Dove Arising (5 page)

“Thanks,” says Belinda. “Are you big kids going to stay?”

Anka laughs, flattered that she’s been called a “big kid.” “I don’t know.”

“What’s it like on the outside?” Belinda asks.

I feel a surge of pity for this child, who knows nothing but Shelter misery.

My sister opens and closes her mouth several times, struggling to decide where to begin. “Outside of here, it’s—”

The private interrupts her. “Belinda, why ask about the rest of the base when you’re never going to see it?”

Shelter children must pass a rigorous exam to gain access to Primary. Odds say Belinda won’t try, let alone succeed.

The private grabs Belinda’s wrist, saying, “Something sounds
off
about you.”

Belinda cries out in pain.

Fuming, I step between them, using my arm to break the private’s grip. Belinda hunches over her arm, whimpering; the private’s dull eyes light up with anger.

Too late, I realize my effort was futile and idiotic.

The private pushes me. “Back off. I could truncheon you for this.” Her hand seizes Belinda’s chin. “Open up, blast it.”

Glancing from me to the private, Belinda drops her jaw.

“Knew it. Those white dots . . .” The private—Gertrude Zeta according to the voice-recognition software on my handscreen—taps twice on the back of her left hand. “Quarantine!” she hollers into the receiver.

An indigo blur—probably a Medic—bursts from the sick tent and sails across the floor, dodging clusters of people whose heads follow its trajectory. Sudden movements must be rare in Shelter, a place where life itself slows down until it eventually halts.

“You people are going to put a
kid
in that tent?” Umbriel demands.

Gertrude shoots him a look filled with equal parts annoyance and alarm.

“Someone could roll over and squash her,” Umbriel continues, “and that’s the best-case scenario!”

Near the sick tent, three Militia helmets swivel in our direction.

Out of selfishness and fear, I turn to Umbriel and pretend to dust off my hands:
Stop talking!
People have gotten arrested faster for protesting less.

Umbriel swallows the rest of his tirade. To my relief, the three Beetles across the room turn away, scanning Shelter for more obvious troublemakers.

The Medical assistant skids to a stop at our side.

“All right, Belinda.” Copper Head glances at my family and takes a step backward. He’s either too embarrassed or scared to face us. “I’ll bring you to the big tent over there. We have medicine just for you. Okay?”

Anka points a quivering finger at Copper Head. “I thought we were done with you!”

Dozens of Shelter eyes fix upon us.

“Calm down, people.” Cygnus shows everyone his open palms. “Nothing’s happening.”

Seemingly ignorant of the fact that her temper has already caused the Militia to appear at our apartment, Anka continues ranting. “Stop taking people where they don’t want to go.”

Gertrude’s hand drifts toward her truncheon. I swallow hard, willing Anka to hear my thoughts; her disobedience could result in punishments ranging from a twenty-four-hour detention for her to additional surveillance for Cygnus and me.

“And leave us
alone
!” Anka tells Copper Head, who holds his hands up as if surrendering.

Although I sometimes wish Anka could flatten her emotions like I do, it would destroy me if she lost her vigor, that radioactivity in her belly. I want to grab her and Cygnus, spirit them out of Shelter, and ensure they never enter again. Here, Meds and especially Beetles could steal them at any moment, hide them in a tent or find some other excuse for separating us. And if they don’t, I’ll have to watch my siblings’ wills dissipate until all three of us are motionless lumps on the floor.

“I promise you won’t see me anymore.” Copper Head applies an adhesive thermometer to Belinda’s forehead, just as he did to Mom several hours ago. His mouth curves into the faintest of smiles. “I’m to join Militia next week.”

Anka’s face slackens as if he’s slapped her—despite her fury, she’s not above sympathy. Neither am I. For Copper Head, the next two years of mandatory soldiering will bring relentless competition, frequent boredom, and sudden danger on the Moon, the Earth, and in the empty space surrounding both. There’s a chance he won’t make it, as serious injury and death are not uncommon for new recruits. The Committee officially acknowledged the death of nine Base IV trainees last year—
trainees,
not active soldiers. Who knows how many more have died off the charts?

“Open wide,” Copper Head instructs Belinda, ignoring Anka’s sudden tranquility. “Aaaaaah.”

Belinda drops her jaw without moving any other part of her face. Light from Copper Head’s handscreen illuminates white spots on the scarlet throat tissue.

“You’ve contracted the infection, but it doesn’t look too bad. Off we go!” Copper Head and Belinda shuffle toward the tent, her dirty little fingers in his big, gloved hand.

Gertrude huffs, uncrossing and recrossing her arms. “You Thetas ready to finish this check-in? Need an answer from the head of the family.”

Do I want to check into a life that’s no longer life?
I’d give anything not to participate, to avoid even observing it.

Maybe that’s why Copper Head smiled when he mentioned Militia. Soldiering means spending months away from this place—although there’s a small probability that if he survives the eight-week training course, he’ll have to monitor Shelter, like Gertrude. If he becomes a private, he’ll serve two years and move on to Specialization, remaining the same tongue-tied civilian he is today. But if he ranks high enough during training, he’ll make more in prize money than he would earn in a year as a Medical assistant. As an officer, he’d command other Beetles and likely stay in the Militia for life.

“Phaet?” Umbriel squeezes my shoulder. “She’s asking you.”

My eyes scan the crowd, falling on the indigo figure that has nearly reached the quarantine tent and the stoic soldiers whose ranks he will join. Countless grimy faces point our way—seeing, perhaps even understanding, what is happening.

One hunched-over man summons the strength to shake his head at me.
Get out while you can.
I frown at him, knowing it’s all but impossible. Unless . . .

Gertrude taps her foot. “I’m
waiting
. If you don’t check in soon, your presence here will be considered trespassing.”

I glance from side to side, almost expecting Mom to handle this situation for me. Letting us stay here would be out of the question—she’d spin a tapestry of words to get us out to clean air.

Looking over at Copper Head in the tent, I utter the first thing I’ve said today: “I’m going with him.”

“Wha . . . ?” Umbriel whispers. “To Mili—You can’t. You’re too young. Phaet—”

I take Anka’s elbow and Cygnus’s wrists. Ignoring their confusion and Umbriel’s demands for clarification, I lead my family toward the Shelter exit. As we shove past the clumps of humanity on the ground, several people stretch up and touch the ends of my hair. Even layers of grime can’t mask the awe—and in a few cases, the jealousy—on their faces. Maybe they wish they’d walked out of here while they still could.
You did the right thing
, their eyes say.

“Why are they staring at you?” Anka whispers.

Because I found a way out.

After we escape the vile dome, the air becomes breathable again. Never have the scents of plastic and steel been so sweet. I inhale and exhale almost violently to clean out my lungs, but I can still feel dust and smoke residue clinging to the walls of the air sacs within.

Umbriel grabs my upper arm, forcing me to a halt. “What in the name of the Committee was
that
?”

“Say you were kidding about Militia,” says Cygnus. “I think that Medical assistant could clobber you in a fight, and he’s probably below the fiftieth weight percentile for eighteen-year-old boys.”

Because trainees earn their rank by competing with one another, strength matters whether they’re on duty or not. We’ve all heard stories about the top few sabotaging one another—often with deadly outcomes.

“Militia . . .” Anka trails off.

Cygnus throws up his hands, asking me, “You sure you want to do this?”

You don’t have to be eighteen to enlist in Militia. Occasionally, seventeen-year-olds who want to Specialize early join; I’ve also heard about the rare sixteen-year-olds who desperately need money. But out of the nine trainees who died last year, seven were younger than eighteen. Seven dead, out of twelve who were under the official draft age.

What are the odds for a fifteen-year-old? Enlisting at my age has never happened on any base in all eighty-one years of Lunar history.

Costs: potential injury and death, for me. Benefits: a hundred Sputniks per week as a stipend throughout training and a small chance of ranking high and earning enough to pay Mom’s Medical bill. In objective terms, one person’s risk could bring four people’s reward.

I’m determined to carry out my plan for the people I love past reason. I resign myself to the next two years, which will be very different from how I originally envisioned them: filled with textbooks and flora and family.

That’s if I even last two years. And if I do, will all of me come away intact?

“This isn’t the place to argue.” Every few seconds, Umbriel glances over his shoulder to see if people are watching—fortunately, they simply part around us, too concerned with their own problems to care about ours.

As I walk with my family and best friend to the Phi complex, perhaps for the last time, I envy the monotony of their existence. At least they know what tomorrow will bring.

“But it’s three years too early!” Ariel sits cross-legged on his bed, left hand under his rear. Although his body beneath his green Phi robes is relaxed, his eyes are restless. “Giving up on Primary is a total waste of your brain. You could check into Shelter, take that blasted exam, and be back in class by next month.”

“Don’t worry about it.” I yawn. It’s close to my bedtime, and well past Anka’s, but my siblings and I didn’t want to reenter our apartment, where this trauma started. For now, we’re in Caeli’s home, although she has politely hinted that she’d like us to leave. It’s getting late. In the living room, Anka has fallen asleep, her head on Cygnus’s lap. The twins and I have relocated to their cramped bedroom so they can keep trying to change my mind. They’re continuing from where their parents left off. Atlas doesn’t like that I’m leaving my siblings alone in Theta 808 with only a maintenance robot for company, even if it’s better than Shelter. Caeli has agreed to feed and supervise Anka and Cygnus, as long as I compensate the Phis with a small percentage of my trainee stipend.

“Ariel’s going to miss competing with you if you leave,” Umbriel says.

In Primary, Ariel and I usually earn scores within a fraction of a point of each other, setting the curve. Our rivalry has become a running joke. Because of our families’ friendship, we study together and collaborate on group projects rather than sabotage each other. And despite our lifelong academic game of one-upmanship, Ariel’s always been honest with me.

“In all seriousness, Phaet, you could lose yourself there.” Ariel’s voice is mellow, unlike the rumble Umbriel emits when emotion strikes but petrifying all the same. “Like this girl who graduated Primary last year—I saw her slugging a little boy in the Atrium a little while ago.”

“But wasn’t she always sort of . . . emotionally unstable? Phaet’s different. Not the Beater type.” Umbriel turns to me. “But when you’re on your own, people might beat on
you
.”

“See, Phaet?” Ariel says. “Your plan’s going to hurt you, and everyone else too. Especially
my brother
, and you both know why.”

Umbriel flushes crimson beneath his tan, opening and closing his mouth like a koi as he struggles to think of a biting retort.

Ariel has ventured into taboo territory. Umbriel and I have never discussed . . .
that
, keeping it tacit like our other understandings. I’ve known since we were ten, just as I know the night will be cold when my kneecaps hurt during the day: after we complete Militia and Specialization, we’ll carry on as we always have—guarding each other and communicating without words—except with adult responsibilities and, someday, a family. Our plans may sound premature, but we’re lucky. Having someone to trust, even without the “chemistry” Primary girls giggle about rather than study, is more than many citizens dare hope for.