by Karen Bao
We run through the last set of doors and back into the smog outside. The runways buzz with ships taking off, landing, taxiing. Up close, the command center no longer looks like a toothpick. It’s a tower eighty meters tall, covered in flashing red and yellow lights.
The first ship is fewer than a hundred meters away. Go, go, go! I tell myself. But Wes starts to fall behind, and I can’t help but slow down for him.
“Don’t mind me!” He’s more hopping on one foot than running. “You’re the only one who needs to . . . Oh, fuse.”
Some distance away, an enormous figure faces us, holding an Electrostun in each outstretched hand.
“No!” I shout. The soldier can’t really be aiming at us, not when we’re so close. I can almost smell the greenhouses’ black soil, the coffee in the Market Department, the sweetness of my sister’s hair. The place I must go to set things right. Home.
My cry falls on ears that welcome my pain. The mountain of a soldier addresses us. “Kappa, Theta, stop right there.”
21
HOW DID JUPITER FIND US? OR get to the runways before we did?
He holsters one Electrostun and holds up a metal device the size and shape of a tarantula. “It’s a damn pain not to have the LPS tracking you guys. Not that it would work on Earth—they don’t call it the ‘Lunar Positioning System’ for nothing. But the Pacifians have had a GPS satellite around here for a long time, and these gizmos can follow anything that moves. I just”—Jupiter tosses the bug at Wes’s helmet, and it adheres upon impact—“stuck one on Kappa’s back armor. You guys didn’t even notice. Who’s clever now, Fat?”
I slip behind Wes to see if it’s true. Jupiter’s right: we were stupid. I knock the ugly curled thing off Wes’s armor with the butt of my Lazy.
“Two things.” Wes looks unfazed. “First, my name’s not Kappa and hers isn’t Fat. Second, how’d you get up here so fast?”
Good. Wes will keep Jupiter talking while I find a way out.
Delighted at having outsmarted us twice, Jupiter answers without hesitation. “My Pygmette.” He points at the little space speeder twenty meters behind him. “Dad let me dock it in the Titan we brought—”
A small figure runs toward us. “Sergeant Jupiter, sir!” calls a girl’s shrill voice.
I snort. Last I knew, Jupiter was just a corporal; his father must have used his influence to bump him up to the position Wes abdicated when he fled the Moon. The Militia’s as corrupt as ever. No surprises there.
The girl slows to a trot and stops, lifting her visor. I hold back a gasp. Eri Pi, my classmate from training. The day Wes and I left the Moon, she warned us that the General was on our tail. The favor was probably more for Wes’s sake than mine. She’s crushed on him since they were in upper-level Primary, and she doesn’t care who knows it. I’m so startled to see a friendly face that I simply gape at her from beneath my helmet.
“Can’t you see I’m busy?” Jupiter snaps.
“Sir, you look concerned. Anything I can do to help?”
“Fizz off. I’ve got prisoners here.”
Eri’s sharp nose twitches with curiosity. She walks closer. “Prisoners? But they’re Militia.”
“Eri . . .” Wes mumbles, just loud enough for Eri to hear.
Eri’s mouth spreads into a smile that takes up the entire bottom half of her face. Strands of orange hair, fiery as a burning city, escape from her helmet and blow across her pale forehead. Her yellow-green eyes scrunch up, and she looks so beautiful that for a moment I’m not even jealous. I can imagine how pleasantly surprised she must be to see Wes (and me?) alive. But doesn’t she know how dangerous a smile for Wes could be? At least the silly girl’s back is to Jupiter.
A faint whine sounds from above. I check the sky—nothing.
Jupiter lifts his visor and glares at Eri. Even in the dim light, his face looks purple with frustration. “Damn it, help me shoot them or leave me the fuzz alone, you—”
An explosion overtakes my senses. Heat flattens us in waves. I fling myself down onto the runway and throw my hands over my head; even so, I see red behind my eyelids.
“Unmanned Batterer aircraft!” someone shouts. “And there’s more coming!”
Another explosion tosses me a decimeter into the air. I flop like a sea slug when I land; my chin clanks on concrete, and my molars cleave through my tongue, spilling salty blood into my mouth. But my discomfort can’t shake the wonder off my face.
I turn my head toward Koré Island and see lights of every color dancing in the backdrop. The island is now dwarfed by floating cities on both its north and south flanks. I hear the whine of a hundred or more drones, hidden in the clouds and circling above Saint Oda, and the distant echoes of the blasts that are painting the islands in red and orange. The scene awes me with its sick beauty—the sun rising over the sea, again and again, taunting us with the promise of morning.
Battery Bay’s referendum passed. The floating city’s forces are here, and that means we—and Saint Oda along with us—are no longer prisoners awaiting execution.
I close my eyes, rub them hard, and open them again. Nothing’s changed.
Next to me, Wes breathes, “Thank God.”
* * *
No more explosions on Pacifia after the first two strikes. The command center, once a tower rising from the aerospace compound, has been stripped of its top few floors. It leans to one side, handicapped.
Jupiter’s unconscious. Kneeling at his side, Eri pulls a dart from the back of his neck, lobs it across the runway, and holsters her tranquilizing gun. She must have popped him while he was distracted by the drone strike.
Is this the same Eri who cried when she got a blister on her foot? She’s changed since Militia training. Her face is tougher; her squeamishness has faded. She hasn’t even giggled yet.
“Thanks,” I say. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“It’s not a big deal,” Eri says. “Sergeant Jupiter will think the drone-quakes knocked him out, and then be too embarrassed to own up to it.”
“Aren’t you worried someone saw?” Wes asks.
“Who has time to worry these days?” Eri says. “I just do.”
I look out over the ocean and see a host of Pacifian boats, submarines, and planes leaving Saint Oda. It looks like the Pacifians are redirecting their efforts, attacking Battery Bay and defending their home city.
“You’re risking everything.” Wes shakes his head, bewildered. “Why?”
Eri removes her helmet and shakes out her sunburst hair. I remember it being shorn close to her head; it falls to her chin now. She needs to tie it back before her superiors catch her. But the Militia’s hairstyle protocol is probably the last thing on her mind.
“Well, I heard they were trying to kill you,” Eri says. “And I don’t want any of my friends to die ever again. So I studied terrestrial protocol real hard and got assigned to Earth.” She swallows. “At least . . . I thought you were my friend, Wes, after all the time we spent patrolling together. Why didn’t you tell me you were from Earth?”
Wes bows his head.
Eri smiles briefly, as if in spite of herself. “I’d never have hurt you, even if I knew the truth.”
“I’m sorry,” he says in earnest.
He shouldn’t apologize; he had every reason to keep his identity secret. I press my lips together to keep from scowling.
Eri looks up at Wes with pleading, watery eyes; flashes of longing shimmer in them. “I wish you’d trusted me. Because I really, really like you. I thought you knew that.”
Wes looks bewildered. He had to have known she had feelings for him, but maybe he didn’t expect her to confess them, and not in this way. “But you said your parents had already made plans for you, before you even joined Militia . . .”
“So what if they tried to set me up with some colonel’s son? They didn’t ca
re if I liked him; they just thought I wasn’t smart enough or strong enough to make a living any other way. But you’ve had my whole heart since tenth-year Primary . . . Wes, are you even listening to me?”
My eyes dart to him. He’s trying to watch Eri, but he repeatedly looks at the flames engulfing his city, breathing hard. “Sorry, I’m listening but not really looking, if that makes sense.”
I knew Eri’s family was wealthy, but not that they were cruel or old-fashioned. All Lunar citizens are encouraged to support themselves, but a few women still rely on their partners for their survival. If Eri married someone successful from another well-to-do family, she could take an easy, low-paying job and never worry about money. Looking at her now, I wonder if she fell for Wes—a Base IV outsider—partly because he was the opposite of the society boy her parents wanted.
Eri faces me. “Phaet, maybe you’d understand why I joined Dovetail. By the time Militia training ended, I was already sick of doing everything people told me to do. But your mom’s trial pushed me over the edge. She woke up the rebel in me. I decided to join mostly for me—but also partly for him.” She looks sideways at Wes, who turns around, looking guilty. “Because I saw you fighting next to Phaet that final day, and I knew you’d taken their side. But . . . but as soon as I made up my mind to be a Dovetailer, you left. Without saying good-bye.”
I frown, pitying her but also admiring her. Eri traveled to an alien landscape and risked her life for a boy? She didn’t even have proof that he liked her back. Maybe this is what selfless love looks like. But it only makes Wes uncomfortable. He squirms, looking at the space above Eri’s head instead of making eye contact.
“I wanted to prove to you that I’m not some stupid, giggly girl.” Eri’s speech speeds up. “That I can help you like you’ve always helped me.”
She takes his arm. His body seizes up, but she holds on tight. Watching them, I find myself wishing I were half as brave as her. Eri’s heart has walls as clear as glass. Mine? Iron castings to hide the sludge of emotions inside.
“I’m telling you all this because”—she inhales—“I thought . . . it might be nice to hear that someone loves you, when there’s so much hate going around.”
Several seconds pass. Wes blinks in confusion before stepping forward. “Oh, Eri,” he says, hugging her. Part of me seethes with jealousy—until he pulls away, and I realize that the embrace was one of mercy, not passion.
“I’m honored, and flattered, and I wish I could do you justice. You’ll make a wonderful companion for . . . for some other lucky fellow.”
Eri wipes away a tear, laughing and crying all at once. “I wish you weren’t so nice about all this. Can’t you just say no to my f—”
“Hey!” A Beetle, wearing the gold computer chip insignia of a sergeant, runs toward us. “We need more people on the ground. What are you three standing around for?”
“Sir! Yes, sir!” Wes hollers back.
“Eri,” I whisper, “find us a ship.”
Eri’s eyes glint with determination—and, perhaps, animosity toward me. Can I trust her when Wes isn’t around? Or am I imagining things?
“Yes, Captain,” Eri says. Her expression gives nothing away.
* * *
“This one!” Eri leads us to a midsize omnibus. “I’m on air crew here, because they decided I was too much of a sissy for ground combat. We weren’t expecting so many injuries during the assault. This ship’s taking forty people who need medical treatment back to Base IV in the morning.”
“Go on up.” Wes doesn’t look at me. His eyes are fixed on the omnibus; his expression flickers from distaste to longing and back again. That’s how I know the sight of it is wringing his heart dry. “This is where I leave you.”
My stomach twists as we reach the ladder leading into the ship’s belly.
“You’re not coming?” Eri cries. “But Wes, Dovetail needs you!”
“Lunars, Pacifians, and now the Batterers are reducing my city to an ash heap.” Wes looks over his shoulder at Saint Oda. The flames enveloping the mountains cast one side of his face in orange light. “This is the second time I’ve seen my home destroyed. I’m going to help get people to safety. As long as some of Saint Oda stays alive, we’ll return. We’ll build a new city with the ashes if we have to.”
He’s regal, with his straight back and determined expression, and tattered, with the wound on his cheek, the moving shadows under his eyes and jaw. I study him, burning his image into my memory. This is how I want to remember him. It’ll have to suffice until we meet again.
“I only got to see you for three minutes, and you’re already going away again,” Eri says. She punches him in the shoulder.
“Don’t think I’ll forget you helped us,” Wes tells Eri.
“All right, Stripes.” Eri nudges my arm. “Let’s sneak you onto this ship.”
“Ten more seconds,” I say, glancing at Wes.
Frowning, Eri looks from me to Wes and back again. I want to dive under the ship and hide, but I meet her gaze. Please, please understand, I beg with my eyes. It seems to work. Disappointment and resignation cross her face. She shuffles to the ladder and begins to climb.
I step into Wes’s open arms and hold him so tightly our helmets clack together. Beneath the scents of metallic blood and stinging smoke, I smell on him fresh pine, pure rainwater—these things on Earth that I’ve grown to love.
“Good-bye,” I whisper. What else can I say? Should I throw a sweeping declaration at him? Speak words like Eri’s?
“Just for now,” he says. “Phaet.”
Because I don’t know how else to get my feelings out, I kiss his cheek. It’s rough, like sandpaper.
As I pull back, shaking, I don’t open my eyes. I’m too scared to see what he’s thinking.
His hands remove my helmet. His fingers brush sweaty hair away from my forehead.
I feel the warmth of his breath on my face.
Our lips touch, long before I’m ready. Our surroundings fall away, leaving me, and him, and our happiness, alone. We press our faces together, wrap our arms around each other, commit to memory everything we can about this moment—before the time comes to let it all go.
22
THE WALLS OF THE CRATE ARE coming closer, and I’m sweating as if someone’s snuck a slice of sun inside the cargo hold with me. My thoughts make for unpleasant company; they distort the space and generate heat of their own.
With a sorry little smile, Eri stuck me into this empty metal container, which had been filled with the preserved food that the crew consumed on the six-hour trip from Base IV to Pacifia. I don’t know how long I’ve been floating, weightless. There’s no room to stretch my legs and nothing to eat or drink—but what does it matter, when I’m feeling too green to swallow? My head fills up with blood, because my heart thinks it must still work against gravity.
My heart. Wes. We felt the same way about each other all along.
The euphoria lasts until I realize that with that kiss, we’ve acknowledged the hold we have over each other’s lives. We can’t take that back. In the midst of war, with our families clinging to life, we’ve declared some sort of allegiance to each another. But like Murray and Lazarus, one of us is staying on Earth while the other flies off to the Moon. Will we inherit their misery?
Murray. An image of her scarred face, her sparking eyes, seems to fill the container. Have I seen her for the last time? Does a half-blind girl with a frayed mind stand a chance if she’s caught in the cross fire of the battle I left behind?
May her god keep her safe. It’s not enough, but it’s all I can wish for.
And again, Wes occupies my mind. On the runway, I lost control—we lost control.
Now more blood rushes to my face.
Think about something else, something that’s important, Wes would tell me.
If Yinha were here, she�
�d add, Yeah, you want to pop an artery?
Finley.
No, don’t think about Finley. Or the soldiers on the shore. They were enemies, but I’m sure they didn’t want to fight any more than I did. I haven’t gotten over Mom, Belinda, and my friend Vinasa—why add more people to the list of those I must mourn?
My forehead pounds, and rage simmers within me. Anka and Cygnus could be next. I’m going back to help them, but I can’t guarantee their safety.
When will it end?
Focus.
Yes, but on what?
Not Wes, not on the dead or on the fate of Saint Oda. It wouldn’t be wise to cry and congest my sinuses in zero-g. Determined to occupy my mind, I pick a practical topic, an issue that has chafed my brain since the first drone strike: Why has Battery Bay decided to start a war with Pacifia?
With Pacifia’s outright attack and Wes’s unprecedented offer of oil and aid, perhaps the Batterers saw the island as fair game. Parliament can always call their involvement another attempt to protect the weak from Pacifian malice.
“Get enough Earthbound politicians together,” my Earth Studies teacher always said, “and they’ll find a way to justify anything.”
That statement applies to any celestial body’s politicians. The Committee must have its reasons too for allying the Moon with Pacifia, far beyond my capture—they’ve put in too much effort.
Does the Committee see the Batterer bloc as a threat to their rule? Do they fear another democratization attempt? Or do they want revenge for the one thirty years ago? The Committee loathes anyone who asks them to change. When my mother pointed out the bases’ flaws, they poisoned her, tossed her in Penitentiary, and put a laser through her head. It was nothing to them—she was nothing.
There’s a familiar surge of anger. I let it come. I will make sure the Committee remembers and regrets what they did. But how?