by Karen Bao
“It’s Sol Eta, your mom’s colleague.” Her voice is so full that it’s audible even through the din. “I need to talk to you privately.”
I kick backward at her shin, but it’s a lethargic movement that’s disconnected from my brain. With a swift pivot, she evades the attack and grabs my wrist. How amateurish of me.
Sol pulls me to a quieter spot by a wall and stows her left hand in her pocket. Unwilling to incriminate myself by accident, I do the same.
“I’m so sorry, and appalled, frankly, by—by what you’ve just experienced.”
I search Sol’s pointy features for any hint that she feels the misery I do, and see only the quivering of her sharp jaw. She defended Mom despite dismal prospects of success, but I still don’t want her company. Maybe Sol is quivering—with anger—because Mom led her to believe certain things that weren’t true—as she did to me.
“Please forgive me if what I’m about to say sounds callous.” Sol clutches my cheeks, her blue eyes flitting across my unanimated face. “You’ve seen how weak Dovetail is—Mira’s trial wasn’t in our hands at all. But you . . .” She points at the video clip of me, then sweeps a hand across the vociferous Shelter crowd. “Dovetail needs you. They need you.”
Working my jaw, unable to comprehend what she’s saying or what it means, I back away. Either Sol is deranged or I’m ignorant. It must be the latter—the Committee’s comments about Dad, Mom’s peculiar words, her manifesto. . . . What else don’t I know? In my mind, dozens of questions ram against one another, vying to be the first out of my mouth. “Who’s Dovetail?”
“The organization your mom started three years ago. I thought you knew.”
Is Sol insinuating—no, stating—that between my mother’s Journalism job and her duties to our family, she founded a group without Committee approval? If it’s true, then the past few months of my life have been useless. No wrenching action I performed—joining Militia, disobeying orders, coming home to her—could have stopped what was already in motion or saved someone who planned to die. All of Mom’s advice to me, her acceptance of the horrors she experienced, were because she intended this organization to outlive her.
I could throw something. She favored this cohort, these insane ideas, over people who shared her blood.
Sol advances again, as if she’s worried I’ll flee at any moment. “Dovetailing—an ancient Earthbound woodworking technique. Two pieces of wood are joined by cutting pieces from each. Your mom named us. Without her, we need you more than ever. Please.”
Dovetail. Aside from the meaning Sol’s given me, did Mom choose the name because of me, Phaet, her “dove”? I’ll never be sure, but the Journalist I knew wouldn’t have missed that obvious coincidence of letters and words, and neither would the mother who tried to reform a government to better the lives of her children. New tears ooze from my eyes—the last thing I need is a reminder of how much she loved me.
Sol pushes onward. “We seek to compromise with the Committee, not begin a violent revolution. Infiltration works wonders for us. After what’s happened, you can’t continue being a Militia captain. But come with me to Shelter, where we’re going to hide; tell me everything you know. You’ll live under Dovetail’s protection. And when we need to rile up the populace, we’ll send you out to . . .”
I try again to wrench my arm from her grip. “Why didn’t you write the ‘Grievances’? Why don’t you gamble your life?”
Sol’s eyebrows shoot up into her hairline. “I’ve endangered myself as much as anyone else. I only operate through Journalism because I’m better suited to handle public relations. Dovetail has nimbler people like Yinha undercover in Defense. She watches over our members’ kids: people like you.”
Yinha, a captain and a rebel? She watched over me, lived next to me, and never even hinted. Now I’m second-guessing the reasons for her kindness. Was it my skills, my character . . . or my parentage?
“Do you think I wanted this? All Dovetail’s preparations, exposed by your hacker brother long before we were ready? And your mother . . .” The muscles in Sol’s throat contract as she tries to keep her voice from wobbling. “I never expected to take over Mira’s duties as a leader, to beg you to join us. But your family’s decisions have forced my hand. Saving this organization, pushing onward, is all I know.”
To my astonishment, Sol releases my arms and kneels before me, hands clasped. “See? I’m on my knees. Come with me to Shelter. It’s the only safe place for you.”
I open my mouth to refuse, but think again before I speak. Sol heads the only organization that can protect my family from the Committee. When they find out that Cygnus hijacked the news, their retribution will be swift. I have to consider Sol’s offer, but not here or now, with such a polluted head and the clamor of the Shelter residents’ protests ringing in my ears. I block the red tint from the edges of my vision.
“It’s not a good time,” I say, my voice expressionless. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“Wait!” Sol shrieks, but I’m already running down the hallway so fast that my legs turn inward again. I don’t care, as long as they carry me away from every last thing that breathes.
I rush through halls and doorways of white, float into an empty Greenhouse 22, and inhale the perfumes of plants whose outlines I can barely see. It’s dark, lunar night, and everything might as well be made of shadow.
When I reach the rows of apple trees, each hung with ripening fruit, my fingers wrap around the scratchy bark of a trunk and my tired feet give out. This sapling can’t replace Mom, but like her, it will stand strong and allow me my silence.
I’m not silent tonight. I press my cheek to the tree’s rough bark and cry like I’ve needed to since Mom went away, months and months ago, muffling my face with leaves so that the security pods won’t hear my pain. My eyelids are sheets of fire against the surface of my eyeballs; I no longer smell the peaceful soil and the tangy odor of Umbriel’s robes—the scents of my childhood, of things no longer the same.
What a way to learn that you’ve grown up!
I laugh like the most insane of Shelter residents. The sound surprises me; my voice can be guttural and terrifying if I use it right. “Ha!” I yell, just to hear it again.
I cough out the mucus from my throat and spit it onto the soil. All that grief for a mother I thought I knew. She never needed or wanted anything from me. How can I be upset that, for her, I threw the base into a frenzy, acting like a spoiled child who’s smashed a HeRP and doesn’t want to pick up the pieces?
Everyone I care for—even people I don’t know—could go where Mom has gone, one by one, because of their involvement with me. The guilt will destroy me; the blows will hollow me out until I learn not to feel affection. If I’m lucky, it’ll be as simple as arithmetic: I’ll become another sort of Beater, surrender a different part of myself.
Total detachment would be better than this awfulness, which I’ve wanted purged from my life since Dad died. Too bad that when I was six, I didn’t work harder at keeping my distance from people I could lose. But I can start now.
When the white handscreen light hits me, I berate myself for wasting precious minutes on grief and madness—and then stop. Nothing the Committee or the Militia does to me will be bad, as long as I don’t consider the effects on those I love. I can handle injury, incarceration, or worse. Such scenarios would only bother me because my remaining family would feel more pain than I. If I forget them, I’m free.
What a relaxing state of mind! I should teach myself to stop caring about them.
But someone’s come for me. The intruder steps out from behind the trees, dressed in full Militia regalia, weapons at the ready. I squint into the light, thinking: I may never learn another thing in my life.
37
“STRIPES!” CALLS A FAMILIAR VOICE.
My brain takes too many seconds to piece together his identity.
Wes. Today I was supposed to lead him on a recon mission, not watch my life disintegrate in a streak of purple light.
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“I hate to scare you, but they’re after you too.” Wes speaks in a whisper. He squats next to me but doesn’t touch me—my mania must have scared him off. Mortified, I shrink away from him, rubbing tears and mucus from my face with my sleeve.
He taps his handscreen and flips his left hand over to face the soil. Within seconds, it projects a floor plan of Base IV marked with moving black dots, each of which must represent a person. The dot bearing my name is easy to find, because it’s marked with a red target symbol and the words BASEWIDE SECURITY THREAT.
Wes taps his hand again to shut off the projection and stows it in his pocket. “You know the Lunar Positioning System. LPS.”
It’s old tracking technology, a descendant of the Earthbounds’ GPS, installed in ships so that people know where to find each other during lunar-surface missions.
“InfoTech recently downloaded it onto every single handscreen on the Moon. I suppose nonstop eavesdropping wasn’t enough anymore for the Committee and the top Defense officers, because most of us have found ways to block the receptors. So the top dogs—colonels and above—wanted to know where everyone is, all the time. They showed me the program because they think I’m most likely to subdue you—but they seemed reluctant to spread the secret. Anyway, the General knows you’re here.” He pauses. “So does the Committee.”
My limbs, curled protectively around my body, begin to tremble.
I gape at my left hand under my Militia glove, wishing my fingers were claws so I could rip out the traitorous piece of metal. I thought I was so smart, that by running, hiding, and blocking my handscreen’s audio capabilities, I could evade the Committee—but they’re always a few steps ahead.
Cygnus. The Committee knows his location too. Do they know he aired the trial?
“I’ve been sent to kill you by lethal injection. They’re going to pass it off as flu.” The back of Wes’s hand smears the beginnings of tears across his eyes. “I won’t do it, though. I’m going to get you out of here.”
“Why should I come?”
“Because it’s infinitely safer than staying.”
I rise and duck behind the tree, trying in vain to put something substantial between us. “Why do they think you’ll subdue me? Did they bug you with extra cameras to watch it happen?”
“Phaet . . .”
I inch backward until my foot strikes the base of the next tree and hide behind that too. “How do I know you won’t kill me later?”
“Let me answer one question at a time.” Wes holds up a finger in front of me. “They chose me because we seemed close in training. I’m also good with needles.” Another finger. “They installed a camera in my helmet before I left, but I knocked it out a few minutes ago. Actually, I knocked out the greenhouse security pods too.” Three fingers. “I won’t kill you because . . . they’re despicable, and you’re wonderful.”
I shake my head. My hand slides into my boot; my fingers clench around the hilt of a dagger.
“Leave me alone.” My voice cracks like an adolescent boy’s, betraying the messy wad of emotions within me.
Wes inspects my bloated face. With infinite gentleness, he pulls my hand from my shoe and balances it in his palms like it’s something precious and breakable.
I blink.
“I’m so sorry, Phaet. But please remember that there are more important things than how sad you are right now.” Wes’s left thumb traces the lines running across my palm, perplexing my mind and rebooting my senses; I’m caught between kissing his hand and snatching mine away. “So much depends on you. Cygnus, Anka, your own life. If we keep you breathing, things may get better.”
He’s done it again, seeing inside my soul and choosing words that will sway me. Whatever I was thinking before he arrived, I want to survive and fix what’s wrong.
“We need to get you to Base I, where my family can hide you. It’s a rough trip, and a long one.”
Leaves rustle, stem fibers snap, and he’s holding out a glossy red apple. It looks bluish in the murky light of his handscreen.
“You should get your blood sugar up before we start running.”
Wes brings the fruit to my lips; the apple trembles before my eye. For once, his hand isn’t steady.
The thought of eating turns my stomach. As blood flow to the digestive system decreases in times of stress, I might get indigestion. But his reasoning is impeccable. Blushing beneath the remnants of my tears, I grab the apple from his fingers and attack it with my incisors. Its silky interior, crossed by greenish veins, is pure white and so sour that I nearly spit it out.
Wes plucks another apple for himself, rises to his feet, and takes a huge bite. If it tastes horrible, his face doesn’t show it.
“Let’s go.”
I stand.
We nearly duck again when we hear rustling leaves.
“Phaet?” calls a deep, resonant voice. “Is that you in here?”
We’ve been seen, but not by anyone dangerous. “Umbriel!”
Umbriel tramples over withering strawberry vines as he rushes toward us, his forehead coated with sweat. He steps between me and Wes, holds me close, and buries his nose in my hair. I drop the half-eaten apple.
“I checked your apartment, my apartment, Law. . . . I was so worried they got you!”
“Umbriel, I understand that you’re concerned.” Wes swallows before taking another crunching bite. “But Phaet and I need to move. The Committee wants to kill her next.”
Umbriel blinks at him. “I’ll take care of her.”
“I believe you’ll do better with Cygnus and Anka. They can’t come with us—the escape plan is too risky for untrained kids. Dovetail—”
“Huh?” says Umbriel.
“Phaet’s mom’s organization. They’ve got a decent underground following.”
“How’d you find out about them?”
“Doesn’t matter. They’re collecting new members in Shelter. Bring Phaet’s brother and sister there.”
Umbriel backs away, eyes narrowed. “You think it’s okay to hand children over to a bunch of—of insurgents?”
His words strike a nerve. Cygnus, one of those “children,” cracked Law and Journalism, exposing the Committee to the whole base.
“Some very respectable people work for them,” Wes tells Umbriel. “Phaet’s friend Yinha Rho, for example.”
“How do you know all this?” Umbriel thunders.
“It’s a long story, and your attention is needed elsewhere. Dovetail will provide more than adequate protection for you and Phaet’s siblings until we sort out this mess.”
Wes’s concern for my siblings earns him my faith, but I want to be sure. “I have a few things to say.”
The boys fall silent.
“Umbriel, if I don’t go with Wes, what’s your plan?”
“We—we’ll be fine if I keep you close, at least until you can make sensible decisions again.”
Wes finishes the apple and tosses the core at the base of a tree. “Not the case, Phaet. I’d say you’ve always got your wits about you. Though none of your options are very appealing, you should choose what you do next.”
Should I go with Umbriel, who functions on raw instinct, or Wes, who has presented evidence of a plan? Or I could set out by myself, without anyone to think they know better—but I learned in Militia never to operate alone.
“I’m going with Wes.”
Umbriel sucks in a breath through his teeth. “You can’t trust him!”
“I’m not saying I do.”
“You don’t know a thing about guys, Phaet!”
Wes pats Umbriel’s shoulder but keeps his eyes on the ground. “You have nothing to worry about, mate. She’s a little sister to me.”
“Prove it.” Umbriel slips out of Wes’s grasp.
“All those weeks Phaet and I spent training together at night . . . if I wanted to try something with her, I’d have tried it.”
Umbriel’s jaw relaxes, while mine clenches so hard that my masseters cramp.
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“If you had tried something, you’d be unconscious in Medical now.” Appeased, Umbriel steps back from Wes and me. “Fine. Take care of her, you hear?”
“We’ll take care of each other,” Wes says.
Wherever we go on Base I, I’ll miss Umbriel every time I have to speak for myself. But as my best friend sprints out of the greenhouse, flattening more vines, I feel relieved that when he asked me about a life together, I nodded my head instead of promising him anything out loud.
38
UNDERNEATH THE GREENHOUSES, WE careen down a twisting walkway only wide enough for one person at a time. Sprinting flawlessly, Wes glances at his handscreen.
“Don’t panic, kid, but my LPS just got disabled. The last thing I saw was a unit moving out of Defense—they’re coming to get us because I haven’t killed you yet.”
Fuse.
Fear for our lives propels my legs faster. This is what it’s like to lose control, to be moved rather than move.
“We’ve got to get to the Defense hangar,” Wes continues. “I’m sure we can find a ship there.”
Defense is a long way off. We’ll have to run out of Agriculture, under the Atrium, and cross the distance between. I only hope my resolve can override my cramping muscles, which are ready to quit.
Wes turns decisively every time there’s a fork in the path. As our surroundings grow grimy, our shoes lose traction on the slick yellowed floor, and the ceiling droops close to our heads. This is one of the Sanitation lanes, through which workers transport wastes from the other departments. I’m sure they’re usually this dirty, but I doubt they’re always this loud. I hear the stomping of feet and muffled voices above us—no words, only anger. Above the noise, on giant video screens, the Committee repeats with frightening clarity: “Guilty.”
A few seconds later, I hear the first collective shriek of horror, a terrible sound of many tones and timbres.
“What’s that?” I cry.
“It’s not important,” Wes fires back.
The uproar grows louder, laced with the shuffling of Militia boots.