by Karen Bao
Shuddering at the thought, I turn my attention back to Andromeda Chi, otherwise known as Lady A. Unlike her daughter, who crosses her arms and pretends to ignore her mother, Andromeda appears more alive than ever, thanks to the mask of cosmetics she applies before public appearances. Full-figured and red-cheeked, Andromeda illuminates the Atrium, filling her role as “mother of the rebellion.” Maybe it helps make up for her strained relationship with her own child.
While the public’s gaze seems to suit Andromeda best, it’s Asterion who must speak. Although Asterion seems comfortable in the greenhouses—settled, even—he gets shifty and nervous during his public addresses. Though he was a renowned Chemistry principal investigator for decades, carrying the hopes of tens of thousands on his shoulders has taken some getting used to.
“. . . even with the addition of manpower and equipment from Base VI,” he says now, a sweat stain forming on his lower back, spreading across his robes, “we cannot recover from our losses. Half the Committee’s troops are down on Earth, fighting alongside Pacifian soldiers to recolonize the planet. However, because we’ve taken Base VI, the Committee will likely order Militia back to the Moon in droves.”
My ears pick up concerned shuffling and murmuring from the motley crowd. Many people combine colors in their outfits—Phi green pants with a Kappa ultraviolet tunic, for instance. It’s part fashion statement, part necessity. After the Free Radical’s secession, clothing production ground to a halt, food production fell, and all resources went to Dovetail’s army. Despite the fact that they voted for this redistribution, the civilians have grown grumpy and thin from rationing.
At least it’ll be easier to pack everyone into hiding spots if the loyalists invade. I keep nasty jokes like this to myself, even though they’d make my friends laugh.
“We need more soldiers, more hackers, more weapons. Any resources you can spare, any skills you can lend us . . .”
Dovetailers have heard some variant on this speech time and time again, so they’re only half listening. People mill around the huge collection bins on the Atrium’s far side, dropping off scrap plastic, discarded rubber, and fruit and vegetable rinds for composting. In the dome’s center, Nash and several other soldiers run a draft booth for the Dovetail armed forces—as I predicted and feared, because of today’s losses, we lowered the minimum age to fifteen.
The volunteers enlist first. Boys and girls queue up behind the booth, tugging their frowning parents along. They’re fifteen, like Cygnus. Children. When I enlisted in Militia at that age, people thought me insane. But insanity has become the new normal.
“. . . the Singularity can’t provide us with additional food and water.”
“Mr. Asterion reminds me of the beggars in Shelter,” Anka whispers behind me, “asking for help from people who can’t even help themselves.”
My sister’s right. Dovetail needs aid, but this base is tapped out, and the Singularity won’t help either, not when our friends on the Far Side are even hungrier than we are. We can no longer rely on any part of the Moon for manpower or raw materials, which leaves planet Earth. And with approximately half of Earth fighting for the Committee . . .
That’s it. Battery Bay is our only hope.
You have to tell them, I think. Asterion has always valued my input more than the other leaders. He’s the only one who feels like a friend.
“. . . I am so sorry to decrease the water ration again,” he’s saying now, “to three liters per person per day . . .”
Angry murmurs arise from below, and hundreds of faces droop in disillusionment. Before I can change my mind, I stand on shaking legs, one hand raised. Sol Eta taps Asterion’s shoulder and points to me. Although I refuse to look down, I know that thousands of eyes are watching my every move.
Asterion pauses his pleading speech and turns my way. My heart flutters in my throat. Here goes everything. “We need an Earthbound ally. Soon.”
Below us, the crowd stops churning. Asterion slowly takes a seat.
“We’ve tried that.” Sol speaks dismissively into the microphone, her low, powerful voice belying her small size. “As you and everyone else know.”
Since we freed her from Committee imprisonment, her golden hair has grown out into a jagged pixie cut that highlights her square jaw and glinting eyes. Like Andromeda, Sol thrives when people are watching her. Given her life under Committee rule, this ease makes sense. When she worked in Journalism with Mom, Sol appeared on Committee-sponsored newscasts every other night.
“I mean, literally, that we need to travel to Earth and get a city to help us,” I clarify. “Sending message after message, as we’ve been doing, is useless. Dovetailers need to fly in, bringing goodwill by the shipload, or they’ll keep ignoring us.”
Across the floor, brows furrow and eyes blink in confusion.
“The Earthbound are . . . different.” I describe how the Batterer Parliament met in person, even though their elaborate video technology would’ve allowed them to communicate remotely. Then there were the Odans, who didn’t even allow electronics in the public sphere. “To them, digital communication indicates a lack of dedication. Yes, our hackers might’ve had to work hard to ensure secure delivery, but the Earthbound think it was an insult, like we couldn’t be bothered to meet with them in person.”
Asterion rubs his chin, considering my words. “Who do you propose should go on this . . . this hypothetical mission?”
“You or Lady A,” I say. “Yinha. One or two more fighters. And me.”
There’s a hush. Behind me, Anka looks up, frowning. Even Cygnus has furrowed his brow. You’re leaving? their eyes seem to say. Again?
Sol wrinkles her nose and breaks the silence. “We’d endanger you and other high-level personnel in a mission that might net us nothing.”
Rose pipes up. “Um. We should also estimate the energy it would take to facilitate the alliance. Literal energy from transporting payloads from Earth to here.”
She speaks into an old security pod, which amplifies her voice. The audio experts must have sent them out to enable discussion. Instead of chucking the Committee’s spying devices into orbit as the ruling body has done with its trash for decades, Dovetail reprogrammed the pods to perform administrative tasks.
I shift my weight, my legs like gelatin. “We can’t keep starving ourselves and sending younger and younger children off to fight. My mother started Dovetail to give Lunars a better life, and this is not it!”
Hundreds of heads nod in agreement.
But some people speak against the idea, saying that the Earthbound are too unpredictable, or else too weak, to help us.
Frightened chatter fills the Atrium; Asterion, Andromeda, and Sol murmur among themselves. Sol fears nuclear attacks and the disorder arising from splitting the leadership; Asterion and Andromeda see no other choice. Two for three out of the leaders, but I need to convince the masses.
“Have you ever met an Earthbound?” My question catches the audience’s attention, and the noise dies down. “I’ve met many. Yes, they are different from us. And they are different from one another.”
I search the front of the crowd until I catch Alex’s eye. Although the Dovetail leadership knows he’s from Saint Oda, we haven’t told the public for fear of backlash. “But they want the Committee gone as much as we do, maybe more, and if they add their might to ours, we’ll have the fighting capacity to follow through.”
I fold myself back into my seat, drained. The crowd’s babble starts up again, and I hear a frustrated, girlish sigh behind me. Glancing back, I watch Anka study the huge Dovetail banner hanging from the Atrium’s opposite wall. I can almost see the red-and-silver reflected in her eyes.
“You want to leave again,” she says. “This time you have friends on Earth waiting for you.”
She’s right. If Dovetail sends an envoy to Battery Bay, I’ll see a host of familiar faces. Th
at city shelters the hundreds of Odan refugees—including Murray Carlyle, Nanna Zeffie, Emberley, Jubilee. And Wes. The happiness rising up in me seems to have no place amidst my feelings of anxiety and frustration.
The Dovetail leaders’ circle breaks open, and this time Asterion speaks: “Lady A and I support a Batterer alliance, but I defer to all of you: let us vote on the matter.”
A wave of whispers passes through the crowd. Referendum votes have happened before, as when we decided to attack the Singularity. Without the use of our handscreens, aside from offline games and word processing applications, Dovetail members vote by raising their hands.
First, those who don’t support seeking Batterer help vote. Shaking with nervousness, I keep my hand firmly in my lap as about half the people raise theirs. Scattered individuals glance my way, looking unsure, and put their hands back down. Security pods buzz around the Atrium, getting the tally. One thousand five hundred and ninety-three people vote no, including Sol Eta. In the audience, Umbriel Phi’s hand shoots up, and his twin Ariel’s follows. It feels like betrayal, them voting against my idea, but I know they’ve got reasons for doing so.
Two hundred and thirty-seven people abstain, Atlas Phi, the twins’ father, among them. His skin hangs more loosely around the bones of his face now, and his hair is grayer than mine.
As for the yes votes? One thousand eight hundred and thirty. Among the Dovetail leaders, Andromeda, Asterion, and Yinha support seeking an alliance. As do I. My triumphant hand trembles in the air, shaking with happiness that I shouldn’t logically feel.
Soon, several other leaders and I will travel through Committee-controlled space to a war-torn Earth so that we can plead with a hostile nation . . . and I absolutely can’t wait.
Somewhere on Battery Bay are scores of Odan refugees, people who took me in as one of their own, believing I was a runaway Pacifian slave. People who are homeless now because I kept the truth from them. The prospect of facing them as the Lunar I am assuages some of my lingering guilt, but it doesn’t make me feel like smiling.
But I’ll see Wes again. The moments I’ve played over and over in my mind—against my better judgment—can’t sustain me anymore. Does he remember the reckless joy that overtook us when we kissed, and the gut-wrenching sorrow when it ended?
Maybe he doesn’t want to remember. The most practical, Wes-like move would be to forget, as I’ve tried and failed to do. This is wartime, and we’re soldiers. I’d be a fool to take a kiss as a promise.
Yet, in spite of my doubts, I look down at my cold, empty hands and hope that they won’t stay that way much longer.
I SCORE ANOTHER SIDE KICK ON UMBRIEL’S abdomen, knocking his center of gravity backward. The scratched and yellowed foam mat breaks his fall. As he gathers his long legs under him, he leaves a slick of sweat on the spongy material.
“Close off your fighting stance—turn more to the side,” I say, wiping sweat off my own forehead. “Otherwise, your vitals are wide open.”
Frustration sharpens my words. Fear, too, for what would happen if he were facing, say, Jupiter Alpha or another Beater. He and his brother survived their first battle—the Committee’s most recent attempt at invading the Free Radical last month—but because I asked Yinha to have mercy on them, they were stationed far from the front lines.
I can’t keep asking her to play favorites.
“Don’t drop your fists, Umbriel!” I say, ducking a cross punch. “Keep them up by your face.”
With each piece of advice I dole out, I remind myself of Wes, except that I’m more awkward and less funny. A year and a half ago, in this training dome, he was the fighter everyone tried to imitate. Now, it’s me, and I wish he were here to help.
Umbriel drops his head, puts his hands on his knees. “I don’t ever want to take someone down for real,” he says.
He’s still upset about the draft, about the fact that he’ll have to fight loyalists no matter what. “Umbriel,” I say, “at this rate, you won’t even be able to defend yourself, let alone do any damage.”
“Damage,” Umbriel scoffs. “As if they were things, not people.”
Other new recruits, spread across the floor executing exercises with and without weapons, sneak glances when they think I’m not looking. Since the new ones are training under time pressure with an irregular schedule, there are gaping holes in their abilities, and they spend hours in open workouts like this trying to fill them. Better to find weaknesses and correct them than die from them in battle.
The training dome has become my old Militia classmates’ favorite haunt: near the dome’s center, Nash leads two dozen trainees in a plyometric workout, forcing them to squat, lunge, jump, and touch the floor in quick succession. Near the climbing wall, Orion watches more advanced recruits hold up their laser blasters for minutes at a time to develop steady aim. High in the bleachers, Callisto Chi surveys the scene like a sniper, her pimpled face cupped in her hands, her narrow eyebrows pulled close together.
When Umbriel is steady on his feet and willing to fight, I return my attention to him. My body, my opponent’s body, and nothing else. He engages me with a slide forward, a fake, and a cross punch, one I duck and counter with an upward elbow strike that grazes his chin. Now that I’ve closed in, I use my shorter limbs to put him on the defensive. We spar for another minute or so—I always lose track of time when I fight someone—before I hook my foot behind his leg and knock him off balance again.
“Give me a break, Captain,” Umbriel says. By mentioning my old Militia rank, he’s doing more than teasing me. He’s reminding me of the violent soldier I became . . . of the soldier I still am.
But then he bends over again, hands on knees, eliciting a worried look from Anka. My sister perches low on the bleachers, sharpening dagger after identical dagger with a file. Although I find it unnerving for a thirteen-year-old girl to play with knives, she’s gotten good at wielding them. Cygnus flinches at the mere sight of blades, so he’s turned to the side, one foot tucked under his bum, reading something on his handscreen. No, not reading. Staring at it.
“Maybe my brother will finally score on you when you get back from Earth, Phaet,” Ariel calls from his corner of the mat. After tripping him one too many times in our last match, I parked him there to practice footwork.
“Speaking of Earth . . . why’d you two vote no?” I ask.
Ariel slides forward, steps to the side, and slides back, teetering as though he’ll fall over if someone so much as breathes on him. “Too much history between us and the Earthbound,” he says. All his Primary studying under the Committee has left its mark. “Assuming your mission succeeds and you bring some Batterers up here, the culture clashes will drive both sides insane.”
Umbriel tries to surprise me with a roundhouse kick, but I counter it by sliding close to him and jabbing him in the chest.
“I didn’t even think that far ahead,” he says, massaging the area where I’ve hit. “On the trip down, the loyalists will turn space into a shooting range. If something takes out you and Andromeda, will Dovetail still function? Never mind us.” He gestures at himself, Ariel, my siblings. “Plus”—he lowers his voice—“I know you have your own reasons for risking your life to get down there.”
Wes. I can’t deny that.
“Umbriel, if Dovetail has to, we’ll find people who can lead.” Anka examines the razor-edged blade of a dagger, admiring her handiwork. “We found people after Mom, and we’ll keep doing it if Phaet . . . you know.”
“That’s a horrible thing to say, Anka,” Ariel scolds. But I disagree. Though they sting, Anka’s words ring with the practicality of preparing for the worst: me, as Alex would say, biting it.
“Don’t tell me what to say,” Anka snaps. “I’ve got forty kids running war supply bins to give you decent weapons, and you just sit around, bored to death, whenever you’re not in this smelly gym or blabbing to Alex Huxley.”
“Seriously, Anka?” Ariel says, his cheeks turning emergency-light red. “Would you rather be fighting?”
Umbriel walks to his brother and takes a fighting stance, right foot behind the left, body turned to the side to minimize the surface area facing his opponent. “Come on, Ariel. Time to put all that shuffling practice to work.”
“But . . .” I start to protest. Ariel’s less advanced than his brother, and fighting Umbriel could reinforce his bad technique.
“He’s sick of losing to you,” Ariel jokes, golden-brown eyes lighting up when he smiles. He takes a fighting stance, his hips almost squared to Umbriel, and Anka observes the twins with a scowl.
Biting hard on my lip, I watch the two of them trade blows. Although they have the same long limbs and intimidating height, Umbriel is more comfortable in his gangly body, easily ducking his brother’s clumsy punches. As if he fears losing his balance, Ariel hardly tries to kick.
Back in the old days, Ariel filled his time with studying and secretarial duties in the Law Department, while Umbriel worked officially in Agriculture and unofficially as a thief. Their different interests show in their fighting. I silence my urge to interrupt whenever one of them—usually Ariel—makes a mistake that could be fatal in real combat. Frankly, it happens every few seconds.
Behind me, I hear the shuffle of footsteps and the whisper of someone’s breath.
“How does it feel, showing these boys what ‘training’ really means?” The voice is full of sweetness but not sincerity.
Callisto. She must have stepped down from the bleachers when Umbriel and I were sparring. Stiffening, I turn to her and look into her acne-scarred face. I’d rather avoid acknowledging her existence. But experience has taught me never to let her out of my sight lest she literally stab me in the back.
“I could get these beanpoles in shape while you’re away,” she says, glancing at the twins. “Make sure their first deployment isn’t a one-way trip.”