The Clouded Sky

by Megan Crewe

“I think talking about Thlo’s intentions is up to Thlo,” Jule says.

  There’s a momentary silence, and then the smack of skin meeting the wall. I flinch. “Even that shadow girl is more . . . than me now,” Pavel snaps.

  All Jule does is repeat, “Talk to Thlo.”

  As Pavel leaves, muttering too low for me to hear, his last words hang in the air. Shadow girl. He meant me. That’s what Kurra called Earthlings—called me, to my face, when she’d cornered me. Shadows. Beings so worn down by the shifts that we’re filmy outlines compared to the “real” thing. The bunk starts to feel too solid against my palms where I’ve curled my hands around the edge. I jerk them away, bringing them to my face.

  I’m not a shadow. None of us on Earth are.

  I have to show them that.

  Jule leans in to kiss me just before we step into the hall, where he’ll send me off to Isis and Britta’s one more time. I grip him closely, guilt and desire mingling.

  “I’m starting to think you enjoy their company more than mine,” he murmurs.

  “I wouldn’t say that. There are certain types of enjoyment completely specific to you.”

  He chuckles. “Glad to hear it.”

  At my destination, it’s Britta who opens the door. She steps back to let me in, noticeably less awkward than just a couple days ago.

  “Hey,” I say. “How’re you doing?”

  “Still not fully functional,” she says with a grin, “but good enough today to—how would you say it?—hit the town with you.”

  “You’re coming?” It’s great to see her more confident, but I can’t help noticing that she’s braced herself against the wall a bit more stiffly than if it were just a casual lean. “You’ll be okay?”

  “Sure,” Britta says. She turns in a circle as if to prove she can be steady on her feet. “Isis got an urgent work assignment she really should be getting done, and I figured I’d better get back into the habit of interacting with the general public. It’s about time I left this apartment.”

  I change quickly into my Earth clothes. When I come out of the tiny second bedroom, Isis has emerged. She gives Britta a smile partway between worried and bemused.

  “Don’t push yourself,” she says.

  “Yeah, relaxing with a drink in my hand is going to be a real struggle,” Britta teases.

  We head to the club Isis and I checked out the first time. Britta marches right past the door with its large stylized characters, into the space that reminds me of the recreational hangout I peeked into near Tabzi’s apartment, except more cramped and less tech-y. The small, densely placed tables have actual stems holding them up, the ones not in use sunk into the floor to allow a little walking room. At the far end, a few steps lead to a raised area that’s about half the size of the main room. The lights are low, the walls painted a dark evergreen that reflects off the silvery fixtures. Kemyate music—a series of rising and falling notes that sound almost random—plays overhead. A faint not-quite-ginger smell laces the air.

  Britta taps up a table and a couple of stools. A menu blinks onto the table’s glossy surface. “You know what you want?” she asks. “You’ve got to be careful what you order in a place like this.”

  I have a sudden longing for a strawberry milkshake. A root beer. Any sort of drink that would make me feel a fraction more at home. Not likely. The memory of the one I tried here last time makes me grimace—it has a bitter artificial chocolate flavor I could hardly choke down.

  “Do you mind picking for me?” I say. “I trust your taste. I’m going to take a quick look around.”

  She nods, and I amble toward the raised area. I gathered last time that it’s where most of the illicit activity goes on. The tables up there are larger oblongs, slightly less cramped, set against the walls along the platform. Tonight, four of the six are taken: by a cluster of young women in hushed conversation, by three men chuckling as they play a game on their table’s display, by a couple making bedroom eyes at each other, and by a mixed group of five also poking at their tabletop display, though with much less joviality. One of them makes a disgruntled comment and looks up with a scowl, just as my gaze settles on them. My heartbeat stutters as I recognize Jule’s dad. He catches sight of me at the same moment. His scowl falters in surprise.

  My fingers curl instinctively toward Jule’s bracelet. But this guy already knows who I supposedly belong to.

  He lurches to his feet with an ungainliness that suggests he’s either drunk or high, but his strides toward me are firm. I step back, turning toward my table and Britta, and he snatches my arm.

  “What are you doing here?” he snaps.

  I open my mouth, and just in time remember I’m not supposed to understand. So I let it hang open, shaking my head and staring at him with what I hope is convincing confusion.

  “Where is he?” he goes on, so upset it apparently hasn’t occurred to him why I wouldn’t have answered. “If my son wants to know my business, he should come see for himself.”

  “Excuse me?” Britta says, coming up behind me. Relief rushes through my body. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “This Earthling is my son’s property,” Jule’s father says. His gaze darts away from us, scanning the room. “What is she doing with you?”

  “Jule’s been busy,” Britta says. “He wanted his friends to take her out around the station, stop her from getting too . . . And I don’t care how much blood you share with him, she’s not your property, so you’d better take your hand off her.”

  Her voice shakes in the middle of that last sentence. Thankfully, Jule’s father is too distracted or too inebriated to notice her distress. He shoves my arm away as if it’s a piece of trash he picked up by accident.

  “All the useless ideas he gets in his head,” he sneers.

  One of the women at his table waves him back, but he just glowers at them, squares his shoulders, and stalks out of the lounge. Britta raises her eyebrows at his retreating back.

  “Imagine growing up with him watching over you,” she murmurs.

  “Yeah,” I say with a wince.

  Two glasses have materialized at our table, tall and curved so you have to drink from the opening like the mouth of a bottle. The one Britta nudges toward me is bright yellow and tastes vaguely citrusy, like a creamy lemonade. Not bad. My gaze slides back to the raised area.

  “He interrupted me before I got to hear anything,” I say.

  “Go on, then,” Britta says. “I’ll keep an eye out in case anyone else gets aggressive.”

  “You’re all right?”

  “It wasn’t the most enjoyable conversation of my life,” she says, “but I survived.”

  I approach the steps again cautiously, carrying my drink with me to keep my hands from fidgeting. No one, not even the four people remaining at the table Jule’s dad left, gives me more than a passing glance. I amble over to one of the empty tables and poke at the display as if idly curious.

  The women at my left are discussing someone—a friend’s mother, I think—who’s recently fallen ill: “I don’t know why it’s taking so long.”

  “How serious can it be?”

  “She’s very worried.”

  “She just likes the drama. The medical staff will figure it out.”

  I sidle to the right, closer to the trio of men. They’re playing in silence now. “What game is that?” I ask in my best drug-dazed voice.

  One of the men looks me over and smirks. “Nothing you’d be able to handle.”

  The guy to his right curses as some move goes badly for him.

  “Transfer them over,” the first guy says, turning away from me.

  “Give me another few rounds and I’ll have them back.”

  They fall into a debate about probabilities and the elements of the game, the terminology beyond me. I wander over to the other empty table, near the couple and Jule’s dad’s group. The little I catch of the couple’s conversation makes me blush. I trail my fingers over the tabletop, watching t
he images flicker by, easing toward the others. They’re discussing Jule’s dad.

  “Those Adkas,” one of the women says with a little scoff.

  “He helps keep my account full,” the man beside her returns.

  “It’s just the recent generations,” the other man says, running a hand over his graying hair. “I worked with Theor Adka—he was as smart as they come. It’s a shame he’s lost control over his children.”

  “I hear he’s as bad as they are now,” the second woman remarks. “Spending credits on whatever . . . catches his eye.”

  “He’s not what he used to be, but it’s the kids really emptying the family accounts.”

  “I’m surprised their accounts are still active at all. They must be deeper than anyone thought.”

  “Better for us!” the first woman says, and the others laugh. She starts up a new game, and their conversation switches to placing bets and critiquing what’s on the display. I drift off, my stomach tight. Is that why the Enforcer who interviewed Jule offered that not-entirely-hidden disdain?

  If what these people are saying is true, it’s no wonder it’s important to Jule to do things better than everyone else. He’s trying to avoid being associated with his dad.

  I haven’t made any progress on the matter I’m here for, though. Time to push harder. “Has anyone here been to Earth?” I ask, raising my voice to address the entire platform. The women look up, shake their heads at each other with what looks like pity, and go back to their conversation. Everyone else ignores me.

  “Get anything?” Britta asks under her breath when I rejoin her.

  “Not so far,” I say. “But if we hang out a little longer, maybe more people will show up.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Britta says, and holds up her nearly empty glass. “What is it they say? Cheers!”

  I can’t help smiling, despite my growing sense of time slipping away. This is probably my last chance to find the traitor before my trip down to the planet. We clink glasses, and I take a long sip from mine. This concoction doesn’t appear to have any special effects. I find myself wishing it came with the soothing properties of that minty beverage.

  Britta swirls the band of purple liquid left in the bottom of her glass. She glances around and then asks quietly, “How are things with Jule?”

  My first instinct is to play it down. But as I take a breath, the urge fills me to spill the uncertainties balled inside me. Britta’s the closest thing I have to Angela or Lisa here. Maybe she’d be more helpful, since she’s one of these people.

  “I don’t know what to say to him,” I admit.

  She tilts her head. “What do you want to say?”

  “I don’t know. We’ve . . .” My face heats. “We’ve gotten close. But we don’t really talk that much. Not about anything serious. Sometimes I want to ask him what he thinks about things, but I don’t know how he’ll react. I don’t even know how to bring up that I want to talk more.” About how he feels about me, beyond what we’re doing together. About me doing this behind Thlo’s back. About all the parts of his life that don’t involve me. About anything, really, other than the playful banter that’s starting to feel hollow no matter how much fun it is.

  “And it’s easier just not bringing it up?” Britta suggests.

  “Yeah. Especially since— I mean, if everything goes as planned, soon I’ll be back to my life on Earth, so there’s no point in getting more serious. I think that’s how he sees it too.” I rotate my glass. “You and Isis seem really . . . good together. How do you figure out what to say and what to leave alone?”

  “Honestly?” Britta says. “We’ve just taken it as it comes. It’s not as if we’ve never gotten angry at each other. There was a lot of that, early on. We cared about each other enough that we worked through it.” Her smile turns rueful. “I don’t think there’s a rule you can follow. Even here, where we like rules for everything. You figure out what you want, how you want things to be, and you work from there. And if he doesn’t want the same thing, well, then you know.”

  And then it might hurt. I might lose what we do have: the flirting, the kissing . . .

  “You make that sound easy,” I say.

  Britta shrugs. “I don’t know about your exact era on Earth, but the way we think about relationships here, for the most part it’s very different. With the medical system we have, no one needs to worry about accidental consequences—pregnancy, or diseases. So we just . . . There’s a saying, it won’t translate perfectly, but it’s something like, ‘The heart is trained through practice.’ The general feeling is that it’s good to explore attraction as soon as you’re ready, with whoever shares it with you, without worrying about how serious you’d want it to be or whether it’s for girls or boys or both, or anything like that. All that’s expected is that you’ll learn what appeals to you and how to manage that as you go, and be honest with your partners if it changes. Expending time and energy on someone or something you don’t really want—that’s a waste.”

  Amazing how Kemyates can take a concept that could be romantic and set it in completely practical terms.

  “What if you’re not sure?” I say. I don’t know what I want more—to see if Jule would open up to me, or to keep what’s already there.

  “Then you keep ‘practicing’ until you are,” Britta replies with a grin.

  I watch as the couple from the back area saunters out, hands intertwined, trying to weigh how I feel. If Jule wanted something different, why wouldn’t he have told me? My emotions are so tangled, between him and my aims here and my anxiety about the job ahead of me. Maybe it’s a waste to let myself worry about it when in less than a week any relationship we have may no longer exist anyway.

  One of the groups from the lower tables has moved up to the raised area. As I drain the rest of my drink, two older men come in and head straight up.

  “I’ll get us some more refreshments,” Britta says, bringing up the menu. As we wait for the drinks to appear, the bunch Jule’s dad was with leaves. They’ve just stepped out the door when Tabzi sashays in with a couple of friends—girls I think I recognize from the clothing shop.

  Tabzi’s expression flickers when her eyes meet mine. She obviously wasn’t expecting to run into anyone she knows here. I tense, wondering if her friends got a good enough look at me in the shop to recognize me now.

  But Tabzi recovers quickly. She leans over to one of her friends, making no other indication that she’s noticed us, and directs them to the other side of the room. “So this is the place?”

  “I’m telling you,” the friend says, “it doesn’t look special, but they have the most amazing . . . Nowhere else does them the same. You have to try it.”

  I watch them from the corner of my eye as they claim a table in the corner. A thin man with a thinner mustache arrives with our drinks, mine deep pink this time. I give Britta a questioning look over the top of the glass.

  “She handled that well,” she murmurs. “It wouldn’t make much sense for her to know me—or you.”

  Tabzi did handle it well. Which just confirms that she knows how to put on an act when she wants to. I sip my tangy cherry-ish drink, keeping an eye on her table.

  Tabzi doesn’t do anything suspicious, just chatters with her friends as the mustached man brings them each a stick of the incense-like stuff I saw in the lounge in her neighborhood. They finish them, and head out again.

  Maybe I’m being unfair. It’s not as if Pavel and Mako, and even Emmer, haven’t behaved oddly at times too.

  Restless, I slide off my stool. “I’m going to circulate some more,” I tell Britta. I wander in the lower part of the club, so my movements don’t look too purposeful, before meandering back up the steps to the platform. The women who were there before are discussing that sport Jule likes. The trio of men are concentrating on their game. The new group is deep in conversation. I sidle over, pretending to be taking in the view from the railing over the rest of the room.

  “. . . really shou
ld know better than that.”

  “Well, he’s going to figure that out on his own, I think.”

  “It’s taking long enough. One day I bet—”

  They lower their voices further, so I can’t make out most of the words. I edge closer, and one of the men looks up at me quizzically.

  “You should really try this one,” I say, holding up my drink. “It’s the best.”

  The man snorts and nudges one of his companions. “I can’t believe Davic spends all day studying those.”

  Studying Earthlings? I sway a bit to the side, hoping they’ll dismiss me and go on talking about it, and one of the older men a couple tables over hollers at me.

  “Hey! English?”

  I glance at him, and he offers an over-wide smile. “Come here,” he says, beckoning. “I haven’t seen a real Earthling in a while.”

  I’m supposed to be numb and obedient. Reluctantly, I meander over. “Hi,” I say. “You like Earth?”

  “Sure,” the man’s companion says with what sounds like sarcasm. “Where did you come from?”

  “Well, from Earth,” I say, and they both guffaw.

  “You want to be more specific, darling,” the first man says. “You sound North American to me.”

  Maybe he’s a Traveler. “Oh, yeah. Have you been there?”

  “Me? To Earth?” The man laughs louder. “No, I’d rather stay comfortable here.”

  The second guy pats the seat next to him. “I should get back to my friend soon,” I say. “I was just looking around.”

  “You like our club?” he asks.

  “Yeah. Yeah, it’s nice.”

  I step back, maneuvering toward the other group. I can’t linger up here much longer now. “Have you come to my planet?” I ask the other table at large.

  This time, the woman there acknowledges me. “Come back in an hour or two when our friend Davic is here,” she says dryly. “He’s been Earth-side—I’m sure he’d love to chat with you.”

  The men in the group chuckle. “You’re awful,” one of them says to her.

  “He shouldn’t have joined Earth Travel if he didn’t want to be spending half his time with . . . across the galaxy,” she responds with a toss of her hair.