Eight

85 Hours In

What have I done?

After a rough escort from an alien planet's surface, and a quick hop through majestically infinite space, Earth loomed large in the starship's flickering view screen. My home. White clouds streaked over the glassy blue-green marble. Through the screen's awesome magnification, Corregan pinpointed the flurry of activity that coagulated into D.C. He hoped to see his son wander out of the house's front door and hop into the car waiting patiently in the opened garage. I will keep our home safe. He drew in his navy blue jacket as a chill slithered up his spine. Air puffed from the lip of his jacket's inner pocket. He heard the shuffling of a heavy-set creature sidling up to the screen.

"I had been hoping to be enjoying that room for a little longer, Ambassador."

Jumba's four eyes were pulled wide open, staring listlessly through the view screen into space. The tacky Aloha shirt had earned plenty more wrinkles. Meaty mauve hands neurotically smoothed out the shirt, but its folds sprung back up immediately.

"Sometimes hope isn't enough, Jumba."

The doctor snorted in displeasure, and headed to his seat on the central dais. Several annoyed beeps and whirs from the surrounding machinery floated to Corregan's ears as Jumba fiddled with nondescript—and nonfunctional—controls. Jumba hammered on his tormentor and cried out for a machine fitting for his caliber of evil genius. What have I done?

Stars outside burned steadily, resolute in their places. Corregan ran a finger along the view screen, tracing out pretend constellations. His finger rested for an inordinate amount of time on a distant flicker. It felt cold. His left bicep flexed involuntarily, eager to burden itself once more with the thick manila folder. A folder now resting under the Turan sun. It felt colder.

With shivers suddenly surging up his arms, Corregan left his post at the window and walked halfway up the low steps to the central command dais of the same ship that had brought them to Turo. The same creatures busied themselves on the same consoles in the same ring, all still sneaking furtive glances at the worn duo in the center. To avoid these potential eavesdroppers, Corregan grumbled under softened breath, "Do you really think they would've gotten their three-fourths majority?"

The chair protested as a calmer Jumba eased into it. "Oh yes, Ambassador. It would have been unanimous, I am having no doubt of that."

"Hmm." Corregan shuffled his oxfords with dull thuds.

"...nothing personal, Ambassador. It would not have been your fault—impossible odds."

Corregan scowled. "I suppose...will Thyse'ant still be a problem?"

"Nah, he is all hot air—Internal Security is relegated to Turo only, and chief will be busy position. Not much he can do to us from there. Besides, from what you have told me, I would be betting he was just mad he was outsmarted by human."

"Hmph, outsmarted? You give me far too much credit, Jumba."

"Too much? No, Ambassador, some of us are owing you far more."

The far door hissed open. The duo watched and waited. He entered. Six limbs worked in unison to bring him in front of Corregan. He barely reached the ambassador's thighs, so Corregan knelt once the creature reached the first step. The ambassador just now realized that the creature had shed the orange jumpsuit. Naked sapphire fur bristled and softened in the frigid and sterile bridge. Back spines, dangling limply, emerged from a freed splotch of midnight on his back. He had pinned his long pink-lined ears. Claws were clattering against one another as he stood up waveringly on two legs. Wide dark eyes held a sadness, dimming the motes of mischief floating on their surfaces. "Stitch soka."

"It's alright," Corregan recited, more mechanically than he had planned. Sorry, he echoed as he studied the creature. Surprisingly, Thyse'ant had kept his word, and Corregan had been the one to pull back the door, releasing Stitch back into the wild. The first claw had poked through the threshold a little reticently, but as the propitious change of fate dawned on the creature, the other claws waved excitedly through the air. He had worn his goofy smile as the Earth-bound convoy hustled out of the bemused capitol, through angry Turan streets, and off the noxious planet.

The goofy smile had melted into a sloppy frown. "Was Stitch bad?" a meek voice dithered.

Corregan shook his head. "No. You were good." As for me…he chomped on his cheek.

A tide of confusion had pulled on Stitch's face, contorting his dark eyes as he leaned forward for more of Corregan's words. When Corregan reserved them, the tide ebbed. Eyes opened wide, and his ears bounced, infused with a twinge of overdue happiness, as he squeaked, "Takka!"

Corregan guessed the meaning. "Sure."

Stitch sat for a minute, eyes dancing over the nascent wrinkles plaguing Corregan's face. Pools of shimmering darkness lapped at Corregan. A familiar look— familiar, yet discomforting. Yet loving. A heartbeat more passed, and as Corregan's shoulders started to release their weight, Stitch whipped around and gleefully bounded up the remaining steps into Jumba's waiting mauve arms. ʻOhana. Corregan hid his own goofy smile while wandering over to the dais's silver balustrade, content to let them enjoy a few private cheers together.

He tossed around the fanciful notion of making small-talk with one of the characters in the console ring. Despite his persistence, every single one refused to break from their work. From the periphery, Corregan would catch the dubious glances, the kind of look that would dissipate upon closer inspection. Distrust is universal, he decided after he paced the circumference of the bridge. By the time he returned to the central dais, Jumba and Stitch had separated, yet they were still giddily swapping tidbits in several languages.

"Ah, Ambassador, I was just talking to Six-Two-Six about your own family. He mentioned you had been missing a, eh, baseball game, yes? With your son?"

"Left it at three-all, top of the ninth. Why?"

"Well, we are close enough to Earth now to be grabbing some of their signals. I believe I could be finding that game, if you are interested?"

For a moment, Corregan thought he should. He figured that Jack had finished watching while his dad had been stuck on I-95, desperately avoiding any radio station that would spoil the outcome of yesterday's tied game. But just maybe…Corregan hoped, picturing his son pausing the DVR and pecking at one of his many copies of applications to universities laying on the couch cushion. "Thanks, but I'm gonna hold off for now. There's a couch waiting for me to finish that game." And a son waiting, too.

Stitch hopped a few times. "Ih! Smish!"

Jumba laughed. "Ah yes, we have our own couch to be getting back to as well."

"Morcheeba! Movie time!" Stitch began vigorously reenacting a scene from a film Corregan did not recognize. As the creature marched around—arms flailing and mouth snarling—and crushed an imaginary city beneath his clawed toes, an odd delight welled in the ambassador's core. Jumba played along for a few takes before leaving Stitch and pulling Corregan aside. They whispered underneath the growls of Stitch in his role and the leers of the other creatures in theirs.

"Ambassador, I was just wanting to say…ehm, thank you. You have done wonderful thing, and I am…grateful. Ehm…" Jumba grew bashful and rubbed the back of his head. "Believe me when I say it is difficult for evil genius to say this, heh."

"Right, I can only imagine, Jumba. But don't worry about it. You and he have a real place on Earth now. You're both…ʻohana."

"Hah! Will be new favorite word, trust me." He slapped Corregan's back, sending the wind sailing from the ambassador's lungs. Jumba rambled a quick and rather insincere apology, then after Corregan issued a small cough, Jumba dropped his voice lower. "Still, I fear for him, Ambassador. He is smart, strong, cunning, but…I do not think he truly realizes what he faces. While Thyse'ant problem is hopefully resolved, there are still be many who will be wanting his head on silver platter. Trapping him in cell for trumped-up charges is one thing. But if they are wanting to, they can execute plan—and him—whenever they choose. Suppose it is, eh, true irony, yes? Now that creature meant for destruction has learned peace, peaceful Federation seeks only to destroy him. Hmm, still, I doubt many in Federation delegation will be seeing it that way."

Corregan thumbed the lip of his jacket's inner pocket. A slip of paper nearly sliced the olive skin. "Well, we may have left that Rhys'la character pissed off, and the delegation definitely so…but, irony aside, all we can do is cross that bridge if we get to it, Jumba. For now, enjoy your time with him." It's fleeting, Corregan was about to finish before a dull chime resounded from the titanium joists above. The party scrambled to the view screen. Wisps of nitrogen whipped at the ship's outer shield, casting violescent beams over their vessel as it descended through the thermosphere. At the view screen's lower edge, the soft lumps of cumuli were taking flight from a thunderhead which surged toward the Florida coastline.

"Ach, it is time to be strapping in, gentlemen!" Jumba turned, readying to jestingly race Stitch to their seats. He paused, and seized the ambassador's arm. "Oh, one more thing," he whispered. "I will be crafting excuse to be telling his cousins—so long as little girl has not been beating me to it. Whatever I am telling them will be mostly true, but will be leaving out certain parts. Including parts I do not want Six-Two-Six to know. He knows what he needs to. So please do not be telling him everything. No sense in worrying him more, yes?" Corregan nodded, then watched as Jumba bounded up the steps with surprising agility and wrapped a restraint around his corpulent belly, while Stitch locked into the floor using six sets of claws. Antennae wobbled as he broke into the goofy smile, dark eyes asking Corregan to join them. The ambassador dawdled at the view screen, a finger drawing tight circles around a spot that minutes ago was occupied by a faraway star.

Corregan waggled a finger at the beach far below. Stretching far beyond him. The gantries laid dormant, oxidized piles of metal girding left twisting into the sky. The thunderhead rumbled over the beach, bringing forth a gray sheet of rain. Corregan savored the delicate scent, one soured by the wind blowing over the decaying launch site. A left hand took firm hold of his right shoulder. Corregan knew the wrinkles and knuckles, and kept his gaze out over the site. Your name will live forever, all right, the President whispered into his ear.

A paw lay across his knee. Corregan looked down. From atop fluttering zoysia grass, Stitch looked up, the dark eyes absorbing the vestiges of sunlight that streamed through the thunderhead's quickly shriveling gaps. No goofy smile—thin-lipped, somber, his sapphire fur blowing in the stiffening wind. Ears pinned back against the rising gale, he opened his mouth and bared enamel daggers. Takka, Stitch squeaked over the intensifying storm.

Corregan's hand nestled into the patch of fur between Stitch's pink-lined ears. Wide dark eyes shuttered as Corregan scratched. Rivulets of rainwater, carrying flecks of rust, rolled past his oxfords. Corregan took his gaze out over the impending downpour and up to a hole in the cloud. Through it, stars twinkled. His finger traced pretend constellations as the deluge weighed down the wool jacket. The hand left his shoulder. The paw left his knee. Corregan sensed a presence. He left the field of stars and found Senior.

"How much did you know?" Corregan asked, raising his voice above the deafening patter of fat rain droplets.

"Whatever she told me. Which was plenty," Senior said in a deep bass that rumbled with the thunder.

"Why did you stay quiet? Why did you keep it to yourself?"

"For her."

"Is that it?"

"..." Lightning flashed above the turbulent watery horizon.

"Damn it Senior! What about me?"

Even through the rain, Senior's limpid hazel eyes collected the light of the stars above. "It was always about you, Junior." He moved closer. Corregan shivered. "You couldn't know. It was too great a burden to bear."

"But I needed to know!" Corregan shouted, fists clenched. "You had no right to hide it from me! I could've chosen better, I could've been ready!"

"You were ready. You chose."

"No, I caved, I…I failed us."

"You were brave. You chose."

"No, all those people, our planet…." The droplets fell from Corregan's nose when he hung his head. He muttered, barely above the rain, barely enough to reach his own ears. "Jack must know. He cannot be allowed to make the same mistake."

A hand that had not grasped him for a long time massaged the knot in his neck. He breathed, and a fine mist of droplets sprayed the back of his throat. As he spluttered, a whisper tickled his ear. "You cannot tell him. He cannot bear this burden. Not yet. For now, it is our mantle to don, son."

Corregan raised his head. His solitary tear mixed with the rivulets of water streaming along the nascent wrinkles on his face. "Why, Dad?"

Senior's eyes had clouded, grayed like the thunderhead above. "Because we chose."

The rain poured harder, louder. The deluge washed away Senior's trembling form. Corregan scrambled in the sudden loneliness. He looked up, into the rolling squall. He could not see the stars.

"Ambassador!" A shout over the rain. "Ambassador!" Louder. The clouds melted away, pulled past some invisible barrier. Corregan blinked. Jumba stood in front of him, yanking on his arm. "Ambassador! It is time to be sitting. We are about to breach troposphere—very rough air!"

His eyes were affixed to the screen while Jumba dragged him toward his chair. The clouds were densifying behind the invisible barrier. The thunderhead was off in the distance, sending lightning dashing across the screen intermittently. Jumba hoisted Corregan into his velveteen seat and fastened the restraints. Corregan dropped his head, and saw reflected in Stitch's dark eyes the clouds filling his own.

You chose, his mind repeated as the ship descended for several minutes. The jostle of touchdown could not break Corregan's trance. He stared ahead, rolling squalls in his eyes. You chose. A paw rested on his knee. "Here."

Corregan shuddered, and the clouds evaporated. Stitch wore a worried frown. Dark eyes reflected the stars twinkling in Corregan's own. "I'm…I'm sorry, Stitch. Thank you." Stitch looked unsatisfied as Corregan fumbled with his buckle while nursing one of his temples. "I'm fine," he added as the creature started to help the ambassador rise up on shaky legs. Jumba called for his greatest creation, who threw Corregan an incredulous glance before joining his creator.

Once the two had trundled ahead, the ambassador took a few moments to scan the console ring. The creatures busied themselves with a new series of clacks and beeps. Ready to leave…to abandon us. He ran a hand along the back of his chair, his fingers rolling along alien curves and grooves. His stomach twisted. We chose. He tried to shut out the view screen's long and low whine as it rebooted for the return voyage, but the sound dogged him as he abandoned the bridge.

Corregan reconnected with them at the ship's entrance. Jumba had set down the silver case and was busy chatting at one of the console creatures, a vespine critter that wore the universal look of misery as it was lowering the thick gray airlock door. A few rays of sunlight streamed through the widening crack. Absorbing the rays, Stitch's dark eyes were lambent as he cocked his head and clattered his claws.

"Stitch home?"

The antennae had receded, leaving bare the spot between two pink-lined ears. Corregan placed a hand between them and scratched. "Yes, Stitch. You're home." Wide dark eyes shuttered as the door let in more light. Our home...and I will protect our home.

The door buried its lip into rusty clay. Stitch scurried out from Corregan's palm and joined Jumba in the Southern Florida sun, which rolling squalls and distant thunderclaps were chasing below the horizon. Over the din of crickets and beetles and a faraway but furious storm, Corregan listened halfheartedly to two aliens' shouts of happiness. Talk of ʻohana and Lilo and boojiboo and their little island drifted through sluggish air.

Distracted by their banter, he tapped his jacket's inner pocket. The emptiness collapsed. A bubble of wet air smacked his chin as a car horn honked. Corregan turned to watch a rear jet-black door fly open. Cool air curled across the muggy gap and beckoned him in. He blinked, and the eerie green characters rushed through his vision. He walked as they silently spelled out what awaited his home. What have I done?

#

Coming 21 June - Nine (& The End)