Jules stiffens at my side, and I lean sideways to nudge him unobtrusively before he can say anything idealistic and provocative and, well, Jules-ish. Atlanta and Dex have hardly spoken since we were captured, and if I can get one of them to say something that conflicts with the tale they told our wardens, it might be enough to raise doubts about their origins. Maybe they’d redo the cheek swab, or even take a blood sample—there’s no way they can fake having the right color blood.
Right?
Hell, if his reflexes weren’t so much better than mine, I’d try just punching him in the nose. Instead, I play for time, try to draw out a response from him that’s somehow wrong.
“We got close, working together on Gaia.” I tilt my head and flash a wan, tired smile their way. “Like you guys did, right?”
Dex smiles back, though the expression doesn’t reach his eyes.“We raised up together, we’ve always been close-like. Think they’ll let us out for exercise? Primitive system.” That last is muttered partially under his breath. He’s busy pulling off his shirt, uncovering his dark blue undershirt and a tattoo that spreads across the rounded curve of his shoulder. It’s gorgeous work, the blue and green and violet arms of a galaxy swirling toward a glowing center. But it’s so human I could tear my hair out with frustration.
Their façades are so flawless—except they aren’t, not really, because Jules and I can see all the little ways in which they’re justnot quite right. But short of seeing them bleed blue, all anyone else will see is a couple of teenagers. Maybe a little odd, maybe a little off-putting. But human.
Too thrown to continue, I turn away. I stop upon seeing Jules’s face, though—his skin has gone ashen, and his eyes are fixed on Dex. The other boy seems unaffected by Jules’s stare, but Atlanta’s eyes narrow and flicker between the two of them.
Taking Jules by the arm, I pull him back to our corner and lower my voice again. “What’s going on?”
“His arm,” mumbles Jules in a strangled voice.
I glance back at them. Dex has dropped to the floor and started doing a series of pushups, except that his hands are balled into fists instead of flat on the floor. The tattoo is oddly three-dimensional in the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights overhead. “What about it?”
“Nautilus.” The word is almost inaudible.
I blink at him. “Jules, it’s a galaxy. A lot of spiral galaxies line up with that Fibonacci thing.”
But Jules’s gaze is fixed, his face transformed. “And what about how hesawus before launch and didn’t say anything?”
I know why Jules wants this to be true. To connect this alien with his theory that someone in the long, long history of the Undying race felt some human empathy for the inhabitants of the planet they planned to invade. That they planted the symbol in the originalbroadcast to warn us, that the spirals like nautilus shells carved into the temple walls were messages from a long-dead ally.
I know why he wants to think that we might find living proof of that theory in Dex, to think that the spiral shape hidden in his tattoo means we’re not alone.
He wants it, because he needs to think there’s still hope.
I sigh, making a show of stretching out my shoulders as I duck my head and whisper back, “Those symbols in the temple are fifty thousand years old. You think the guy who carved those spirals to warn us about the Undying’s plan is still alive, and sharing a cell with us in Cat-landia?”
“Catalonia.” Correcting me seems to restore him somewhat, for he looks a bit less like someone’s just walked over his grave. “And no, although who knows what their life span is like, I guess nothing’s impossible. But it’s too much of a coincidence.”
“For a member of a spacefaring civilization to have a galaxy tattoo?” I let my breath out and shake my head. “Forget the tattoo. We need to focus on busting out of this joint.”
Before I can continue, the distant clank of a door brings all our heads swinging toward the glass wall. Footsteps sound soon after, and a guard appears with a stack of trays. It’s the same one from earlier, the one who seemed nervous—and he still does, his eyes lingering on the Undying teens as he approaches. He checks to make sure we’re all far enough from the glass before swiping his keycard, and he doesn’t take his eyes off of Atlanta and Dex.
Maybe he sees what we see. Human, but then again, not so very human after all. Just … off, ever so slightly. Like they’re computer generated, not quite real, though you couldn’t tell someone exactly why.
The guard sets the four trays on the floor and straightens slowly, still watching the Undying. Atlanta follows the movement, and after meeting his gaze for a few seconds, jerks forward in a feint with a hiss of air between her teeth. It’s a tiny movement, but it nonetheless sends the guard scrambling backward, hitting the farwall of the corridor and fumbling for the sidearm at his belt. Seeing that Atlanta’s still standing in place, he straightens and swipes the door closed again, his hand still resting on the grip of the gun.
Atlanta’s grinning, finding amusement in his fear, but Dex isn’t laughing. He’s watching the guard, and his brows are drawn in. If he were human—properly human, like me and Jules—I’d say he feltsorryfor the man.
We don’t speak again, dividing up the four trays and retreating to our opposite ends of the cell to eat. It’s not until we’re mostly done that Dex, quicker to eat than the rest of us, tosses his empty tray aside with a clatter of plastic and leans back against the wall.
“Do the numbers 3-0-0 and the lettersCandSmean anything to you?” The question is almost pleasant, warmed with mild curiosity. When I look up, he’s got a small, food-stained scrap of paper held between his fingertips. He’s keeping his hand low, out of sight of the cameras.
They must have passed the paper back and forth while we were distracted by our food, as Atlanta doesn’t look surprised by the question—she’s watching us for any sign of comprehension.
Jules gazes across the cell at him and then gets to his feet. He steps slowly and deliberately—no sudden movements—toward Dex, who rises effortlessly to meet him. The boy grasps his hand, placing the paper in it, then sits again, watching Jules expectantly.
Jules throws him an intent look, but it’s brief, and then he’s striding quickly back toward me. Wordlessly, he hands me the paper, which bears the handwritten message300CS. There’s a slight gap between the numbers and the letters that could be a space—or just an anomaly of handwriting. It certainly doesn’t mean anything to me, but Jules suddenly stiffens.
“What?” I breathe the word as softly as I can.
“Charlotte Stapleton. C. S.”
