20 years later, Lucille saluted at strict attention. Her red bodysuit complemented her fiery orange hairstyle. She stood opposite two middle-aged men seated at a desk: the man in green uniform shuffled papers graded in red pen, while the man in yellow uniform chewed a lit cockroach. The roach sat in a divot in his lips left by a scar from his right temple to below his iron jaw. The scar took his right eye, covered by a black patch. “At ease.”
Lucille widened her stance and folded her arms behind her. “Jya! What’s the verdict?”
The man in green grimaced and groomed his crew-cut. The medals on his chest were arranged neatly like an orchard. “In the presence of superiors you should speak only when requested, young Zephyr,” said Daisuke.
“Be patient with him, Lucille.” Charlie grinned around his roach. His golden haircut was charismatically tousled. “He’s enjoying his last moments outranking you.” Lucille smiled impishly and put her hands on her hips. Her heart felt bigger than the moon-base she would command.
Daisuke sighed and passed her the paperwork. “You got a perfect score on your aptitude-test for the position—for the first time since your father, Commander Bunjiro—and a perfect score on your oral exam regarding lunar procedures and history—for the first time since your mother, Princess Lucia.”
Lucille splayed the papers across the desk to review her scores. Charlie judged her smile to be deservedly prideful but tempered by discipline. She passed the papers back to Daisuke. “Were you close, sir?”
Daisuke hesitated to answer. “Bunjiro and I were like brothers. I only knew your mother a few months, but her conviction in her duty to protect humanity made an indelible impression on me.”
Charlie smirked. “She meant, were you close to perfect scores.” Lucille allowed a sly slant in her smile. Daisuke blushed and filed her exams in his desk drawers. Charlie blew smoke into a ventilation duct and tapped ash from his roach. “Anyway, Zephyr Lucille! In addition to your impeccable exams, you’ve been unanimously praised for leadership in the field. When you commanded Zephyr-Purple in repelling a sun-sized Hurricane Planet, the purple arm, leg, and chest pilots came to us to commend you.”
Daisuke rolled his wheelchair back from the desk to open window-blinds. Outside the office, enormous robots of every solid color bounded across the lunar surface. Some jumped on muscular legs while some bounced on puffs of steam from legless hips. Some had two arms, some four, and some none at all. Each limb, chest, and head held the silhouettes of pilots, co-pilots, and technicians.
Sometimes a robot would collapse into body-parts and practice recombining under the direction of its head, the Alpha unit. Sometimes two robots would merge into a multicolored mass of limbs and stagger until they rolled into a crater and broke apart. Sometimes a small robot would leap into a larger one and wear it like a suit of armor or matryoshka doll.
The largest robot was purple and carried its detached head like a lantern. Lucille’s team was practicing without her while she met Charlie and Daisuke.
“You’ve got good standing among the Zephyrs.” Daisuke rolled back to the desk. “Your reputation makes you a clear candidate for pilot of Zephyr-Alpha-Blue. You would command a crew of ten-thousand, including the right and left arms of the lunar base—that is to say, Charlie and me. To what do you attribute their loyalty to you?”
“I shout loudest,” said Lucille.
Daisuke was speechless. Charlie cracked up. “I told you, she’s the one!”
“Could you explain?” asked Daisuke.
“The head-pilot has gotta shout loudest. If you want to throw a punch,” said Lucille, with a slo-mo hay-maker, “your arms and legs need to know. A good shout unifies the Zephyrs in action.”
“And about your shouting.” Daisuke rifled through transcripts. “You lapse into Japanese under pressure. Not all the pilots speak Japanese. When you directed the mid-battle merger of Z-Purple, Orange, Red, Black, and Yellow, you shouted—” He inspected the transcript. “—Ore o dare da to omotte yagaru.”
Charlie laughed. “Who the hell do you think I am,” he translated. “Classic.”
“A good shout unifies the Zephyrs in action,” repeated Lucille. “It doesn’t have to be a command, or even comprehensible. It just has to pump all hearts to one beat. As acting Commander of Z-PORKY, hundreds of pilots locked step with my voice. We fired our Super Heart Beam and blasted the Hurricane to bits.”
Charlie smiled around his roach. Daisuke tried not to look impressed. “I notice you shout ore. That’s an informal masculine reflexive-pronoun. Why don’t you shout the gender-neutral watashi, or the feminine atashi?”
“Mid-combat? I’m punching planets to powder, sir. I’m not gonna curtsy.”
“Point taken.” Daisuke melted green wax and pressed his seal of approval onto Lucille’s certificate of promotion. “With Charlie’s ratification, I see fit to promote you to Lunar Commander and pilot of Zephyr-Alpha-Blue.”
Charlie snuffed his cockroach and took the certificate. “Follow me, Lucille. You’ve got one more trial ahead.”
When Charlie spoke without a roach in his lips, consonants whistled through the scarred gap. “You nailed your history exam. What do you know about Professor Akayama?”
Lucille watched elevator-lights track their descent to the hangar bays. “I know she was Scientific Adviser to the Ruler of Earth. I know she constructed this moon-base and trained Zephyr-pilots to fend off the Hurricane.”
“Do you know how she died, twenty years ago?”
Lucille pursed her lips. “I know it’s classified. I know the same incident killed my father and mortally wounded my mother. It inspired the Ruler of Earth to abdicate. From what I’ve heard, it was the Hurricane.”
“It gave me this scar.” Charlie adjusted his eye-patch. “Daisuke hasn’t walked since. Your mother barely lived long enough for you to stand here today.” Charlie shook his head. “What I’m saying is… Zephyrhood isn’t all robots and shouting. I know you know that more than any other pilot.” The elevator opened into the smallest, deepest, darkest hangar. In the center sat ZAB, Zephyr-Alpha-Blue, the 20-meter tall head of Z-Blue, leader of the Zephyr robots. Its left and right were different shades, as if the head had been ripped in half and one half had been replaced. Still it carried a noble gaze. Its brow bore the weight of humanity’s plight. “But this guy knows it most of all.” Charlie tossed Lucille a key and she caught it. The key’s handle dangled a plastic blue robot-head. “This is your last chance to turn back. There’s no return once you to talk to ZAB.”
“Talk?” Lucille climbed the ladder at the nape of the neck. “What do you mean?”
“Professor Akayama cut her teeth building talking robot spaceships.” Charlie watched her twist open the hatch on ZAB’s skullcap. “ZAB was her personal vessel—it was just called ‘the Zephyr’ back then, since it was the only one of its kind. Its voice kept her company on solo-trips through the solar system and helped her sample Jupiter’s spot. Until, of course, the Hurricane ate the universe. Then ZAB was recommissioned as the head of humanity’s protector.”
Lucille hesitated halfway down the hatch. “So there’s a voice in here, sir, and I’m to win it over?”
“You’ve already won it over. It graded your exams.”
“The history-books didn’t mention anything about an artificial intelligence.”
“History leaves out a lot.” Charlie lit a new roach and puffed it red-hot. “When that hatch closes behind you, you outrank me. You outrank Daisuke. You outrank everyone. With your head on our shoulders, humanity has a face again. A direction.” He prepared a pen to sign Lucille’s certificate of promotion. “So take your time. Enjoy the last moments before your first command.”