Free Uncrashable Dakota by Andy Marino

mimed shooting a rifle down at the lawn below—“Pop! Pop! Pop!”—his imaginary bullets picking off imaginary rebel soldiers.
    The president stared grimly at his secretary of war. Samuel noted the shadow that passed across the president’s face before he blinked it away and said, “The question, Mr. Dakota, is how you would like to proceed.”
    Samuel grinned. “Well, Mr. President, if I may, I’d like to propose a deal.”

 
    7
    HOLLIS KNOCKED QUIETLY on Delia’s door with the tip of his fingernail, keeping an eye on the dormitory hall. To his surprise, it opened immediately. Delia was wearing the same dress as the day before, and her eyes were ringed with dark raccoon circles.
    “I didn’t expect you so early.” Her voice was cracked and weary, struggling out through a bone-dry throat. “How’s your head?”
    “Fine.” He’d actually forgotten about his headache, and now he was nostalgic for yesterday, when that had been his biggest concern. “I have to come inside.”
    “Wait,” Delia protested, but he’d already brushed past her and shut the door.
    “Interesting choice of shoes, Dakota.”
    Rob Castor was stretched out on Delia’s bed, wearing his pinstripe suit. With his head propped against two pillows and a funny-book balanced on his thigh, Rob looked thoroughly at home.
    “You’re here,” Hollis said.
    “So are you.”
    “No, I mean you’re here. They didn’t get you.”
    With an exaggerated sigh, Rob closed the funny-book and sat up, swiveling so that his feet rested on the floor. His hair was matted against the side of his head.
    “Okay, you win. I’ll bite. Who didn’t get me, exactly? And also…” Rob pointed at Hollis’s shoes. Hollis looked down at the Italian loafers. Leather tassels dangled from the tongues like tiny brooms.
    “I stole them from a second-class sky-boot exchange on the way down. When I ran away from the stateroom, I was barefoot, so I had to grab the first pair of anything that fit.”
    The funny-book drifted up behind Rob’s head and floated toward the window, where a hesitant glow was just beginning to hint at the dawn.
    “Don’t get gunk all over that,” Rob said to Delia as she went after the airborne book. “Wait,” he said, turning to Hollis, “why were you running away?”
    Hollis told them the whole story in a feverish torrent. At several different points, they had to urge him to relax and take a breath, with Delia finally pressing him forcefully into her lone chair. That was fine with him. The loafers felt as if they should come with a warning: NOT TO BE WORN AS SHOES . When he got to the ambush of Steward Bailey, Rob’s face darkened and he got up to pace the tiny room. Delia sat on the bed while Hollis related the end.
    “She told me to run. I didn’t have a choice.”
    As Delia reached out to rest a hand upon his knee, Hollis knew he’d told a lie. He’d had a choice, and he’d opted to save his own skin rather than stand and fight. His mother always said that misfortune traveled in packs of threes. One more to go.
    Rob’s pacing slowed, then stopped as he drummed his fingers against the edge of the table. He was lost in thought, chewing on the inside of his cheek, contorting his face. Hollis recognized this kind of jumpy stillness from when they’d organized big games of Haunted Ship or Capture the Steerage Rat.
    “Binoculars,” Rob muttered. “Rope.” He ticked off each word with a finger. “Mustaches.”
    Hollis was too weary to remind his stepbrother that this was no game.
    “Whoever they are, Rob, they probably have your father, too. They made up that infirmary story.”
    “I realize that,” he said. “I’m thinking.” He turned to look at Hollis. “Question: why did you come here? Why not go straight to Captain Quincy or get Marius to round up some people or—”
    “Because the crew was in on it,” Delia said.
    “Or at least they were dressed like crewmen,” Hollis said. “But either way, how do I know who