Tundra 37

by Aubrie Dionne

  “I know you like him.” Luna’s voice turned cold as the frost on her boots.

  Gemme paused. Did she hear her cor­rectly or did the wind dis­tort Luna’s words?

  “What?”

  Luna fastened the straps on her back­pack, mak­ing sure they fit per­fectly over her shoulders. “I know you have the hots for Brent­wood.”

  Gemme’s heart quickened as her faced burned. She looked away, pre­tend­ing to search for more vi­als. “I don’t know what you’re talk­ing about.”

  Luna re­trieved two vi­als from the ground, walked be­side her, and shoved them into the trays. “I see the way you look at him, all rosy cheeked and wide-eyed.”

  “You must be mis­taken. I—”

  “He’s not yours to have.”

  This time Gemme did look up from the snow, quirk­ing her eye­brows at Luna. Was she kid­ding?

  Luna stared her down with lasers in her eyes. “He’s mine. I know that’s why you didn’t want to pair us to­gether.”

  Her gloved fin­ger poin­ted at Gemme ac­cus­ingly. “Let me wake you to real­ity. I saw the ship re­ports on decks eighty-five through a hun­dred. Your com­puter pro­gram crashed, dear. Now it’s a free for all, and I’m not let­ting him get away. I’ve had my eyes set on him longer than you’ve been the Match­maker, and the Leg­acys al­ways get what they want in the end.”

  Gemme sat in the snow ut­terly speech­less, won­der­ing how to re­spond and think­ing of noth­ing. “Luna—”

  “Sh­hhh. Your em­bar­rass­ing secret is safe with me. Just do as I ask and I won’t let him in on your little crush.”

  “Ladies, I trust you’re al­most fin­ished.”

  Gemme bolted from her knees and whirled around. Brent­wood, the last per­son she wanted over­hear­ing such a heated con­ver­sa­tion, ap­proached them in a quick jog.

  “Oh yes, quite fin­ished, right Gemme, dear?” Luna’s voice turned sweet again. “Gemme’s just vo­lun­teered to carry the trays to the landrover for me, haven’t you?”

  She plopped five stacked trays in Gemme’s arms. “Go on. You don’t want to make us late.”

  Gemme grit­ted her teeth as the mo­ment slipped away. She’d lost con­trol. Luna had made her do the grunt work and got time alone with Brent­wood. If Gemme called her out now, she’d look just as bad as Luna. Be­sides, now was not the time to bicker. Al­pha Blue already lagged be­hind sched­ule, and she car­ried the an­swers to fur­ther their col­on­iz­a­tion ef­forts. Grumbling un­der her breath, Gemme left Luna with Brent­wood, stum­bling on her still swollen feet. How did she let the bio­lo­gist get the bet­ter of her?

  Luna’s high-pitched laughter echoed be­hind Gemme as she trudged through the snow to the landrover. Her in­sides hardened into steel. She wished she could de­lete her feel­ings as easy as she pressed the De­lete word on her touch­screen a few days ago, or that the comets had hit ten minutes sooner, pre­vent­ing her from see­ing Brent­wood as her pre­destined lifemate. But deep down she knew, know­ledge or not, she’d still be drawn to him like a planet to a star. Not only was he gor­geous, but he also had a sense of hu­mor, of honor, and he made her feel spe­cial, like she was more than a bor­ing com­puter ana­lyst. Every­one talked of his looks, but it was how he made Gemme feel that drew her in.

  Brent­wood de­served bet­ter than Luna, stun­ning as she was. As the Match­maker, Gemme could see the ab­surdity of their pair­ing. Luna would drive him crazy. She’d ma­nip­u­late him, just like she ma­nip­u­lated her, for­cing him to do all of the work his en­tire life. The fact that Gemme had been the chosen pair­ing for Brent­wood burned like a hot coal in her heart. She had to show him her feel­ings one way or an­other, even if she no longer had the com­puter’s help.

  Brent­wood stared at Luna, frus­tra­tion brim­ming up. The Leg­acys were known for hav­ing oth­ers do their dirty work, and he couldn’t have that hap­pen­ing on this mis­sion, even if her fam­ily was power­ful. “Hon­estly, you’re go­ing to make Ms. Reiner carry all those trays by her­self?”

  Luna laughed, edging closer to him. “She needs some­thing to keep her busy. Be­sides, I don’t see you help­ing her.”

  “That’s be­cause we have to talk.” He leaned so close her rosy per­fume tickled his nose. He knew their prox­im­ity would look sus­pi­cious, but he couldn’t have Gemme or Tech over­hear­ing, not if he wanted to fol­low the Seers’ or­ders. His voice fell to a whis­per. “You can’t men­tion the code word in front of the team. If they sus­pect us of with­hold­ing in­form­a­tion, it will only lead to trust is­sues among the other mem­bers of Al­pha Blue.”

  The way Luna flaunted their secret mis­sion an­noyed him, and he had to put a stop to it be­fore her ac­tions sac­ri­ficed the main mis­sion and be­fore it drove Gemme away. He could feel her pulling back from him, and he sus­pec­ted Luna was the cause. “What do those samples have to do with the orb?”

  Luna crossed her arms in a com­pla­cent stance, her painted eye­brow arched. “Everything.”

  Brent­wood paused to hear more, but her lips re­mained sealed. She had him in­trigued, and she’d draw out the con­ver­sa­tion to last as long as it could.

  He gave her an ad­mon­ish­ing look as if to say let’s not play games. “How so?”

  “So far, with the ba­sic test­ing I can do out here, none of the spe­ci­mens have even re­motely the same com­pos­i­tion as the orb. In fact, noth­ing on this planet does.”

  “Which means?”

  “The orb is not from Tun­dra 37, nor is the beacon we’re sup­posed to loc­ate.”

  “You’re say­ing that ali­ens, in­tel­li­gent life, put it here?”

  She shrugged non­com­mit­tally. “Maybe.”

  Un­ease traveled up Brent­wood’s back, tingling his neck. Al­pha Blue tres­passed in po­ten­tially dan­ger­ous ter­rit­ory. Who knew if these ali­ens wanted their device found? What if it was a weapon? What if they came back for it?

  He stiffened as the pic­ture so­lid­i­fied in his mind. That’s why the Seers had to have the ar­ti­fact and that’s why they’d labeled their mis­sion top secret. They wanted in­form­a­tion on this spe­cies without wide­spread panic. The col­on­ists had enough to worry about be­sides po­ten­tially dan­ger­ous alien devices. What he couldn’t fathom was how they’d man­aged to get them­selves stran­ded on the very same planet that held a match­ing ar­ti­fact to the orb. Un­less these ali­ens dis­trib­uted them across the galaxy on every life-sus­tain­ing planet, the odds were steep.

  Luna brought him out of his mus­ings by cling­ing to his arm. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.” He looked back to check on Gemme just as she turned around, catch­ing him with Luna’s fin­gers wrapped around his bi­ceps. He pulled his arm away, cheeks burn­ing like a dwarf star. He felt like a com­plete ass and he hadn’t even done any­thing wrong. “I must at­tend to the oth­ers.”

  The snow crunched un­der his boots, hard as the stare Gemme shot him when he reached the landrover. She’d already packed and se­cured Luna’s trays and there was noth­ing left to help her with. Brent­wood walked over to Tech where he’d have bet­ter luck at a con­ver­sa­tion.

  Tech shif­ted his weight in the driver’s seat. “I’m ready for an­other round of chauf­feur, chief.” A claw from the alien mam­moth dangled from the rear view mir­ror, the tip curved like a buc­can­eer’s blade.

  Brent­wood ges­tured to the dec­or­a­tion. “Trophy?”

  “More like a souvenir.” Tech em­phas­ized the last syl­lable with a thick French ac­cent, which made Brent­wood laugh.

  “Brush­ing up on your Française?”

  “My an­cest­ors were from Canada.” He gave him a wink. “Way back in the Old Earth days, of course.”

  Brent­wood couldn’t get enough in­form­a­tion about the Old Earth days, but now wasn’t the time to learn. He leaned on the hatch. “You sure you don’t wan
t me to drive?”

  “No, sir. You should get some rest if you’re go­ing to pull an all-nighter.”

  “Wise ad­vice.” Brent­wood yearned to sit in the back next to Gemme any­way. Maybe he could squelch whatever no­tions she had of him and Luna for good. He climbed in, pulling the seat re­straint across his chest. Gemme fol­lowed, one boot on the threshold. Just as he opened his mouth to ad­dress her, she stopped and jerked back­ward. Brent­wood leaned over in his seat, watch­ing as Luna grabbed her arm.

  “You haven’t got­ten a chance to sit in front, right, hon?”

  Oh no. Why did Luna in­sist on in­sert­ing her­self every­where he went?

  Brent­wood hung on Gemme’s re­sponse. “No, but I’m quite con­tent to sit—”

  “Non­sense.” Luna pushed past her and claimed the back­seat. She belted her­self in and waved her painted fin­ger­nails to the front. “Go ahead, take my seat.”

  “Have it your way.” Gemme soun­ded am­bi­val­ent as she pushed past them and settled into the front seat. Dis­ap­point­ment panged in­side Brent­wood’s chest. But what was he sup­posed to do? Or­der Luna to sit up front? There was no ra­tionale to ex­plain that. He’d be a poor leader, us­ing his own job to win him time with the wo­man he ad­mired.

  He forced a smile as Luna turned to him. “Al­ways the pleas­ure, Lieu­ten­ant.”

  “In­deed.” Brent­wood closed his eyes, hop­ing if he pre­ten­ded to sleep, she wouldn’t bother him.

  “On­ward!” Tech an­nounced, fling­ing his fin­gers over the touch­screen pan­els.

  The landrover took off, large wheels grind­ing the snow un­der­neath them. Brent­wood heard Gemme ask Tech about their course from the front seat. Al­though he longed to join in their con­ver­sa­tion, ex­haus­tion caught up with him, and the mono­ton­ous drone of the en­gines lulled him to sleep.

  §

  His Ap­pa­loosa jerked his head with im­pa­tience as Brent­wood’s gaze swept up to the bil­lowy clouds amass­ing on the ho­ri­zon. The steed bucked and he gripped harder, the rough leather of the reins rub­bing against his cal­loused hands. The smell of wet grass, horse­hide, and old leather stung the air in a com­bin­a­tion of scents both fa­mil­iar and com­fort­ing.

  “We’d best be get­ting home be­fore the storm rolls in.” A man with gray-speckled dark hair turned his own steed to­ward a vast car­pet of long-stemmed grasses bow­ing to the west­erly wind. The man wore a wool vest and cot­ton trousers stuffed into leather boots. A cow­boy hat with a golden buckle across the front was tied to a cord un­der his beard. Golden swirls moved across the buckle.

  Brent­wood’s rough shirt fell loose around his bi­ceps, rust­ling in the wind against his chest. His cuffs were rolled up, and he’d tucked the hem of his shirt into wool trousers. He didn’t re­mem­ber put­ting those par­tic­u­lar clothes on that morn­ing, but fog covered his mind, blur­ring his memory.

  “You join­ing me, Mi­chael? The Lar­son fam­ily will need help bring­ing in the sheep, es­pe­cially with Har­riet’s ma catch­ing fever.” The man titled his hat against the wind, the in­tric­ate etch­ings on con­cent­ric circles in the sil­ver buckle catch­ing Brent­wood’s eye. Where had he seen that pat­tern be­fore?

  “Mi­chael?”

  It took Brent­wood a mo­ment to real­ize the man ad­dressed him. He could have sworn he said Mi­chael and not Miles, but the howl of the wind muffled his words and with the storm brew­ing, now was not the time to ques­tion him.

  “Sure, lead the way.”

  He kicked his spurs into the horse’s flanks and his mount took off into a gal­lop, fol­low­ing the man down a dirt path cut into a hill. The grass rose up to his shins, the tips spread­ing into three fin­gers like tur­key’s feet.

  Had he ever seen a tur­key? Brent­wood scratched his head, try­ing to make sense of his up­turned world. He knew what a tur­key looked like and how it tasted, but he didn’t think he’d ever seen one dart­ing through the long grasses.

  “Gonna be a doozy,” the man shouted over his shoulder as his horse picked up its pace. Crows black as coal cawed an­grily and scattered into the sky as the horses dis­turbed their perches.

  Brent­wood searched the plains stretch­ing across the ho­ri­zon. A barn with a broad gabled roof at­tached to a cot­tage stood out in a dark sil­hou­ette. Gray smoke plumed from a red brick chim­ney, the scent of roas­ted pheas­ant rid­ing the air. The sight stirred a yearn­ing in his chest. It felt like home.

  The storm rode their heels, blow­ing in on gusts of dank air. A pat­ter­ing of rain caught up with them, light drops cool­ing Brent­wood’s fore­head. They reached the cot­tage just as thun­der grumbled in the dark­en­ing sky.

  “Go on in and check on Jenna. Meet me in fif­teen minutes by the cross­ing at Bull’s Head.”

  Be­fore Brent­wood could re­spond, the man shouted a com­mand and dug his spurs into his horse. They took off in a flurry of pale dust. Brent­wood’s gaze traveled along the crude logs stacked up as walls to the cot­tage. Deer antlers hung on the doorframe, the third ivory tip broken off into a stub. Did I hunt that?

  The covered porch creaked as a wo­man wear­ing a pais­ley bon­net and an ap­ron blue as an au­tumn sky stepped out. At first all he could see was her fine, brown hair as the wind stole it away from the edges of the lace. She turned, re­veal­ing eyes gray as the clouds be­hind him and por­cel­ain skin dot­ted with freckles.

  Gemme.

  “Thank good­ness. I thought the storm would blow in be­fore you re­turned.” She spoke with a slight ac­cent, sa­vor­ing the syl­lables in a way he’d never heard her speak be­fore. She rushed to­ward him as he dis­moun­ted.

  “I don’t know where I am, or how I got here. All I know is you—”

  She wrapped her arms around him, tak­ing his breath away. Brent­wood stood ri­gid as a pole in shock, his arms out­stretched like a scare­crow. Every muscle in his body urged him to hold her, but some­how he thought their prox­im­ity was in­de­cent, as if they’d only met. But he’d known her for a while. Had it been months? Years?

  She moved her hands up along his neck. Her fin­gers trailed warmth, set­ting his skin on fire. She cupped his chin with both hands and pulled his face down to­ward hers. He mol­ded to her body, bend­ing to her will. She arched her head up and pressed her lips against his.

  In­tense need surged in­side him and he pushed into her kiss. Her lips were soft and sweet like honey, and he brought his arms around her, ask­ing for more. She pressed her­self against his chest as if the crude cot­ton would dis­solve between them.

  The cloud­i­ness in his head had cleared, and everything about the mo­ment fit in place, as if he’d never truly lived un­til this day. Had his whole life be­fore this in­stant been false? Fi­nally ex­ist­ing in the place he ached to be, he didn’t care.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chance

  Sys­tem re­ports flooded in, each one mak­ing Mestasis feel like more of a fail­ure. Plants were dy­ing in the biod­ome, en­tire spe­cies of ve­get­ables wink­ing out of ex­ist­ence. People shivered in their sleep pods, and the fu­sion re­actor verged on col­lapse. She couldn’t face the fact the en­tire colony might fail be­cause of her er­rors. Ig­nor­ing the alarm­ing im­pulses, she fo­cused on her memor­ies. The situ­ation around her only worsened, and she hungered for es­cape. The orb called to her, prom­ising numb ob­li­vion.

  §

  Old Earth, 2446

  “What does the mocha crème taste like?”

  Mestasis fid­geted with her ID keytag as she waited in line at the Techno Ex­presso be­hind an older wo­man who couldn’t de­cide with fla­vor of syn­thetic latte to choose. It was man­u­fac­tured from some soy­bean sub­sti­tute. No one had ac­tu­ally tasted real roas­ted cof­fee in her life­time.

  Hon­estly, don’t they all taste the same?

  Her fin­ger­nail ran along the edge,
the plastic dig­ging into the pink skin un­der­neath. The ID strip swirled like oil un­der­neath the fluor­es­cent lights. As she smoothed her fin­ger over the pat­terns, the golden swirls dis­ap­peared. In­ter­est­ing. It’s never done that be­fore. The damn thing bet­ter work, be­cause she wasn’t stand­ing in line all over again. She had a men­tal ex­er­cise work study to com­plete by the end of the week­end for both her and Abysme, and Dr. Fields ex­pec­ted each an­swer to be no less than ex­cel­lent.

  Had she made a mis­take in com­ing? She scanned the rows of tables large enough to fit two cups and a soy­bean wafer if you didn’t mind drip­ping cof­fee on your lunch. Strangers’ faces yapped in con­ver­sa­tion while oth­ers stared out the sight panel as if wait­ing for the end of the world. A girl wear­ing a TINE uni­form, like her­self, caught her wan­der­ing gaze and Mestasis flicked her eyes back to the older wo­man’s latte choice, afraid to be re­cog­nized.

  Would he come?

  The server shot her a bale­ful look with hooded, in­digo-painted eye­lids, de­mand­ing her or­der. She ran her ID tag through a crack in the coun­ter­top. “I’ll have a small reg­u­lar.”

  A plastic cup dropped from a con­sole and the server squir­ted dark li­quid into it from a tube. She pushed the steam­ing bever­age to Mestasis and stared at the next cus­tomer without say­ing a word.

  “Such a plain choice for someone so spe­cial.”

  Mestasis whirled around, the li­quid in her cup splash­ing onto the back of her hand.

  James stood be­hind her hold­ing his own dark bever­age. Had he been wait­ing for her? Where he’d come from, she had no idea. She’d scanned the place from top to bot­tom be­fore walk­ing in.

  “Be­ing someone so spe­cial, I try not to stick out.” Rub­bing the place where the li­quid scal­ded her skin, Mestasis took him in. Without the tips of neon spark­ing around his chin, his dark hair looked glossy. She re­minded her­self the phos­phor­es­cence glowed in the dark, and the fluor­es­cent lights of Techno Ex­presso hid any as­so­ci­ation he had with the Ra­dio­act­ive Hand of Justice. In the café, he looked like any hand­some twenty-some­thing try­ing to make his way in the world.