CHAPTER 1
In his dreams, again and again, everyone died. The tap-tap-tap of a woodpecker against his windowsill was the relentless thump-thump-thump of a helicopter’s rotor, the harsh report of gunfire—and the steady gait of something otherworldly, something massive, something that killed everyone and everything in a single, merciless sweep through his base, and then, as it saw him, its eyes burning like a pair of malevolent suns through the smoke and dust, Jack Darby woke up.
Still, for a second, his eyes were closed, his mind stuck on the nightmare. Images, vivid and terrifying, played behind his eyelids. Then he awoke properly, shooting upright, with his heart hammering behind his ribs like a trapped parakeet. His breathing simmered down to a quiet rasp. But for a second, just a second, he could feel the heat from the blast, taste the familiar tang of blood in his mouth...
“It was just a dream,” he said. “Just trauma. I’m okay. I’m okay.”
With a sigh, Jack dragged himself out of bed. He shuffled over to his window, dragged his curtains open, and frowned at the woodpecker. It didn’t care—it just kept pecking at his windowsill. He couldn’t bring himself to shoo it away.
Rubbing at his eyes, Jack sat down before his personal computer and went through his emails. At the top: “Regarding your application...” Click, scroll. “Thank you for your interest, but...”
A rejection, of course. As if it could be anything else. The security guard job had been the same as the rest—a polite smile, some veiled condolences for his service, and the question no one ever dared to ask: “Can you handle this, son?” He’d been someone. A Ranger. The pressure of an ornery customer or a ringing cash register paled against the things he’d done. The things he’d seen.
And yet.
How long had it been? Three months. Three months since they’d hauled him from the wreckage, dehydrated and delirious. Three months of diagnoses. Whispers about ‘stress’ and ‘survivor’s guilt’ and ‘coping mechanisms.’ Three months where his true and honest account had earned him nothing but pitying stares and sad smiles—at best. So, here he was. Back in his childhood bedroom, walls plastered with faded posters of rock bands he barely remembered being a fan of. Back in downtown suburbia. Like the last six years hadn’t happened. Like he hadn’t seen—
His mom was in the kitchen and, by the smell of it, had burnt the toast again. “Morning, honey,” she said, with what had to be false cheer. “Sorry. Burnt the toast again.”
Jack forced a smile. “Wasn’t your fault. Might need a new model. That thing has to be almost as old as me.”
His mom set a plate of slightly charred toast in front of him. He glanced down at it. “Hey, come on—you should eat. You barely touched your dinner last night. A good breakfast means a good day.”
“If only it was that easy, mom. Got another rejection.”
His mother’s smile faltered for a second. “There’ll be other opportunities. Just keep trying.”
Jack knew she meant well, but her optimism felt like a punch to the gut. “Sure. But I was qualified for that job. Overqualified, even. It’s just...” He sighed. “No one wants to hire a soldier. Not one like me.” He rubbed the jagged scar across his palm with his thumb, and went silent. He knew his silence was a wall, a barrier he didn’t intend to put up and couldn’t tear down once he had—but she couldn’t get it.
“Jack?”
“I should go for a walk,” he said, rising. “I said I’d visit Maggie and Glen today. I’ll get something to eat from a fast food place or something, promise.”
“Okay. Love you, honey.”
“Love you, mom.”
He grabbed his MP3 player, pulled on his boots and his jacket, and paused only to say good morning to the birds. His mom had bought a quartet of parakeets while he’d been away in the Middle East, and each of them seemed to think they were the most important bird in the cage. Not that it was a bad cage—as far as Jack knew, it seemed like a very ideal sort of cage. Jack was pretty sure he could fit himself in there.
For a few minutes, he passed each little bird some seed through the cage bars, aware of his mom watching him from the doorway, and then headed out. Sure, they called it empty nest syndrome but, even now, he’d never expected his mom to take it so literally.
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Jasper, CA was about the same as any other suburb in Los Angeles. The sort of place where war was something you saw on the nightly news. Still, it felt good to be out in the fresh air. He stuck his earphones in and set out. I feel so extraordinary, something’s got a hold on me...
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Glen and Maggie (who were always Glen and Maggie) weren’t too far away. Not by his standards, anyway, and the old standards of Captain Lennox. Jack set a brisk pace, letting the music set his tempo. He sang between breaths.
A few blocks away from his house, a motorcycle pulled up ahead of him. Green and white, with markings on it Jack couldn’t place—but they looked almost like Japanese kanji. He’d thought about buying a bike once, had always dreamed of it. But as a kid, his mom had called them deathtraps (and she was right) and then Captain Lennox had said the worst thing anyone could do as a young man in the military was buy a flashy vehicle (and he was right.)
Still, he thought, as he passed by, it was a stylish pair of wheels.
“Hey, soldier boy—you got a minute?”
Jack paused mid-step, turned. There, still sitting astride her bike, was the person who’d addressed him. She was wearing motorcycle leathers from head to toe, and she hadn’t bothered to remove her helmet. Jack met her eyes to visor.
“I’m sorry?”
The helmet had to have some kind of speaker in it. It gave her words an electronic edge. “You heard me. Sergeant Jackson Darby, right?”
Jack frowned. “Not anymore.”
“So, that’s an affirmative. I need to talk with you. Do you have a minute to talk?”
“Probably not,” he said. “Who are you?”
“Let’s just say I’m not from around here. The name’s Sadie.”
He glanced back at her motorcycle. “Yeah, and is this where you tell me a public servant’s salary can pay for that beast, Sadie?”
“I’m not with your government.”
“Then I really don’t have a minute for you.”
“What happened at SOCCENT?” she asked.
Jack felt his frown slacken, his spine cool. “Nothing happened at SOCCENT,” he replied, feeling his teeth clench.
“Really.”
“It was a terrorist attack. Someone smuggled a bomb in on one of the MH-53s.” If he said it, he might even believe it. “It went off as it landed. Ignited the ammo stores, the fuel depot...” But that was insane. It couldn’t happen. It hadn’t happened. He stared Sadie down. She didn’t move, didn’t shift a single iota atop her bright green motorcycle.
“It’s all in the official reports,” he said, as if that made it any more true. “And I don’t talk to the press, either.”
“Because of the giant robot,” Sadie said, like she was prompting him, and if she was prompting him-
“I don’t have time for this, I have somewhere to be,” Jack said. “Good morning to you, Sadie, but please don’t bother me again.”
The silence stretched. A car went past. Sadie remained impassive and unreadable behind her helmet.
“Perhaps you’re right,” she said. “Well, soldier boy, as you wish. But think about this: even the most isolated outposts can have guardians you don’t see coming.”
Without another word, Sadie got her motorcycle running and pulled away from the sidewalk. Someone beeped their horn at her. Jack watched her tear off down the street, following her with his eyes until she turned left and he lost sight of her. Only then, did he resume his walk. He was one block away when he realized he was shaking.
He turned his music up.
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Glen and Maggie (who were always Glen and Maggie, ever since high school they’d been Glen and Maggie) ran a cars-and-computers fix-it place over in Pasadena. It was an unusual business, run out of his family home, but they were an unusual pair. Jack brought McDonalds hash browns with him, as was customary. He rang the doorbell.
Glen greeted him with a smile that was almost as wide as his waist. “Jack Darby! The JD himself! Come in, come in—oh, hash browns, are these for me? Remember, watch the carpet. Grandmama don’t like anyone putting their shoes on the carpet.”
Jack slipped his boots off and carried them in. Glen Whitmann was the kind of guy who, thanks to his skills with computers, had enough money to put himself through college before he’d graduated high school—and still lived with his grandmother. Not that Jack had much of a leg to stand on.
“Maggie!” Glen called. “It’s Jack!”
“Garage!” Maggie called back.
“You good to find your way there, Jack?”
“Sure. 10-4.”
Then, there was Maggie. She had the looks of a cheerleader but the brains of a mechanic. Glen handled the computers, she handled the cars. She was, in Glen’s words, his “improbably attractive yet entirely platonic business partner.”
Maggie smiled at Jack as he entered. “Well, hey.”
“Hey. I think we had a car engine to fix up?”
“That’s about it,” Maggie said. “You ready the work?”
“Sure. Leading the way.”
It felt good working with his hands. Back in high school, he’d been intent on living up to his mom’s expectations more than anything else. He could’ve gone to any college he wanted, but he’d joined the military. When the towers had been struck, he’d wanted so badly to mean something.
Coming back home, with everything that’d happened, working with his hands put everything in perspective. Stripping an engine down, rebuilding it piece by piece. There was an obvious metaphor there, and maybe it was even true. Maggie was nice, and she understood that he needed space. They’d offered him an actual job, but that felt like accepting he couldn’t find one on his own two feet. And neither cars nor computers came with a job description that required you to remain calm under fire or assess a tactical situation within the span of a single heartbeat.
“Hey, Maggie,” he said, after a while.
“What’s up?”
He paused. “Do you know anyone named Sadie?”
She thought it over, wiping her hands on a rag. “I don’t think so, why?”
“Just something weird on the way over.”
“How weird are we talking, mate?”
“A little bit weird. Think Glen has our old high school yearbook?”
“Probably. Guy’s a bit of a hoarder. Want me to ask him?”
“Sure.”
Maggie left the garage, leaving Jack with his thoughts. They were quiet, and that was good. She returned before too long, and passed Jack the 2001 yearbook. He flipped it open, skimming through the pages. He had no idea what this ‘Sadie’ looked like, which was a problem, but if there was a name, that might be enough.
But there wasn’t one.
“Huh, no Sadies,” Jack said, and passed the yearbook back. “Thanks, Maggie.”
“No worries,” Maggie said. “But, hey, who’s this Sadie chick?”
“I don’t have a clue,” Jack replied, shrugging. But she knew where he lived, and the easiest possibility had been that she’d known him from high school. But he remembered the confident tone of her words, and the resolute calm as she’d sat there and watched him. Like an eagle deigning to talk to a field mouse.
“But,” he added, “she had one helluva motorcycle.”