Chapter 25
Aryl

Meré shoos us out after half an hour, telling us other customers need a seat. Pangu is slowly cooking the midafternoon air, but Meteor Valley shows no signs of slowing down.

We leave the tent by the food stall and duck into an alleyway, where young kids are playing discdisc with a rubber ball and sticks. Ford looks uncomfortable, even a little scared. Ver stares at the kids, wide-eyed, as if she’s worried they’ll smack a ball into her or rob her. They’re both being dense, but I don’t say anything.

We holo-call Devon Kye from Ford’s flexitab, but he doesn’t pick up. Taking a call from Ford might put him on the suspect list.

“Maybe it’s for the best,” says Ford, looking uncertain. “Maybe instead of trying to contact Devon directly, we should report our suspicions to the police. They can take it from there.”

“Have you met Detective Xenon?” Ver asks, tilting her chin up. “He wants Aryl and me in jail. He is not going to listen to us if we offer him another lead.”

I beam at Ver for standing up to Ford.

“Don’t rag on the police, Ver,” says Ford. “They’re good people, at least here on One—I’ve never had a problem with them, even when I got into giga trouble. Remember, Aryl?”

Yeah, I do. Ford went through a rebellious phase six years ago—around the time he stopped hanging out with me. He wore purposefully ripped clothes, snuck out at night to meet his friends, and smoked all manner of substances. The police brought him home several times, to his mom’s horror, but Ford never got arrested.

“Pangu’s light sure does shine on you,” I say, deadpan, remembering the way Detective Xenon grabbed my arm to feel its farmworker strength. But as much as I’d like to shred Ford, he’s still my best chance to get my family released. “Nice to get second chances, yeah? Speaking of which, can’t you call your mom for just five minutes and let me talk to her about my par—”

Ford’s already shaking his head. “Aryl, Mom would put me on lockdown if she saw me outside the house, or you anywhere near me. Even on a holo-call.”

“You have to stand up to her one of these days. Does she know that half your lab is offworlders?”

I don’t follow politics, because there’s no point in knowing what powerful people think and why. I can’t even vote yet. But I still know that Titania Mercure has always wanted people to stay on their home moons. She’s got her reasons. First, G-Moon One is the typical destination for migrants, and the cities here are already crowded. Second, migrants like my parents and Ver, and even migrants’ children like me, have a hard time fitting in. Worst of all, poorer migrants sometimes commit petty theft and graft. Those stories tear me up. Sure, people get desperate, especially in a world where they’re at the bottom. But don’t they understand how bad it makes all of us look?

“My mom doesn’t not like offworlders,” Ford says, but he sounds unsure. “She always says Solstice and Coco”—my parents—“are the best help she’s ever had.”

“Yet she fired them and put them under house arrest,” I say.

Ford bows his head, clasps his hands, and stares at them, as if the knot of fingers will solve his problems. “I’m sorry. I know my mom isn’t perfect. And . . .” He trails off. I wonder if he’s thinking about Rhea—what she said to me yesterday, how he didn’t stand up for me. “It’s so hard looking at you, Aryl. I know you think I’ve become just like her. But I haven’t.”

Ver’s looking between us, clearly bewildered.

I cross my arms. “Then you have to do what’s right and set fire to what anyone else will think of you.”

Ford looks around to see if anyone else is watching us. When he seems satisfied, he says, “I know you’re gassed off, but I do believe you’re innocent and I want to help. Here, you can each have one of these.” He takes two plain flexitabs out of a pocket. They’re maybe ten years old—thicker than the newer models, and the holo projections aren’t so high-res. “They’re burners, routed through virtual private networks. Untraceable. They can talk to each other—only to each other—and access the Neb. My family uses them to message about sensitive topics. I’ve got one too, and I always carry spares. They’re yours now.”

“So you could trace us with these,” I say. “Spy on us.”

“The police are already watching you,” Ford says, laughing a little. “And trust me, Aryl, your life isn’t that interesting.”

Ver looks from the burner flexitabs to me. She’ll do what I do. It feels like trust.

“Look,” Ford says, unrolling one of the devices. “These don’t require you to scan in fingerprint or retina identifiers. And see, I’ve connected it to the Neb, but on my official flexitab”—he opens his newer, shinier device—“there’s no sign of any other devices here. If you had your usual flexitabs too, they wouldn’t know these things are here.”

I find myself nodding. Ford knows what he’s doing with computers.

“I think they are safe,” Ver says. But I’m still wavering.

“Aryl, if I was going to betray you to the police, I would’ve done it already,” Ford says. “And how will I ever get elected to the Senate if my childhood best friend goes to prison for murder? The optics would be terrible.”

He’s only half-joking, and it should gas me off, but I fixate on the words best friend. He’s never called me that, even back when it would’ve felt true.

I let the pause stretch between us. Ford’s face is calm and earnest. He’s not fidgeting or filling the silence with nervous chatter.

“Okay,” I say. I take one burner flexitab and hand Ver the other. “Thanks. I guess there are still some perks to knowing you.” Even if he won’t lift a finger to help my family.

“Should we try calling Devon again with one of these?” Ver asks.

I slap my burner flexitab so that it curls around my wrist. “Scrap calling Devon,” I say. “Let’s go see him.”

Ver and Ford blink at me like I’ve suggested walking on Pangu’s fiery surface. And to be fair, Oryza probably isn’t much more hospitable. But I’m ready to escape this moon for a while. Celestine reminds me of the person I was and the person I should’ve become: a scientist-dancer who’d pull her family up with her. And Lucent City holds all the stages I could’ve danced on with the girl who didn’t deserve me. At this time of year, the moons’ orbits have aligned so that they’re closer than usual.

“Aryl,” Ford says, using the exasperated-big-brother voice I haven’t heard in years, “I know you’ll take any excuse to explore, but going to Two while you’re under police surveillance isn’t a great idea.”

“Guess my pep talk didn’t sink in,” I say. “You won’t intervene with your mom on my family’s behalf, you won’t put me in touch with her so I can talk to her directly, and you won’t come with us to talk to one of the only suspects in this murder case who isn’t one of us.” I clap slowly, three times. “All hail Ford Mercure the Second.”

A choked noise escapes Ford’s throat. “Okay, fine. If you’re determined to do this, we can take the Mercenary to G-Moon Two.”

“What is the Mercenary?” asks Ver.

“The old family spaceliner,” Ford says. “All the patrols will recognize it. No one will search you prior to boarding or stop the vehicle for inspection. They’ll assume it’s just me.”

I consider Ford’s offer. With four days until our trial, we need to act fast. If we leave in the next few hours, we should be able to make a quick trip to Two and be back in Lucent City by tomorrow morning.

“Deal,” I say. “We’re too broke to throw away three hundred Feyncoins on commercial spaceliner tickets. As long as you can get me back to the Institute in time for the next dance practice.”

“No guarantees.” Ford flashes a grin, and for an instant, the boy I once thought of as my brother comes back. “Ver? You in?”

Ver twists her hands. She opens and closes her mouth a few times before whispering, “I should not go.”

Ford doesn’t get the hint. “It’s a really nice spaceliner. Fully stocked pantry and drink collection, 360-degree interactive projectors for holofilm viewing, a workshop area—plus a detachable hoverpod for ground exploration.”

Ver shakes her head. “I . . . I prefer to stay on One. My condition, you see. It can worsen during spaceflight.”

The alley goes quiet. Maybe Ver’s injury has complications if she goes into zero gravity, as counterintuitive as that is. Zero gravity is a therapeutic treatment for lots of injuries, especially spinal ones, but I know better than to tell Ver what’s good for her.

Ver shifts her body to face me. Her expression is flat and unreadable. I stare deep into her eyes, trying to parse what she’s feeling.

“While you are away, I can look for evidence on campus—talk to Jaha again,” Ver says. “And I will think. Somehow, I feel . . .” She pauses, wrinkles her brow. “The answer to all this is so simple. It will make us kick ourselves when we finally see it.”

But I don’t want her to stay behind. I’ve gotten used to her quiet company and the comfort of not being alone in this mess.

“Think as much as you need to,” I say. “But don’t do anything risky until I’m back. Okay?”

Ver bites her lip and slowly smiles. “No promises.”

After another few minutes in the alley discussing logistics, Ford lopes away, back to Lakeside. He’ll program our destination into the Mercenary and pick me up after sunset. The ship’s surface camouflage feature will work best when it’s dark, and we don’t want anyone taking footage of the departure.

Meanwhile, Ver and I walk together to the carnelian rowhouse where my family lives. Pangu is setting behind the roofline ahead of us, and in the distance, Lake Celestine glows orange like freshly welded steel. My neighbors, an elderly couple, are sitting on the shared porch space, looking out at the vegetable garden tended by the building’s residents.

Sometimes as a kid, I’d pick ripe mini-cucumbers or purple tomatoes from that garden and bring them to Mom at the Mercure mansion. With a squeeze of lemon and a pinch of salt, she’d make the flavors come alive, and Ford and I would eat until our bellies swelled.

I brace myself as I look for my family’s patch, the quadrant of the garden closest to the street. But it’s just as vibrant as I remember, and I smile when I see it.

“We’ve been taking turns watching your family’s vegetables,” calls the old woman.

I bow my head and thank her before I scan my fingerprint to get into the building. We skip the stairs and take the narrow elevator, which barely fits two people and creaks past the first couple of floors.

My family’s in a two-bedroom unit on the fourth floor. It’s the same as when I left: cheerful green foyer and living room, the kitchenette a sleek forest of steel appliances. But when I see my parents, the guilt spikes up in me again.

They look sickly pale. Take a Two-er out of Pangu’s light, Mom used to say, and she’ll become a ghost.

Mom crushes me in a hug, sobbing into my shoulder. Floury dust flies from her hands. She’s been making taro buns and the starchy scent is everywhere. It smells like love. Like the labor of a mother who cooks and cleans all day in someone else’s house and goes home to nourish her own family. I’m filled with happiness, but my chest is heavy with the knowledge that it’s temporary.

When Mom lets me go, I run into Dad’s arms. Even though I’m taller than him, he’s able to pick me up and swing me in a half-circle. He sets me down and flicks me in the cheek with his index finger.

“Ow!” I’m seventeen, and I still get cheek-flicks? But I’ve missed them so much.

“What are you doing here, sweetgum?”

“You told me to come home if I could. But we can’t stay long.”

Dad turns to take in Ver, who, in her nervousness, looks smaller and grayer than ever. “This must be Yun Ver.”

“Hello,” Ver says.

“She can’t be here, Aryl,” Mom says, shooting Ver an uncomfortable glance. “Family visitors only.”

“Oh, Coco,” Dad says, looking Ver’s frail body up and down, “we can’t turn this one away. What harm can she do?”

“Ver’s helping me clear my name,” I say. “We’re working together. She’ll head back to the Institute tonight.”

Mom crosses her arms. “Go to Aryl’s room. Both of you. We’ll talk more once Ester’s home.”

Using hushed voices, my parents argue their way to the kitchenette. As I lead Ver to my old bedroom, she whispers, “Should I leave? They do not seem to want me here.”

“They’re just scared right now, but they’re kind people.”

She still looks uneasy as we duck into the room that I used to share with Ester. “My sister’s redecorated,” I note. The walls are a moody purple, and Ester’s collection of cheap shoes, full of spikes and studs and glowing buckles, has taken over my half of the closet. But other things are the same. The two beds are parallel, still, with the familiar seafoam-blue sheets. The ceiling’s covered with the stars and birds we drew there in glow-in-the-dark marker as kids.

“So much space,” Ver murmurs. “What did you two do here?”

A sense of her loneliness hits me, and I feel sad for Ver and everyone else who’s grown up without a sibling. I tell her about the talks Ester and I had before bed, staring up at our artwork, and the holofilms we watched on my flexitab before Ester got her own, projecting the scenes into the space between our beds.

One of the Mercures’ security guards brings Ester home from school. Ver ducks into my closet so there’s no chance of the guard spotting her, but I go into the living room to meet my sister.

Ester runs to me, her discdisc jersey fluttering. She’s wearing the uniform, even though she can’t practice after school.

The hug’s different, since she’s grown so much—nearly my height now. She’s going to be even more of a tower than I am. “What happened to your eyebrows?” I ask, rubbing my finger into the deep purple arches above her eyes.

Ester wriggles out of my grasp and grins. “Got them antho-modded.”

I should’ve known. To change the color of your hair as it grows, you get DNA injected into your hair follicle cells so they produce pigment. Anthocyanins, like the ones in blueberries, turn hair purple.

“It’s pop-pop,” Ester says. “You’d know that if you weren’t so old, or so busy running from the police.”

“I’m not running from the police, you little errorcode.” She dodges my attempted cheek-flick just as my parents enter the room, hand in hand. Gross.

“Dinner’s ready, girls,” Mom says. She looks around for Ver. “I hope I made enough food.”

With the guard gone, it’s safe for me to let Ver out of the closet and bring her to the living room. Ester mutters something about how I love pulling girls out of closets. I muss her hair to shut her up. Thankfully, Ver just looks confused.

Once we’re sitting on the floor around the low wooden table, Mom wastes no time collecting information about Ver. “Have you visited home since you came to the Institute?”

“Er, no,” Ver says, her face closing off. “Too much lab work.”

“So you live with your parents? What about grandparents, uncles, aunts?”

She’s testing Ver, seeing how many of the Three-er stereotypes apply. I try to say “sorry” with my eyes, but Ver’s looking down at her food.

“Just my mother,” she says. “All my grandparents are dead.”

Mom and Dad look at each other, silently passing judgment. But they can’t blame Ver for coming to One. The long lifespans here are part of why they moved. On Two, people live to their eighties at most, dying from the hard work, from a diet of lower-quality crops than the ones they export. Something way worse is happening on Three.

As the meal drags on, it’s excruciating to watch Mom keep questioning Ver, who stutters and eventually stops being able to speak altogether. Dad apologetically piles steamed cassava and roasted taro leaves on her plate, and Ver nibbles at the food like a rabbit.

The cassava is dry and tasteless in my mouth. I shouldn’t have brought Ver here, shouldn’t have let my mother treat her the same way One-ers have treated us.

After dinner, Ver thanks my parents with several little bows of her head and makes for the door. She’ll set off for Lucent City. I offer to walk with her to the tram stop that’ll take her to the vactrain station, hoping for a few minutes alone with her. I half expect her to brush me off, but she agrees.

It’s dark out, though lots of older Meteor Valley residents are still sitting outside on their balconies, talking and eating sunflower seeds.

“Do you think your friends are worried about you?” Speaking slowly, as if warming up her voice, Ver looks up at me with curiosity.

“My friends?”

“All of your dancers. That girl, Rhea.” Her voice twists around the name. She almost sounds jealous.

Can Ver tell that I’ve been stewing at Rhea this whole time? That I wish I’d never met her? You know what you are.“I’m sure Rhea’s fine,” I say coldly.

Ver’s studying me as we walk. “She is your Cal.”

I nod. It still hurts to think about how Rhea hoodwinked me. But being around Ver dulls the edges of the pain. She doesn’t judge me for things I can’t control.

“Message me when you get to campus,” I plead as she boards the tram car. I need to know she’s gotten back safely. “I’ll meet you there as soon as I can.”

At home, Ester holes up in her purple-walled territory to do homework, and Mom breaks out the papaya. I loved fruit nights as a kid but stopped “attending” when I got older. I preferred to go out to dance shows with my friends and girlfriend.

Kneeling with my parents by the table, I stab a toothpick into a scarlet cube of papaya and pop it into my mouth.

“Sorry if we gave your friend a hard time,” Dad says.

“That girl? The one who’s making Aryl share the blame for what she did?” Mom says.

I swallow, hardly tasting the fruit’s sweetness. “Mom, you don’t know her—”

“You don’t either,” Mom snaps. “I saw the way you looked at her. But you have to be cautious.”

Dread is crawling up my spine. This is the first time Mom’s told me to stay away from a girl.

“She’s so desperate to seem innocent, she’ll say or do anything. Including betray you. You haven’t come across her kind before. Your father and I did our best to shield you from them. Three-ers will cheat instead of work, steal instead of buy, and kill rather than stand up for what they want. They don’t know how to share, as we do. They’re prejudiced; they don’t accept anyone who’s different . . .”

I want to clamp my hands over my ears. Every word is so unlike her. “Mom, stop.”

“What? You know it’s true. Dark—that’s what those people are like, after being shut in factories their whole lives. The shadows poison them. Your father and I know. When we first arrived on One, we worked for a Three-er contractor. Always, he stole from us—a Feyncoin here, ten percent off a gig there. Stole, stole, stole.”

“Ver’s not . . .” I’m about to defend her innocence, or say that Three-er migrants might think Two-ers are just as rotten, but something stops me.

Maybe Mom has a point. Maybe I’m not the best judge of Ver’s character. I was wrong about Rhea’s. I’m not clearheaded when it comes to pretty girls with short hair and soft voices.

“Sweetgum,” Dad says, spooning more papaya into my bowl, “we trust you to look after yourself. But this moon will always be less forgiving toward you than its native children.”

“I am a native child,” I say, but the words ring hollow. I’ve never even seen myself as fully belonging here.

“You know what I mean.” Dad takes a deep breath and pinches his wide nose, which is what he does to keep from crying. “I believe you when you say you’re working to clear your name. Just, please, don’t sacrifice yourself for your friend. This family has come too far to watch you lose everything.”

Mom reaches across the table and holds my hand. Hers are scarred and callused from years of domestic labor. The juxtaposition with my smooth skin almost makes me cry.

“Aryl, do whatever you need to do to prove your innocence,” Mom says. “Whatever happens, we will always believe in the goodness of your heart.”

Guilt turns the papaya to acid in my belly. The meaning’s clear. My parents didn’t raise me on One to see me sent to the Sandbag for a crime I didn’t commit. They want me to sell Ver out—implicate her in Cal’s murder so that I can walk free, just as Mom thinks Ver plans to do to me.

My alternatives so far aren’t much better. Our other suspects are a brilliant and generous scientist who’s been a mentor to me, the boy I grew up with, and a hapless apprentice whose life’s been even rougher than mine. I need to be willing to send any one of them to the Sandbag.

Having a pure heart is, like so much else, a luxury I can’t afford.