Chapter 19
Aryl

I sleep like the dead and drag myself out of bed the next morning on stiff legs. The feeling that I’ve forgotten something tugs at me, but my foggy brain can’t figure out what it is—until Rhea comes stomping along the path toward me with Ford Mercure in tow.

My heart surges with affection for her and resentment toward him before hardening into the usual envy I feel at seeing them together. It’s no surprise that Rhea chose Ford, with his light brown skin that tans coppery under Pangu’s light, his long narrow nose with a slight bump, his tight black curls that dust his shoulders. He’s what Rhea wanted, what you couldn’t give her.Wealth, class, handsomeness, maleness.

I try to catch Ford’s eye, remembering how the police questioned me about his involvement in Cal’s death. He looks away. What are you hiding?

Rhea, on the other hand, is staring me down. She plants herself in front of me, one fist on her hip. “Where were you this morning? I was partner-less at practice.” Wisps of light blond hair have escaped her hair gel, and sweat’s soaking through her pale blue dance top. Several passersby stop to stare. That’s her, they whisper as they look at me.

Even though Rhea has to tilt her neck back to see me, I feel small. “Rhee—”

“You’re innocent until sentenced by the cluster, Aryl. Free to do whatever you want. What’s your excuse for skipping practice?”

It’s as if someone has pulled a stopper out of me. “I saw my investigator die, got arrested, spent a day in jail, and learned that my parents got fired and put under house arrest. Sorry if I wasn’t available to be your personal forklift.”

Rhea gives me a doubtful look. Dance is our world. Nothing matters more to either of us, or so we like to pretend.

I blink back tears, turning to Ford. “Did you know, Ford, that your mom’s holding my family hostage?”

Ford flinches. “It’s a temporary suspension of their employment,” he says. “A safety precaution.”

“You’ve had your whole life to figure out that my parents would never hurt anyone,” I say. “Not to mention Ester. She’s suffering too. And you’re letting it happen.”

“My mom also has to think about her coalition in the Senate, her constituents . . .”

“Oh no,” I say, throwing sarcasm over my grief for pride’s sake. “What if voters find out her housekeeper’s daughter got framed for murdering the person who held the key to her whole future? How embarrassing for her. This has scrap to do with your mother’s reputation, Ford. Unless you did something to Cal—”

“Shut up. You’re the one who got arrested,” Rhea says.

I glare at her. “Don’t tell me to shut up.”

“Excuse me?” Rhea gasps. “I was giving you the benefit of the doubt. I was still willing to dance with you even after what’s happened. But you can’t expect people to assume you’re innocent. I don’t blame Senator Mercure for taking precautions.”

“Thanks for weighing in.” So the last year and a half have come down to this. As soon as my friendship stops being convenient for her, she’s back to seeing me the way she sees all other Two-ers. As a criminal.

“Look, I’m sorry, Aryl.” Ford angles his body away from us and speaks to the ground. “But my mom knows what’s best.”

After listening to Rhea rip me apart, this is all he can offer? What a coward. My voice breaks as I ask, “Best for who?”

Before Ford can respond, Rhea steps between him and me. “Aryl, you’re being incredibly ungrateful. I’ve done so much for you. So has Ford. Without me, no one would know who you are. Without him, you wouldn’t even be at the Institute. This is how you thank us?”

Ford looks sheepish now, as if he wants to interrupt her. But I know he won’t have the backbone.

“Scrap, Aryl,” Rhea goes on. “Turns out my first impression of you was right.”

“And that is?” I ask. Even though I want to sink into the ground, I stand taller, daring her to say it. I know what’s coming: the final confirmation that I’ve never been good enough, and will never be good enough, to gain her respect.

As for her love? Forget it.

My heart is pounding in my temples, and Rhea’s face swims before my eyes. Ford looks at the ground, his cheeks going crimson.

But Rhea won’t say out loud that I’m a brutish alien. Instead, she smiles coldly. “You know what you are.”

A dancer stands tall not only because of muscles and bones, but because of a force deep within her, propping everything up from the inside. Call it dignity, or pride, but it’s more important than any one body part.

Mine has been destroyed.

I trudge to BioLabs, feeling as if I’m collapsing in on myself. Rhea made it clearer than ever. Everything I had here was given to me, an act of charity. And now I’m losing it all.

The moment when Rhea first asked me to stretch with her at dance practice plays through my mind. Her hands were cool and soft; mine were callused and sweaty. After, we went to dinner at a nanotech gastro-joint, the kind of restaurant I’d never known existed. Real human servers, not bots, waited on us. Synthesized edible crystals combined with garden-grown plants electrified my tastebuds. As the courses rolled in, Rhea asked me nonstop questions about my childhood. She was fascinated by everything, from the food Mom cooked to my audition at Rori’s dance studio. By the time she paid for dinner, I was in love with her.

Every time we could talk privately, I gave her more of me. As a hint that I liked girls, I told her about Eva, the dancer I’d dated before she left Rori’s studio to become a professional. About how my parents weren’t surprised when I brought her home—just glad I’d found someone I liked. I knew they’d be happy for me. On Two, they’d seen all kinds of relationships. Since sharing and acceptance are part of the culture, Two-ers display their true selves in full view of their communities. Rhea smiled at this story, but there was no flash of recognition in her eyes. No jealousy either. Still, I hoped that time would make her realize she wanted me too.

Rhea and I spent the next month dancing, in rehearsal and on stage, swinging our hips together at parties, posing for holos with our cheeks mashed against each other’s. But then she started dating Ford. Every time she talked about him, her hands fluttered with a delicate nervous energy that broke my heart. I had to accept that she didn’t like girls, or just didn’t like me. That I’d mistaken her warmth and generosity for a crush.

But was it even generosity? Look at all I’ve done for you . . .

Did she hang out with me just to prove she was a charitable person? To advance on the dance team by choosing the strongest partner?

The questions hound me as I approach BioLabs. A crowd of reporters surrounds the main entrance, flexitabs flashing, holo cameras buzzing around like bees.

“Aryl Fielding, should the public believe the charges of murder against you?”

“When will Jaha Linaya return to work? We have questions for her.”

With my eyeprint, I unlock the building’s door and slip inside. No one follows me.

In a corner of the hallway, I sink into a squat and let my head hang between my knees. When I feel calmer, I take the elevator and enter Cal’s lab. The lights are dimmed, and a section toward the back, where Cal breathed his last, is still cordoned off by yellow police lights. The police would’ve wanted to shut down the whole lab, I think, but I can imagine the Institute fighting them to let us keep working. Science halts for nothing and no one.

The space is empty except for Krick Kepler, parked at his usual workstation, surrounded by monitors, typing furiously.

Kricket doesn’t look well rested, but then again, he never does. A mixture of freckles and pimples covers his pallid skin. His carroty mane is pulled into a thick, wavy ponytail. He’s of average height, but his stalk-like legs are too long for his body, and his pants never fully cover his ankles. I’m not sure when or where he picked up the nickname Kricket, but it suits him.

He looks away from the desk-to-ceiling monitor displaying a short script with scarlet error messages as output. “Hey, Fielding. Weren’t you in jail? How’d you get out?”

“Bail.” I glance over the lines of code and say, “You forgot to indent this loop,” pointing to the error. Kricket’s never been great at the parts of research requiring finesse. Might be why he’s been an apprentice for six years instead of the usual five.

“Hey, thanks,” he says, fixing the mistake. “Wait a second . . .” He dives down, retrieves his backpack, and rummages around in it until he produces a shrink-wrapped muffin studded with fuchsia goji berries. “I got you this. Can’t imagine you’ve been taking care of yourself.”

“Thank you,” I say, accepting the muffin gingerly. I like Kricket, but I’m wary. He’s not known for his generosity, and he is known for mischief. After he and Ford argued in lab last year, Ford had an explosive diarrhea episode brought on by phenolphthalein, a pH indicator and strong laxative. A few months ago, one of the Institute’s meanest discdisc players pushed Kricket into the big pond on campus on the coldest day of the season—then, to his teammates’ great amusement, peed ultraviolet for a week after swallowing concentrated anthocyanin.

Despite Kricket’s practical jokes—if they can really be called that—he’s always been decent to me. Since he’s been working here the longest, he answers the questions we’re too embarrassed to ask Jaha or Cal.

“Where’s Jaha?” I ask now. Ver, I assume, is sleeping off the past two days. Or avoiding me, because my nosiness last night upset her.

Kricket glances at his shoes. “They took Jaha to the police station this morning,” he says. “Two officers. They just wanted to question her, though. They’re not about to arrest the Institute’s newest investigator.”

Does Jaha’s questioning mean I’m a step closer to redemption—and my family to freedom? A swoop of hope courses through me, followed by a smack of guilt. Imprisonment would tear Jaha away from her daughter. My freedom would be at Dimmi’s expense.

I unwrap the muffin and examine it closely—not that I’d be able to tell if Kricket laced it with anything. But my belly is rumbling up a storm, and I can smell the honey in the dough . . .

“It’s clean,” Kricket says with a laugh. “No spare organic compounds in there.”

Reassured, I take a bite. My sister eats muffins from the bottom up, saving the smooth top part for last, but I’m not so meticulous. It’ll all look the same in my stomach.

“So it’s just us this morning?” I say to Kricket, stating the obvious as I glance around.

“Yeah. Ford’s going back to Celestine.”

“He is?”

“I heard Senator Mercure sent a spaceliner to pick him up.”

“That’s so . . . Titania,” I say, shaking my head. Even in Ford’s last year of primary school, Senator Mercure would holo-call to check that Mom had packed him a lunch, and if he’d forgotten it at home, it would then be drone-lifted to the cafeteria, as if Ford was incapable of buying school food. “But won’t running back to Celestine make Ford look suspicious? The timing’s weird.”

Does she think the police will arrest Ford? Given Xenon’s interest in him, I can’t count him out as a suspect. But Ford and Cal seemed neutral toward each other, so I can’t imagine what Ford’s motive for killing Cal would be. And he has the perfect life—why ruin it with murder?

“Senator Mercure is probably afraid the killer will strike again.” Kricket shivers dramatically. “She must be scared for her baby, all alone in Lucent City!”

I don’t indulge his mockery of our colleague. “More likely she doesn’t want him to get caught up in the media circus.”

Kricket nods. “Like you said, though—leaving the Institute makes him look like he has something to hide.”

“He has an alibi,” I say. “Wasn’t he at some gala that night?” With Rhea.

Kricket shrugs. “Yeah. But that doesn’t mean he’s clean. And just because you were in lab doesn’t mean you’re not.”

A rush of emotion makes the muffin turn to mush in my mouth. I lunge forward and hug Kricket while he splutters in surprise.

“Thank you. Thank you,” I say. Now I know what I need to do. “Can I borrow your flexitab?”