“About what Prebius did to my son.” A steel, knifelike edge slipped in her voice, the way a weapon chambered a bullet. Zenith took a step away from her.

“Now wait…,” Hondo said.

“About what you helped Prebius do to my son.”

“It wasn’t supposed to play out like that.”

“Yeah, you right, you right.” A light above toggled from green to red. Stacia’s finger hovered over a button.

Her grandma once told the story of how, as a child, she used to automatically move to the side whenever anyone of the mzungu persuasion approached. It wasn’t until the developing idea of First World that she decided that unless they acknowledged her and excused themselves, she would stand her ground and not be moved. She dared to dream, even then, that she was just as entitled to the spaces they occupied. It was about them acknowledging her as a matter of mutual respect.

“Air lock safety protocols overridden.” The automatic broadcast alerted.

“What are you doing?” Zenith asked.

“Reminding you of what powerlessness looks like.” The massive doors at the rear of the cargo bay disengaged. “And that your people are not immune.”

Hondo paled and ran toward the window partition separating them. He pressed his palm to it in silent pleading. The lights within the room changed from natural to a warning red. The doors began to open with the docking procedures initiated. White lights still ringed the bay door, indicating that the outer integrity field was still in place. Stacia pushed the button.

The outer field collapsed. Air rushed out of the room. Hondo’s face blanched. An invisible force dragged him across the floor. He strained against it, struggling to find any purchase along the wall. His hand found a latch. He threw his arm around it. The vacuum of space sucked at him. Loose items in the room tumbled into its dark maw. The evacuating air lifted his feet from the ground. The void called to him.

Her face placid to the point of indifferent, Stacia turned to Zenith. “Let’s talk about choices.”

21 FELA BUHARI
Eshu

Fela lost track of how long she’d been unconscious this time. Or how many times. Her head throbbed with congestion, her throat scratchy. She coughed a few times, waiting in hopes that her sinuses would clear. It struck her that she might be allergic to the dust or some pollen native to the planet. The ludicrousness of worrying about that now made her laugh, and the sharp pain from it cleared her head immediately.