by Karen Bao
“Why do you care, Kappa?” Even as Orion argues against us, I feel the ship slowing. He whispers, “Why sacrifice your job—our jobs? You can’t influence the verdict.”
“I don’t want to be poor!” Io moans.
“Blast it, Io!” Orion throws up his hands. “Why don’t we all say whatever we want now?”
The eavesdroppers must have noticed something funny—if they aren’t occupying themselves 100 percent with the trial feed.
“Great!” Nash exclaims. “I’m done hiding!” Then she remembers to lower her voice. “The Committee shouldn’t be listening to us in the first place. Don’t you see? Those engine workers, Jon, Lina, this Jinjiang city . . . they’re stand-ins for the Bases and people living here. That’s what Phaet’s mom is saying.”
Orion turns on her. “So the lunacy has gotten to you, too.”
Nash raps her knuckles on the back of Orion’s helmet, whispering, “Nah. Just . . . some of this grit matches thoughts I’ve had. Someone has to try and change things.”
“Mm,” says Io. “The Committee makes everyone do stupid stuff. Beta has to wear maroon. It’s ugly.”
Nash beams, relieved that her disobedient thinking isn’t occurring in isolation. “So that’s four of us who think it’s worth going back.”
“You going to dump me out the hatch or what?” Orion says. “I’m not coming.”
“Orion . . . this is a team effort,” Nash says. “We go where Stripes goes.”
“She’s our superior,” adds Wes, careful as always. “We’re obligated to follow her orders.”
I’m the one who’ll get written up for insubordination, not any of them. And there’s a chance I’ll face charges of disruptive speech, along with Io and Nash. I’m surprised by how little I care.
Exasperated, Orion bangs his forehead on the steering joystick, causing the ship to jerk. “Fine!”
“There’s a good Orion!” Nash singsongs, flicking the ponytail that protrudes from underneath Orion’s helmet.
He grunts, but doesn’t jerk away.
“We no longer print photographs on paper. Our government’s eavesdropping ears are not in the walls; they are built into the backs of our hands. Instead of looking up at the Moon, we look down at the Earth. Because of these differences, we think that Jinjiang’s history, and the histories of dozens of Earthbound states, are not ours.
“We are wrong.”
I’m still trembling; Mom’s Journalism skills have served her too well. I fear that she, like Jon, knew this document would mean her demise.
Orion pulls a U-turn.
Io buries her face in her hands. “Are we really . . . Whoa!”
We speed baseward, our engine’s reactor eating through hydrogen so rapidly that the pressure gauge enters the red zone. On my handscreen, Phobos continues reading. I catch only snippets of meaning amidst Orion’s complaints and Nash’s insistence that we’re doing “the right thing.”
Mom’s document segues into a formal tone, using the pronoun “we” and criticizing fundamental tenets of life on the Moon, decrying mandatory Militia service, lack of resources for the underprivileged, and the secret Standing Committee meetings that determine our laws. The petitioners—my mother!—want “favorable foreign relations” with Earthbound cities and regular elections for a larger “legislative body.”
Overhauling the system never crossed my mind. But if the system is inherently broken . . .
“Fuzz on a stick,” swears Orion. “Patrol ship up ahead!”
“You sissy,” Nash sneers. “Scared of a patrol ship. Keep flying, for nukes’ sake.”
When Phobos stops reading, I glance at my handscreen once more. At the end of the document, Mom has written, in intricate gray script:
“Base minds think alike. Free minds think.”
From my handscreen, Phobos’s voice says, “Anything to add, Atlas? We’ve all read Mira’s articles. When I ran this . . . thing through the comparison software in Law, it was a ninety-two percent match. Let me put it simply, in case you don’t understand: Mira Theta oozes from every letter.”
35
ATLAS DROPS TO HIS KNEES. “PLEASE, YOUR Honors, this is illegally acquired evidence.”
“It doesn’t matter how evidence is procured if it’s this incriminating,” retorts Janus. “Don’t bother arguing. Look at your lie indicators on the graph; they’re going wild. You are about to deceive us.”
“This document was written in Mira Theta’s voice,” says Nebulus. “And it was found in her apartment, on her HeRP. Therefore, we conclude that she is . . .”
I clap my hand over the handscreen speaker, knowing what word his mouth will form next, what their verdict will be, what it will mean for the woman I love most in the world.
Guilty.
“Wait! Please!” Atlas raises his hands to the images of the Committee in a supplicating gesture. “Thirteen years ago. The only instance in which a person accused of disruptive print ever walked free. Six thousand Sputniks disappeared from the family’s joint account the following day. I’m making a similar offer, but of eight thousand Sputniks.”
Cassini sniggers in a brassy falsetto, waggling his fingers at the camera he probably doesn’t know is there. People must have tried messaging the Committee that they’re being filmed, but they’ve disabled the function on their handscreens at Andromeda’s request. And no one’s told them in person, either, since the trial’s location has been kept a secret. Besides, who would dare barge in on a secret Committee function?
“Where does a low-ranking legal counselor like you get that kind of money?” Cassini says.
“I keep excellent track of my finances. And those of my friends.”
“A moment.”
The Committee members turn inward, whispering among themselves. Cygnus steers a video pod closer to them; the speakers on my handscreen screech and rattle before he adjusts the volume. The destroyer rattles too, as we bump our way into the Base IV hangar.
“. . . probably got the money from Theta’s daughter,” says Nebulus. “The new captain.”
“It’s a fair sum.”
“Not enough to pay for the degree of disruption.”
“But we’ve accepted such payment in the past,” says Andromeda’s distinctly female voice. “We should let Mira go. We can ensure that she keeps quiet.”
Before the craft slows to a stop, I pull open the hatch and leap out.
“Stripes! Want to tell us what you’re doing?” Nash shouts after me.
“Or what we should do?” hollers Orion.
My feet fall into step, heels barely touching the ground, toes pointed forward. I dash through the hangar and tear down the hallway, dodging stunned soldiers whose eyes are glued to their handscreens. They’re transfixed by the first news broadcast in a century that means something.
“This pronoun ‘we’ in the document . . . Mira obviously has accomplices!” Hydrus rants. “She’s also committed unsanctioned assembly. We must detain her.”
“But . . .”
“No, Andromeda! Not this time.”
“You’ve been oddly sentimental toward this criminal, Andromeda,” says Janus, sounding suspicious. “Mira spent a month in Medical while you argued with us. I can’t fathom why you thought Caeli might have forged evidence, given Mira’s behavior during Peary—or why you thought we’d need a trial to confirm her deviant behavior before execution.”
Are these words a hallucination? If not for Andromeda’s insistence on a trial, might Mom have been killed as soon as Wes brought her to Medical? I dumbly shake my head within the confines of my helmet. The Committee, the guardians of the Bases, planned to murder my mother and label microorganisms as the culprits. She probably isn’t the first they took in this way—or the last.
Andromeda sighs. “Well, you all proved to be right. I’d hoped that her years in Journalism had erased the radical ideas she had in her younger years. Perhaps ingrained ideology can never be replaced. Do with her what needs to be done.”
Hydrus turns back to the camera and speaks normally. The image tilts and the resolution blurs as Cygnus steers the video pod backward.
“We decline your offer, Atlas,” says Hydrus. “We are not like our underlings. Promises of material goods cannot sway us.”
I’ve found my way to the Atrium. People in brown robes are trickling in, staring at the high-resolution screens on the walls. I dodge them and run along the side of the cavernous space, behind the last row of civilian security mirrors. To facilitate my breathing and increase my speed, I throw my helmet to the floor. My ribs convulse and my lungs hold tightly to every milliliter of air so that I don’t sob in fear, which hasn’t happened since I was a kid. I’ll let my face turn blue before I let strangers see me cry.
“. . . guilty as charged!” The Committee’s voices project through the massive Atrium speakers and through the dozens of handscreens belonging to the people gathered there.
No—something can still be done. I will free her, and we will run together. . . .
“Throughout this trial,” says Cassini, turning to address my mother. “I always wondered why you would complain about your lot. You’re middle-class, if on the lower end, and educated—not like those useless robepiles in Shelter. That filth leeches off the rest of us. I’d expect grievances from them—but . . .” He scoffs, “Not so well-articulated.”
My mother speaks, her voice free of rasps and hitches. “I hope I did them justice.”
“A noble endeavor.” Janus’s voice is a hollow sound that hints at the gap in his chest where his heart should be. “Before you take your punishment, Mira, answer us this: how would Captain Phaet and her siblings feel if they knew you chose a failed rebellion over them? That you wasted your life on hopeless heroics when they needed you?”
I stumble, overwhelmed. He knows how to hit us where it will burn. For my family, I gave up my dreams for the future. Mom did the opposite.
Running even harder to gain lost time, I burst through the Law entrance and zigzag to avoid confused-looking soldiers. I shove past lower-ranked Militia officers wondering aloud where the trial’s taking place. Someone elbows me in the back, nearly causing me to plant my face onto the front desk. I grab the edge with my hands to keep from landing atop one of three secretaries.
“Militia order! Where is Chamber 144?”
He looks up at me only long enough to see my captain’s insignia. “Take two rights, up the flight of stairs, through the double doors, on your left.”
Mechanically, I follow his directions. My fingerprint never fails to grant me access. As I sprint down the bustling first floor hallway, with my hand close to my ear, I hear Mom’s voice.
“While you six dangle us from your fingertips, those I love are never safe. Nine years ago, the . . . accident taught me, the hard way.”
I bound up the stairs three at a time, sweat dripping into my eyes.
The last hallway is deserted. My thumb slams onto the sensor of Chamber 144, and I tumble inside, my muscles tensed for yet more running.
But there’s nowhere else to go; there’s nowhere I can hide from the six shadows looming large and still on the walls; if they’ve so much as blinked at my entrance, the projections don’t show it. Atlas gasps; Phobos ignores me. Mom smiles with relief; she must have been wishing I’d find her.
“Well spoken, Mira,” says Hydrus. “But our little talk must end he—”
“Wait!”
Hydrus pouts, impatient to deliver the knockout blow, but allows Mom to speak. Her consciousness still occupies that shatterproof space within her. She looks at me, through me, begging me to forgive her for years of secrets.
“My children are innocent—even Phaet! They had no part in this.”
What about Cygnus? She put him on the front line. Does she think lying now will help?
Mom clasps her hands and rests her forehead on the knot of fingers. “For the sake of human dignity, spare them! I ask no more.”
Silence. Then Wolf says, “Your crimes are punishable by immediate execution.”
Mom’s hands fall to her sides; the determination drains from her face. There’s nothing more she can do. Atlas lunges toward her, but Janus roars, “Stay back!”
Mom’s eyes stare into my face until the moment she closes them. I make no move in her direction. I don’t forgive her, but I won’t begrudge her a few seconds of serenity, not now.
As an automated laser weapon descends from the ceiling, twin metal strips emerge from the defendant’s chair and wind around Mom’s neck until they meet in the middle, holding her head in place. The steely clasp is the last embrace she’ll ever know. When the weapon clicks into place, aimed at her forehead, I wish I were holding her instead.
I clench my eyes shut, but I still see the violet light and feel worlds slip from under me.
36
HER HEAD IS TUCKED INTO HER CHEST, lolling back and forth as if she’s asleep. I could almost believe that the laser missed something vital—that I can take her to Medical and they can revive her. She can’t be dead, not the only parent I have left.
Broken logic gives way to an unrelated memory: a time in training when I fell off the climbing wall, felt the floor slap against my spine, and lay there trying to remember how to breathe, how to lift my head. I recovered from that blow and within twenty minutes had forgotten the incident, but there is no erasing this. This is worse than anything: I can’t recall Mom’s last words, the scent of her embrace, what her face looked like before the laser hit. I should have done something more, pushed her out of the chair before the bars slid around her neck, shown my love one last time. . . .
Stop! No more regret. I didn’t send that beam her way—these tyrants did. As I remember anger and how to hate, raw energy washes away everything else. Mom never needed to die; Cygnus and Anka never needed to watch.
Before I can move, before I can touch my mother’s body or modify the curve of Phobos’s haughty nose with my fist, Atlas pins me to his side.
“No—Mom! I hate them! I hate them all!”
Even with a hand covering my mouth, I’ve never made this much noise.
“I failed,” Atlas whispers.
“Let us deal with her.” Nebulus gestures for Atlas to step away from me. Reluctantly, he does. I face the six shadows alone.
“You should not be here,” begins Janus. “You should be halfway to Earth by now. There is no excuse for your insubordination, Captain.”
I wasn’t here to give one, or to fall like a withered leaf before them. The Committee has done more wrong in five minutes than I have in my life.
“Aside from that,” Nebulus says, “You have violated Code 284.75. This is a confidential trial.”
“We had high expectations for you, Phaet.” Janus tries harder to break me. “Your marks in Primary, your placement in Militia—such potential, all unusable now, like radioactive waste.”
Every word slides off my consciousness—acid rain from a waxy leaf, running harmlessly over sealed-shut stomata. Wolf takes over, his cloud of hair seeming to bristle with electricity. “We should have remembered the radical deviants to whom you were born! You’re as delusional as your parents, aren’t you? They thought they could run a country—ha!”
Cassini’s hand makes a dismissive sweep, as if brushing me away with his spider fingers. “My fellow Committee members, observe the flat expression, the haughty silence. She’s looking at us like some girl-sage who thinks she knows better.”
I dumbly latch on to a word, one whose plural form hasn’t been used in reference to me in nine years. Parents. But Dad died too long ago to be involved in Mom’s activities, unless there’s more I don’t know. . . .
Say something. I can speak to all the residents of Base IV. I want to tell the Committee how wrong they are, how little they understand about our audience. No handscreen-hiders, fruit stealers, or Shelter residents loom above me. The Committee keeps order, but if they comprehended our everyday lives, maybe they wouldn’t need to try so hard.<
br />
My mouth is dry but my voice is bright. “I don’t know better, but I may know more.”
Not a movement from anyone on the screen or in the room. I’ve said enough to petrify them and can now escape.
I stumble to the door, jam my thumb onto the sensor, barge through. The guards gape at their handscreens; they make no attempt to stop me. My feet carry me through the hallway, down the steps, into the lobby. I don’t know where they’ll take me, only that I need to be alone.
A small crowd has gathered in the Atrium. Although mucus plugs my nasal cavities, I smell sweat and smoke; while tears smear my vision, there’s no mistaking the mottled brown robes. Again, the impossible has occurred, and it’s another jolt to my state of mind.
The strongest of the Shelter residents have broken out. They form a cluster of about eighty, shouting hoarsely, faces pointing at the ceiling, the bumpy contours of their craning necks exposed. Other citizens, their brighter robes a stark contrast, gather at the mouths of the four hallways that feed into the Atrium, watching the scene with fear and wonder.
As my destination lies on the other side of the base, I run through the center of the Atrium, along the perimeter of the Shelter group. On the ceiling is a photograph of Mom, little and proud in life, surrendering to gravity in death. A shot from Cygnus’s camera plays in a loop on the six surrounding video screens. Again and again I watch myself run into Chamber 144; the camera trains on the back of my head, showing a straight-backed, silver-haired individual whose features have lost their color but not their youthful vigor. As the Committee lectures her, the camera pans to capture her unlined face, pale and adamantly calm. “I don’t know better, but I may know more,” she says, her wispy voice rendered thunderous through amplification.
As I run onward and duck into a hallway, a hand grabs my shoulder. I put on an extra spurt of speed.
The hand latches on.