“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 triumph, 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.