She spoke in English thanks to her implant and used my real name, not the one that I’d used on Hideaway.

Unlike the Xiniti message, hers came with video. 

She appeared as I remembered her: long, black hair, light brown skin, high cheekbones, and brown eyes. Unlike the last time I’d seen her, she wasn’t wearing a silver Xiniti armored suit—at least not visibly.

She wore red and white robes with golden trim. My implant decoded the symbolism for me. Though the robes were in the style of a traditional Ascendancy planetary governor, the traditional colors were black robes with trim made of bluish-green metal.

Red was the color of the rebellion against the Ascendancy.

Sitting at a desk in the same massive bedroom she’d messaged me from earlier, she said, “Nick, I know I sent you a message only a day or two ago, but I thought you’d find this interesting. I met a guy who knows you.

“One of the Xiniti’s human soldiers stopped by on the way back from a mission and as the official figurehead, I greeted them. You’ve got to help people feel like the movement cares and that the hell they went through matters.

“These people were special forces. We’d sent them behind enemy lines and they did everything we needed them to. The Xiniti auxiliary who’d led the raid was the most impressive of the bunch. From what I heard, he was incredibly meticulous and effective. When I asked his name, he said Ray. I knew that was an Earth name and I know you mentioned him.

“When I asked him if he’d heard of the Rocket, his eyes bugged out. I mean, you’ve met him… He keeps things close to the chest, but that was not a question he expected. He asked me how I knew the Rocket. The Xiniti must not have passed that on. Whoops. I told him I’d been to Earth and knew the whole team.

“He said to tell you that as far as he was concerned, you’re even. It all worked out for the best and he’s got nothing against you. He hopes it’s the same on your end.

“I hope that makes sense to you because all I know about him is that he went after your families and that he’s dead. I thought you ought to know that he’s not dead and he’s not coming back to Earth. I checked with Katuk. The Xiniti don’t intend to ever send him back to Earth. They’re aware of who he is to you.

“I hope you’re all alive. Everything seemed to be coming to a head when I left. I would have stayed if everything here wasn’t also blowing up. We’re in a calm moment, though. I might even be able to take a live call if I’m not in the middle of a meeting, other affairs of state, or planning an invasion. There are more of all of those than you’d think.

“You know what? It’s nice to send a message where I don’t have to hold back because I’m afraid of destroying someone’s morale. It’s going well, but being publicly upbeat all the time will kill me for sure. Anyway, don’t be a stranger and don’t worry about the revolution. It‘s not your problem. As for myself, I’m grateful I don’t have mushroom zombies. Your planet is completely insane. Later!”

I laughed as the picture faded out, hoping no one on the street thought I was crazy. On the other hand, it was fall in the late morning. Kids were in school and adults were at work or helping with the mushroom goo cleanup.

No one seemed to be outside. I composed a message to Kals complete with video and managed to send it off before I reached my parents’ house.

Two stories tall with brown bricks, the fall leaves on the lawn needing to be raked, it looked almost the same as it always had. The “almost” spanned a few terrifying minutes a few days back where we fought members of the Nine on the lawn and in the house’s basement.

The grass still bore scars from the fight and I noticed silvery streaks in at least three front windows. Those would need to be replaced. I hoped that wasn’t my fault. On the bright side, with the League’s policy of paying for our damage, I could get this fixed without raising suspicion. 

As Rachel had mentioned, Dad was at work on the front door—sort of.

The new door lay on the front walk in its white cardboard box. The old door, still twisted and warped from when I punched it, leaned against the house to the left of the front porch. A pile of tools lay next to a red, metal toolbox that Grandpa may have left here.

Dad stood on the porch, staring at the door frame with a frown on his face. Between the toolbox, jeans, and the thick flannel shirt, he looked like someone who should be good at fixing a broken door.

Dad was a good therapist. I’ll stop there.

He saw me as I started walking across the lawn, avoiding the new door. “Nick,” he said, “Rachel told me you were on the way. Do you mind helping me put the new door in? Grandma Vander Sloot is inside, but it shouldn’t take too long, should it?”