by Karen Bao
“Good to see you, Ariel.” Sol brushes past a frowning Atlas and takes a seat near the bed. “Skipping patrol again?” she says to Alex, who groans.
“Can’t a Dovetailer catch a break when his friend’s a patchwork of bones and bandages?” Glaring at Sol, Alex shuffles backward out of the room. The door slams shut behind him.
Ariel seems to deflate. “Friend,” he whispers, so quietly that I barely hear him. “Right.”
I suddenly feel even worse for him. His feelings for Alex are unrequited, just like his brother’s were for me. But unlike me, Alex doesn’t show signs of liking . . . anybody. It’s a small mercy to Ariel, I suppose.
Sol turns back to Ariel, ignorant of everything that just transpired. “We heard voices from this room and knew you’d woken. Tell us everything. Yinha, while he’s talking, note down key facts and any appropriate courses of action.”
“Cool,” Yinha mutters, opening a document on her handscreen. Her mouth tightens, though.
Sol plows on, heedless of the effect she’s having. “Ariel, did the Committee try to pry information out of you?”
Ariel’s expression darkens. “They questioned us one by one. For my interrogation, they brought my mother.”
“Mom was there?” Umbriel exclaims. Beside him, his father’s face blanches, and Atlas puts a hand on Umbriel’s shoulder. Take it easy, he seems to say. But how can anyone be calm at the mention of his estranged wife?
Caeli Phi. Disgust fills me when I remember the “friend” who ratted out Mom, the woman who still has Mira Theta’s life to account for.
“Maybe they thought having her tell me she loves me would give them better access to my head. Or make me switch sides. She begged me to live with her. She’s got a huge, temperature-adjustable bed just waiting for me.”
“But you resisted that—that woman’s pleas.” Sol bristles with anger, losing some of her usual composure. If she and I have anything in common, it’s this: the wish that Mira Theta was still here. Sol’s confidant; my mother.
Ariel nods, swallowing hard. “She said that Umbriel shamed her by helping Phaet in her ‘terrorist activities,’ but that I still had a chance at redemption.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Sol says. When people show emotions, she deals with them the usual Lunar way: by giving their feelings as little attention as possible. “What else did they want to know?”
“Everything.” Ariel clears his throat. “The identities of the hackers giving them so much trouble in orbital space. Names of undercover Dovetailers on Bases III and V. Dovetail’s next move, and whether it will be a biological attack.”
“They think we would do that?” I blurt, unable to contain my anger. Attacking loyalists with pathogens would make us worse than the Committee, because we know what it’s like to be on the receiving end.
Ariel shrugs. “Since we’ve developed a blanket defense, the Committee has concluded that we also have offensive capabilities. The drones aren’t secret anymore.”
“You’re the third person who’s said that,” Bai says. Now I understand why he’s here. “I’d hoped it wasn’t true.”
“They don’t just know about the drones. They’ve got them. That shipment from Base IV to II, the one we thought was destroyed? Turns out several drones survived. They’ve captured them and are studying them.”
Bai shakes his head, eyes shut tight.
Sol leans forward. “Did they explicitly discuss the drones?”
“No, but I could infer their meaning. I’m used to listening for clues,” Ariel says. I nod, the memory still fresh: many months ago, when he was working as a Law secretary for the Committee, Ariel kept his ears open for anything that could help with Mom’s trial. “They knew the specifics of how the models functioned.”
“What did you tell them, Ariel?” Sol demands. “About our plans?”
“I don’t know about your plans,” Ariel says. “One good thing about being a private, I guess. I don’t think anyone else spilled anything important.”
“They have the drones . . . that means death. I know it.” Bai begins pacing. His breath quickens, whooshing through the mask over his mouth.
“Bai,” Yinha says, “so the Committee has a couple of your babies. It’s a minuscule defensive capability they’ll never need, because Dovetail was never going to try to infect them in the first place.”
“I know.” Bai sinks into a chair. “When I thought about how many people the drones could save . . . When I saw how intricate the design was, how beautiful, and how possible—I had to follow through. But now . . . I have a terrible feeling. If I’d known they’d fall into Committee hands, I never would have made them.” He slumps forward, buries his head in his hands.
“Please, Bai, calm yourself,” Sol says. “We have other things to worry about.”
Bai ignores her. “The Committee—they’ve taken so much from me. First my leg, then Ida. Now the things I created in her memory. What’s next?” He looks at Yinha. “You?”
The drones mean so much to him. As much as a person. At the realization, I’m overcome with pity. Beside me, Yinha melts into a chair, then stands back up, thinking better of it.
“Come on, Bai. Let’s go.” She takes her brother’s arm, raking her eyes over the people in the room. “Actually, all of us should go. Ariel needs to rest up, because as soon as he’s out of bed, he’ll be back in basic training.”
Ariel groans softly.
“Don’t give me that attitude, Private,” Yinha says. “Normally I’d allow you fourteen weeks’ leave, but Dovetail needs every able-bodied person to fight. And you should brush up on your skills so that you don’t get captured again.”
Ariel smiles weakly at her. But beside his sister, Bai is shaking his head. “Yinha, you could teach them how to shoot the stars out of the sky. But it still won’t be enough to protect us.”
It’s not the fear in his voice that makes me go cold inside. It’s the resignation, the calm acceptance that even though we don’t know how things will get worse from here, they will.
IN THE COURSE OF THE FOLLOWING WEEK, Battery Bay and Dovetail troops begin mingling in earnest, sharing combat tips during drills and meals in their free time. Within two days, Ariel leaves Medical in a hoverchair and begins checking and refurbishing Lazies in his family’s borrowed apartment. The bruised skin on his face fades from purple to bile green, and his broken rib and ankle begin to heal.
Alex visits him regularly, but Ariel doesn’t act as exuberant around the Sanctuarist as he used to. There’s more physical distance between them now, and even so, Alex still seems uncomfortable. Gradually, the expression in Ariel’s light brown eyes fades from brokenhearted hurt to grudging acceptance.
I hardly see the Phis, my siblings, or Wes, who remains under house arrest, since I’m occupied with back-to-back meetings. Three hours into today’s gathering, Asterion calls a break and leaves to buy rice-and-cashew porridge from Market.
The leadership is cooped up in a deserted math classroom in Education, discussing supply distribution between Bases II and IV; we’ve arranged the dingy desks in a circle like schoolchildren. We switch our location each time in case the Committee’s spying on us.
As the other leaders turn to small talk, Yinha props her elbows on the table, drops her chin into her hands, and closes her eyes. Things must be stressful at home—I haven’t seen Bai out in public all week.
“Yinha,” I whisper, tapping her on the shoulder. “Everything okay?”
“Is this about Bai?” Yinha snaps. Exhaustion has made her cranky.
I nod.
“Just ask me things straight, would you? Thought we were good enough friends for that. Anyway, Bai’s . . . not really here anymore. Like Cygnus, you know?”
I do know, and I wish she didn’t have to experience the same thing.
“He’s physically in the apartment all day, but
his mind’s gone into hiding. He’s only talked to me once, to ask about staging a rescue mission for the drones. I think he understands that they can’t help the Committee much. But he takes it so personally.”
Asterion returns, balancing a steaming pot in his gloved hands. The food snatches Yinha’s attention away. Dovetail’s leadership pooled our ration points to buy the bland porridge, and she’ll fight to get her money’s worth of calories.
As we’re ladling out the liquid into identical mugs, the doors to the room slide open again, and a teenage boy shuffles inside. My little brother. I rise from the table and walk over to him.
“The enemy’s surprised us.” Cygnus’s hands ball into fists; he doesn’t look at me or anyone else. “We’ve been trying to crack the wrong things all along. The coding fight for the tactical bomb clusters and the communications satellites was a distraction.”
What? Asterion drops the full porridge ladle on the floor, splattering the precious liquid everywhere. No one, not even Yinha, volunteers to clean it up.
“The International Space Station,” Cygnus says, his voice a near-whisper. “That’s the real problem. I first saw a wobble forty-five minutes ago and didn’t think anything of it, but it’s turned into a sort of swaying.”
“The ISS is a defunct satellite.” Rose’s hoverchair rises from the table. “We can’t hack its controls—there are no controls.”
“I think I saw a booster pack attached to it,” Cygnus says.
Rose begins jetting back and forth across the floor, as if she’s pacing. Yinha leaps to her feet, chases the other woman down, puts one hand on Rose’s heaving shoulder and the other on her cheek. “Rosie. Shh. We’ll handle the ISS. Tell me straight: what do you think will happen?”
Rose shakes her head, looking past Yinha. She stares at my brother with pleading eyes, as if she can’t say the words herself.
“The ISS’s orbital radius is decreasing,” Cygnus says. “It’s approaching Earth at an increasing rate. Some kind of retrograde force is acting on the satellite—and it’s not an accident.”
Fear condenses into a stony mass in the pit of my stomach, and I put a hand on Cygnus’s shoulder.
“Nothing’s ever an accident with the Committee.” Yinha takes her worn black jacket off the back of her chair and shrugs it on. “Andromeda, Asterion, Minister Costa: excuse us. Phaet, we need Wes, much as I hate to admit it. Find him, and meet me in the hangar. You have three minutes.”
No one moves. Yinha’s already come up with a plan. For the rest of us, the situation hasn’t yet sunk in.
“Why are you still standing around, Stripes?” Yinha barks, snapping at me for the second time today. “Move!”
I let go of my brother and sprint out the doors.
* * *
The Earth pulls us into orbit half a kilometer behind the massive ISS. My memories failed to do the satellite justice; it’s wider and longer than the Free Radical’s Atrium, with broken wings and several modules bound together by just a few screws. The wings are missing even more solar panels than when Yinha and I paid the station a visit on a nighttime flight, so long ago.
How things have changed. Then, we were on an adventure. This time, the ISS is something to fear.
“Pig A3 in place?” Rose says through the intercom. We’ve brought a small fleet of Dovetail and Batterer craft along with us.
“Confirmed,” I say.
“Observations on the ISS?”
“There’s a thruster unit attached,” I say. “Firing in the direction opposite orbital path, forcing the satellite into lower altitude.”
“Committee ships hovering around.” Wes sits right by my side. There’s nowhere I’d rather have him. If he wants to run off again, he’ll have to take me with him. “A Colossus. And seven Destroyers.”
That can’t be good. Whatever the Committee is planning for the ISS, why does it need so much protection?
“Ships are distancing themselves now,” Alex points out. He’s in Pygmette A5. “Possibly coming for us.”
“Blast it,” Yinha says from the Destroyer she’s piloting.
“ISS orbital radius decreasing,” Rose says, “and decreasing faster.”
All eight of the Committee’s ships beeline for the Dovetail and Batterer conglomeration, paving their way with laser fire. Two are headed for us. Breathe in, breathe out. I watch the violet streaking forward through space, and I turn, twist, and flip our ship accordingly, relying on reflexes. Blood rushes from my head, and my world goes fuzzy and lopsided.
“Hold steady!” Wes shouts, frustrated in his efforts to fire at our enemies.
I straighten out our flight path—a huge risk—and have to jerk our ship leftward to evade a laser directed at our right wing. But it gives Wes the opportunity to fire two perfectly aimed missiles. They turn the Committee Destroyers into clouds of fire and smoke, reducing our enemies to dust.
The rest of the Dovetail front line isn’t as lucky. Pygmettes A1 and A8 have gone offline, as have Destroyers R33 and T2. But at least the sky is quieter, and clearer. Hundreds of meters away, the Committee’s Colossus sulks toward the Moon, its lights sputtering on and off. Someone must have scored a hit.
“The thruster that the Committee stuck on the ISS has been turned off. It’s detaching . . . now,” observes a Batterer soldier.
“Now that gravity alone is acting on that thing, let’s figure out where it’s headed,” Rose says. “Cygnus, want to step in?”
A long pause. I imagine my brother recovering from the shock of the explosions that played on his screen a moment ago.
“Cygnus?” Rose repeats, her voice softer this time.
“Uh, okay,” my brother says. “Way to make me the bearer of grit news.”
Beeps and other computer noises replace their voices as they run various models.
“Oh no,” my brother says when it’s done. “Nononono.”
“Cygnus, come on,” Yinha says. “Spit it out.”
“It’s . . . it’s complicated,” he whispers, his voice growing unfocused. He’s shutting down, and I wish I were in the control room to help him.
Rose takes over. “The ISS is spiraling down toward Earth. On its way, it will collide with the Vela, a medium-sized satellite in high Earth orbit, and get deflected fifteen degrees eastward. Both satellites will crash into the more crowded geosynchronous orbit altitude and collide with smaller satellites there.”
“So Battery Bay can kiss a bunch of our communications capabilities good-bye,” huffs the Batterer space forces’ commander, Chief Airman Roy.
“That’s not all,” Rose says. “According to our models, the Vela will hit the Australian desert, which is uninhabited. But . . . the ISS and several smaller satellites will land roundabouts nineteen degrees south, one hundred seventy-eight degrees east, at terminal velocity.”
Someone wrenches the microphone from Rose’s hand. “No,” says Costa. “We cannot allow anything to land there. Roy!”
“Yes, sir.”
“I need two more fleets of ships, now! And, Yinha, whomever else you can send!”
“Got it,” Yinha says. “I’ll call on everyone who can fly a ship straight.”
I think back to the map of Earth in the control room, matching the coordinates to the ones in my mind, and know where the satellites will crash-land before anyone says it out loud.
“I’m so sorry, friends,” Rose murmurs. “The target . . . it’s Battery Bay.”
Whatever’s been recovered of the beautiful park, the skyscrapers, the teeming aerial food stands, the people. The island city’s chaos seemed self-perpetuating, even invulnerable, but it’ll fade into an eerie calm if we don’t stop this . . . abomination. This satellite cascade.
The intercom echoes with shouts of “No!” and “Our home!” as the Batterer space crews react to Rose’s revelation. Wes mutes his headset, pai
n pulling his mouth into a tight line. “Alex and I shouldn’t have been the only ones to leave Battery Bay.” His voice is a whisper. “Should’ve brought the rest of Oda with us when we lifted off.”
“No, Wes . . .” I reach for his hand; we knot our gloved fingers together and then untangle them, as we must, to retake our respective controls. “No one’s safe anywhere. Not from them.”
The Committee. Four men who abuse the people they can control and obliterate the ones they can’t. Behind us, an armada of Dovetail and Batterer ships approach, but I don’t know if it’s sufficient to end what’s been set in motion.
“Battery Bay will figure something out,” Alex stammers to all of us. “The city can pick itself up, move somewhere . . .”
“It can’t move far enough in twenty-four minutes and thirty-seven seconds to escape the satellite cascade,” Rose says. “The red zone is several hundred kilometers across. Currently, the island has taken shelter on the landed side of a gigantic barrier reef—”
“One of the last remaining on Earth,” calls a Batterer soldier.
“And it’s low tide,” says another. “Battery Bay can’t make it out to the open ocean. Our high command has warned the navigation team on Earth, but they’ve only just fired up the engines. Your Committee knows the city’s not going anywhere.”
They knew the Batterers and Dovetail were keeping a close eye on the bombs orbiting Earth, so instead of sending a nuclear missile to annihilate the island city, they pushed the largest satellite a smidgen off course. No one would detect it, they thought, until it was too late.
It might be too late, but we need to tell ourselves otherwise. Battery Bay will not go the way of the Singularity. We can’t let it.
“Fire everything you’ve got,” Yinha orders us. “Deflect the satellites, or destroy them. There’s nothing else we can do.”
Wes looses missile after missile at the shifting ISS. Dozens of other ships follow suit. The missiles explode, doing surface-level damage, but the ISS stays true to its course.