Dove Arising

by Karen Bao

  16

  HAVING A TASTE OF HOME MAKES IT SO difficult to come back to the training floor, which has been converted into a huge launchpad. All of yesterday’s talk about Mom’s trial haunts me, and I try to imagine her in Penitentiary. Are the guards Beaters and the cells sickeningly filthy, as I’ve heard? Is she thinking of us too, wondering like me if Anka and Cygnus are holding themselves together at school?

  I must keep myself from falling apart so I can give my best in training.

  I blink away grogginess, a product of last night’s perusal of the handscreen-accessible Militia flight manual. Because the instructors only uploaded it yesterday, most trainees didn’t bother to read it. However, I felt compelled by old Primary habits—and the faint promise of winning—much to Vinasa’s annoyance. My handscreen emitted light until an indecent hour, knocking hours off her beauty sleep.

  Ten identical destroyer ships are spread across the floor, each large enough to carry a team of five. Each looks somewhat like an Earthbound shark, with a sharp nose, sleek body, and fins for steering. Interlocking ribs in the midsections allow the crafts to bend.

  Some of the trainees, like Nash, squeal in excitement; others clutch their bellies, anticipating motion sickness. I do neither.

  For each ship, there’s a pilot, a copilot, two wingmen to control the computer-aided blasters on each side, and a flight leader to check the route, communicate with the team leader and base, and carry out other administrative tasks.

  The main steering, just as in my greenhouse transport, is simple: a joystick for direction and levers for speed and nose angle. However, the array of other buttons inside the cockpit is not to be trifled with. Thus, for many missions, the ships follow a previously calculated autopilot route until they near their destinations, rendering flight straightforward and safe except in emergency situations. We’ve heard stories of pilots so accustomed to preset routes and zero confrontation that they panic and crash in actual combat.

  “These spacecraft don’t fly,” says Yinha, to a chorus of grunts and moans. “You’ll participate in a simulation with the controls, for practice. It’s pretty cool.”

  Jupiter perks up as if he’s been Electrostunned. Turning to Callisto, he remarks, “If this is anything like my sim-games, my rank’s going to go through the roof.”

  Hopefully, his rank number will shoot upward, maybe even into the double digits—tenth, twentieth, fiftieth—as he idiotically said. And maybe mine will drop into the smaller numbers, where I want it. If my greenhouse piloting skills haven’t left me, I could do well here.

  My team consists of Orion, Eri, a courteous brunette named Cassiopeia, and a not-so-courteous platinum blonde named Sunova.

  Orion pouts with disguised amusement at being the one boy on our team. Cassie pats his arm and brushes chestnut bangs out of her eyes. “You can be the leader if you want.”

  He counters by patting her arm. “Only if you ladies agree.”

  One by one, we enter through a small hatch on the belly of the ship. Orion, the biggest of us, barely manages to slither through. Inside, we find walls that are black where they aren’t covered by grids upon grids of backlit buttons, all different colors and sizes, as well as switches and meters to measure pressure, missile inventory, and engine heat. There are three radar screens, each on a different scale, a blinking blue ship schematic, and five seats with sleek black helmets hanging above them.

  The other girls, who admit they haven’t glanced at the flight manual, persuade me to be pilot among a glittering shower of compliments. Only Sunova dislikes the idea.

  “Why leave the hardest job to a kid?” she sneers.

  However Orion approves, and commands Cassie and Sunova to take over the wing weaponry. Eri sits next to me as copilot, moaning, “I don’t want to shoot stuff!”

  “Don’t worry,” Cassie reassures her. “Keep telling yourself it’s just a sim.”

  Once we buckle in, our world goes dark. All around us is a projection of the open sky, with the blue orb of the Earth in the middle. In rearview, the simulation Moon shrinks as we push off. The training dome’s magnets decrease the gravity in our ship until we’d float if we weren’t wearing seat belts. For this sim, the instructors do the difficult work of launching us, so I don’t have to set off the controlled nuclear fusion reaction that will combine hydrogen atoms with helium ones and lift us off the Moon.

  “Asteroid approaching,” declares Orion.

  Indeed, a chunk of dirty metal hurtles toward us head-on. According to the flight manual, the ship’s hull can repair itself if it’s punctured by objects less than three centimeters in diameter. This asteroid doesn’t fall into that category. I jerk the joystick to the left, causing the craft to lurch. Amidst grumbling from my team, I remind myself that these controls are more delicate than those of my clunky transport.

  “Can I blow it up?” begs Sunova.

  “Nah. We should save ammo.” Orion doesn’t use a condescending tone but states the facts. “Enemy spotted.”

  A gaggle of battleships approaches in the side window, each looking like a collection of gray building blocks glued together. These are likely from Battery Bay; they have altogether too many right angles, like everything else there. Despite the Batterers’ ugly designs and the inefficiency caused by unchecked arguments among their alliance’s diverse peoples, they are not to be trifled with. Only the most powerful Earthbound cities can access the resources for space flight.

  “Can we blow up these?” Sunova’s voice rattles with anticipation.

  “I think that’s why they’re here,” Cassie says.

  “Go ahead,” Orion says through a laugh.

  I don’t have the pleasure of incinerating the ships but must dodge their fire instead. Making sure to be delicate with the controls, I pilot us away from their slow missiles with minimal disruption to our digestive systems.

  To my right, Sunova rotates various knobs and fires three beams in quick succession, two of which hit enemy targets. “Yes!”

  I think she’s played these kinds of games before too.

  “Oops,” murmurs Cassie. “I think I shot a missile instead of a laser.”

  Indeed, she has. It finds a large enemy ship, drawn magnetically to the metal in its exterior, and cooks it in an orange conflagration that also fries a nearby craft.

  “Real fighting can’t be this easy,” Orion says. “This is a low-level sim.”

  All the talk has broken my glassy-eyed concentration, and an enemy shot finds its way into our right-wing weapon stash. Wham. The ship rattles. I imagine the shark choking on something, bending in upon itself.

  Fizz—I’m that careless crew member, the one who let her focus slip in the crucial moment. What if this simulation hadn’t been a simulation?

  “For grits’ sake, Stripes!” swears Sunova. “Why didn’t you wait a few more years before trying this whole pilot thing?”

  “We should stress more about the ship,” scolds Orion. “Eri, can you fix the damage?”

  Eri gulps, examining the rows upon rows of buttons before her. I remember reading that among them is a set of controls for two repair arms that can access the stash of spare parts in the back of the craft.

  “I didn’t study the repair section of the manual! I don’t know how to do this!”

  The ship rocks again, knocking my tailbone into the hard pilot’s seat. We’ve been hit once more, on the belly of the craft. I hadn’t noticed a Batterer ship in that direction.

  As the entire ship goes dark, Sunova swears on the sun and the moons of all the planets. This sim is over.

  “Very cool, team,” Yinha’s crackly voice addresses us out of our handscreens. “You made it farther than we thought you would.”

  The instructors didn’t have great expectations.

  The ship’s windows let in the acute light of the training floor. Blinking wildly, Orion says, “Thanks, ladies. It’s been real.” He opens the hatch and pulls himself out. He usually knows the most comforting thing to s
ay.

  But I agree more with Sunova’s snarky last comment: “That could have gone a fizz ton better.”

  17

  LEARNING ABOUT FLIGHT MAKES TRAINING surprisingly enjoyable—more like Primary. The instructors lecture us on the features of different ships, and I clear out space in my brain to absorb them. The largest are the Colossus models, which can each hold twelve nuclear warheads and a few hundred civilian passengers. Why anyone would transport the two in the same vehicle boggles me. The smallest are the Pygmettes, two meters long. These are used by on-base patrols and off-base scouts who need to fit into small spaces. But we still do simulations with the destroyer ships, because they are the most frequently used for both defense and recon missions.

  If the crafts’ fusion generators fail, ion thrusters keep the craft running. Should the entire ship break down, there’s a spherical escape pod nestled into the ship’s tail.

  Nash thinks the pods make the destroyers’ rear ends look like “pregnant chicken butts.” I decide not to point out how physiologically mistaken she is.

  Lectures and simulations beat strength workouts, even though they remind me of the classes and labs I’m missing in Primary—my classmates are probably synthesizing orange and purple transition metal complexes now. I try not to let my mind wander too far along that path, but in moments of weakness, I find myself cataloguing the course work I need to make up.

  My body has a chance to recover from the grueling month of physical conditioning and combat training. If not for Wes, whom I suspect might be addicted to exercise—and to running in particular—I’d let my muscles atrophy. But he won’t have it, coaxing me every night into the Medical quarters to run, lift heavy objects, or spar. The extra exertion stresses my body but mitigates the fear that I won’t be strong enough or fast enough to place in the top few.

  Though it’s dangerous, we sometimes draw the daggers out of our boots and slash at each other until we can’t lift our arms. While I try to attack, Wes calls out, “Stay farther away,” or “Smaller steps. Lighter grip.”

  When I’m careless, he cuts me, but it’s happening less frequently. Each time, Wes pulls out a tube of scar-erasure cream and dabs the green goo on my face or limbs, his hands heavy and surprisingly clumsy for a Medical worker who has performed this simple task hundreds of times. I struggle to keep quiet, unsure whether I’m reacting to the stinging pain or the smoothness of his fingertips on my skin.

  Once, I manage to nick Wes on the cheek, and though I apologize profusely, he declines even a bandage. He pats the crimson slash, which suits him. “It’ll remind me in the future that a girl had a quicker wrist than I did.”

  But he still fixes me up every time he cuts me, no matter how much I protest. “You’re too young to be carrying around scars, kid. And what’ll your, er, best friend say if he sees?”

  Kid. Even though no other trainees heard him, I’m stupefied by how much I wish he hadn’t called me that.

  I’d forgotten that my friends wondered about my location when I was away at night. One evening, I walk to the barracks, worrying and checking my siblings’ handscreen profiles to make sure they haven’t made trouble.

  Nash and Eri corner me in an empty hallway. Although Eri looks upset, Nash wears a grin.

  “You’d better watch yourself—it’s almost curfew! We don’t know where you disappear to every night.” Nash giggles through her words. “But we know who you’re with.”

  My stomach lurches and my feet grow roots into the floor, tangling in the linoleum.

  “Orion told us that Wes disappears but comes back around now too,” Eri mumbles.

  “I was right about what you do when you disappear.” Nash wags a finger at me. “Hot dates with one of the boys. But why Wes, out of all of them?”

  Fortunately, my dinner has been well digested. I wouldn’t want to offer it as a sacrifice to the shining floor. “He’s—he’s been helping me. Running, strength, sparring.”

  Nash’s forehead scrunches with skepticism. “For the past month?”

  “It’s why I’ve gotten better. In the rankings, I mean.”

  “Really.” Eri’s face colors with hope.

  Nod.

  “Makes sense,” Nash says. “You used to be an average runner, but now you’re one of the best. And I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near an angry Stripes with a knife. But . . . why would he help you? Mr. Lethal, Ginger, and Handsome doesn’t seem to like company.”

  “Remember when Jupiter beat me up? Wes felt bad,” I say.

  Nash paces, heel to toe, deep in thought. “M’kay. I believe you. We won’t tell anyone. . . . And I’m sorry we worried you were a dude-hustler.”

  I nod in genuine appreciation and start walking away, but I realize I forgot to clarify something. “Nash, what you were implying—I wouldn’t do that to Umbriel.”

  Eri leans forward. “Who?”

  “Aww, Phaet has a little boyfriend!” Nash affectionately flicks my shoulder. “Bet we could search his stats on our handscreens, if we knew his full name. What complex is he from?”

  Shrug.

  “She’s not going to tell us,” says Eri. “So, what’s he like? Is he cute? This means Wes is available, right?”

  I consider answering, Protective. He’s all right. Do what you like. Instead, my mouth opens in a yawn that I hope is convincing. “Tired.”

  To their disappointment, I trudge away to the clamor of the barracks.

  18

  “WELCOME TO YOUR THIRD EVALUATION,” says Yinha from the front of the hovering viewing platform. “I hope you like to race. First team to the finish line gets the most points, with slight variations for individual accomplishments. You’re going fifteen kilometers through mountains, valleys, some lunar lava tubes, before looping back to base. For many of you, this will be your first time outside, so keep in mind everything we’ve studied, all the safety stuff. If you’re not ready for it now, after these weeks of prep, you’re not going to be ready as full recruits. If something happens out there, it’s your fault. Understood? Cool.”

  She taps her handscreen, and a crack opens down the middle of the familiar floor of the training dome. The two halves slide apart until we see ten real destroyers lined up on the floor below, fiberglass plates glinting like scales.

  As the platform descends, I clutch my hands in fear. We’ll finally see the wild landscape of the Moon, a vista we’ve studied since Primary but have never seen firsthand. With the adventure comes probable dust storms, meteorite bombardment, and—worst of all—moonquakes. I’ll also have to deal with my randomly assigned team, which includes my scatterbrained first-evaluation opponent Io Beta, a low-ranking guy named Triton, Jupiter, and Wes. I grumble internally until I recall Jupiter’s penchant for simulation games and Wes’s levelheadedness. If the former doesn’t try to assassinate anyone, we might do well.

  We file off the viewing platform and assemble with our teams. Wes opens the hatch of our destroyer, and we climb inside. The pulsing buttons, the hum of the engine, and the numerous clicking monitors almost fool me into thinking this spacecraft is alive.

  Jupiter makes himself flight leader, and no one argues. Wes gives me a long look accompanied by a miniature smile, indicating that we shouldn’t listen to the bulk of the orders he’ll give.

  Before Jupiter can assign other positions, Wes asks, “Io, would you like to be copilot?”

  Io doesn’t respond until I tap her shoulder. Wes repeats his proposal. She nods vigorously—her new job requires the least concentration.

  “I want Stripes on pilot,” Jupiter interjects. “She’s better at steering than the rest of you. Triton, get on left wing. Kappa, you’re on right.”

  I wouldn’t have allocated jobs any differently. Maybe Jupiter isn’t as stupid as he seems.

  Fully realizing that my actions mean life or death to the team, I sit in the familiar cockpit, flex my fingers over the controls, and flip through the operating manual on my handscreen, hoping I remember every line of print.<
br />
  “Stripes.” Wes’s eyes lock with mine and he inhales, about to speak—but decides against it. Instead, he raises his right hand to his forehead and salutes me with two of his fingers.

  “Shut up, you two,” snaps Jupiter.

  “They weren’t saying anything,” Triton points out.

  “Now you shut up.” Jupiter hunches over the numerous communication devices and screens at the flight leader’s seat, his forehead bulging more than usual. He probably wishes he’d made himself pilot instead.

  A massive door opens before us, and all ten ships move into the air lock.

  “All trainees prepare for start. Ten seconds,” says Arcturus’s voice from one of the speakers in our ship.

  Triton frowns, rolls his eyes, and sticks his tongue out. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud. Remembering the helmet, I pull it over my head. Everyone except Io follows.

  “Io!” Jupiter hollers.

  I fasten her helmet over her quivering head.

  The buzzer sounds, and the last hatch opens. I crank the engine to full power, holding back the speed lever with one hand, waiting until there’s sufficient power to go. I press a few buttons, reshaping the wings to make the ship as sleek as possible, which includes stowing the wingtip blasters.

  On the radar screen, I see the nine other trainee teams. Some have tried to move and failed, so their ships trip and teeter at the gate. I imagine Arcturus sighing as he watches the footage and deducts points from the pilots’ individual scores.

  When the power is sufficient, press the speed lever to full throttle and expel the engine exhaust. I follow the instructions, letter by letter. Because we won’t be escaping the Moon’s gravity, “sufficient power” is a fraction of that needed during the sim. Without a hitch, we shoot across the dark gray Oceanus Procellarum.

  “Whoo!” Triton’s voice congratulates me through our helmet headsets.

  My eyes seek out the path ahead of us, marked by yellow lights on each side.