A Conspiracy of Stars

by Olivia A. Cole

  “Have you seen any of these?” I say, studying it. “In person, I mean.”

  “One of them,” my father says, not adding anything else.

  Something else catches my eye: a skull, large and yellow-white, with an angled head and long fangs still curving from its open mouth.

  “What was that?” I say, nodding at the skull.

  “I don’t know,” he says, settling into a seat behind his cluttered desk. “It’s a fossil, collected by our ancestors. A predator, as you probably guessed from the teeth. An apex predator, based on its size.”

  I look over my shoulder at him, frowning.

  “Apex predator. Like the dirixi?”

  I know very little about the dirixi, as no whitecoat has images of it to show us. But it is the only predator on Faloiv that has no predators of its own. Everything else on this planet is either herbivorous with no predators at all, or, if carnivorous or omnivorous, has predators that prey on it as well. The dirixi, from my limited knowledge, is a perfect killing machine. It was the subject of every cautionary tale whitecoats used to discourage us from wandering away from the Greenhouse as kids, but its terror isn’t something you grow out of. We know how big a maigno is—they wander past the Greenhouse in herds sometimes. Anything that can kill that, alone and without the help of a pack, is nothing short of a nightmare.

  “Yes,” my father says. “Certainly not as dangerous. The dirixi’s ability to smell blood from great distances makes it, well, a very sophisticated killer.”

  I take this in, still looking at the skull, then gaze around his office, its shelves lined with various stones and glass-encased plants. Other cases display objects I have no name for: something that looks like a buzzgun but smaller and shinier. A model of what looks to be some kind of vehicle, squat and green with a long rigid arm extending from its front. There is a single photograph and its scope dizzies me: a jungle of shining metal, the ground and a lake tiny and distant at the feet of the structures. I want to ask my father something, but I know he doesn’t respond well to these kinds of questions. But I’m here, I think, and who knows when I might be again.

  “Why do you have all this stuff?” I ask, resting my fingertips on one of the glass cubes.

  “As a reminder,” he says.

  “Of what?”

  “Of my parents, for one. My father helped build the structures you see in that image. He designed them.” He pauses, his eyes on the photograph, staring through a mist visible only to him. “You know, I barely remember his face. But I remember those skyscrapers. I remember that city. He dreamed those buildings, and then made them real.”

  “What about your mother?” I ask, returning my gaze to the photograph on his shelf. The gray of his eyes has gone silver with ghosts.

  “An astrophysicist. She died on the Origin Planet as well, one of the scientists who mapped the route to Faloiv. She . . .”

  He stops, and I note a pang of guilty relief in my stomach. The past has crept from the stars through the cracks around my father’s door and swirls around us. I stare at the metal jungle, thinking about my mother’s father and where his death lands in my father’s memories. I think of Draco, the driver of the Worm, and his complaints about Faloiv, his longing for dead memories. Dr. Albatur’s desires to control this planet, bend it to his will. The concepts of freedom and control and death and life feel blurry.

  “They deserved to survive,” he says finally, and my skin prickles, charged with the emotion crackling from his words. “But they did not. We did. And we must continue to do so.”

  “We are surviving,” I say. I face him again and meet his eyes, where the ghosts are shrinking as he settles his gaze on me.

  “Not on our terms.”

  I have nothing to say to that except more questions, questions I know he won’t answer.

  “Well, at least you’re not like Dr. Albatur,” I say. “You’re free to walk in the sunlight.”

  “Yes,” he says. “That may be true. But sometimes it is our weakness that drives us, and not our strength. Dr. Albatur may have to wear his red cloak for now, but it is his captivity that will drive the rest of us to the freedom we desire.”

  Something unpleasant twists in my gut. Is he talking about the Solossius, whatever that is?

  “Anyhow,” he says, leaning forward and folding his arms on his desk, “that’s not what I wanted to discuss with you. I wanted to talk about what happened in the containment room.”

  I freeze. Does he know about my inexplicable nosebleed? About what I heard, what I saw? Dread creeps into my blood but also a smaller feeling of relief. He knows: good. Let’s get this over with.

  “I know you’re afraid of going out with the collection team tomorrow,” he says hesitantly, looking down at his clasped hands. “Because . . . because of what happened to your nana. And I wanted to apologize to you for not telling you about the assignment in advance. I’m sure having it sprung on you so suddenly and in front of the group was . . . unpleasant.”

  It takes me a moment to catch on, and I stand there gaping at him. I was anticipating an admonishment and instead I’m getting an . . . apology? I can’t remember the last time my father apologized for anything.

  “It’s f-fine,” I stammer. “I’m not worried about it. It’s not like we’ll be alone.”

  He nods, relieved.

  “That’s correct. You will be supervised by the finders, of course, and from what I understand, Dr. Espada will be accompanying your group as well.”

  “Dr. Espada?” Maybe I’ll get answers after all.

  “Yes,” he says. “He used to go on collection trips quite frequently years ago. So did your mother.”

  “Mom went on collection trips?” I say, surprised. I’ve always pictured her as a lab type—the way Alma will be—crouched over slides of animals’ brain scans, taking endless notes in her slate.

  “Yes, she did,” he says. “After your nana died. I imagine your mother thought she might . . .”

  “Find Nana’s body,” I say, and swallow. We have never talked about this. The subject has been an immense black pit in our family, a canyon we don’t cross.

  “I should return you to your group,” he says, and stands slowly, looking old. It’s hard to watch him, so I don’t.

  We walk silently down the hallway from his office. On either side, the windows looking in on research rooms are empty, as they always are. We pass one window and I keep walking until I realize he has stopped.

  “This is your room,” he says, nodding at it.

  I look through the window, its bare table and empty chairs.

  “But it’s empty. Did they leave?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Security feature. All the rooms appear empty until they’re opened.” He presses his thumb and the door sweeps open, revealing the faces of my group, all eyes turned to look. I glance again at the window before I enter: it appears empty aside from an exam platform and lab equipment. An illusion of some kind.

  My father catches my arm as I go to enter the room. I can’t remember the last time my father and I embraced, and the gentleness of his grip is unfamiliar. I look up at his face, expecting him to speak, but he doesn’t. He just holds me with his eyes and I can’t describe what I see there. Sadness. Fear. But before I can ask him what’s wrong, he’s released me.

  My father doesn’t say good-bye to the group or me. The door slides shut and he’s gone, leaving the five of us staring at one another. We’re silent for a moment. I’m just beginning to wonder if they’re going to let me get away with simply starting the assignment without being questioned when Yaya drops her slate on the platform and leans forward in her seat.

  “Is there something about the animals we should know?” she says, her pretty features even more intense than usual.

  “What do you mean?” I say.

  “Your nosebleed,” she says, her large eyes darting down to my nose. I know there can’t be any lingering blood—my father would have noticed—but I swipe at my to
p lip anyway. “Do the animals make you sick? Is that why your dad took you away just now?”

  “Sick?” I say. I open my mouth to tell her she sounds ridiculous, but I realize she doesn’t. Is this the weakness my parents see in me? Is there something about the animals that makes me sick? I think of my headaches, the nosebleed, fainting . . . I feel suddenly as if I could faint again, right here. But these are things Yaya need not know. “No, there’s nothing you need to know. I’m fine.”

  I glance at Jaquot, searching for a hint that he may have told her about the Beak, but his face is purposefully blank—he’s kept my secret. I wonder for how long.

  “Are you sure?” she says. Her hands rest on either side of her slate, long elegant fingers, her beautiful dark skin in sharp contrast to the bright white clay of the platform. Looking at her hands, I almost decide to tell her. Almost. The idea of sharing my secrets with another person—especially a logical person like Yaya—seems almost like a good one: Alma and Rondo already know about my weird experiences with animals, the missing hundred N’Terrans, the spotted man, the egg . . . sharing the burden with them has helped, and maybe sharing it with two more people will help even more. But they can’t know everything.

  “It’s not the animals that are bothering me,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “It’s . . . something else.”

  “Tell me,” she says, leaning forward. Her suspicion is gone, replaced with curiosity. Her long fingers have curled into almost fists.

  “It’s the whitecoats,” I say, hoping I don’t regret this. “The elders aren’t telling us something.”

  “Such as?” Yaya says.

  Rondo’s face is expressionless, ready to go along with whatever lie he thinks I’m about to tell. But I have no intention of lying, I realize. I may not tell her everything, but if I want to know the truth about some things, it doesn’t hurt to have someone like Yaya sniffing around.

  “We came across some encrypted files. There are one hundred people from the Vagantur missing from N’Terra,” I say, watching her face go from concern to bewilderment. “And I think the whitecoats are covering it up.”

  “It’s actually one hundred and two,” Yaya says, leaning back in her chair and sighing. “And they’re not missing. They’re dead.”

  CHAPTER 16

  “What did you say?” Rondo asks, before I have a chance to form words. “Dead? What are you talking about? There’s no record of any mass casualty to the Vagantur passengers.”

  Yaya glances over my shoulder at the door, ensuring that it’s not sliding open to reveal an eavesdropping whitecoat.

  “I don’t know about any records,” Yaya says. “But of course they’re not going to keep a record of what they don’t want people to know.”

  “Well, exactly,” I say, confused by her lack of confusion. “They’re keeping it a secret. Why would they pretend that my grandfather died on the Origin Planet when he actually died on Faloiv?”

  “Oh, your grandfather was one of them?” she says, looking sorry but sounding like a robot. “That’s too bad. I’m sorry, but at least you know he didn’t just disappear.”

  He did just disappear: he’s not on a casualty list. I look at Jaquot, my mouth hanging open, to see if he’s anywhere as unbothered as Yaya. But he’s lost too: his eyes dart from me to Yaya, searching for a side to take. I know if it comes down to it, he’ll take hers.

  “What are you talking about?” Alma demands. Our slates lie forgotten on the platform.

  “Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” Yaya shrugs, her eyes wide. “The Faloii killed them all.”

  I gawk at her, my mouth still open, trying to make sense of what she’s saying.

  “How—how do you know?” I manage to get out.

  “Well, I didn’t lose any grandparents. But my grandmother always told me about her old friend from the Vagantur, Dr. LaQuinta Farrow, who never made it to N’Terra. I remember hearing that name all the time growing up: Dr. LaQuinta Farrow. Dr. LaQuinta Farrow. And, well, my grandmother died last year—she was very old; don’t feel bad—and in the last few months she talked a lot about things none of us really understood. And she started talking about Dr. LaQuinta Farrow again, and how it was so sad that she never got to see N’Terra, all because of the Faloii. She called them murderers.”

  It’s an interesting theory, but I don’t like it.

  “How did you know about the missing one hundred? Or—whatever—the missing one hundred and two?” Rondo’s fingers are tapping a soundless rhythm on his thigh.

  “My grandmother. She always said ‘One hundred and one, gone. Plus LaQuinta.’ She’d say it all the time. My mom always shushed her, like it was confidential and she shouldn’t be saying it.”

  “Did your mother know? About the missing?” Alma asks.

  Yaya shrugs. “She said she doesn’t remember a LaQuinta Farrow. She was too young to know anything about the elders on the Vagantur. But I believe my grandmother.”

  “So wait,” I say. “Your only evidence is stuff your grandmother said on her deathbed?”

  “Octavia,” Alma says in a hushed voice, sounding like my mother.

  Yaya looks indignant and jerks her neck. “No,” she says. “Your encrypted files are evidence too.”

  “Evidence that one hundred people are missing,” I say, resisting the urge to jerk my neck as well. “Not that one hundred people were murdered by the Faloii.”

  “It only makes sense,” Yaya argues, sitting forward in her chair again. “Where else would they have gone? Boarded another starship and flew away? Impossible.”

  I bite my lip. This is different from the time I sought to disprove Yaya’s theory on dunikai migration. When I learned the circumstances of my grandfather’s death were a lie, some part of me believed that meant he might still be alive. Something inside me wilts.

  “I don’t want to be cruel,” Yaya says, her tone gentler now, some of the mechanical pitch easing. “But the likelihood that the Faloii killed the hundred and two is high.”

  “There’s no record of a landing war,” I say.

  “There’s no record of the hundred and two either,” Yaya says. “If anything, their deaths have been kept a secret to keep us from waging war or something. That’s why the whitecoats don’t tell us much about the Faloii. They threatened us.”

  “A blood agreement,” Jaquot says, and I grit my teeth to keep from snapping at him. I don’t want to hear about blood.

  “Let’s just work,” I say. “We have to get this finished before we go into the jungle.”

  No one says anything. I pick up my slate and pretend to stare at the words on its screen for what feels like ages before the others follow suit. For a while I think they’re not actually reading either: the air is tight with tension. But eventually it fades as they all fall into the assignment, absorbing the regulations we’ll need to know for our trip outside the compound tomorrow. I don’t read, however. I stare at the words, watching them blur together. I think about my father, his office filled with things he barely remembers, his parents’ bones somewhere far away. My mother tells me he’d gotten close to her mother before the Vagantur’s landing—his own parents hadn’t made it in time. My mother told me the story only once, but it’s burned in my memory as if I saw it myself: my father’s father bringing him to the Vagantur, then going back to the chaos, searching feverishly for his wife. They never made it back. It must have been terrible to lose first his birth parents and then Nana on Faloiv too, after she had become something of a mother figure for him. No wonder my parents had partnered: after so much loss, they had to come together. I think of my father in the compound that night with the spotted man—had that been why he tranquilized him? Is this why the spotted man was in our compound? Some long-stewing conflict that had begun before I was born? Eventually the idea of the assignment feels less taxing than my own thoughts, and I begin to read, trying to put the idea of my grandfather’s blood out of my mind.

  Alma and I agreed to go to sleep early to prepa
re for the collection trip the next day, and it’s close to midnight when the soft wooden clink of my slate wakes me. I was studying when I fell asleep and my fingers bump the hard edge of the device down by my hip. I sleepily pull it up to my face, squinting at the brightness of the screen.

  Bridge, says the message from Rondo, and I suck my teeth at the fact that his messages get more and more abbreviated. I lie there, and consider ignoring him and going back to sleep. It’s the middle of the night. But the fact that it’s the middle of the night is what drives me to sit up in bed, nearly smacking my head on Alma’s cot above me. I duck, listening. She breathes steadily, deeply. Asleep. Like I should be.

  I swing my feet to the floor, still deciding. I’m wearing my loose nightclothes, the woven pants slithering against the tops of my feet, the white shirt glowing against my skin. If I get up, I think, I’m not getting dressed. It’s too much work to pull on the tight, stretchy skinsuit, let alone my chest wrap.

  The wooden sound clinks again. I groan silently and look at the slate.

  Door.

  There’s the flutter of wings in my stomach with the realization that Rondo is outside my ’wam. Wide awake now, I stand and step softly over to the door, sliding it open an inch at a time to avoid waking Alma. I pad down the hall to the front of the ’wam, praying both my parents are either deeply asleep or deep in their work in the Zoo. The kitchen is black except for the faint white light coming through the single window, moonlight guiding my path.

  The ’wam door whispers open and I hold my breath, expecting to find Rondo there waiting. But there’s no one. The heat of the main dome slides inside the doorway and washes over me. I’ve never worn my nightclothes outside before, and without a chest wrap, the flowing cloth of my shirt and pants lets the air crawl up inside the fabric and run over my skin. I cross my arms over my chest in case Rondo is watching.