by Jason Gurley
Except for the genocide thing, Evelyn says.
Catrine closes her eyes. Please don't mention that. It's hard enough. I can't believe you're able to take it so lightly.
Evelyn sighs. I'm not. I don't. We didn't know it was going to do that.
How could it not? Hatsuye timed the orbit, Catrine says.
I meant that her target was the Citadel outpost, not the city itself. Their military complex. Their spaceport.
You thought you could drop a moon on just a tiny part of a city?
Catrine, Evelyn says. Believe me. We didn't know that it would be that big.
It was big, Evelyn.
I know.
Okay.
Are we good?
No, says Catrine. Probably we won't ever be. Can you live with that?
If I have to, Evelyn says.
You do. You do have to.
Evelyn nods. Then I will. For now.
• • •
As the great red storm rises over Io's horizon, Evelyn dresses in her compartment. She watches the stormrise through the tiny viewport over her bunk. Its deep, slow churn is visible, and it reminds her of the great red cloud that swallowed Mars after Deimos fell.
Which means it reminds her of Hatsuye.
With tears in her eyes, she pulls on her simplest robe, and combs her red hair straight. It has grown long and tangles easily now. She thinks often of dyeing it. Black, perhaps. Anything but red.
She wonders if red will forever conjure the sight of Hatsuye's broken body in her mind.
She thinks that plucking her eyes out of her skull might be more practical than trying to subvert all of the red she sees.
Catrine has not returned to the compartment since their fight. Evelyn struggles with their companionship. It has been forced upon them by circumstance. For months they have fled through the system, constantly looking over their shoulders, watching for any signals of pursuit.
So far, Evelyn thinks, they seem to be in the clear.
But it might be years before she knows for certain that they have escaped notice.
Years spent in small living compartments like this one, in cramped spaces deep within unlikely colonies and outposts. Years with Catrine buckled to her side.
She doesn't much like the thought.
• • •
Reverend Kenyon Purvis settles to the floor in his pale robe, folding his long legs beneath him.
Good morning, children, he says.
Around him, the colonists sink to the floor, some resting on their knees, some crossing their legs. Their robes are a patchwork of simple colors. Evelyn is among them, her burlap-colored robe one of the most bland. Surrounding her are robes of slate and faded pine and dusky rose. Evelyn practically disappears into the small throng.
Good morning, Reverend, the people reply.
Reverend Purvis stretches his arms almost as wide as his smile. It's a rather glorious morning, isn't it?
Indeed, says one of the colonists.
The rest of them nod soberly.
Glorious, says another.
The stormrise is particularly lovely today, I hope you all have noticed, says Purvis. It tumbles and turns, content to be what it is, what it has been for millions and millions of years. What does it make you think of?
Death, Evelyn thinks, but does not say.
I think of swirling paint, says a young man. Like an oil painting that's too close to fire.
Melting, Purvis agrees. Yes. Good. Anyone else?
It reminds me of an eye, says a woman. A very large, all-seeing eye.
Perhaps the eye of Uitvinder, Purvis says.
The woman nods proudly. That's what I meant to say.
Purvis smiles contentedly. Anyone else?
Death, Evelyn says, surprising herself.
Death, Purvis repeats. An interesting observation. The fires of hell, perhaps.
No, Evelyn says. Just death and blood and dying.
That unsettles me, says the eye-of-Uitvinder woman. I don't like it.
Now, now, Purvis cautions. We each see in creation what we see, Phylla. What we're meant to see.
I don't like it, Phylla says again.
I see life, someone else volunteers, but Reverend Purvis dismisses them with his hand.
Each day is a gift, Purvis says. Each day is heerlikheid. Magnificent. Uitvinder, our compassionate creator, our tolerant teacher, our ingenious inventor, delivers it to us unspoiled, a clean sheet of purest paper. Our fingers drip ink, and the marks we leave are our own. Uitvinder relinquishes that responsibility unto us. How will you illustrate your day today?
Evelyn turns her attention to the viewport. The yellow-green pitted plains of Io suggest that the day is not such a blank slate after all. In the distance, dimmed by the haze rising from the surface, she can see a heavy plume of black smoke. It rises and is pulled sideways across the horizon like the steam of an ancient locomotive. A flare of red flickers upward, then drops from sight again, and Evelyn counts quietly to herself.
One. Two. Three. F --
Boom.
Uitvinder, the woman Phylla cries, startled.
Evelyn smiles to herself.
• • •
After the devotional, Evelyn rises with the other colonists, almost indistinguishable from them in her unremarkable robe. But Reverend Purvis finds her in the small crowd, and says, May I have a word?
Evelyn's heart rings an alarm.
Of course, she says.
Wait here, Purvis says.
She waits beside the viewport as Purvis issues kind goodbyes to his flock, gently resting his hands upon their shoulders as they file by. The colonists look up to him, their tired faces warmed by his smile. They leave content, happy, chattering among themselves.
When they are gone, Purvis looks at Evelyn across the room, then folds his hands behind his back and strolls over. He stands next to her, nearly a full foot taller than she, and gazes through the viewport at the brutal landscape of the moon.
It's not really beautiful, he says. It's madness. Madness to be here, madness to put ourselves so close to destruction. But do you know what I think?
Evelyn says nothing.
I think the destruction you can see is better than the destruction you cannot. Sometimes one can obscure the other. Sometimes it can detour the other.
He looks down at Evelyn, not unkindly.
I know why you're here, he says.
Evelyn swallows. How?
Oh, I hear things, as you might expect. He smiles at her. But also, you and the other woman were very loud yesterday. When you fought.
Oh, Evelyn says. I'm sorry.
She seems very unhappy with you, he says.
Yes.
Her reasons are sound.
Evelyn sighs and looks at her feet. They're very sound.
Yet you wrestle with her. Why?
I don't know, Reverend.
You don't have to call me that right now, he says.
She looks up. But you are --
You don't believe, he says. I see it. Do you want to know something?
Evelyn nods.
I don't, either, he confides. You see, everyone is hiding from someone, Miss Jans.
You know my name, too.
I do.
The people after me -- do they?
I have learned little, and I don't know. I don't think so. But it surely won't take them long.
No, she agrees.
Will you stay here? he asks.
I don't know, she answers. I feel -- exposed, now.
He looks out the window again. There are few better places to hide, my dear.
I can only hide for so long, she says. Soon, I need to step into the light.
Alone? he asks.
No, she says. With my people.
Who are your people?
You are, she says. Each of your parishioners are. Every man who tunnels into a moon. Every woman who treats the water. Every child who for whom Onyx and Machine are just words. Th
ere are millions of them.
And they know you?
Evelyn says, No. They know our work, by now. But they don't know me.
Use your voice, he says. Call out to them. They'll listen, I think.
Not to me, she says. To them, I'm foreign. I'm their enemy, their oppressor. They look at me and see my father. They see the Citadel.
Catrine, then.
I don't think so. She doesn't believe. Not the way I do.
She believes, Purvis says. I see it. She disagrees with your methods, but she will carry great burdens for the cause.
Maybe, Evelyn says.
So you need a voice, Purvis says.
VARIEN
Exhaustion
Varien leans through the doorway and spies Tarae at her console. Her face reflects the concern that everybody shares. Ghostly ribbons of light flicker and dance across her features. She leans forward in the pilot's chair, as far from relaxed as a pilot can be.
How are we doing? he asks.
Tarae jumps a little. You scared me, she says.
I'm sorry.
Varien enters the bridge and sits down at the communication desk.
We're not out of the woods yet, Tarae says. So, not good.
How long now?
Twenty-three hours, she says.
You need to rest, Varien says.
I can't.
He understands. No backup pilot.
No backup pilot, she says.
Well, who thought that up? he asks.
She chuckles tiredly.
Anything I can do? You want some coffee?
I'll take a cup, sure. Maybe you can learn to fly this boat while you're at it.
I'll see what I can do, he says.
He lingers in the doorway for a moment, watching her. Tarae presses a hand to her forehead, then shakes her head and straightens up.
He heads for the galley.
• • •
Tasneem and Serena are already there. Neither looks rested, and neither speaks when he enters. Tasneem is staring at a bowl of soup as if her appetite has fled, and Serena looks as if she's been reading the same page of a book for hours.
Ladies, Varien says. He ducks into the galley.
Neither answers.
Fresh coffee? he asks.
Galley's out, Serena says colorlessly.
Out, he repeats. Like, completely out?
Might be some in the supply wing, Serena says.
Where's the supply wing?
Belowdecks. Behind the engine rooms. Rear quadrant.
I think Tarae needs the coffee, he says.
Tasneem turns in her chair. Is she okay?
Not really, Varien says. She's about to pass out.
She can't pass out, Serena says.
Maybe one of you should keep her company while I find some coffee, he says.
Serena and Tasneem look at each other.
You go, Tasneem says. I'll show the kid where the supplies are.
• • •
She's not well, Varien says as he and Tasneem descend the stairs. She's about to collapse. Did you know she's been flying for nearly a day straight?
It's been that long already? Tasneem asks. I had no idea.
Can we even shake them?
We can, Tasneem says. We've done it before. It just takes the right cover, and enough of a lead, and a lot of timing and luck.
What are our odds?
Not great after this long, she confesses. I don't want to put a number on it. Here, the supply room is over here.
Varien follows her down a long, clattering catwalk. They pass the engine room, the purification room, the processing machines. It's dark down here, lit only in dim emergency lighting. Under ordinary circumstances he might ask why, but every word is an effort now, so he doesn't.
He's as tired as they all are.
Here we are, Tasneem says, stopping before a heavy double door. Help me.
They each grasp one thick handle and pull. They're tired, and the doors feel heavier than they might usually seem, but they manage to tug them apart just enough to walk through.
We're due for a broadcast, Tasneem says over her shoulder.
I don't think that's wise right now, Varien says.
Well, when we find cover, I mean.
Don't you think we should wait a while? Even if we do lose them, they're going to be looking hard for us. If they find the signal --
We have scramblers scattered all through the belt, Tasneem says, digging through a stack of boxes. We drop them every ten thousand miles or so. They do a pretty good job of scattering and masking our signal.
Still, he says.
Tasneem stops kicking through the boxes. Wait, she says. You haven't finished it, have you.
Cut the kid some slack, David says in Tasneem's ear. This is his first time on the run.
Almost, Varien says. Sort of.
Well, how far are you from finishing?
Varien hesitates. I've written about fifty words.
Fifty words, Tasneem says. Jesus. What do they say? Hi, how are you, wow, things are pretty bad out here, aren't they.
Something like that, Varien says.
But Tasneem is too tired for jokes. After you make coffee, I want to read what you've got. Your last one was good, but that was nearly two months ago. I don't understand what's stalling you.
I just -- I don't know what to say, he confesses. Look, we have a real communications problem here.
Here, Tasneem says, digging up a packet of coffee. What do you mean, a comms problem?
A branding problem, really, he says.
Go on.
They lean into the supply doors, jamming them shut again, and then Varien follows Tasneem up the catwalk again.
Deimos, he says.
Yes. So?
Tasneem, a band of rebels dropped a moon on the Citadel's biggest city, he says. These aren't rebels like you and I are rebels. They aren't after peaceful negotiations. They killed everybody to make a point. Machine-class, too. You speak up now, you're going to have to make a distinction between them and us, or everybody's going to see us as the same. Is that what you want?
Tasneem stops. I don't know.
We should have a firm perspective on that before we broadcast again, don't you think?
She is silent for a long while, leaning against the catwalk.
I've been broadcasting for a long time, she says. Telling the people how to push back. How to speak up. How to claim their due. I've never advocated violence, Varien.
I know, he says.
But maybe I've been wrong. It hasn't gotten us anyplace. People are still complacent. Exploding a moon is extreme, but maybe some violent resistance is what the people need now.
You see why I've been stuck?
She nods. I do. I'm sorry to have --
The ship shudders hard, the catwalk groaning as it swings back and forth. The emergency lighting goes out, then powers back up.
What the hell? Varien says.
Tarae, Tasneem says.
They run.
Cornered
Serena and Oona are already on the bridge when Tasneem and Varien burst in.
What happened? Tasneem shouts.
The bridge is awash in flashing lights, and Oona is kneeling over Tarae, who lies prone on the floor. Varien steps around Tasneem and kneels beside Oona.
Can I help? he asks.
Oona says, Crack open that med-kit.
Serena slides into the pilot's chair.
What happened? Tasneem repeats.
We hit something, Serena says. I think. That, or the operative has firing capabilities.
Operative scout ships don't have weaponry, Tasneem says.
I know, Serena says. So we hit something.
Hit what --
We're in a goddamn asteroid belt, Tasneem, Serena says. Let me get my bearings.
Tasneem turns to Oona. Is she okay?
Varien breaks open an adrenaline pack and hands it to Oona, who fast
ens it to Tarae's arm.
She's sleep-deprived, Oona says. Whatever we hit, we hit because she probably fell asleep. She's going to be fine. Although I think she might have fractured this elbow here when she was thrown out of the chair. It's already swollen.
Serena says, I've got us back on course. But Tasneem, you should see this.
Tasneem leans over Serena's shoulder. What?
Serena points at the radar screenview. That, she says.
On the screen, two glowing dots huddle together like fireflies.
Tasneem says, How many miles does that leave between us? When the blips are touching?
Serena looks up at Tasneem. No miles, Tasneem. They're on us now.
Varien says, Wait -- don't we have countermeasures? Hyperdrive? Something?
Serena shakes her head. The only thing we can count on now is that they can't tell us apart from the asteroids. We're not equipped for --
A deep, resounding thankk reverberates through the ship, and the whole bridge vibrates from the impact.
Tasneem looks up at Serena.
Yeah, Serena says.
• • •
Pull her, Tasneem says.
I can carry her, Varien says.
Everybody with me, Tasneem says, breaking into a run. Now, now!
Varien runs with Tarae over his shoulder, wincing at the sensation of her head thumping against his back. But there's nothing to be done.
Hurry! Tasneem yells.
Tasneem, David says. We've never talked about this.
I don't have time, Tasneem thinks.
I know what you are doing, he says. It's good. It will probably work. And this will sound terrible, but Tasneem -- you can't do it. We'll both be killed.
She ignores him.
They come upon Ishy in the corridors.
With us, Varien pants. Come, come!
Tasneem runs them to the galley. Through the galley viewports, Varien can see a dangling cable that wasn't there before. It slaps against the outer hull, heavier than it looks. The sound bounces off of the galley walls as though an anchor has been thrown down.
Serena, Tasneem shouts. Help me.
The two women grab the galley table and lift, shuttling it to one side. Beneath it is a heavy rug, threadbare in places. Tasneem throws it back, and drops to her knees. The floor is full of small circular cutouts, and Tasneem fits her fingers into two of them and lifts a panel away.