There are moments in life when a man realizes he is not the central figure in his own emergency.
I had been arrested.
I had been attacked.
I had been rescued by a giant queen bee.
Twice.
I had been photographed by military satellites while wearing an orange jail uniform and no shoes.
And yet, as Elian stood beneath the darkening sky and whispered, “Someone from home,” I understood immediately that this was not about me.
This was about her.
The air changed.
Not the temperature.
Not the wind.
Something deeper.
The space around us seemed to tighten, as if the world were holding its breath.
Elian looked upward.
Her wings unfolded slowly beneath the torn sweatshirt.
“Is it dangerous?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“To us?”
“To decisions.”
I hated answers like that.
They sounded wise, which usually meant they were going to become inconvenient.
Above Griffith Park, the first star appeared.
Then it moved.
Stars are not supposed to do that.
This one descended silently, growing brighter without growing larger, until the light softened and took shape before us.
A figure stood on the slope.
He was taller than Elian.
Older.
Not old in the human sense.
Not bent or fragile.
Old the way mountains are old.
Old the way oceans are old.
His wings were darker than hers, touched with gold at the edges. His face was long and noble, but there was sadness in it, as if he had seen entire civilizations make the same mistake more than once.
Elian lowered her head.
“Ambassador Tovan,” she said.
So.
Not a boyfriend.
That was my first thought.
I am not proud of it.
But I report it in the interest of scientific accuracy.
The ambassador looked at her for a long moment.
There was no anger in his face.
That made it worse.
“Elian,” he said softly. “You have become visible.”
She did not answer.
“You were trusted.”
“I know.”
“You were admired.”
“I know.”
“You were loved.”
That one hurt her.
I saw it.
A tiny flinch.
A movement almost too small for human eyes.
But by then I had begun to watch her the way a thirsty man watches water.
“She still is,” I said.
Both of them looked at me.
This was not encouraging.
Ambassador Tovan studied me as one might study a talking sandwich.
“And this,” he said, “is the human?”
“Yes,” Elian said.
“He is smaller than expected.”
“I get that a lot,” I said.
Elian gave me a look.
It was the look women have given men throughout history when men have spoken at precisely the wrong time.
Tovan moved closer.
He did not walk exactly.
He shifted through space with the calm authority of someone who had never once worried about parking.
“You are Jed,” he said.
“Yes.”
“A physician.”
“Yes.”
“A prisoner.”
“Temporarily.”
“A suspect in a killing.”
“Also temporarily, I hope.”
He considered this.
“Humans are rarely temporary in their foolishness.”
“You have met us.”
“Many times.”
That stopped me.
“You’ve been here before?”
Tovan looked toward the city.
Los Angeles glittered below us, smug and dangerous and beautiful, as if it had no idea it was being judged by an extraterrestrial ambassador with wings.
“We have watched your world for a very long time,” he said.
“How long?”
“Long enough to know you are brilliant.”
That surprised me.
Then he added:
“And long enough to know brilliance does not prevent stupidity.”
That did not surprise me.
Across the city, Detectives Ramirez and Collins were having a difficult afternoon.
This happens when a murder investigation becomes entangled with satellite imagery, military helicopters, and a possible insect civilization from another part of the galaxy.
“I’m telling you,” Collins said, “this is above our pay grade.”
“Everything is above our pay grade,” Ramirez said.
They sat in an unmarked car outside a government building that officially did not exist, although it had six security gates, forty-seven cameras, and a coffee cart.
“We should go home,” Collins said.
“We are not going home.”
“Why not?”
“Because our murder suspect was abducted by a giant bee.”
Collins nodded.
“That sentence keeps getting worse.”
Ramirez looked through the windshield.
“Somebody knows more than they’re telling us.”
“Everybody knows more than they’re telling us.”
“Then we start with everybody.”
Collins sighed.
“I miss normal murder.”
On the hillside, Tovan turned back to Elian.
“You must return.”
The words were gentle.
They landed like stones.
“No,” she said.
It was the first time I had heard her speak to him without deference.
Tovan’s expression did not change.
“The exposure cannot be contained.”
“It can be managed.”
“Your image has moved through their military systems. Their governments are frightened. Their weapons are being prepared. Their scientists are excited. This is the most dangerous combination your species produces.”
He looked at me when he said “your species.”
I felt obliged to defend humanity.
I could not immediately think of anything.
“Some of us are nice,” I said.
It was not Churchill, but it was all I had.
Elian stepped toward Tovan.
“They are not finished.”
“No species is finished.”
“They are still learning.”
“They are always still learning.”
“Then we should help them.”
For the first time, Tovan’s calm face darkened.
“That is not our purpose.”
“Perhaps it should be.”
The air between them seemed to tremble.
I had the uneasy sense that I was watching a family argument conducted at the level of interstellar diplomacy.
“You sound like your mother,” Tovan said.
Elian went very still.
That name, or rather the absence of that name, entered the chapter like a door opening in a locked house.
“Do not speak of her,” Elian said.
“She believed too much in wounded worlds.”
“She believed in mercy.”
“She died because of mercy.”
There it was.
The history.
The wound.
The thing beneath the thing.
I suddenly understood that Elian had not merely come to Earth as an observer.
She had come carrying grief.
And perhaps hope.
Those are dangerous luggage items.
Far above us, something moved across the sky.
Not a helicopter.
Not a satellite.
Not Tovan.
Elian sensed it first.
Then Tovan.
Both looked upward.
“No,” Tovan said.
It was the first time I heard fear in his voice.
That alarmed me.
When ancient winged ambassadors become frightened, barefoot doctors in stolen jail clothes should pay attention.
“What is it?” I asked.
Elian’s face changed.
Not fear exactly.
Recognition.
And something like dread.
A second light appeared above Los Angeles.
This one did not descend gently.
It dropped.
Fast.
Too fast.
Then it stopped just above the hillside with such suddenness that the eucalyptus trees bent away from it.
The light vanished.
A female figure stood there.
She was magnificent.
I wish I had a more scientific word.
I do not.
She looked like Elian and nothing like Elian.
Her wings were sharper, brighter, almost silver. Her face was beautiful in a way that made beauty seem like a weapon. She glanced at Tovan, then at Elian, then finally at me.
Her expression suggested she had just discovered a stain on an expensive tablecloth.
“Oh,” she said.
Elian said nothing.
Tovan lowered his head.
“Princess Vaela.”
Princess.
That seemed important.
Vaela walked toward Elian.
“You have caused a great deal of trouble, sister.”
Sister.
That seemed even more important.
Then Vaela looked directly at me.
She took in the orange jail uniform.
The bruises.
The bare feet.
The general human situation.
Her eyes widened slightly.
Then she looked back at Elian.
“You fell in love with that?”
I wanted to object.
Unfortunately, I was that.
Elian’s wings lifted.
“Vaela.”
“No,” Vaela said. “Do not Vaela me. I crossed half a galaxy because you became visible to a violent primate civilization with nuclear weapons, reality television, and salad bars. And now I find you hiding in a park with a wounded mammal in a prison costume.”
“He has a name,” Elian said.
Vaela looked at me again.
“Does it improve him?”
“Occasionally,” I said.
She blinked.
Then, to my surprise, she smiled.
Only slightly.
But enough to worry me.
“It speaks.”
“Constantly,” Elian said.
That sounded affectionate.
I chose to believe it was affectionate.
Tovan stepped between them.
“This is not the time.”
“It is exactly the time,” Vaela said. “The Council has seen the images. The human governments are mobilizing. Elian has violated the observation accord. And now there is a human involved.”
“He is not the cause,” Elian said.
Vaela’s eyes moved back to me.
“No. He is worse.”
“How am I worse?” I asked.
“A cause can be removed. A feeling cannot.”
The hillside became very quiet.
Even Los Angeles seemed to lower its voice.
I looked at Elian.
She did not look back.
That frightened me more than satellites, helicopters, ambassadors, or sarcastic princess bees.
Vaela saw it.
Of course she saw it.
Sisters are designed by nature to detect embarrassment at distances greater than radar.
“Oh dear,” she said.
I did not like the way she said it.
“What?” I asked.
Vaela looked at Elian.
For the first time, her amusement faded.
There was concern in her face now.
Real concern.
Old concern.
Family concern.
“She hasn’t told you, has she?”
I turned to Elian.
“Told me what?”
Elian closed her eyes.