Dark Energy (13 page)

His stark white face was reddened with embarrassment as he clipped the device back on. I waved at all the people around us to go back to what they were doing.

“I was taking care of your sister,” I said. “I wouldn't let anything happen to her.”

He didn't respond, but picked up my scarf and handed it to me. I tied it loosely around my neck and then sat down.

“I like you guys,” I said. “I want to take care of Coya. I just want you to talk to me.”

“How did you do that?” he asked, rubbing his shoulder.

“It's called jujitsu. It's a way of fighting. I was trained to protect myself.”

“I would like to learn,” he said.

“I'll teach you,” I said. “Tomorrow. And the next day. I can teach you a lot.”

“What do you want to know?” He sat down across from me.

“I was in your spaceship,” I said. “My dad works for the government.”

He nodded.

“What was your job on the ship?”

“Why do you ask me these questions?” he asked sharply.

“I want to understand you,” I said. “I
need
to understand all of your people.”

“Many people don't want to understand,” he said. “Many people just want to fight us. To kill us. That's why you have your guards in front of the school. I know this. Humans want to kill Coya and me.”

“Not in this school,” I said.

“No,” he answered angrily. “Did you not hear the laughter when you hurt me? They want to see me hurt.”

“That was because you're so big and I'm so small,” I said, hoping I was right. “They were laughing at that. Not because you're a Guide.”

“I do not know if I believe you.”

I closed the laptop and sighed. “On the spaceship we found places where it looked like people were killed—places with a lot of blood. Do you know what happened?”

Coya answered, “We crashed. Many people were injured.”

I nodded. “Yes, but we found other places where it looked
like people were murdered. We found weapons.”

His lips were drawn into a thin, tight line. “If you found weapons, there must have been an accident during the crash.”

“Where are the dead bodies?”

“These questions are painful,” he said.

I didn't want to let him go, not when I was so close. “Where are the dead bodies?” I turned to Coya. “Do you know?”

Suski jumped in so Coya couldn't answer. “Whenever anyone dies on the ship, they get recycled. Their bodies are processed and used to feed the gardens.”

I was repulsed, instantly and completely. I'd heard of human waste being used as fertilizer in Third World countries, but not processed corpses.

He must have seen the horror on my face, because he held out his hands. “Not the gardens for food. We have gardens that produce the air we breathe. When a man dies, his body is returned to the gardens to give the rest of us breath.”

I relaxed slightly. “Processed.”

“Yes,” he said, as though it were the most normal thing in the world. Well, I guess it was for him. And I could see that it made some sense not to waste organic tissue—not to shoot a dead body into space. Still, the thought that Grandpa was getting mulched to feed a pool of algae was absolutely disgusting.

“One more question,” I said, and he almost rolled his eyes. It seemed like he did the alien equivalent—some gesture with two fingers and a sigh.

I repeated the gesture—and the sigh. “Did I get that right?”

Suski almost smiled, but he pulled it back at the last minute. “What is your question?” he asked.

“Suski,” I said, “and Coya.” I was still stumbling over the question in my mind. I wanted the perfect segue, but nothing had come, or at least, nothing I'd seen.

“What?” Coya asked.

Might as well just ask it. I gripped the edge of the table, and then grabbed the arms of the chair, and finally just crossed my arms. “Do you know that you're not aliens? You're humans, just like us?”

Suski took a deep breath, held it, and then exhaled through his nose. Coya looked confused and waited for her brother to talk. “What makes you say that? We look different. Our language is different.”

“There's a thing in our bodies—very, very small—called DNA. Brynne took a sample from Coya and—”

“When did she take a sample?” Coya asked, her face turning red.

“Remember when she rubbed that cotton swab on the inside of your cheek on the first day you got here?”

“What does it mean that we are humans?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

“We don't know. Our people look like your people. That's just how it is.”

“Here,” I said, taking his humanities textbook from him and looking up the Anasazi. There were three pictures of pottery and one shot of Mesa Verde. “Does this spark your memory at all? We think this is where your ancestors came from. There used to be thousands of your people, and then suddenly they vanished. A few of them formed into other tribes, but no one knows why you built these easily defensible fortresses, and then why you left.”

“You're wrong,” Suski said.

Coya spoke. “But—”

“No, you're wrong,” he said, and pulled the book away from me and stuffed it into his backpack.

“Why are you so angry all the time?” I asked.

“Wouldn't you be angry if you were living as a prisoner? I am in a nice building, but I know my people are living in the cold. I look out the windows and see this snow and I know that they are suffering, and yet your people still hate my people.”

“To be fair,” I said, “your ship killed thousands of humans.”

“That was an accident,” he said, his white cheeks flushing just slightly. “We didn't have control over it.” He seemed genuinely sorry.

“I believe you,” I said.

“Most humans don't,” he said, “or they wouldn't be treating us like this.”

It was my turn for a deep breath. “Humans don't treat each other very well. It's not something we're good at. And we're afraid when someone looks different from us.”

“You look different from the other students,” he said. “Your skin is brown, and your hair is black and blue.”

“And you have no idea the kind of crap humans give each other about skin color,” I said. “You'd think it wouldn't matter, but it does.”

“I don't understand ‘crap,'” he said, and I laughed. I couldn't help it.

“I'm not going to translate that one,” I said. “What I mean is that humans don't treat humans very well. It's been that way for a long time. Maybe that's something that your father can teach us?”

“Maybe it is,” he said.

“I hope so.”

K
urt met me at the door to the Ghouls dorm with two dozen pink roses in a handmade glass vase. He was grinning from ear to ear.

“How did you get these?” I said, excited and smelling them. “Wait—don't tell me. It's more fun to imagine how you snuck past the guards.”

“It was really—”

“Hush!”

“I almost died getting them for you.”

“That's more like it!”

“Well, I have a busy schedule planned out for us.”

“I should hope so,” I said, and took his hand.

Kurt led me to a conference room in the old part of the school, where he had put two place settings on a table along
with covered plates from the cafeteria.

He tried to pull out my chair as if we were in a fancy restaurant, but that never works very well, so I just thanked him and adjusted it on my own.

Kurt had chosen fettucine Alfredo from the cafeteria: carbs, butter, and cheese. Apparently he and I were kindred spirits. Not in an
Anne of Green Gables
kind of kindred spirit way, but a cute kindred spirit who smelled nice and made a good snuggling companion on the couch. A Gilbert Blythe kindred spirit, not a Diana Barry.

We ate and talked, and when we were done, he revealed two more dishes under plate covers: cherry cheesecake. I've never been much of a cherry kid, but this one was very, very good.

And as we ate, I spilled the news about the Guides. He listened closely and asked all the right questions at all the right places, and he held his plate wrong and a cherry rolled off it and it landed on his jeans, which meant that he was paying attention at the expense of his dignity, which was what I needed.

After dessert, Kurt led me up to the third floor, to a wing I'd never been in before. We stopped in front of a locked door, and he pulled out a key with a big tag on it that read “Museum.”

“So this is the famous museum?”

“A small one.”

“Why didn't you take me here before? And how did you get the key?”

“I hardly knew you. You don't take just anybody to the museum. Well, actually, this was the first time I was able to talk the assistant principal into giving me the key. Having the school guarded by the FBI had a lot to do with that. The G-men are guarding every door. It'd be a lot harder to sneak out the
Mona Lisa
with them watching.”

He turned the lights on. Apparently Kurt has a spy on the inside of my soul and knew exactly where I'd like to go without me even knowing such a place existed. The museum had three Rembrandts! It also had a Rothko, and I stared in amazement at the giant slabs of color, the grays and blues and bright oranges and yellows. There was something about standing in front of such beautiful artwork that gnawed at me, reminding me of what I'd said to Suski about humans hating humans. People who hated shouldn't be capable of creating something so perfect, so vibrant and full of life—full of life even though the creator had been dead for a hundred years.

All of the paintings, etchings, and woodcuts were enclosed in glass, and I could practically feel the electricity humming through the room's security system. And the electricity flowing through me.

It was somewhere between the portrait of
Dr. Paul Gachet
and
The Olive Trees
series that I reached over and took Kurt's hand. It was warm and soft.

“I've always wanted to paint,” he said.

“Why don't you?”

“Laziness, I guess,” he answered with a grin. “I've taken art classes and I'm always frustrated by how not good I am. I know the solution is to practice practice practice, but I don't have the patience. Or the drive. It's like I want to know how to paint, but I don't want to learn how to paint.” He paused. “That probably makes me sound like a loser.”

“I'm the same way with languages,” I said. “I'd love to know a second language. A lot of people speak Spanish in Miami, and people always think I'm Cuban or Puerto Rican because of my coloring, so they'll speak to me in Spanish. I learned a few words. I can count to twenty and I can order at a restaurant, but I've never forced myself to study.”

“How's this for lazy,” he said. “I'm technically Indian—that's where my citizenship is—born in Hyderabad. But I only speak English. I could get deported one of these days and have to go back home and work in a call center or something.”

“Would they really deport you?”

“I've applied for citizenship,” he said. “But there's a long waiting list. I wonder what they'll do about the Guides' citizenship. They landed in America—does that make them American? It's not like we can load them on a bus and send them back to where they came from. Besides, from what you said, putting them on a bus would just be shipping them back to Mesa Verde, right?”

“I don't see us creating a new little nation for them,” I said. “We've seen how well that's worked out in the past, with Native American reservations.”

“So they'll be part of the melting pot?” Kurt asked.

“I don't know what they'll be,” I said. “These Guides are going to need a lot of education, and they don't have any money. Are we just going to give them free houses?”

“That's probably what Mai is discussing with the president,” Kurt said. “Maybe they'll trade the spaceship for land. I bet that's it. Wasn't your dad talking about what an amazing treasure trove the ship is?”

We moved in front of the portrait of
The Suicide of
Lucretia
by Rembrandt, on loan from the Minneapolis Institute of the Arts. She was holding a knife, having stabbed herself rather than being forced to sleep with a tyrant king. The beautiful image showed an angelic, sorrowful girl, blood creeping down her dress.

I nodded. “Look at this girl,” I said, staring into the weeping eyes of
The Suicide of
Lucretia
. “Imagine having to make a sacrifice like that—to have to kill yourself in order to stand up for your principles. Well, she was killing herself for love, I guess.”

“Would you do that?” he asked. “Kill yourself for love?”

I smiled at him and squeezed his hand. “It's all very romantic, but I'd rather not kill myself for anything.”

“Sure,” he said. “But would you do it?”

“How do you even answer that?” I said with a little laugh. “Yes, I'd love to be that in love with someone where I feel that passionately. But it's a little hard to imagine. What about you?”

“I don't think I've ever been in love before,” he said. “Not really. Heck, I can't even honestly say that I'd kill myself for my parents. That probably sounds awful, but I feel like I know you and Malcolm and Brynne and Joshua better than I know them.”

“That's got to be rotten.”

We moved to the next painting.

“I just don't really have a strong connection with anyone, not enough to stab myself over.”

The next painting was a massive oil—
The Death of Germanicus
. It showed a Roman general dying in bed, surrounded by fawning and weeping loved ones and dedicated soldiers.

“Now this,” Kurt said, “is how I'd prefer to die.”

I read the card next to it. “It says he was poisoned.”

“Okay. This is not how I'd prefer to die,” he declared. “But it's how I'd like my deathbed to be. Not all alone holding a knife and bleeding. Surrounded by all my adoring fans.”

“I'd be there,” I said.

“The woman crying?”

“No, the soldier holding a spear. I'd protect you.”

“Too late. I've been poisoned.”

The next stop on our date was the foosball table in the common room.

“Foosball?” I asked with a grin. “You're so romantic. And where is everybody? Every other time I've been in here, there's been a line of people waiting to play the winner.”

“You mean Kenny Sonomura?”

“Yeah.” No one had beaten Kenny in months, or so I'd heard.

“I paid him ten bucks to take all the balls and walk away tonight.” Kurt dug into his pocket and produced four miniature soccer balls.

“Well, don't you just know how to show a girl a good time.”

We played and played, and even though I was terrible, it was one of the most fun things I'd done since coming to this school. Kurt took it very seriously, making amazing, well-planned diagonal attacks and ricochets into the goal. I focused on defense, and when my goalie made a wild, random shot that bounced off four guys and two walls and scored—well, I did not acknowledge my point with quiet dignity.

He won 7 to 1.

And then he won 7 to 3, and then 7 to 4, and I pledged that I would learn the art of foos and return to crush him.

Finally, he said he had one more surprise for me, and he led me upstairs again to the third floor. He pointed me toward another hallway I'd never taken. It led up to a dark
landing and a locked steel door.

He put the key in the lock and struggled to turn it.

“Where do you get all these keys?” I asked him, laughing a little loudly.

“I paid off the janitor,” he said, and finally succeeded in turning the key. The door opened a few inches, and there was pale light and a breeze.

A huge grin spread across my face, and I helped him push the door open wide enough for us to slip through onto the roof of the Minnetonka School for the Gifted and Talented.

Kurt put his arms around me, wrapping me up in his warmth while we watched the occasional car drive past. Jack Frost was nipping the hell out of my nose, but I leaned in closer to Kurt and put my face into his neck. He felt warm and comfortable and just right.

Kurt pointed out constellations. Not in an
I'm the big educated man teaching my mindless girlfriend
sort of way, but in a nice
I've been up here before and you're going to love this
sort of way.

And did I say “girlfriend”? I don't know what you're talking about.

Just as I was craning my neck to kiss him, the entire world went to shit.

A siren sounded from somewhere, and Kurt confusedly said, “Tornado alarm?”

Then we heard the movement of well-greased military
vehicles as two trucks seemed to appear from nowhere—hidden by camouflage netting down on the grass—with missiles on their backs, rising and turning toward the east. Two soldiers ran out onto the roof, and one ran over to us, yelling for us to get inside, down to the basement.

We didn't have to be told twice. We ran as fast as our snowy shoes would let us on the stone floor. I was wearing rule-breaking heels, too, and had to hold on to Kurt's arm as we went.

“Surface-to-air missiles,” he muttered. “What does Suski have to say about this?”

When we got to the common room, a huge group of students was filing through in the direction of the basement, but they'd all stopped to look at the TV. Kurt and I moved to the cafeteria, where there was a smaller group. Rachel saw me and waved.

The big TV was now showing a shot of the Minnesota Governor's Residence, shaky cam, and then we saw a slow-motion replay of something landing on the lawn. It was triangular and big—about the size of half a basketball court. Figures emerged from it. Guns were fired. There was an explosion. And then nothing. Just back to the shot of the Residence, a shiny black ship parked on its lawn.

“We don't know what's going on,” the commentator stammered. “But there appears to have been an attack on the Governor's Residence. We can see armed personnel—possibly
aliens?—advancing on the building from what appears to be another spaceship—yes, another spaceship. This one did not crash-land. Its inhabitants have forced their way into the Residence.”

The cafeteria was in mayhem, but I ducked under arms and squeezed between people to get closer to the TV.

“I knew it was invasion,” someone said as I passed them. “I told you it was invasion.”

The news broadcast kept changing camera angles—from the view of the front lawn to a view of the back lawn, to a shot inside the empty press room. But nothing was happening anywhere. The reporter kept saying that soldiers—American soldiers this time—were advancing on the building, but I didn't see them. It was too dark, and the cameras were too far away. Smoke was rising from the front door.

Kurt appeared at my side and took my hand.

“What is this?” he murmured.

“I don't know,” I said. “But it isn't good.”

“Do you think Suski and Coya are in on it?”

I shook my head, but I didn't know. I didn't want to believe it. They weren't bad—they were misunderstood and they were hated, but they weren't bad. I strained to see them in the group, but couldn't spot them.

“This ship may have come from the crashed craft in Minnesota,” the commentator speculated. “We're checking with air traffic control to see if they have a statement.”

“It couldn't have come from there,” I said, and was aware that tears were coming down my face. “My dad would have found it.”

“And why the Residence?” Kurt asked.

I looked at him, my heart beating wildly. “Maybe they're not here for the president. Maybe they're here for Mai.”

All of the adults: the FBI, the RAs, the chefs, the secretary, the grief counselor—they all tried to get us downstairs, but then the screen changed to a small press briefing room and the whole school went quiet.

The president stumbled into view, his clothes rumpled, like he'd been getting ready for bed. Mai was shoved in the room after him, still wearing the white mummy-bandage suit that we'd seen on all of the Guides. The governor was brought in last, mauled and obviously dead.

And then we saw it. Them. They were beasts—two feet taller than everyone else in the room, with gray scaly skin and faces full of thorns, some drawn back and pointing behind, and some protruding forward. They looked like enormous spiny lizards. Each one had four arms and a set of mammoth legs, and each hand had two fingers and a thumb. They were carrying devices I didn't recognize, but they had all the earmarks of guns.