by Karen Bao
“Cut it off, then!” Eri laughs.
The two girls look at me, heads tilted to the side, and wait for my reply—something I’m not used to from my friends. From Umbriel, that is.
“Straight hair goes in one direction,” I say. “Downward. Unless you’re in zero-grav. It’s not much fun.”
As my companions laugh, I almost feel the table rattling.
“Vin’s hair is more downward-oriented than mine,” Nash says, glancing at me with a smile. “I’m half Saudi, a quarter Nigerian, and a quarter Jamaican. Makes for an explosion on my head when I get up in the morning.”
“Indian and Irish,” Vinasa shoots back. “Kapow all the same.”
Nash admits defeat. “Cheers,” she says, and the two girls clink their water bottles together. Amused, I spear three kidney beans with my fork and eat them one at a time. Nobody’s ever complimented me on my strange hair before.
Sometimes younger people jabber about the Earthbound countries their ancestors came from. Although most of those places don’t exist anymore, discussing them makes people feel special. They’re proud of their forebears’ accomplishments, and I’m not immune to that immodesty. After a long-ago conversation with the Phi twins, I peppered Mom with questions and learned that China’s coast once boasted magnificent cities with willowy steel structures and frolicking lights, but the buildings toppled and the lights fizzled when the sea spilled onto the land. Whenever our teachers in Primary hear these discussions, they ask us to focus instead on our Lunar national identity. A few kids consider their particular genetic inheritance a source of superiority; if they do anything to show that belief, the incident shows up on their criminal records.
For that reason, talk of ancestry also is supposed to be taboo in Militia.
“You worried, Stripes?” Nash teases me, lowering her voice. “It’s too loud for the Committee’s toadies to hear us. I mean, they shouldn’t be listening, anyway.”
“Shh!” Eri says. “Don’t get us in trouble.”
“Trouble dee, trouble doo.” Nash dares herself to speak out against the Committee, as if testing to see how loudly she can talk before she’s caught. Her behavior frightens me, but I like her for it. If only more people were brave enough to state the obvious.
As Eri smiles and Vinasa giggles, a sudden pleasant thought fills my mind and makes my blood run warm through my veins: I have more of a social life in Militia than I ever did in Primary.
When the first evaluation arrives, the soreness is mostly gone and I’m ready to show the instructors what I can do.
Today, it’s not Yinha’s grating voice sounding in my ear but Colonel Arcturus the Assiduous’s. “There’s a point system, trainees. No need to know the details. We will simply watch you run, perform feats of strength, and spar with one another.”
When the trainees run laps, I place myself just behind the fastest few. I manage forty push-ups before collapsing, a fifty percent improvement from a week and a half ago. After the jog, Arcturus announces point deductions: two off for three girls who skipped instead of ran, even though they insist that it kept them motivated. He docks points from five people, including Vinasa, for inadequate push-ups—they failed to bend their elbows a full ninety degrees. Taking into account my improvement and Arcturus’s critical eye, I estimate that I’m at the seventieth percentile. Wes sits at the ninety-ninth.
The instructors assign us our sparring partners this time, usually of the same sex.
“Vinasa Epsilon and Halley Nu,” Arcturus reads off. “Io Beta and Phaet Theta.”
Io is the dark-haired girl who yawned conspicuously on the first day of training; she’s proved to have a tendency to daydream and has hazel eyes that can’t decide whether to stay open or closed. This round should be no problem.
“One point off Io’s score for untied shoelaces,” Arcturus says.
Io squats in the middle of the floor like a child and manipulates the string into clumpy knots. A strangely parental feeling warms my heart. I hope that I won’t give her any serious injuries during our match.
This time, I’m conscious during the other fights, so I’m able to observe. Fights between girls are skittish, those between boys, ferocious. Nash loses to Callisto and, swearing hoarsely, exits the ordeal with a bruised collarbone and a sprained ankle. Callisto breaks down weeping. “I didn’t mean it! Oh, Nash! Didn’t mean it!”
Behind me, Jupiter’s de facto sidekick Ganymede snarls: “Tell Callisto to watch out, Jupe. Nashira’s people started that sneaky oil embargo; who knows what she’ll do? It’s in her blood. . . .”
Nash is one of those citizens, like me, whose Earthbound origins are plain in her features. And Ganymede’s one of those rare idiots who derives superiority from genetic inheritance. I wonder if he’s ever gotten in trouble for it. His confident brutishness makes me suspect not.
“She tries anything, and I’ll break her damn nose,” Jupiter says.
Furious, I consider telling off the two bigots. But I don’t, because I shouldn’t make enemies.
Vinasa swivels her head and does it instead. “Say that to Nash’s face next time, vacuum-heads.”
I add, “Yes, you won’t be saying much afterward.”
Eri and Vinasa gawk at me for a long time before giggling with satisfaction. Jupiter and Ganymede look away, their jaws set like stones.
Soon it’s my turn to fight. I breathe deeply, forget Ganymede’s comments, and focus on my opponent.
The lights blink green. Io canters in a winding path toward me. Before we collide, I swerve to one side and hook a foot behind hers. She trips and sits dazed on the ground. Three seconds later, we’re done. It’s the shortest fight of the day, which should help my ranking, though I’m offended that the instructors gave me such an easy opponent. Perhaps they thought Io was all a fifteen-year-old could handle.
The last fight pits Jupiter against Wes. If Wes wins, his score will be dangerously high, but I’m rooting for him.
The crowd takes a colossal inhale as the two boys face each other. Jupiter’s forward-leaning posture and flexed muscles inflate his stature even more. Wes, who has just over half Jupiter’s bulk, stays loose by shifting his weight from left to right. He can’t win by normal means, but recent observations considered, I don’t think he’s normal.
“Ready for a week in the Medical quarters?” Jupiter hollers, wanting us all to hear.
Wes chews on his lips in concentration.
“Go!” shouts Arcturus.
As Jupiter makes his customary stampede forward, Wes turns on his heel and bolts in the opposite direction.
Callisto stands, hands clasped to her heart, her striped hair disheveled. Ganymede pulls her back down by the wrist. On the floor, Jupiter puts on an extra spurt of speed. I hold in a snort—he leans so far forward that a push from behind would land him on the ground, bulbous forehead first.
Wes has been running straight this whole time, and he’s getting precariously close to a wall. Jupiter gains from behind.
A moment before they collide, Wes launches into a handspring and pushes off the wall with his feet into a complex flip. While Jupiter grabs at empty air, Wes extends his legs and knocks his adversary’s head into the wall.
Jupiter rocks in agony on the ground, but only for a moment. His arms stir. Wes darts in the other direction and stops in the middle of the floor to catch his breath. He beckons with his hand to Jupiter, who doesn’t have the breath to curse at him. When Jupiter nears him, Wes takes off in a perpendicular direction, and Jupiter overshoots once again.
“Go, Wes!” shouts Eri, adding her voice to the cacophony. In my excitement, I grab her hand, and she squeezes back, hard.
Jupiter slows to a jog, with little malevolence left to sustain him. Sensing weakness, Wes shoots forward and launches an aerial side kick at Jupiter’s jaw.
Jupiter stumbles. With his other leg, Wes delivers a kick to the rib cage, which finally fells the massive boy.
Wes doesn’t give him a final satisfacto
ry stomp or even put his foot on Jupiter’s chest, as Jupiter did to me. He simply waits, his fist drawn back in case the bigger boy tries to get up again.
One, two, three.
We drown Wes in claps and cheers. Even Arcturus’s announcement, “The victor is . . . Wezn Kappa!” dissipates in the din.
As Wes shyly waves at his new devotees, I feel the same amazement as when I first watched a ship take off in a miasma of dust.
10
TWO DAYS ELAPSE BEFORE RANKINGS ARE posted on the scoreboard in the training dome.
This evaluation is important, but there are three more left, each with progressively more weight, for a total of four. The Committee has always liked the number four. It’s a perfect square, the number of directions on a compass, the number of limbs on a human. Mom hates it. When she was young, her grandmother told her that the word for “four” in her native tongue sounds almost the same as the word for “dead.” I believed four was unlucky until first-year Primary math showed me that numbers are just quantities.
Wes’s name crowns the top of the list. Next is Jupiter. Orion Nu follows, then Callisto Chi. I’m fifteenth—surprisingly high, but not good enough. Cygnus, Anka, and Mom need me to do better than this.
Beside me, Callisto turns around and gives a thumbs-up, a weak sign of approval supported by a weak smile. She runs off before I can respond. Why is she so civil to me?
“Congratulations, Stripes,” says a knowing female voice behind me. It’s Yinha, riding on one of the hover-chairs. I’ve never heard her speak without crackly amplification. “You’ve made a lot of progress recently. Cool.”
She pats me on the shoulder before gliding off.
To my right, a cluster of people congratulate Wes on his placement. He stares down, not meeting their eyes. When he sees me seeing him, he gives me a low-wattage smile before looking elsewhere.
I get a feeling in my stomach reminiscent of free fall.
“Hey, Stripes.” Nash’s voice jolts me from my inexplicable nausea.
I snap to attention.
She’s standing to my right. “I placed twenty-second. Not great, but not bad either. You, lady, seem to have a shot at the top.”
I think of Wes, with his flying kicks around the floor, and shrug.
“Also . . . thanks for sticking up for me to Jupiter’s posse. Yeah, I heard about that.”
“You’re welcome,” I say.
Nash suddenly looks bashful. She checks her handscreen. “Well. It’s only 16:00 and we’re off for the rest of the day. I’m gonna go to the Exchange and buy some stuff with Vin. Want to come?”
I don’t have money to spend, but I’m grateful that she’s trying to make up for her former coldness with an offer of—could it be?—friendship. I shake my head.
“I’ll see you later then.” Nash pats my forearm affectionately and takes off.
With all the noise, I feel an acute desire for solitude. Sliding out of the training center, I venture into the huge complex of the Medical quarters. I’m not sure if it’s allowed, but if Wes does it, so can I, seeing as the instructors haven’t stopped him.
My muscles feel pretty good. We only did some light strength training and basic weapons instruction before the rankings list was posted. So when I reach a long, empty hallway, I set the timer and distance counter on my handscreen and run.
The rhythm feels natural; my strides have become longer. It feels as if springs on the bottom of my boots propel me higher and farther. Although the rubber was engineered to give lift, I like to think my burgeoning muscles contribute as well.
After jogging in a huge circle for exactly twenty-nine minutes, I manage to log five kilometers. My clothes are damp, my knee joints smart, and my throat is grainy with thirst.
Fizz, I forgot my canteen in the barracks.
This place is quiet without my footfalls, allowing my ears to pick up another set of steps somewhere behind me. I dare to look.
Wes Kappa flits to me, jogging in place. He looks ridiculous, trying to be courteous while maintaining an elevated heart rate. “Hey.”
I open my mouth to say something, but only a rough whoosh comes out.
“Want to get some water? I’ve been running on the floor upstairs for a while now, so I need some too. You can come with me, if you’d like.” He takes off.
Somehow, I have it in me to match his pace. The exertion gives me a rush that energizes me like a caffeine tablet. Maybe it’s the thrill of unofficial competition with the best of us.
“One suggestion,” he says through even breaths, watching my feet. “Actually, I have two.”
Nod.
“Don’t land on your heel so much; aim for the middle of your foot. Better already. Also, don’t turn your toes inward. I used to run that way, before I got knee problems. Whenever I took a step, it felt like my ligaments and bones were getting into fights.”
I angle my feet outward until they’re pointed straight. The pounding in my joints lessens significantly. I didn’t even know I was pigeon-toed, or that it could affect my stride so much.
Wes gives me a thumbs-up.
Many painless seconds later, we reach a set of double doors, sealed so tightly that not even air can enter the space they guard. To my bewilderment, Wes marches up to the fingerprint scanner on the wall and presses his thumb to it.
When he sees my look of amazement, he says, “Remember? I worked as an assistant in Medical, so I’m solid in the health care system.”
The first set of sliding doors part lengthwise, the second up and down, revealing a dark room that lights up in our presence.
We’re in a high-caliber lab. My fingers ache to tinker with the scales, which are rumored to be accurate to the microgram, and to slide cell samples under the electron microscope. Hundreds of years ago, these microscopes took up a whole room, but now they’re fifty centimeters high and can achieve magnification in the tens of millions. If I ever join the Bioengineering labs, I’ll be able to do so much more than stare.
Stop that, I tell myself. Survive Militia first. Save your family.
Wes taps me on the shoulder and shoves a standard cylindrical plastic canteen at me. I hadn’t even heard him fill it. I nod my thanks and force myself to drink slowly. But I take one desperate gulp too soon, before my epiglottis closes, and I cough until the precious water threatens to squirt through my nose.
Wes raises a hand, as if he’s going to pat me on the back like Umbriel does. But he seems to think better of it. “You’re funny. You choke louder than you speak.”
I laugh through a series of coughs, using a hand to hide my smile. After I’ve stopped making hacking noises, he says, “Want to stretch? Otherwise our muscles will make a racket when we wake up tomorrow.”
With legs straight, he rolls down to place his palms flat on the ground and drums a rhythm of sorts on the white floor. We stretch every muscle, every tendon in our bodies. Wes’s joints are silent as he arranges them in extreme angles, while mine crack from the unfamiliar twists. Each time it happens, he chuckles, feeding my envy.
We return to a sitting position and simply breathe. Wes inhales and exhales as steadily as if he were sleeping, while my befuddled mind keeps interrupting my rhythm.
Why’s he being so nice? Does he feel guilty for dragging my mother off to a hospital bed? He’s not naturally extroverted; on the contrary, he prefers solitude, like me. But he’s giving it away in favor of my company.
On the other hand, I’m so quiet that I might as well not exist. Mom says that people who talk less have more stories to tell. I used to think she was trying to console me about my silence, but her aphorism is applicable to the boy beside me.
The object of my befuddlement opens his eyes, and I detect a spark in them. But he quickly looks down at his hands, folded in his lap. “Will you practice sparring with me tomorrow? I need a partner so my skills don’t deteriorate.”
Fascinating—I may have formed an alliance with the number one trainee. It was much easier than I’d expec
ted.
“Okay,” I mutter.
Wes gives me a huge smile, pleased that his new accomplice isn’t mute, and one side of his mouth pulls up farther than the other to expose slightly crooked teeth. It shocks me more than anything he could have said.
11
THERE’S A CERTAIN ITCHINESS IN MY BLOOD that results from being alone in a dark hallway with someone who could incapacitate me in a matter of milliseconds.
We may have been sparring on and off for fifteen minutes or fifteen hours. It’s hard to tell time when Wes is aiming fast but light jabs and kicks at every part of my body, and it’s all I can do to deflect them with my forearms and shins. Anyone listening to our handscreen feeds would hear only whacks and grunts. What bothers me more is that Umbriel would lecture me ad infinitum if he saw me putting myself at the mercy of this combat machine.
“Try not to step back so often. Find a way through my defenses.”
It’s difficult. His feet change positions about three times a second, and he has already hit me twice: once on the cheek, once in the gut. In frustration, I lash out with my right foot and whack his knee.
“Good!” His voice is throaty, betraying the pain behind the compliment. Using his vocal cords distracts him, and I manage to elbow him in the chest.
But my victory distracts me, and Wes gains the upper hand again, pushing me back until I hit the wall. As I slump against it, he backs away. Unless he’s pummeling me, it seems, he can’t stand being within two meters of my person.
“That was much better than last time. Although you should try harder to shield your face with one hand or the other. Good work. I think we’ve had enough for one night.”
I retrieve my canteen from the side of the hallway and zip up my jacket. According to my handscreen, we’ve been here for an hour.
Wes gazes off into some unknown place, possibly daydreaming, and makes no move to leave. I question him with my eyebrows: Are you coming?
“I think I’ll stay here, if you don’t mind.” He kneels on the floor and stretches his left hip flexor. “I like the quiet.”
