Pangus shadow, p.9
Pangu's Shadow, page 9
Xenon barks, “Miranda, stop speaking to the suspect. Keep looking.”
Frowning, Card lowers her bright green head and captures images of my notes with her flexitab.
“Listen,” I say. “Did you notice I covered up my door with paint? There was graffiti on it. On Aryl Fielding’s door too. Abusive messages.”
“Do you have holographic evidence to prove this?” Card says flatly.
“You took our flexitabs,” I remind her.
Xenon shoots Card a disapproving look for talking to me, and she turns back to her work.
I refuse to let them ignore this. “You can 3D-scan our doors and read the words under the paint. As keepers of the peace, you must punish whoever did this.”
Xenon scratches his mustache, stepping back to examine my door. “Miss Yun, killing an investigator has consequences, and this is the least of them.”
“The police owe me protection—as a witness—before my trial,” I insist.
Xenon leans down until his face is level with mine. “Listen, Miss Yun. Think about what you’ve gained by living on this moon. Have you been physically hurt since you arrived here? Since your arrest?”
I glare at him, putting on a poisonous expression that people have said makes me look like a snarling cat.
Card snaps, “Answer him, girl.”
This woman’s behavior puzzles me. She obviously does not enjoy taking Xenon’s orders, yet she falls in line as soon as she finds someone smaller to bully.
“Yes,” I say flatly. “You took my medications.”
“You lying little errorcode,” Card says.
“The correct answer was no, you have not been harmed by anyone,” adds Xenon.
They did not want the truth. They wanted to feel righteous.
Xenon straightens to his full height. “You should be grateful. You leave your moon and come here, to the best research institute in the galaxy. To Lucent City. You enjoy its safety and its luxuries—and then you kill the man who brought you here. We take this job seriously. If you are found guilty, Miss Yun, we will make sure that you never see Pangu’s light again. That you stay in its shadow forever. And that people like you can no longer destroy the cities you did not build.”
He will relish sending me to the penal colony, the one place he believes I belong. Ninety-seven percent of the Sandbag’s inmates are from Two or Three, even though those moons hold less than half the population of the Pangu System.
What the detectives do not know is that the sands of G-Moon Three are composed of silicon dioxide, often in the form of yellow quartz. Quartz, just like the most magnificent buildings in Lucent City. Only the size of the pieces is different.
My heart is still pounding as I walk to Aryl’s dorm room. Galunk, galunk. So loud and obvious, I want to tear it out of my chest.
As I knock on her door, I see that our handiwork has resulted in a messy layering of the steel-colored paint. It is ugly. But it marks this space as hers again.
“Come in,” Aryl’s home AI says in a monotone.
I do and nearly run into a desk, which is half-blocking the door. A shoe rack is flipped over, and a landslide of soft dance shoes flows toward the bed, where it meets an ocean of instant spicy rice packets. Someone has dumped cheap jewelry on the mattress. Aryl’s rings and necklaces are the kind that project holograms of flowers and complex geometric shapes. I can barely tell that the bedsheets, stained and discolored from years of use, were once stark white. Her home AI makes faint clicking noises as it moves objects one by one back into their rightful spots.
“The police searched my room,” Aryl huffs. “Xenon had a field day with my foam roller collection.” She looks terrible. Her blood must be a cortisol cocktail.
“They were in my room too.”
Aryl pushes aside a lunch box and sits beside me on the bed, so close I can smell the coconut oil in her hair. One curl dangles between her exhausted eyes. She locks her golden-brown gaze on mine, and a faint smile lifts her lips.
“Ver, come with me to Celestine.”
My body freezes, but my heart has climbed into my throat and is contracting rapidly. “Running away will only make us look worse . . . Oh.” I clap my hands together as it dawns on me. “You do not want to run. You want to talk to Ford.”
As I say his name, Aryl flinches, but her face quickly returns to a neutral expression. “Yeah. He won’t answer messages. Xenon asked me twice if Ford worked with us to kill Cal, back when we were in custody. The police might have evidence against him. Legitimate evidence. He probably would’ve been arrested already if not for his mom.”
Ford, a killer? He never showed hostility toward Cal. But rich One-ers are skilled at masking their feelings. Ford was so polite to me when I first arrived that I thought he wanted to be my friend. Then I realized he acts that way with everyone. Even people he dislikes.
I am trembling now, just as I was when I realized Jaha could have killed Cal. Between her and Ford, we must be right about one of them!
“Let’s go. Now,” Aryl says. “There’s a vactrain to Celestine every hour.”
Travel to a faraway city, alone with Aryl? She and Ford have known each other for years, and Celestine is her native environment. What if I am wrong about her innocence, and this is some kind of trap?
“What about Jaha?” I ask.
“She and Ford could’ve been working together. We’re more likely to get information from Ford than from Jaha. And even if Ford’s not guilty, he might know something useful. His mom has access to classified information.” Aryl looks at my worried face and sighs. “Ver, I can go alone, if you’re not comfortable coming with me. But I hope you will.”
She is not forcing me to go, not trying to do me in. And everything she says makes sense. My brain returns to homeostasis, and my heart lowers itself back into my chest cavity.
“Ford knows everybody at the Institute,” I say. “Not to mention his mother . . .”
“The most powerful senator on the moons,” Aryl says. “Prison warden to my parents and sister.” Pain flashes like lightning across her face. She must be worried sick about her family. Maybe that is why she is so desperate to go to Celestine.
“Will Ford agree to see us?” I say. “What if he calls the police?” Two murder suspects showing up at the Mercure estate is not a smart move. The place is surely protected with layers of security. The Mercure family has total power in their own domain. They may not even need the police.
“Ford will talk to us,” Aryl says, lifting her chin. “I’ll make sure of it.”
Chapter 23
Aryl
The vactrain ticket costs me the last forty-nine Feyncoins from this month’s pay. And that’s a bargain, considering how much extra “service” we’re getting here at the station.
As soon as we scan in our eyeprints, a red beeper goes off, indicating that “RESTRICTED TRAVELERS” have been detected. Three police officers go through each layer of our bags with infrared, metal, and biohazard detectors, and one officer pats down our bodies. I’m used to this—a security unit always searched me before I saw Titania Mercure—but Ver screws her eyes shut and cringes away from the officers’ hands.
I’m itching to peel the officers off of her. Seeing her so uncomfortable hurts.
She’s the only one who understands what I’m going through. Rhea and Ford have each other, whatever that’s worth. I have a small, sick Three-er girl from the middle of nowhere. The old me would’ve thought I’d fallen so far. Now, I’m grateful for anyone who will stand by me.
After the police clear us, we check the departures display and walk to our platform. Pangu’s orange light slants in through the glass ceiling and catches floating dust motes brought in from all over One. The station is constructed of curved sheets of transparent carbonglass, warrens and burrows layered onto one another. Two stories underground, we reach the sealed airlock that leads to the vacuum tunnel where our train will run.
There’s not much to look at except a holographic ad playing on the tunnel wall: an image of a titanium smart leg with blocky quads and striated hamstrings, plus a slimmer “female” version. Below the image are the words EXSAPIENS: Optimizing the human body, faster than evolution.The company’s logo—double-stranded DNA helices wrapping into the outline of a tall, slender human form—hovers in the background of the holo.
I’m always astounded by how much those bionic features cost. Lots of companies make them, so I guess there’s a high demand. I think it’s crass to buy superhuman strength and install it onto your body instead of working to build it naturally like I have. For all the good that’s done me.
Our train arrives, hurtling down the tunnel and squealing to a stop in the airlock. It’s oblong, perfectly clear on all sides, with reinforced glass that’s strong enough to hold up to the air pressure from inside.
The cars are nearly full. The shiny doors swish open with a bright tinkle of music, and we enter the one parked directly in front of us. On a weekday like today, most people inside are middle-aged business travelers wearing sweat-wicking smart suits made of beautifully draped fabric. Ver and I look tattered in comparison: two girls on the run.
We find a rare empty row, one that two other boarding passengers are eyeing. But when they see Ver’s cane, they choose other seats. Ver flushes with embarrassment. “Here, you go in first, Aryl. Take the window seat,” she says.
“No, thanks,” I say. She shouldn’t give up something she wants just because strangers were decent to her. “This is your first time on the train; you have to look at the view, at all the rock formations on the mountains. My sister and I used to spot ones that looked like animals.”
Ver shrugs, scoots into the seat, and peels a red banana she bought at the station, nibbling on it like a squirrel to make it last. As I sit down next to her, elastic seat belts automatically fasten over our chests, and excitement and nostalgia fill me up.
I close my eyes and imagine my family by my side. A few years ago, Mom and Dad finally saved up enough money for us to visit the tundra. To get there, we rode a vactrain like this one. With glee, Dad explained how the lack of air resistance allowed the train to zip along at supersonic speeds. Mom laughed, said maybe I got my start in science from Dad; he was always the one to learn how things worked and fix them when they didn’t. Then Dad reminded Mom that thanks to her brilliant mind, she’d made hundreds of Feyncoins playing chess. They’d started snuggling while Ester and I looked away in disgust.
I’m taking Ver to my old city. Only Ford has seen me in Celestine. I never would’ve let Rhea or my other Institute friends witness how I used to live, when I was only the daughter of alien housekeepers.
My hand rises from my lap to grab Ver’s. I catch myself, and it floats back down. Where’d that come from?A week ago, all I felt for Ver was resentment—for being the perfect apprentice, for being what I should’ve been. Now, with her about to enter my world, it’s hard to remember what gassed me off about her in the first place. She’s a clear thinker and a bad liar. I know she’s keeping information from me, but I also trust her enough now to not force it out of her.
“Ensure all seatbelts are securely fastened,” the train’s AI reminds us. Ver tugs at her own belt, reaches over, and pulls on mine. She smiles at me but says nothing.
The train rises slightly above the track, as if the whole apparatus has filled its lungs. Held in place by the 360-degree magnets covering the tunnel, it lurches out of the airlock, hits the vacuum, and zooms off. It’s soothing to watch the speedometer on the ceiling climb from 100 kilometers per hour to over 1,200.
A minute later, the train has left the underground tracks beneath Lucent City. Still enclosed in a transparent tunnel to maintain the vacuum around the vehicle, we surface onto sprawling green plains dotted with small towns. Each one is constructed with crystals mined from G-Moon One’s crust, and the different colors and shapes make the communities look like jewels spilled out onto the landscape.
Ver’s nose is pressed to the glass, and she’s smiling. Who wouldn’t, surrounded by so much beauty?
As I watch her peaceful face, the exhaustion of the past few days catches up with me. I let the gentle gliding of the train lull me to sleep, knowing that I’ll be in familiar territory when I wake.
“Aryl?”
The soft surface beneath me is rocking, trying to shake me off.
I straighten my neck, look down, and gasp. I’ve been napping on a folded unitard propped up by Ver’s shoulder, putting pressure on her joints and muscles.
“Oh! Sorry!” I say as she rubs her deltoid and trapezius.
“You were only there for a few minutes,” Ver says, like that means I didn’t hurt her. “Nothing to worry about.”
I look at her shoulder, imagining a bruise forming. My eyes wander up to the curve of her neck before I realize that she’s watching me too. She smiles but says nothing. I snap my gaze to the window, heart pounding, and try to mind my own business for the rest of the trip.
At Celestine, we disembark from the vactrain, walk across the open-air station, and board a turquoise tramcar for the Lakeside district. The tracks are held up by towering tropical trees and run along branches that extend seamlessly from one trunk to the next.
I know this route by heart: snaking among the dense buildings of downtown, passing over parks full of magnificent flowers as big as your face, where children play at all hours. The midday light streaming through the large paneled windows is golden and the windows are open, letting in the humid, warm air. Colorful birds ride the whirls and eddies of wind that the tram creates in its wake. I ache to take the tram all the way to the end of the line, Meteor Valley, where my family lives. But we need to deal with Ford first.
The Mercure mansion is at the north end of the city, on the edge of Lake Celestine. It’s a spiraling four-story wonder shaped like a conical snail shell, with massive white double doors where the snail would poke its head out.
I try to keep calm as we approach. It’s just Ford’s house. I’ve come here a million times in my childhood to play hide-and-seek in its innumerable rooms, but I’ve never shown up uninvited, with a fellow murder suspect, to find out if Ford committed the murder. Ver, skulking behind me, reminds me of that.
“Stop here,” I say abruptly. “Don’t get zapped.”
The air seems to pulse with energy. Ten meters from the house, there’s an electric fence. Anyone who’s not a Mercure has to check in with the staff to avoid a shock.
This is where I’d usually call Dad. My hand automatically reaches to unroll the flexitab the police confiscated.
But Dad’s not here anymore.
“Stop right there!” someone shouts in a distinct Two-er accent.
A wide-eyed young man rushes onto the path, pointing a laser gun at us. At me, specifically. He’s tall and solid, like a security guard should be, but he still looks less intimidating than my father. It’s his boyish, scared face. Titania probably hired him just this week to beef up the security detail in Dad’s absence.
“We’re Ford’s friends,” I lie, holding up my hands so the Two-er guard doesn’t shoot. Why do we fear our own? “Is he home? Tell him Aryl Fielding and—”
“No guests allowed while the senator is away,” he says. “I don’t care who you are.”
A second figure is rushing toward us on the paved path.
“Hey, drop that!” Ford barks, and the guard lowers his weapon.
I can breathe again. Ver’s shoulders come down from her ears. Ford approaches us, his body tense, like he’s ready for a fight. I glare at him. His long, curly black hair is still wet from the shower. He’s wearing a crisp white shirt made of what looks like the softest waterproofed, wrinkle-proof cotton money can buy. The water’s beading on its surface, and despite his disheveled appearance, he still looks holo-ready.
The guard holsters his weapon but keeps one hand on it, just in case one of us decides to assault Ford, I guess.
“What are you doing here?” Ford asks quietly.
“What do you think?” I say. “We came to talk to you. In private.”
I jut my chin in the guard’s direction. Ford makes eye contact with the young man, who retreats only slightly—not out of earshot.
“We have questions for you,” Ver says. “At least ten, the last time I checked.”
“Not here,” Ford whispers. “That guard isn’t leaving my side as long as I’m on the grounds. Mom’s orders.” He comes close, puts his lips to my ear: “Meet me at 14:00 at Meré’s.”
“You want to go to Meré’s?” I whisper. The one time Ford ate at my family’s favorite street stall with us, he coughed his way through the entire meal. Mom had never put chilies in the food she fed him and the senator.
“I want answers too,” he says, straightening. His voice is lower, even slightly threatening. “You two aren’t the only ones in trouble.”
Chapter 24
Ver
At high heat, the Maillard reaction transforms food molecule by molecule. Amino acids and sugars fuse and form aromatic rings, resulting in browning and crisping.
The oily, savory, sweet, and spicy smells wafting through the bustling street stall make it clear that Meré, the eighty-year-old Two-er migrant behind the counter, understands this reaction—and more. Her hands scuttle about as she adds ingredients to a deep black pot, stirs with a wooden spoon, and serves browned vegetables over mashed cassava. To protect her face from the splashing oil, she wears a flat, transparent visor.
Crack, sizzle, clang! Followed by contented slurping from the fifteen or so customers in the tent around us, most of them eating in small groups.
Beyond the stall, I hear chatter in at least two dialects. People on balconies yell across the street at one another as they hang clothes out to dry. Every sound echoes off the closely spaced apartment buildings, all made of low-grade crystals: streaky ultraviolet fluorite, dull green olivine. This neighborhood, Meteor Valley, is just a kilometer from the Mercure estate. But it is like no place I have seen. To think, Aryl grew up here!
“Two orders of fish balls with okra and onion, one mild, one hot!” Meré’s voice cuts through the neighborhood noise. “And breadfruit fries!”
Frowning, Card lowers her bright green head and captures images of my notes with her flexitab.
“Listen,” I say. “Did you notice I covered up my door with paint? There was graffiti on it. On Aryl Fielding’s door too. Abusive messages.”
“Do you have holographic evidence to prove this?” Card says flatly.
“You took our flexitabs,” I remind her.
Xenon shoots Card a disapproving look for talking to me, and she turns back to her work.
I refuse to let them ignore this. “You can 3D-scan our doors and read the words under the paint. As keepers of the peace, you must punish whoever did this.”
Xenon scratches his mustache, stepping back to examine my door. “Miss Yun, killing an investigator has consequences, and this is the least of them.”
“The police owe me protection—as a witness—before my trial,” I insist.
Xenon leans down until his face is level with mine. “Listen, Miss Yun. Think about what you’ve gained by living on this moon. Have you been physically hurt since you arrived here? Since your arrest?”
I glare at him, putting on a poisonous expression that people have said makes me look like a snarling cat.
Card snaps, “Answer him, girl.”
This woman’s behavior puzzles me. She obviously does not enjoy taking Xenon’s orders, yet she falls in line as soon as she finds someone smaller to bully.
“Yes,” I say flatly. “You took my medications.”
“You lying little errorcode,” Card says.
“The correct answer was no, you have not been harmed by anyone,” adds Xenon.
They did not want the truth. They wanted to feel righteous.
Xenon straightens to his full height. “You should be grateful. You leave your moon and come here, to the best research institute in the galaxy. To Lucent City. You enjoy its safety and its luxuries—and then you kill the man who brought you here. We take this job seriously. If you are found guilty, Miss Yun, we will make sure that you never see Pangu’s light again. That you stay in its shadow forever. And that people like you can no longer destroy the cities you did not build.”
He will relish sending me to the penal colony, the one place he believes I belong. Ninety-seven percent of the Sandbag’s inmates are from Two or Three, even though those moons hold less than half the population of the Pangu System.
What the detectives do not know is that the sands of G-Moon Three are composed of silicon dioxide, often in the form of yellow quartz. Quartz, just like the most magnificent buildings in Lucent City. Only the size of the pieces is different.
My heart is still pounding as I walk to Aryl’s dorm room. Galunk, galunk. So loud and obvious, I want to tear it out of my chest.
As I knock on her door, I see that our handiwork has resulted in a messy layering of the steel-colored paint. It is ugly. But it marks this space as hers again.
“Come in,” Aryl’s home AI says in a monotone.
I do and nearly run into a desk, which is half-blocking the door. A shoe rack is flipped over, and a landslide of soft dance shoes flows toward the bed, where it meets an ocean of instant spicy rice packets. Someone has dumped cheap jewelry on the mattress. Aryl’s rings and necklaces are the kind that project holograms of flowers and complex geometric shapes. I can barely tell that the bedsheets, stained and discolored from years of use, were once stark white. Her home AI makes faint clicking noises as it moves objects one by one back into their rightful spots.
“The police searched my room,” Aryl huffs. “Xenon had a field day with my foam roller collection.” She looks terrible. Her blood must be a cortisol cocktail.
“They were in my room too.”
Aryl pushes aside a lunch box and sits beside me on the bed, so close I can smell the coconut oil in her hair. One curl dangles between her exhausted eyes. She locks her golden-brown gaze on mine, and a faint smile lifts her lips.
“Ver, come with me to Celestine.”
My body freezes, but my heart has climbed into my throat and is contracting rapidly. “Running away will only make us look worse . . . Oh.” I clap my hands together as it dawns on me. “You do not want to run. You want to talk to Ford.”
As I say his name, Aryl flinches, but her face quickly returns to a neutral expression. “Yeah. He won’t answer messages. Xenon asked me twice if Ford worked with us to kill Cal, back when we were in custody. The police might have evidence against him. Legitimate evidence. He probably would’ve been arrested already if not for his mom.”
Ford, a killer? He never showed hostility toward Cal. But rich One-ers are skilled at masking their feelings. Ford was so polite to me when I first arrived that I thought he wanted to be my friend. Then I realized he acts that way with everyone. Even people he dislikes.
I am trembling now, just as I was when I realized Jaha could have killed Cal. Between her and Ford, we must be right about one of them!
“Let’s go. Now,” Aryl says. “There’s a vactrain to Celestine every hour.”
Travel to a faraway city, alone with Aryl? She and Ford have known each other for years, and Celestine is her native environment. What if I am wrong about her innocence, and this is some kind of trap?
“What about Jaha?” I ask.
“She and Ford could’ve been working together. We’re more likely to get information from Ford than from Jaha. And even if Ford’s not guilty, he might know something useful. His mom has access to classified information.” Aryl looks at my worried face and sighs. “Ver, I can go alone, if you’re not comfortable coming with me. But I hope you will.”
She is not forcing me to go, not trying to do me in. And everything she says makes sense. My brain returns to homeostasis, and my heart lowers itself back into my chest cavity.
“Ford knows everybody at the Institute,” I say. “Not to mention his mother . . .”
“The most powerful senator on the moons,” Aryl says. “Prison warden to my parents and sister.” Pain flashes like lightning across her face. She must be worried sick about her family. Maybe that is why she is so desperate to go to Celestine.
“Will Ford agree to see us?” I say. “What if he calls the police?” Two murder suspects showing up at the Mercure estate is not a smart move. The place is surely protected with layers of security. The Mercure family has total power in their own domain. They may not even need the police.
“Ford will talk to us,” Aryl says, lifting her chin. “I’ll make sure of it.”
Chapter 23
Aryl
The vactrain ticket costs me the last forty-nine Feyncoins from this month’s pay. And that’s a bargain, considering how much extra “service” we’re getting here at the station.
As soon as we scan in our eyeprints, a red beeper goes off, indicating that “RESTRICTED TRAVELERS” have been detected. Three police officers go through each layer of our bags with infrared, metal, and biohazard detectors, and one officer pats down our bodies. I’m used to this—a security unit always searched me before I saw Titania Mercure—but Ver screws her eyes shut and cringes away from the officers’ hands.
I’m itching to peel the officers off of her. Seeing her so uncomfortable hurts.
She’s the only one who understands what I’m going through. Rhea and Ford have each other, whatever that’s worth. I have a small, sick Three-er girl from the middle of nowhere. The old me would’ve thought I’d fallen so far. Now, I’m grateful for anyone who will stand by me.
After the police clear us, we check the departures display and walk to our platform. Pangu’s orange light slants in through the glass ceiling and catches floating dust motes brought in from all over One. The station is constructed of curved sheets of transparent carbonglass, warrens and burrows layered onto one another. Two stories underground, we reach the sealed airlock that leads to the vacuum tunnel where our train will run.
There’s not much to look at except a holographic ad playing on the tunnel wall: an image of a titanium smart leg with blocky quads and striated hamstrings, plus a slimmer “female” version. Below the image are the words EXSAPIENS: Optimizing the human body, faster than evolution.The company’s logo—double-stranded DNA helices wrapping into the outline of a tall, slender human form—hovers in the background of the holo.
I’m always astounded by how much those bionic features cost. Lots of companies make them, so I guess there’s a high demand. I think it’s crass to buy superhuman strength and install it onto your body instead of working to build it naturally like I have. For all the good that’s done me.
Our train arrives, hurtling down the tunnel and squealing to a stop in the airlock. It’s oblong, perfectly clear on all sides, with reinforced glass that’s strong enough to hold up to the air pressure from inside.
The cars are nearly full. The shiny doors swish open with a bright tinkle of music, and we enter the one parked directly in front of us. On a weekday like today, most people inside are middle-aged business travelers wearing sweat-wicking smart suits made of beautifully draped fabric. Ver and I look tattered in comparison: two girls on the run.
We find a rare empty row, one that two other boarding passengers are eyeing. But when they see Ver’s cane, they choose other seats. Ver flushes with embarrassment. “Here, you go in first, Aryl. Take the window seat,” she says.
“No, thanks,” I say. She shouldn’t give up something she wants just because strangers were decent to her. “This is your first time on the train; you have to look at the view, at all the rock formations on the mountains. My sister and I used to spot ones that looked like animals.”
Ver shrugs, scoots into the seat, and peels a red banana she bought at the station, nibbling on it like a squirrel to make it last. As I sit down next to her, elastic seat belts automatically fasten over our chests, and excitement and nostalgia fill me up.
I close my eyes and imagine my family by my side. A few years ago, Mom and Dad finally saved up enough money for us to visit the tundra. To get there, we rode a vactrain like this one. With glee, Dad explained how the lack of air resistance allowed the train to zip along at supersonic speeds. Mom laughed, said maybe I got my start in science from Dad; he was always the one to learn how things worked and fix them when they didn’t. Then Dad reminded Mom that thanks to her brilliant mind, she’d made hundreds of Feyncoins playing chess. They’d started snuggling while Ester and I looked away in disgust.
I’m taking Ver to my old city. Only Ford has seen me in Celestine. I never would’ve let Rhea or my other Institute friends witness how I used to live, when I was only the daughter of alien housekeepers.
My hand rises from my lap to grab Ver’s. I catch myself, and it floats back down. Where’d that come from?A week ago, all I felt for Ver was resentment—for being the perfect apprentice, for being what I should’ve been. Now, with her about to enter my world, it’s hard to remember what gassed me off about her in the first place. She’s a clear thinker and a bad liar. I know she’s keeping information from me, but I also trust her enough now to not force it out of her.
“Ensure all seatbelts are securely fastened,” the train’s AI reminds us. Ver tugs at her own belt, reaches over, and pulls on mine. She smiles at me but says nothing.
The train rises slightly above the track, as if the whole apparatus has filled its lungs. Held in place by the 360-degree magnets covering the tunnel, it lurches out of the airlock, hits the vacuum, and zooms off. It’s soothing to watch the speedometer on the ceiling climb from 100 kilometers per hour to over 1,200.
A minute later, the train has left the underground tracks beneath Lucent City. Still enclosed in a transparent tunnel to maintain the vacuum around the vehicle, we surface onto sprawling green plains dotted with small towns. Each one is constructed with crystals mined from G-Moon One’s crust, and the different colors and shapes make the communities look like jewels spilled out onto the landscape.
Ver’s nose is pressed to the glass, and she’s smiling. Who wouldn’t, surrounded by so much beauty?
As I watch her peaceful face, the exhaustion of the past few days catches up with me. I let the gentle gliding of the train lull me to sleep, knowing that I’ll be in familiar territory when I wake.
“Aryl?”
The soft surface beneath me is rocking, trying to shake me off.
I straighten my neck, look down, and gasp. I’ve been napping on a folded unitard propped up by Ver’s shoulder, putting pressure on her joints and muscles.
“Oh! Sorry!” I say as she rubs her deltoid and trapezius.
“You were only there for a few minutes,” Ver says, like that means I didn’t hurt her. “Nothing to worry about.”
I look at her shoulder, imagining a bruise forming. My eyes wander up to the curve of her neck before I realize that she’s watching me too. She smiles but says nothing. I snap my gaze to the window, heart pounding, and try to mind my own business for the rest of the trip.
At Celestine, we disembark from the vactrain, walk across the open-air station, and board a turquoise tramcar for the Lakeside district. The tracks are held up by towering tropical trees and run along branches that extend seamlessly from one trunk to the next.
I know this route by heart: snaking among the dense buildings of downtown, passing over parks full of magnificent flowers as big as your face, where children play at all hours. The midday light streaming through the large paneled windows is golden and the windows are open, letting in the humid, warm air. Colorful birds ride the whirls and eddies of wind that the tram creates in its wake. I ache to take the tram all the way to the end of the line, Meteor Valley, where my family lives. But we need to deal with Ford first.
The Mercure mansion is at the north end of the city, on the edge of Lake Celestine. It’s a spiraling four-story wonder shaped like a conical snail shell, with massive white double doors where the snail would poke its head out.
I try to keep calm as we approach. It’s just Ford’s house. I’ve come here a million times in my childhood to play hide-and-seek in its innumerable rooms, but I’ve never shown up uninvited, with a fellow murder suspect, to find out if Ford committed the murder. Ver, skulking behind me, reminds me of that.
“Stop here,” I say abruptly. “Don’t get zapped.”
The air seems to pulse with energy. Ten meters from the house, there’s an electric fence. Anyone who’s not a Mercure has to check in with the staff to avoid a shock.
This is where I’d usually call Dad. My hand automatically reaches to unroll the flexitab the police confiscated.
But Dad’s not here anymore.
“Stop right there!” someone shouts in a distinct Two-er accent.
A wide-eyed young man rushes onto the path, pointing a laser gun at us. At me, specifically. He’s tall and solid, like a security guard should be, but he still looks less intimidating than my father. It’s his boyish, scared face. Titania probably hired him just this week to beef up the security detail in Dad’s absence.
“We’re Ford’s friends,” I lie, holding up my hands so the Two-er guard doesn’t shoot. Why do we fear our own? “Is he home? Tell him Aryl Fielding and—”
“No guests allowed while the senator is away,” he says. “I don’t care who you are.”
A second figure is rushing toward us on the paved path.
“Hey, drop that!” Ford barks, and the guard lowers his weapon.
I can breathe again. Ver’s shoulders come down from her ears. Ford approaches us, his body tense, like he’s ready for a fight. I glare at him. His long, curly black hair is still wet from the shower. He’s wearing a crisp white shirt made of what looks like the softest waterproofed, wrinkle-proof cotton money can buy. The water’s beading on its surface, and despite his disheveled appearance, he still looks holo-ready.
The guard holsters his weapon but keeps one hand on it, just in case one of us decides to assault Ford, I guess.
“What are you doing here?” Ford asks quietly.
“What do you think?” I say. “We came to talk to you. In private.”
I jut my chin in the guard’s direction. Ford makes eye contact with the young man, who retreats only slightly—not out of earshot.
“We have questions for you,” Ver says. “At least ten, the last time I checked.”
“Not here,” Ford whispers. “That guard isn’t leaving my side as long as I’m on the grounds. Mom’s orders.” He comes close, puts his lips to my ear: “Meet me at 14:00 at Meré’s.”
“You want to go to Meré’s?” I whisper. The one time Ford ate at my family’s favorite street stall with us, he coughed his way through the entire meal. Mom had never put chilies in the food she fed him and the senator.
“I want answers too,” he says, straightening. His voice is lower, even slightly threatening. “You two aren’t the only ones in trouble.”
Chapter 24
Ver
At high heat, the Maillard reaction transforms food molecule by molecule. Amino acids and sugars fuse and form aromatic rings, resulting in browning and crisping.
The oily, savory, sweet, and spicy smells wafting through the bustling street stall make it clear that Meré, the eighty-year-old Two-er migrant behind the counter, understands this reaction—and more. Her hands scuttle about as she adds ingredients to a deep black pot, stirs with a wooden spoon, and serves browned vegetables over mashed cassava. To protect her face from the splashing oil, she wears a flat, transparent visor.
Crack, sizzle, clang! Followed by contented slurping from the fifteen or so customers in the tent around us, most of them eating in small groups.
Beyond the stall, I hear chatter in at least two dialects. People on balconies yell across the street at one another as they hang clothes out to dry. Every sound echoes off the closely spaced apartment buildings, all made of low-grade crystals: streaky ultraviolet fluorite, dull green olivine. This neighborhood, Meteor Valley, is just a kilometer from the Mercure estate. But it is like no place I have seen. To think, Aryl grew up here!
“Two orders of fish balls with okra and onion, one mild, one hot!” Meré’s voice cuts through the neighborhood noise. “And breadfruit fries!”
