“You added my grandparents to your list?” Leela whispers. The quiet words are so dense with emotion that I can almost feel them, like the tactile language of the Sorrow.
“A hollow gesture, perhaps,” Beth says. “But remembering is the only thing I can do for them, or for Doc. Or for you.”
Leela gasps in a little sob. “It’s not hollow, Beth,” she whispers.
“I’d prefer we keep emotional displays to a minimum,” Beth says, starting to write again. “I’ve had quite enough feelings of late.”
“Pretty sure we all have,” Leela agrees, wiping at her eyes again. She swallows hard.
“Breakfast?” Chris asks, pushing a bowl of oatmeal toward Leela.
“No thanks,” she says. “I gotta get home. Aai wants to make an offering before the memorial. For Aajoba and Aaji.”
“Hey,” I realize. “Shouldn’t you be at reveille with Jay?”
Leela makes a face. “Nah. I’m still ISA. The admiral killed the transfer.”
“What? Why?”
“Says he still needs me as a cadet pilot.” She shrugs in a no big deal way that makes it obvious it’s totally a big deal. “Oh well.”
My heart sinks. Of course Grandpa needs Leela as cadet pilot. I just proved I’m still unfit, functional cardiovascular system or not.
“I’m so sorry, Lee-lu,” I whisper.
A sharp little laugh stabs through her disappointment. “Only you could take credit for the apocalypse.”
“I’m not . . .” There’s no way to tell her why Grandpa still needs her as cadet pilot without making her worry about me, on top of everything else.
I hug her again instead. She hugs me back, resting her head on my shoulder for a moment. Then she pulls away.
“See you at the memorial?”
“Yeah,” I say.
When I turn back to the table, Chris has his head down beside his empty bowl. A little bubble of memory pops inside my chest and evaporates into a smile. “You used to fall asleep at the table like that when you were tiny.”
“What?” He snaps upright, eyes blinking. “I wasn’t sleeping.”
“Both unconvincing and unnecessary,” Beth says. “Sleep in Joanna’s bed.”
“No, I—”
“You’ve got a couple hours before the memorial,” I say, cutting off his protest. “Go. Sleep.”
He gives up arguing and shuffles into our storage-closet bedroom.
Beth keeps working on her list.
I scrape and stack the dishes and clean out the coffee pot. It’s only 0600. I have five hours until the memorial. I could sleep more, but Chris is in my bed, and I can’t imagine anything but nightmares waiting for me.
I take the dishes to the recycling center. The machines are still running, breaking down yesterday’s used dishes and clothes and building scraps and broken tools into tiny beads of raw plastic that the 3D printers can use to make new gear. I toss our plates and utensils into the next set of recycling bins and then dump the food scraps and coffee grounds into the sealed compost tubs on the other side of the cabin.
I take a shower and put on fresh clothes.
Once I’m dressed, I set the wall screens to mirror. I look pale. Deep shadows cup my eyes. I grab a wide-toothed comb and yank it through my hair. It catches on a huge snarl in the fine, curly mass. Then another. My hair is always like this when it’s long.
I’m going to cut it. Right now.
There are several pairs of scissors in the first-aid kit. I grab one and scrape my hair up into a ponytail. I’m about to chop it off when I hear the snap-boom of a shuttle making atmospheric entry. That must be the Prairie’s shuttle, 3212. That was fast. I thought it would take at least a couple of days before the rest of the marines followed us.
I look at myself in the mirror again. What am I doing? Chopping all my hair off would be so melodramatic. Look at me! I’m Joanna, and I’ve got needlessly uneven apocalypse hair.
Who knew I was so selfish?
I put the scissors back and grab a heavy parka from a supply cubby. Then I walk down to the river to watch the shuttle land. My ponytail drips down my neck as I peer up into the predawn gray.
At first, I don’t see anything. Then a bright flash of reflected light snaps against the morning. And another. That must be the shuttle. Weird. Why is it so hard to see?
I get my answer when the Landing’s particle shield ripples down to let the shuttle in. 3212’s skin is mirrored silver, unlike the Trailblazer’s black rainbow metallic. It’s an older model than the Trailblazer, smaller and sleeker, like a stretched-out triangle with twin engines sticking out behind it like a pair of clenched fists. The design dates back to the Storm Wars, when shooting military units into space and slingshotting them around the planet seemed like a good idea. It wasn’t part of the Prairie’s fleet of shuttles and satellites, last time I looked at her specs. But that was almost two years ago, during Mom’s test flight with the enormous ship. The ISA must have decided to add tactical shuttles to the big ship’s complement since then. I wonder why.
The fido tree I’m standing next to reaches out to me, stroking my shoulders with a thick cluster of flowers that are fading to white as the weather turns colder. Fidos are hybrids, like a lot of the flora on this planet. They photosynthesize like plants, but they’re also carnivores. The pretty clustered flowers are traps, designed to lure in insect analogs. Earth has—I mean, had, I guess—a few hybrid plant species. But nothing like the huge photosynthesizing carnivores on Tau.
Nothing like the phytoraptors.
Of course, the fido trees aren’t much like the raptors, either, even though the Rangers classified them as part of the same genus—Chorulux, which means “light dancers.” Fido trees are rooted, and they look like Earth trees until they reach out and nuzzle you. Phytoraptors look more like a lion crossed with a gorilla and a rose bush, except with way bigger claws. They still draw energy from sunlight, but they aren’t really plants anymore.
I reach up and let the tree twine its tiny white flowers through my fingers. I know I shouldn’t be assigning emotions to trees, but it feels like it’s happy to see me.
Movement lurches through my peripheral vision. Something too fast to be a fido. I twist, peering through the shifting floral branches to see my grandfather wading into the river a few meters upstream.
I shiver just looking at him.
“Grandpa!” I call out.
“Hello, Little Moth,” he calls back as I walk up the riverbank toward him.
“Isn’t that cold?” I ask.
“Sure is,” he says. “Care to join me?”
“No way.”
He grins, amused at my vehemence. “Suit yourself. I find that intense sensation is the best way to mediate intense emotions.”
“Intense emotions?” I don’t mean to sound surprised, but I am. He’s been calm, even relaxed, this whole time. Especially compared to the rest of us.
Grandpa chuckles. “Glad to see my old poker face is still operational. I paid dearly for it in my youth. But it helps, when folks are counting on you.” He pulls in a deep breath, stretching his curved spine out to its full length for a moment before he releases it, slumping back into his usual slouch as he exhales. “But I try not to let my poker face fool my brain. A good leader feels everything. Only way to really appreciate the consequences of your actions.”
The phrase tosses a memory across my brain. My brother’s soot-smeared face seconds before I blew us both into space. If I’d known Teddy was going to die, would I still have tried to save the Pioneer? I really don’t know. Especially after yesterday. I don’t know if I would have been brave enough.
“Consequences suck,” I say.
“Never truer words,” Grandpa agrees. “But a good leader accepts them. That’s why groups need leaders. Someone has to be able to look past the moment and plan for the future. Even if that means plotting a harsh course.”
Another face I’ll never see again fills my mind. Miguel. Grinning in t
riumph, seconds before a massive phytoraptor the Rangers dubbed Sunflower killed him.
How ironic that Miguel died to save Sunflower’s species from being wiped out by human terraforming. Actually, Beth thinks stopping Stage Three saved this whole planet, which means Miguel saved humanity, too.
Can I accept his death as a consequence of that?
I don’t know if I want to.
“I see we have some catching up to do,” Grandpa says, studying me.
“Obviously, I haven’t got much of a poker face yet,” I say.
“Don’t be in too much of a hurry.” Grandpa turns to look up at the sprawl of blue-green light spilling over the horizon. “It isn’t cheap, and paying for it . . .” He shakes his head. “To borrow a phrase, it sucks.”
Mom has always had a good poker face, too. Beth, Teddy, and I used to call it her “commander face.” What did she do to earn it? And how did she lose it?
I think Mom answered that question herself when she was arguing with Grandpa on the Prairie.
I’m not panicking. I’m despairing.
“Is Mom . . .” Okay seems like silly word right now. No one is okay.
“She’s fine,” Grandpa says. “I made her have a good meal and clean up before we debriefed last night. She’s brought me up to speed on the events of the last few months and your interactions with the indigenous sentients.”
Interactions with the indigenous sentients. That’s one way to think of half our team being torn apart and eaten by phytoraptors followed by the Sorrow demanding that the rest of us leave the planet.
“How are we going to do this, Grandpa?” I ask. “This course . . . it isn’t just harsh. It’s impossible.”
Grandpa offers me a wry smile. “You’re not overstating the problem. We’re going to be asking a lot from our people. We’re also going to be asking a lot from your friend Tarn.”
Tarn. Just thinking about him makes my stomach hurt. How will he react to all this? How will his people react?
“Your mother tells me you know more about the Sorrow, and their leader, than anyone else on the team,” Grandpa says.
“Not really,” I say, flustered. “Beth has spent way more time studying Dr. Brown’s notes than I did. Dr. Brown lived with them for years after the rest of the Ranger team died. My friends and I were only with Tarn a few days.”
“It is a shame Lucille was killed,” Grandpa says. “She was brilliant.” He huffs a little laugh. “She never did care for me. Said I was shortsighted and old-fashioned.”
“What?” I say. “Weren’t you research partners?”
He nods. “That’s how she developed such a nuanced opinion. Of course, she was right.”
“No, she wasn’t!” I protest. “You aren’t either of those things.”
That earns me a full-fledged laugh.
“Sure I am,” he says. “Or are you too young to remember how much time I spent telling your father that the Galactic Frontier Project was a fool’s errand?” His eyes drift up to the crystal mountains to our west, just starting to spark with rainbows in the morning light. “Sometimes, it’s good to be wrong.”
I follow his gaze. I’ve been living at the feet of those glittering peaks for months and they still take my breath away. I think they always will. I’m so glad I got to see them. But that doesn’t mean we belong here.
“I do remember those arguments,” I say. “You told Dad that colonization would be more complicated than the GFP imagined. And you were right. It was more than complicated. Coming to this planet . . . that’s what was wrong. And staying here is worse.”
Grandpa turns to study me with the same intensity he gave the prismatic mountain range. I wonder if I’ve offended him. He just crossed light-years to get what’s left of the human species to Tau. He probably doesn’t want to hear about the moral complexities of that decision right now.
My stomach twists as he sloshes through the water and clambers up the steep riverbank to my side. Should I say I’m sorry? Or will that just make everything more awkward?
“Brrr,” he says, shuddering a little. “It’s damn cold out here.”
“Grandpa,” I start to say, “I didn’t mean to—” But the apology evaporates as he pulls a pair of silver studs from a pocket on his utility harness.
“Are those ensign insignia?” I almost whisper the words. “How did you . . .”
Grandpa beams. “I found them in your mother’s office. She had them made weeks ago.” He leans in to fasten them to my collar. “I was supposed to wait. Do this with her. But I’m a selfish man. And I needed to replenish my spirit.”
“So you’re promoting me?” I say, astounded. “But I. . . . Why would you promote me?”
“Because you understand that settling on this planet is wrong, even though it is necessary. That’s going to be the crux of every dilemma we face here. We can’t pretend this situation is fair to the Sorrow or the phytoraptors. It would be a lie, and they won’t thank us for it. You see that. You’re willing to say it out loud. I need you to keep saying it. I need to see this world through your eyes. To understand it, so that I can build a place for us here.”
“Really?” I say.
He nods. “Really. It won’t be easy. I’m going to be asking a lot from you as well.”
My fingers go to the tiny metal dots that just transformed me into Ensign Joanna Watson. They’re heavier than I thought they’d be.
I meet my grandfather’s expectant eyes.
“I won’t let you down, sir.”
“You never have,” he says. “I only hope, when all of this is said and done, you’ll be able to say the same of me.”
Five
By the time we gather for the memorial service, it’s even colder, if that’s possible, and the world is soaking in fat drops of rain.
Mom isn’t here yet. She’s probably juggling a million things. I hope she got a few hours of sleep last night. Dad is standing with Doc and Dr. Kao at the front of the assembled crowd. They look worried. I’d be surprised if they didn’t. Still, I don’t feel like learning any more depressing details about our future right now, so I find my friends instead.
Chris and Leela and Beth are huddled together under a big tree next to the memorial stone.
“Where’s Jay?” I ask, as I join them.
Before anyone can answer, a chorus of gunfire smacks through the air. We all turn to see both marine squadrons lined up back to back on the path from the Landing, rifles aimed at the sky. They fire again. And again. And again.
My ears are ringing by the tine they flip their rifles to their shoulders and march down the path toward us. It’s so quiet I can hear the rain pattering on the fido tree flowers in between the dull thuds of the boots on the wet ground.
The crowd parts before the marines. They march past the memorial stone and unfold into four straight lines on the riverbank behind it. Jay is in the back row, his rifle on his shoulder, his body stiff at attention. I can’t see his face.
“What was that?” Chris whispers.
“Twenty-one-gun salute,” Leela whispers back. “I’ve never seen one, but it used to be a thing at military funerals.”
It didn’t feel like a salute. It felt like . . . showing off, I guess. A memory rebounds through my head. Ord marching his Takers into the Landing for the first time, bristling with weapons. What was it Tarn had called that?
An honest display of strength.
But why does Shelby feel the need to demonstrate her strength to us, the people her squadrons are supposed to protect? Is this meant to make us feel safe?
Grandpa emerges from the crowd and walks to the memorial stone. Standing there, the two squadrons frame him perfectly.
“Friends,” Grandpa calls, “we are faced with an impossible task. How does one mourn a planet? How do we honor such a loss? How do we move on?”
Beth’s tidy handwriting fills my brain, her list of names superimposing itself over the scene before me as Grandpa continues.
“The task see
ms beyond the scope of human imagination. It is certainly beyond me. But thankfully, we don’t depend on my wisdom alone.” He sucks in a breath and sighs it out. “My beloved wife died when our daughter was still a child. But she taught me a lot before she was taken from us. She always said a big problem is just a lot of little problems swimming together, like a school of fish. So if you want to solve a big problem, you just have to catch one of the little ones and gut it. Then you do it again and again until you’re done.”
He chuckles, almost to himself. “She was a ferocious woman, my Cleo. Dauntless. I can only hope that piece of her is still with me. Because the task facing us is monumental. But I know that we can accomplish it, one little fish at a time.”
He rests a hand on the memorial stone.
“But first, we must honor our loss. Grieve. Then, tomorrow, we will face all those little problems. Together.”
“Humanity is not lost. We are found. This planet is a new beginning. A clean slate, untouched and waiting for us to shape a new world. A new future.” He raises his arms, encompassing first the crowd, then the gray, soggy day behind him as he speaks.
The murmur of shared tears has faded into a crackling silence. Everyone is leaning forward like they’re metal filings and Grandpa is a magnet.
Everyone except Dad.
He’s texting.
What the hell is wrong with him? How can he be texting now, of all times?
My brain answers its own question.
“Where’s Mom?” I whisper to Beth, alarmed.
“I’m amazed it took you this long to notice,” Beth whispers back.
“I noticed,” I mutter. “I just figured she hadn’t gotten here yet when I showed up.”
“Something must be wrong,” Leela says, quietly. “She wouldn’t just bail on us.”
Dad lets his arms drop to his sides like his hands are suddenly heavy. I expect him to slip away and go find Mom. He doesn’t. He just stands there, staring dully as Grandpa gives his place at the memorial stone to Doc.
Doc begins the same Hindu prayer that he led us all through at Teddy’s funeral. Not all of us, I guess. Half the people there that day are dead now. Their names are written on the stone behind him.
The Survivor Page 5
