Star-Crossed

by Pintip Dunn

  Carr’s salvation might lie at those rocks. I’m going to make it there if it kills me.

  Come on. Just a few more feet. You can do it.

  Zelo is stronger than me, and faster, and he catches up as I arrive at the V formation. I brace myself against the rocks, take a breath, and duck under the water.

  There it is again. That flash of silver. Were my eyes tricking me? Is it seaweed? I reach out, and for a moment, my hand wavers in the water. Afraid to touch, afraid to have my dreams destroyed.

  And then I grab that gleam of color.

  I feel not the slimy leaf of a plant, not the hard shell of a fish, but metal.

  Sweet, glorious, manmade metal.

  I’ve found Zelo’s disc.

  Chapter

  Forty-One

  I walk through the Bee Park in search of Carr. Path after path, honeycomb after honeycomb, green shrubs and orange flowers and purple skies.

  Zelo’s silver disc is with the control room analysts. Within the hour, they should be able to complete the data reconstruction and rerun the algorithms. Within the hour, we’ll know whether someone tampered with CORA. Within the hour, we’ll know once and for all whether Carr really is the Fittest.

  Of course there was sabotage. Why else would the files be wiped? Why else would somebody delete Zelo’s identity? I know this truth at the core of me, and in an hour, the rest of the colony will know it, too.

  And yet, I don’t feel like pumping my fist in the air. I can’t shake my last glimpse of Zelo’s family. Camden keening as if I’ve cut her heart out, her long hair dragging against the rock like a paintbrush. Zelo’s face looking like the stone on which he was standing. Brooklyn clutching her father’s hand like she would never let go.

  Even now, Zelo’s waiting at his living unit. One word from me, and he’ll move into the shuttle and take Carr’s place.

  Carr will live. That’s what’s important. Right?

  I reach the grassy knoll where I last spoke to him. The spot where my best friend tried to kill herself with a cage of bees, the place where her brother laid his head on my lap. Someone’s cut the grass since I was here, shorn it too closely to the ground, so that the lawn looks bald. Empty. Devoid of all memories, good and bad.

  The lump in my throat swells up. It hasn’t gone away since Astana’s death—and if I don’t save Carr, I’m afraid it will never go away again.

  If CORA reveals Zelo is the Fittest, it wouldn’t be my fault. I didn’t tamper with the data. I’m only making sure that CORA chooses the right candidate, the candidate it would’ve picked if there was no manipulation from the saboteur.

  And no manipulation from me? a voice whispers.

  Yeah, I did it. I can admit that now. I did manipulate the Trials. And I’m starting to think that if I could travel back in time, the way Blanca’s always dreaming about, I would do it again. Because there’s no good choice here. I don’t want to dishonor the Fittest, but I don’t want Carr to die, either.

  Is that so wrong?

  I ignore the lump and keep walking. Keep searching. Carr’s not in the sculpture garden, either. Or by the bushes trimmed like serpents, or at the picnic tables around Protector’s Pond.

  I walk the entire Bee Park, and I can’t find him anywhere. Instead, I come across a row of azalea bushes, covered with pink and white blooms. The flowers aren’t as big as Denver’s glasshouse variety, but the overall shape is the same.

  My breath quickens, and my skin prickles. A feeling descends on me, as warm and encompassing as a bubble bath. These bushes were my destination all along. But why?

  A thought niggles at the back of my mind. Something Zelo said before we discovered that the silver disc was missing. Something vital concerning these flowers.

  I sit in front of the bushes and rub my foot. It’s aching again, probably exacerbated by my strenuous run to the river. The real sun is on its way down outside the bubble, and the sun lamps have been dimmed. Someone must have turned on the wind machine, because a slight breeze ruffles the blooms on the bushes. The only sound I hear is the music of the nighttime insects.

  A flash catches my eye, and I turn to the free-standing cages behind the bushes. As I watch, the wings of a bee light up.

  “Pretty, aren’t they?” a voice says.

  I scramble to my feet. The voice belongs to a beekeeper dressed in a yellow jumpsuit, with a mesh veil falling from a wide-brimmed hat.

  “What makes the bees light up?” I ask. “I’ve only seen fireflies do that.”

  “We have both cross-pollinators and honey-producers here at the Park.” He swings a smoke canister at his side. “And we don’t want anyone getting sick because we mix them up. These bees have been genetically engineered to light up when they’ve fed on poisonous flowers.”

  I go still. The scene with Zelo replays in my head, from his arm sweeping the flowers to the floor to my hand being cut on a piece of the vase. “You mean honey can be poisonous if the bees feed on the wrong nectar?”

  “Oh, sure. You never want to eat honey made from oleanders, rhododendrons—”

  “And azaleas?” I interrupt.

  “Yep. Azaleas, too. Every part of the plant is poisonous. Stems, leaves, everything.”

  Better pick up this mess before Brooklyn eats a leaf and gets sick, Zelo said. He knew. Somehow, he knew that every part of the azalea plant was poisonous to the human body. How? Did Denver send the flowers home with instructions?

  Denver.

  Dozens of images cram my mind.

  Denver encouraging me to cheer on Zelo. Denver knowing too much about the switch from oranges to apples. Denver bringing us our favorite snacks—candied crickets for me and honey toast for my father. Denver telling me not to give Astana false hope. Denver finding Blanca’s incriminating memo. Denver admitting he turned off the surveillance bot. Denver siccing the guards on Blanca.

  Denver, Denver, Denver.

  “No,” I say out loud. “No. Way.”

  The beekeeper jostles the smoke canister. “Excuse me, Princess?”

  I try to curve my lips, but they’re like rubber that’s overheated under the outside sun. “Just thinking out loud. Wondering if I could, um, have some of these light-up bees as pets.”

  “You could. Your cousin Denver’s got a whole hive of them in his glasshouse.”

  A blast of cold slams into my core and spreads to my hands, my feet, my nose, my ears. I can’t breathe. My lungs are frosted over, and drawing in air is like trying to inhale an ice cube through a straw.

  I don’t believe it. I refuse to believe it. Denver isn’t the enemy. He’s my cousin, my friend. My longtime fort buddy. He couldn’t have killed Astana. He loved her.

  Or at least, she loved him.

  I shake my head, hoping to clear it. But it’s like every spider in our colony has descended on my brain, weaving cobweb on top of cobweb, suffocating logic, blocking my ability to think.

  What reason does he have to kill Astana? He doesn’t have political aspirations. He’s content to toil away in his glasshouse, breeding his next variety of azaleas.

  Or is he? He took over Blanca’s task the moment she was sent to the red cells. His mother wants him to reach the highest levels of achievement. If Blanca and I were to become disqualified, he would be next in line to be the Successor.

  Is it possible? Could Denver have hidden his real goals behind his charm?

  The thought rises like steam along my body. Any moment now, it will blow my head off, flinging the cobwebs to the outer edges of our bubbles. Dear Dion, what if the enemy all along was Denver?

  He’s been everywhere this entire time. He had both knowledge and opportunity. He’s had his hands in everything. And I never saw it. Until now.

  “Princess, are you okay?” The beekeeper peers at me, his concern apparent even through the mesh veil.

  “I have to go.” I dart my eyes from bees to azaleas to trees, expecting to see my cousin pop up behind a bush. Don’t be ridiculous. He’s not here. He can�
��t hurt you.

  He already has.

  No. I won’t believe he’s guilty, not until I see the proof with my own eyes.

  “Thanks for the information,” I say to the beekeeper.

  And I run off, as fast as my injured foot will carry me.

  Chapter

  Forty-Two

  The last time I visited Denver’s living unit was when he and his mother moved in. The cottage is still situated at the edge of the fish farms, at the southernmost point of the colony’s bubble. Moss still creeps over the stone walls, and the smells of seafood and rich black soil still tangle in the air.

  Time could’ve stood still these last two years—except for one thing. Behind the cottage, another glasshouse has been erected, smaller and squarer than the ones growing crops at the opposite side of the bubbles. This must be Denver’s lab. The place where he breeds his azaleas.

  Sweat beads on my forehead, and I wipe my palms on my caftan. My muscles bunch, as if I’m back at my Aegis Trials, waiting for the bell that would signal the start of the next challenge.

  The difference is: for this challenge, I’m not prepared. If I had an entire ninety-year lifetime to plan, I still wouldn’t be ready.

  Doesn’t matter. I have to confront Denver, anyway. If he’s innocent, I need to cross his name off the suspect list. And if he’s not…it won’t matter how fondly I remember our childhood.

  I try the door. It’s locked. No matter. Denver received the funds for this glasshouse from the King, and like all government facilities, the door opens immediately with the royal override.

  I step across the threshold, my toes curling around the metal cylinder wedged at the front of my shoe. The muffler Master Somjing lent me. The device that’s going to convict Denver or clear his name. And my exit strategy.

  Shelf after shelf of flowers greet me. There are blooms in every possible shade, with petals pointed, round, and star-shaped. As I watch, the shelves slowly rotate, so that each level gets exposed to the sun lamps and sprinkler system overhead.

  I lean over and sniff the flowers. Some don’t smell at all, while others have a lemony, almost spicy scent. I brush my finger over the powdery petals. As soft as a baby’s kiss. Who would have guessed something so exquisite could be so deadly?

  I walk to the end of the aisle and pick through the supplies scattered across a long table. A pair of rubber gloves. Empty flower pots. Cubes of dirt with a few green leaves beginning to sprout.

  And then, I see a jar of honey, with an azalea decorating the glass.

  My heart pounds, each beat racing the next to an unseen finish line. My legs shake, as wobbly and insubstantial as a flame. Despite the warmth of the glasshouse, despite the sweat stinging my eyes, every hair on my arms stands up. I want to run. I want to hide. I want to be anywhere but here, do anything but this, see anyone but Denver.

  He did it. He actually killed Astana.

  Up to this moment, part of me hoped I was wrong. Hoped this was all a terrible misunderstanding. Hoped my cousin was still the boy who fell in love with my best friend.

  But with this jar of honey, all my hopes evaporate like morning dew under the sun lamps.

  I hear a buzzing and force myself to move to the end of the table, where there is a box-like shape covered with a piece of cloth. Squeezing my eyes shut, I pull off the fabric.

  Bees. Hundreds of bees. Instead of one or two, every other one is lighting up. It’s like a New Year’s laser show in there.

  “You found my pets.”

  I whirl around and almost scream. It’s him. My cousin. And Astana’s murderer. He walks toward me in a beekeeper’s uniform. The same thick jumpsuit. The same wide-brimmed hat with mesh veil.

  “You scared me.” My voice squeaks like a toy mouse, and my hands tremble as I bring them to my throat. At least I don’t have to pretend to be jumpy.

  His eyes dart around me. I can’t tell what he’s looking for at first, but then I get it. The surveillance bot. He wants to make sure no one’s watching.

  “What are you doing here?” He pulls the blanket over the bees. Mild-mannered, charming Denver. That’s always been his disguise, hasn’t it? Everybody’s friend, completely content to work in his glasshouse, breeding new varieties of flowers.

  Poisonous varieties.

  Heat flushes through my entire body, and red smears across my vision. Every cell inside me vibrates, and my head feels like it’s going to explode.

  My fear shifts, changing like a werewolf. The emotion takes a new form, one that has blood-red eyes and sharp, pointy claws.

  I want to rake my nails across Denver’s face. I want to sink them deep into his chest. I want to dig out his still-beating heart and slash it into thin, ragged strips. I want to feed the strips to the buzzing bees, or better yet, leave his heart at the bottom of the cage to rot and fester and decompose. And those actions still wouldn’t be enough.

  But I can’t let my anger take over. Not yet. He poisoned my father and killed my best friend, and he’s not going to get away with his crimes.

  I give my cousin a sweet smile. Make that honey sweet. Poisoned-azalea sweet. “We haven’t talked since Astana died. I wanted to see how you were feeling. Make sure you’re okay.”

  “That’s so nice.” He walks to me and places his hands on my shoulders. His fingers curl toward my collar, feeling for the loop that’s not there.

  After a few swipes, he slides his arms around me. It’s all I can do not to pull them out of their sockets.

  “It’s been hard,” he says. “But I’m trying to keep busy.”

  “By taking over Blanca’s task?”

  The arms fall, and I take a few steps back, pointing the muffler in my shoe toward him.

  Except it’s not a muffler. The cylinder has been switched to the inverse. Instead of a wall of silence, the device amplifies the sound within a ten-foot radius. Loud enough that the security teams positioned outside the glasshouse can hear our conversation.

  “I ran into one of the patients from Blanca’s task,” I say. “Her father said you seemed to be stepping into Blanca’s role. Giving them instructions. Sending them home with your azaleas.”

  “I petitioned the council to put me in charge of the task.” He takes the veil off his head and lays it on the table. His tone is so mild. So smooth. “Those poor patients. They can’t be set adrift because Blanca went rogue. The pressure must’ve gotten too much for her.”

  “Is that the story you’re telling?” My heart bounces around my chest, about to slide right out my mouth, but I have to keep my act together. I have to stay calm until he confesses.

  I pick up a pair of tweezers from the work table and test the point with my finger. “Tell me, Denver. If you assume Blanca’s role, will you also inherit her candidacy for the position of Successor?”

  “If that’s what the council wishes.”

  “The council? Don’t you mean it’s what you wish?”

  His eyes glitter. Sharp, dangerous, and nearly wild. How could I have missed that desperate need inside them? The ambition that will do anything to win. Even kill.

  The acid spurts up my throat. He was my friend, that’s why. My old fort buddy. I trusted him implicitly because of our childhood bond. When did the monster take the place of the boy? Was it before or after his father died? Before or after he moved from the shuttle?

  Or maybe, as Blanca says, he didn’t change at all. Maybe he’s been this way all along, and I’ve simply just discovered it.

  “Did you ever love her?” I whisper, sick to my stomach. Sick in my lungs, in my kidneys. Sick to my eyelashes and fingernails. Sick in every pore and chromosome of my body. “Or was she just a pawn in your vile game?”

  “What are you saying, cousin?” He crosses the floor in a blink and wrenches my arms behind my back. The tweezers clatter to the ground, and I yank my hands up and out. He must’ve underestimated my strength, because I actually break his hold. I edge away a safe ten feet. I didn’t expect him to get violent so soon,
but the basic plan hasn’t changed. Keep him talking. Get him to confess.

  “You’re so clever.” Betrayal makes my voice raspy. “Bringing us our favorite snacks before the crowning ceremony. You knew the king’s favorite food was honey toast, didn’t you? Lucky for you, you happened to have poisonous honey on hand, made from bees that fed on your azalea flowers. Is that how you killed Astana, too? By giving her poisoned honey?”

  He advances again, and I dodge left. But this time he’s ready for me. He lunges in the same direction and bands his arms around me, and no matter how I struggle, I’m no match for his superior strength.

  “Get your hands off me!” I scream at the top of my lungs. I don’t have any hope that he’ll actually listen, but I need to let Master Somjing and the rest of the team outside know that I’m in trouble. That they should barge in as soon as he confesses.

  He drags me to a foundation beam and ties my hands around it with a piece of rope. The pulse thunders at my throat, and my mouth is as dry as planetary dust. But I have to stay calm. I have to draw him into conversation.

  “Why’d you poison the King?” I pant. “Astana, I can understand.” No, I can’t, my heart rages. There’s no reason, on Earth or Dion, that justifies you taking my best friend’s life. But I need to talk to him on his level. Speak in the rationale of a demon. “You found Blanca’s report to the council, and you couldn’t resist. She set herself up perfectly. You could disqualify Blanca in a single move, so you took it.”

  He grins at me, teeth flashing under the lights, as if he’s pleased, finally, to be sharing his brilliance with someone.

  “But the King? I don’t get it. He was like a father to you.”

  He snorts. “You have no idea what he was to me.” His eyes blaze, as hot as any incinerator. “The King wasn’t my father. I didn’t grow up a prince. I was the half-colonist bastard who couldn’t even live in the shuttle with the rest of you.”

  “That was your mother’s choice.” I lean forward, but the rope holds me back. There’s just a bit of slack in the knot, and I wiggle my wrists back and forth, trying to loosen it. “Remember? The King gave her special permission to live in the cottage, but it was a favor, not a punishment.”