to a dull roar as the ramp descended. Joe looked at the patch of sky beyond. Cary was right. This plan is… not great. He felt suddenly lightheaded, as if he wasn't getting enough air even though there was literally miles of it right there. It's because of pressure, right? Something about low pressure…

"Joe! Look out!" Cary yelled.

He whirled around to see the Russian soldier running towards him. He looked for anything he could use to—

Suddenly the plane pitched up. The soldier fell. So did Joe. Gravity pinned them down, rivets digging into his chest, like the world's most terrifying rollercoaster loop. The plane levelled. Joe struggled to his feet, sick, disoriented. The ramp was almost fully open. Just a little longer. Inside the cargo bay it was like standing in a tornado, the wind tearing at clothes and hair and eyes. The world tilted up, further, further and a couple of crates shifted in their harnesses, straining, then broke free, sliding along the ribbed metal floor, faster and faster, hitting other crates – the soldier dived out of the way and Joe pressed himself against the wall as they skidded past, then hit the edge of the ramp and tumbled into open sky.

The soldier was close. He went for the switch.

Cary screamed, brandishing a fire extinguisher. He slammed it into the soldier's back but couldn't get much force into it. The soldier was stronger – much stronger – and pulled Cary into a chokehold.

"No!" Sarah shouted.

Cary gagged, face turning red. The soldier stayed calm. He moved steadily towards the cargo ramp switch.

The ramp was down.

This is our chance.

No more drugs, no more cells, no more pain, no more questions.

This is our chance. Our only chance.

"Go!" Cary shouted, struggling wildly. "Jump!"

No more being alone.

Sarah was frozen. The soldier was close, now. Close to the switch.

Joe locked eyes with Cary. They had the same kind of fear in them, the kind that said it was already too late. He swallowed.

Screw it. There was an equipment locker next to the door lever. Joe ripped it open. Inside was another fire extinguisher, an oxygen bottle, wrenches, screwdrivers—

His hand closed around an emergency flare. He tore off the cap and scraped it against the wall. It sparked instantly and the bay was filled with brilliant red light, so bright it hurt. Joe hoped that meant it was hot.

He stepped towards the soldier, brandishing the flare like a knife.

The soldier's eyes narrowed.

Joe charged. He stumbled up the incline of the plane, whirling the flare around like crazy – the open ramp sucked everything towards it, red sparks forming a whip-like trail – and he managed to duck the soldier's swinging arm and stabbed high at the man's shoulder. There was a sizzling noise and the Russian cursed and let Cary go, a smoking black patch on his uniform.

Cary darted away, clutching his neck. The soldier retreated. He moved between them and the ramp.

"This guy is way too dedicated!" Sarah shouted.

The plane rolled. Joe kept moving towards the soldier, suddenly realising it was Butt-Face. He whipped the flare around, forcing him towards the edge. C'mon. C'mon. Get out of the way. He could feel Cary and Sarah behind him, ready to jump.

Where are you Cooper?

Stubbornly, Butt-Face held his ground. The flare hissed red.

They were on the ramp.

No walls. No safety railings. It was too much, way too much – the wind, the cacophony, the sudden burst of fear when he realised that he was standing on a flat bit of metal in the dizzying blue. His feet ached from being too close to an edge. Distant storm clouds loomed to the rear, criss-crossed by smoke from the battered engines. He focused on them. Focused on the soldier. Everything else was—

His knees wobbled. The Russian went for him, grabbing his shoulders. Joe fought, dropping the flare which rolled right over the edge, cursing his stupid muscles and his stupid fear (actually not stupid right now) – his vision swam but he kicked real hard and suddenly the soldier let go and stumbled back.

And back.

And back, until he was teetering on the edge of the ramp.

Now there was terror in Butt-Face's eyes. The soldier's arms pinwheeled as he struggled to keep his balance, to lean that tiny bit forwards so the gale couldn't snatch him away.

Joe watched. His muscles were jelly. He could barely think.

He wanted to be at school. He wanted to be home.

I wonder if it's snowing in Lillian yet. I wonder if my dad's still out there, looking for us.

The Russian wavered, like a leaf on the breeze.

I should help him. Alice would, if she was here. If she isn't dead.

Maybe she was. Alice, Charles, Preston. Maybe they were gone.

He couldn't bear it. Couldn't bear not knowing. He thought of all the times his friends had been in danger. How close they'd come to dying, over and over, from bullets, or explosions, or smashed-up trains, or soldiers or aliens or their own stupid mistakes. We've been through so freaking much. It isn't fair.

Life isn't fair. Sometimes, you had the chance to do things differently. Other times, you had no chance at all. Right, mom? He reached out, towards the soldier. He thought about how it'd felt, coming home from school, after she'd died. How it still felt.

He never wanted to feel that again.

He never wanted anyone else to feel that. Especially not his friends. Not ever.

Sometimes, you had the chance to make sure things worked out. Take it. The thought wrapped around him like a vine, solidifying like iron.

He reached out.

And pushed.

The soldier tipped back – the briefest glimpse of surprise in his eyes – and was snatched away by the wind.

There wasn't even a scream.

Joe stood on the precipice. He looked down. There was just… blue.

He turned. Cary and Sarah were staring at him, mouths open.

Below, the sea rolled.

What did I do?

He imagined the soldier the soldier, falling.

Falling.

Falling.

He closed his hands into fists. They felt hot. More than hot. They burned.

What did I do…

The sky was empty, like nobody had been there at all.

He noticed they were flying over water. That was bad. Worse than bad. It made the parachutes nearly useless, because even if the drop didn't kill them the ocean definitely would. His head ached. He felt like throwing up. Why hadn't he realised they were over water? He should've checked. They should've checked before any of this.

And then, rising from beneath the plane…

…came a UFO. There was no other word for it: a shining metallic egg supported by bright blue engines, its front shaped strangely like a flower. The UFO bobbed up and down, hovering effortlessly thirty yards from the ramp. A small hatch opened in the nose and a person – yep, definitely a real human person – stuck their head out, shouting into the wind. "Hey! Guys! Need a ride?"

Joe froze. Is this the moment? Am I going insane?

"…Hey? Guys?"

Cary clapped his hands over his mouth, then shrieked like a six-year-old. "WHAT THE FU—"

Alice stood on the doorstep of the church. "Thank you," she said. "I really appreciate it."

The priest smiled in reply. He was young, broad-shouldered, with cropped red hair and a friendly openness that was always ready to lend a sympathetic ear. (Said ears were also too big for his head, which made it seem like he was listening extra hard).

"Are you sure you can't tell me anything?" he asked, leaning on the doorframe. It was just after sunset, and the light above the archway had attracted a cloud of moths.

Alice shook her head. "We're…"

"I know. You're waiting for someone."

She smiled, not meeting his eyes. "I doubt you'd believe me."

"You'd be surprised – nowadays there isn't much I wouldn't believe." The priest chuckled wryly. "The Bible doesn't really touch on aliens. Sunday sermons are really keeping me on my toes these days." He handed her a shopping bag of food, enough for a couple of days. "Here. And whoever you're waiting for… I heard a lotta main roads are closed, so it might take 'em a while to get here. Longer than you'd expect."

"I'll keep that in mind," Alice said. "Thanks again. For everything."

The priest nodded. "Okay, then. Don't be afraid to drop by if it gets too cold."

"I will."

"Have a good night, Hannah."

She waved and walked down the steps, around the side of the small church. It wasn't much – a low, rectangular hall with a sloped roof, its insides beige and brown – but at its rear, sticking out of waist-high grass, was a gnarled, leafless oak tree.

And the tree supported a pretty darn awesome treehouse. It had been built in Zalma's heyday as a play area for the neighbourhood kids, but now, years later, was all but abandoned. It consisted of a pair of wooden platforms, nailed together from dozens of weathered planks. The first platform was larger, about three yards up, the second three yards above that, connected by a steep ladder. Both platforms supported kid-sized cabins, surrounded by thin walkways and railings. The treehouse was surprisingly well-constructed – very square and sturdy – despite some rotting edges and widening gaps as the tree pushed ever-skyward.

After dragging some information out of her, the priest had offered it as a place to stay. (Strictly it wasn't any more comfortable than the junkyard, but at least the smell was better.) If I was eight years old I'd be WAY into this.

Alice slung the bag over her shoulder and climbed the rope ladder to the first platform. At the top, she turned, gazing back towards the town.

The tiny, unassuming church.

The thin, cracked streets.

The overgrown yards.

The clumps of trees.

The simple houses, scattered, like the town itself was hiding.

A school – just three or four buildings – and a couple of small stores.

The abandoned sawmill.

The river, winding its way through everything.

It made her sad, in a small way. The people she saw seemed happy, and she was half-convinced she was being overly judgemental, but compared to Lillian, Zalma felt… dead. Or dying. Now, for instance, there wasn't a living soul in sight. No cars, no people, no families out walking their dogs. A few strands of smoke curled from distant chimneys, but that was all. To be fair, Zalma was fifty times smaller than Lillian, but even its name was sad. According to the priest, Zalma meant 'the end.'

Fitting.

The wind rustled through the grass, biting and cold, and she drew her jacket close. Maybe Lillian was like this. Dead. Dying. Empty. It was hard to not obsess over the things she'd lost, the people she hadn't seen, the life she'd left behind. 'We're waiting for someone', she kept telling the priest, and to his credit he'd mostly let them be. Her words, though, were starting to sound hollow. As the stars came out, night after night, she couldn't help wondering if her dad was perhaps looking up at the same stars, and Joe too, thinking similar things, and even if that was the most effing cheesy thought in the world she wanted it so badly to be true.

Where are you?…

Don't. Don't think about it. Plenty of time to be sad tomorrow.

It was a weird day.

A really weird day.

Alice ducked inside the cabin. Preston wasn't there, which probably meant he was upstairs. "Preston?"

"Uh – hey!" he called back.

"I'm coming up."

"Don't! Please."

"O…kay?"

"I'm, uh – getting changed! Yep! Getting changed. Not many clothes on, in here." There was a rustling noise, and the sound of something being dragged across the floor. "I need two minutes. Two and a half. Three."

"Um. Sure?"

Alice shrugged and put the food down. There were a couple of plastic chairs and a fold-out table. She sat. In the corner was an old electric heater, connected by an extension cord to the church, which she switched on. Its warm orange glow gradually filled the cabin. She picked up a dirty tennis ball and started bouncing it, off the floor, then the wall, then back to her hand. Floor, wall, hand. Floor, wall, hand. The sound reminded her of gym class. Right around now it got really wet and cold, so most of the time they'd play indoors – basketball, or volleyball maybe. Squeaking shoes, people laughing, the patter of the rain coming down outside…

Eventually, she heard Preston climbing down the ladder. That took at LEAST five minutes.

"Hey," he said. He looked… panicky.

Alice's eyes narrowed. "Hiding your girlfriend up there?"

"No! Definitely no." He swallowed, then rolled his eyes a little. "Have you ever seen me talk to any girls? Besides you?"

"Preston, I'm not exactly keeping tabs on you."

"It doesn't happen."

"Why not? You're smart. I know plenty of girls at school who think that's kinda cute. I can name names if you want."

He stared at her, as if she wasn't getting something. "Okay. Well. I was thinking we should eat upstairs. It's a – a better view"

She smiled faintly. "So that's what all the noise was?"

"Noise?"

"Whatever." She pocketed the tennis ball, then stepped outside onto the walkway.

"After you," he said.

She climbed the ladder to the second platform. At the top was a trapdoor, which she opened carefully, sticking her head through into the upper cabin. Inside it was usually fairly cramped, filled with old toys and assorted childhood detritus – but Preston had pushed it all aside. In the middle of the floor was an upturned milk crate, and sitting on it was a cake.

It was a small cake. Two half-melted candles were stuck lopsidedly into the icing.

Alice stood up, taking care not to hit her head. She looked around. There were a few balloons lying on the floor – red, green, yellow – shifting in the wind. Homemade streamers dangled from the ceiling. And hanging on the far wall was a tattered towel, letters painted on it in hasty, dripping purple:

H-A-P-P-Y

B-I-R-T-H-D-A-Y!

She stared at the towel for a long moment. The candles flickered, throwing shadows across the cabin.

It was stupid.

Shitty streamers. Shitty balloons (all three of them). A shitty banner. Even the cake, with two shitty candles. It was stupid. But…

Don't cry.

Don't freaking cry.

She blinked a couple of times, the words blurring before her eyes.

It was a weird day.

A really weird day.

She heard Preston climb up behind her. "What's this for?" she whispered.

"It… is your birthday, isn't it?" he asked cautiously.

"Well, yeah." She sniffed. "How'd you know?"

"Joe… Joe was planning a surprise for you. He already had the date planned and everything. Before… you know."

Joe. Of course it was Joe.

"Sorry about the banner," he said. "I tried to make it neat, but—"

"Preston, thank you. This is… incredible. Really."

"It is?"

"Yeah. It is." She turned and threw her arms around his shoulders. He stiffened in surprise. It was weird; she was so good at making herself cry, but absolute garbage at stopping. What a mess. She closed her eyes. A couple of tears still managed to escape and slid down her cheeks, dripping onto his shirt.

Eventually, he hugged her back, a little awkwardly.

"I can't believe you remembered," she murmured. "Where'd you get all this stuff?"

"Oh, places. You don't want to know where I found the candles."

Alice laughed. It was a snotty, ugly-cry laugh, but still a laugh. She stepped back, wiping her face. "Ugh. Sorry."

"That's okay." Preston blushed, glancing at the floor, smiling.

"This has to be the best birthday party ever."

"Uh… I hope not?"

"Definitely top three. Wait." She paused. "Don't tell me I missed your—"

"No no no, it was months ago. In May."

"Okay. Then… next year. Next year, I'll make you a banner. With four balloons. And proper streamers."

"Next year," Preston agreed.

For the first time in a long time, 'next year' didn't seem so miserable, or quite so far away.

They sat cross-legged on the wooden floor as Alice cut the cake. Strictly, it was more like she tore the cake into two roughly equal pieces with her bare hands, but whatever. Same result, just slightly messier. She licked her fingers. It tasted of… chocolate? Dry, but edible.

From behind his back, Preston produced a crumpled party hat.

Alice snorted. "Where the hell d'you find that?"

"I packed it with me when we left Lillian. I've been carrying it for weeks."

"Uh-huh." She put the hat on, tucking the string under her chin. '15!' it said, in shiny letters. "I bet you talked to the priest. I bet he helped you."

"Eh."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Eh."

"Fine." She handed him his slice of cake, crumbs trickling across the floorboards. This is the most ridiculous god-damn thing.

The pièce de résistance was one of those extendable whistle streamer things – Alice realised she didn't know what they were called. Preston raised it to his lips and blew.

FUH-WOOOOOT!

The streamer nearly hit her in the face.

Happy birthday to you

Happy birthday to you

Happy birth day to Alice

Happy birthday to you

They munched on the cake in companionable silence, washing it down with flat Pepsi. The pair of candles dimmed and dimmed, vanishing into misshapen wax pools that dripped between the floorboards.

"We should check the TV," Preston said, mouth half-full. "Before going to bed."

The TV was very tiny, and very old: a 20cm wooden cube as heavy as lead, tucked away in the back room of the church. When switched on, it birthed an explosion of static, eventually settling into grainy black-and-white. Preston fiddled with the antenna. By connecting it to an extension cord and carrying it precariously up the ladder, they could even watch TV in the treehouse. It almost felt like sleeping over at a friend's place, staying up late to watch a movie; its background hum was oddly comforting and she'd dozed off to it more than once. Sometimes, it felt good to pretend to be normal.

ABC was showing Battlestar Galactica as usual, and NBC was showing Disney, which meant that nothing was immediately wrong. CBS had 60 Minutes.

"Holy crap," Preston said.

"What?"

"That's Joe's dad – isn't it?"

Alice blinked. Just from the picture, you couldn't be sure, but the voice… it was unmistakeable.

Jack was being interviewed on 60 Minutes. The host was talking to him in front of the Washington Monument, its pale spire stretching into the sky, both men huddling out of the wind. The chyron said 'Jackson Lamb: alien negotiator and expert witness.'

"—these rogue factions," Jack was saying. "They've been trying to hide this from the world – from the American people. We need to be accepting new allies against this threat—"

"Alien allies?" the interviewer asked. "Is that produent?"

"If they're friendly, I don't see why it matters. We've already been treated far worse by parts of our own government. Time's running out for—"

"Oh my god," Alice murmured.

First thought: he looked OK.

Second thought: did that mean things were OK back home? With her dad?

Third thought: why was Jack there?

Next thought: 60 Minutes was big. 60 Minutes was watched by millions of people. It felt weird to suddenly—

And then there was a knock on the door.

"Hannah? Are you there?" the priest said. "There's someone here to see you."