by Karen Bao
“Sometimes I go in to evaluate my underlings—Dovetail’s got a few moles in the Shelter Assistance Program, by the way—but not today. Corporal named Cressida Psi has the 14:00 patrol. You can try your luck, but don’t take that as encouragement. Cressida’s . . . difficult. If you need help—and let’s face it, you probably will—keep this name in mind: Tarazed Pi. Psychology assistant working in Shelter—a recent transfer from Base II. Goes by ‘Zee’ around the kids he experiments on. He’s pleasant enough, though he’s got a really prim way of talking. But don’t let that annoy you—you can go to him in a pinch.”
A trainee ahead of us calls Yinha’s name. Before he can ask who I am, I beeline for the Defense lobby, hoping I can catch Cressida’s unit on its way out.
A Base II transfer with prim speech habits—named Pi. . . . Could it be Penny? I wonder if this mystery man is indeed Lazarus. Yinha apparently trusts “Tarazed,” so he’s on Dovetail’s side. Why wouldn’t Lazarus oppose the Committee, anyway? He seemed to hate them when we last spoke.
If it is Lazarus, and if he has access to Shelter, I need his help to reach my family. My instincts tell me to rush to him right away, but I can’t blindly trust that he’ll act in my best interests, knowing his top priority is the Odan collective good—and that he broke off his engagement to Murray. I wonder what reasons he had for hurting her so badly.
I’ll only ask him for aid if no one else can help me.
These thoughts carry me within a few meters of the Defense doors. Five Pygmette speeders crouch near the wall. Four privates and a corporal occupy the first two, and several other privates are running toward the remaining vehicles. I check the lobby clock: 13:38, a little more than twenty minutes before Cressida’s unit’s shift. But could these people be . . .
The corporal straddling the first Pygmette in line looks up from her handscreen, upon which she’s furiously typing. Perhaps a command to call in her troops? I start lifting my left hand to look her up on my handscreen—and then stop, remembering that it doesn’t work anymore. Losing access to the wealth of information I used to have makes me more frustrated than scared. I should be scared.
The mystery corporal flips up her visor, revealing a pallid face, arched black eyebrows, eyes violet and piercing like laser fire. I shrink back in fear despite the distance between us. There’s something familiar about her, but I can’t place it. Then her red lips pull back in a sneer, and she screeches, “There’s trouble in Shelter! Patrols need reinforcements—move move move!”
Trouble? Could it involve Anka and Umbriel? Unlike me, my sister never learned to filter her words, which once conveyed only a little girl’s universe: explanations of her inventive drawings, diatribes against Primary bullies, swoons over a first crush. But in the weeks before Mom’s trial, Anka got frustrated. Angry. For her own sake, I hope that Shelter has dulled her light. On the Moon, only the dimmest people remain safe.
A fifth private now occupies the front seat of the third Pygmette. This is my chance—in the heat of the moment, Cressida, if that’s who the violet-eyed officer is, won’t be taking attendance. I sprint forward and sit behind him. The private looks panicked, ready to hit the accelerator before a higher-up calls him out.
Indeed, four soldiers board the last two Pygmettes within seconds, and we lift off, leaving one private running and waving her arms behind us—the private whose spot I stole. She jumps onto a sixth craft, all by herself, tries to fire it up with fingerprint access, and fails. Dumb idea. Whomever it’s been assigned to will be annoyed to see that she tried to take a joyride.
The private sitting in front of me twists around, causing the ship to jerk. “Hey! You’re not in our unit!” he yells.
“Corporal didn’t like her performance,” I say, referring to the private we left behind. “Obvious reasons. So she sent me instead. Keep your eyes on the hall or you’ll get the boot too.”
“Oh . . . whoa!” Unwilling to question a superior’s judgment, the private faces forward and narrowly misses crashing into a zucchini display in the Market Department. We both exhale.
We reach the end of a hallway, and the Atrium, Base IV’s expansive central hub, opens up before us. The private whose waist I’m holding steers our Pygmette over the crowd’s heads, which allows me to watch the wall screens, each of which shows something different.
PHAET THETA: REWARD = 10,000,000 SPUTNIKS, blares the scrolling text on one screen. GUILTY OF DISRUPTIVE SPEECH, INSUBORDINATION, ASSAULT, BRIBERY, THEFT, CONSPIRACY, AND TREASON. In the background is a picture of my face in washed-out gray scale; shadows cluster under my eyes and cheekbones. I look malicious and exhausted all at once, exactly the way they want.
The next screen shows an image of WEZN KAPPA. He’s got a similar list of crimes—except he’s committed ESPIONAGE and HACKING instead of BRIBERY. Eight crimes, not seven. He always did one-up me during training.
The dull ache of missing him takes me over. It doesn’t retreat until I notice a screen showing Representative Andromeda Chi’s glowing silhouette against a backdrop of black and white, the colors of the Lunar flag. REELECT ANDROMEDA CHI AS COMMITTEE REPRESENTATIVE, reads the notice. APRIL 1, 2348. I shake my head. Andromeda was never elected in the first place. As Yinha said, the Committee has kept its promise to hold democratic elections across the six bases, despite the supposed risk of losing power. But they still haven’t revealed their faces, as the persistence of Andromeda’s silhouette shows.
An ad for HARTLEY NU appears on the next screen over. He’s an old man I’ve never heard of, with three chins, a hooked nose, and indifferent eyes. ARE YOU TIRED OF WAR? asks the text of his ad. I am, but the bases are in it so deep that I doubt Hartley could stop it even if he were elected.
As if mocking him, the screens across the Atrium show the flag of our Earthbound ally: a white Pacifian fist punching the yellow sun. The image’s red background lends the Atrium the glow of early morning light. Has the Committee publicly admitted to working with Pacifia?
TOGETHER, WE WILL SLAY THE BAY! says the ad. Apparently so.
My thoughts spin in tight circles. An upcoming election, a war on Earth, Militia involvement in Shelter—none of it quite fits together, but I know the Committee’s planning something sinister. Someone, or something, has to depose them before those plans reach fruition. Otherwise, no place on the Moon, the Earth, or the space in between will be safe from their lethal reach.
25
SHELTER SOUNDS LIKE A BEEHIVE. ALTHOUGH this place is full to bursting, it’s half as bright in here as I remember. Many of the ceiling’s fluorescent lights have lost power, and the gloom makes everything seem older, filthier. Near the center of the vast dome, Militia patrols from the last shift are firing Downers at hundreds of restless, dirt-smeared people—I assume they’re Dovetail members. Residents who moved in before the rebellion must also be here, but they’re probably the people cowering on the periphery.
We zip toward the chaos, my eyes checking every figure we pass for a hint of familiarity. Where are Anka and Umbriel? I can’t reach them soon enough, though I don’t know what I’ll do when I get there.
Within seconds, the stink of Shelter creeps under my helmet, threatening to gag me. The Shelter Assistance Program, which the Committee instituted in the wake of Mom’s arrest to improve the residents’ quality of life, has put up tents for what appears to be a Psychology study. The clear plastic Medical tent is in its old spot, off to the side. Wes worked there before he joined the Militia, dashing out once in a while to help kids like Belinda.
Our Pygmettes reach the edge of the Dovetail crowd. Every rider save one dismounts and points a tranquilizing gun at the Shelter residents. I imitate them. Our leader, the tall corporal, stands atop her Pygmette’s seat so that she towers over everyone.
Silence falls. It’s as if someone has pushed the mute button on the entire dome.
“You are nothing!” She lets out a sharp laugh.
It’s like a dagger to my eardrums. “Scum! The dissident you saw beaten today was scum!”
CORPORAL CRESSIDA PSI appears on the nearby Shelter residents’ handscreens.
Cressida raises her arms, daring anyone to contradict her. “In exchange for the right to congregate here, you Dovetailers promised the Committee you’d behave. But you’ve broken that promise—for the thirty-ninth time in six months.”
Oh. Dovetail made a deal with the Committee—that’s how so many people ended up living here. The Committee couldn’t disband or eliminate them because of their sheer numbers. Word would get out, and after Sol’s mass broadcast, they probably couldn’t afford more bad publicity.
“You!” Cressida points her Lazy at a hunchbacked old woman. “Let’s see if your ears still work. What right do you have to dispute the Committee’s rule? What is Dovetail, compared to the rightful government of the Moon?”
“N-nothing, ma’am,” the woman stutters, clutching her chest. She looks like she might collapse from fear. But then she straightens and clears her throat. “But the Girl Sage is more than you’ll ever be.”
“Yeah, the Sage’ll come for us,” says a young boy standing near the old woman. “My mum told me that a comet fell on her when she was a baby and turned her hair all silver.”
I inhale sharply, causing one of the privates to glance my way. Me? A sage? Have the rebels turned me into a ridiculous legend? If so, I’ll have a harder time hiding; someone might recognize me and alert the Militia to my presence.
A Beetle scurries toward the boy, truncheon in hand. “I’ll shut him up, Corporal.”
“Not yet, Private—stay right there.” The little color remaining in Cressida’s face drains away. She turns again to the crowd. “Phaet Theta is a coward. She and that traitor boy fled to Earth. They’re either dead or in hiding. Your Girl Sage didn’t give two grits about you. If she did, she’d have come back by now.”
If only they could know I have. I seethe silently as the people around me murmur among themselves. I scan their dirt-covered faces, looking for two in particular.
Cressida shakes her head. “When the Militia took Mira Theta into custody, do you know what Phaet did? No? Well, I was there. She hid behind her scrawny friend and cried for mommy. Your Girl Sage did nothing to stop us. Even when we smacked her mommy in the head with our truncheons. Even when we dragged her out by her arms.”
My entire body trembles, and I can almost feel the hot fury rolling off my skin. Cressida was there, hurting Mom, and she laughed as she did it.
She started everything.
“Yes.” Pride suffuses Cressida’s voice. “I helped put away Mira Theta, one of the most heinous criminals in base history.”
Silence. I can almost see a wave pass over the crowd as everyone takes in her words. Then—
“Shut up!” The scream is like glass breaking.
Cressida’s violet eyes narrow. “What did you say?”
“You heard me.” The girl pushes past the Dovetail members in front of her, shoving them aside in her haste to reach Cressida. Her skin hugs her bones; her hair is a hopeless mess of tangles and grime. But even in her anger, her face is fixed in a stern, powerful expression. “I told you, SHUT UP!”
Anka! I stop the scream before it can escape my body.
“Get back!” A boy, taller than I remember, chases after her. Umbriel! Someone’s hacked off the wavy black hair that once dangled into his eyes, revealing a pronounced widow’s peak and strong brow. What’s left of the fuzz on his scalp looks like velvet. His face is square, his jaw a hard line. He looks more like Atlas, his father, than the friend I knew.
Anka doesn’t stop. “Get out, Corporal, and take your stupid lies with you. No one talks like that about my family!”
Cressida sneers. “I just did.”
Order implodes. Dovetail members scatter, some trying to push Anka forward, others struggling to pull her back. Forgetting my Militia disguise, I sprint into the mass of people and see with a spike of dread that Anka’s evaded the well-intentioned Dovetailers. She expertly dodges the melee, sprinting forward to a position beside Cressida’s speeder.
“I see.” Cressida looks down her nose at Anka, who stands two and a half meters below. “Just like her sister.”
She leaps from the Pygmette, drawing a glass truncheon from her belt. “Did Mira and Phaet fail to teach you a lesson?” she shouts at the ragged crowd. “Then let this Theta be an example to every last one of you!”
“No,” I whisper.
I try to push my way to Anka, but the mass of people is too dense. Through the gaps between bodies, I see Umbriel burst from the crowd and try once again to pull Anka to safety. But it’s too late. Cressida and three of her underlings club my sister with their truncheons, the grace of their movements making their brutality all the more horrifying. Umbriel tries to shield Anka with his body, but this only earns him blows as well. He looks like a flailing stick insect, brown-robed and horribly thin among the well-nourished soldiers.
Lying on the floor beside him, Anka’s transformed by a kind of dignified fury. “I’m not my sister, Umbriel—I don’t need you to protect me.” Her eyes are wide and perceptive, not clenched shut.
I manage to come within an arm’s length of them. I need to end this—
“Private!” calls Cressida. She means me. “Get to work! Where’s your truncheon?”
She wants me to beat my own sister. My hand drifts to my utility belt, wraps around the glass rod, lifts it out of its restraining loop of fabric. If I don’t start soon, Cressida will pull off my helmet, discover Phaet Theta’s face underneath, and send me straight to the Committee. The thought of their looming silhouettes fills me with fear, and I nearly drop the truncheon.
Do it, I tell myself. You can’t help Anka if you’ve gone the same way as Cygnus.
The saliva dries in my mouth. The rod rises, almost against my will—
“That is enough!” shouts a man’s voice.
The truncheon falls from my hand, glances off my foot, and rolls away. A tall, straight-backed figure emerges from one of the white tents and strides toward us. He has wavy black hair parted down the side of his head and wears a Psychology Department badge—the letter , with two snakes and angel wings crawling up the central tine—pinned to his cobalt Pi robes.
Cressida backs away from my sister, staring at the newcomer. Color rushes to her pale cheeks.
The man pivots to face different sections of the crowd, taking his time. What seems to have affected Cressida as much as his authority is his beauty: he has dark, sloping eyebrows and a face like a perfect ellipse, its smooth curves disrupted only by the corners of his jawbones. His lips are bow-shaped, his light brown skin clean-shaven and glowing.
His eyes, the color of new summer leaves, slide to mine. They’re brilliant but patient, as if lit by the late afternoon sun. His lips twitch almost imperceptibly, and then his gaze moves onward.
“I’m—I’m sorry, Mr. Tarazed.” The pitch of Cressida’s voice rises with every syllable. “I forgot myself. Captain Yinha said to discuss possible punishments of prominent Dovetail members with . . . with either you or Dr. Biela.”
“Yes, Cressida,” the man says softly. “Would you remind our kind spectators why approval from one of us is necessary?”
That voice . . . I scrutinize the newcomer, remembering the pain that suffused it when he warned me about the impending attack on Saint Oda, and then said he needed to reveal my identity to Wesley Sr.
Tarazed Pi—the man I’m now sure is Lazarus Penny—makes a fluid gesture with one hand. Cressida regurgitates something she’s obviously memorized: “We don’t want the punishment of one to lead to the uprising of a thousand.”
“Precisely.” The Psychology worker smiles with one side of his mouth, revealing a sharp canine. It’s the only aggressive-looking feature on his face. “In additio
n, it seems to have escaped you and your Militia entourage that I am performing biweekly obedience experiments on Anka Theta and her ilk. The Committee is expecting results, and I cannot claim statistical significance if you insist on introducing extra variables. A short clarification: do not strike her again. I will speak to Anka now, and I require one of your soldiers as an assistant—this one, perhaps.”
He takes my arm, and I tense up involuntarily.
“Relax, little one,” he whispers in my ear. “My office is a sanctuary for all.”
His voice is a sedative for my nerves.
Blushing, Cressida slides her visor down, straddles her Pygmette, and motions to her other troops to move out. She didn’t even check my identity.
As they zip away, Anka and I follow the Psychologist toward the cluster of tents. He bends and whispers in my ear, his tone as smooth as I remember from that fateful conversation in the Carlyles’ basement. I feel as if my entire body has been submerged in warm liquid soap.
“I never anticipated our first interaction occurring like this,” Lazarus Penny says. “But I am pleased to meet you, Girl Sage.”
26
ANKA’S HAND IS WARM IN MINE, her cheek pressed against my shoulder. “I knew you’d come back!” she says in a hoarse whisper.
On the emptier side of Shelter, we enter a tent that Tarazed Pi shares with his lab’s principal investigator, Biela Upsilon.
“I knew it,” Anka goes on, “and I told everyone, even though the Beetles said again and again that you were dead. I knew they were wrong! They could’ve sent all six base Militias after you, and they’d still never catch you.”
Lazarus lifts the front flap of the tent and touches my shoulder with the fingertips of his other hand, guiding my sister and me inside. He scans his thumbprint by the door, and a recording of my sister’s screams begins to play, horrifying in their volume and intensity. I can hardly focus on Anka’s words, on my joy at seeing her. Screams of my own threaten to burst from my lips.
