The kayak went to the mainland and back roughly every five days, depending on the weather and how many supplies were needed.
Alaric had a quiet deal with a corner store by the harbor.
The owner, Irene, was in her late sixties and had grown up in Maine.
She seemed to enjoy complaining more than anything else, almost like it was a sport.
Still, she took his cash, never asked questions, and always set aside what he needed.
He paid her a little extra for keeping quiet, though she acted like she didn’t notice.
He was on the way back, with the kayak loaded down with two weeks of staples and a small box of pencils, when he saw the woman on the causeway.
She was not on the causeway when he beached.
By the time he brought the first load of supplies up to the house and returned for the second, she was on the causeway.
She walked slowly, the kind of pace that showed she had plenty of time and wanted everyone to see it.
She wore formal Wakandan ceremonial gear.
He had never seen Wakandan ceremonial gear in person, but he had read about it.
He had studied protocol guides for almost every country, thinking it was important not to miss a sign of respect.
He was pretty sure this wasn’t diplomatic clothing, as an embassy attaché would wear, or casual clothes, as a friend might choose.
This was warrior dress, meant for visits when Wakanda sent someone to handle serious matters.
He set the box of supplies at the gate.
He waited, standing still and expectant.
She stopped ten paces from him, right where someone would stand before a formal exchange.
She turned to him and studied him calmly, as if she were reading a pamphlet in a waiting room.
“Mr.
Vane,” she announced.
“Yep.” “My name is Okoye.
I am here at the request of His Majesty King T’Challa of Wakanda,” she said evenly.
“Welcome to Vantage.” “Thank you.
May I cross?” “Of course.” She crossed over and stopped at the gate.
She read the sign, including the second line: “Please be welcome.” The corner of her mouth moved in a way he would later realize meant she was amused.
Then she stepped inside.
“I’ve brought tea,” he said.
“If you’d like some coffee.
Whichever you prefer.” “Tea, if it’s not an imposition.” “No imposition.” “Black, if you’ve got it.” “I’ve black.” He led her up the path to the porch, deciding the supplies could wait.
As they walked, he noticed her taking in details: the even path, how the residential gravity started at the house’s edge, and the worn track from his daily walks.
She didn’t mention any of it.
She was a professional, and professionals showed respect by not reacting to everything.
At the porch, he gestured to the second chair.
She sat, and he brought the tea.
He sat down across from her.
There was a brief silence, then movement.
She took a small leather-bound notebook and a pen from her sash and placed them on the driftwood table between them.
She didn’t open the notebook, but set it there as a clear signal that she would be taking notes.
He nodded slightly, which was all the acknowledgment needed.
“His Majesty,” she began, “has received your filing.” “I know.” “We’re going to take a brief tour of the territory before we discuss it.” “Yes.” “If that’s acceptable.” “Yes, all right.” They went on the tour.
The walk lasted forty minutes.
Alaric explained things as he would for a client, calmly and without extra detail.
He pointed out the perimeter and described the airspace rules in simple terms.
He explained how the laws set the boundaries and mentioned the tide protocol for the side border.
He covered the projectile-velocity law in two sentences and the harmful-intent law in three.
When they reached the house, he said the residential gravity was set at 85%.
He offered, in a light tone, that she could feel its edge from the doorway if she wanted, without going inside.
She did.
She stood in the doorway, toes just past the threshold, body just outside, and stayed very still for about ten seconds before stepping back.
“You felt it,” Alaric observed.
“Do you have a sense of why I chose eighty-five?” “I haven’t thought about it long enough to have a sense.” “I’ll tell you over the second cup of tea, if you want.” “I want.” He smiled.
It was his fourth smile, and they were coming more easily now.
She asked questions as they walked, and they were exceptionally good.
She wanted to know how the border recognized intent.
He explained as best he could: the sovereignty enforced the spirit of the declaration as he understood it when he spoke it, not just the strict wording.
He thought this was the most interesting part of the whole system.
He hadn’t mentioned it to anyone before.
She asked what would happen if his understanding was wrong.
He told her that in that case, the law enforced what he meant, not what he had wanted, and he had encountered edge cases.
She asked for an example.
He gave her one.
She wrote it in her notebook, in a tight, efficient hand, using Wakandan script that Alaric recognized but couldn’t read.
In the residential area, she did something he had not expected.
She rested her hand on the handle of her weapon.
It was a casual gesture, like resting a hand on the back of a chair.
He realized what she was doing as it happened.
She was testing the system.
She had stood at the edge of the residential area for about thirty seconds, long enough for the harmful-intent law to notice her.
She put her hand on her weapon to see how the law would react.
Her hand stopped moving completely.
Her hand didn’t lock or shake.
Instead, it rested lightly against the sash above the weapon, unable to reach the handle.
She looked at her own hand.
Alaric caught her gaze as she looked at him.
He said politely, “I’m sorry.
The harmful-intent law is, I think, reading your gesture as ambiguous.
It’s an edge case.
I’ve been meaning to refine that clause.
If you’d like, I can rephrase the declaration before we continue.” “That won’t be necessary.” “You’re sure.” “I’m sure.
I’d prefer to know your laws function the way you say they do.
They do.
I’m satisfied,” she affirmed.
“Fine.” She slowly and deliberately moved her hand away from the weapon.
The invisible weight that had held it in place was gone.
She wrote something in her notebook.
She didn’t show him, and he didn’t ask.
They walked back to the porch.
He poured the second cup of tea.
She took a careful sip of tea.
She asked, eventually, the question he had been waiting for her to ask.
“The flag.” “Yes.” “There are no cardinal directions on the compass rose.” “No.” “Why?” He thought about how to answer it.
He had answered this question to himself many times, both in his journal and in private thoughts.
He had never said it out loud.
He set his tea down and looked up at the flag as it fluttered on its dowel above the porch.
“Vantage isn’t pointing anywhere,” he said.
“It’s just watching.” Silence lingered between them.
He turned to her.
She was watching the flag.
He thought she might write down what he said, but she didn’t.
She looked at the flag for a long moment, then nodded slightly, as if she wanted to remember his words without writing them.
The visit was over not long after.
She finished her tea and stood up.
She thanked him formally, just as she had when she arrived.
She told him she would report to His Majesty honestly.
He replied that he expected nothing less.
They did not shake hands, since Wakandan protocol for this kind of parting did not include it.
She gave a single, precise nod, which he returned, and then she walked back across the causeway at the same slow pace she had arrived with.
He watched until she was on the mainland side of the bridge.
Then he went back to the gate to carry the rest of the supplies to the house.
They still needed to be brought up, visit or not.
— In Wakanda, in the office adjacent to the throne room that T’Challa used for working sessions when he did not want to be sitting in the throne room, he received the report by secure channel about an hour after Okoye left the island.
He read it once.
He read it twice.
The report was four pages, hand-written and then transmitted, in a compact, unhurried handwriting that Okoye had used for as long as he had known her.
He set the report down on the desk, and its importance seemed to linger in the room.
He took a fresh sheet of paper from the drawer and picked up a pen.
He didn’t have an opening sentence yet.
He sat for a long moment, the pen poised above the page, wanting to get it right.
The formal recognition document eventually reached a man who had been taught, since boyhood, to write what mattered.
He did not send it.
Not yet.
He put it away in a drawer, then walked down the long corridor to the gardens, where his sister and mother were having a friendly argument about something he couldn’t hear from this distance.
He paused at the corridor door, watching them for a moment.
He had, he understood, decided something significant.
He decided not to tell them yet.
He would wait until the document was sent.
When that happened, he would tell his mother first, since she would ask first.
He would tell Shuri second, because she would already know.
He smiled, a little, at the thought of Shuri’s face.
Then he walked out into the garden to join them.