I don’t see my father for four days.
“He’s working on a new project,” my mother tells me when we eat alone in the evenings. “It’s taking up a lot of his time.”
A lot is an understatement, I think.
It’s also been four days since the councilwoman announced the internships. I haven’t broached the topic with my mother, afraid of what she’ll say. It floats between us now at our kitchen platform like a bubble, invisible but present.
“How is Alma?” she asks me when we’ve been silent for a while. She has taken her fruit and arranged it on top of the flatbread that I made in our oven of clay bricks. She takes a bite and chews with her eyes on me.
“She’s good. She wants to do her internship at the Paw,” I say, and pretend to focus on breaking off a piece of the bread.
My mother stops chewing, pausing and looking at me intently. When I look back into her face, she has already resumed, as if the pause never happened.
“Well,” she says, “I hope she gets what she wants. From what I understand, Dr. Espada will be asking for student input, but placing students himself based on aptitude.”
“Oh. Well, she’s obsessed with mammals,” I say. “So I bet her aptitude will get her in.”
“Most likely,” she says. She’s swallowed her bite and doesn’t take another. “Where do you want to be placed?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Probably the Beak.”
“The Beak,” she repeats. “What about your focus on functional nutrition? I didn’t know that you’d done any of your research on avian species.”
She’s called my bluff. She knows what all my projects have been on—I’ve asked her input as a mammalian expert on almost all of them.
“Well, I haven’t. But, you know, birds are interesting. Reptiles too, so maybe I’ll ask about the slither.”
She smiles at me, a small amused smile, and I feel foolish, transparent. I stand abruptly.
“I’m going to go see some friends,” I say.
She looks surprised but nods.
“All right,” she says. “Have a good time. Don’t worry about your food: I’ll finish it.”
I leave without replying.
Out in the commune, I inhale deeply. When did it become so hard to breathe at home? I wander. I was as surprised as my mother to hear me say that I was going to see friends: we both know I don’t really have any in the Paw. But it’s not so bad being alone: wandering in the Paw is a lot like being outside if you don’t look up and see the curving ceiling of the dome. Sometimes the walls make me claustrophobic; like they’re part of a cage keeping me from the rest of the world. I look at my feet, at the grass and stones and soil, and imagine that I’m outside the compound, in the jungle and on my own. I wonder if anyone else ever feels this way: the urge to escape and see Faloiv for themselves, beyond the slides that Dr. Espada shows in class, the quick snatches of the world I see on the Worm, or on my rare trips with my father. The soil is soft under my narrow white shoes. If I were a marov, I think, I could just burrow right under the dome walls. I smile at the idea and turn to start across one of the bridges that cross the stream.
“What are you smiling about?”
It’s Rondo. I’m not surprised, as if I knew that by wandering long enough he’d show up.
“I was just thinking about being a marov,” I blurt.
“A marov . . . ?”
He looks confused, and I seize on his puzzlement to distract from my embarrassment.
“A marov,” I say, daring him to mock me. “It’s a mammal. You might want to look it up: it’ll be on an exam sometime.”
He looks away, his fingers tapping out a rhythm on the bridge, gazing out at the commune. I realize now I’ve embarrassed him.
“It’s just a furry, fat thing.” I shrug. “Ground dwelling. Eats tubers and leaves . . .”
He returns his eyes to my face, his fingers still drumming, and says, “Honestly, I don’t give a damn about mammals.”
This surprises me. I can’t tell if he’s angry with me or not. He doesn’t seem angry: his face, mostly smooth aside from a little bumpy area on one cheekbone from acne, is lineless.
“No?” It’s all I can think to say.
“Nope. Not at all.”
“What do you give a damn about, then?” I say, and take a few steps toward the other side of the bridge. He’s just come from this way, I’m guessing, but I’m not finished with my walk. I wonder if he’ll come with me, and my stomach stirs, a lone winged insect trapped in its cavern.
“People,” he says, and follows. Inside me, one insect becomes two. “I’m interested in people.”
“Well, there’s no human compound.” It’s a joke, but he doesn’t smile.
“No, there’s not.”
He says it as if this is something he’s already considered and found to be a problem.
“So what would you study if you had to choose? Since people aren’t an option.”
He pauses.
“Music.”
“Music?” I scoff, trying too late to take the judgment out of my voice. I throw a sideways look at him to see if he noticed. He did, but he doesn’t look offended. “I hate to break it to you, but there’s no musical compound either.”
“Mmm.”
“You can’t choose something more . . . logical?”
“There’s more to the world than logic,” he says.
“Not in N’Terra.”
“Yes, I know.” Then finally, as if giving in, he adds, “I guess I’d study birds if I had to choose. If forced.”
“Do you miss the Beak that much?”
“What’s to miss? Everything I need is right here.”
He doesn’t look at me, but his sly smile lets me know the pleasure that blooms in my chest was planted there intentionally.
“I was there last week,” I say.
“I know.” He nods.
“You know?”
“Yes, I heard. A whitecoat was observing a newly hatched oscree in the main dome while you were there. He mentioned to my dad that he saw you.”
He “saw” me. I can hear the philax in his voice: he knows what happened. I wish I was a marov more than ever, and imagine diving into the safety of a burrow, made invisible by soil.
“He saw me,” I repeat, refusing to look at him. We enter a cluster of shops, many of which are closing for the day. The light coming through the transparent ceiling is softer than an hour ago, sunset approaching.
“Yeah, saw you. He said you fainted. I didn’t really see you as the fainting type.”
I grit my teeth. I want to snap that I’m not the fainting type, but then I’d have to admit what actually happened. If I haven’t told Alma, then I’m not telling Rondo.
“So are you just going to stay silent, Octavia?”
The sound of my name in his mouth takes on a special sound—like a rare specimen whose name requires magic to pronounce. I don’t let this magic creep into my reply.
“I can. It would be my prerogative.”
“Damn, O, what happened at the Beak?” he insists.
I groan and he looks briefly surprised before laughing.
“Do you really not want to talk about it?” he says. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
“Yes, I fainted, okay?” It comes out more peevishly than I intended. “I saw something happen to a philax and I just passed out.” I walk a little faster, as if to put distance between me and the subject.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, letting my words fade.
“I don’t believe you.”
“What?”
“There’s more to it than that.”
“And you know this how?” I demand. I almost laugh, but what happened at the Beak is too recent to be funny yet. Especially when its consequences are still playing out.
Rondo shrugs.
“I know people. And there’s more to it than that.”
I don’t know what to say to this, so I say nothing. We’re still on the shop side of the stream, which is mostly empty. People have gone home to their families. We walk by one gray-haired man locking up his shop, keying in his security code. When he finishes, he lets a scarlet banner billow down over the door, an image of some kind stitched on the front. I’ve never seen this before. When the fabric settles, I find the same emblem that the councilmembers wear as a gold pin: the likeness of the Vagantur and the five circular compounds.
“Excuse me,” I call to the retreating shopkeeper. “What is this? The banner, I mean.”
He turns, a pleasant smile on his face.
“Oh, you like it? I’m one of the first to get one. We’ll all have them soon. Nice, isn’t it? Dr. Albatur’s suggestion.”
“What is the purpose?” I say, taking a corner of the banner in my fingers. It’s fine work, the stitches neat and tight.
The man gives a good-natured shrug.
“Purpose? Ah, you greencoats. Not everything has to have a purpose. Not in the way you think. It just makes you feel good! Something for us all to identify with: face the galaxy as N’Terrans, you see? To unite us against those that might divide us.”
“But I thought Dr. Albatur hated N’Terra,” I blurt, thinking of my encounter with him outside the Beak. The man’s smile wavers.
“I don’t know what would give you that idea,” he says, his voice taking on a haughty quality. “He believes there’s a lot that is to be desired, but who doesn’t? We only have so much to work with on this planet, but he knows our history: he knows we’ve been better than we are. His goal is to give N’Terrans something to be proud of!”
“Like what exactly?” Rondo says.
“It’s a really nice banner,” I say quickly, turning my eyes back to the banner, fake-studying it. “I hope the rest of us get ours soon.”
That seems to satisfy the shopkeeper: his smile returns and he bids us good night before disappearing over the nearby bridge.
“It’s a really nice banner,” Rondo mocks when we’re alone again.
“Word travels fast lately,” I say.
Maybe it’s a neurological reaction to the intense red of the fabric, but anxiety rattles through me, a restlessness I can’t place.
“Let’s keep walking,” I say.
“Albaturean or not,” he says, jerking his head over his shoulder to indicate the shopkeeper. “I wish I could do that.”
“What? Make vague references to unity based on obscure references to the past?” I roll my eyes.
Rondo’s laugh startles me.
“What?” I frown.
“I think that might be the realest thing you’ve ever said.” Rondo chuckles. “Usually you’re trying to give the right answer. That was just . . . your answer.”
He laughs again before continuing.
“But, no, I meant I wish I could have a shop. Instead of working in the labs.” At first I think he’s joking, but one glance at his face tells me he’s serious. I shake my head.
“Seems like a waste. You’re one of the smartest people in our class. Dr. Espada always says you’re ideal for the Zoo.”
“You don’t ever want to do something that doesn’t fit?”
“Are you talking about the izinusa you still haven’t played for me?” I say.
“You look ahead at your life and all you see is whitecoats and the Zoo?” he presses.
“I look good in white.”
“Be serious, O.”
What do I see when I look ahead? I glance up at the ceiling, the light filtering in orange now as the sun sinks. I think briefly of what I’d been feeling before Rondo appeared on the bridge, imagining myself as a marov burrowing under the walls of the compound and emerging free in the jungle on the other side. I inwardly cup my hands around the thought. I hadn’t considered it as a secret until now, but suddenly it feels like one.
“I want to be a whitecoat,” I say. “I don’t think it’s limiting to be able to be part of learning more about this planet. There are possibilities.”
He snorts and I look at him sharply, still not convinced he can’t read my mind.
“There goes the real.” He laughs. “Just as it showed up, gone again.”
We’ve walked all the way through the communal ’wams and now find ourselves at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to the main dome. The flowers I like are all curling slowly shut, their color deepening from blue to violet. I should be going home but instead I find myself climbing the stairs. I get a few steps up when I realize Rondo isn’t following.
“Coming?”
“I don’t usually take the stairs.”
“You look ahead at your life and all you see is the elevator?” I mock, smiling.
He grins, shaking his head, and follows me up the steps.
At the top, we’re both slightly out of breath, he more than I.
“What happened to your grandmother?” he says without looking at me. I think about her all the time, but for years now my parents have pretended she never existed. To hear someone else mention her is almost like a burn.
“Lost in the field,” I say.
“They never found her.”
“No.”
“Man,” he says. “That’s really . . .”
I wait for him to say something generic like “sad.” But he never finishes the sentence, and the silence that follows is filled with hypothetical emotions. My grandmother’s loss hovers over my heart, and I want to get out from under it. I turn away, toward the doors that will take us out into the main dome of the Paw. Rondo doesn’t move.
“Where are you going?” he says, raising an eyebrow.
“Obvious answer,” I say, and the doors slide open in front of me.
Rondo pushes off the tree he leans on but still doesn’t follow.
I understand his hesitation. We all know we’re not supposed to leave the commune after dark. It’s not a law, but a generally accepted rule laid out by the Council that’s never broken. Ordinarily I wouldn’t break it, but it’s like some string has attached itself to me and pulls me onward. My father’s in the lab, my mother’s in her study, and my mind feels noisy. If we turn back now, the night and my time with Rondo is over. It would be like catching a glimpse of a new species only to let it wander away.
The main dome is silent. Everyone is either in their homes or, like my father, in the Zoo. The sun is gone from the sky, and the darkness of the trees is intimidating.
“So here we are,” says Rondo softly. He runs his fingers through the fronds of a large bush whose delicate leaves stretch gracefully outward like my hair when it’s freshly unbraided. “What are we doing?”
“Just looking.” I sigh. I close my eyes as we walk along the path through the dome and breathe in the smell of it. It’s not quite outdoors, but there are many more trees here than in the commune and the scent of the ogwe is comforting. With my eyes closed, I can imagine that I’m out of the compound and my brain quiets momentarily, enjoying the rich and varied smells of the plants. The claustrophobia melts away.
I open my eyes to find Rondo watching me, a faint smile on his lips.
“You’re kinda strange, aren’t you?” he says softly, and I think that, in his way, he’s calling me something precious. I reach out my hand to him and he takes it; and like a spark erupting into blaze, I’m wondering what it would be like to kiss him. There’s no logic for where it started: the thought is just here. Maybe there is science to this but it feels like . . . art. I’m about to ask him if this is what he meant when he said there was more to the world than logic when his head snaps to the left, his eyes intense.
“Someone’s coming,” he says.
We’re already holding hands, and I yank on his to pull him behind the striped trunk of the nearest ogwe. We’re dead center in the main dome: if someone catches us here, there will be no excuses. I have no idea what the punishment would be, but I imagine it would jeopardize our internships in some way. We crouch behind the tree, barely breathing. I’m sharply aware of the feeling of Rondo’s hand in my hand. I squeeze it, hard, to make myself focus on the voices we hear and not his skin.
I hear at least three people, all speaking just above a whisper. They’re coming down the path from the main entrance. They will either pass us for the commune, when they will surely see us, or continue over to the lab doors, and we’ll go unnoticed. I pray they’re feeling studious.
The voices draw nearer, and Rondo presses his shoulder tightly against mine, trying to make us disappear. His arm feels hard through our skinsuits. I look at him in the dark and find his eyes already on my face. Focus, I tell myself as the voices loom nearer still. It’s easy to hold my breath while staring at Rondo.
“Don’t take all the credit,” one voice says. “I’ve been on this assignment a lot longer.”
The response is too soft to hear. The voices go away to our right, toward the labs. I’m on the side of the tree closest to them, and I force myself to break Rondo’s gaze to curl my neck around the trunk. I do it slowly, inching, peeking at the group of whisperers. At first I think they’re all whitecoats: a group of four walking slowly to the lab door, which is still guarded by gray-suited N’Terrans with buzzguns. But there’s something strange about one member of the walking group, the one in the center. He’s not wearing white, for one thing, but besides that, he’s tall—too tall. Much taller than anyone I’ve seen in N’Terra, and more muscular, his arms long and bare. I squint my eyes in the moonlight. Spots. He has spots on what must be his skinsuit, a complex pattern expanding over his body all the way up the back of his neck. I can’t see his face, and I don’t want to risk sticking my head farther out from the tree to catch a glimpse. My head is buzzing, but I can’t focus on the smell of ogwe to make it fade. The spotted man is nearing the doors of the lab.
“Do you see that . . . ?” I whisper to Rondo.
“What is it?” He’s on the other side of the tree, the angle and my body blocking his view.
But then the lab’s entrance slides open, and my father appears in the doorway, tall and broad and facing the spotted man head-on. He pauses for what seems a long moment, staring up at the man’s face, before he raises his arm, leveling his hand at the man’s chest. I only realize he holds a tranq gun when it fires, the zip unmistakable as the dart leaves the barrel. I clap my hand over my mouth to keep the sound that bubbles in my throat silent. Then the man with spots is lost in the shadows, his body falling sideways, caught by the whitecoats that surround him.
In the dim light, something slides from the falling man’s hand, dropping to the soil. The whitecoats don’t seem to notice: they carry him through the door, followed by the guards with buzzguns, leaving my father standing alone outside the entrance. He scans the dome, and then disappears into the Zoo.