Zodiac

  Our sea is in turmoil. Our people are in exile. My brother and dad can’t be found. In a daze, I wander beneath the colossal steel globe of the arenasphere, stumbling into people and kiosks.

  Dozens of Aerian Acolytes race past, conducting the Plenum’s urgent errands, but to me they’re just shadows. Mathias would advise me not to dwell on individual grief, and yet, oddly enough, I’m thinking about my mother.

  She feels more present today than she has in years. After all, she’s the person who taught me to believe in my fears.

  I’ve never told anyone, but when Mom left, I wasn’t upset. I was free.

  For Dad, the change was overnight. He was quiet to begin with, but he barely spoke again. For me, the sadness started later. First I rejected the things that reminded me of her—Yarrot, Centering, reading the stars—then I clung to them like they could bring her back.

  Stanton missed her the most. She was different with him. When it came to me, she was more instructor than mother, but with Stanton, she was a friend. She would ask him to tag along with her on errands, and she’d pull him into arguments with Dad, as if Stanton were an adult who could referee. When she would get to that point, Dad usually let her win.

  After she left, Stanton began telling me stories about her, ones I hadn’t heard before. His favorite was the one about Hurricane Hebe.

  Mom had seen it coming in her Ephemeris, so she warned our neighbors and filled our storm cellar with bags of fresh water, dried kelp, and medical supplies. But Hebe didn’t strike our atoll. It only blew a few trees down and knocked over the nar-clams. Dad teased her all day for overreacting.

  Mom didn’t defend herself. She was seven months pregnant with me at the time, and while Dad rescued his nar-clams, she loaded up her schooner with the supplies she’d set aside. Six-foot waves still roiled the sea, and when she placed little Stanton in the schooner’s front seat, Dad railed at her and tried to stop my brother from going.

  “Stanton has to come,” she said. “It’s fated.”

  So they set off to Naxos, the next nearest island, eighteen kilometers away. The stars had told her Naxos would take a direct hit, and it had. For five days, she and little Stanton helped the Naxos families dig through the ruins for survivors, and on the fifth day, Stanton wriggled down through a tiny hole into a collapsed cellar and found an infant still alive.

  If it hadn’t happened to my own brother, I’d never believe it.

  Will fate lead someone to rescue Stanton and Dad if they’re in trouble now? Or should I abandon what I’m doing and be the one who finds them? If only I could use an Ephemeris again. . . .

  Through the haze of my thoughts, a recognizable figure walking toward me becomes clearer. I almost can’t believe my eyes.

  “Dr. Eusta?”

  “Honored Guardian. How glad I am to have found you in time.” He doesn’t look glad. His beady eyes glare at me.

  “What are you doing here?” When I offer a hand touch, my hand passes right through him. He’s still a hologram.

  “Ambassador Sirna has informed us of your plan to speak at the Plenum. You must not do this. You’ll bring shame on our House.”

  “But, Doctor, I—”

  “Cancer will be the laughingstock of the galaxy. Do our anguished people deserve such a blow?”

  “And do the other Houses deserve nothing?” I ask, blood rushing to my cheeks. “I can’t stand by in silence.”

  His face distorts with rage. “Your own House suffers grievously, and Admiral Crius commands you to return. He sent me here to bring you home.”

  When he shows me Crius’s written order, I squint at the virtual document, confused. Crius doesn’t have the authority to command me. He’s my Military Advisor, so he can only overrule me in times of war, and only if he and the majority of my Advisors vote that my life is in danger. But . . . this doesn’t feel right.

  Dr. Eusta glances aside. “Another emergency. I must go. But hear me well, Guardian. Do not speak at the Plenum.”

  The doctor’s hologram flashes away, and I blink as if waking from a stupor. Mathias is standing in front of me, gently shaking my arm.

  “Rho, I’ve been searching everywhere for you. The session’s beginning. We have to go in.”

  “Right,” I say, still a bit dazed. “Did you find your parents?”

  “Yes. We’ll talk later. Let’s hurry.”

  We step into the ruby-colored stair pipe, and its walls turn everything blood red. I’m still reeling from my meeting with Sirna, and the doctor’s visit has not boosted my confidence—nor did Mathias’s advice last night. I still have no idea what I’m going to say. I feel more uncertain of myself than ever.

  Mathias guides me out of the pipe at the first level, where a round door opens for us. The vast echoing arenasphere is a hollow globe lined in dark quilted fabric like a jewel box. Tiers of sleek chrome seats ring its curved walls, and virtual screens move through the air, forming panes of flickering color.

  The sphere’s almost empty when we enter, and the air has an exhausted staleness. The entire upper half is one giant holo-tap. Only a few lackadaisical holo-ghosts drift under the ceiling, viewing the session like passing clouds. And as I watch them, it strikes me what felt wrong about Dr. Eusta: He wasn’t a ghost.

  How did he project his hologram all the way from Cancer without a time lag? He spoke to me as if his signal was coming from nearby.

  Mathias pulls on my hand, and I have to speed up to keep pace with him as he leads us deeper into the arenasphere. For the Plenum session, the Arieans have rigged a temporary platform in the bed of the sphere, a half-moon stage facing an arc of tall gilded seats reserved for the ambassadors. When I step onto the stage, three flying micro-cameras buzz around me like gnats.

  I have no idea what Nishi likes about the spotlight. Looking out at the vast arena from the stage, the only thing keeping me together is the hope of the finish line. If I can manage to convince even a few Houses of the danger we’re in, we’ll have allies. Then there will be others besides us on the case.

  I rub my sweaty palms on my yellow suit with the glyph of the four silver moons. What a sight I must make: a girl almost too short to see over the top of the lectern, wearing a mismatched uniform. I have to stand on tiptoe to face my meager audience of only seven sleepy-eyed ambassadors and their entourage of adjuncts, Acolytes, and aides. It’s the end of the day, and they look like the last thing they want to do is hear another speech.

  Brick-red Albor Echus sits at the center, representing Aries. His opulent fur robes can’t hide his double chins or bulging belly. Next to him is a rail-thin man with a face like a knife blade. His nameplate says he’s Ambassador Charon of Scorpio. The Virgo ambassador’s chair is empty, as are several others.

  I spot Sirna. She’s leaning back with her arms crossed under her chest, looking sullen. I should have reached out to her when I was made Guardian. There are so many things I should have done.

  Crius is right to order me home. Mother Origene won people’s devotion through her deeds. I’ve done nothing but disappear.

  Mathias stands at attention in his blue Cancrian uniform near the main door. Just as I’m about to begin, Hysan makes an entrance, bumping fists and slapping backs with people from every House, looking resplendent in a charcoal-gray court suit. He winks at me, and my stomach does a small flip.

  He sits behind his own Libran ambassador, a stylish, bearded blond man whose nameplate reads Ambassador Frey. Leaning forward, Hysan whispers a few words to Frey, and they smile as if they’re sharing a private joke.

  I take a deep breath and stammer the formal greeting Mathias taught me. “Hail, Excellencies, Most Honorable. Thank you for hearing me today.”

  The faces of Sirna, Dr. Eusta, and Mathias all seem to be swimming in my head, their words making me hesitate.

  Am I wrong to insist on honor when we’re dealing with
an enemy who has none? Ophiuchus is manipulating people, pretending he doesn’t exist—would it be so bad if I manipulated as well, blamed Sirna’s army or some other boogeyman for the bloodshed? Isn’t that the point of the children’s-book monster after all—to be scapegoat for a bigger evil?

  What I need is for the Zodiac to unite. Regardless of what name I give him, there’s still someone out there after us, and the ship’s logs documenting a Psy attack prove at least that much. When Moira awakens, she can tell them it’s Ophiuchus, and I’ll back her then.

  “I’ve come to warn you,” I say, a slight tremble in my voice. I clear my throat and put more force behind my words. “Every House in the Zodiac is in danger.”

  There’s an edgy stirring in the audience, and I glance overhead, waiting for Ochus to strike. When nothing happens, I stiffen my shaky knees and start my story by counting off all the recent natural disasters in the newsfeeds, sharing my theory that they’re part of a pattern, and then insisting they were triggered by someone who’s manipulating Psynergy to control Dark Matter.

  A louder hum of protests begins. As I watch people’s faces, any words of a Thirteenth House turn to sand in my mouth.

  Then I flash back to the Strider and the bubbles breaking the sea’s surface. I see the gray light of Thebe flickering in the Ephemeris. If I’m not brave enough to speak now, I’ll be like one of the Guardians in Mom’s Ochus story—too afraid to believe in my fears.

  Agatha’s blessing comes back to me: May your inner light always shine, and may it guide us through our darkest nights.

  I think this is exactly the kind of moment she was referring to. The darkness shrouding our galaxy is growing so thick, it’s getting hard to tell right from wrong—even for our leaders. Agatha advised me to stay true to my Cancrian values, even—or especially—when the temptation to do what’s easy over what’s right feels greatest. And now I know what I’ve come to say.

  “Some of you will not want to believe me, but I beg you to have open minds. Everything I am about to tell you can be confirmed by Empress Moira, as soon as she recovers. There is a part of our galaxy that has been hidden from us, I don’t know how or for how long. The Thirteenth House isn’t just a fable we tell our children—it’s a real constellation, just past Pisces. A House called Ophiuchus.”

  The audience stirs like a nest of sea spiders, and the ambassadors whisper among themselves. But I’m not finished. “Its original Guardian was exiled, condemned to immortality in the darkest reaches of space. And now he’s returned to the Zodiac for revenge.”

  I start describing how he felt solid in the Psy, and I have to raise my voice to speak over the audience. I rap the lectern with my knuckles, but no one seems to hear. Finally, Hysan stands and yells, “Quiet! Let her speak.”

  I catch his eye and nod my gratitude. He smiles at me, and for a moment I see the same teenage guy who was in the sea of representatives at my swearing-in ceremony. He didn’t know me then, but still he had my back.

  When the audience settles down, I say, “Ophiuchus must be stopped. We can only do that if we quit arguing among ourselves and come together to form a plan.”

  More people are entering the arenasphere now, people from all corners of the Zodiac. The seats are filling up, and the noise level rises. A dozen more tiny cameras buzz around me. Word of my speech must have spread already, so I keep talking, as loud as my lungs will allow.

  “If this enemy can damage a House as wealthy and powerful as Virgo, no one’s safe. Our only chance is to band together.”

  “Rho! Rho! Trust in Guardian Rho!”

  A dozen noisy people push their way in. They look like university students, and one of them waves a holographic banner with a picture of me behind my drums. They’re marching down the aisle, shouting my name.

  My stomach plummets. I know the youth vote will only hurt me with these ambassadors.

  Albor Echus calls for order, and a couple of soldiers force the rowdy students to leave. When the arenasphere quiets down, it takes me a minute to regain my composure.

  The blade-faced man, Charon of Scorpio, lifts the long speaker’s staff in his hands, signaling that he wants the floor. As he rises, a profound hush falls. He radiates a kind of magnetism even I can feel.

  “My dear Rhoma.” His voice has a greasy thickness. “How sweet of you to come all this way to read us stories, when your people must surely need you at home. How long have you held your position? A week?”

  “Almost three, Ambassador. But we’ve been traveling at hyperspeed, so my calendar’s a little mixed up.”

  “And when exactly did you complete your Zodai training?”

  “In between attacks from Ophiuchus, under the training of my Guide and Advisor Lodestar Mathias Thais.” I smile at him. “Anything else?”

  “Yes, dear girl, there is. I’m old and a little hard of hearing, so forgive me, but did you just spend half an hour telling us your House was attacked by the boogeyman?”

  People burst out laughing, and Charon’s thin lips curl into a smile, his eyes far from friendly.

  “I believe I said Ophiuchus.”

  “My dear young lady, we bow to the grief of your stricken world. How confusing this must be for one so inexperienced. No wonder you’re seeing monsters under your bed.”

  He signals to an Acolyte, who stands and points at my head, as though he’s going to shoot me with his index finger. Instead, a film beams out from his Paintbrush—a Wave-like fingertip device Scorps use for designing holographic blueprints of their latest innovations.

  The film shows Cancer on the night of the Lunar Quadract. The image has the grainy grayness of footage taken through a long-range telescope lens, but the vision of our four pearl-white moons makes my chest ache.

  “Please note”—Charon shines a light from his own Paintbrush to indicate our smallest moon, Thebe—“prior to the horrible incident, scientists on this Cancrian moon were experimenting with a new type of quantum fusion reactor. Let’s run this video in fast-forward. Pay close attention, Excellencies.”

  I steel my nerves for what’s coming. First, an immense explosion knocks Thebe off course. Then Thebe knocks into Galene, which smacks into Orion, which explodes against Elara, filling the sky with debris. In superfast-forward, the rubble sweeps around Cancer, forming a rocky ring, while a score of larger pieces flame down through the atmosphere, splashing into our ocean and setting off ripples of destruction. When the video ends, my cheeks are wet with tears.

  Charon turns to the audience. “Now I will show you what caused this.”

  His Acolyte’s next projection shows a star exploding at the edge of our galaxy, far out beyond Pisces. It glows like a thousand suns, expelling sharp rays of debris and hot gases.

  “That is a massive hypernova in the Sufianic Clouds. Our data proves cosmic rays from that event triggered a critical overload in Cancer’s quantum reactor, located on the moon Thebe. In short, this dreadful event was caused by a freak accident.”

  Cosmic rays from the Sufianic Clouds? Has that been the omen this whole time? Was Caasy right that I’m being deceived?

  Charon gestures toward the screen. “House Scorpio tracked this event with our telescopes. Your predecessor, the honored Holy Mother Origene, must have been sleeping not to foresee it.”

  “How dare you,” I breathe through my teeth.

  Charon’s smile is like a razor’s edge. “Child, no one blames you for fantasizing about monsters. You’re suffering post-traumatic stress. After what you’ve been through, who wouldn’t be?”

  “What about Virgo?” I snap. “Who set their planet’s atmosphere on fire?”

  Charon’s thin-lipped smile makes the air colder. “Virgo was also experimenting with quantum fusion. Regrettably, the hypernova discharged radiation for many days.”

  The Acolyte in the audience screens another video, showing a satellite exploding a
bove Tethys and lighting its upper atmosphere on fire. “That satellite housed Virgo’s quantum reactor,” says Charon. “The result was a storm of acid rain that washed over the planet. Empress Moira would confirm this fact if she could speak. Unfortunately, she’s in a coma, but I have sworn affidavits from her own scientists.”

  After he shows these documents, I don’t know what to say next. If I hadn’t been in the room when Moira faced Ophiuchus, I would doubt everything, too.

  Who’s going to believe me if Moira doesn’t wake up soon and set them straight?

  “So you see,” says Charon, “these sad events have rational explanations. There’s no grand conspiracy at work, only nature and chance.”

  When Charon concludes his presentation, Albor Echus rises. “Our thanks to the Eighth House for this report. I think we’ve heard enough.”

  28

  I START TO OBJECT, but Hysan signals me to wait. He whispers to Ambassador Frey, who stands and takes up the speaker’s staff. “Excellencies, this needs further discussion, but the hour is late. I propose that we table this item until tomorrow.”

  He’s buying us time. The hum in the audience increases to a din of complaint, and Albor Echus says, “Must we really continue with this adolescent claptrap?”

  I catch Sirna’s eyes and nod, signaling her to stand and speak. She squints defiantly at me, and, with an obvious display of reluctance, she rises and says, “Excellencies, I agree with Ambassador Frey. Let us reconvene tomorrow.”

  Another ambassador raises a willowy white hand, signaling for attention. It’s the delegate from House Aquarius. He stands to speak, though he doesn’t take the speaking staff.

  Ambassador Morscerta, his nameplate reads. I didn’t notice him before. His alabaster-white features are narrow and elongated, and his long hair falls in a cloud of silvery waves, yet he doesn’t strike me as an old man.

  Actually, I can’t tell his age. He has a smooth high forehead, a protruding lower lip, and small gray eyes that burn like nuclear fission. There’s even a shade around him, a barely noticeable aura that shifts in and out of sight as he moves. Can he be a hologram?