Dove Arising

by Karen Bao

  Caeli clears her throat. “My darling, we don’t have space for three more. As it is, there’s barely room for our family. . . . They can still come over for dinner, though.”

  “They can’t if they’re in that pit of a department,” says Umbriel. “Shelter residents need permits to leave.”

  “Umbriel, if we had the resources, you know we’d keep everyone out of there,” says Atlas.

  “Anything would be better than Shelter.” Umbriel grimaces before turning back to me. “Can’t you work more hours in Agriculture?”

  Anka shakes her head, examining a wad of cucumber on her fork, and pulls a sour face.

  “Not enough for Medical bills and rent and stuff. That’s with low estimates.” Cygnus pokes his handscreen, his elbows on the table. One foot is tucked under his behind; the other dangles from the stool. He’s not bobbing back and forth, which means he’s concentrating hard. “We’ve got 1,293 Sputniks. Food costs us four hundred per month; rent and Committee dues add up to a thousand. The projected cost of Mom’s treatment, medication and all, is a little over fifteen hundred. They’re going to send us an official message tomorrow, but I got hold of the numbers a few minutes ago.”

  He’s still working on his hacking skills, but in a few years I doubt any of the bases’ servers will be safe. Sometimes I wonder who is the greater liability between Umbriel and Cygnus. Umbriel steals food, while Cygnus steals information.

  “I could work in Sanitation full-time,” Cygnus offers. “Another four hundred Sputniks per month.”

  “You’re funny,” Umbriel says. “You’d have to be older and more . . . coordinated.”

  My brother will have to wait until he’s fifteen to meet the age requirement for Sanitation employment, and I’m glad. I grimace at the thought of him scurrying through dank tunnels under the base, surfacing only to disinfect public facilities and collect waste and turn it into compost. It’s tiring, thankless labor that would detrimentally affect his health.

  “Ha-ha. I’m overqualified in breaking and entering. They’ll never know it’s me.” Cygnus strokes a beard that isn’t there. Despite all the joking, he really thinks he can fake his way in. I love him so much when he’s being unreasonable.

  Atlas scoffs, drumming the table with the knuckles of both hands. He deals with many cases of underage workers; they go to Penitentiary for three or four days and then return to Primary with documentation of the crime defacing their handscreen profiles. “Well.” Cygnus stands, not bothering to smooth his crinkled robes. “I give up.”

  “Already?” says Anka.

  “I can’t think of anything, except illegal stuff.”

  Funny he should say that—because I can’t either.

  “You don’t think about much else,” Atlas says.

  Yesterday my siblings and I were normal, hardworking students; today we’re destitute, on the verge of becoming outlaws or Committee dependents. If Cygnus and Anka weren’t at my side, I’d allow myself a few tears and swear words. If we don’t check into Shelter within the next eleven hours and fifty-one minutes, the Militia will haul us there. There’s a chance Beaters will appear at our door again, one I’m not willing to take.

  Cygnus sighs, turning to Anka. “So let’s check out Shelter.”

  “Okay,” says my sister. “Ms. Caeli, thanks for dinner.”

  As Anka and I prepare to leave, Umbriel jumps from his seat. “Hold up! I’ll come with you.”

  “No!” Caeli rises, knocking over her stool. “Haven’t I told you never to go near that place? Please. Let Phaet take care of her own family.”

  “I don’t think he makes a distinction between hers and ours,” Ariel says.

  Caeli looks from one son to the other, bewildered. Although Umbriel often disobeys her, it’s rarely with Ariel’s support.

  “We’ll be fine,” Umbriel tells her. “Maybe Shelter’s not as bad as people say.”

  He’s wrong. It’s worse.

  3

  SMOKE RESIDUE AND OTHER GRIME HAVE stained Shelter’s ceiling a mottled brown, but the filth is nothing compared to the stench rising from open excretory pots and bodies that haven’t entered a shower chamber in eons. The floor is lower in some places than others, and yellowish liquid sits in the depressions—not flowing, not even rippling. It’s sitting, just like the people—if one can call them that—around the cavernous space.

  They cover their flesh with scraps of robes that have lost their color and display brown stains like those on the walls. Nearby, two people scuffle for a dilapidated cot, even though it looks hard as petrified wood and about as comfortable as the floor; one surrenders, his nose pouring blood. Other residents huddle together and shiver, cocooned in raggedy blankets. Shelter’s as chilly as a Culinary Department refrigerator; the Committee sends this place just enough heat to keep its inhabitants alive.

  When the dinner buzzer goes off, able-bodied residents—60 percent or so—scramble to line up at an enormous black tub in the center of the dome to be served brown vegetables. A girl about my age shrinks from the groping hands of the man behind her, coiling around the malnourished baby in her arms. Poor thing has an oversized head and matchsticks for a body.

  Shelter workers ladle stringy food into people’s hands. Without utensils, the Shelter residents must eat like Earthbound beasts. Beetles stand by, using glass truncheons to strike those who reach into the tub for more. Often, ignoring the pain, the victims claw food out of their neighbors’ hands.

  Most people slouch onward. Younger ones cluster in circles to share pipes and inhale wispy black smoke. Dumb pleasure suffuses their faces. The Committee declared a ban on depressant drugs decades ago, but in Shelter they haven’t enforced it. Artificial satisfaction keeps these addicts from causing more dangerous kinds of trouble.

  On the far right side of the dome, Militia soldiers surround a transparent quarantine tent for the ill, shoving new additions in with the butts of their laser blasters. The people inside lie in restless sleep, punctuated by frequent shudders and the occasional moan.

  Anka and I shelter our faces with our sleeves.

  “I want to go home,” mutters my sister. Umbriel, Cygnus, and I refrain from pointing out that within the next few hours, this place will be home.

  In spite of what I’ve heard about Shelter before, I’m shocked the Committee allows people to live in total degradation. The Shelter Department should care for people without the means to care for themselves, but these residents are just in a holding area, waiting for death. Do people know how horrible things are here? If they did, would they be upset or keep ignoring what’s going on?

  Ripples of light roll through the crowd as the residents’ handscreens simultaneously receive an official message. Most people don’t bother to lift their arms. I peek at the handscreen of the man before me, whose blood vessels, visible through translucent flesh, loom dark against the artificial pigments comprising the message.

  REMAIN SEATED AS MEDICS QUARANTINE DISEASED INDIVIDUALS.

  “Phaet—we always knew that living here meant getting dirty,” Umbriel whispers. “Didn’t know it’d mean seeing Meds and Beetles all the time.”

  As if on cue, a herd of Medics strides through the Shelter dome’s back entrance. “If you have the streptococcus infection, please come forward,” says an older Medic with a lazy eye, his voice amplified through the speakers on the residents’ handscreens. “We know who has a fever and who doesn’t. Don’t make us come find you.”

  Groaning and spluttering, several lumps on the floor find their feet and stagger to the tent. Soldiers point them to empty spaces on the ground. Some avoid physical contact, while others use the butts of their guns to knock the Shelter residents into place. The Medics roll up their new patients’ dirty sleeves and inject antibiotics. Drug production and administration aren’t cheap, but I know why the Committee sends workers to treat Shelter residents and soldiers to keep them caged. It’s more efficient than taking each individual to Medical—he or she would be unable to
pay the bill, anyway—and it prevents the outrage that would result if everyone in the dome got sick.

  “Hey.” Umbriel tugs my arm. “Beetle’s coming over.”

  I stand straighter as a young soldier approaches us. Her jacket sports the white circular private insignia, and her visor is pushed up so that her deep-set eyes, dreary gray like the lunar landscape, are visible. They’re not cruel eyes, just tired ones. A hollow surrounds each, likely resulting from strain and lack of sleep. She must be assigned to regular duty in Shelter, a job that’s mentally rather than physically taxing.

  Her chest heaves with an exasperated sigh. “You checking in?”

  “Still deciding,” Cygnus lies. There’s no decision to make—if we don’t move in now, we’ll be forced to return within a few hours.

  Something tugs the ends of my hair, gentle but insistent.

  “Shoo!” barks the private at whatever’s behind me. “Blast, Belinda, I’ll have your daddy tie you to his wrist if you keep on . . .”

  I turn around. A little girl steps back, tucking her hands under her chin. Moments later, she sneezes into them. She could be anybody’s child, fresh from playing in dirt—muck masks the original color of her skin and the precise proportions of her features.

  “Her handscreen profile says that her grandmother died last year,” the private explains. “Says she’ll touch anyone that looks like her.”

  Umbriel makes a grab for my arm, but I evade it and squat to get a better look at Belinda. Her smile, her movements—they’re quick, bright, and normal, like Anka’s when she was that age. I wonder how long they’ll remain that way, how much time Belinda has before numbness becomes routine and joy a hazy memory.

  Belinda draws her index finger from my right nostril to my chin, where I’ll have a frown line like Mom’s in thirty years or so. “Nothing there!” Her voice is a hoarse whisper.

  This isn’t the first time a child has puzzled over my gray hair and smooth face. I smile, and creases appear.

  “Found one!” Belinda rasps.

  “Good for you!” says Anka. She’s probably glad that there’s someone around who can look up to her.

  “Thanks,” says Belinda. “Are you big kids going to stay?”

  Anka laughs, flattered that she’s been called a “big kid.” “I don’t know.”

  “What’s it like on the outside?” Belinda asks.

  I feel a surge of pity for this child, who knows nothing but Shelter misery.

  My sister opens and closes her mouth several times, struggling to decide where to begin. “Outside of here, it’s—”

  The private interrupts her. “Belinda, why ask about the rest of the base when you’re never going to see it?”

  Shelter children must pass a rigorous exam to gain access to Primary. Odds say Belinda won’t try, let alone succeed.

  The private grabs Belinda’s wrist, saying, “Something sounds off about you.”

  Belinda cries out in pain.

  Fuming, I step between them, using my arm to break the private’s grip. Belinda hunches over her arm, whimpering; the private’s dull eyes light up with anger.

  Too late, I realize my effort was futile and idiotic.

  The private pushes me. “Back off. I could truncheon you for this.” Her hand seizes Belinda’s chin. “Open up, blast it.”

  Glancing from me to the private, Belinda drops her jaw.

  “Knew it. Those white dots . . .” The private—Gertrude Zeta according to the voice-recognition software on my handscreen—taps twice on the back of her left hand. “Quarantine!” she hollers into the receiver.

  An indigo blur—probably a Medic—bursts from the sick tent and sails across the floor, dodging clusters of people whose heads follow its trajectory. Sudden movements must be rare in Shelter, a place where life itself slows down until it eventually halts.

  “You people are going to put a kid in that tent?” Umbriel demands.

  Gertrude shoots him a look filled with equal parts annoyance and alarm.

  “Someone could roll over and squash her,” Umbriel continues, “and that’s the best-case scenario!”

  Near the sick tent, three Militia helmets swivel in our direction.

  Out of selfishness and fear, I turn to Umbriel and pretend to dust off my hands: Stop talking! People have gotten arrested faster for protesting less.

  Umbriel swallows the rest of his tirade. To my relief, the three Beetles across the room turn away, scanning Shelter for more obvious troublemakers.

  The Medical assistant skids to a stop at our side.

  “All right, Belinda.” Copper Head glances at my family and takes a step backward. He’s either too embarrassed or scared to face us. “I’ll bring you to the big tent over there. We have medicine just for you. Okay?”

  Anka points a quivering finger at Copper Head. “I thought we were done with you!”

  Dozens of Shelter eyes fix upon us.

  “Calm down, people.” Cygnus shows everyone his open palms. “Nothing’s happening.”

  Seemingly ignorant of the fact that her temper has already caused the Militia to appear at our apartment, Anka continues ranting. “Stop taking people where they don’t want to go.”

  Gertrude’s hand drifts toward her truncheon. I swallow hard, willing Anka to hear my thoughts; her disobedience could result in punishments ranging from a twenty-four-hour detention for her to additional surveillance for Cygnus and me.

  “And leave us alone!” Anka tells Copper Head, who holds his hands up as if surrendering.

  Although I sometimes wish Anka could flatten her emotions like I do, it would destroy me if she lost her vigor, that radioactivity in her belly. I want to grab her and Cygnus, spirit them out of Shelter, and ensure they never enter again. Here, Meds and especially Beetles could steal them at any moment, hide them in a tent or find some other excuse for separating us. And if they don’t, I’ll have to watch my siblings’ wills dissipate until all three of us are motionless lumps on the floor.

  “I promise you won’t see me anymore.” Copper Head applies an adhesive thermometer to Belinda’s forehead, just as he did to Mom several hours ago. His mouth curves into the faintest of smiles. “I’m to join Militia next week.”

  Anka’s face slackens as if he’s slapped her—despite her fury, she’s not above sympathy. Neither am I. For Copper Head, the next two years of mandatory soldiering will bring relentless competition, frequent boredom, and sudden danger on the Moon, the Earth, and in the empty space surrounding both. There’s a chance he won’t make it, as serious injury and death are not uncommon for new recruits. The Committee officially acknowledged the death of nine Base IV trainees last year—trainees, not active soldiers. Who knows how many more have died off the charts?

  “Open wide,” Copper Head instructs Belinda, ignoring Anka’s sudden tranquility. “Aaaaaah.”

  Belinda drops her jaw without moving any other part of her face. Light from Copper Head’s handscreen illuminates white spots on the scarlet throat tissue.

  “You’ve contracted the infection, but it doesn’t look too bad. Off we go!” Copper Head and Belinda shuffle toward the tent, her dirty little fingers in his big, gloved hand.

  Gertrude huffs, uncrossing and recrossing her arms. “You Thetas ready to finish this check-in? Need an answer from the head of the family.”

  Do I want to check into a life that’s no longer life? I’d give anything not to participate, to avoid even observing it.

  Maybe that’s why Copper Head smiled when he mentioned Militia. Soldiering means spending months away from this place—although there’s a small probability that if he survives the eight-week training course, he’ll have to monitor Shelter, like Gertrude. If he becomes a private, he’ll serve two years and move on to Specialization, remaining the same tongue-tied civilian he is today. But if he ranks high enough during training, he’ll make more in prize money than he would earn in a year as a Medical assistant. As an officer, he’d command other Beetles and likely stay in
the Militia for life.

  “Phaet?” Umbriel squeezes my shoulder. “She’s asking you.”

  My eyes scan the crowd, falling on the indigo figure that has nearly reached the quarantine tent and the stoic soldiers whose ranks he will join. Countless grimy faces point our way—seeing, perhaps even understanding, what is happening.

  One hunched-over man summons the strength to shake his head at me. Get out while you can. I frown at him, knowing it’s all but impossible. Unless . . .

  Gertrude taps her foot. “I’m waiting. If you don’t check in soon, your presence here will be considered trespassing.”

  I glance from side to side, almost expecting Mom to handle this situation for me. Letting us stay here would be out of the question—she’d spin a tapestry of words to get us out to clean air.

  Looking over at Copper Head in the tent, I utter the first thing I’ve said today: “I’m going with him.”

  “Wha . . . ?” Umbriel whispers. “To Mili—You can’t. You’re too young. Phaet—”

  I take Anka’s elbow and Cygnus’s wrists. Ignoring their confusion and Umbriel’s demands for clarification, I lead my family toward the Shelter exit. As we shove past the clumps of humanity on the ground, several people stretch up and touch the ends of my hair. Even layers of grime can’t mask the awe—and in a few cases, the jealousy—on their faces. Maybe they wish they’d walked out of here while they still could. You did the right thing, their eyes say.

  “Why are they staring at you?” Anka whispers.

  Because I found a way out.

  After we escape the vile dome, the air becomes breathable again. Never have the scents of plastic and steel been so sweet. I inhale and exhale almost violently to clean out my lungs, but I can still feel dust and smoke residue clinging to the walls of the air sacs within.

  Umbriel grabs my upper arm, forcing me to a halt. “What in the name of the Committee was that?”

  “Say you were kidding about Militia,” says Cygnus. “I think that Medical assistant could clobber you in a fight, and he’s probably below the fiftieth weight percentile for eighteen-year-old boys.”