<Okay, but you will try to make it back, right?>
<I’ll try, but no promises. Tell Cat goodbye for me, okay?>
Mentally, Vestibule bristled slightly. <You don’t want to tell her yourself?>
<I’m not sure she wants to talk to me right now.>
<Of course she does. And if you don’t say anything to her, you’ll be doing exactly what she was afraid of: acting like you don’t want anything to do with her.>
Mentally I sighed. <Look, just tell her and let her know I’ll chat with her later.>
I then broke the connection and teleported.
***
I popped up at home – a three-story mansion that was technically the ambassadorial residence of the Caelesian envoy to Earth. My alien grandmother had been the original ambassador, but now I somehow found myself stuck with the title. I didn’t care for the position, but it was hard to complain since it came with practically no duties and some nice perks (like diplomatic immunity).
Since my family’s departure, the place was now home to only me and Myshtal. Frankly speaking, it had felt big when my mother and grandparents had been living here as well. Now that they were gone, it felt absolutely humongous. However, it was the only place where my family had all lived together (albeit for only a short time), so it had essentially become “home” to me.
With the time change, I only had a small window in which to get ready before dinner. My plan had been to take a quick shower and change clothes, but first I needed to turn off the alarm system, which had started beeping the moment I appeared.
Stepping to a numbered panel situated on a nearby wall, I quickly punched in the security code. A moment later, the beeping stopped. The next order of business was to visually give the mansion a once-over to make sure everything was fine. With that in mind, I shifted into super speed and checked the place out from top to bottom.
A minute later, I was able to confirm that there were no issues – nothing untoward had happened during the time Myshtal and I had been gone. No kid had accidentally hit a baseball through any of the windows. No storm had come along and torn off the roof. No skillful cat burglar had picked the lock on any of the doors.
The only thing of note was that the diode on the answering machine was flashing, indicating a message. After checking on everything else, I went back to it and hit Play.
Frankly speaking, I expected any messages to be the telephonic equivalent of junk mail. With the prevalence of cell phones, almost anybody who needed to reach me could – and would – call me on that device. For many people, the home phone number was now reserved for individuals, organizations, and events they really didn’t feel a need to talk to: pushy salesmen, sweepstakes entries, the guy who bullied you in high school but now acts like you were friends… And that’s before you even got to the unsolicited ones, like robocallers and telemarketers.
In this instance, there turned out to be two messages. One was a political ad, encouraging me to vote for a particular candidate in an upcoming primary (which I might have done if I were of the age of majority). The other was a message from Kenyon, the former caretaker of the embassy, who had been custodian of the place for decades.
Under the formal definition of the word, “caretaker” refers to someone who looks after a residence during the owner’s absence. However, once my family moved in, there wasn’t much for Kenyon to do. Thus, he had recently retired (and been given a healthy pension by my grandparents). That said, he generally checked in once a week to see if we needed anything, and my grandfather – recognizing the man’s desire to stay active – usually found something for him to do.
Kenyon had kept up the practice of reaching out during my family’s absence, but I had been less capable than my grandfather in terms of identifying issues that could utilize his knowledge and skills. On this occasion, the message, as expected, just consisted of him checking in. I mentally made a note to find something this week that would require his attention.
Hearing the messages on the answering machine, however, brought to mind something else: my cell phone was still off. Pulling it out, I hit the power button and quickly saw that I had missed about a half-dozen calls and texts. For a moment, I worried that one of them – or several – were from Gray.
Mister Gray, as he preferred I call him, was the head of a secret organization that had been granted almost limitless authority by governments worldwide. Ergo, although he had no superpowers to speak of, he was one of the most powerful men on the planet. Moreover, events had recently unfolded that required me to go to work for him. Bearing in mind that Gray had often treated me like I was a threat to humanity, it was a situation that I found distasteful in the extreme, but there was nothing I could do about it. However, as a result of some shrewd negotiating by Mouse, being in Gray’s employ did not mean I had to leave the Alpha League. In addition, much to my surprise, Gray had been fairly accommodating, telling me to take some time after my family left and that he’d call me when he needed me. Still, just knowing that I was part of his organization rankled.
Thankfully, none of my calls were from him; all but one were from Mouse, and the first also indicated a voicemail had been left. I almost snickered at the thought of Gray leaving a voicemail, as it simply wasn’t his style. If he had been trying to reach me and been unsuccessful in doing so, I had
