by Karen Bao
“Tourmaline played a video of Cygnus Theta’s torture at the Overhang today,” I say. “Please, Mr. Lazarus, sir, can you tell me what’s happening to him? Or to Anka? My sister? If you help them, I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”
“Your sister is alive, Miss Phaet, albeit destitute in Base IV Shelter, and your brother is alive, albeit suffering on Base I.” Lazarus speaks haltingly, as if unwilling to believe that his words are true. “Umbriel Phi has not left Anka’s side since your withdrawal to Earth, and I commend his dedication to her. I regret that I cannot elaborate, because we do not have unlimited time to speak.”
I gulp, and then ask, “Has something else gone wrong?”
Lazarus’s sigh blows air across the receiver, making a muffled static noise. “I connected to the network in the middle of the night to disseminate my recently acquired knowledge about the present emergency circumstances. Circumstances, I am afraid, that involve you.”
One word sticks in my brain, refusing to budge: emergency. Memories of my loved ones play out in my mind: Cygnus’s fingers scurrying across the HeRP in our old apartment, the image so real that I can smell the spotted banana in his other hand; Anka, grinning, arranging two prunes and a handful of dried cranberries in a smiley face atop a bowl of porridge before handing it to me; Umbriel and the Phis; Nash; even Yinha, my former training instructor, neighbor, and friend, who turned out to be a covert member of Dovetail, the rebel movement. I didn’t know until the day of Mom’s trial. At the time, I was furious that Yinha had never told me where her loyalties lay. Now I’m worried that my anger will be the last memory she’ll have of me.
“Twenty-seven hours ago, the Base IV General ordered an immense dispatch of his soldiers to Pacifia,” Lazarus continues. Although he doesn’t raise his voice, I can hear genuine worry in each word, and I can almost see him solemnly bowing his head on the other end of the line. “They touch down in two days. Every base has been made aware of the Lunar-Pacifian alliance, and the General is lobbying to assemble a conglomerate force of soldiers from all six.”
I swallow hard. The Base IV Militia is coming to Earth? And a massive attack force might follow?
Lazarus pauses, allowing the silence to dilute the terrible news.
“I lament that I must inform you, but you are very much in danger. Because you are one root cause of the impending invasion—by no fault of your own, I assure you—you have the right to know first, before I inform Coordinator Carlyle and the other Sanctuarists.” The content of his speech is awful, but now I can’t shake the feeling of . . . enjoyment. Every word he says is a silken masterpiece. It’s hard to imagine the owner of that voice sitting on his handscreen, watching out for base security, even though I know that’s what Lazarus must be doing.
Now Lazarus inhales, preparing to deliver still worse news.
“Pacifia and the Base IV Militia will attack Saint Oda in less than a fortnight—eleven days, to be more precise. Pacifia wants its strategically located archipelago, and the Lunar Bases their runaways. The Militia has found you, Phaet Theta.”
7
“THEY KNOW I’M HERE?” I’M NEARLY shouting. “How? Does this relate to Cygnus? Does anyone else know?”
Somehow, the Tourmalinians must have detected Wes’s or my presence the day they docked. But our handscreen trackers couldn’t have given us away, because they’re out of commission. Did they see us? Impossible; Wes was amidst the crowd, and I never emerged from the shadows. They might have used infrared scanners, but those only detect body heat. They can’t distinguish one human being from another.
However they did it, our presence has placed an entire city in danger. And we came here thinking only of me, trying to save my life.
Why do I cause catastrophe everywhere I go? I shudder where I sit, my throat constricting so that I can’t force words out.
“Shh, Miss Phaet, please moderate your anxiety! I can hear you shuddering from here,” Lazarus says. “I will address your inquiries one at a time. First, your discovery. For some time, the Lunar authorities were in a state of uncertainty about whether you and Wesley had lived or died, so they sent soldiers to their Earth allies to achieve verification. Unfortunately, the business of locating you was so straightforward that, using the facial-recognition software installed in their telescopes, even those Tourmalinian peacocks could manage it. They seem to have detected your face in the lighthouse window.”
I bury my head in my hands, feeling like an imbecile. I wish someone would slap me. Lonely, ugly, weak—I’d rather be any of those things than stupid.
“But how did they know where to look?” I say.
I wait anxiously while Lazarus records his response.
“After your departure from Base IV, your spacecraft tumbled into the North Atlantic, which provided a general geographic range. And Wesley’s vigilance in disguising his accent must have lapsed whilst he lived on the Moon.”
I nod, even though he can’t see me. Wes’s speech always sounded funny to my ears.
“The Information Technology Department acquired handscreen and security pod recordings of his voice,” Lazarus says, “and, through fastidious analysis, placed his origins in the British Isles. The authorities dispatched low-level Militia to scour all stationary and floating cities in the vicinity. Staying on Tourmaline was convenient for them, because, as you know, the Militia lacks vehicles suitable for extended travel on the Earth’s surface. Without delay, the Committee informed the Lunar population about Wesley’s and your location, and put seven-figure price tags on your heads, using their wealth to exact revenge like the despicable despots they are.”
“But if they know Wes is from Earth . . .” Then they know about the rest of you.
At this, Lazarus lets out a long sigh. “Yes. The unveiling of Wesley’s identity has alerted the Committee to the presence of spies from Earth, and they have commanded all citizens to be vigilant for others like him.”
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper into the microphone.
“I understand that you had only the best intentions, Miss Phaet,” he says. “However, you must know that four hours ago, voice analysis tests were implemented to root out Earthbound agents. Poor Alex on Base VI will have to scramble to hide both his Kings Port accent—which trumpets his Caribbean origin—and his Odan one. Thank God he is the Astrophysics editor and needn’t speak much on the job.”
Lazarus’s message isn’t over. “Any other questions or concerns, Phaet? I am all yours.”
“N-no,” I stutter. “But I want to thank you for your time.” This call was unpleasant but informative—and I seem to have gained a new ally in Lazarus. “I’m going back to the Moon as soon as I can. For Wes’s sake, can you keep my Lunar identity secret? Just don’t tell any Odans until I get home. Please?”
“I certainly could keep it confidential,” Lazarus says, “but would it be the right thing? With all my heart, I want to help you, but I swore to guarantee my country’s security.”
“Please, sir, I’m begging you. Wes only brought me to Saint Oda to keep me alive.”
“Whether I disperse intelligence crucial to Odan security is not for you or me to decide; it is written into the very core of Sanctuarist principles.” Impatience and anger have, at long last, crept into his smooth voice.
Unquestionably, I deserve the rebuke. But if he follows his code of honor and reveals information about me, I will be flushed into the open ocean.
“But Lazarus, sir—”
“Beaters approaching,” Lazarus breathes. I hear bags zipping shut, lights switching off, and Militia boots clicking on tile. “I must go. I recall that you apologized to me earlier, but I am the one who is sorry now. Truly, I wish everything were different, Miss Phaet.”
The Base IV icon turns red.
“No!” I shout, pounding my fist on the machine. Thankfully, nothing breaks; it’s solid and unshakable, just like Lazar
us’s integrity—integrity that overruled his sympathy for me. It makes me direct all my anger not at him but at myself.
There’s no noise but the whirring of the room’s circuitry. Memories of Lazarus’s voice trickle through my head like a lukewarm stream that roars louder and louder, until I can no longer hear my own thoughts.
8
I TAKE THE SHUFFLING FOOTSTEPS AS A SIGN that I should give up trying to sleep.
Wes has come home. His father heel-toed his way in through the green front door perhaps two hours ago, having sent Wes on another round of patrolling. But now he can finally rest.
I slip out of bed, thick wool blanket wrapped tight around me. The cold seeps in through the openings in my cocoon, near my neck and ankles. Keeping my leg joints supple, I pad down the first-floor hallway, my shadow a dark pillar against the faint blue light illuminating the slate walls. Insomnia has created a buzzing sensation between my ears.
I turn the corner and see him. He’s unlacing his boots while standing up, one ankle crossed over the other knee. Those usually dexterous fingers are fumbling, numb with cold. Although shadows obscure his face, I can imagine him wearing a lopsided, frustrated grimace.
I tiptoe closer, and he looks up. His arms extend, beckoning me to him. I step into them, selfishly. Inside I find warmth, safety, a home of sorts. He doesn’t yet know that because of me, the Odans might lose theirs. But he will by tomorrow, after Lazarus reports to his father. Worse, he’ll find out that I revealed my Lunar identity—our secret—only when he gets punished.
I should tell him now, but selfish affection seals my lips. This hug might be our last, and I want to settle in these arms for as long as possible.
“My boots are wet,” he murmurs. “They probably smell swampy.”
An uneasy laugh is my only reply.
Seemingly of its own accord, the wool blanket leaves my shoulders and covers his.
“Phaet, you don’t need to . . .” he protests.
“Shh.” As I bend down to pick at the knots in his wet shoelaces, I feel a warm weight settle on my upper back. He’s leaning on me, and it makes me feel useful, if not less guilty. I’d do anything to take some pressure off his feet.
“No trace of the Tourmalinians”—he yawns—“except for a rogue submarine near the northern island. I ran an extra round to make sure of it.”
“Wish I could have helped,” I say. Patrolling would’ve given me something productive to do, to counteract the harm I’ve caused. It would’ve been more useful than tossing and turning under the covers with the incessant buzzing in my head.
Wes slips off his boots, straightens, and wraps me in the blanket with him. Together, we shuffle away from the front door. My face growing hot, I pull him toward the spiral staircase, intending to walk him to his bedroom, because he looks as if he’s about to collapse. We begin climbing—slowly.
“Your taking on blanket duty is help enough for me,” he quips. “But I know what you mean. It would’ve been just like training to have you there. Since I’ve come back, it’s been strange operating without you. Did you know that you always calm me down? It’s not just the fact that I trust you; you’ve got this peaceful aura about you, even though there’s so much going on in your head and heart. Even now, when . . .” His face falls, and I imagine he’s remembering the video of Cygnus. “Were you having nightmares again? Is that why you’re awake?”
I shake my head; I stayed up partly to keep from dreaming.
We walk past Murray’s door—ajar, by just a few centimeters—before reaching his. The day’s first red rays of sun, passing through his window’s white sheet of a curtain, highlight his room’s minimal furnishings. The bed is a rectangular mattress on the floor, off-white sheets impeccably smoothed out and tucked in. The desk is a flat shelf of stone protruding from the wall, and it’s barren, devoid of writing implements, paper, or anything else a normal Earthbound person would have left there. Nothing hints at the fact that someone grew up in this room and sleeps here still. It’s as if he’s afraid to settle back into his living space, because he doesn’t know when he’ll have to leave again.
He follows my gaze, and suddenly everything—the placement of our bodies, our shivering—feels uncomfortable. He takes a step away from me but stays under the blanket. Does he want me to come into the room with him? Does he think I want that? I wander past a mental barrier and imagine sleeping next to him, as I did with Anka years ago to keep her safe from the Militia soldiers she thought were living in our closet. Embarrassment and regret strike immediately after happiness does. Wes might keep the ghosts away, but we’d add another complicated layer to our relationship. We can’t afford that, not in the middle of a crisis.
Although I dread letting his warmth slip away, I take the blanket back, leaving him in the cold.
“Good night, or good morning,” I say quickly. “Take your pick.”
“The latter,” he says, teeth chattering. “Good night sounds too much like good-bye.”
It’s too much. Does he know how many good-byes we’re about to say? Perhaps even a good-bye to each other.
I nod and head back down the stairs, feeling like the biggest coward on the islands.
Lying in bed, I imagine my heartbeat decelerating, my cellular machinery slowing to a crawl. Finally, when I feel as if I’m the same temperature as the frigid air, I fall into cold-blooded sleep.
* * *
In the morning, the sky is ashen and dripping.
I follow Wes, matching him step for sluggish step, as if our feet are chained together. In a straight line, we walk behind his father to the very edge of the Carlyles’ backyard, where the garden ends and the pine forest begins.
Wesley Sr. stands not a meter away, staring me down. I look up—not at his slate-colored eyes, but at the deep creases that separate his jowls from the rest of his face.
“Phaet Theta,” he spits, every syllable a staccato bullet.
The sound of my own name, made hideous by his disdain, makes me flinch.
I steal a glance at Wes. His eyes match the sky: gray and filled with moisture. He trusted me and my judgment. Both failed him. My heartbreak over Cygnus overrode my common sense.
His father’s tirade is a welcome distraction from my guilt. “You’ve had quite an intimate and prolonged association with the Sanctuarists, haven’t you, Lunar girl? Impressive. I hadn’t any idea until Lazarus informed me.”
“Father, you’re mistaken. She’s Pacifian.” The words waver on Wes’s tongue. He glances at me just long enough to smite me with fear and shame. What have you done? his eyes demand. I bow my head, cursing myself for failing to tell him last night. Even if he hasn’t guessed that I used the Sanctuarist network without permission, it’s only a matter of time before he gives up on our shared lie.
But for now, Wes continues to reason against his father’s suspicions, futile as that effort may be, and my heart sinks more with every second. “How can you take Lazarus Penny’s word over mine? Not only am I your son, but he’s the least upstanding man I’ve ever met. And I encountered some rotten characters on the Moon, so that’s saying something. Ask your daughter sometime.”
That can’t be. If Lazarus were any more upstanding, he’d have a meter stick for a spine.
“It’s not your place to question Mr. Penny’s honor.” Wesley Sr. doesn’t so much as glance at his son. “We will speak of your punishment later.” Keeping his eyes on me, he says, “Hiding your nationality, using our communications network—”
“What?” Wes’s eyes bulge. “Fay, you never told me—”
I shake my head, an apology drying up in my throat.
Wes’s father silences him with a glare. “You have quite a few things in common with the men under my command, Phaet. It is clear that you’d like to live and work as we do, in spite of being female and Lunar. What do you say to eradicating this cognitive dissonanc
e?”
His tone is as emotionless as my old vacuum robot Tinbie’s beeping utterances, but more menacing. Nothing I say will make a difference, so I remain silent, listening to the patter of the rain.
“We need your help undoing everything you have set in motion. Last night, we captured a Tourmalinian submarine as it attempted to circle Koré Island to spy on us. This vehicle perfectly suits my assignment for you.”
I’m taken aback by the Sanctuarists’ capabilities. Their equipment is primitive, but they move silently, in unison. Maybe they ensnared the submarine in a fishnet or forced it into a nasty current.
“Go to the harbor beneath the caves,” Wesley Sr. continues. “Board the submarine. It’s been programmed to take you to Pacifia. Once you dock, stop that city from reaching these islands. My agents’ intelligence indicates that Pacifia is floating past the Gold Coast of Australia, and is heading this way. Therefore, you have about ten days to complete your mission before it arrives to demolish our home.”
Raindrops splatter against the rocks, the sound filling the stunned silence.
“But . . . that’s impossible,” Wes protests, giving voice to my thoughts before I can. He’s still fighting for me, despite the fact that I’ve betrayed him. I’d have felt less shame if he’d turned against me.
“Surely not for Phaet,” his father says. “Isn’t her homeland allied with the Pacifians?”
The government of my “homeland” wants me dead, and he knows it.
My stomach twists as I piece together the meaning of Wesley Sr.’s assignment. It’s a suicide mission. He’s skirting Saint Oda’s lack of a death penalty by sending me to a hostile floating city with a population of twenty million. I must traverse kilometers of treacherous water, and he knows I can’t swim. That fact came to light on a Carlyle family trip to the beach in the fall, and must have contributed to his suspicions. What native floating city dweller not only can’t swim, but also shrinks from seawater as if it were poison?