We’re a ragtag team, if ever I’ve seen one. Gathered around Major’s battered table in the dimly lit bunker, there’s no less than five kinds of crazy.
Jones, the intellectual, dissecting a cicada under a magnifying glass.
Flint, the muscle; he’s too big for his shirt, probably on purpose.
Qora, the gadgets girl. She keeps staring at me across the table, tossing an electrod between her hands, blue lightning buzzing from the end.
Major, of course, is the boss. And I’m the guy who can breathe in space and see invisible things, like Major’s dog made of stars, Kip. I’m also a fantastic liar.