by Karen Bao
But he hasn’t forgiven me, and he shouldn’t have to wake to the sight of me. To put distance between us, I step over my sister’s sleeping form, which is curled into a ball, lie down next to her, and close my eyes.
Just before I begin to dream, Anka gives my shoulder a gentle shake. She was awake all along.
“Phaet? You’re here? I thought they’d catch you if—”
“Shh,” I say.
She stops talking, but only for a moment.
“I’ve wanted to ask you something. . . .”
I nod.
“I know I’m too old for bedtime stories, but will you tell me more about Murray? Why doesn’t Zee like her?”
“He doesn’t have a problem with her,” I say. Only a whole lot of memories. Perhaps he doesn’t want to remember how he breached Odan mores. But how to explain that in a manner appropriate for a twelve-year-old? Funny that I’m still trying to shield Anka after all she’s seen and done for Dovetail in my absence. But . . . she’s my little sister.
“They’re very different people,” I say haltingly. “They used to be . . . friends. But they had a misunderstanding. Murray remembers everything about their time together. Zee doesn’t, or he tries not to.”
“That’s dumb. If Murray gave half her memories to Zee, they’d be even, right? Maybe then they could make up. Meet in the middle. Like if you talked more and Umbriel listened more, you guys would’ve fixed your misunderstanding earlier.”
Could it be that simple? Anka laughs at the surprise on my face. “He wants you to say something first. Your fight’s getting old.”
She’s so wise sometimes; I can’t believe she’s four years younger than me. The dark obscures her features, all but her wide, gleaming eyes. They see much more than I’ve given her credit for. Who’s the real girl sage here?
“But what if he doesn’t . . .” I can’t get the words out.
“Forgive you? You have to try anyway. You’re going on that rescue mission together, and if you’re not mad at each other anymore, I know you’ll make it out alive. Both of you, and Cygnus too. I just know it.”
Anka’s optimism is infectious. I imagine her speaking to a crowd, inspiring them to take action; this phoenix, encouraging the struggling members of Dovetail to rise up from the ashes. Mom would be proud.
“You’re going to be awesome,” she says. “It’s time I had all of you back.”
* * *
April 1, 2348, arrives. Today, Lunars age eighteen and older will congregate in the hallways to receive instructions and cast their votes via handscreen. Voting will remain open until 18:00, when the votes will be counted and the Committee will broadcast the results.
Lazarus leaves early in the morning with Biela Upsilon. Left in charge, Yinha is restless. She seems to doubt her own memory, incessantly reminding Umbriel and me about details in our plan and clucking around us like a mother hen. “Remember, you don’t have to, but if you guys want to avoid fingerprint checks, Umbriel needs to swipe a Law badge. Ariel and Atlas can’t give him theirs—the Base I badge is gold, not silver like Base IV’s. The Law secretary on duty tomorrow is a fellow named Sulzer, and he’s tough on security, but you can use that to your advantage, like we discussed.”
Though I know it’s foolish, I can’t stop thinking about the two-hour transit to Base I. I’ll be trapped in the tiny cargo hold of Andromeda Chi’s ship with Umbriel, and I’m dreading it more than I’m dreading what might happen once we reach our destination. But rescuing Cygnus will be worth it.
Journalism has mobilized all its resources to cover the first Lunar election in thirty years, dispatching employees to interview candidates, campaigners, and voters alike. Huddled near a dark wall, I spend the morning watching the live news broadcast—Yinha told me to stay in Shelter so that she could usher me and Umbriel out together. For election day, a sizable section of the ceiling has been converted into a screen, with images beamed from a projector near the Medical tent. The Committee must be trying to prove something, or maybe intimidate Dovetail. Are they trying to win people back?
“This is a picture of the ballot,” the announcer says, and a simple text file appears. There’s a checkbox next to Andromeda Chi of the Lunar Democratic League; I smirk at the irony of the name the incumbent Committee members have chosen for their party. Below Andromeda’s name is Hartley Nu of the Lunar Asylum Party—a fringe group of radical isolationists.
Today, many people, at least in Shelter, will write Asterion Epsilon in the ballot’s top margin as a gesture of defiance. By some miracle, he hasn’t been found yet; he might have taken to the greenhouses, like I did. But the Committee won’t count the votes he’ll get, and that might enrage people even more.
In the early evening, Yinha arrives to pick up Umbriel and me. Anka says good-bye with hugs so fervent her arms go rigid. “I’d better see you later,” she says, smiling through the pain.
“Let’s move. You’re under arrest.” Yinha handcuffs Umbriel and me, grimacing. “Sorry for poking you,” she adds under her breath. But to keep up the ruse, she prods us with her truncheon all the way to Defense.
We arrive before Callisto, as planned, but after Nash and Eri. We’ll separate from them when we reach Base I, but they’ll meet us outside Penitentiary after we’ve gotten Cygnus out. And we will get him out, however tough it might be. I can’t afford to think about failure.
Nash does a double take as we walk in. When she recognizes me, she grins, causing her eyes to crinkle, and runs toward us so fast that her curly black hair starts to loosen from her bun. It’s a lopsided run, because her left hand is in her pocket to prevent the Committee’s eavesdropping. “Stripes! Gah, I’ve waited half a year to get you back in my life! How are you?”
Nash’s expression is eager and open—until Umbriel shoots her a disapproving look. He clearly finds her question insensitive, given all that’s going on.
“Sorry, wrong question?” she asks.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say.
“So, I’m guessing you’re Umbriel,” Nash says quietly, “the best friend with the quick fingers, yeah? Stripes told us about you in training.”
“She talked?” Umbriel looks surprised, almost happy. “About me?”
“Said your record’s clean, with zero infractions on account of stealing,” Nash says. “You’ve never been caught, even though Stripes claims you nicked an apple a week since you were seven.”
While Nash talks to Umbriel, Eri raises an eyebrow at me. Back in training, when she discovered my nightly workouts with Wes and asked me if there was anything between us, I countered by dropping Umbriel’s name. Of course she’s wondering what’s going on now.
Wes . . . The thought of him makes me feel lonely, even though I’m surrounded by friends.
The sound of clacking boots grows louder.
“That’ll be Andromeda and her nutjob kid.” Nash grabs Umbriel’s right elbow and my left and leads us to the back of the Titan ship. “Umbriel, sorry to cage you up thirty seconds after meeting you.”
Umbriel gives her a strained smile. “Could’ve been five.”
I catch one glimpse of Andromeda Chi before Nash seals Umbriel and me inside the cargo hold. Finally, I can see the Base IV representative as more than the black silhouette I know from the Committee public addresses. Andromeda can’t be much older than Mom, but she has drooping jowls, a thick waist, and eyebrows that slope downward, probably from years of wearing the defeated facial expression she’s sporting now. Thirty years ago, she likely had brown and yellow curls like her daughter’s. Now her hair is gray and slack.
Beside her, Callisto, my old nemesis, thrums with nervous energy. She’s a land mine, that one. It’s impossible to predict what’ll set her off—whether she’ll spare my life like she did after Mom’s trial or try to kill me as she did on Earth.
* * *
We take off, an
d I chafe against the strap across my hips. Two hooks on the ends hold me down to rings on the floor; they’re meant to keep cargo from sliding around. Moon-grav doesn’t make the ride any more stable than my journey from Earth; the ship tosses me to the right, then the left, like a piece of undigested food in an empty stomach. Yinha should’ve stuck me in the pilot’s seat instead. With my former rank, I could be steering—and doing a better job of it—not cowering in the hold with Andromeda’s luggage and Umbriel’s resentment.
Sunlight glares in through the little window next to us; I slam down the shade so that we don’t overheat or get radiation sickness. Still, I feel as if someone’s stuck me in a microwave. Perspiration drips into my eyes and pools under my armpits. During the lunar day, the Moon’s surface temperature can reach 360 Kelvin, and despite our well-sealed spaceship, some of that heat energy inevitably makes it in here.
The second human body in this cargo hold doesn’t make it any cooler. A tense, sweaty Umbriel is strapped down next to me, so close I hear a faint growl whenever he exhales. The ship lurches again; the pilot’s probably swinging the controls to dodge space debris. My head smacks into Umbriel’s bony shoulder.
“Yeow!” He leans away from me, but then instinct takes over and he pats my head. “How badly did I hurt you?”
The double-edged question knocks the breath out of me. The bump was nothing, but his sullenness, the absence of his laughter, the worry that I’ve lost him yet again—those have hurt me more than he’ll ever know. “I’ve missed you,” I say.
“I know,” Umbriel says.
Silence.
I lean my chin on my clasped hands and watch my best friend’s face. Eyebrows up—he’s expecting something. A slight frown—he’s disappointed that I’m not going to deliver. A shake of the head—he’s trying to start afresh. As usual, he opens up when my silence unnerves him.
“We’ve kidded ourselves, haven’t we? You went to Earth—I knew it was for your own good, though I never admitted it to myself—and then you came back. But since then, we’ve avoided each other, pretended that we didn’t care, in the tiny bit of time we had. Who knows when things will be peaceful again?”
In the dark, only his teeth and the whites of his eyes stand out. Even from those, I can tell that he wants permission to embrace me. He’s acknowledging at last that such contact has made me uncomfortable before.
Taking the initiative, I hug him. We, he said. Our standoff was my fault too. I failed to show Umbriel that I love him, just . . . differently.
Umbriel sniffles. The ship dodges another piece of debris, and I keep him from tipping over.
“I spent years waiting for you to . . . to like me. I knew you didn’t, not really. And I know you tried to be nice about it, even when it made you twitch like an earthworm. One of the panicky ones we’d dig up in the greenhouses.”
I smile into Umbriel’s shoulder. His words remind me of sunlit gardening days in our childhood.
“But I was sure you’d come around,” he continues, “no matter how much Ariel said you wouldn’t. It hurt to clear stuff up with you the other day, but I’m glad we did. I don’t want to keep wondering if everything you do means something, or keep trying to convince myself of stuff that isn’t true.”
I’m so relieved I could cry. Umbriel knew all along. He just couldn’t believe that I didn’t share his feelings until I told him directly.
“Come to think of it, I can count the guys you’ve ever really talked to on one hand,” Umbriel says. “Me, Wes, maybe Orion, that Lazarus, who’s twice our age . . . oh, and Ariel.”
I grimace.
“Ugh, my brother. That would be weird.” Umbriel chuckles. “Take me off that list, and out of everyone left, I guess Wes is . . . okay. If not for him, you wouldn’t be sitting here now, right? Maybe if you didn’t like him so much, I’d want to know him better.”
Wes. I conjure up the image of him that I burned into my memory: on the Pacifian runway, fire illuminating half his face, starlight shining on the other.
I can’t hide the sweltering blush from Umbriel, even in the dark. He pokes my cheek, and then shakes out his hand as if I’ve burned him.
“I heard Andromeda’s luggage contains some pretty flammable stuff, clothes and whatnot. You sure you won’t set this place on fire?”
A snort escapes my nose. Umbriel shakes his head, sadness lurking behind the amusement in his eyes. “Phaet, I’ve missed this too. Laughing and talking and being together. I’ll try, really try, not to pick a fight with you again.”
“And I should start explaining myself better.”
Umbriel blinks twice. Close, open, close, open. “Yeah, but not just to me.”
35
BASE I WELCOMES ANDROMEDA CHI WITH a parade fit for a returning conqueror. As she and her escorts make their way to the Governance Department, cheering citizens join the procession, massing behind them. Everyone wears a palm-sized Lunar flag pinned to their robes. Their elbows pump as they march in time, jabbing Umbriel and me in the ribs. If the crowd didn’t offer protection from security pods and Beetles, I’d elbow them back in annoyance.
“Why does the Committee ever leave Base I?” Umbriel whispers in my ear, sarcasm turning his words to acid. “Looks like everyone pops caffeine pills whenever they go out in public.”
We lag about five rows behind Andromeda, Yinha, Nash, Eri, and Callisto. To hide my hair, I’ve taken someone’s extra HYDRUS: THE ONE FOR US banner and wrapped it around my head. Though it’s necessary, I hate to advertise for an incumbent Base I Committee representative. Yinha also gave me a medical mask to conceal the bottom half of my face; I’m supposed to pose as a patient fresh from Medical treatment. Thanks to Sol’s broadcast, everyone on the Moon knows what I look like. I’m no safer on Base I than I was on Base IV.
Beside me, Umbriel sports a vicious smirk and an ugly, cylindrical black hat, which is tipped over his eyes to hide his features. As an open member of Dovetail who’s spent lots of time with Anka Theta, he’s on file too. For additional coverage, he’s wrapped a silver banner around the hat’s brim. It reads, HEART, HONOR, HYDRUS. To complete the farce, Umbriel periodically waves a small Lunar flag in front of his face.
We both wear clean civilian robes—the olive green of Lambda—that Yinha left for us in the cargo hold. Umbriel and I tugged on the robes and Yinha’s other presents with our backs to each other. We could easily fit Militia chest, arm, groin, and leg armor, as well as utility belts, beneath the baggy tunics and pants. My sturdy boots hold three daggers apiece. I’ve also tucked a small diamond-bit drill, borrowed from Yinha’s Militia mechanic friend, into my left boot. It should cut through Cygnus’s tungsten collar. Even without gloves and a helmet, I feel like I can defend myself again, as I did in my Militia days.
A row of Militia soldiers marches in front of us, raising one foot to knee height with every step. Their black dress uniforms have been designed more for show than camouflage. Silver and gold piping runs across their chests and down their arms and legs. The soldiers wear no helmets, but they wave Lunar flags taller than they are. The fabric threatens to smack Umbriel and me in the face with every ripple.
“Isn’t Election Day exciting? An opportunity to show the Committee how much we love them!” shouts a middle-aged woman to my right, her voice cutting through the majestic din of “Luna,” the national anthem. She stands on tiptoe and beams at a young male Beetle. “Silver mountains, blackest seas,” she sings. “Only here is mankind free.”
Without breaking stride, the Beetle grins, his face transformed by manic patriotism.
The Committee murdered my mother! I’d yell it out loud if I could. What if they do the same to yours?
“Yeah.” The woman’s teenage daughter watches the soldiers march past her—then grits her teeth as a security pod buzzes in front of her face. I turn my head the other way so that it can’t film me. “And no one stands a ch
ance against Hydrus. The other candidates don’t know what they’re talking about.”
They’re more loyal here on Base I. But then, this is the first Lunar macro-structure, built a hundred years ago. It shows. Base I has a less efficient design, one heavily influenced by twenty-third-century architecture. Instead of seamless interconnected domes, the structure is made up of domelike shapes with triangular or hexagonal facets—polyhedra that resemble cut gemstones. Black-and-white streamers cross the ceiling, intertwining before racing along again, parallel to each other. Lights shaped like cut diamonds hang from them, catching and throwing white light.
Instead of a central Atrium with hallways branching in four directions, Base I has the Colonial Circle, a cul-de-sac at the end of an immense walkway called the Main Lane. As we march down it, surrounded by cheering citizens, the Governance Department comes into view. The Pillars of Liberty, six colossal hexagonal columns of black-veined white marble, serve as sentinels for the Committee’s stronghold. Flanking the Governance Department are InfoTech and Journalism on the left, and Law on the right. Real glass, clear or tinted with black, white, silver, and gold, adorns the doors.
Even the wall screens on Base I are different. The square facets in the ceiling each serve as a screen, so I see about fifty images of the same Journalist talking to Andromeda about the election situation on Base IV.
“Support seems strong, despite efforts from the opposition,” Andromeda’s silhouette says in a monotone. “My campaign looks forward to the final vote count. Thank you.”
Behind Andromeda’s dark shape, Yinha glowers at the camera. Anyone unacquainted with her might think it’s just her stern Militia face, but I know that she’s fed up with this whole election debacle.
I pull Umbriel to our right as we move closer, my eyes fixed on Law. My little brother is in there, and he needs us. We walk into the lobby, keeping our heads down, and beeline for the third seat in the first row on the waiting area’s left side.
