MICHELLE A. BARRY
CHAPTER ONE
Second Month, 2448 I STAND IN THE DOORWAY, SCANNING THE ROWS AND rows of seats surrounding the hoverball court. A sudden gasp from the crowd, followed by a cheer loud enough to shake the moondust off the school’s roof, echoes in the brightly lit space. “Great shot, Canter!” someone nearby shouts, and I turn to squint at the players in their cyan jerseys. Canter’s tousled blond head emerges from a huddle of one-armed hugs and backslaps. He must have just gotten a point. Good thing, too. The score’s close, with the Scientific Lunar Academy of Magic just barely in the lead. The letters S.L.A.M. are projected into the air, glowing over the center of the hoverball court, and next to it, a golden ninety-five rotates slowly in place beside L.S.S.A.’s ninety-three. The Lunar School of Scientific Applications is a
MICHELLE A. BARRY
non-Creer school on the outskirts of the capital. Even though they’re down, the players look confident. They should be. Usually, we’d be up fifty by this point. Plus, non-Creer schools always take special pleasure in beating magical ones. “Myra, over here!” I turn toward the voice and grin as Lila gestures to the seat she’s saved beside her, then make my way up the stairs to where she’s sitting with Sloane. My seat, floating in midair, bounces as I flop into it, then gradually settles into place. “This game is too close,” Sloane says, chewing the end of her blond ponytail. “We always crush L.S.S.A. What is happening?” “Canter’s off today,” Lila says, giving me a sideways look. “He just got a point,” I remind her, then lean toward the court. The canary-yellow floor is divided by red and blue stripes, marking off the boundaries of where players can hover, fly, and swoop to score. The two teams line up opposite each other on the court. L.S.S.A.’s players in their maroon jerseys look eager to retaliate. “Yeah, but it was kind of a lucky shot,” Lila counters. “Canter tripped, and the ball went sailing, then hit the rim and bounced in.” She winds a strand of dark hair around her finger. The rest floats loosely above her shoulders, framing her golden-brown complexion and dark eyes. Her 2
SEAGARDEN
gaze flicks to mine. “Do you think he’s okay? He seems distracted.” Resting my elbow on my knee and my chin on my hand, I watch Canter take his normal starting position in the center of the brightly colored floor. When the buzzer sounds, the players streak into action, aided by the low gravity of the court. Half the players propel themselves into the air, eye level with the stands. The ball flies through the air. A S.L.A.M. player somersaults after it, then smashes it with his elbow, sending it careening in Canter’s direction. He makes a wild catch, turns as he touches down, and pushes off again, flying toward the lime-green hoop. But then the ball bounces off the rim and back into play. “Ah, c’mon, Canter,” a deep voice somewhere behind me calls over the crowd’s grumbling. “You had that.” I turn, stiffening as I meet the eyes of Director Weathers, then quickly turn back around. “See,” Lila whispers, nudging me. “He always makes those shots.” He does, but I’m not surprised he missed. Canter hasn’t been himself. Not since everything that happened in the moongarden last year. And I can’t really blame him. Finding out your dead mother is actually alive but imprisoned, and your dad knew and hid it from you, is bound to take a toll. Add to that discovering you have forbidden Botan magic 3
MICHELLE A. BARRY
(like mine), and I’m amazed Canter hasn’t floated off into orbit. The crowd groans as L.S.S.A. steals the ball and scores again. By halftime, they’re beating us 109–97. A bell chimes overhead and I brace myself, clutching the arms of my seat. “Halftime swivel,” Lila says, gripping her own chair tightly. As the teams prepare to switch sides, our hovering chairs give a sudden jolt and slide sideways, gliding along until we’re on the opposite side of the court, near L.S.S.A.’s net. The buzzer sounds again. S.L.A.M. has possession. Canter snags the ball, cartwheeling midair, and lobs a shaky pass to his teammate . . . who drops it. A maroonclad player scoops it up easily, leaping down the court and scoring another two points. Sloane moans, covering her eyes. “I can’t watch this anymore. The whole team is off today.” I exchange a look with Lila. Canter, usually the star the rest of the players orbit around, has become a black hole, sucking his team down with him. Missed passes. Slow reflexes. Wide shots. “I guess we were due to have an off day,” I say to Sloane. Then more quietly, so only Lila can hear, I add, “I hoped hoverball might help distract him.” “It’s not working,” Lila whispers back. 4
SEAGARDEN
“I know what might, then.” “Where are you going?” Sloane asks as I rise. “I really can’t watch this.” I shoot Lila a look, and she stands, too. “Me either.” “Tell us the score later,” I say to Sloane, but she’s already animatedly rehashing the last play with a boy on her other side. “Let’s go,” I murmur to Lila, and we carefully pick our way down the stands. But when we reach the door, it’s blocked by a tall man with a Chemic Creer pin on his collar glinting under the harsh court lights. “Leaving so early?” Director Weathers asks, eyeing us suspiciously. More creases frame his eyes and forehead than the last time I saw him. His blond hair is darker, with hints of gray. “You need to support your school, win or lose.” “We’re going to make a sign for Canter,” Lila says quickly. Director Weathers sighs. “I don’t think he needs more distractions.” “Must be a lot on his mind,” I say before I can stop myself. Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Usually, he has laser focus on the court.” “Maybe it’s all the reporters nosing around about the food controversy leak that got the Chemic rep kicked off the Governing Council,” Director Weathers replies, his voice icy. 5
MICHELLE A. BARRY
I shrug, ignoring Lila stepping on my toe. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.” For a pair of heartbeats, we just stare at each other, accusations scorching my throat as I swallow them down.“We’d better make that sign if we’re going to get back by the last period, Director Weathers,” Lila says, pressing down so hard on my foot my sneaker dents like a moon crater. He nods, his gaze still fixed on mine. “I suggest you be careful,” he says, then relaxes slightly as his attention shifts to Lila. “No running in the halls.” We scoot by him, not daring to say a word until we’re through the gym doors. “You need to watch what you say to him, Myra,” Lila chides. “He’s still the school director.” “What’s he going to do? Expel me?” We’re not going to have much time now if we have to make a sign and get back before the game ends. I’d bet Bin-ro that Director Weathers will be watching for our return. “This is all his fault, anyway. If he doesn’t want me to remind him of last year, he should try leaving me alone.” We slip into a darkened room where cooking equipment is scattered across the countertops, and cabinets line the far wall. A thin layer of dust has settled over everything. We’re careful not to disturb it. “Kind of ironic that we’re doing this in an abandoned, kitchen, isn’t it?” Lila asks as we tiptoe farther inside. Before Jake Melfin and MFI started using the imitation 6
SEAGARDEN
method to produce our food (if you can call it that), Chemics used their magic on plant samples from the Old World to create ingredients for the galaxy. But now that the samples are too old to be used in the plant cloning formulas, all that’s left are the jiggly squares of slime MFI is force-feeding us. With nothing to cook, the kitchen’s been deserted for months, which fortunately has worked to our advantage. I open a cabinet, smiling as a familiar glimpse of emerald peeks out from the shadows in the back corner. Spilling out of a couple of old pots and pans we found in the otherwise empty cupboards is a tiny herb garden. Small grow lights dangle over the containers, courtesy of Canter’s Elector handiwork. I pull a shiny metal bowl closer, then frown at the wilting leaves. “They still aren’t doing well.” “I thought Bernie said parsley does well in low light,” Lila says, leaning closer. I wince. Even though Bernie’s been gone for months— retired, on Director Weathers’s orders—hearing his name sends a fresh, sharp pain through my chest. “He did,” I reply, forcing my throat to unclench. “I was able to mimic his fertilizer formula, too. At least I think I did. But it’s doesn’t seem to be helping.” “What about your magic?” Lila asks, gently brushing the leaves, which are tinged a muddy brown, with her fingertips. “If we can get some of them blooming again, 7
MICHELLE A. BARRY
it’ll definitely cheer Canter up. Especially if we lose this game to L.S.S.A.” I close my eyes and lay my hand over the top of the plant, then imagine it thriving, the air full of its spicy scent. My palm warms as love for this little plant fighting to survive in the dark cupboard washes over me. A memory follows. Leaves from a patch of parsley unfold over the ground speckled with the same silvery dust piled at its roots. Bernie hunches down, carefully pruning the dead leaves, humming as he works. Just as quickly, the sensation disappears. My fingers, icy and stiff, curl into fists as I pull my hand back. Lila’s gaze shifts from the plant to my face. “What’s wrong? It won’t work?” “I think it’s too far gone,” I say quickly, trying to force the old moongarden from my mind. “Oh,” Lila replies. “Should we check the rest?” Together, we inspect the cilantro, chives, and even a spindly tomato plant, hidden away in various cupboards. None are faring much better than the parsley. Each time, I close my eyes and let my hand hover above their brittle leaves. “Any better?” Lila asks. “A little,” I lie. “I think they’ll be okay.” I carefully tuck the pots and pans back into their hiding places. “I’ll ask Canter to check on them tomorrow.” 8
SEAGARDEN
Lila nods. “He’s always in a better mood after he’s used his plant magic.” Thankfully, that’s true. I can’t bring myself to say it out loud, but I know the only reason our new little garden, if you can even call it that, is alive is because of Canter’s magic, not mine. “We’d better hurry if we’re going to make that sign,” I say. We pause in the doorway, glancing up and down the empty corridor. Relief floods through me as we rush down the hall. In the past, I’d always been sad to leave my secret garden behind, but lately I can’t lightspeed away fast enough.
9
CHAPTER TWO
THE NEXT DAY, I STIFLE A YAWN, FORCING MYSELF TO sit straighter behind my workstation. S.L.A.M. Chemic professor Mr. DeGraf, a stocky, gray-headed man with more eyebrows than hair, rests his elbows on his desk and his chin on the edge of his palm. A glass jar sits on his workstation, filled halfway with translucent gray gelatin. A gritty substance the color of ash has settled at the bottom. Mr. DeGraf ’s dark eyes wander the room as if considering which of us is the snack he wants to devour first. At least that’s what it looks like, but I know otherwise. “Miss Hodger,” he says lazily, his gaze settling on my face, just like I figured it would. “Care to demonstrate today’s lesson?” I force a polite smile. “Sure, Mr. DeGraf,” I answer, then make a show of rolling up my sleeves. A few kids lean over
SEAGARDEN
to steal glances at the Chemic Inscriptions scrawled up my forearm (thanks to Lila’s artistic skills). “Did you review today’s syllabus?” “Of course, Mr. DeGraf,” I lie. I haven’t looked through our lesson plan since the first day of class almost a full lunar orbit ago, but I know Mr. DeGraf only pulls this charade on days we’re working with edible extracts, the one area where I demonstrate the faintest Chemic abilities. “Let’s get started, then.” Mr. DeGraf tilts his head toward the glass container, though he remains hunched over, leaning on his elbows. I take a deep breath, and this time it’s no act. Sweat beads at the back of my neck as I focus on the contents of the jar, willing them to fuse together. As I concentrate, they start to swirl, turning into a tiny tornado, and then a whirlpool. After a hundred or so rotations, the gritty sand binds together, forming a solid strand poking through the slimy surface. On its tip, a tiny bud forms. “Well done, Miss Hodger,” Mr. DeGraf says, peering closer to inspect the jar. “With more advanced Chemic magic and the proper tools, this could turn into an actual food source.” The class around me oohs, but I can only grimace at the hideous shadow of a plant I created.“Mr. DeGraf?” the boy beside me calls, waving his hand in the air as if our 11
MICHELLE A. BARRY
teacher might not see him in the crowd of eighteen students. “Yes, Mr. Wakefield?” “How can Myra do plant cloning magic if the food cloning formulas are broken?” I can’t help but roll my eyes. I’ve only been a “Chemic” a little while, but it doesn’t take a master’s in magic to understand the basics. Plus, Mr. DeGraf explained this all a moment ago. Our teacher sighs. “Let’s think on this, Mr. Wakefield. Miss Hodger did an excellent job demonstrating the initial bonding of the elements that spur artificial plant growth, but you wouldn’t want to eat that, would you?” “You should eat it, Gavin,” a girl next to him whispers. “Eat it, eat it, eat it,” chants another boy from the opposite corner of the room. I slouch, dropping my head into my hand. “All right, all right. Settle down,” Mr. DeGraf says, standing up with a groan. “You wouldn’t want to eat it, because it’s not edible. Not yet. As I was saying before your, er, insightful question, the food creation process requires a great deal more magic, and many more phases, to transform elements into anything edible. And it’s during those phases of the process that the cloning formulas break down.” “Why do we have to learn this if it doesn’t even work?” the boy from the corner calls. 12
SEAGARDEN
“So that when the problem is solved, we have Chemics capable of producing food,” Mr. DeGraf explains, raising the jar to eye level. “So we don’t starve.” He grunts as he turns and deposits the jar on a shelf behind him, then loads the day’s theory lecture onto the screen. “My parents think this whole thing about food formulas breaking is fake. A publicity stunt or something,” Gavin whispers to the girl next to him. “Maybe the anonymous tip about the MFI cover-up was from one of their competitors. My dad said that in a few months, food cloning will miraculously start working again.” “Well, try growing your own vegetables then if it’s so simple,” I snap, then immediately wish I hadn’t. Gavin’s eyes narrow. “Maybe you should. All you ever seem to do in this class is plant magic.” Ignoring him, I spin and face the board, then slide my messenger out of my pocket and onto my lap, checking my in-box for the hundredth time today. Still nothing. When the bell rings after what feels like an eternity, my eyes are still glued to the screen. I jump at the screech of sneakers and stumble backward to avoid a collision. My messenger flies through the air before clattering across the tile. I stoop to grab it, but so does the boy I swerved to avoid. “Ouch!” I yelp, rubbing my head. The boy eyes me wearily as he runs his hands through his dark hair. With a start, I stare into familiar, icy blue eyes. How do I 13
MICHELLE A. BARRY
know him? I glance down at his clothes, looking for a clue, but instead of the brightly colored Creer jumpsuit most Slammers wear, I take in gray Rep coveralls. “Sorry, miss,” the boy mutters, turning to go. “Wait.” I step in front of him. He must be only a couple of years older than me, and I’ve never met a Rep that young. Still, I can’t look away. And there’s something about his voice, too. . . . “What’s your name?” “Why do you need to know that?” he asks, his expression a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. “So . . . so I can apologize properly,” I sputter. “For knocking into you.” “No need,” he says, sidestepping me and walking away. “Well, er, how about so I can tell Director Weathers how helpful you were?” I ask, turning to follow him. He glances over his shoulder but doesn’t stop. “Helpful, how?” “You tried to pick up my messenger for me.” He shrugs and turns back around. “Courtesy isn’t worth reporting.” “Please,” I say. “Please, just tell me your name.” “Why?” “Why not?” He keeps walking and my shoulders sink. Just as he’s about to turn the corner, he calls back over his shoulder. “Bernard. Just call me Bernard.” 14
CHAPTER THREE
“I’M TELLING YOU, IT WAS HIM!” I REPEAT FOR AT LEAST the twentieth time. I try to spear a bite of my dinner, but it’s so hard, it bends the prongs of my fork. “Just because his name was Bernard doesn’t mean it was Bernie,” Canter says, not looking up from his dinner tray. “Besides, we don’t even know if Bernie’s full name was Bernard.” “Pretty big coincidence, though. Don’t you think?” I slide my carefully sliced pieces of artificial food around my plate, not eating any of it. And not just because it’s disgusting. My appetite vanished the moment Bernard disappeared around the corner. “Plus, he looked just like Bernie. He had the same blue eyes—” “Lots of people have blue eyes. I have blue eyes.” Canter waggles his brows.
MICHELLE A. BARRY
“And his voice was the same, too. Younger, obviously, but he called me ‘miss’ and everything.” “That just sounds like he was being polite.” I slap my hand down on the table, and several kids glance over just as the square of food I’d been poking at bounces off my tray and onto the floor. “Canter. It was him. If we can find him, I’ll prove it to you.” Canter looks at me, his gaze serious, but his voice is gentle as he says, “That’s impossible.” “Bernie was a clone. It’s not impossible.” “Clones have accelerated aging, but the process isn’t that fast.” “We don’t know how long he’s been around, though, do we? Have you found out anything about Rep life cycles on the open network?” Canter shakes his head. “Nothing new.” “Then that kid could have been around for a while before they sent him here. Your dad said Bernie was due to be retired.” I wince as the words leave my mouth. So does Canter. “Look, it’s not your fault your research hit a wall.” “I thought I’d be able to figure out what was blocking Reps from using their magic,” he grumbles. “Well, maybe if we can find Bernie, we could ask him. It can’t hurt to try.” “Disappointment hurts more than pretty much 16
SEAGARDEN
anything,” Canter says quietly, staring past my shoulder toward the back of the cafeteria. I turn and follow his gaze. Director Weathers is talking with Mr. DeGraf as he collects his dinner tray. “Any luck finding anything more on your mom?” I ask, my voice low. Canter shakes his head. “No, but I’ve got a plan.” I take a deep breath. Canter’s plans have gotten riskier with each passing week. “I’m going to call the prison’s control center on Mercury,” Canter begins, and I cover my face with my hands. “No, seriously. This could actually work!” “Do you think she’s got a video pod in her cell?” “I’m not trying to talk to her. Not yet, anyway. . . . But seriously, listen. So I call and pretend to be my dad—” “Because you sound just like him.” “—and I tell them, as her husband, I want a well-being check on her. You can demand that. I read it on the open network.” “Well, if it was on the open network, it must be true . . .” “After that, I can start slipping her messages to let her know it’s actually me. Then she’ll know that I know.” I raise a hand and Canter finally stops rambling. “That won’t work for about a hundred reasons.” He crosses his arms. “Name one.” 17
MICHELLE A. BARRY
“No one is going to believe you’re your dad. No guard is going to pass on a message in a well-being check. You can only request one check per year—I read about the Mercurian prison system on the open network, too. And” —I drop my voice to a whisper—“your mom isn’t just a plant offender. She’s a Botan prisoner. They’ll probably deny she’s even there. She’s supposed to be dead, remember?” Canter opens his mouth and then shuts it. “Whoever you end up talking to at the prison is going to call your dad and tell them you’re pranking them, or worse.” When Canter doesn’t say anything, I nudge his arm with my tray. “We’ll think of something, though.” He sighs. “At least we have our little project to distract us.” His voice drops to a whisper. “I checked on the plants this morning and gave them a little boost. They seem to be doing much better.” I resist the urge to rub at my arms. “We need more space. It’s too tight in there to get anything going.” “And we need a new plan for what to do with the garden.” The silence stretches between us like a vine. “What we need is a fresh perspective,” I say, sitting up straighter. Canter frowns. “From who? You know we can’t tell anyone about all this.” “No one new,” I say, raising my eyebrows. 18
SEAGARDEN
“That wasn’t Bernie, Myra. It couldn’t have been.” I stare at him, defiant. “Prove it.” He sighs and scoops his tray off the table as he stands. “Fine. But only so you stop pinging me. I can’t eat this junk, anyway. It’s worse than the last version.” He’s not wrong. MFI has been enhancing and expanding their imitation line, and now we have three versions of inedible food: jiggly, super jiggly, and cement. I follow him out of the cafeteria. Director Weathers is still lingering near the back, deep in conversation with Mr. DeGraf. His head turns toward us as we pass, but I quickly look away. “You know I don’t like these,” I say through gritted teeth as Canter leads me to an Anti-Grav Chamber. “Would you rather wait for my dad to come marching down the hall insisting he needs my help with another one of his made-up projects?” “Just hurry up so we can get this over with.” Canter presses the button for the top level of the school. The floor falls away and we’re shot up the shaft, jostling each other as we float up through the center of the school’s spiral structure. Despite the queasiness flooding through me, I manage to smack both elbows on the sides of the chamber. Finally, the doors slide open, and I tumble out, gritting my teeth as Canter strides forward as if he’s stepping off a sturdy ledge. 19
MICHELLE A. BARRY
“You really had to pick the top floor?” He shrugs. “If you want to do a proper search for this Bernard, we might as well start at the top and work our way down. Besides, it’s as far from my father as we can get.” Unfortunately, he’s right. We make a loop around the top level with no sign of Bernard. Just before we walk down the ramp to the floor below, I pause to glance out a window. The view from up here is the best in the school. Maybe anywhere on the Moon.The silvery-gray landscape stretches below us, the chalky dust sparkling in the school’s glow. Sometimes, S.L.A.M. feels suffocating, more like a prison, but right now a wave of fondness for it sweeps over me and I can’t help but smile.Off in the distance, a cluster of lights marks the edge of Apolloton. I notice a slow-moving cloud heading toward the city—it must be a Crawler. For a moment, jealousy flares in my chest as I imagine the people sitting inside, traveling into town for dinner, or shopping, or a meeting, without any worries about secret gardens or secret magic churning inside them. Overhead, a million stars glitter like snowflakes frozen in time, and hovering among them is the Old World. Beneath its haze, I know plants cover the surface from coast to coast, free to grow wild— unchecked—spiraling off wherever they please, however they please, twisting and climbing over everything in their paths. Despite the fact that they’re poisonous and deadly, I 20
SEAGARDEN
long to see them. Ever since I found the moongarden, it’s like a piece of me belongs back on the Old World. Like the plants are calling me home. “Did you give up already?” Canter asks behind me. “No. Just thinking,” I say before trotting down the ramp. “I wonder what it’s like to live in a place where plants can sprout up anywhere and everywhere.” “Meanwhile, we’re stuck shoving them into nooks and crannies.” “Exactly. I wonder if our magic would be stronger there.” I hesitate, rubbing my arms. “I think my magic was stronger in our old moongarden.” Canter’s eyebrows shoot up. “You never told me that before.” “Then it’s not that way for you?” He shakes his head. “My Botan magic feels the same. Maybe even a little stronger.” “Really?” I wilt, then quickly stand straighter so Canter doesn’t notice. If he does, he doesn’t say anything. “Remember how Lila told us emotions impact her Mender magic?” I nod. “Well, my Botan magic makes me feel closer to my mom, maybe because I know she’s alive. Has your magic been affected?” Canter asks after a pause. “By your Chemic classes, I mean?” 21
MICHELLE A. BARRY
The potential responses pile up on opposite ends of Truths and Lies. My Chemic classes are about as dull as my Number Whispering ones were, but I can’t help but feel like everything is simple in Mr. DeGraf ’s classroom. Unlike everywhere else. Before I can decide which side tips the scales, a flash of gray down the hall catches my eye. “A Rep just went into that classroom,” Canter says slowly. “He looked young.” Without another word, we speed up to follow him.
22