The Clouded Sky

by Megan Crewe

  And if it doesn’t? The box’s walls press in, inescapably there. I try to ignore the sensation, focusing on my feet, massaging warmth into them through the slipper-like shoes Win brought me a few days ago. Without any conscious decision on my part, my mind starts cycling through the three times tables.

  Three times three is nine. Three times nine is twenty-seven. Three times twenty-seven . . .

  The minutes crawl by. I’ve spun through the numbers as far as my mental calculating abilities allow seven times and am starting on the eighth cycle when the box shifts again. I tense, not sure what I could do if I’m discovered, but the side doesn’t open. The box glides forward, and turns.

  A few muted voices filter in. My concept of distance is gone; I don’t know if we’re still on the ship or already in the processing area. I cringe when someone bumps the top of the box, but they leave it closed. I ball my hands into fists and relax them, ball and relax, ears perked for the slightest change outside.

  There’s a mechanical hum, followed by a high-pitched whine. My container rocks and then steadies. I set my palms carefully against the sides to brace myself, but the rest of the passage is smooth. My pulse slows, the alien solidness of the walls receding.

  Minutes later, the sense of motion stops completely. I ease my legs away from my body. I can’t make out anything from the world outside. My heart starts to pound again.

  Then the side drops, and Jule peers in at me with a crooked smile. “So, Earthling,” he says. “Welcome to Kemya.”

  6.

  The main room of Jule’s apartment forms a narrow L just slightly bigger than my living room at home. Jule rattles off the various features with a detached sort of pride, as if I should be impressed though it’s all old hat to him. I gather that one end of the L doubles as a dining area and general lounge, with velvety padded benches that fold down from the walls and a multisize table that can rise from the floor in various layers. The other end of the room holds a metal chamber like the one in the ship’s fitness bay and a giant glossy screen. The walls and floor, table and benches, are rich shades of red and ochre, warm rather than bright so the effect is homey instead of blaring.

  I’m struck by the lack of personal touch other than the color scheme. No decorations sit in the small alcoves that dot the walls; no pictures are positioned on any surface. It feels almost . . . empty, compared to homes on Earth. But considering the Kemyate view of art—useless, frivolous—I guess it’s not surprising.

  Two doors open up in the wall beside the benches when Jule taps the tiny indents at their edges. “I assume you’ve got the hang of how the bathrooms work,” he says. “And this is the second bedroom—in other words, yours.”

  The room he points his elbow to looks a lot like my cabin did, only painted yellow and almost twice as wide. I understand why when Jule gives the top bunk a shove and it sinks down while the lower bunk eases out, until they form a joined surface nearly as big as a double bed.

  “You really needed a guest bedroom?” I can’t help asking. How often would you have people staying over when you all live in what’s essentially one densely packed city?

  “All apartments have two bedrooms,” Jule says with a shrug. “You either get the deluxe version, if you can afford it, or the standard. Isis and Britta’s place would be about half this size. You should be glad I let myself get stuck with you.”

  I shoot him a look. “You let me stay here mostly because you knew Win didn’t like it.”

  He grins. “That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t feel grateful.”

  I take in the space, trying to imagine an apartment half this size. Without the fitness equipment and big screen, I guess, just the flexible living/eating area. Win must live like that, crammed in with his parents and his brother. No wonder he gaped at the amount of space in my house on Earth. By Kemyate standards, it must have looked like the grand manor houses in Victorian dramas look to me.

  “There’s a closet,” Jule says, nudging an indent inside the bedroom to reveal a stack of folded clothes in a range of colors and patterns. “You should be able to find something that suits you.”

  “Why—” I start, and catch myself. I can only think of one reason he’d keep a bunch of spare clothes on hand—and from the way he smirks at my hesitation, I suspect his overnight guests generally sleep in the other bedroom, with him.

  “I’ve turned the monitoring system on,” he adds. “There’s a built-in sensor for people with young kids or elderly parents—it’ll ping me if you show physical signs of distress. So if something here throws off your delicate Earthling constitution, get yourself in there and I’ll be on my way or send one of the others over.”

  “I don’t think there’ll be a problem,” I say. I really hope I don’t give him the satisfaction of proving that “delicate.”

  “Well, there you have it. Home at last.” He steps back into the living area, rolling his shoulders and letting out a breath in what sounds like pleasure. I’m so startled by his expression of contentment that the question just pops out.

  “You like it here?”

  He arches his eyebrows at me. “This is my home. I appreciate knowing what to expect.” A low tone sounds from the direction of the screen, and a series of Kemyate characters appears on it. Jule’s jaw tightens. “Even if some of it’s an annoyance. Make yourself comfortable. I’ve got conversations to catch up on.”

  I got so used to Win’s awe of Earth that I assumed all the rebels felt that way. But I remember the nervousness Britta showed when talking about planet life. Win did tell me that most Kemyates haven’t challenged their scientists’ insistence that they need to gather even more data on Earth before it’s safe to risk settling down on some unknown planet themselves, because it’s been so long it’s hard for them to even imagine living on a world different from this one. Because they feel comfortable and secure here. Obviously that affects even the more radical thinkers. Win’s discomfort must be one more thing that makes the others see him as strange.

  I duck into “my” bedroom and the door whisks shut. The air I inhale has a similar mineral quality to the stuff on the ship, with a little less tang. Now that I’ve gotten used to the other stuff, it tastes thin in my mouth.

  Flicking my hand toward one wall and then another, I’m rewarded with the flash of a computer terminal lighting up. In Kemyate, of course, but studying the characters, I pick out the controls panel, and then the language selector.

  Once I’ve set it to English, I turn to my bag, digging out my photos. I hesitate when they’re in my hand. Even after I’m officially in the station records, it’ll be only as a pet Jule’s bought. I don’t imagine it’s normal for pets to bring personal effects.

  Pushing down the queasiness that thought brings, I open the closet. There’s room to stash my backpack behind the pile of clothes.

  The bedroom door whispers to the side as I’m shutting the closet. Jule peers in. “I’ve got to head out for a while,” he says abruptly. “A family matter. I’ll show you where the food is.”

  I follow him back into the main living area. His movements are brisk, the tendon in his neck standing out as if he’s clenching his jaw.

  “Something wrong?” I venture.

  “Only the usual just-got-back chaos,” he says, but his chuckle sounds forced. He opens a few compartments in the wall, shallower than my closet and filled with plastic-like wrappers in various shapes and sizes. “Some of these require a little work. Since you can’t read the instructions, stick to this shelf for now. Like the rations on the ship, they don’t require any prep. Just open and toss the packaging here.” One last, smaller compartment opens into a vent-like hole like the one I lost my cell phone to in the Kemyate safe house on Earth. After Jule had taken it and smashed it.

  “Questions?” he asks, in a tone that suggests they wouldn’t be welcome.

  “No,” I say. “I’m good.”

  “Don’t let anyone in while I’m out, and don’t touch anything you don’t understand,” he s
ays, already heading for the front door.

  If days on Kemya are twenty-five Earth hours, my body must have adjusted quickly. I feel surprisingly well rested when I get up the next morning, and when I step out of my bedroom, it looks as though Jule’s just emerged himself. He’s sitting on one of the benches with a mug in front of him on the table. A coffee smell that would make Win swoon laces the air.

  “Good morning,” he says without a trace of yesterday’s bad mood.

  “Is that—” I say. “I thought you didn’t have coffee here.”

  “We do when we can pay for it,” Jule says, swirling the liquid in his mug. “Or when we make a stop on Earth and know we can get away with smuggling a couple bags home.”

  Which isn’t something Win expects to get away with, I guess. Certainly coffee is beyond his family’s budget, from what I’ve gathered. “Drinking Earth beverages isn’t beneath you?”

  “Your planet does a few things well,” Jule says. “My grandfather Adka would say, ‘Take the good when you find it, regardless of the source.’ At least that’s the attitude he took when he got me hooked on this stuff. You want a cup? I can’t have you telling people I’m a miser.”

  “Thanks,” I say, surprised—I didn’t expect him to give up any of his stash for me. “You’ll probably be happy to know I’m not into caffeine. But, um, is there anything for breakfast other than ship rations?” I don’t care how many flavors those brownies come in, the thought of eating another doughy rectangle kills my hunger.

  “Hell yes, those are just the easiest to stock up on.” Jule nods toward the cabinets. “Try the third one over, second shelf. The round yellow packet. Turn it around. Twist the upper right corner, let it sit a few minutes, and you’ll get the Kemyate equivalent of cheesy scrambled eggs. Not exactly the same as you’re used to, but formulated for optimal morning nutrition.” I can’t tell from his tone whether he’s mocking Kemyate practicality or boasting about it.

  Now that I’ve followed his directions, the packet is already warming in my hands. “Thanks,” I say again, setting it on the table.

  “I told you I take care of my guests right.”

  I pause, and let myself say, with a glance toward his bedroom, “I figured you were talking about a different sort of guest.”

  Jule shrugs, with a suggestive grin. “Nothing saying you couldn’t be whatever kind of guest you want.”

  I tense, but he just sits there, drinking his coffee, as if it were a totally innocent comment that requires no response. Maybe from him, maybe on Kemya, it is. Or maybe he’s just enjoying trying to put me off-balance. I sink onto the other bench and open my breakfast packet. The soft, savory patty crumbles in my mouth in an almost egg-like way. The texture’s a little too even, and there’s that slight chemical taste underneath, but it’s exponentially better than ship brownies.

  That morning’s conversation seems to have set the tone for my stay. While Jule is around, a little longer that morning and then back from work in the evening, he’s upbeat and irreverent, his remarks often hovering between teasing and flirting. But they don’t go further than that, and he gives me an Earth-acceptable measure of personal space. Still, I decide to wait until he’s not around before ducking into the bathroom for my light shower, not wanting to find out how he’d comment on that. I continue to ignore the borderline flirting and give him a wide berth myself. Just to make sure the boundaries are clear.

  When I ask about his work as he’s getting ready to leave the next day, he explains the Traveler rotation.

  “Half the year Earth-side working hands on, half Kemya-side processing data and planning future projects,” he says. “It’d waste too much fuel having people making the trip back and forth constantly. I’ve got two months left, Kemya-side . . . Two of our months—about eighty days. Of course, before then, in theory, there won’t be any Earth-side work to go back to.”

  In theory. “What if we’re not ready?” I say. “Win must have a schedule like that too, right? And Thlo? It took you all years before you were ready to make the first trip.”

  “Because Thlo was starting almost from scratch, and because she wanted to have as many resources as possible in place before taking the first off-Kemya step,” Jule says. “It’s really just the finishing touches now. The only thing that’ll delay us is finding time when we can use work areas unnoticed, for the parts we can’t do via our private terminals.”

  He doesn’t sound particularly concerned. But then, what’s it to him if Earth’s being shifted and worn down by his people for another year or two, really? I think of the Travelers and scientists who are Earth-side now, the effects of their adjustments rippling through the fabric of the planet—my parents, Angela, Lisa, Evan, fading by increments—and my stomach clenches. What if one of those tweaks is the shift that breaks our world completely? Win said it could happen, if the experiments go on long enough.

  I’m anxious to get to work. Now that I’ve sent my re-creation of my conversations with Jeanant to Thlo, I don’t have much to occupy my time except practicing my Kemyate with the computer AI, sifting through more information about Kemyate life, and following my cross-country warm-up routine in the hopes of stopping my body from atrophying. I mention Britta’s idea about meeting this Tabzi and one of her friends’ pets so I can prepare for my upcoming role, and Jule agrees, but we can’t set up anything until I’m “really” here.

  That evening, Jule calls me over to the large screen. “A message from Britta,” he says. “She’s attached a file—for you, apparently.” When he motions to the box of characters on the screen, a video appears in its place: of Win, not Britta. Jule shakes his head and ambles off.

  “I told you I’d find a way,” Win says in the recording with that familiar half smile, as clear as if he’s standing across from me. A pang shoots through my chest. It’s only been a couple days since I last saw him, but that whole week on the ship, I always had him to turn to when the strangeness of everything else around me was too much.

  “I should still keep it short,” he goes on. “I just wanted to send this to you—it reminded me of that painting in your house. I thought you’d like seeing it. What we’re working to protect.”

  His image fades out, replaced by aerial footage following a winding river through thick forest. Like the forest in the state park that a local artist captured in the painting he mentioned. A lump rises in my throat. For a second, I let myself fall away from this alien space, into memories of pine-laced air and the thump of my parents’ hiking boots ahead of me.

  The footage cuts out, and the screen blinks to black. “Good,” Jule says behind me. “Britta programmed it to self-delete. Safest if he didn’t contact you at all, but if he can’t help himself, it’s a lot less suspicious for her to send me a message, considering it’s well known how he and I get on.”

  I’m sure Win meant for the imagery to be comforting, but the walls feel even closer after, the atmosphere more synthetic. After dinner, while Jule brings up a project I can’t follow on the large screen, I slip into my bedroom and finally break my policy against checking in on my friends and family back home. I’ll start with Lisa, I decide. If Lisa’s okay, then I’ll look up everyone else.

  My search for Lisa’s full name and our state brings up some random records and listings, and then an article from seven years back—or, ten after I left. I get two sentences in before the words start blurring before my eyes. An accident, a drunk driver, Lisa hit crossing the street with her four-year-old son. The boy dead on arrival. Lisa in a coma with a spinal injury. Bile rises in my throat. I whisk the article away, turning my back on the computer terminal. It’s a few minutes before I’m sure I’m not going to vomit.

  It won’t happen. When I go back, that’ll change things. A freak accident like that, all Lisa would have to do is be on the street five minutes earlier or later—

  But my shoulders won’t stop trembling. There are no guarantees. I won’t find out whether she’s been spared that fate until the moment arriv
es. I’m going to spend the next ten years with her knowing what could be awaiting her, and having to pretend I don’t.

  7.

  After my encounter with Lisa’s future, the thought of looking up anyone else brings back a wave of nausea. It’s not hard to resist.

  Thankfully Jule provides a rather large distraction the next day when he returns from work with Britta and Isis in tow. “If I’d known being part of a rebellion meant an influx of attractive women into my apartment, I’d have signed up with Thlo sooner,” he remarks in his usual flippant tone. Isis rolls her eyes and Britta just laughs.

  Britta’s carrying the lipstick-tube device, and Isis a roll of plastic-y material that she flattens on the table into a thin stiff rectangle.

  “Britta said you’re eager to get up to speed on our tech,” she says. “I thought I’d see how much of the basics you’ll understand.”

  She brings up an image like a textbook page, diagrams and formulas and printed explanations in Kemyate characters. I study it, and flick to another page with my finger, while Britta examines my hair.

  “The color’s held well,” she comments. “Not much fading.” Her tattoo appears to have morphed since I last saw her, the spidery lines pulling back from her temples and trailing below her earlobes.

  “As long as it keeps me disguised,” I say. The image of Kurra jerking up her blaster to shoot that boy flashes through my mind. Not a second’s hesitation. I make myself focus on the tablet instead.

  “What do you think?” Isis asks after a minute.

  “Um . . . I can follow some of the equations,” I say. I can’t read many of the characters, probably because advanced technical jargon isn’t high on the language program’s priorities, but I’ve made a point of looking up the common mathematical symbols. “The math’s what comes easiest to me. Stuff like this”—I point to a diagram and the notes around it—“I don’t recognize any of it.”