Dove Alight

by Karen Bao

  “So you have to get creative,” Asterion says. “Rose, access Jang’s private residence too. Security pods, personal devices, anything.”

  Rose makes a note on her handscreen. “Will do. I’ll tell you if anything shows up.”

  The doors open, and a strawberry-blond middle-aged man with an ill-maintained beard and mustache comes rushing in. “Sorry about the interruption,” he says. I recognize his voice. He was the one berating Cygnus on our flight down to Earth. “We’ve located the missing troops.”

  Asterion starts. “They’re alive?”

  “Prisoners on Base I,” the man replies. “May I show you?” He feeds a chip into Dovetail’s main HeRP, and we crowd around the monitor. I watch the blinking icon, terrified of what he’s found.

  Security pod footage. Sixteen prisoners strapped to electric chairs, arranged in a four-by-four square. Four—the unluckiest number, according to Chinese tradition. Seven of the sixteen are Dovetail; nine are Batterer. I spot Ariel’s mop of curly brown hair and have to bite my tongue to keep from crying out. The memory of my own brother’s torture washes over me, and I shut my eyes tight, unable to watch. The faint crackle of electricity echoes in my ears, almost causing me physical pain.

  “Hold on,” the hacker says, sounding surprised. “Someone’s trying to talk to us.”

  I dare to open my eyes.

  “The communication is unencrypted,” says Asterion, reaching for the HeRP, which beeps with a voice message notification.

  He reaches forward to play it, but Yinha stays his hand. “It could contain a virus.”

  “Relax, Yinha.” Rose shakes her head. “Wouldn’t have made it past our firewall if it did.”

  Asterion switches the machine to offline mode, just in case, and presses Play.

  “We know your hackers have been peeping around the Pen, Dovetail.” Hydrus’s familiar, oily voice slithers out of the speaker and into my ear.

  Rose narrows her eyes at her underling. “We’ve got to be more careful,” she whispers. “You should ask Cygnus about that.”

  The bearded man winces. “We’ll put additional proxies in place, ma’am.”

  Hydrus’s laugh emanates from the HeRP; his message isn’t over. “You complain so much about our old ‘snooping,’ but you’re even worse! Why don’t you all give up fighting? Perhaps our new world would be so harmonious that no one would have to spy.”

  He’s lying. Eavesdropping kept the Committee in power for a century, and if we handed over all our territory and the Batterers’ too, they’d just expand the operation to Earth.

  “Not convinced?” Hydrus says. “At least you will be able to watch the rest of our prisoners’ interrogations, and when they are no longer useful, their executions.”

  My breath hitches. Nearby, I hear Alex’s low growl.

  “Perhaps we will broadcast their deaths to Battery Bay. Show your allies how weak you are, how little you value the lives of their troops, how you exploit the Batterers for your own ends.”

  A click ends the message. How dare the Committee suggest we’re using our allies the way they’re using the Pacifians?

  There has to be a way to save the sixteen. I catch Andromeda’s eye, then think of her daughter. Callisto. Jupiter.

  “We have prisoners of our own,” I say. “Jupiter Alpha. Skat Yotta. Hopper Gamma.”

  “Are you proposing a prisoner swap?” Sol says. “Miss Phaet, if we give up their important prisoners, they won’t keep us on the map.” She lets the image of nuclear attack sink in.

  “The Committee won’t bomb the Dugout,” I say. “We’re so close that they can’t poison us or blow us up without damaging their own turf.”

  Yinha and Costa solemnly nod.

  “That’s still an insane risk you are proposing,” Sol points out.

  “Let’s first see what the Committee terms in such an exchange would be,” Asterion says. “Andromeda, you know them best. Strike a deal.”

  Taking a deep breath, Andromeda begins recording a voice message, suggesting a swap of our sixteen for Jupiter. Smart—he’s the lowest in the Committee’s chain of command, and the least valuable. There’s maternal feeling here too, I think as I watch Andromeda speak. With Jupiter off-base, Callisto might have less conflict in her heart.

  “Not suitable, my old friend.” Cassini replies this time, his voice weak and croaky with age. “We demand General Alpha’s son, Skat Yotta . . . and Hopper Gamma.” Click.

  Andromeda’s quick to respond. “Jupiter and Skat. No questions asked.”

  This time, the Committee takes a minute to reply. “Jupiter and Hopper,” says Nebulus Nu in his usual buttery tones.

  “That changes zilch. Strategically, Skat’s worthless,” Yinha says, the old resentment of her former boss creeping into her voice. “He’s just sucking up our food and oxygen.”

  Andromeda counters: “We will give you Jupiter, Skat, and fifteen square kilometers of territory anywhere on the lunar surface.”

  From her face, I know every concession hurts.

  The Committee responds immediately. “Forget the territory,” Cassini croaks. “We will capture it ourselves. Hopper is valuable beyond measure. Skat is . . . not. If you do not return Hopper to us directly, we will take her back ourselves. We look after our own, as I’m sure you understand.”

  Andromeda looks deep into Asterion’s eyes, then mine, and puts down the recorder. “We can’t give up Hopper. I’m sorry, but . . . we must consider other options for retrieving the missing troops.”

  Asterion crosses his arms and stares down Andromeda. “We cannot jeopardize the sixteen loyal soldiers trapped on Base I because of one elderly Committee favorite. We will trade Hopper and Jupiter for the sixteen.”

  “We will lose more if our prisoners die than if Hopper makes it to Base I,” Yinha says. “She’s been in solitary confinement and hasn’t learned anything useful.”

  “She’s a better hacker than I am,” Rose admits. “But my team can take her on. My vote’s with Yinha.”

  “And mine,” Alex says fiercely.

  “Me too,” I add. We’re both thinking of Ariel.

  Her expression unreadable, Andromeda tallies our votes in her head; it’s five versus one for the prisoner swap. Whatever she thinks, our side has won.

  Andromeda picks up the microphone and presses Record. “Hopper Gamma, held on Base IV, and Jupiter Alpha, on Base II, in exchange for the sixteen prisoners, effective immediately. We expect our personnel to be returned unhurt.”

  Tense seconds tick by while we wait for our enemies’ confirmation.

  “Very well. Offer accepted.” Cassini’s voice crackles up from the speakers. I can almost see his leering face. “Thank you for cooperating, Andromeda. The rebels’ savagery does not suit you.”

  “Neither did yours,” Andromeda shoots back, and cuts the connection.

  * * *

  The Dugout Penitentiary’s highest-security area is all black bars and mildewed concrete floors. Two stories of cells surround a small rotunda, a floor plan that enables the guards to watch all the prisoners at once. Mirrors line the walls, so it looks like there are infinite pairs of Batterer guards bundling infinite Jupiter Alphas out of his cell.

  He still gives off the impression of bulk, despite having lost at least five kilograms and several patches of dark hair while in custody. Perhaps it’s the aggressive beady eyes, which remind me of the wolves I saw at night on Saint Oda.

  Callisto Chi brushes past me, Yinha, her mother, and the other observers to approach Jupiter, watching him as she would a caged beast.

  “Why are you here?” Jupiter springs at her. He’s unexpectedly strong, breaking his guards’ grip on his elbows. But his magnetic handcuffs yank his arms back and over his head, securing him in place.

  Callisto watches him struggle with pity in her eyes. “I came to watch yo
u go.”

  “Why didn’t you break me out? Why didn’t you try? You had six months of chances. Don’t pretend you didn’t get the messages I sent you.”

  A Pygmette pulls into the rotunda. Jupiter watches the tiny ship with a mixture of relief and disdain.

  “I got them.” Callisto stands straighter, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. “You’re convincing when you want to be, Jupe. I never saw that side of you when we used to argue.”

  “Shut up,” Jupiter spits. Maybe he doesn’t want to remember that they used to matter to each other. “Have you gone soft like a rebel? After everything the Committee’s done for you, you became one of them?”

  “Oh, I considered helping you. I knew they’d reward me.” Callisto glances at the rest of us, takes in the lack of surprise on our faces. “But then what? How could I go on helping them after what they did to the Singularity?”

  “That base had to go,” Jupiter says, shrugging. I shake my head—he’s spent months in prison with nothing to do but think, and he hasn’t changed his violent views in the slightest.

  “No.” Callisto shakes her head. “That crossed a line.”

  “You’ve killed people too,” Jupiter mutters. The guards prod him up a shallow ramp and into the cargo hold of the open-top Pygmette. They close the back door, leaving Jupiter’s head and neck visible.

  “People who threatened me. People who stood between me and what I wanted.” Callisto looks at me, and I remember that dark Defense hallway, her face as she tried to stab me to death. “But never anyone who couldn’t fight back.”

  “Think you’re too good to make easy kills?” Jupiter says. “Those are the best. Don’t even have to get your hands bloody.”

  Callisto reaches over the Pygmette’s door and slaps him, her infinite reflections in the mirrors moving with her. The sharp crack of skin on skin echoes through the rotunda, on and on and on. All goes silent, and everyone watches Jupiter’s face transition from pain to shock to unguarded fury.

  “I’ll kill you.” Jupiter spits on the ground at Callisto’s feet; there’s blood in his saliva. He lunges forward again, straining against the cuffs chaining his wrists to the cargo hold. “If I see you again, I’ll kill you!”

  “Enough.” Andromeda, who has stood on the sidelines, steps forward, arms extended, reaching for her daughter. Callisto swats her hands away. She walks up to Jupiter until their faces are a breath apart, as if she’ll kiss him. But she doesn’t.

  “Good-bye, Jupiter.”

  “This isn’t good-bye, Callisto. You’ll see me again, and before you know what’s happening, I’ll—” The Batterer guards slam the Pygmette’s top hatch shut on Jupiter and his threats. When the ship leaves, trailing hot exhaust, I see that Callisto’s eyes are wet.

  “There, Dovetail.” She faces her mother, Yinha, the other observers, and me, and points at the exit. “He’s gone. Nothing else to see here.”

  THE OMNIBUS HOBBLES INTO THE HANGAR, its Dovetail pilot steering despite the blood flowing from multiple cuts on her face. As Umbriel, Atlas, Alex, and I pull a half-conscious Ariel out of the hatch, I count a bumpy red gash across his forehead that oozes pus, a black eye, bruises on his forearms, and a broken ankle. Moans and horrified cries from the friends and families of the other soldiers getting hoisted out of the ship hound us as we rush out of Defense and into the Dugout’s main hallway.

  Umbriel supports Ariel’s shoulders and I his feet. Together, we rush toward Medical, Atlas in the lead and Alex in the rear. When we jostle Ariel one too many times, he faints.

  “What have they done? What have they done?” Atlas looks over his shoulder, repeating his question again and again.

  Dovetail’s cleared out valuable single-occupancy rooms in the emergency wing for Ariel and the other prisoners. The leaders don’t mean to imply that their lives are more important than those of the soldiers lying on the Medical lobby floor, but Ariel and the fifteen others might have valuable intel; it’s essential they recover quickly.

  We enter Ariel’s room through an old-fashioned door with rusty hinges and a squeaky knob. The claustrophobic interior measures only three meters wide and five long; a creaky cot with stained sheets takes up most of the floor space. Although the sheets look clean, whoever washed them last couldn’t scrub out all of the bloodstains.

  Taking care not to bump Ariel’s head against the flickering lamp dangling from the low ceiling, Umbriel and I set him down on the cot.

  “What’s all this for?” Umbriel holds up a plastic sack the size of his head. It’s filled with clear liquid. Tubing dangles from the bottom, and each conduit ends in a sharp needle of a different color. “Ariel needs help. Now. Why haven’t they sent someone?”

  “Phaet?” Atlas yanks the contraption out of his son’s hands and offers it to me like a sacrifice. “You were a top Biology student—please, do something.”

  “I never got trained.” I squat by Ariel’s bed, searching a panel with about twenty different buttons for one that’ll send a distress signal. “Alex?”

  “Wes patched everyone up back on Oda, so I’m rusty.” Alex wrings his hands. “We need a Medic.”

  “You’ve got one.” The voice is accented, soothing, familiar, and in this case, unwelcome. Wes, emergency kit in hand, takes two unsteady steps into the room.

  “They sent you?” Atlas says, striding toward Ariel’s bed.

  “They had no choice,” Wes says. “Other Medics are occupied elsewhere. Mr. Atlas, I can’t take back what I did. But please, let me correct some of the damage.”

  “Leave us,” Atlas says, pointing to the doorway behind Wes. “Please leave, and send someone in your pl—”

  “Dad!” Umbriel cries.

  Ariel’s chest heaves—he seems to cough up blood, but due to his unconscious state, he fails to spit it out. Atlas’s expression shifts from anger to panic.

  “We don’t have time to argue,” Umbriel says. He turns to Wes, deep black eyes meeting steely gray ones.

  Alex crosses his arms. “You’d better get started, mate.”

  * * *

  Three tubes of antiseptic ointment and meters of medical tape. Two gaping chest incisions and a carbon-fiber splint to secure Ariel’s broken rib. Several spine-tingling cracks as Wes sets Ariel’s broken ankle. All the while, as calmly as if he were treating a scraped knee, Wes orders Umbriel, Atlas, Alex, and me to sanitize equipment, hold tools in place, and measure our patient’s vital signs.

  Two hours later, the treatment concludes. Ariel hasn’t woken, but his indicators are holding steady. Looking at him now, bandaged, swathed in white sheets, I can almost forget the effort it took to bring him back. When he wakes, will he still be the boy with whom I grew up? Maybe. The Committee had him for a shorter time than Cygnus . . .

  “Crisis averted,” Wes declares. He strips off his white face mask and gloves, tosses them on a wall shelf, and collapses in a chair.

  “I didn’t know someone so good at hurting people could also heal them,” Atlas says, sounding grateful in spite of himself.

  “If I could, I’d only do the latter.” Wes rubs his eyes, and lowers his voice. “No, forget that. I wish people would stop needing the healing.”

  “Earlier I told Phaet you were an uptight one-man death factory,” Umbriel admits, and Alex snorts.

  I nod, verifying the statement, and Wes chuckles. “Flattering,” he says.

  “I should’ve left out the uptight.” Umbriel looks sheepish. “Maybe the death factory part too.”

  It’s the only apology Wes will get from him, and to my surprise, he accepts it with a bow of the head.

  The bed creaks. Ariel is stirring. All of us crowd around to watch. His fingers twitch, one leg kicks, and he cracks open his eyes. I inhale and exhale hard, unsure whether to believe he’s back. Atlas shakes his head in wonder, and Umbriel cries tears of relief. Their lon
g arms pull me into a hug that’s almost painful, and soon all three of us are laughing.

  “Where am I?” Ariel’s voice is a croak, but he speaks with the same clarity and care that the Ariel of my memories did. “Dad? Umbriel? Phaet?” He pushes himself to a seated position and grabs his chest, wincing as his rib moves inside of him. Then he notices Alex lounging against the wall and smiles.

  “Easy now, Ariel.” Wes rises, and Ariel stares at him in confusion. “Took us almost two hours to tape you up.”

  “Not something Wes is keen to oversee again,” I add.

  Umbriel moves to his brother’s side. “You’re in the Dugout, Ariel.” He looks at Wes with guarded appreciation. “Kappa here gave us a crash course in how to use all these gadgets.” He points his chin at Wes’s open medical kit, at the devices strewn about.

  Ariel’s eyes widen as he takes in the cast on his foot, the bandages covering much of his body. “Wes, all of this is yours . . .” He puts one cloth-covered hand over his heart and bows his head in a gesture of thanks.

  Wes shrugs. “It was the best I could do, short of rewinding the clock and making sure you never ended up on Base I in the first place.”

  Umbriel catches his eye, and they nod at each other. I half expect Umbriel to drop a scathing truth-bomb, telling Wes he’s been forgiven too easily, or that our standoff isn’t over, but he keeps his mouth shut. Probably for Ariel’s sake—or mine.

  Knuckles rap on the door, cutting the tense moment short. “Pardon the interruption,” says a bossy female voice.

  Sol. Ridding my face of a frown, I open the door. Sol, Yinha, and Bai walk inside, crowding the tiny room. The temperature and humidity seem to spike, and I feel sweat beading along my hairline.

  Bai? Usually he’s not with the leaders—shouldn’t he be in the lab? His hands shake and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows repeatedly. He might be frowning behind his mask, which looks glaringly out of place even in a Medical ward. Everything about his appearance makes the back of my neck prickle—and I’m not the only one. Wes, Atlas, and the twins seem to avoid looking at him.