The Survivor

by BRIDGET TYLER

  I look back at Dad. He hasn’t moved.

  “Go,” Beth whispers.

  Leela nods in agreement, even though she’s mouthing the prayer along with her dad.

  I slip along the edge of the praying crowd, then pick up speed when I reach the path back to the Landing.

  I tap my flex as I jog up the hill. “Locate Commander Watson’s flex, please.”

  The computer promptly replies, “Located. Commander Watson’s flex is in the Command Office, Joanna.”

  The dirt path becomes a solar-tiled road lined with labs and family cabins. I turn left at the school and cut through the community garden to reach the street that runs behind Ground Control.

  I burst through the back doors and dart through the empty hallways until I see the door to Mom’s office standing open ahead of me.

  I call out, “Mom?”

  There’s no answer.

  I peer through the doorway anyway and find Mom standing at the wall screen, staring at an unsent message.

  “Mom?”

  She still doesn’t reply. It’s like she doesn’t even hear me.

  I cross the office to stand beside her. From there, I can read the message she hasn’t sent.

  This report was classified by the ISA. It contains information you need. I was under orders not to share it with you. The admiral and I have decided those orders no longer apply.

  There’s an attachment.

  A file marked PSR.Tau.Ceti.e.Classified. The message is addressed to the full Exploration & Pioneering Team.

  No wonder Mom’s frozen up like this. This is the top-secret planetary survey report on Tau that she and the ISA hid from everyone. The whole team is about to discover that Mom knew about the Sorrow and the phytoraptors before we came here and kept them secret from the rest of us. That decision cost a lot of people their lives.

  The ache of sympathy in the pit of my stomach is curdled by a surprising amount of lingering anger. How much did the ISA really know about the Sorrow and the phytoraptors when they sent us here? Could we have made a better start if we’d known the truth? Or would everything still have gone wrong?

  “Computer, please edit message,” Mom says in a strained whisper. “Add sentence: I’m sorry.”

  “My apologies, Alice,” the computer says. “I didn’t get that. Can you speak a little louder?”

  “No,” she rasps, tears shredding her voice. “I can’t.”

  She stares at the unsent message. Eyes brimming.

  “Do you want me to add it, Mom?” I ask.

  She’s so startled she almost stumbles, like the unexpected question was a physical blow.

  “What are you doing here, Jo?” she snaps, scrubbing tears from her face.

  “The memorial . . .”

  “Oh.” She closes her eyes. “I was just going to share the report and go, but then . . .”

  But then she stood here, staring at it for twenty minutes instead of hitting send. The thought is heavy and hot. I want to run away from it, but I can’t. I’m not a little girl anymore. I don’t get to pretend my mom is superhuman just because it makes me feel better.

  “You were just following orders, Mom,” I say. “The ISA made you keep the survey report from us.”

  “Maybe. But I knew it was wrong,” she says. “I knew it was a bad choice.”

  “So why did you do it?”

  I’ve wanted to ask that question for a long time. Now that it’s out, I think I want to take it back.

  The series of expressions that pummel her face tells me more than any words could. Sadness. Anger. Guilt. And something that looks weirdly like pride.

  Then she sighs, breathing out a tiny, sardonic smile.

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  It isn’t an answer, but at least that slice of a smile brought some life back into her face.

  She turns back to the wall screen and jabs “send.” Then she slumps, like that took all the energy she had.

  I wait for her to say something. Or move.

  She doesn’t.

  “Mom?” I try again, finally.

  “I don’t see a way through this, Jo,” she says without looking at me. “I don’t know what to do.”

  My heart hammers against my ribs, just once. A huge thud that shoots fear through my body. Mom always knows what to do. That’s just a thing that’s true. Like gravity or breathing. Except it isn’t anymore.

  What am I supposed to do about that? An idea slips into my worry. I don’t know if it’s the right thing to say, but I have to say something.

  “Maybe you don’t have to know what to do.”

  “True,” Mom says, flashing her sardonic smile again. “I could just stand here staring at the wall awhile longer.”

  “No, that’s not . . .” I stop myself. She knows that isn’t what I mean. Trying again, I say, “Grandpa was just telling this story, at the memorial. About something Grandma used to say.”

  Her dry little smile drops into a silent oh.

  “A big problem is like a school of fish,” she whispers.

  I’ve never met my grandmother, but I hear the echo of her voice in the words.

  “Yeah,” I say. “That’s it.”

  She closes her eyes for a long heartbeat. Then she nods, like she’s agreeing with herself.

  She opens her eyes again and holds out a hand to me. “Come on, kid. This little problem is handled.”

  She hangs on to my hand as we walk through the empty camp and down the sloping path to the memorial stone. As we approach, Dr. Vega is just finishing saying a Catholic funeral rite for those lost on Earth. Mama Alejandra comes forward and joins her in the final prayer. Then they offer their place at the front of the crowd back to Grandpa and join Doc and Ben Petuchowski, who are standing just behind the stone, having already offered their own prayers.

  “Friends,” Grandpa begins, but then Chief Ganeshalingam catches sight of us.

  “Commander!” she exclaims, cutting Grandpa off as she and her wife turn to pull Mom into a double hug.

  “How are you, honey?” Chief G asks Mom. “We haven’t seen you since you got back.”

  “Thank goodness you were able to repair that sail,” Ezra Brin chimes in beside them. “My brothers are up there. All four of them!”

  Then everyone is talking at once, pulling Mom forward into the heart of the group as they pour out their worries and their joys.

  I fight to stay by her side. I want to yell at them to shut up and leave her alone. She’s so tired. She doesn’t need them putting all this on her.

  But I quickly realize they aren’t a burden to her. I swear she’s getting a little taller with every touch. Every question. Every comforting word. Like the cacophony of need is nourishing her.

  I look up at Beth and Leela and see my own relief written in their faces. Dad’s, too. But Grandpa has a weird look on his face. Pinched. He almost looks angry.

  Is he worried about her? Maybe he can’t see the look on her face from where he is. He probably thinks they’re putting too much pressure on her, just like I did.

  “Come, my dear,” he calls, pushing through the crowd to Mom’s side. “Join us. You built this team, after all. And that hard work, the choices you made . . . they will build the foundation of human history on this world.”

  He means that as a compliment, I think, but Mom shrinks at the words, her face going pale again as he pulls her against him. My heart sinks. He said “choices” but she heard mistakes. The choices that went wrong. That seems to be all she can think of.

  “I’m so glad to have my daughter by my side as we embrace this new age, on this new planet,” Grandpa continues.

  Something about that statement feels off. It takes me a minute to realize what it is.

  By my side.

  That makes Mom sound like his second.

  Wait.

  Grandpa is an admiral. Mom is a commander. And Grandpa came out of retirement to command the Prairie. That means that he’s the senior ISA off
icer on Tau. That means he’s our leader now. Mom is his second in command.

  “Come now,” Mom says, as the realization that just hit me rebounds through the crowd. “It’s wet and cold out here, and I bet Mohan has hot coffee waiting.”

  “Sure do,” Dr. Kao calls out.

  “Good,” Grandpa says. “Come, friends. Join me. Let us face our future. Together.”

  With that, he leads Mom up the path, the crowd trailing behind them like the spreading tail of a comet.

  I stay rooted where I stand. I’m shocked by how resentful I feel. It’s not like Mom’s had the best-ever track record here. And Grandpa has decades more experience than she does. Having him in command is a good thing.

  But Mom has been our mission commander for as long as I can remember. I hate the thought of following anyone else. Even if it is my own grandfather.

  Mom’s voice slips through my memory. I don’t know what to do next.

  Maybe she’s glad to step aside and let Grandpa take over. But I just don’t know who she is, if she isn’t the commander. I don’t know if she does, either.

  A blast of cold wind cuts straight through my parka. I should go with the others. Get some coffee. And food. I’m starving. It’s been hours since my too-early breakfast.

  As I turn to go, I realize I’m not the only straggler. Dad is slumped against the memorial stone, glaring at his boots.

  He looks so angry. No. That’s the wrong word. Bitter. Which is strange. Dad doesn’t do bitter. He always looks for the positive side of things. Always. It’s irritating, and I really, badly want him to do it now.

  “Dad?”

  His head snaps up. I don’t think he didn’t realized I was still here. “Sorry, kid. Just letting something get under my skin.”

  “The apocalypse?”

  He makes an odd face. Like he wants to say something he knows he shouldn’t. Then he shakes his head.

  “Sort of,” he says. “But my feelings are the last thing that matters right now. Your grandfather is right. We’ve got work to do.”

  “Idle hands ruin plans?” I say, trying for lighthearted.

  He smiles.

  It breaks my heart all over again.

  “Every plan I’ve ever had is ruined, kiddo,” he says.

  Then he trudges up the path back to the Landing, without waiting to see if I follow.

  Six

  We spend the afternoon together in the mess hall, not grieving but planning. We’ve got twelve weeks to transport ten thousand untrained civilians to the surface and keep them alive until they acclimate. It’s terrifying, but it’s also a challenge. We’re pioneers. We’re good at challenges. You can feel the energy building as the day goes on. We couldn’t save Earth, but we are going to figure out a way to protect the survivors.

  I haven’t seen Jay since this morning. Shelby has both squads out doing drills and target practice in the square, except the teams she has patrolling the shield perimeter. I know the marines need to train, but I wish Shelby had waited until tomorrow. Every time I start to relax, there’s a burst of frantically thudding boots or synchronized shouting. Or gunfire. It’s nerve rattling. And kind of scary.

  I’ve never felt intimidated by our own soldiers before. I’ve never really thought of them as soldiers before, actually. Mom and Sarge didn’t divide the squad out from the crew. They were just members of the team, like the rest of us. But today, watching them jog through the rain, shouting and shooting and keeping us all on edge, it feels like us doesn’t include them.

  I wonder how they feel, working hard in the wet and cold while we’re warm and comfortable inside.

  I hang around the mess hall until late, helping with the dishes. I expect Jay to come in, once he’s excused from exercises. He always used to, when he knew I was on KP.

  But tonight he doesn’t come.

  The rain has stopped by the time I take the compost and waste down to the recycling center. The moons are both nearly full, silvering the waist-high grass that flows out for kilometers around the Landing. It’s beautiful. I hate that we’re going to have to plow a lot of it under to build shelter for the survivors.

  This is the last run of the day, so I add my load to the bins and start the recyclers and composters. This stuff will be raw by morning—ready to go back into the 3D printers and start over. If only I could do that to my brain. Grind up the guilt and worry and sadness and turn it into something useful.

  The recycling center is only a few meters from the shield perimeter. The lights from the building catch in the force field, turning it into a warped mirror. Like looking out a bright window into a dark night.

  I switch the lights off. In the darkness, the shield becomes transparent again. I let my eyes wander through the silver ocean of grass, broken only by the occasional cluster of fido trees.

  The Landing looks so small in the wide-open darkness. It is small. There’s so much more of this planet to explore, so many other places we could live.

  According to her notes, Dr. Brown believed the Sorrow only live in the Diamond Range region. I’m not sure that’s true—Ord didn’t trust her as much as Dr. Brown thought he did. But if she was right, it would be better for everyone if we found a way to move our population elsewhere on this planet.

  Dad suggested relocating today, during our planning sessions. Nobody disagreed, but it’s not that simple. If we’re going to get ten thousand people off the Prairie in three months, then we don’t have time to find another place on Tau that’s safe. It’ll take a month just to transport them to the surface, and at least a month and a half to build what we need to feed and shelter them. And that’s only if nothing goes wrong.

  This is Tau.

  Something’s going to go wrong.

  Grandpa believes the best solution is to build up the Landing with temporary housing for now and find a permanent location once we’ve woken the survivors.

  He’s sure we can convince Tarn to give us the time we need. Specifically, he’s sure I can convince Tarn to give us the time we need. I hope he’s right, but I’ve got this memory of Tarn stuck in my head, like a catchy tune that’s playing on loop:

  My world ended the moment Lucille’s ship landed on our soil.

  I can only imagine how Tarn’s going to feel when he sees us ripping into his planet to build all the housing we’re going to need. Even if the buildings are temporary, they’re going to leave a scar. Tarn has read our history. He knows what we did to Earth. There’s a good reason he doesn’t want us here, and looking out at the thick grass flowing in the night breeze, I sort of don’t blame him.

  I should head to the greenhouse and try to get some sleep.

  I take one more deep breath, drinking in the pristine darkness before turning back toward the Landing.

  A flicker of light catches at the edge of my vision.

  I turn back and scan the night.

  There’s nothing out there. That was probably just a surge in the shield. Maybe one of the little insect analogs flew into it and—

  There it is again. And there. It’s not just flickers now. There’s definitely something bright out there in the grass. Moving fast. Coming this way.

  For a second, I think it’s a flex in flashlight mode, but it isn’t. It’s too bright for that. And the yellow is too warm to be artificial.

  The realization hits me seconds before the smudge of light resolves into a narrow figure draped in a glowing yellow robe.

  It’s Tarn.

  He’s carrying the long, heavy staff he prefers over the swords and battle hammers most Sorrow warriors carry. It looks like a walking stick, but I know it’s a dangerous weapon. He’s used it against me before. His lantern cloak billows around him, its deep hood hiding his face and multiplying his natural bioluminescence into something bright enough to catch in the shield and cast a warping halo around him.

  Damn it. It can’t be a coincidence that he’s here. He knows about the survivors.

  I should have anticipated this. After Tarn helped
us defeat Ord and became leader of the Sorrow, I promised him we would leave Tau as soon as we could. But the Wagon was a complete loss. We had to start over with the Trailblazer, and constructing a new transorbital shuttle from scratch took time. Months. Tarn has been patient, but I know he’s been watching us to make sure we keep our end of the bargain. I should have realized that he’d notice when we landed a second space shuttle that we didn’t have three days ago.

  I’m supposed to be Grandpa’s Sorrow advisor, and I’m already failing.

  I should text Grandpa. Tarn is the Followed. He should hear the news about Earth from our leader. Shouldn’t he? Or would it be better coming from someone he knows? My new insignia press urgently against my collarbones. I might not be able to space walk anymore, but I can talk to Tarn. He may be the Followed now, but he was my friend first. He listened to me before, because I listened to him.

  It saved this planet. It also saved my life. Now it could save my species.

  Tarn stops on the other side of the shield.

  My hands are shaking. It takes two tries to bring the shield app up on my flex.

  I create a portal.

  Tarn charges through it.

  This was a mistake.

  I stumble step backward as he storms at me. My boots catch on something and I go down hard. For a blistering heartbeat I can’t see anything but grass and stars; then Tarn is there.

  He lets his hood fall back as he looms over me, drilling his round black eyes into mine. The yellow glow of his bioluminescent blood is bright enough that I can see his bones and muscles through his transparent skin. He doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, pinning me into the dirt with the force of his glare.

  Finally, I dig words out of my head and string them together into a sentence.

  “I’m so sorry, Tarn.”

  “Meaningless!” His tritone voice turns the flat English word into a chorus. It sounds like a dozen people are standing behind him, hurling their fury at me in perfect unison. “Just like your promises!”

  “Things have changed, Tarn!” I protest. “Mom was going to end the mission—”

  “And now there are two ships in my skies,” Tarn snarls, talking right over me. “One so big it casts a shadow on the moons themselves!”