by Karen Bao
At Yinha’s hands, our craft dodges one, two, then three nuclear warheads careening in orbit around the Moon. I shiver when I see them. The long, narrow capsules serve as a constant reminder that the Committee could destroy an entire base or Earthbound city at their leisure.
“Now there’s a satellite approaching from behind, one you could use as shelter. It’s ours.” Rose’s voice grows fainter as the radio signal fades. In less than a minute, we’ll be on our own.
“The Terrestar— there she goes!” Alex shouts. “Get behind her!”
We beeline for a battered-looking satellite a few hundred meters away—an Earthbound relic sent up during the twenty-first century to map the Moon. Dysfunctional but left in orbit, its two cross-shaped aggregations of solar panels connected to a prism. Loyalist ships shoot at us and miss.
Taking shelter behind the Terrestar, we follow its lopsided orbital path and gain a huge lead on our pursuers. The loyalist fleet’s shots either burn or shatter the solar cells; with no friction to slow them, the photovoltaic glass fragments zoom away. As we begin to detach, Alex launches our largest missile at the Terrestar. It rips off an entire section of solar panels and pushes it toward our enemy. The loyalist ships turn tail and flee in different directions as the Moon’s gravity catches the solar panel chunk, pulling it downward. But one doesn’t fly away fast enough; within seconds, the Terrestar fragment crashes into the regolith far beneath us, taking the loyalist Destroyer with it.
“Really cool aim, Alex,” Yinha says.
“My aim can’t be cool, because I’m a hotshot,” Alex mutters.
Yinha groans. “Your puns burn my ears every time.”
Rose’s throaty laughter echoes in our headsets—and then the radio signal fades into a zzzz sound. Andromeda tsks, berating Alex in her regal way to take the flight more seriously. But I exhale for a long time. If Alex is still . . . Alex, that means we’re okay.
Peeking at the rearview feed every few minutes, I watch my home base shrink behind us until it’s a patch of white bumps clustered against a crater wall. Most of the people who need me are there, on the Moon. But not all of them.
We’ve made it past most of the Committee’s satellites, which can detect Moon-Earth communications. “It’s safe to tell the Batterers we’re coming,” I say. “And the sooner, the better. We don’t want to enter their airspace only to have them think we’re attacking.”
Alex begins fiddling with the communications system dashboard. “I’m setting this up to connect with the Batterer Diplomacy Ministry. I’d better have the right frequency.”
“If you’re not able to reach the Batterers, we could always fly a white sheet behind us,” Yinha says, only half kidding.
Alex takes his hand off the dial and turns to Andromeda. “Fire away.”
“To our friends on Battery Bay,” Andromeda begins, “we are approaching your city from space on a lone Lunar Destroyer ship. The four of us come in peace. Although we fly a repurposed Militia vehicle, we represent the Lunar fighters who are struggling to free the Moon from the Committee’s despotism. We, ambassadors from Operation Dovetail, wish to land on your noble soil and engage in diplomacy.”
The Batterers’ quick response strikes dread into our hearts. “Thank you for your message,” says a flat female voice. “We will return your communication as soon as possible.”
Great. It’s automated. My hands tremble on the controls.
“The Diplomacy Ministry must be overrun with other tasks,” Andromeda grumbles.
“Have a little hope, Lady A,” Alex says. “The Batterers might not have heard us, but if the Sanctuarists intercepted the signal and know we’re coming, it’ll be a jolly day down there. Maybe even for Wes’s bullheaded dad.”
Yinha scoffs. “Interception? That’s pretty unlikely. Even if they hear our message, how will they protect us from the Batterers’ homeland defense?”
“Er . . . They’ll convince the military not to kill us before we land,” Alex says. “But I can’t guarantee we won’t get arrested. Or manhandled.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Andromeda says, with an awkward burst of laughter. I didn’t know Lady A had a sense of humor. “Each of us has already been arrested or manhandled, even me. We’ll just have to take our chances.”
I repress a shudder. On my last visit to Battery Bay, soldiers handcuffed Wes and me, and marched us to the Diplomacy Minister himself for questioning. They thought I was lying about my Odan citizenship and nearly threw me overboard. What’ll they do when they find out I’m a Lunar after all?
Before I can imagine too many ugly scenarios, we meet the resistance of the Earth’s upper atmosphere. Here, the air is thin and scalding hot—it can’t sustain life, just like the Moon’s surface. But even this place contrasts with the cold, rocky world we come from. As the Moon fades into a pale silver circle behind our ship, I wonder how long I’ll be suspended between these two worlds.
But are the Earth and Moon really that separate? Are they two worlds, or one? Increasingly, Lunar problems are Earthbound problems. Dovetailers and Odans, we are all victims of the same tyrants. One world, indeed, the Earth and its natural satellite. Like trees on opposite edges of a forest, people living on both celestial bodies are tangled up with one another in spite of the kilometers between us. Like my family and Wes, taking up space in the most guarded part of my heart.
“IT’S ALMOST AS SHINY AS I REMEMBER,” ALEX says from behind me. “When I snuck onto Battery Bay and lifted off, the lights burned holes through my eyes.”
“But it’s so lovely,” Andromeda says.
From up here, Battery Bay looks like some supernatural being’s glittering thumbprint, bright against the otherwise black Sea of Japan. The scarlet sun peeks out above the horizon. The mobile metropolis’s glow is patchier than before—some of the city’s structures were damaged during last year’s clash with Pacifia near Saint Oda, and others must have been hit more recently. According to our reports, two months ago, Battery Bay began waging war against its nemesis’s Asian land-based allies.
I guide the Destroyer downward, letting wind currents carry us sideways to save fuel. Yinha’s entrusted me with steering, claiming she needs “a break.” In my peripheral vision, I see her hand picking at a loose string on her glove. She’s avoided Earth for over a decade. Now it’s rushing up to meet her.
The craft slows when I open the wing flaps. Get the landing gear out now and head for the runways by the tip of the oval, I imagine Wes’s voice saying. I must stay methodical despite my mounting anxiety and excitement at seeing him again—at finding out if he’s still with us, if he’s still the same.
Did he or another Sanctuarist intercept our message? Are they looking out for us? Or will the Batterers think we’re a Committee-allied ship trying to bomb them?
Now we’re flying parallel to the ocean waves, toward the city’s eastern tip. The sky grows redder, and we project a bright white peace sign into the clouds with our headlights. The Batterers can’t miss that, I tell myself.
Yinha opens a parachute behind us. When it catches on air, we all pitch forward in our seats, sliding unstoppably towards the white light cutting through the windshield.
* * *
Flanked by a club-shaped Batterer aircraft on either side, our Destroyer meets the tarmac with two head-lolling bounces. I fire our front thrusters so that the forward-moving exhaust will slow us. Many moments after we’ve stopped, my pulse still pounds in my fingertips.
“Do not open your hatch!” someone shouts.
Batterer soldiers in teal-and-gold uniforms cluster around; the officer in charge, who must have given the orders, is a pointy-chinned man small enough to pass as a ten-year-old. When about twenty of his troops have formed two rings around the Destroyer, he shouts, “Evacuate your ship! These are orders from the Battery Bay Coastwatch!”
Andromeda fearlessly clambers o
ut of the hatch, and the others follow. Keeping my head down to hide my face, I walk with them into the fragrant, somehow brittle autumn air. The first pinkish rays of morning sun, whole and nurturing, surround my body. A breeze picks up a stray yellow ginkgo leaf; it flutters over my shoes like a broken-winged butterfly.
The entire inner circle of Batterer soldiers has their handguns raised. Heart rate surging, I try to ignore what’s in my peripheral vision: no less than three muzzles pointed at my head alone.
“Names and documentation!” the officer barks.
They didn’t get our message, I think, my heart sinking. And that silly peace sign wasn’t enough.
Andromeda reaches for her handscreen, but Alex smacks her arms down. “That’ll scare the grits out of them, Lady A!” he hisses. Turning to the officer with his hands up, he broadcasts his accented drawl for all to hear. “Alexander Huxley, Andromeda Chi, Yinha Rho, Phaet Theta. We’re Lunar outlaws and existential threats to the Standing Committee, you see, so they’re not terribly keen on giving us documentation. Put those guns down and you might find us quite charming.”
The tiny officer turns to a thin pole of a woman, probably his second-in-command, and whispers rapidly. She whispers back, and he nods.
“You’re from Earth, boy,” he says. “The Sanctuarists informed us that one of the alleged Lunar rebels would be.”
The handgun muzzles droop by a few centimeters, and my anxiety ticks down a notch.
“We saw from your light signals that you ‘came in peace,’” the officer says, “but specialists thought it was a ruse.”
“Why didn’t you engage us in battle, then?” Andromeda asks.
The rings of soldiers open up a meter-wide path, and Battery Bay’s Diplomacy Minister Costa advances through the gap. Behind him, two of his aides size us up through their dark sunglasses. Short and pale, Costa wears a tight gold suit that contains rather than covers his fleshy limbs. Instead of hair, a clear fluid that ripples like water sits atop his pink scalp. I never found out if it was a projection or a liquid within a membrane. Does he sleep with it? What about when he wants to go swimming?
Snap out of it. My mind’s wandering, just when I need my wits about me.
Once the bizarre-looking Minister reaches us, the Batterer soldiers close the ring again.
“We did not attack because of your Sanctuarist friends, who claimed to detect your incoming message using their rudimentary equipment,” Costa says, extending a hand with gold-painted fingernails for Andromeda to shake. She gingerly grasps it, wrestling a frown from her face. In the most formal Lunar introductions, people speak their name aloud so that it shows up on the other person’s handscreen, and handshakes in casual settings never last more than half a second.
“But that didn’t mean I would let any Lunar ship land on our airstrips.” Costa pumps Andromeda’s hand up and down, adding his other hand for good measure. “Even if you were supposedly allies. Apologies for the Coastwatch’s martial measures.”
“No need.” Yinha clears her throat and extends her own hand to take the burden off her superior. Still smiling, Costa grabs her hand and wrings it.
“I’m eager to hear how you can contribute to the war effort here,” he says.
“With personnel and lots of enthusiasm,” Yinha replies.
“Excellent!” exclaims Costa. He lowers his voice; Andromeda and I lean in to hear his next words. “Prime Minister Sear’s party—my party—has a supermajority in Parliament, and he wants to install a friendlier regime on the Moon. If all party members vote for his agenda, we’ll have over half the representatives’ votes, and be ready to work with you toward our common goal. The trouble is maintaining party discipline. Each representative’s district has a different complaint these days, because of this godforsaken war with Pacifia.”
What in the universe does that mean? Yinha and Andromeda seem as confused as I am by Costa’s babbling. Nevertheless, he continues down the line. When he reaches me, my befuddlement gives way to paralyzing fear. Heart pounding in my ears, I keep my eyes on my boots and dangle my hand out in front of me.
Costa doesn’t take it. “The last time I saw you, you were Odan,” he says in a voice too bright and loud to be sincere. Lower, he continues, “Who are you really working for?”
My tongue feels like a slug. I hadn’t expected Costa to rejoice at seeing me, but I wasn’t prepared for an open confrontation before my superiors.
“I . . . I . . .” I stammer, before my vocal cords go still. Then I try again. “I’m Dovetail. And a friend to Saint Oda. They’re not mutually exclusive.”
I look to my crewmates for support. Andromeda and Yinha fidget, while Alex smirks, giving nothing away.
“I wish I could believe you,” Costa says, patting my hand like I’m a child. “But I won’t be surprised if you’ve changed into a Martian at this time tomorrow.”
He’s joking. I let out the breath I’m holding but wonder if other Batterers will put my deception behind them so easily.
Chuckling, Costa scoots back from me and addresses everyone again. “Before we allow you into the city, we require one more verification—from the Odans themselves. Bring them in.”
The Odans? Indeed, five silhouettes are approaching, looking out of place in their loose, homespun clothing. My mind skids, unable to believe it’s happening. That he could be walking toward me.
The Batterers form two lines again, leaving a narrow aisle for the Odan procession. As I watch them, my cheeks ache from the big, dumb smile on my face. I lower my head to hide it, but then feel silly. I’m not ashamed of how happy I am to see him. He should be the first to know.
The five Odans move closer, and the faraway city glow illuminates their faces: three new, two familiar. The three young Sanctuarists, barely out of boyhood, look terrified. In contrast, Odan Sanctuary Coordinator Carlyle exudes confidence; he draws himself up to his impressive full height, every centimeter of his body alert.
On his left, a smaller figure glides across the tarmac with all the coordinated grace I remember. Rays of sun glance off his coppery hair, dyeing it scarlet.
The Odans study us as intently as we do them, and anticipation makes my entire torso feel like a big, beating heart. I shift my gaze to meet the newcomers’ eyes, one by one, until I find a pair like burnished steel. The world around me goes quiet, and so does the racket in my chest. There’s only an overwhelming sense of peace.
“It’s them, Minister.” Wesley Carlyle’s voice is as shy and melodious in life as in my memories. He watches me, a small smile playing across his lips. “They’re the ones we’ve been waiting for.”
And at once, I’m right where I belong.
* * *
Well, not exactly. There’s too much space between us for my liking. Yet he’s everywhere to me. My imagination fills in the gap with his woodsy scent, the feel of him in my arms, the eight freckles across his nose that I can’t quite see.
Wes is wearing a grin so big his face can hardly contain it and shaking his head in disbelief. I stifle a laugh. I’m real, I want to say, and so are you.
Wes’s father nudges him in the ribs, and Wes glances sidelong at Costa, who’s saying something that couldn’t possibly be more important than our tacit communication. I force myself to pay attention to the minister’s babbling.
“. . . Lunars, yes, but Lunar rebels . . . I should usher you to Parliament, they’ll expect us soon. There will be a closed session, of course, because of security concerns.”
Coordinator Carlyle marches forward. “You’ve arrived in time for—”
Andromeda cuts him off, holding up one hand, palm facing him. “Minister Costa, we’ll need accommodations.” She glances at the three weary Dovetailers, her face taking on a motherly expression that catches me by surprise. “And food.”
Costa forces a smile. “Supplies are low, but allies will receive the best ou
r city has to offer. We’ll transport you to the waterfront international hostel—a beautiful house; it serves all our guests—after you formally introduce yourselves to Parliament.”
Sensing that our superiors are otherwise occupied, Alex strides over to Wes, comes to a standstill, and punches him hard on the shoulder. Walking forward, I pull a sour face, which Wes doesn’t miss. He winces but says nothing to Alex.
“That was for bungling your Moon exit, you dimwit.” Another punch. “This is for putting pressure on the rest of us.” Alex stiffly extends his arms for a hug. “And this is because I can’t help but forgive you.”
As they embrace, thumping each other on the back, Alex hoists Wes half a meter into the air and spins him in a circle, as he might a girlfriend. There’s an amused snort behind us. It’s Yinha, her expression mocking, her arms crossed.
Momentum takes Alex in a jagged trajectory toward me; he plops Wes down on his feet half a meter away. “Now you spin her around. Go on, I know you want to.”
My cheeks turn into twin hotplates. With Alex towering over us and grinning, I can hardly look at Wes, but my eyes betray me: I sneak a glance. He’s rumpling his hair, and perhaps because of his nervousness, it stays rumpled and doesn’t fall back into place.
Instead of performing a grand gesture that would catch our superiors’ attention, Wes reaches for my hand. His scent has changed, from fresh pine to wood smoke. In running my thumb over his palm, I learn how tough these months have been for him. His skin is dry, the muscles beneath ropy and strong. A hard pebble of skin sits at the base of each finger. And his face . . . it’s darker, thinner, more worn. It can’t have been easy to defend the Odan refugees on a floating war-city, but he seems to have succeeded so far. And I’m proud of him, proud of every scar he bears.
Our superiors’ small circle breaks apart. They’re coming for us. Wariness darkens Wesley Sr.’s expression; his son releases my hand. Normally a look like that from the Sanctuary Coordinator—from anyone with power over me—would chill my bones.