This is his fault.

Who knows what I'm getting myself into all because I'm supposed to be sleeping with him at this exact minute.

Focus, Lorn. Focus on one thing at a time.

I gaze at the papers as I expose them to the room.

Warning Order

Operation Homecoming

I stare at the black scribbles for a few minutes, attempting to make sense of the words. They are as meaningless as rocks. Scanning down the table, I realize I'm not the only one who feels this way. Dean especially appears skeptical.

I turn the page and continue reading:

Situation

With the assistance of the Humans' Alliance via ten donated ships, transport the remaining human population to the habitable Planet NOHA (New Orbital Human Accommodations).

The strange woman clears her throat.

"I am Lieutenant General Pama Hayomo. I have summoned you for a mission critical for the survival of the human race."

As she paces between the tables, I notice in a darkened corner a separate table where many shadows enveloped in their own silence sit while our hands skitter about in the rustle of paper.

"This operation, if successful, will bring about a new era for humanity. Our planet, among the ruins of the war, has crumbled. We die hourly from disease, combat, and the psychological devastation from the thought of total annihilation." She picks the cuticle around her thumb. "Our President ignores the data in hopes the Human Hope Project will be the salvation he proposed. He fails us with his inactivity. The Humans' Alliance, formed of sympathetic races, have agreed to lead us to a habitable planet, mapped out on page nine of your packet."

I flip to page nine. A lonely planet takes center stage of an otherwise empty document.

Figure A. NOHA.

I shudder rapidly in my seat.

I'm ready. Let's go ASAP. When can we leave?

"As of now, our fleet of Earth ships is not capable of carrying the remaining population to this planet. We have sent out a request for help, and ten generous races have agreed to lead us."

Before the question can be fully articulated in my head, she continues with the answer.

"You are here as crowd control. The ten groups have agreed to navigate, but it is up to us to manage the human population on each ship. As of recent census data, we have discovered approximately twenty thousand humans left on the United Regions of Earth. That number continues to dwindle. We will be divided into groups of two thousand, so even if a few of the ships do not complete the journey, not all hope is lost. The human race will survive."

My fingers remain still. This is information I can process. A mission. Reliable orders that don't involve reproductive organs. Exactly what I need.

"If you agree to join, we will assign each of you to a partner. The vessel assignments will be based by a random draw. We have observed you for the last few months and have selected you according to mission requirements. You will not sign anything tonight except your complete silence. If you agree to your role, you must make your mark on page twenty three."

The terms are so simple, I might be signing an agreement to take up the compost to the Agriculture division. Or signing over an old pair of boots for a new set. There has to be more than just this. This is way too easy.

"As the agreement states, we expect great things from you. Great dedication, great deeds, great actions, great intentions, and even great sacrifices. Sacrifices must be made for survival. Time is one of them. We are still unsure of the total length of our journey, but we estimate five years."

Five years? My mind reels as if it's been staving off a Junk Juice buzz. I would be thirty-one. My deadline is thirty. After that, my body would belong to me again.

Dean attempts to stare a hole through the paper in front of him. He turns his head and stares at me. The expression is inscrutable, but as seconds tick away slowly, the dawn of disappointment crosses his features.

"We will meet again in two days. You must make the decision on your own and speak with no one about it." She pauses briefly, and we glance to watch her moving from soldier to soldier. "You've been granted active security clearance from previous operations. These protocols apply for Operation Homecoming."

Her tone shifts out of the dictionary recitation we know from years of read-ins. "In essence," her voice rises, "you will encounter grave danger, immense perils, and incredible odds stacked against you. We will travel through a wilderness unkown to our fathers and mothers. Very soon, if you choose to join me, we will embark on the newest adventure for mankind. We will launch from our broken house to a miraculous homecoming if Our Lady grants it."

With a voice so low it barely breaks a whisper, she ends. "You are dismissed."

General Hayomo approaches the shadowed corner where our observers sit quietly, their outlines giving no clue as to who might be lurking in the furthest part of the darkened combat room.

We commence our awkward dance of shuffling the papers and scraping the chairs against the metal floor. No one seems to know what direction to take to find the exit. Especially because any real exit after a speech like that is futile.

Who would say "no" to saving the human race? Who would seriously turn his back on Hayomo after hearing the fate of existence for family, friends, and future rested on this group's battle-scarred shoulders? We are signing the contract just by showing up. But where do we head from here? The URE seems smaller than ever.

A hand rests on my shoulder.

Turning slowly, I see the only unfamiliar face—the face of the man whom I'd entered with. His tar-colored hair highlights his caramel skin. He appears to be my age, but up close, he is probably a few years younger. No wonder I've never seen him before.

"Hey, you were in kind of a hurry to get in here. I couldn't tell you your coat is open."

My heart sinks into my gut, and my eyes squeeze tight in despairing humiliation. Had I actually sat through the entire debriefing partially exposed?

Looking at my lap, the swirl of dark brown curls that meet my gaze affirm my abysmal expectation.

Yes . . . yes, I had.

I once again glance at Dean who is staring at me. He sharpens his focus on the man between us, giving him a glaring scan from the top of his charcoal hair to the bottom of his polished boots.

Quickly wrapping the heavy coat tighter around my body, I glower at the kid and thank him for letting me know.

"Kai Kamalani." He holds out a calloused hand.

I squeeze it while rising to meet him eye to eye.

I could take this kid easily. I don't know why that's always the first thought to come to me, but it does.

Dean packs his things, lingering a few minutes more. The corner of his eye twitches while he watches us.

"Janika Lorn," I greet, sounding as if I'm listing a set of stats rather than partaking in a friendly introduction.

"See you in two days, then." He smiles briefly before putting his own packet under his arm. He strolls toward the door with the rest of the group.

His charm evokes a gasping giggle from somewhere deep wherever giggles may be stored in such a war-torn body. My eyes roll in disgust. I don't giggle.

Finally focusing my attention on my coat, I initiate the zipper and loop the toggles up to my chin. Even though the URE is kept at a hardy seventy-two degrees, I would rather be strewn dead in the Rotunda than have anyone else see me naked ever again.

And on that thought, Dean pads over.

"Interesting choice in wardrobe."

"I was actually on my way to see you about a contract." I turn away to put the papers in order without slicing any fingers or hands off. No wonder we got rid of these stupid things long ago.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, but you weren't there, so I came here."

"Well, there's still time tonight to—"

"Stop right there." I hold him at bay with one hand on his stomach as I glare directly into his speckled, hazel eyes. "Do you for one second believe I would accept this mission while being pregnant? Can you imagine how ineffective I'd be as a commanding officer while waddling around, unable to fit into my uniform, carry my rifle, or squeeze behind a wheel? No. This mission is too critical. Consider this my termination of the contract."

Dean averts his eyes. "I don't think it works that way."

I know Dean extremely well. We've seen each other almost every day for the better part of sixteen years. I know he'll be flustered, reverse, storm off, and ignore me the next day while he sorts through his turmoil.

Just as I think he's about to disappear in his trademark stoic contemplation, he hesitates. He holds his ground.

Gazing down at me, who is eye-level with his chest with only the space of these papers between us, he bends and brushes a strand of hair away from my cheek before leaning to kiss it.

Startled by this movement, I pull away.

"Don't start this again," I plead. It's a whisper so faint, I can't even tell if he hears me. I barely even know if the words made it past my teeth.

At first, I think he's hurt, and no matter how much I hate the situation we're in, I never want to be the cause of Dean's genuine unhappiness. We've been friends far longer than we've been contracted partners.

But he seems unscathed as he turns and exits with the others.

I'm left alone in the room with Hayomo and the spectators in the dark.

Hayomo glares at me with distrust. The need to evacuate overwhelms me. As calmly as possible, I cram the papers into my arm, careful to avoid the drying blood, never letting the stone-like woman out of my sight.

Before the automatic steel door closes behind me, I hear the clink and hiss of a machine at the table where the panel sits in darkness. I barely register the silhouette, but what appears to be the head and torso of a man bent backward in a six-legged crab walk emerges from behind the table and screeches a release of steam with mechanical spider legs. I can't see his eyes through the shadows, but his mouth is open upside down. His mechanical clinking spurs me into a fast run down the hall.