by Megan Crewe
Isis paces back and forth, her hands twitching at her sides. “What happened?” she demands of Odgan as Jule grabs a box from a compartment near the door and hands it to Thlo.
“Cover her,” Thlo says, popping open the lid. “We need to warm her.”
Win grabs a small square of fabric from the box and unfolds it into a thin blanket. I help him stretch it over Britta’s body, covering her from neck to feet. It doesn’t look very warm, but a faint heat seeps into my fingers where I’m gripping it.
“. . . I thought we jumped at the same time,” Odgan is saying as Thlo retrieves a tube of orange liquid. “But the shock wave must have hit her just as she was . . . and affected the . . . That’s all I know.”
Thlo drips the orange stuff into Britta’s slackened mouth, and I sit back on my heels, feeling painfully helpless. I’ve never had to deal with a situation this serious back home, but the time Angela crashed her bike and broke her ankle, the time Mom sliced open her thumb with the paring knife, I had some idea what to do. Who to go to for help, the basic medical steps to take. But that’s just my defective Earth knowledge, no comparison for Kemyate tech. Here, I don’t know where to begin. They must have something that can help her.
Jule offers Thlo a glassy disc from the box, which she slides under the neckline of Britta’s shirt, over her heart. It starts to glow dimly through the fabric. Britta still hasn’t stirred.
“Is there a . . . hospital, or something?” I say, thinking of the medical “chair” in the safe house on Earth that healed Win almost magically after the Enforcers wounded him.
“We can’t take her to any of the official medical centers,” Jule says, looking sick himself. “The Enforcers have to know someone jumped out of that ship. If she comes in needing treatment for a totally unexplainable injury . . . She’d be flagged, they’d figure it out.”
“She’s stable,” Thlo says, leaning back. She swipes her hand across her forehead, the delicate lines around her eyes and mouth twice as deep as I remember them being less than an hour ago. “I’m not picking up any permanent damage. I think if we keep her comfortable, she’ll come out of it on her own.”
“You think,” Isis repeats. She lets out a strangled noise. “Whoever did this, whoever tipped them off— I swear I will blast them off the station myself when we find out.”
“Mako?” Win says.
“Unless she talked to one of the others,” I say.
“Or . . .” Odgan winces. “I ran into Pavel when I arrived on the station. I didn’t tell him anything, but he could have suspected . . .”
“When we know she’s okay, I’ll check the communications data,” Isis says. But I can’t help thinking about how the Enforcers showed up without any of the warning the group has counted on before. If they could keep their movements off the accessible logs, why couldn’t our traitor too?
Mako, Pavel, Tabzi, and Emmer were all moving freely while we were occupied. It could have been any of them.
“I don’t get it,” I say. “How could someone . . .” How could they not care if Britta or Odgan died? My legs wobble as I stand up. Win glances at me, looking as shaken as I feel. He grasps my shoulder and I lean toward him instinctively.
“This isn’t the time to be making a move, Darwin,” Jule says. I stiffen, but Win doesn’t let go. He gives me a reassuring squeeze.
“We’re all upset, in case you haven’t noticed, Jule,” he says. Jule opens his mouth as if to retort, but then he stops, lowering his eyes.
“I know,” he says roughly. “I am too.” I guess that’s as close as he can manage to an apology.
The last thing I want right now is to stir up their rivalry. I crouch next to Britta again. Isis has sat down by her head, rocking a little as she strokes her girlfriend’s hair. I grope for the right comforting words to offer, but nothing comes. My throat’s too choked up.
“Do we have enough?” Win says suddenly.
“Enough what?” I ask.
“Kolzo,” he says, his gaze intent on Isis. “We already have some, don’t we? Would it be possible for us to use the weapon with what we have, Isis?”
She stares up at him in a daze. “I . . . Yes. We might be able to power three shots. But I’m not sure. And we could need more than three.”
“You’re an expert at this,” Win says. “You’ve been studying Jeanant’s schematics. You could figure out how to improve the efficiency, stretch it further, couldn’t you? And we’d train hard so we know we can do it in three shots. We could go, now, before there’s any chance for more sabotage—Britta won’t be any worse off on a ship than here—the six of us could handle what we need to do Earth-side.”
He sounds so sure I start to believe it. We could. Race off now before the traitor has time to figure out our next move. Finish the mission. Isis said we had everything else we need.
She frowns, as if working through the idea, but before she can say anything, Thlo breaks in.
“No,” she says. “We’ll only have one opportunity. We need to be properly prepared. We can’t risk throwing that opportunity away out of fear.”
“It’s not—” Win starts, and she makes a jerking gesture of her hand.
“We don’t leave until we have everything Jeanant believed we needed,” she says, in a tone that ends all discussion.
Odgan asks her a question that draws her to the side, and Win deflates, rubbing his face as if trying to cover his reaction to her dismissal. Isis leans back over Britta, checking the glowing disc. Jule rummages through the first aid kit in silence, his expression dark. Behind me, Thlo’s low voice has become laced with frustration. I glance over at her and Odgan, just as it rises enough for a few of her words to reach my ears.
“I should have sent her. She’s the most expendable.”
At the same moment, she looks at me. I stare back at her, comprehension sinking in. She’s talking about me.
Expendable.
Thlo’s eyes narrow. She didn’t expect me to overhear, or maybe to understand. My pulse skips. I’m not sure I want her to know I did. “Is there anything else we can do for her?” I ask, as if I hadn’t heard.
“Not you,” she says brusquely. “Isis and I will take things from here. Everyone else should return to their quarters.”
I turn back to Britta’s waxy, nearly lifeless face. What Thlo thinks should have been mine.
Maybe she’s right. They do need Britta more than they need me. Who here is more expendable than I am? Hell, if I died, they’d have one less thing to worry about the Enforcers discovering.
But I didn’t expect Thlo to think that way. What Jeanant told me, what feels like years ago, tickles up from my memories. She wasn’t always as open-minded as Earth’s people deserve.
My eyes go hot. So what if she sees me as less than the others? Why shouldn’t she? I’ve been so caught up in thoughts of home, in all the things in my life I want to set right, maybe I haven’t extended myself the way I could. Found every way I can help. Proven they were right to bring me.
Jeanant gave up his life for this cause, for a planet that wasn’t even his. Britta almost did the same. Everything that matters to me—writing over my parents’ pain, saving Lisa, getting my own life back—it’s tiny compared to seeing the whole planet free. If I’m not willing to take those same risks, to die for Earth if that’s what it comes to, then I don’t deserve to be here.
I wait about an hour after Jule leaves for work the next morning, and then I head out myself. My plan is not the most thorough—I doubt it’d survive Jeanant’s scrutiny—but I need to do something. To find more to offer Thlo. To make up for the image of Britta’s sickly face lingering in my mind.
Thlo made it clear she doesn’t approve of my going out on my own, and I’m not sure about any of the others. Maybe Win would understand. But I’ve been letting them instruct me, guide me, lay down the rules for my actions since I arrived here, and it hasn’t gotten us enough. I need to push myself further.
I’m not being stupid abou
t it. Jule’s bracelet is a light but soothing weight around my wrist. If anyone asks, I’ll say my “owner” sent me on an errand.
As I walk through the narrow halls, no one gives me a second glance. In Kemyate clothes, I look like just another Kemyate, after all. The biggest difference between them and me right now is that I don’t have a thumb sequence on record to summon the inner-shuttles.
I found the addresses of our most likely traitors in the network before I headed out. Mako is the farthest down, in Ward 42, so I’m starting with her. A couple sectors over from Jule’s apartment, there’s an alcove with a tight spiral staircase that allows me to descend from the 80s to the 40s. Then I hurry along through the sectors to Mako’s, matching the brisk strides of the Kemyates I pass.
I don’t expect to see her. In fact, I’m hoping I don’t. I just want to scope out the area, listen around, and maybe I’ll be lucky enough to come across a friend, a relative, even an acquaintance who might mention her—odd behavior, comments she’s made. Anything.
The halls down here have a slightly different atmosphere, as if the lights are dimmer, the walls less freshly cleaned. The mineral taste in the air is thicker, almost acidic. Between the sectors, I pass doorways to public areas: fitness centers, recreation rooms, eating areas, education facilities. I don’t stop at any until I’ve reached Mako’s sector. There, I slow down, keeping my ears perked as I amble along the hall past her apartment. Two men go by, heading in the opposite direction, but they’re not speaking to each other. I linger near the last few apartments, the silence making my skin itch. Then I take a look at the cafeteria-like room just beyond the arched sector-dividing wall.
Jule mentioned that most people eat in places like this, because it’s easier and less expensive than stocking your apartment privately. I step inside, taking in the packed rows of tables, the tangy smell wafting through the air, the murmuring of dozens of people talking over their meals. A few locals brush by me, swiping their thumbs over a panel just inside the door and heading to a buffet counter where trays materialize with a hum, holding a soupy mixture in a bowl of bread-like stuff. I guess the downside of cafeteria eating is you’re stuck with whatever they’re serving that day. I wonder if it’s any better than the packaged stuff. But I doubt my thumb will bring me a tray, and I’m not sure I want to find out what’ll happen if I try.
More people are sidling around me. Straining my ears, I inch closer to the tables, where the cafeteria-goers are crammed shoulder-to-shoulder and nearly back-to-back. The voices blend together, no names I recognize standing out. And I’m starting to get a few odd looks. Obviously it’s not normal to stand around like this. I duck out and keep walking.
I meander through Mako’s sector again, but there’s nowhere I can dawdle without looking out of place. So I head up to the next level of wards, where both Pavel and Emmer live, in sectors not far from each other.
Just outside the stairwell, two women and a man have opened up a large panel in the wall and are tinkering with the circuitry there. I wander near, trying to make out their murmurs, and one of the women glances over.
“Move along,” she says flatly. “Just routine work.”
The hall in Pavel’s sector is empty when I walk down it. I circle through the local fitness center, pretending to be looking for someone, but the Kemyates bunched in the warm-up/cooldown area mostly go through the motions quietly. No one says anything that sounds useful.
As I step out, I spot a stout figure marching down the hall, and my stomach flips. It’s one of the Enforcers I saw on the surveillance footage the time Isis, Britta, and Emmer were almost caught. I tense for the moment it takes me to remember that she didn’t see me. Forcing myself to move forward, I pass her with what I hope is a respectful nod of my head. Her gaze skims me, but she doesn’t stop.
I could run into Kurra out here, I realize. I’d have nowhere to run to, no one to hide among.
But what are the chances? I’m almost finished with the route I planned.
My sense of failure mingles with fatigue as I stalk through Emmer’s sector and then trudge up the four floors to Tabzi’s level. Her family’s almost at the top—they must be even wealthier than Jule’s.
The hall I emerge into certainly suggests as much. The pearlescent ceiling gleams, the air nearly flavorless. The cafeteria I peek into is smaller than the ones below, but with a little breathing space between its tables, though the food on peoples’ plates looks the same. I come across a different sort of eatery, a dim room where a few preteen guys are exclaiming over some glowing entertainment they’ve brought up on their floating tabletop, and a couple of middle-aged women are talking over sticks that smoke like incense. None of them look likely to be in Tabzi’s social circle, so I retreat.
I’m almost at her sector when a door opens up ahead, and a familiar melodic voice carries through the doorway. I freeze. I wanted to find Tabzi’s friends, not Tabzi herself. If she sees me, I’ll have to make my excuses and leave.
I spin around, darting close to one of the apartment doors as if I’m waiting to be admitted. Tabzi is stepping out of the room in the wake of a chorus of Kemyate “good-byes.” I don’t think she’ll recognize me from behind. I wait, breath held, as her footsteps pad away in the opposite direction.
I peek over, watching her disappear around the curve in the hall, and then edge over to the room she left. What’s she been up to? She didn’t sound torn up about a colleague being seriously injured—but then, I guess she might not have heard about Britta yet.
The phrase over the door has something to do with clothes. I step up to the entrance as if I have every right to be there, and the door whispers open, revealing a bizarre sort of boutique.
Several consoles scatter the space, each taller than me and about twice as wide, with silver screens stretching across their fronts. Behind them, outfits dangle from rods. The wall at the far end of the room is lined from floor to ceiling with built-in shelves, which rotate with a faint sigh when the teenage girl at their foot presses a control. She and the two girls with her examine the new rows of merchandise they’ve uncovered, while a couple others take turns at a nearby console. When they step in front of the screen, it shimmers to show them clothed in a different outfit from the one they’re wearing.
All of which, from what I’ve seen around Kemya, is unsurprising. What’s weird are the clothes themselves. The girls at the console are “trying on” kimono-like dresses of the style the hostess at the other night’s function was wearing. When I duck behind a console, I find myself staring at a rack of shirts, slacks, and skirts that look vaguely French peasanty. Another holds beaded fabric that makes me think of photos I’ve seen from traditional celebrations in India. But all, of course, with the trim Kemyate cut and sturdy flexible fabric, no colors too bright, no patterns too bold.
What was it Jule said all that time ago, about using Earth things? Keep the connotations, but make it your own? Apparently that applies to fashion too. Play with Earth styles, sure, but “improve” them to be worthy of Kemyates.
“You think she really does have a . . . to finish?” one of the girls says. I ease closer, staying hidden behind the racks. She must mean Tabzi.
“It could be that boy,” a second comments. “The one we caught her talking to on Joining Day.”
“I hope not,” a third pipes up, with a sound of disgust. “She could do much better. Really, what kind of . . . name their kid Darwin.”
Tabzi was with Win on Joining Day? Well, it’s not like he can’t talk with—or do whatever he wants with—whomever he wants. It’s not like I haven’t.
“Yes, you can tell he could never keep up with her,” the first says. “But maybe she’s just having fun, keeping it quiet because she knows it won’t last.”
“No way,” the fourth girl says, stepping away from the console. “You know how her parents are about anything Earth-like. They won’t even let her buy the clothes here! She wouldn’t dare run around with a . . .”
“You’
re right,” the second girl says, and they fall into chatter about a party another of their friends is throwing.
I finger the outfit in front of me without really seeing it. So Tabzi’s parents are strictly anti-Earth? And her friends think she obeys them. One way or another, Tabzi must be a better actress than I’d have guessed. Either she’s fooling her friends and family into thinking she’s a devoted Kemyate while she sneaks around helping Earth . . . or she’s fooling Thlo and the others into thinking she wants to help Earth when she’s really trying to undermine us.
After several minutes, the conversation still hasn’t turned back to Tabzi. One of the girls starts glancing my way. I take that as my cue to leave, and amble out into the hall.
There was one more thing I noticed on the map that I thought I’d investigate. A section about as big as five sectors put together, that had a label saying something about studying Earth. It wasn’t too far from here. I’m curious what they’re using that space for, when they have our whole planet to study directly. Maybe it’s the sort of place where people might discuss plans about Earth.
I’m just coming up on a wide double-door entrance when a couple dozen kids who can’t be older than six or seven spill out of the nearest shuttle stop, two adults in tow. The adults herd them toward the entrance. A class on a field trip? I hurry to catch up. They could be my ticket in.
The woman in the lead presses her thumb to a spot near the seam in the doors, and they part. I slip between the kids as they stream in, letting the class gather ahead of me once I’m inside.
The adults—I assume teachers—shush the kids and organize them back into lines in the narrow foreroom we’ve come into, which holds a projected 3-D display of my planet, little spots of light picking out scenes from different countries and eras as it rotates.
“One question at a time,” the woman reminds her charges. “Pay attention to the differences in the exhibits. We’ll be talking about changes when we’re back at school.”
Exhibits. Is this some sort of museum, then? I drift after them into the next room.
