Dove Arising (14 page)

I stagger at the horrifying image.

“Orion and my other friends agreed to rotate cots every night, so Jupiter’s minions have a harder time finding me in the dark.” Wes continues down the hallway, easily outpacing me.

How resourceful and kind of them. “Whose idea?”

“Mine.” The pride in Wes’s voice rings through that one word.

We jog onward, giving the handscreen eavesdroppers nothing but footsteps to hear. When we’ve had enough, we return separately to the barracks, Wes unreasonably cheerful and me reasonably worried for him.

After lights-out, I coil into a ball under the cotton coverlet and peruse Jupiter’s stats—all of them—which I’ve been putting off. He’s been accused of disorderly conduct and physical harm dozens of times, but the charges were always dropped, so they don’t show up on his quick-view profile. His mother works in Culinary—interesting—but his father’s employment is “Not Applicable.” If his family is broke like mine, Jupiter has a financial motive to thirst for a top trainee position. But he looks too well fed for that to be the case, and he couldn’t have bribed his way out of criminal charges, a common practice in Law trials, if he were poor.

My handscreen lights up brighter with a new message, sending a vibration up my arm and making my teeth chatter. In the cot across from me, Vinasa flips onto her stomach and pulls a pillow over her head—she takes a while to fall asleep, I’ve noticed, and is grouchy when she’s trying.

What bothers me more than the light is that no other trainee received a notification. With many a nervous swallow, I open the brief message, which turns out to be a joint communication from Medical and . . . Law?

MIRA THETA HAS RECOVERED ENOUGH FOR TRANSFER TO THE PENITENTIARY. BAIL: 3,500 SPUTNIKS.

To stifle the scream clawing at my insides, I bite down on my right fist.

The system
must
have had a glitch. Mom
was
sick that day, with a disease that painted her skin pink and wrung air from her lungs. Even Wes, a supposed physiological expert, seemed to believe she needed treatment—unless he was pretending.

And Penitentiary? Jail is for lawbreakers, not quiet Journalists like my mother, who has the same chance of causing trouble as, say, a daisy. She wouldn’t grumble in public, much less commit a crime worth 3,500 Sputniks of bail when that for petty theft is generally below 200. The only deeds involving that kind of money are murder and public offenses against the Committee—something like ranting against them before a crowd of thousands, which hasn’t happened for decades.

But corporals, not privates, appeared at her “quarantine,” indicating its significance. And all the reasoning in the universe can’t counter the fact that official communications never—
never
—say what they don’t mean.

Or do they? The Militia first took Mom to Medical. If she were destined for Penitentiary in the first place, why didn’t anyone say so? Did her “fever” merely serve as a reason to carry her off? I think of the Committee, six shadows on a screen; now I’m seeing just how shadowy the reasons behind their behavior are too. But the realization feels like stepping into the light.

I pound a fist onto the lumpy Militia cot, causing Nash in the spot below me to toss and grumble. So I tuck my knees and my revulsion into my chest, shuddering into the night.

15

ON OUR FIRST AND ONLY DAY OFF, MY family fills my field of vision; everyone else on the training floor vanishes into the periphery. Cygnus is getting ever closer in height to the two curly haired twins who stand head and shoulders above the crowd. The three boys wear solemn expressions, their eyes cast forward and their mouths tight at the sides. One look at the group, and I know that they’ve gotten the same notification I received last night.

Anka clings to Umbriel’s hand. When she sees me, she races over and attaches herself to me as if she has suction cups on her arms. Her eyes are shiny and swollen, her cheeks caked over with a film of salt. My sister has no tears left, and it chips away at my composure.

“We missed you.” She’s more careful than before not to say what she’s thinking.

“You look tired,” my brother says in a monotone.

I rise on tiptoe, squeeze him tight with the arm not holding Anka, and plant an audible kiss on his cheek. His robes are now filled with as much air as flesh.

When Cygnus pouts, embarrassed, Anka says, “Phaet, you’re acting like . . . like Mom. It freaks me out. Just a little.”

Someone conspicuously clears his throat.

“
Umbriel!
”

Cygnus and Anka step aside so I can dash to Umbriel and throw my arms around him. Though my full body weight accompanies the embrace, he doesn’t stagger. “How are you?” Umbriel asks a normal question to pass us off as a normal group.

Nod.
Good.

“Your arms got buff.” He sweeps his palm over my deltoid and triceps.

I affirm his observation by squeezing his waist even harder.

“Is training as nasty as people say?”

“It got better. I had help.”

He and Ariel look relieved to hear that.

Nash is busy talking to her family; to their left, a tiny woman fusses over a rather annoyed Jupiter. Wes and Orion stand together, chuckling at something the latter just said.

“Phaet, who are those people?” Ariel asks. “You seem preoccupied with them.”

“Hey!” hollers Orion. The two boys jog over.

In preparation for their arrival, Umbriel squeezes my wrist once. He doesn’t know Orion is of the more benevolent Militia sort, and even if I said so, Umbriel would still be uncertain. As for Wes—my distrust of him has reached a new height. Did he know Mom’s final destination when he helped take her away? If so, why has he trained me; why hasn’t he done me harm?

Orion introduces himself
and
shakes everyone’s hand, prompting Ariel to ask if everyone in Militia is so “approachable.” A meter away, Wes studies his own feet. Maybe he knew what Mom’s quarantine really was—but this, his signature awkwardness, is ordinary. It proves nothing.

“Why don’t you join and find out?” Orion garnishes his words with a wink. Laughter bubbles from Ariel’s belly as he tries to hide the bloom on his cheeks—how could anyone laugh so much at such a time? His anxiety must be causing him to overcompensate with geniality.

Ariel and Orion chat about mutual friends, funny things they’ve seen recently, each trying to make the other laugh harder than he did before, until two young women with Orion’s wheat-colored hair—his sisters, I guess—pull him away.

With his companion gone, Wes scans my face, looking for either permission to stick around or an order to leave. Hoping not to appear rude, I shrug.
Do whatever you like
.

But my brother turns his back on Wes. “Hmph.”

“Wes, the guy from Medical,” Anka says matter-of-factly, offsetting Cygnus’s insolence. I can’t imagine my siblings having warm sentiments toward Wes, so Anka’s good manners are a surprise.

“Are you two part of Str—Phaet’s family as well?” Wes asks the twins.

“For all practical purposes.” Umbriel reaches a hand backward and latches his fingers onto mine.

Wes’s eyebrows shoot up. “Ah.”

“Wes helps me with endurance, strength, martial arts . . .” I offer. “For rankings.”

“Thank you,” Umbriel mumbles to Wes. “I’m glad she’s safe.”

“I’m sure she would have been fine on her own. Stripes takes pretty good care of herself.” Wes peers at my hand, enveloped in Umbriel’s, and says, “Anyhow, I should be off. Nice seeing everyone again. Wish you the best.”

He’s his usual self. He must not have known he was taking Mom, ultimately, to a jail cell and not a hospital room. Medical or Law wouldn’t inform him—a low-level assistant—about a heinous crime, especially one against the state.

“Bye, Wes,” says Anka, before whispering something to Cygnus.

Wes jogs away through the crowd.

“He seems nice but . . . uncomfortable,” Umbriel comments. “Like he’s hiding something. Where’s his family?”

“Base I, he said. Does it matter? He’s trying to help, and he’s the number two trainee.” I dust off my hands, telling Umbriel to hold back on the subject of my mother until we find privacy.

“Then I’m glad you’re on his good side.” Umbriel squeezes my hand harder, pulling me toward the exit of the Defense Department. “Let’s get you home.”

Anka’s handscreen projects a three-dimensional view of the night sky into our dark bedroom, throwing pinpricks of light on her face. She has drawn imaginary animals and figurines around the stars of nine constellations; smooth and graceful, each seems to be stretching toward something unseen. I’m glad she has made something lovely over the past month instead of wallowing in sorrow and rage.

She zooms in on Cetus, the Whale, holding her handscreen far from our faces so that it picks up less of our conversation. “See that red star in the middle? Right there—it’s Mira, our mom.”

How sweet of her.

“My teacher said that Mom’s name means ‘wonderful’ or something nice like that.
My
name means ‘phoenix.’ How come you never told me that?”

“You never asked.” I poke her nose. “It’s Arabic.”

“What’s Arbick?”

“An old Earthbound language.”

Anka zooms out from Cetus and shows me a different constellation. “I missed you a lot too, so I drew Columba. The Dove.”

I can’t help but hug her.

“Here’s Phaet, the dove star.” Anka points at the biggest white dot, right where the bird’s eye would be. “And this is Wezn—‘weights.’”

It’s a smaller dot, down in the cardiac region.

“Are you good friends with Wes? You should be. You’re in the same constellation.”

“Not every Pollux likes every Castor, and those stars are both in Gemini.”

My little sister throws her hands above her head in mock exasperation. “You know what I mean! A lot of people’s names come from Gemini. No one pays attention to Columba.” She studies the constellation, purses her lips, and shifts them rapidly from side to side. “Do you
like
Wes?”

I shake my head, amazed that Anka has the time and energy for such trivial accusations. And when did she start emphasizing random syllables with assertive inflections in her voice?

Even sitting, I can tell that she’s gotten taller. Anka has hit puberty with no mother to guide her through its mysteries—and thanks to the Militia, no sister either.

Anka shuts off her handscreen and sits on it. “Do you like
Umbriel
?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Are you
sure
?”

I dodge the question with a question. “Do
you
like someone?”

She sticks out her tongue, a persistent gesture from her younger years. “Yuck.”

Her extravagant reaction makes me wonder. “I won’t tell if you do.”

“Okay. You don’t talk to anyone
really
, so, um, someone in my class. Rigel.” Anka giggles into my shoulder. “He called my star map pretty, and he helps me with algebra. Which is so embarrassing.” Her smile turns upside down. “Why can’t I be good at math like you?”

The sudden despondency in her voice rubs my heart the wrong way. Those who fall behind in Primary mathematics can’t Specialize in scientific fields. Not that Anka would want to—she’d rather draw. But she won’t earn a decent living from that, even if she nabs a spot in the oft-ignored Visual Design Department. Still, I allow myself the hope that Anka can find her place.

I hug her again. “People will always need something pretty or interesting to look at.” Even if it’s just a tray of stolen moss or a colorful Committee poster. “You’ll make it for them.”

She grins, even laughs. “You and Mom are the only ones who get it.” Then she says, “I love you, Phaet.”

“Love you too,” I slip in, before she starts her Rigel chatter again. Rigel is so
smart
, so
nice
. I wish I knew how to get her mind off him, because she should concentrate on other things. When I was her age, I didn’t get excited about Umbriel, maybe because I knew him too well. So much for being a good big sister.

“Lunch!” the twins holler from the kitchenette.