“I stole a hearse and stabbed a priest.”

  “Really?” She applied a bandage. The pressure hurt. “Have you been stabbing a lot of people lately?”

  “Yes,” I said through clenched teeth, “but only for excellent reasons.”

  Something clanged against the hull outside.

  “Things might get stabby again soon,” Torque said.

  The Green Room was a boxy little ship. Much of the interior was apparently used to store puppets, props, and set pieces—all of which were currently scattered outside. Now it held four bots and five humans: Kleist the puppeteer, Luisa the poet, her pair of husbands—both grizzled but significantly younger than Dame Muldoon—and myself. Kleist stood apart. Luisa, Jorn, and Rorik huddled together in their own reunion.

  Halley introduced her fellow performers as Bodkin and Filament. I gathered that Bodkin was the oldest member of the troupe. Their primary chassis had taken up a lot of space onstage as the boisterous Sir Toby, but now they moved and spoke with quiet care.

  Filament was busy at the helm. He had played Feste the wise fool, and still wore that motley costume.

  “There’s only three of you?” I whispered to Halley. “Three actors in the whole troupe? Playing all those characters at once?”

  She shifted her posture and proudly tilted her chin ten degrees upward. “That’s right.”

  More clanging, wrenching noises came in from outside.

  “May we please launch?” Bodkin asked.

  “We can’t abandon our puppets,” Halley said. “Some of them might be fixable.”

  “Yes, you can,” I argued.

  “Nope,” Filament chimed in. “We absolutely can’t. Not now. The thrusters are damaged. Knocked askew with a burning mace, I’m guessing. Any attempted liftoff would flip us right over to flail like a tortoise in distress. This ship is bricked, my friends.”

  * * *

  We sent out a distress signal. Then I started to pace. Staying in motion helped me think. A single hop carried me from one end of the Green Room to the other. The ship had very few creature comforts, since Kleist was the only biological creature who spent any time aboard. One sleeping bag was strapped to the wall. One vacuum brush was set up for dry bathing. One large airlock allowed the troupe to load and unload pieces of the set. It also seemed to be the only way in or out of the ship. If angels broke through, then we would have to make our stand at that airlock.

  How? Sparkles asked. With what? Your cane is in pieces.

  Shush, I told her. Let me think.

  “Are there any weapons in here?” I asked aloud. “Even props? There were several swords in the play. We need to convince the angels to keep their distance and stay out of the airlock.”

  “Everything we had is still outside,” Halley said. “We could print more with our fabricator. Carbon weave. Strong stuff. That would take hours, though.”

  “Weapons are prohibited here on Phobos,” Luisa said. “How did these silly people get their hands on so many?” I found her faith in rules adorable.

  “Religious exemption,” Bodkin said softly. “The Solar Storm claims that their medieval arsenal is both ceremonial and holy. They tried to make the same argument for guns as well, testifying that each flash of gunpowder is a reverent spark of sunlight. That nonsense was quickly struck down. Denied firearms, the Stormers proceeded to set fire to the arms that they do have.”

  The Green Room shuddered. Everyone held still. I licked my finger and held it up to check for drafts, but we didn’t seem to be leaking air.

  How can you make a stand at the airlock when you don’t have a functional suit? Sparkles asked. Neither does Jorn. Your glove burned, and his visor got smashed.

  Maybe Halley can seal up the sleeve where my glove used to be, I suggested.

  And then replace it with a hook, like a proper pirate?

  You’re not helping.

  I asked about spare suits or helmets. Kleist looked embarrassed. “The one I’m wearing right now is the spare.”

  Light flickered and died as the Green Room lost power.

  “Well,” Halley said. “Now we definitely can’t print any more swords.”

  * * *

  The next moment stretched out in darkness and silence.

  Dame Luisa broke it. “How long will the air last?”

  “Less time if we spend it talking,” I said. “Shush.”

  “Don’t you dare shush me, child,” she countered. “Thinking out loud will keep my breathing calm, which I believe is a good thing, and the lack of light makes it difficult to speak with our hands. Mr. Kleist? A word, if you please. I have notes about your Twelfth Night.”

  The puppeteer cleared his throat. “This isn’t a good time.”

  “It’s a terrible time,” Luisa agreed, “but we may not have another. Now listen. Twelfth Night was written to be embodied by human performers, yes? The lines follow the rhythms of breath and heartbeat. Iambic pentameter is the pulse of the play. Da dum, da dum, da dum, da dum, da dum. When Sebastian falls in love, he says, ‘This is the air. That is the glorious sun.’ Those words are a part of his body, expressed in the drumbeat that keeps him alive. Why did you decide to shift those same words to a performance venue with no air, spoken by performers without breath or heartbeat?”

  Halley made a small and uncomfortable noise.

  “Some things are always lost in translation,” Kleist said diplomatically, though his voice also sounded like a glass bottle smashed against the edge of a bar. “Other things are gained.”

  “True enough,” Luisa said, “but you are not the translator. As the poet laureate of this planet, it is my duty to serve on the governing council of the Scriveners’ Guild. We frown on plagiarism.” She put enough venom in that word to make it morally equivalent to eating live kittens.

  “This is a very old play,” Kleist said. “Part of the public domain for thousands of years.”

  “This is a very new translation,” Luisa countered, “and you are not fluent in Starling. You neither think nor dream in Starling. I’d bet my last breath on it. You could not possibly have translated this play into Starling. How dare you take credit for someone else’s work?”

  Halley spoke up. “He takes credit to protect me.”

  “Ah,” Luisa said. “That’s complicated.”

  “Why is it complicated?” I whispered to Torque.

  “Bot writing is illegal,” he answered.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Really.”

  “For good reason,” Luisa said. “Or at least for reasons that used to be good. Preconscious algorithms periodically threaten to bury authors beneath an avalanche of debased language reduced to gray goo. Such regurgitating formulae are capable of churning out words like factory-baked slices of fungal bread, devoid of understanding or communion.”

  “Those laws are out-of-date,” Bodkin’s voice rumbled from a distant corner of the ship. “They should not apply to those of us who are fully conscious.”

  “As for breath and heartbeat,” Halley added, “kindly remember that our ancestors were clocks. Our bodies do have rhythms. Our movements still keep time. Such as we are made of, such we be.”

  “For my part,” Kleist said, “I’d rather be an honest producer than a fake translator and puppeteer. Lying for this troupe is the best sponsorship that I can offer them, however. Are you going to turn us in?”

  “I very much doubt that I’ll have the opportunity,” Luisa muttered.

  “Not an answer,” Bodkin pointed out.

  “I am sworn to uphold the bylaws of my guild,” Luisa protested.

  “That’s closer to an answer,” Halley said. “A very upsetting one.”

  “Don’t worry yourself, child,” Luisa told her. “I will not report you for writing this sublime and illegal translation. Much as I fear the unscrupulous nonsense that might follow a relaxation of those archaic laws, they should not silence you.”

  “Thank you, Dame Muldoon,” Halley said graciously.

  I found her in the dark, nudged her arm, and whispered in her ear—or at least the place where an ear would be, if she were human. Most chassis designs lacked ears. It was mortifying to realize that I didn’t really know how bots picked up sound.

  “Have you written any stuff of your own?” I whispered.

  “Of course not,” she said. “How could you even suggest such a thing, Tova Lir?”

  “Can I read it?” I asked.

  “Maybe,” she said. “I may or may not have a stash of underground chapbooks. Safer to share them in print. Bots may or may not hold secret readings sometimes, but those are tricky to organize. Biological people start to worry that we’re plotting revolution if more than a couple of us gather together in any one place.”

  “Don’t even joke about that,” I said. “Half of Luna is blaming bots for the shipyard collapse.”

  “I know,” she said. “We already canceled the Lunar part of our tour.”

  That triggered an upswell of mama-bear rage. Luna was my home, but it couldn’t be hers. I tried to think of something comforting to say, unsure which one of us I was trying to comfort.

  The whole conversation came to an abrupt end when lasers cut through the outer airlock door.

  * * *

  “Helmets!” Jorn shouted.

  “Yours is broken,” Luisa said, “so I refuse to wear one, either.”

  Both husbands made sputtering noises.

  “Helmets may not be required,” Bodkin said. “Look.”

  Three people stood in the airlock. They were backlit from outside, which made them seem like living shadows. None of them wore suits. That made no sense until I noticed the semitransparent walls of an inflatable bubble shelter behind them. Someone had put a tent around the Green Room and filled it up with air.

  One of the figures knocked politely on the glass of the inner hatch. Kleist opened the door. A Lunar ranger in uniform stepped inside.

  “Tova Lir?” they asked.

  I wanted to hug them, whoever they were. They sounded like home; their accent was soft and welcoming, more accustomed to close quarters and flowing corridors than the thin air and wide-open spaces that made Martians so shouty.

  “Here.” I stepped forward.

  The ranger cuffed my wrists together. “You are hereby detained as a person of interest in the collapse of the Lunar docks and shipyards.”

  5 Tends to Stay at Rest

  THE HEAVENLY HOST HAD scattered, but the charred suit of the archangel still stood where I had left it. He had ruined Halley’s play. He had tried to smite all of us down. He probably would have slept the sleep of the righteous afterward, guilt-free and smug. I wanted to feel smug about ending him instead. My swashbuckling adrenaline had faded, though, and now my limbs felt twitchy and cold.

  Rangers ushered us through the sheltering bubble tent and into a surface rover. I was the only one in restraints. This made signing difficult, but I still managed to have a private conversation with Luisa.

  “Please tell me that you had nothing to do with the shipyard disaster,” she said. “Tell me that your piratical behavior does not quite extend so far as treasonous sabotage and mass murder.”

  “Consider yourself told,” I said.

  “Say again, child? Those cuffs muffle your voice, and your hands are shaking.”

  One of the rangers glanced back at us. I scratched at a soot stain on my knee, just to give those shakes something innocent to do. The ranger looked away.

  “No,” I told Luisa. “A vast expanse of no. I’m not a saboteur.”

  She patted my sooty knee. “Watching your hands is like trying to understand someone talking with their mouth full, but I do get the gist. And of course I believe you. No doubt this lunatic nonsense will straighten itself out soon.”

  I took her hand with both of mine and squeezed, both to communicate genuine affection and to remind her to please keep her voice down. Martians are loud, as a general rule—regardless of whether their loudness comes from vocal cords or waving hands—and these rangers would be unhappy if they recognized the sign for lunatic.

  “Are you going home?” I asked, my left hand hidden by my right.

  “Yes. Finally. A dropship bound for the Mons will fall downwell within the hour. The boys and I will be on board. I’m looking forward to seeing my garden again. You should come and visit when you have the chance.”

  I promised that I would, even though Mars had an uncomfortable amount of gravity—much more than Luna—and I found its yellow sky unsettling. “May I ask a favor before you go?”

  “Of course,” she said. “You saved my Jorn from a costumed zealot. I am not yet prepared to grieve another husband. What can I do?”

  “Visit the Needle,” I told her, “and open the brig.”

  Luisa nodded slowly. “Consider it done, child. Take good care of yourself. Fair winds and following seas.”

  * * *

  Once back at the Hub, we were all separated.

  “Be safe,” I tried to tell Halley and Torque, but I don’t think either of them saw my hands.

  The lead ranger led me into a large and dusty room. Shelves lined the walls. Abandoned packages stamped ADDRESSEE UNKNOWN filled the shelves. Every courier depot had a room like this. We usually called it the graveyard.

  There were two chairs. We sat down. This was more a matter of custom than comfort. Gravity on Panic is so negligible that it would have taken no effort to stand.

  The ranger produced a floating ansible mic and set it in the air between us.

  “I am a ranger of Luna and a tertiary investigator. Seated before me is Tova Lir, captain and sole proprietor of the Needle, courier third class and guild member in good standing. Captain Lir, note that our conversation has joined the stream. Any falsehoods uttered here will be entered into the public record for all time. Do you understand?”

  This seemed like a bad moment to stamp my foot and shout, Do you know who I am? They obviously knew who I was, and didn’t care. My awkward status as wayward pseudo-royalty held no weight in this room.

  “Do you understand?” they asked again.

  I nodded, my chin descending a mere five degrees.

  RANGER: The subject has indicated assent. Tova Lir, where were you in the days leading up to the shipyard collapse?

  LIR: On my usual route between Phoebe and Luna.

  RANGER: Did you arrive at Luna at the expected time?

  LIR: No. The docks had already fallen.

  RANGER: Several days later you docked in a private Lunar bay. Is that correct?

  LIR: Yes. I had deliveries to make and family to see.

  RANGER: What did you do in the intervening time?

  LIR: That is private and of no relevance to this investigation.

  RANGER: That determination is not yours to make.

  LIR: I have made it nonetheless.

  RANGER: Once you delivered packages to a temporary depot, you were relieved of your guild duties. Is that correct?

  LIR: Yes. Temporarily, and at my own request.

  RANGER: Do you know Damian Cosmas?

  LIR:…

  RANGER: Are you in any way acquainted with one Damian Cosmas? He is a recent graduate of the College of Artificial Cognition at the University of Mars.

  LIR: Yes. Damian sublet my apartment. I never really used the place.

  RANGER: Were you aware of the nature of his research?

  LIR: No.

  RANGER: I remind you that any falsehoods uttered in this conversation will become part of the public record for all time.

  LIR: I understand.

  RANGER: Have you received any unstreamed messages from Damian Cosmas?

  LIR: Yes. Brief correspondence in my role as his landlord. Apparently, he had some trouble with the lights.

  RANGER: Have you ever had reason to suspect that Damian Cosmas is not human?

  LIR:… What?

  RANGER: Would you like me to repeat the question?

  LIR: Not human?

  Acting was hard. I needed to get Halley to teach me the basics.

  I don’t think that acting and lying are the same thing, Sparkles said.

  Close enough, I told her. Do you think it would seem suspicious if I grabbed that ansible and stomped on it?

  Yes, she said. Plus, you’re on Panic, which is tiny. Luna is more than a hundred and fifty times bigger than this place. You don’t have enough weight to bring down on that ansible. Literally or metaphorically. Stomping on it would just bounce you into the air.

  The ranger waited for me to stop sputtering, so I sputtered some more. Then Thaddeus walked into the room. I say that he “walked,” but it was more of a stumbling float-skip. My little brother looked sleepless and terrible. I’d never been happier to see him.

  Thad switched off the ansible, thereby bringing the live-stream of my desperate stalling to an end. I vowed to get him something amazing for his next birthday.

  “Give us a moment,” he said.

  The ranger looked severely irked, but they left without protest.

  Thad sat down. “Hi.”

  “Hi.” I held out my wrists.

  He collapsed the restraints into an inert nugget and stuck it in his pocket.

  “How’s Mama Dee?” I asked.

  “Fine,” he said.

  “Really?”

  His face made a thin-lipped pseudo-smile. “No. Not really. Want to know how you can help?”

  “Tell me,” I said. “Unless you need me to come home. Can’t do that yet.”

  “We don’t need you to come home. We just need you to share anything and everything you know about Damian Cosmas.”

  Something in me twisted when I heard that name in my brother’s mouth. Those two were both family to me—but not to each other. My innards twisted harder when I recognized the look on Thad’s face.

  None of us knew how to grieve. Mama Dee mourned for her lost love by burying herself in work. I mourned for Mama CJ by trying to become her. Singing lullabies to Thaddeus became my job when both of us were small.

  Oh, they say that we Lunars are out of our minds

 

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