A Conspiracy of Stars

by Olivia A. Cole

  “Rasimbukar,” I say out loud.

  Nothing at first, just the increasing clarity, blurred edges of thoughts becoming close enough to read clearly.

  I am here, she tells me.

  Where?

  In the trees.

  I squint at the tree line a hundred yards away. Though I can see nothing, I feel her there, can almost imagine the dots on her forehead arranging and rearranging in a shifting frown.

  They took my mother, I tell her.

  Yes.

  Are they going to hurt her?

  I do not know. But your mother is brave. Intelligent. She will do what she needs to do.

  “I didn’t know we were breaking the rules,” I say out loud without meaning to, and I find myself sending her my memories of the day’s events: the zunile, the smell of death, my disgust.

  She immediately sends me back her own revulsion, a wave of nausea, despair—and rage—that nearly doubles me over with its intensity. She isn’t gentle: she pushes it through the tunnel to me and doesn’t withdraw it until I’m physically gagging.

  This is only one of the things your people have done, she tells me, finally withdrawing her disgust from my mind. Now there may be war. You must return my father.

  “I’m trying,” I plead, again saying the words out loud as well as thinking them.

  Tonight, she tells me, and I comprehend her desperation, her anger. If Dr. Albatur could feel these things—if my father could—I wonder if they would still do the things they do.

  Do your people know we have him? I ask.

  No. But I will have no choice but to tell them if I do not see my father tonight. I will wait no longer.

  And then she’s gone.

  CHAPTER 25

  I reenter the Mammalian Compound’s main dome amid a flurry of children. Dr. Yang had discovered me outside the Greenhouse and insisted I join the kids on their Worms back home. They scurry through the trees back to the commune, oblivious to the dark cloud that hovers over N’Terra. They know nothing of war. Neither do I. But I’m starting to see how one begins.

  Something is different. A smell, a sound. I can’t pinpoint it, and it nags at me as I walk slowly down the path toward the communal dome. Here and there whitecoats walk in pairs on their way to the labs or toward the entrance to leave for another compound. They whisper, which isn’t unusual, but something about the way they whisper needles at me: their heads bend toward each other, the slightest hunch in their shoulders as they exchange words. I stand aside for two of them on the path and see their eyes dart at me, momentarily silent, before they resume conversation after they’ve passed. It’s only when I’m on the path again, walking between the striped trunks of the ogwe, that it hits me.

  I don’t smell anything.

  The comforting, complicated smell of the trees, their interlocking scent that always fills my nose but that no one else seems to notice, is gone. I stop abruptly on the path, and inhale deeply, desperately. I pick up the vaguest scent of something in the air: I can’t decipher it. I think of what my mother had said: There’s more, baby. Does that mean . . . ? I reach into my mind and open the tunnel, just a little.

  The scent slithers into my head, a hollow empty smell that makes my stomach clench. I don’t know what it is and I’ve never smelled it before, but it’s being emitted by the ogwe trees. The comforting scent that usually fills my body when I’m around them has been yanked away. The trees no longer comfort me: they warn me. It’s almost as if they’re whispering to me, their whispers in the form of smells, expressing caution.

  “Miss English.”

  A voice startles me, interrupting my thoughts, and I almost mistake it for the trees, murmuring to me. But it’s a whitecoat with long curly hair tied back at the nape of his neck. I recognize him vaguely from the Zoo: angular features and dark eyes.

  “Your father has been looking for you,” he says.

  I glance quickly up and down the whitecoat’s body, looking for a tranq gun or some other thing he might use to subdue me. But this man doesn’t seem to mean any harm. He holds his slate loosely under his arm, his eyes sharp in shape but soft in expression.

  “He’s very upset,” he says.

  “Upset?”

  “Yes, I think something has happened with your mother. I’m not sure what.” My face must betray some hint of emotion, because he extends a hand toward me, stopping short of touching me. “She’s all right. But Dr. Albatur seems to be under the impression that she’s . . . done something. I’ve never heard of the Council making an arrest—this is all very strange. But find your father. I just saw him leave the labs headed for the commune.”

  My thanks is barely strong enough to make it past my teeth.

  My steps slow when I reach the stairs that lead into the compound—the dread of facing my father presses against my sternum like a heavy wind, almost pushing me backward. I wearily make my way down the packed-dirt stairs one at a time.

  Movement below catches my eye and I pause by my favorite flowers, their stems and petals curling away from me, slowly turning the deep blue of their evening shade. Down where the ’wams begin, a cluster of people has gathered, and the rising sound of a commotion reaches my ears.

  Six gray-clad guards are spread out before a crowd of people who live in the Paw. Most still wear their white coats from the labs, a few are shopkeepers and wear skinsuits of various colors. From this height, I can’t make out any of their identities: just the colors of their clothing. I know not who but what each of them is. I can remember a time when I would have given anything to be wearing one of those white coats, to know that even a far-off eye would see me wearing it and know what I was. Now it seems stupid: Wearing it now would mean what, exactly? To Rasimbukar’s eyes, it might mean that I’m an invader; an alien who came to this planet in supposed peace and then brutalized the people and creatures who were here first.

  I descend a few more steps to get a better look at what’s happening in the commune. The commotion has increased in volume. By the time I find myself near the bottom of the steps, the outrage in the voices is like a collection of smoldering coals. Everyone is angry, but the presence of the buzzguns covers the heat in a layer of ash.

  “This is ridiculous!” one woman in a white coat squawks, gesturing with small, tight movements of her hands. I’m not close enough to see the expression on her face, but her voice teeters between anger and fear. “I’ve never heard of the Council coming into people’s homes this way! What is the meaning of this?”

  I can’t hear the guards’ responses, if they answer at all. Two other gray-suited guards come out of a ’wam on the edge of the commune, the inhabitant of the ’wam following them, gesturing angrily.

  “Anything?” the guards outside call.

  “Nothing.”

  The guard raises his voice to address the small crowd of people.

  “We’re all through now, everyone. Back to your business.”

  He turns to go, nodding at his cohorts, but the same woman in the white coat shouts after them.

  “You barge into our homes to look for something—you won’t tell us what—and when you don’t find it, you just leave? What kind of nonsense is this? I’ll be talking to Dr. English about this!”

  “He already knows,” a guard says.

  I move closer. Why are they searching people’s ’wams?

  “Dr. English believes that there may be something in the compound that shouldn’t be,” the guard who seems to be in charge shouts. “We’re checking ’wams for your own safety.”

  This sends a ripple of uneasy chatter through the crowd. I can almost see the vagueness of the guard’s statement taking the form of many fears—I picture Dr. Albatur puffing a pipe and blowing Faloii-shaped smoke figures across the commune.

  “The goal is to not cause any panic,” the guard says, turning away from her again, headed toward the elevator with the others. “Go back to your meals. Everything is fine.”

  They disappear into the elevator and the
door slides shut behind them. The small crowd of people stands grumbling, close together like a herd of nervous animals.

  I continue past the crowd, the sound of their anger fading as I walk quickly down the path toward my ’wam. “Something in the compound that shouldn’t be.” What if it’s Rasimbukar’s father? I pass through the shadow of the tower, the sound of engineers’ hammers clattering as if against my skull. Would Adombukar hurt anyone? Any inclination toward understanding that he had before has probably disappeared now that he’s been kept prisoner in our labs for weeks. At my door, I hastily swipe my palm across the lock.

  My father is sitting on one of the plain clay chairs in the small seating area outside our kitchen. There’s no slate in his hands, no box of slides nearby. He merely slumps there, staring at the brushed dirt floor, and raises his eyes to my face when I stop just inside the door. I almost speak, but his face catches my tongue. His gray eyes are red, swollen; his expression slack and empty like a ghost who has only just realized he’s a ghost. His lips part to whisper, “Octavia. You’re home.”

  “What’s going on?”

  I almost call him “Dad,” but my mouth won’t let me say it. I was prepared for a fight: to face down his coldness with coldness of my own. But the man in front of me is too weak to be cold. His eyes are wet, not frozen.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” he says. He stands up, an action that looks like it requires all but a drop of the energy in his body.

  “Are you okay?” I’ve never seen him like this.

  “All I have ever wanted is to keep you safe,” he says, closing his eyes and rubbing one temple. “To build a world that you can be proud of, a world that will never disappoint you.”

  “Sir . . .”

  He opens his eyes and stares at me. They’re less wet, the look in them harder than before.

  “Your mother and I know what it’s like to lose our home. We didn’t want you to ever know that pain—we wanted you to be free of it. We worked together with the other scientists to do what it takes to ensure our future. Your mother and I had a common goal.”

  I stare at him, speechless.

  “I may have been wrong about that last part,” he adds helplessly, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling. He blinks hard several times. When he sighs, it’s the sound of an old man.

  “Sir . . .”

  “Did you know the Faloii can speak to the animals?” he says, his voice sharpening now. It’s the sound of a stone being carved into a knife.

  “Sir?” I try to imagine my voice as a stone as well. Give away nothing.

  He’s blinking, but it’s as if he’s clearing something from his eyes.

  “The telepathy, they can communicate with the animals. And each other, of course—all in their minds. Your mother didn’t want me to know. She pretends not to understand the significance. But she isn’t stupid, Octavia. No, she isn’t stupid.” I get the feeling that he’s talking to himself, and I don’t interrupt as he continues. “There’s more to it than speech. I don’t understand it yet, but there’s power in that connection. Do you know what we could have done if we’d known sooner? Harnessing the power of these animals, of the Faloii . . . N’Terra could have been a city by now. A kingdom. We don’t know, but we will.”

  When he stops he has fixed his eyes on me, their pupils shifting slightly as they explore my features. I wonder if he’s seeing my eyes that look like his, or the cheekbones and nose that are like my mother. I want to cover my face.

  “Sir, what is going on?” I say.

  He takes a step toward me.

  “Why did your mother take you to the Greenhouse?” he says. His voice is like a needle pushing through my skin. “Why did you go see Dr. Espada?”

  “I—she . . .” I fumble for a lie. “My hands were hurting. From touching that vine in the jungle. It was keeping me from working in the labs. She said Dr. Espada had a salve.”

  “Did she take anything with her?” he demands. “What did she have with her when you two left?”

  “Did she take anything? No—what do you mean?”

  “The guards were here a little while ago,” he says. “Do you know what they were looking for?”

  “A—a specimen escaped from the labs,” I say. “That’s what people are saying.”

  “A specimen?” He almost laughs. “No, they’re not looking for a specimen. They were looking for something else.”

  Is he talking about Adombukar? Would he really describe him as a thing?

  “The kawa, Octavia,” he says. “Have you seen it?”

  “The—the what?” I know that word. I’ve heard Rasimbukar speak it.

  His hand jerks out and in one forceful motion, sweeps the old photo of my grandparents off the wall. The glass that encases their faces, the old gold frame, shatters against the door to our ’wam. My hands clamp over my mouth, the pulse of my palm racing against my lips.

  “The kawa, Octavia!” he shouts. “The egg! Did your mother bring it into this house? Did she take it to the Greenhouse?”

  I’m trembling. The egg. The egg is the kawa?

  He closes the gap between us now and it takes everything in me not to stumble backward, away from him. He stands in front of me gazing down, all the sadness leaked from his body and replaced with an immense anger.

  “An egg?” I say. My voice trembles. “Dad, I don’t know about any eggs.”

  He turns his back on me and walks across the room, passing the chair and reaching the kitchen. On the platform rests the lopsided bowl my grandmother had made long before I was born. He takes it in his hands, and for a moment I think perhaps the sight of it has cooled his rage. Then he lifts it high over his head and sends it crashing to the floor, a thousand pieces of Nana exploding across the ’wam.

  I run. I’m out of the ’wam in a flash, ignoring the sound of my father shouting my name. I make it all the way to the tower before I stop to catch my breath. Tears won’t come—my shock is a tourniquet. Here, in the center of the commune, more people have come to congregate; returning home and learning from their neighbors about what Albatur sent the guards to do. The fear on my face must blend in with the expressions of those around me: no one gives me a second look. I comb the crowd—no Rondo, no Alma. They can’t still be in the Zoo: it’s too late in the day. All of the interns would have been sent home by now. Or maybe they’re holding them there on my father’s orders, demanding to know where I am.

  The thought is like the first snap of a spark that starts a fire. The blaze of fear spreads, and I weave in and out of the crowd, jogging when I break free, then sprinting toward Rondo’s ’wam.

  I arrive, panting. I’ve never been inside, only passed by, but his ’wam is the only one in its cluster that doesn’t have anything hanging on its door, nothing to decorate it. It’s plain in its white-clay eggness. I approach the door, too nervous to lay my palm against the lockpad. But I do, and I vaguely hear the soft, melodic tone inside the ’wam that alerts its inhabitants to a visitor.

  The door slides open almost immediately and I gasp. I expected to stand there waiting for a while, if not forever. I also expected one of Rondo’s parents to answer the door, but instead I find Alma in front of me.

  “Alma?”

  “Octavia!”

  She throws her arms around me, her enormous hair covering my face.

  “Alma, what are you doing here? Are Rondo’s parents home?”

  She releases me from the hug and pulls me inside.

  “No, they’re both in the Zoo. When Rondo and I left for the day, we went straight to your house to see if you were there since we couldn’t find you. But it was just your dad and he was acting really weird. So we left and came here.”

  “I was just there.” I nod. “He’s freaking out. My mother . . .”

  “Was taken to the Council,” Alma says, biting her lip. “I know. Oh, stars! Do you know what’s going to happen?”

  “No.” I shake my head and sit down. “I don’t know what they know. But my
dad is mad. Madder than I’ve ever seen him. He knows about the egg—”

  Alma’s hand shoots out and covers my mouth.

  “Wait, wait,” she says, jerking her head over her shoulder.

  With her hand still over my lips, I lean forward and peer down the hallway. Rondo’s bedroom door is open, light spilling out into the corridor.

  “Jaquot’s father is here,” she says, lowering her hand.

  Jaquot’s sleeping platform has already been dissolved, the pavi extract having done its work. Rondo sits on the remaining bed. At the desk, a man in a white coat stands with an open container, Jaquot’s few belongings inside. I’ve never seen Jaquot’s father, but I recognize the same green eyes, the same sharp cheekbones.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, sir,” I say from the doorway.

  He doesn’t turn right away, but when he does, I’m surprised by his eyes. When Nana died, my mother’s eyes had turned soft with grief. Jaquot’s father’s are hard; their shine is wet jade.

  “Another friend of my son’s,” he says.

  “Yes, sir,” I say.

  “You were in the jungle that day?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He turns away from the desk. “And did you see the beast?” he says. “The beast they say killed my boy?”

  “No, sir.” I swallow. “I heard it. But I didn’t see it.”

  “Perhaps it was a different beast,” he says. “One we know less about.”