They both stared back at her for a long moment.
“What is it with you, anyway, kid?” Milo asked finally.
Whoadie shrugged again. “The only thing my uncle Franklin loves more than quoting Scripture is quoting Shakespeare.” She smiled to herself. “I seen all those Branagh and Zeffirelli movies about a zillion times each, so I know every word by heart.”
Chén typed something into his QComm’s translator, then tilted it toward her.
“You are very smart and you have an amazing memory,” the synthesized voice said.
Even though his compliment came via a computer, it was enough to make her blush again as she whispered, “Thank you.” She and Chén shared another glance. They seemed smitten with each other already, despite the language barrier.
“How old are you, Whoadie?” Debbie asked, clearly trying to change the subject.
“I just turned sixteen last week,” she said. “But I don’t have my license yet.”
“You sound like you’re from New Orleans,” Debbie told her, doing her best to pronounce it N’Awlins.
Whoadie nodded. “I live in the Ninth Ward,” she said. “That’s actually where my nickname comes from. Whoadie is how the locals say wardie. That’s a person who lives in the same ward as you,” she explained. “My parents called me Whoadie ever since I was a baby. I didn’t always like it, because there were some boys at school used to call me Whoadie the Toadie all the time. But then I punched their fucking lights out and they stopped.”
She said this in such a sweet, girlish voice that I burst out laughing. So did Milo. But Debbie looked absolutely horrified.
“Lila!” she said, wincing again. “Such language, honey! Your parents don’t let you swear like that around them, do they?”
Whoadie folded her arms. “Well, no, they didn’t used to,” she said. “But they both died in a hurricane when I was little, so now I get to say whatever the fuck I want.”
“Oh, snap!” Milo muttered under his breath.
“You poor dear,” Debbie said, looking embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
Whoadie nodded and looked away, leaving Debbie to squirm in the silence that followed. That was when Milo decided to try to help salvage the conversation.
“Hey,” he said, nodding at me. “Zack over there thought his father was dead, too—but he’s not. Maybe your folks are still alive, too?”
Whoadie glared back at him, then shook her head slowly.
“They drowned,” she said. “I saw their bodies.”
She didn’t elaborate. Milo was too taken aback to even respond. Whoadie turned to look out the window, and I watched her, recalling what Admiral Vance had told me about not feeling too sorry for myself.
“How about you, Debbie?” I asked, desperate to change the subject. “Where do you hail from?”
“Duluth, Minnesota,” she said, giving me a grateful smile. “I’m a school librarian there. I also have three boys, all teenagers now. The oldest is only fifteen.” Her smile faded. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye to any of them. They let me send my sister a text message, asking her to pick them up, but I obviously couldn’t say why.”
“Can’t your husband take care of them?” Whoadie asked.
Debbie glanced down at the wedding ring on her left hand, then smiled at Whoadie.
“I’m afraid not, dear,” she said, meeting Whoadie’s gaze. “Howard died of a heart attack last year.”
Now it was Whoadie’s turn to look embarrassed. “Sorry.”
“It’s all right,” she said. “My boys are tough as nails. I’m sure they’ll get through this fine. I just hope—” Her voice hitched, but she went on. “When I’m allowed to call them later, I just hope they understand why I couldn’t stay with them through all of this.”
“They’ll understand,” I said, with as much assurance as I could. “Your sons are gamers, too, right?”
She nodded. “They all play Terra Firma together every night, while their mom is playing Armada,” she said. “We all have our computers set up next to each other in the living room.”
“Then your boys will be fighting right alongside us,” I said, smiling at her. “Right?”
Debbie nodded, and wiped her eyes on her sleeve.
“Right,” she said. “That’s right, I forgot.”
“Fucking-A!” Milo shouted. “We’re gonna have AtomicMom’s boys whipping ass for our team, too?” He smiled at Debbie. “Those alien dipshits won’t stand a chance.”
To my surprise, Debbie returned his smile, and I found myself reconsidering my first impression of Milo. His Rocky Balboa–esque method of speaking somehow made his cocky enthusiasm seem endearing.
Chén—who had just now caught up with the conversation via his translator—nodded vigorously in agreement with Milo, then spoke into his translator.
“I know my friends and family back home will be helping us fight, too,” the software said for him—finally giving a coherent translation for once. “And that is very comforting to me.”
“Thank you, Chén,” Debbie said. “You too, Milo. You’re right, that is comforting.” She twisted her hands into knots in her lap. “But I’m still frightened for my family—and for all of us.” She shook her head. “I never believed something like this could really happen. It’s a nightmare.”
“I don’t know,” Milo said, leaning back. “It seems more like a dream come true to me.”
Debbie stared at him. “Are you insane?” she asked. “How could you possibly think that?”
Milo shrugged. “Yesterday I was living in a shitty basement apartment and working a soul-crushingly boring cubicle job.” He motioned to the surreal view out the shuttle window. “Look at me now! I’m an officer in the Earth Defense Alliance, and I’m on my way to the fucking moon to help save Earth from an alien invasion!” He turned back to Debbie. “Now please explain to me how this isn’t the greatest day ever? Like, in history?”
“Because we’re all about to get killed, moron!” she shouted back, with a tremor of hysteria creeping into her voice. “Were you even paying attention during the admiral’s briefing? Did you see the size of their armada? We’re going to be ridiculously outnumbered!”
Milo seemed genuinely surprised. “I may have missed that part of the briefing,” he said. Then, under her withering glare, he added, “I have ADD! My mind wanders during long meetings!” For the first time, I detected genuine fear in his voice. “Are the odds really that bad? The admiral never said—”
“What?” Debbie asked, interrupting him. “That we’re probably doomed? Why would he say that out loud?” She turned to look out the window. “He doesn’t need to. It’s obvious. I mean, how desperate must the odds be if we’re the Alliance’s best hope? We’re a bunch of gamer geeks, not soldiers.”
“Yes we are!” Milo replied. “We all just enlisted, remember?” He shook his head at her. “Come on, lady—can’t you try and be a little more positive? This isn’t over yet. We can still win this thing!”
Debbie studied him for a moment before she replied. “Don’t you get it, Milo? No matter who wins, millions of people are going to die when the fighting starts a few hours from now.”
He waved a hand at her dismissively. “Oh, grow some balls! If killing these alien dipshits is half as easy as it is in the game, we’re gonna kick their European asses!”
“Europan, Milo,” I said. “You. Rope. An. Not ‘European.’ ”
“Whatever the fuck you wanna call them,” he sighed. “You know what I mean.”
“I hate to say it,” Whoadie said. “But I agree with Milo. If we beat them in the game, we can beat them in real life.” She looked around at the three of us hopefully. “After all, we are the best of the best, right?”
Before his QComm even had time to finish translating for him, Chén jumped to his feet and shouted “Right!” with a raised fist. Then he bared his teeth and shouted something that sounded like “Sheng-lee!”
His QComm repeated the word in synthesized English: “Victory!”
Whoadie grinned and raised a fist of her own, then repeated after Chén, shouting “Sheng-lee!” at nearly the same volume.
“Hell yeah!” Milo shouted, throwing up a pair of heavy-metal horns. “Sheng-lee!”
Debbie glanced at me, waiting to see if I would take up their battle cry, too. Privately, I shared her grim appraisal of our chances. But feigning optimism seemed like it would be better for everyone’s morale—including my own.
I raised a fist like the others, then, with as much enthusiasm as I could muster, I repeated their cry of “Sheng-lee!” I nudged Debbie with my elbow, and she sighed in resignation.
“Sheng-lee!” she echoed, halfheartedly pumping her fist in the air. “Woo.”
Chén grinned at all of us, leaned forward, and stretched out his right hand, with his palm facing down. Whoadie smiled back and stacked her hand on top of his; then Milo, Debbie, and I each did the same thing. Then, in unison, we all shouted “Sheng-lee!” one more time.