Dove Arising

by Karen Bao

  But one major concern remains, and she’s furious.

  “You fusing piece of grit!” Callisto pulls out another long knife.

  With the dagger, I block her first blow, an obvious one at my chest. But if I can’t move my legs without losing even more blood, I can’t keep fighting. Leaning against a wall to stay upright isn’t proper sparring technique.

  Callisto rains blows onto my body, managing to slash my upper left arm. It goes cold as the blood flows free.

  This is the end of my time as a trainee. If she manages to take off a limb, I’ll be unable to pay for a reattachment operation or a prosthetic. I’ll become a cripple, leaching off society, and my siblings will have nothing, not even a mother.

  Callisto slashes my left shoulder, cutting even deeper.

  Soft white light approaches us in the hallway. Is the sun coming up already, or are my senses disintegrating?

  “What is this mess?”

  I never thought I’d be so glad to hear Yinha’s voice.

  Everyone stops moving. Yinha’s narrowed eyes take in Jupiter’s limp form, the puddles of blood at my feet, and the long knives of my assailants. Jupiter begins to stir.

  “Two against one—and against the youngest trainee I’ve ever seen? I thought we taught you to fight fair—or at least not to steal scimitars from weapons storage.”

  With her here, I let myself dissolve into a bloody pile on the floor.

  “Hang in there.” Yinha kneels, takes off her jacket, and ties the sleeve so tightly around my arm that it no longer feels hot or cold—just numb. She types something onto her handscreen. “Someone from Medical is coming to help.”

  Callisto pleads in a nasal, high voice, “Captain, we can explain everything.”

  “Good. Now if you’ll answer a few questions for me . . .” Yinha rises up and pokes her handscreen until it shows Callisto’s and Jupiter’s heart rates, hormone levels, and vocal quality. She hands them each a pair of glasses that will track pupil size and eye movement. I sit straighter so I can see Yinha’s handscreen from behind.

  “Put the glasses on, Jupiter. No, not that low—on the bridge of your nose! How did Phaet sustain her injuries?”

  “She attacked us,” says Callisto. “We were so scared . . . after curfew and all. . . .”

  “She pulled a knife,” Jupiter adds.

  I’d object to every word, but there’s no need. Yinha’s handscreen shows that their pupils are dilating and their eyes shifty.

  “Okay,” says Yinha, unconvinced. “Why’d I hear Phaet’s voice instead of either of yours?”

  “She was trying to get sympathy.” Callisto stands motionless, though her heart rate is on the rise. “You don’t understand how tricky this little girl is.”

  Jupiter’s cortisol level approaches a peak. “She’s going to come after the other trainees next. I know it.”

  “Enough.” Yinha snatches the eye-monitoring glasses from their faces. “I’m reporting you both based on conclusive evidence that you attacked another trainee.” She gestures at the blood on the floor. “I do in fact have eyes.”

  Callisto sneers, dropping the innocent façade at last. “Yeah, and we can never tell when they’re open.”

  Yinha and I stiffen at the attack on our shared Chinese ancestry.

  “You can’t hurt us, Captain. Jupiter’s dad, the Base IV Militia general”—Callisto pauses for emphasis—“will get rid of you before you’ve opened your mouth to report me. And so could my mom, you know, on the Standing Committee.”

  Yinha flexes her narrow jaw, speechless. Jupiter’s father runs the Base IV Militia; Callisto is the daughter of Base IV representative Andromeda Chi. These must be unspoken “secrets” among the instructors. That’s why Yinha didn’t expel Jupiter and his cronies after the knife slashing, the friendly fire, the failed ambushes—why she deducted points from their evaluations in tiny amounts and why Arcturus ignored their transgressions. It’s why they had so many points to begin with. Callisto and Jupiter control Yinha as much as she does them.

  Now I understand why no one from Defense or Medical showed up to investigate my abnormal handscreen feed—and why Callisto and Jupiter knew about Mom’s predicament.

  “Sorry, Phaet,” says Yinha. “I should have hauled myself here faster, before they hurt you . . . hey, who am I to tell you trainees to move it?”

  Soft footfalls approach, rubber against tiles, as familiar to me from hours of trying to match them as my own. No one else seems to notice—especially Yinha, who continues mumbling apologies.

  At once, the dark hallway is less of a menace.

  Everyone ogles Wes as he rounds the bend and skids to a stop. His eyes reflect the light from Yinha’s handscreen. When he spots me, he drops to his knees, props up my back with sturdy hands, and pushes the mussed hair back from my forehead.

  “Oh God. Which of these fiends gets retribution from me first?”

  “Shh,” I mouth. He doesn’t need to punish anyone. Being here is enough.

  I release my grip on consciousness. Everything dissolves like spiral galaxies through an unfocused telescope, everything except an alabaster oval and two specks of silver.

  21

  SINGING. A BOY, SINGING. FAT GREEN FRUITS hang above my head; long, pointed leaves cast shadows on my white robes, which spread across the ground beneath my back. I’m in the greenhouses, watching sunlight fade into shadow, clasping Umbriel’s hand. I never knew he could sing my cares away, open up space in my heart for sunshine and music and the clean green smell of chlorophyll.

  But Umbriel’s real voice is a rumble like the deep whir of the solar-powered generators. Even when he was younger, it was never silky like the inside of an avocado, never capable of low timbres and high hums.

  I open my eyes, expecting to see him. And there he is, tan skin and all, with the mole beneath his left eye and the question mark lock of hair dangling between his brows. But Umbriel’s face has the haze of a dream, as if there’s a scratched-up plastic film covering it—one that I can’t peel off, because I can’t find where it ends.

  “Stripes?” Would Umbriel ever call me that?

  The music has stopped.

  I blink in my dream, open my eyes, and open them again to take in reality. I’m in the Medical quarters, with Wes bent over my cot, looking intently into my face. He has eight little freckles across the bridge of his nose. There’s a definite zigzag pattern. If they were connected with little line segments, they would make a path, jagged like the constellation Draco, from below the center of one eye to the area beneath the other.

  “Did I wake you up?” Wes retreats to a standing position, hands clasped to conceal his handscreen. “Er, sorry if that was the case.”

  “Where’s Yinha?” I croak. Last night, if I wasn’t hallucinating, she acted so strangely, speaking comforting words to me . . . using a finger, not a handscreen, to check my pulse.

  “Officer duties,” Wes says. “She asked me to stay when she needed to leave, but following orders isn’t the only reason I’m here. I’m glad to see you conscious.”

  So Yinha’s kindness wasn’t my imagination. Neither is Wes’s. Checking that my left hand is completely covered by the blankets, I say, “You were singing?”

  Wes’s cheeks flush the pink of cherry blossoms, though his narrow scar doesn’t. I’d never known his skin could be anything other than eggshell pale.

  “I liked it.”

  He turns pinker. “I think they might’ve hit your head too hard. I’d do no such thing. Public singing is punishable by adhesive over the mouth for twenty-four hours.”

  He’s teasing, but he’s also right—on the Bases, only patriotic songs are allowed. A while ago, Psychology ran a study that proved that people remember things more easily if they’re set to music, and the Committee decreed non-nationalistic singing a public disturbance. Mom thinks the lyrics of “Luna,” our national anthem, are juvenile. Looking back, I realize she only said so in our apartment, while sitting on her handscree
n. Her offhand criticisms made me squirm for reasons I only understand now, but back then I wasn’t brave enough to critique them. Maybe she wrote something far worse than insults directed at a song to get charged for disruptive print.

  I grind my teeth together, wishing I’d confronted her then.

  “Your song didn’t hurt anyone.” I pat the covers by my left leg, gesturing for Wes to sit.

  He does. When I bend my knees to accommodate him on the cot, the chilly pain I feel brings back everything: Jupiter, Callisto, scimitars, blackmail.

  “You all right? Please tell me—does anything hurt?”

  “No,” I lie.

  “Do—do you know what you looked like last night?” Wes has difficulty speaking, as if the words are too big for his mouth. “Blood all over your clothes, cuts everywhere? God, it was—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I rattle off.

  “All the evidence on you is gone. The Medics got rid of every mark. Thank God.”

  Why does he keep saying “God”? If the security pods are on, he could get in trouble for indecent spirituality, which runs counter to unbiased scientific advancement—a core tenet of Lunar life. Religion incited conflict on Earth before and after the embargo; that’s why the Committee banned it.

  “What if Yinha hadn’t come? You’d—argh, please, will you watch out a little more? Maybe switch cots with your friends, don’t travel alone, tactics like that.”

  Digging around in his pants pockets, Wes pulls out a pair of glasses. “Here. These provide infrared vision. Nothing and no one will be able to ambush you in the dark again.”

  “Thank you,” I murmur. With all the concern for my safety, he’s reminding me of Umbriel. “I haven’t seen these before. Are they from Base I?”

  He nods.

  “Cool,” I remark, even though the glasses are primitive compared to the latest sonar-vision eyewear.

  Oh. Gadgets. We’re due to learn about field equipment, for earthen and lunar missions, in the final two weeks. I’ve missed at least a day.

  “What happened in training?”

  “Not much. Yinha reviewed team basics, equipment maintenance, and space-suit operation.”

  They’ve started wearing pressure suits already? If I don’t learn how to use one by the time I venture into the lunar plains, I could die from temperature fluctuation or decompression. I’ll have to read the lengthy manual myself. “But—”

  “Let yourself rest. Both of us have worked too hard lately.”

  “I’ll sleep if you sing.” Music will take me somewhere that isn’t cold, hard, and painful. Better than any medication.

  He shakes his head but says, “If that’s what you want.”

  After a long moment, he starts quietly. His eyes close, and he sways as if he can feel wind around him. I briefly wonder what wind must be like, all that air moving at once.

  “Have an olive,

  No, have two.

  Wear a dress of leaves

  As the sun warms you . . .”

  This time, his smooth voice reminds me of water, drizzling out of the greenhouse ceiling to nourish the plants beneath. The words stick in my mind, growing into my synapses like roots in fertile soil. Something prickles behind my ribs and spreads to my belly. I can’t explain what it is, only that it’s multicolored and alive and makes me hold my breath, wrap my arms around my chest, and rock myself back and forth, trying to cage it in.

  “Little girl, little friend,

  This day will never end.

  Our day will never end. . . .”

  Too soon, he stops, eyes still closed, and the silence is part of the song.

  When the silence reaches an acceptable length, I say, “Is there more?”

  Wes opens his eyes and has to think before replying. “I don’t quite remember it.”

  “But you do. Why don’t you want to sing the rest?”

  He frowns. “Well. It’s my sister’s absolute favorite.”

  He has a sister? And she listens to music? I don’t remember anything about her in his stats, and I don’t recall any evidence that such singing is permissible anywhere on the Moon.

  “Where is she?”

  “With my parents.”

  “Do you miss her?”

  “Slightly.”

  “What’s her name?” I can’t help myself.

  “Murray,” he mutters cryptically, as if memories of her pain him.

  Interesting name. “Is that a star?”

  “It’s a comet that orbits a binary star a few hundred light-years away.”

  “I’ve never heard of it.”

  Wes scratches his cheek with a forefinger, right along his scar. “Not many people have.”

  “How old is she? Is she strong, fast, and daring, like you?”

  Eyes downcast, he chuckles at my sarcasm. “Murray is a few years older than I am. She prefers more domestic activities.”

  “Cooking and cleaning like Earthbound women?”

  “Not necessarily,” Wes retorts, but he doesn’t elaborate. “What about your family? I’d like to know more about Cygnus and Anka, since you obviously adore them.”

  The thought of my siblings floods my brain with dopamine, that happy chemical. “Cygnus is thirteen and already wants to run everything. Before I joined Militia, he was plotting to fake his age and work in Sanitation. But InfoTech would be a better fit.”

  “Ambitious.”

  “Anka relies on him completely, and they’re as close to each other as I am to Umbriel. She’s eleven and entering a feisty phase that I never experienced.”

  “Right. I can’t imagine you ever causing trouble—intentionally.”

  “Mm.”

  Pause. “What are your parents like?”

  Wrong question. I fight to keep a grimace off my face.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I was never good with delicate things. Will you forget I said that?”

  “It’s all right.” I cough away the lump in my throat. “Well, you already know that Mom’s not home.”

  “Would you like me to fetch water?” Wes starts to stand, but I grab his forearm. I need to finish.

  “Dad died on a Geology expedition when I was six.”

  “That’s so sad to hear.” A straight crease appears between his eyebrows. “Not to be callous, but I think I know why you joined Militia so early.”

  When I remain silent, he guesses, “Money?”

  Exactly.

  Sympathy and sorrow cross his features. Does he see why I’ve worked so hard? Will he listen to that small, merciful part of himself and let me, his de facto protégée, have the ultimate honor?

  “I would help you place first, now that I know this. . . .” he trails off, and my heart swells with hope. “But I can’t.”

  Why?

  He shakes his head.

  The hope crumbles to nothing. I want to hit him for letting me amass it in the first place, for withholding the reason he needs to be first. Wes is stockpiling information away from me, just when I thought we were starting to rely on each other.

  “Second is fine,” I spit out, though first would mean three hundred extra Sputniks, the title of sergeant, and a salary large enough to free Mom even if the Committee finds her guilty.

  Second is not fine for either of us.

  I’d rather he not let me win—Ariel never did. I’ll get more satisfaction through my own efforts.

  “I’m going to sleep,” I stammer, cuing him to leave.

  “That’s good.” Standing abruptly, he reaches a hovering hand down, as if he’ll brush a runaway strand of hair from my face. He decides against it at the last instant.

  The fluttering thing in my chest slows and plummets. As Wes’s footsteps fade, I hum his lovely song to myself. But it doesn’t remedy the fact that I might have lost him: the boy who salvaged me from mediocrity, gliding out the door.

  22

  “STRIPES!” THE NEXT DAY, WHEN I TROOP into the training dome on steady legs, Nash ambushes me with open arm
s. Since Vinasa’s accident, Nash has grown bubblier, overcompensating for grief. As per our instructors’ expectations, we act as if Vin never existed—actively denying the past. Our behavior disturbs me, especially because Vin, an aspiring History worker, would hate it.

  “You’re back! I stayed up these past two nights worrying about you and sneaking banana peels under Callisto’s bedsheets.”

  “Was that necessary?” I ask.

  “Having insomnia or making her smell funny? Yes to both.”

  Eri sits down with us on the viewing platform and embraces me in turn. Unlike Nash, she has grown more serious since the third evaluation.

  “We visited you,” Nash says. “Actually, half the trainees tried to visit you. But Canopus kicked us out. He said you had major recovering to do.”

  “Speaking of that,” Eri says, “you should sleep in my cot tonight, so Jupiter and Callisto don’t get you. Orion says Wes switches off with him and some other people. We should at least try—I don’t mind.”

  “But Callisto might . . .” I’m grateful for their hospitality but worried for their welfare.

  Eri grimaces. “I think we should protect each other.”

  Protect me—by putting herself at risk. However, it would be idiotic to keep sleeping in my usual cot, and I remind myself of my purpose in Militia now: to come out on top, because my family deserves to be together again. “If you insist.”

  Yinha’s voice fills the room. “We’ll continue our field training now. Trust the instructions from your headset. Get it? Cool.”

  Recorded commands play from our helmet speakers. Today, training involves excessive physical activity and little thinking. We follow every word in every sentence—at least, we’re supposed to.

  The training area has been altered to resemble Earth, complete with plastic-smelling trees and a squashy floor imitating mud. Even the dome’s ceiling has changed from white to a sickly green-gray, mimicking the polluted sky. Each of us is weighed down by ten kilograms of equipment and supplies on our backs: jackets, heavy all-purpose helmets, weapons in our belts, and ballistic shields. I feel like one of the pack animals used by the ancient Earthbound.