The Clouded Sky

by Megan Crewe

“If you’re done gossiping,” Isis says, emerging from behind the partition and nudging Britta, “I think we’ve found a way to do a minor upgrade on the guidance system. We just need some of the . . .” She switches to Kemyate with a word I don’t know, a term that mustn’t easily translate. “You got the supply database from Mako?”

  “I did,” Britta says. “I can go grab it. Anything else we need?”

  “It’d be good to have the . . . and the . . . on hand. Thanks.”

  “You’re keeping Mako out of the loop?” I say as Britta ducks out.

  Isis’s mouth twists. “We’re keeping as much as possible to ourselves and Thlo. It means we have to move more slowly, but when we don’t know who’s leaking the information . . .”

  “You have to be cautious,” I supply. The standard Kemyate refrain. True, in this case. But the thought of how much longer we may have to wait before we head back to Earth, before I see my parents, Angela, Lisa, and Evan in person instead of just photographs, sets my nerves on edge.

  I step toward the enclosed area, resting my hands on the transparent wall. Thlo must have left while I was working on the simulation. The projected images mean little to me, although some resemble the tech plates Win and I retrieved from Jeanant’s hiding spots on Earth. Isis slips back inside, making a gesture at the doorway so it stays open. I watch her fingers dance through the images. She has one of those flexible tablets fixed to the wall, showing a diagram with notes in careful handwriting along the margins. It looks familiar.

  “Those are Jeanant’s schematics?” I say, nodding to it.

  Isis glances up. “That’s right.”

  The plans for Jeanant’s weapon. The key to taking down the time field generator, according to everyone here. “Why did he go to all that trouble?” I find myself asking. “What’s wrong with the weapons you already have?”

  “It’s not what’s wrong with the weapons so much as what’s difficult about the time field generator,” Isis says. “The scientists working with Earth Travel have needed to keep it functioning for thousands of years—protected from solar rays and meteorites. It has three power sources to cover the failure of any one, and a thick protective shell around the whole thing that they’re constantly repairing and refining.”

  “And his weapon can deal with all of that?”

  “As far as I can tell,” Isis says. “Trying to break apart the whole generator with one big blast would require an extraordinary amount of power—and likely destroy the adjoining research satellite and everyone on it too, which we don’t want. So Jeanant focused on speed and concentrated energy. If we pierce the outer protections in just the right spot, quickly enough, we can shoot through to all three of the power sources and destroy them. Thankfully he managed to get a copy of the schematics for the generator itself, so we know exactly where to target. It’s a good thing you were able to find the processor and guidance tech plates. The materials he used, for the sort of delicacy he needed—it must have taken him years to gather them without being noticed.”

  All this trouble, because Kemyates cling so stubbornly to their experiments on Earth and their fear of the dangers that might await them elsewhere.

  “How close are we to finishing?” I ask.

  “The tests and refinements I’m doing today are the last batch,” Isis says. “We could leave tomorrow if we had the kolzo—and a ship to carry us. Jeanant designed the weapon so most of the actual construction can be done while we’re in unmonitored space on the trip to Earth.”

  “He really thought of everything.”

  “Yes,” Isis says. “I wish I could have talked to him about his work. I’d love to know where he got some of his inspiration.”

  “You never met him, before . . .”

  She shakes her head, ringlets bouncing. “I was in lower school when he left. But he came to help with a talk on some new tech he’d helped design, a few years before that. I knew I wanted to do this work even then. And I knew as soon as he started talking that I wanted him as a teacher. I hate what this place did to him.”

  “What do you mean?” I say, startled by the sudden vehemence in her voice.

  “All the tech work we do, more than half of it is on the demand of Earth Travel,” she says with a jerk of her shoulder. “Better cloths, sharper monitoring systems, faster supply ships to ferry records and materials back and forth. For a program we probably should have discontinued centuries ago. I look at his designs, and I can see all the other things he could have created, to make life here more efficient, or to better prepare us for a new home. But he didn’t feel he could pursue that until the Travel program was stopped.”

  “And it’s the same for you?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “I’ve had opportunities to help with little projects on the station. I shouldn’t complain. But, working with his plans, seeing how far he went . . . It’s hard not to be frustrated.”

  She glances at a sleek device mounted on her forearm, her forehead furrowing. “Britta should have been back by now.”

  My stomach drops. “Do you think she’s okay?”

  “Let me check in.”

  She moves to the console I was using, swiping away the navigation simulator. Before she can do anything else, Britta bursts in, her eyes wild.

  “They found it,” she says.

  “Who?” Isis says. “Found what?”

  Britta breaks into a stream of Kemyate too fast for me to follow. Isis asks her a few questions, which she answers in the same frantic tone.

  “What’s going on?” I interrupt when I can’t stand it any longer.

  “The materials Mako’s skimmed or otherwise collected are scattered through the storage areas, anywhere she’s found small unused spaces,” Isis says. “One of those spots has been discovered. Most of the material we had stashed there was taken. And whoever took it left a warning beacon that was supposed to be triggered when someone came for the rest. Thankfully Britta realized something was wrong before she set it off. But we have to take care of it, and check the other supplies to see if they’re still secure.”

  “I’ve already gone to the other two we talked about,” Britta says. “Those were fine. I think. You should double-check them—you know what tech to look for better than I do.”

  Isis turns to me. “I’ll put you on the inner-shuttle back to Jule’s apartment.”

  “If there’s anything I can do down here . . .” I say.

  “It’d be hard to explain wandering around the storage areas with someone else’s pet.”

  “All right,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest to hide how my hands have clenched. I’m still so powerless here. “Be careful.”

  “I need to do more,” I say the moment Jule gets back from work that evening.

  He blinks at me as the door slides shut behind him. “What?”

  “We have to figure out who’s tipping off Silmeru and the Enforcers about what we’re doing,” I say, pacing from one end of the room to the other. “Fast, before they ruin the whole mission. What’s happening with those ‘functions’ you were looking into?”

  Jule steps closer, tucking the box he’s carrying under his arm. “Is this because of the supply problem? You know Isis checked, and it was only the one spot. What we lost, we had more of the same materials elsewhere. Thlo’s insisted on having extra of everything stockpiled just in case. We’re fine.”

  I hadn’t known. Isis must have reported back to the rest of the group before the meeting broke up completely. But I didn’t hear, because no one called to tell me. Because they still don’t see me as a full member.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “It shows that whoever it is, they’re still trying to chip away at us. I can’t let them screw this up, Jule.”

  I wonder if he understands just how much this means to me. If any of them feel it the way I do. For them, it’s about preventing an indeterminate disaster if the station’s systems wear down, about finding a new home it’s hard for them to even imagine, and stopping the injustice of how t
heir people have treated Earth is just a side benefit. For me, it’s the immediate safety of my entire planet, as each shift wears it down more, increases the environmental chaos, and could mean millions wiped out in an instant. They have dreams of something big and new; I just want to protect what little we on Earth have left. My blue sky, my bright sun. My friends and family. The only home I’m ever going to have.

  A home I may never see again if the traitor succeeds.

  “I’ve looked through the requests for Earthling servers,” Jule says after a pause. “There are a couple of functions looking to ‘hire’ soon. We should probably pick just one, to start, so I don’t seem overeager to send you out.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Then get me into whichever one it looks like the most people from the Security and Earth Travel divisions will be at.” My thoughts trip back to Joining Day. Kurra prowling the assembly hall. “These functions, would Enforcers usually attend them?”

  “It’s more the higher-ups than the ground workers,” Jule says. “I don’t think it’s likely. But if you don’t want to take the chance . . .”

  I set those fears aside. “No, I need to try this.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out, and arrange it tomorrow,” he says. “As long as you’re sure you can handle it.”

  “You don’t think I can?” I ask.

  “I know you can.” He smiles, and something inside me unclenches.

  “In the meantime,” he says, walking over to tap up the table and set his box on it, “you seem like you could use a distraction. How would you like to try a Kemyate game? I’ll teach you.”

  I eye the box. “A game?”

  “A traditional Kemyate diversion of strategy and will,” Jule says in a TV-commercial voice, and then, in his normal tone, “It helps keep the mind alert and hone problem-solving skills. I bet even council members play from time to time.”

  “Right,” I say dryly, sliding onto the bench. “Because you Kemyates couldn’t do anything fun unless you can explain it away with some practical purpose.”

  “Oh, there are a few things,” Jule says, his grin turning suggestive.

  “Mmhm?” I say. We’re not jumping straight into that. But I have to admit my curiosity is piqued—and I could use a break. “Too bad you brought this up first. How do we play?”

  He sits perpendicular to me and opens the box. The board he unfolds, a thin sheet that looks like fabric until he smooths it over the table and it stiffens, is covered with a couple dozen rows of squares. Jule hands me a cup full of little plastic-y discs and takes one for himself. Mine glint with a silvery sheen, while his have a dark garnet-like luster.

  “I assume you’ve seen chess before,” he says. “Ever heard of a Chinese board game called wéiqí—or Go, in Japanese?” I shake my head. “Well, you’ll get the idea. Rata is halfway between the two, with some extra complexity to make things interesting.”

  He lifts one of his discs. “Each turn you get to choose: place a token on any not already occupied space on the board, move a token of yours already on the board, or ‘upgrade’ one of your tokens to a higher level. The higher the level, the more flexibility of moves. As if you’re turning it from a pawn into a rook into a queen. I’ll explain that as we go.”

  When he sets the token on the board, the character for “one” gleams on its surface. I pick up a token of my own. “So what’s the point?” I ask. “How do you win?”

  “Officially,” he says, “you win by covering more of the board with your color than your opponent does with his. Put your token here.” He indicates the square next to his. I set mine down, watching another “one” shimmer on, and he immediately places a second crimson token on the other side of it. A streak of red blooms across my token, transforming it to look like his.

  “Hey!” I say.

  “A demonstration,” he says. “If you can surround one or more of your opponent’s tokens in a row, and the levels of your surrounding tokens are greater than those you’ve surrounded, you can take them over. Yours was first level, and both of mine were first, and one plus one combined is more than one on its own. If your token had been second, third, or fourth level, or if I’d surrounded two or more first-level tokens, I couldn’t have taken them. Got it?”

  “I think so. Sounds straightforward.” I reach to take back my piece, and he makes a noise of protest.

  “We keep going,” he says. “Unless you want to concede already?”

  “No,” I say. “But that wasn’t a real start. You made me give up my token.”

  He shrugs, with a lazy smile that sends a warmth over my skin even as I grimace back. “Consider that your first real lesson.”

  “Fine.” I kick at him under the table, and he blocks my leg, his ankle pressing against mine. We stare each other down for a moment. My heartbeat kicks up a notch. I’m pretty sure there’s a game going on here that’s about more than just tokens.

  Well, that just makes it a bigger challenge.

  I drag my leg back, and place another token, far from his current three. He moves one. I lay another. He runs his thumb over one to “upgrade” it, and the surface bulges into a low dome. And on we go. He explains each level’s movements as they come up. I manage to claim two of his tokens only to have him claim those back as well as a bunch of mine a few turns later.

  We’ve filled nearly a third of the board when I understand enough to realize I started with completely the wrong strategy, trying to build up my forces in one section while he’s set up pockets of power all around. I suspect I’m already screwed. But there’s still a lot of space to cover.

  I’ve just convinced myself that I’m getting the hang of it, regaining ground, when Jule slides over a third level token at an angle I’d forgotten it could move, and takes a handful of my key pieces in one swoop. A cry of dismay breaks from my throat.

  “Now do you want to concede?” he asks.

  “Like hell,” I grumble.

  “You know,” he says, “there’s no shame in it. Conceding when you can see you’re done for is considered excellent strategy. It means you can sooner start another game that this time you might win. Most games of Rata end long before the board is full.”

  “Well, you’ve never played against an Earthling before,” I retort. “We stick it out.”

  He laughs. “Have it your way.” And many minutes later, playing through a hastily consumed dinner, the board is swallowed by garnet red. I groan, sinking back on the bench.

  “It’s my first try,” I say. “No judgments should be made.”

  “Of course not,” Jule says, and then allows, “It wasn’t totally fair. You want to give it another shot?”

  I can’t possibly do worse than that attempt. I straighten up, and he scoots closer. His knee bumps mine as he sweeps the tokens off the board, the ones that were mine morphing back to their original silver color as they leave its surface. I glance at him, but he doesn’t make any indication the contact was on purpose. Only, as he finishes separating the colors, his knee comes back to lean against mine, and stays there. A comfortable heat.

  “Is that a cheap attempt at distracting me?” I ask.

  “Is it working?” he replies innocently. “I could go further.” He rests his hand on the bench so it just grazes my thigh. I arch an eyebrow at him.

  “Seduction by board game,” I say. “Now I’m starting to wonder how you’ve managed to have any ‘guests’ at all before me.”

  He throws back his head as he laughs at that, and the careless flash of his teeth, the pleasure in his expression when he looks at me again, wriggle into my heart in a way his touch hadn’t quite.

  “Maybe I just thought it would be fun,” he says, calling back to my earlier comment, and sets down his first token.

  “Seduction” was the right word, I realize as we play. In the game itself—the maneuvering around each other, the slow encircling, the recognizing of vulnerabilities. I take more time thinking through my moves, charting out the chains of reaction I can create. A
nd in the way Jule’s playing. Somehow his arm keeps happening to brush mine. My hair drifts over my face as I concentrate, and he tucks the strands behind my ear with a light caress. I find myself leaning closer to him in invitation.

  No, not giving in that easily. I draw my attention back to the game.

  “Who taught you how to play?” I say. I’m having trouble picturing Jule sitting down with the father I met the other day, engaging in a battle of strategic will.

  “My grandfather Adka,” he says. A shadow crosses his face. “He used to say, ‘If you can master Rata, you can master the world.’ ”

  “Well, I guess it’s a good thing I’m learning it then,” I say, but that levity suddenly seems out of place. “He used to say?” The Enforcer who interviewed us said something about Jule’s grandfather’s “state.” I don’t know much about Kemyate life expectancy, but with their level of technology, I’d have expected they’d make it longer than the average Earthling.

  “He’s gone a bit . . .” Jule hesitates. “On Earth you’d call it ‘senile.’ I don’t know if that’s quite right. He’s just not all there anymore.”

  “Oh,” I say, wishing I hadn’t brought it up. “I’m sorry.”

  “There are still some things even we can’t fix or explain,” Jule says. “It happens.” A smile creeps back across his face as he captures three of my pieces, “As does this.”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Not so fast.” I nudge over a token I’ve been saving for this moment, and five of his gleam silver.

  I take a couple more on my next move, and another few a little after that, and somehow I find myself staring down at a board that’s half-covered and nearly two thirds silver. Jule studies it.

  “You’ve got me,” he says finally. “I concede.”

  “What?” I say. “No. You must have let me.”

  “Nope,” he says. “I’m not that generous. You learn fast.”

  He grins at me with such open admiration that the heat of his knee still resting against mine spreads through my whole body. Then he taps the table, sending it down to the floor with the board still laid across it.