The next pce Merry takes me is a set of honest to God working showers with hot running water - which is such a damn relief to see, something I didn’t know I craved like a roast fucking chicken – that I almost don’t notice or mind the fact that someone else took off his clothes and left them in one slightly ajar locker in an absurd row of more than 7 of them.

  There’s a tie hanging out of it. Who willingly wears a tie after the invaders started leveling the empty office buildings?

  “Uh, I don’t think I’ll be alone in there,” I protest.

  “So it seems,” Meredith says – is she rolling her eyes at me? “One of our other pilots was on duty and wanted to wash up after the battle, not that I bme him.”

  “Fantastic,” I sigh. “And this is really the best way to meet him?”

  “You frankly need the shower and clean clothing,” Meredith says, voice ft. “What, are you afraid he’s going to make fun of your -”

  I sigh and take off my jacket. “Just give a man some privacy.”

  “If I see one I will, and leave you alone to undress too,” she says.

  “Okay, I walked into that one,” I say, dragging a hand down my face.

  “Soap, shampoo and towels in the lockers.” Meredith opens one of the lockers and gestures at its contents for my benefit. “Leave everything you want washed inside, which should be everything but maybe the jacket; I’ll bring clean clothes from next door.”

  I hand it to her. “And then?”

  She takes a deep breath.

  “And then you meet our commander,” she says. “The Colonel.”

  “Knock knock,” I say as I enter the shower room proper, grimacing with a towel over my waist and a basket of soaps in my other hand.

  The owner of a surprisingly deep voice answers without skipping a beat or turning around. “Who’s there?” he says, an amused lilt in his voice.

  The guy is taller than me, broader than me (though not by much), and I think he even has a bit of a mustache going, though it’s a thin one. Dark skin, redwood colored. Dreadlocks gathered into a kind of ponytail down to the small of his back, that he’s carefully squeezing the water out of with his hands.

  I try to ignore his presence while getting the water up to Hot Enough. “New pilot,” I say.

  “New pilot who?” he responds, wrapping his dreadtail in a towel.

  “New pilot who’s gonna kick some alien ass,” I say, and step into the shower and oh Dios dulce I needed this so badly.

  “Well I sure damn hope so,” the other guy says, chuckling as he scrubs. “Can always use another wingman out there.”

  I roll my shoulders, a little annoyed at the talk during the moment from a stranger. Guess I shouldn’t be a stranger, though, if this guy’s talking about me as a wingman...

  “You another pilot?” I ask, soaping up.

  “Of the Saturday Knight. The one and only Captain Reginald Beauregard, bon ami,” he says. “Reggie if you like me.”

  I’m not sure I’d go that far yet. “Jesus F. Castelno,” I say. “Guess the rank comes after I see the XO and the old man.”

  “Don’t let him push you around too much,” he says, wagging a finger at me. “When Vicky Lam says 'jump,' you ask how high, mind. Callsign Sunshine ain’t blowing any up anyone’s ass. But the Colonel’s about strategy, not tactics. It’s his job to tell us what needs doing; it’s not his job to tell us how to do it, you feel me?”

  I know that he’s been at this longer than me, and I know it’s good advice. But goddamn is getting a lecture during my first hot shower in about five, seven years annoying as hell, especially -

  "I take it that Sunshine is Major Lam's callsign?" I ask.

  "On account of the cheerful and warm disposition she doesn't have, yeah," Reginald says, grinning.

  I roll my eyes but do ugh; of COURSE that's why she's called Sunshine.

  “How old are you, anyway?" I ask. "How long have you been at this?

  “Sixteen, survived this for about a year of actual missions,” he says, locking eyes with mine.

  In other words, older than me and tougher than me, and daring me to prove he’s smarter by picking a fight about it, too.

  I scoff, but don’t act the fool. “Understood, Captain Beauregard. Sir.”

  “Hm.” He frowns, pursing his lips, like he doesn’t like that, but then he turns off the shower and grabs his towel. “See you at dinner, most likely, Jesus.”

  “Just Soos is fine,” I sigh, as I start scrubbing off a year of dead skin and bad memories. “Everyone calls me that.”

  “If you’ll call me Reggie,” he says, and leaves me alone with the hot water and my thoughts.

  Someone, probably Meredith, left me a goodie pack of clothing while I was showering. Whatever I imagined a pilot candidate uniform was, this wasn’t exactly it.

  Pin blue boxers, a little big on me. Bck trousers and a belt with woven leather strands, as well as holsters for my gun and knife; also a little big, but the belt keeps it in pce. Pale blue button down shirt, fits like a nickname.

  I throw on the lucky forest camo coat over everything else, holster the gun and knife in its pockets, check the lighter and pencils and yellowing curled notebook.

  The top entry on it is pointing to this isnd, with the words “Colonel Fitzroy?!” circled and underlined.

  I put it away, take a deep breath.

  Time to see if the man in charge is my old man, after all.

  It’s not Merry but Isaac that escorts me to the Colonel’s office. Says that she had to talk to XO Lin, which made sense if she was her - Oracle, navigator, copilot, however you wanted to slice it.

  He holds the door open for me. I thank him and step inside.

  Big desk; big map of the Bay behind it, with color coded pushpins that painted a grim picture, assuming that red was the enemy. Working desktop computer, but also a ton of paperwork needing actual paper and pen, sprawled across it. An electric coffee pot half-full and steaming with a mug from the “Treasure Isnd Job Corps Center” to match on a coaster. Big, plush leather rolling office chair.

  And in it, a thin and stretched man pushing sixty if I was fifteen, balding with salt and pepper fring over his ears and as sideburns, bony hands with well-trimmed nails steepled over his mouth, supporting his head with elbows on his desk; a couple liver spots on his wrinkled old forehead.

  And a pair of dark eyes that could set you on fire with his gre that I recognized immediately.

  “Colonel Lear Fitzroy, I presume,” I say, and I will not let my voice waver.

  “I am,” he says, drawing himself up taller, straighter. “Boy.”

  I take my deep breath, my slow breath. I center myself, straighten up, look him in the eye.

  I point to him. My hand is shaking.

  “It’s been seven years, Dad,” I say, and my voice warbles but does not fucking crack, I will not let it fucking crack. “How – how the hell are you still alive?”

  “I could ask you the same thing, though I’ll chalk it up to any child of mine being a tenacious and resourceful kind of asshole,” Colonel Fitzroy – my father – responds, eyebrow raised, an amused lilt in his voice.

  I fold my arms. “Most kids who st till 18 go Pale in the morning. Ever heard people call it the Sad Birthday? Again, Dad -”

  “Colonel,” he interrupts.

  “What?” I hiss.

  He doesn’t flinch. “While you are fighting in my Resistance, even in private, I am ‘Colonel Fitzroy’ or ‘sir.’”

  “And the fact that I’m your actual, surviving, flesh and blood son -”

  “- is a joy that we cannot allow the Enemy to take away from us,” he responds. “Make no mistake, Lieutenant JG Castelno. I am gd to have my son back. But right now, I don’t need a son.”

  I grit my teeth, and fold my arms, and take my breath.

  Because I hate it, but he’s right.

  “You need another pilot,” I say.

  “That’s right,” he says, raising his coffee cup. “And I will treat you like one – unless you prove unworthy of the title.”

  “Oh, I’ll earn my fucking stripes, sir,” I say, and it’s as bitter as his brew must be. “Don’t worry about that. I hear I get my tenacity from my Dad.”

  He snorts, before taking a sip of his coffee. “Your mother may have thought you were the second coming of Christ – and named you accordingly – but I assure you that your wing commander Victoria Lam will not be as affectionate or merciful as she was. Trust me, son, I am doing you a favor.”

  “I know,” I say, and there’s softness there I didn’t intend to let slip. “So will you answer my question, Colonel? How’d you dodge a birthday trip beyond the Pale?”

  “Oh that’s simple,” he says, sipping coffee.

  “I just never sleep.”