by Karen Bao
“I can,” I say.
“Ten minutes ago, you zapped yourself,” Umbriel says. “And me.” His voice still sounds halting, disjointed.
“So there’s no chance of me falling asleep at the controls,” I quip.
Yinha swerves to avoid the Pygmettes’ missiles, swearing on several unstable chemical elements that if someone doesn’t help her, we’ll crash. Andromeda applies the last piece of medical tape to my leg. “Phaet, will you be all right?”
“Yes, as long as the ship is.” I inch toward the cockpit, wincing with every step; the ship’s jerking nearly throws me off balance twice. “I’ve piloted under pressure before.”
Yinha quickly scoots into the copilot’s chair, allowing me to take the controls.
From their seats behind me, Nash and Callisto loose artillery at our enemies. Whenever either fires a weapon with substantial mass, it pushes our ship in the opposite direction.
“One down,” Nash says as her wing tip grenade catches a Pygmette.
But it’s only one of five. . . .
Pilot now. Feel later.
Behind me, Andromeda has moved closer to her daughter. “Thank you, Callisto. Thank you for doing what was right.”
When Callisto responds, her voice is cold as winter wind. “Save it, Mo—” She stops herself before she can call Andromeda her mother. “What does right even mean? Clobbering your old friends, and mine? How about going against every idea I’ve been force-fed since my fetus-hood?”
“You saved your poor old mother’s life,” Andromeda points out.
“Yeah, there’s that. Even though you put me in such an awful position. . . .” Her voice trails off as she aims and fires, aims and fires. “I picked you over them. You over Jupiter, over everything I ever worked for. Didn’t you at least consider what your Committee could’ve done to me, to our family, as payback for you being so two-faced? No? Of course not. You were too busy double-dealing.”
I shake my head, pitying my archenemy. In her pathetic attempt at sarcasm, her voice carries more grief than anger or indifference.
Andromeda says, “Callisto, dear, I’d never let them hurt you—”
“Stop acting like you still have power—any power. You planned to jump ship regardless of what happened to me. Grit move, Mom.”
At least your mother told you which side she was on.
Tears blur my vision, and when I reach up to scrub them away, the ship jerks. One of the Pygmettes’ grenades has scraped us. I regain control of myself and fix my eyes on the horizon. We’ve almost passed the Plato Crater, which means we’re just north of Mare Imbrium, a dark basalt “sea” of low elevation formed by lava flows. We have to reach Base IV.
Mare Imbrium . . . The name strikes me as dangerous, but I don’t know why. I sift through my memories for a clue, but I can’t recall all the geology I learned in Primary. All I see is my father’s obscure face; time has scratched away the lens of memory through which I’m viewing him. If he were here, he’d remember why pilots avoid this place.
Our ship weaves between the mountains surrounding the mare, and it’s all I can do to keep the Pygmettes from gaining on us. I head straight for the dark basalt sea: the most direct route home. What is it that’s so dangerous about flying here?
“Don’t fly into the basin,” breathes Andromeda. She sounds exhausted. “My pilots—they usually go around.”
I push the ship to go faster—the usual can’t apply now. We need to reach the base, get real medical care for everyone. . . .
We reach the edge of the mare too quickly to change course. The light-gray regolith drops away, and I follow the sheer cliff downward for thousands of meters. My guts seem to push upward on my lungs. When we reach the bottom, I fly us parallel to the seafloor. For a moment, my lungs push down on my guts. Somewhere behind me, Cygnus wails, his fingers in his ears. Poor boy can’t take all those g’s.
The basalt looks black in the sunlight, sprawling layers of rock twisting over one another. There are no friendly gray peaks to hide behind. Despite my best efforts, our enemies inch closer.
I’m failing as a pilot. My friends shouldn’t have had such faith in me.
But at least the Pygmettes aren’t firing. The enemy probably wants some of us alive—Andromeda, and maybe me—for an on-base execution, so that they can hold on to the evidence. They’ll try to surround us, then latch their ships onto ours and capture us.
I push the throttle as far as it’ll go. The ship accelerates—but it’s turning slightly to the left, toward the center of the mare.
What the fuse?
Behind me, Nash grunts in frustration. “The wing weapons are all wonky,” she says. “The grenades won’t fly straight.”
“They keep curving to our left!” Yinha shouts. She’s switched seats with Callisto and has taken over left wing controls.
Mascon. Mass concentration. Dad’s department, Geology, along with Physics, studied it extensively before he died—I mean, before the Committee killed him. The asteroid impact event that scooped out Mare Imbrium compressed the basalt sea’s center, making it denser than the rest of the lunar crust. Now, the center of Mare Imbrium has a strong gravitational pull that can affect satellites, space debris . . . and, potentially, small spaceships.
“Use lasers to burn the ships,” I tell Nash and Yinha. Lasers don’t have mass, so gravity won’t affect their trajectory. “It’ll take longer, but at least you won’t miss.”
“Fine. We’ll give ’em a light show,” Yinha says.
I increase the altitude of the ship, trying to prevent us from crashing onto the mare’s floor should gravity suddenly change. Then I fly us to the right, closer to the towering cliff that rings the mare.
“What do you think you’re doing, Stripes?” shouts Nash.
Just as I’d hoped, two of the Pygmettes zip below us. Two fly above. All four are positioned to our left, trying to trap us against the wall of Mare Imbrium.
As the enemy approaches, Yinha and Nash manage to burn through most of the hull of one of the Pygmettes above. Before they can finish, the ship turns tail and flies back toward Base I. Smart—they’d rather give up than lose all their air to the near vacuum. Yinha and Nash shoot at the other ship above us, which is flying high, and it increases its altitude to evade the laser barrage.
Deterred by the lasers, all three of the remaining ships zip away, toward the center of Mare Imbrium. I inch our Destroyer away from the wall, firing the bottom thrusters.
Our ship should hold steady, I tell myself. It’s bigger, so the mascon will have a proportionally smaller effect on it.
Yinha and Nash burn through most of another ship’s hull. It too flees the scene.
Two left. I fly lower, pushing the enemy Pygmettes closer to the basin floor. They lose altitude—intentionally at first. But then they both dip at random moments. One ship’s pilot loses control; likely surprised by the mascon’s effects, he steers his ship right, up, and then left before crashing into the regolith. The other ship rises sharply to avoid colliding with the basin floor. The Pygmette crosses our field of vision—a perfect target.
“Grenade it!” I shout to Yinha and Nash. “Aim farther up and to the right!”
Two grenades leave our wing tips. One—Nash’s—curves too far to the left. Yinha’s flies to the right of our target until the mascon pulls it left.
In a pitifully small explosion, the last Pygmette falls to pieces.
I turn our ship away from the slaughter. We gradually climb the hundreds of meters out of the dark basalt sea. Nothing but mountainous gray terrain lies between us and home.
41
BASE IV DEFENSE WELCOMES US WITH open gates; on every side, ships of all sizes hobble into space, where they meet with immediate resistance from Dovetail-aligned craft. The Committee holdouts are attempting to flee. Most of them don’t bother to fire at us; I doubt
they have competent pilots or wingmen on board.
“Loyalists,” Yinha snarls. “They’re finally getting some heat.”
We easily blend into the melee, and with help from Yinha as copilot, we dodge the other ships and pull into the hangar.
“Let them leave,” Andromeda says. “Better for them to be with their kind than wreaking havoc inside Dovetail’s new sanctuary.”
“Should we take their leaders prisoner?” Yinha asks. “That’ll get us leverage in future talks with the Committee—or whatever’s left of it, now that Wolf’s gone.”
“Good point,” Andromeda says. I strain to hear her weak voice. “It might prevent them from using scorched-moon tactics on Base IV too. My former colleagues won’t want to accidentally harm their assets. So, yes, take prisoners.”
Yinha’s face is grim. “Bonus points for the General and Jupiter.”
* * *
We sneak into the unlit rear of the hangar on foot and split into two groups. Nash will take Cygnus, Umbriel, and Andromeda to the Medical quarters, Militia’s on-site hospital, so that they can receive care—if the Medics are still working. Andromeda tries to resist, claiming that Dovetail needs her, but a burst of pain causes her to clutch her still-bleeding leg, and she reluctantly agrees.
“See you soon, Cygnus,” I say to my brother, and it sounds more like a wish than a promise.
His only response is to knit his brow—in what? Confusion? Doubt?
Before I can work it out, Yinha, Callisto, and a bodyguard corporal named Pictor pull me into the packed hallways. We dodge Lazy fire, Electrostun pellets, and careening bodies. As we pass the entrances to the research departments, we see loyalist scientists fleeing, their arms full of expensive equipment, former comrades hot on their tails. I shake my head, appalled. So much progress, and it’s all going to waste. Is this a necessary side effect of rebellion?
Ahead of us, a black-haired man with a broad forehead argues with three Militia soldiers. He has smart, side-parted hair that covers the tips of his large ears. His eyes are sleepless and scared. With his body, he blocks the door to the Nanoengineering Department. “No, no—not the lab. Not eight years of our work. The Committee has no right.”
“If you don’t move, Rho, we’ll hack off your other leg too!” shouts a private.
Covering his face with his hands, the man limps away from the door. He looks to be in his thirties—too young to be walking like that. I catch a glimpse of a carbon-fiber prosthetic between his right shoe and pant seam. Clearly, he has enough money to buy a replacement leg, but not enough to have the flesh regrown via expensive progenitor cells.
“I’m coming, Bai!” Yinha bats the private who threatened him with her truncheon, then tosses the weapon to the Nanoengineer. “Go on without me,” she calls to us.
That’s her brother. The one Yinha told me about in the midst of a long-ago moonquake. Bai was a special private, lost his leg on a recon mission, she said. Right around the time I got promoted. She became a training instructor, in part, so that she could stay on the Moon and help him with routine tasks.
“I don’t want to leave you here!” I protest, ducking to avoid an Electrostun pellet.
“I need my brother!” Yinha pulls out her own Electrostun and clubs a soldier in the head with the butt. “And Dovetail needs his contraptions. Ask Asterion, if you see him.” She kicks the last soldier in the groin before his truncheon can strike Bai. “Go!”
Bai scans in his thumbprint, his retina, even his tongue before the Nanoengineering doors slide open.
“Stop standing around and get Phaet to some place without guns!” Yinha yells to Callisto and Pictor. She puts her arm around Bai’s shoulders and guides him into Nanoengineering. “Move!” The door hisses shut behind them.
How could she leave us? I’m confused and angry—until I realize that I’d do the same in her position. I already did. Yinha and I have both given up everything for our brothers. In a way, that makes us sisters.
Exchanging tense glances, Callisto, Pictor, and I jog away. Near the entrance to the Defense Department, which opens into a grand, arched hallway, we find the General and Jupiter, surrounded by a cluster of loyal Militia, many of whom have officer insignia. Screaming civilians hug the walls to avoid the cross fire; others run, hoping that the lasers and dozens of full-speed Pygmettes and Destroyers will miss them. The smoking, acrid remains of two Pygmettes caught in a collision smolder on my right.
Amidst the fracas, I recognize the plump figure and green robes of Caeli Phi, Umbriel’s mother, who’s sitting in the passenger seat of one vehicle. With wild eyes, she scans the crowd; I wonder if she’s dreading the reappearance of the family she betrayed. She looks more frightened than devastated by the fact that one of her sons sustained potentially life-threatening injuries on national television. Umbriel, Ariel, and Atlas aren’t here to see it, but I am. I glare at her, even though she’s too paranoid to focus her eyes on any one person in the melee.
On another Pygmette, my former boss, Major Skat Yotta, sits behind Jupiter, who’s steering. Skat’s strip of dark hair, which runs down the center of his scalp, isn’t ruffled by the twisting and swerving of their Pygmette. Neither is his facial expression—he looks serene, if not bored.
On the Militia cluster’s outskirts, angry Base IV residents—including a handful of deserters—press closer, waving makeshift weapons and shouting threats. The loyalists spray some kind of aerosol at them; instantly, the affected demonstrators’ eyes tear up. People vomit and collapse. The Militia has broken out the tear gas. I expected nothing less.
Jupiter swerves in front of our party. When he notices Callisto, he pulls his Pygmette to a stop. “You.”
In Primary, I watched couples address each other with that same word, but in more affectionate tones. Venom saturates Jupiter’s voice. There’s no room for love of any kind.
Pictor aims his Lazy at him, trying to shove Callisto to safety. She shrugs him off.
“Oh, Jupe, forgive me. I would’ve died if I hadn’t—”
“Turned traitor?” Now Jupiter points his Electrostun at Callisto. His eyes never leave her face, even as Skat taps his shoulder, urging him to go. “It’s bad enough that your mom did it. But you went along.”
With a cry, Callisto falls to her knees. “They were going to kill me! How could I love you if I were dead?”
“Don’t talk to me.” Jupiter’s deep voice wavers.
“Fine! Shoot me. I—”
Even as Jupiter lowers his weapon, jagged white electricity rattles Callisto’s body, picks her up, and throws her down again on the floor. Shockingly, Callisto, the daughter of Base IV’s former leader, has lost her right to personal safety. I hear a Pygmette zipping away and twist to track the shooter.
His hulking figure dwarfs the speeder. “My son’s words,” the General bellows backward at us, “are commands.”
“Dad? Where you going?” Cursing, Jupiter follows his father’s speeder toward the entrance of Defense.
“Get them!” Pictor yells.
Everyone present turns our way. Militia loyalists and deserters, civilians, Dovetail members—their eyes find me, and for a moment, everything goes silent.
“The Girl Sage lives,” a woman murmurs, her eyes wide.
Yes, I did the unthinkable. I escaped from Base I, the Committee stronghold. But I only survived because a girl sacrificed her life for me—a girl who’d saved me twice before, in the Atrium and on Earth. She protected me like a sister would. Did I even deserve it?
A Pygmette turns tail and follows Jupiter and the General. As it skids around corners, its riders shoot at the fleeing officers. Our appearance seems to have shifted the course of the basewide scuffle, bringing more people over to Dovetail’s side.
They just want to be on the winning team, I think, a shadow of foreboding falling over me. Ideals mean nothing when people are guar
ding their lives.
A newly Dovetail-aligned Pygmette speeds toward me, shooting at Militia soldiers in its path. I run to build up momentum for a jump.
“Sage!” someone calls from the crowd. “Are you thinking?”
I leap and land with my feet on the backseat. Although I bang my hip on the backrest, I manage to hold on and shift into a sitting position.
“Hey, Stripes!” yells the pilot. “Nice show you put on back at Base I!”
Orion? Last August, when I asked him to help abort our hoax of an Earth recon mission because my mother’s life was at stake, he seemed to value his career—all our careers—more than one human’s fate. “Why are you helping us?” I cry.
“Want the truth?” Orion swerves around a clump of civilians, dodging Skat’s scattered Lazy fire. He puts on speed; the General has nearly reached the Defense entrance, and Jupiter and Skat’s Pygmette is close behind. “My parents taught me to do whatever keeps me alive.”
I appreciate his honesty. But it also tells me that Dovetail can’t trust Orion. If the Committee can better guarantee his safety, he’ll switch sides again.
Concentrate, I tell myself. How can we stop the General and Jupiter? Pygmettes have light weapons, but I can’t reach them: they’re in front of Orion. If he multitasks, adding shooting to steering, we might crash.
We’re nearing Jupiter’s Pygmette. I aim my Lazy at its black exhaust tube, which protrudes from the vehicle’s rear. Because a reflective silver layer coats most of the Pygmette, the laser will backfire or hit innocents if I miss.
I don’t aim at Jupiter or Skat—Andromeda said to take prisoners, not to kill. Before I pull the trigger, I remember the soldiers on the Odan beach. My victims. The images fill me with self-loathing. Killing again would kill me too, but slower.
Holding my arm steady, I fire a series of quick laser bursts at the tube. If I can melt it, seal it off, then the Pygmette will stop running before the engine pressure gets too high—one of its many safety features.