by Karen Bao
“I’m her father. Let’s get you cleaned up and better hidden. You’re not safe here.” Asterion helps me to my feet. “Don’t worry. This won’t be the first time I’ve turned the lab into an infirmary.”
I hesitate, unsure. What if he’s not really a Dovetailer? Will he turn me in?
His eyes shift as they scan for intruders; the skin around them is bunched with concern. Suddenly, I feel silly for suspecting him. If he were a Committee crony, he’d have put a Downer in me by now.
Tiptoeing across the ground, screening ourselves with the jungle foliage, we reach the glass dome’s wall. In this region, it’s embedded with circular metal grates. “These lead to the CO2-O2 filtration system,” Asterion says. “It’s a quick crawl to Chemistry from here.”
Our combined strength is required to heave me into the canopy and through the vent’s mouth. I wait to move farther inside until I’ve thoroughly scanned the tunnel for security pods. Asterion secures the grate behind us, and we move off on our hands and knees. The tunnel’s steel floor rubs me the wrong way, but I crawl quickly behind Asterion, eager to leave the suffocating greenhouse behind me and see the Chemistry lab where he made his groundbreaking discovery.
Soon, we reach the huge, humming filters, porous metal cylinders that extend upward several stories and produce a sound like wind buffeting a stony cliff. Because the walkway around the filters has no guardrails, we scuttle sideways. Acute vertigo from looking over the edge makes me feel as if I’ve left my body. Keeping my eyes focused on the way forward, I make it to the other side: another narrow tunnel.
Finally, Asterion kicks away a grate below us, and we drop onto a black lab bench, which is dusty with dried mud. From his previous trips to the greenhouses, I assume.
His award-winning lab differs from what I expected to such a degree that I nearly laugh out loud. The room is only ten meters long and eight meters wide; an interactive, colorful periodic table with the 124 known elements takes up half a wall. Mountains of unwashed flasks, beakers, and test tubes fill two of the four sinks. A rust-colored concoction in a conical Erlenmeyer flask sits on a switched-off hot plate in a closed hood.
On a side bench, there’s a plastic bag labeled “NaHCO3”— sodium bicarbonate—and another “C6H8O7”—citric acid. As I remember from Primary, adding these compounds helps reduce solutions’ acidity or alkalinity before disposal. The sight makes me miss spooning the powdery substances into corrosive liquid and watching it fizz. Above the bench, someone has scrawled, Neutralize excess H+ and OH- ions, or we’ll have to charge you.
I laugh to myself at the pun, even as jealousy jabs me in the gut. I would’ve loved to work in an environment like this one—after tidying it up a bit. If I hadn’t left Primary for Militia last year, my future might have held discoveries, not destruction.
But there’s no going back now, and I’d pick reuniting with my family over all the discoveries in the world.
Asterion steps out of the lab while I stand in my undergarments under the emergency showerhead and pull the lever. Forty liters of cold water land on me like a pile of stones, but I feel strong enough now to handle it. I scrub the dirt off my limbs with hand soap and a washcloth. After drying off, I put on an extra set of yellow Epsilon robes, tie a cleaning rag around my head to hide my hair, and cover my nose and mouth with a disposable face mask. Then, painfully, I wash out my wounds at the only clutter-free sink. Asterion returns with a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and disinfects them while I squirm.
“May I ask you something?” I murmur.
“You don’t need to whisper,” he says, after sitting on his handscreen. “We have security clearance from the Committee—no pods allowed. Airborne objects could disturb our experiments, you see.”
“Why were you sneaking around the tropical greenhouse?”
Asterion sighs. “I’m trying to isolate the jequirity toxin, abrin, in quantities large enough to run multiple replicates for a study. Exposure inhibits ribosome function and therefore cell protein synthesis—frightening, but fascinating too. Among other things, abrin may have applications in treating neurological disorders.” As he speaks about his research, childlike excitement lights up his round face—and I could almost hug him. I know the feeling. I’ve missed picking apart the workings of the world.
“Unfortunately,” he says, frowning, “I can’t say any more, not even to you. I’m sure you understand.”
“I don’t. I don’t understand why someone with a Medal of Achievement would join Dovetail. You have security clearance! You can work in peace.”
Repressed rage contorts Asterion’s face into a mask. His gaze is distant, though, so I decide his anger isn’t directed at me. “Vinasa died in a Militia evaluation, aboard a Militia Destroyer. And yet when Defense sent my younger daughter Chitra and me a notification, it said, ‘Militia assumes no responsibility for Vinasa Epsilon’s death. We sympathize with your loss.’ When I asked to see her body, they told me they’d already given her organs to the Medical Department and burned the rest, as per usual, for greenhouse fertilizer.”
I want to sob, to scream, but I dare not interrupt her father.
“I’d known for a while that the Committee’s rule was no good,” Asterion says. His voice sounds sad, and very old. “When I was a green Militia recruit fighting against Battery Bay and Pacifia, an older soldier—he was twenty, almost done with his service—gave speeches to the rest of us. Said he respected the Batterers! Told us they held fair elections, let the people make decisions. That they changed policies when they weren’t right.”
“But that was so long ago,” I say.
Asterion shrugs. “I thought about his beliefs often, even after he died. I knew of Dovetail’s formation, but I was too timid to risk joining, too comfortable in my career, too protective of my family. Until I lost Vinasa. She used to ask, ‘What’s the use of the past if we don’t learn from it?’ In the wake of her death, I’ve learned. And I volunteered to run for Base IV representative. No one told me they wouldn’t give me a spot on the ballot or let me air ads on the news. As a write-in candidate, I’ve had to campaign by word of mouth, in secret. . . . Fairness, openness, accountability, and unity. Cooperation, not war, with the nations of Earth. I’ve made all these promises to people, and I must win to keep them.”
He sighs. Looks away.
“In all likelihood, I can’t. My supporters and I will suffer horribly for even trying.”
It astounds me, the effort he’s put in to achieve an impossible outcome. “If you know you’ll lose, why do you fight so hard?”
“My other daughter. Chitra. She’s sixteen, like you. I want her, and every other child on the Moon, to grow old with smiles on their faces. You love your family so much. You must want the same thing.”
He’s right. I ache with longing for it. But will Anka ever let go of her rage? Will Cygnus ever recover and be . . . normal?
“I don’t know if it’s possible for my sister,” I say. “Or my brother.”
Asterion sighs. “Until we try with everything we have to change things, the answer is always yes and no.”
That reminds me of the basic quantum theory we learned in Chemistry class. I almost grin. “Schrödinger’s rebellion,” I mutter.
“No,” Asterion says. “Ours.”
30
ASTERION’S LAB IS A WELCOME HAVEN after doing time in the greenhouse. My digestive system has responded well to the barley crackers and hazelnut butter he’s given me. While he performs extractions and reactions with the jequirity seeds, humming to himself, I rearrange the pieces of Cygnus’s message in my head, muttering the snippets of code aloud and typing them into the programming database installed locally on Asterion’s HeRP. As an added precaution, I wear gloves so that the system can’t register my fingerprints.
OETACOLAPHE, I type into the Greek autocode database. NO MATCHES FOUND, says the screen. My thoughts keep t
ime with the whirring of the state-of-the-art nuclear magnetic resonance machine in the corner. T2A1G3 didn’t turn up a match either—not for any programming language. Those same letters and numbers are repeated at the beginning and end of Cygnus’s mantra. If it’s a computer command, surely the initiation and termination codes of a program wouldn’t be identical?
Nothing clicks.
“Phaet?” Looking anxious, Asterion stands in front of me, left hand and handscreen stowed in a pocket. His goggles have left owl-eye imprints on his face. “I’m sorry, but the head lab tech will be coming in to finish up some spectroscopy soon. I trust her, but only with chemistry.”
He places food, water, a first-aid kit, and a tattered length of stained yellow cloth in a small satchel. I’ll use the cloth like a scarf, to cover my hair and most of my face. Since my handscreen can no longer emit light, he adds in a small flashlight.
I shoulder the satchel, reassured by the tangibility of these supplies. Together, Asterion and I detach the grate covering an air vent, and I crawl inside.
“Thank you, for . . . for all of this,” I say. “How can I ever make it up to you?”
Asterion grins. There’s a gap between his front teeth. “Kick open the box, take a risk. See if our rebellion’s alive. Then come back and tell me about it.” The smile drops off his face as suddenly as it appeared. “On a more serious note, stay away from Shelter, at least for the rest of the day.”
“Why?” Are Anka and Umbriel in danger? “Is something happening there?”
“Girl Sage.” He looks at me like a nosy child, then sighs, his expression apologetic. “Remember how I said I’ve had to campaign as a write-in candidate? That’s . . . not allowed as of this morning.”
My eyes bulge in their sockets.
“It’s repugnant, but true.” Face darkening with anger, Asterion shows me the official messaging application on his handscreen.
Trembling, I lower my eyes and read the Committee notification: IT IS DECREED THAT WRITE-IN VOTES FOR COMMITTEE REPRESENTATIVE IN THE ELECTION ON APRIL 1 WILL NOT BE COUNTED.
“Any Dovetail member could have unintentionally leaked my candidacy,” Asterion says. “Just one overheard conversation . . .”
I inch backward into the air vent. So much for Asterion’s “secret campaign”—the Committee must have found him out, and are taking any and all steps to diffuse the threat he poses.
Asterion stows his handscreen. “People can still write my name on the ballot, but the votes won’t be tallied. Dovetailers in Shelter might hold a protest.”
As they have a right to do. But that would endanger so many lives—including Anka’s. I can only imagine her indignation at the news; she won’t be a bystander in a demonstration, if there is one, but will actively participate.
“Now I have to go,” I whisper.
“Don’t!” Asterion says. “Go to Nanoengineering, or some other small department. To another greenhouse. I’m going into hiding myself.” He fits the grate onto the air vent’s opening, sealing me inside. “Stay away from Shelter.”
He’ll be in hiding—for how long? I realize with horror that I might never see him again. And what about his daughter? Will she feel the way I did when Mom was in the Pen?
Breathless, I crawl through the wind tunnels until I reach the whirring filters. Now that I’ve slept and eaten, they no longer look so intimidating—or perhaps in my haste to get to Shelter, I’m immune to fear. I swing over the edge of the walkway and drop down onto a lower level.
In the next tunnel I pass through, the sucking noise of a vacuum robot behind me reaches my ears. There’s a faint backdrop of tired, clomping footsteps. A Sanitation worker! And he’s traveling in Shelter’s general direction. Willing myself to calm down, I inch along the wall until I feel the outline of a squat set of sliding doors. With the fake fingertip sleeve, I press the scanner and duck into a closet that smells like bleach—it’s unpleasant, but still better than the tunnel’s mildew-and-rot stench.
Faint sounds are audible now: a chorus of people, cheering intermittently. The noise from Shelter must be loud if it can carry all the way here. In the gaps between applause, there’s a voice—the gravelly one of an old man. I can’t make out his words, but it sounds like an organized event. A rally? That means Anka might throw herself in, and Umbriel will run after her. It also means . . .
Militia will be there soon.
Outside, the footsteps fade. I exit the closet, holding a suction mop; quickly, I smear dirt from the tunnel walls on my face and clothes, and run on my tiptoes behind the worker. At the next manhole elevator, he steps inside, and I do too, turning away to hide the fact that I don’t have a Sanitation badge. At least I’m wearing a face mask similar to his. He looks away with the gruff introversion of a typical tunneler.
We surface in a base hallway near Shelter. The doors are open, and a tide of Militia soldiers rushes past us, heading inside. The Sanitation worker goes the other way. Ditching the suction mop behind a two-meter-high security mirror, I head straight for the Beetles. As I run, I wrap Asterion’s length of tattered cloth over my face mask for extra coverage.
I shove past Beetles, standing on my tiptoes, hoping for a glimpse inside the dome. But all I can see over people’s heads is Shelter’s blotchy brown ceiling.
Someone lightly strikes my back with a truncheon, and I cover my eyes with my hands, trying to hide whatever the rag doesn’t. Need to move faster.
“Sneaking out of Shelter?” barks my assailant, a faceless Beetle with his visor down. I’m so filthy from the tunnels that he thinks I’m a resident. “Get back in there!”
Thanks for the invite, I mentally say to the Beetle. Still shielding my eyes, I sprint into Shelter amidst the rush of soldiers. My Militia-honed agility allows me to slip through the web of bodies before they have the chance to physically abuse me. In fact, they hardly seem to notice my passage. They’re distracted by what’s ahead.
In the dome’s far interior, at the heart of Dovetail territory, a small crowd has gathered. They hardly pay the Militia any attention; someone else occupies their eyes, ears, and minds.
An elderly Shelter resident stands atop a rickety chair, addressing a motley assemblage comprised of people his age, young children, and a group of chain-smokers in their late teens. Even that final group listens intently. One girl raises a joint to her mouth, but misses; it hits her upper lip, and she’s too stoned to notice the cluster of glowing orange embers that fall to the floor.
“. . . unacceptable. We cannot stand for any more cheating from the Committee!” the old man is saying. His robes are barely recognizable as Xi orange. Under its layer of dirt, his hair might be white. Despite his dishevelment, though, his wrinkled face radiates a sense of purpose that’s more rare in Shelter than cleanliness. “Asterion can change the Moon from the inside out—but he needs to be voted in first.”
Near the front of the crowd, I make out Umbriel and Anka; they scoot closer to the old man. Umbriel hovers behind her, arms slightly extended on either side—as he did when he wanted to shield me from Primary bullies and the like. Without me to look out for, has he shifted all that attention to my sister?
Fighting back dread, I pull my scarf tighter around my head and follow Umbriel and Anka forward.
“When you cast your vote in two weeks, the Militia will threaten you,” says the old man. “They’ll track the ballots to see who voted for write-ins. But you must walk past the truncheons, the faceless helmets. Do not vote for anyone you do not believe in. I tell you, write down Asterion’s name! If we stand together, they cannot and will not ignore us!”
The crowd cheers, drawing the attention of other Shelter residents—and the Militia patrols, which are gathering silently around the perimeter. Stop, please, I beg in my mind. Don’t turn this into a bloodbath. If violence breaks out, my sister and my best friend will be on the front line. I push through the cr
owd, diving between the people around me, trying to reach my loved ones.
The old man flashes the Dovetail sign, thumbs interlocked and fingers spread. I hold my breath. He shouldn’t do that, not if he values his life. All our lives.
“Asterion Epsilon. Reform and Equity Coalition,” he says. “Around here, we’re all for Asterion.”
“All for Asterion!” choruses the crowd.
The old man ducks his head in a small bow.
An amplified screech fills the dome. We reel away from the sound, covering our ears. Small children cry out and burrow into their parents’ robes.
“Quiet!”
While the old man hypnotized the Shelter residents with his empowering words, the Militia patrols—and reinforcements from Defense—silently surrounded the audience. Once again, Corporal Cressida Psi’s in charge. She gives a stiff nod; three privates step forward and drag the speaker to the dome’s center. I recognize Ganymede Zeta, Jupiter’s crony, among them. He’s smiling cruelly; his long, skinny tongue darts out like a snake’s to lick his lips.
Sneering, Cressida flips over an empty tub, which would ordinarily hold the Shelter’s meager supply of mush. Her subordinates push Asterion’s supporter down on top of it. He struggles against them, his movements sporadic and crooked. The tub resounds with brassy bangs and crashes—until the soldiers secure the man’s hands and feet.
I scan the room for a friendly Militia member—Eri, Nash, Yinha, anyone. My eyes come up empty. And where is Lazarus?
Heart pounding, I slink up behind Anka and Umbriel. Instead of hugging my sister, I tap her on the shoulder. She turns around and gives a happy squeak of surprise, but then whirls and immediately faces the old man again, lest other people notice me. To make up for the distance, she reaches back blindly and grabs my hand. Umbriel looks over his shoulder at me and nods, but he doesn’t smile. Ouch. But what was I expecting?