“Is this safe?” she asks.

  “Kissing?” I blink a few times, trying to catch up. She’s so pretty. Why are we talking? Kissing would be better. “I don’t have any—I mean, we have to get full health screens whenever we come to a new colony, so I know I’m not—”

  “I’m not either,” she hastens to say. “Sick, I mean. All blood panels clean. But is it safe to be outside like this? Is there going to be another of those monsters?”

  “Oh. No. The forest predators are smaller, or at least the ones we’ve found so far are smaller, and it’s unlikely anything we haven’t already found would be this close to the residence.” Regretfully, I finish the process of pulling away and turn the engine back on. No more kisses for me. “We’re almost home, anyway. Viola should be awake.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Kora brightens. “It’ll be nice to meet her.”

  “You can tell everyone at school about it.”

  She frowns, quick and unhappy. “How long are you going to make me pay for that?”

  “I don’t know. The kissing helped. I think if we do more kissing, I might stop being annoyed about it pretty quickly.” The ground is uneven enough that I have to pay attention to the trail ahead of us, wrestling with the ATV’s controls to keep us on an even keel. The tree roots grow so quickly, Dad’s sure there has to be something gnawing on them, trapping them in a permanent state of biological war.

  Not that that’s anything special. Most life is at war with everything around it, fighting to carve out space, resources—food, water, places to raise their young—fighting to grow and mature and reproduce. Some people think that “war” is too serious a word to use for that sort of conflict, but I’m a biologist’s daughter, and I say they’re wrong. Life is war.

  Even the sudden uneasy triangle between me, Kora, and Michel is a sort of battlefield. Does he want her for himself? Is that why he’s telling lies about my sister and encouraging Kora to doubt her existence—which would make me a liar in Kora’s eyes, and hence unworthy of her kisses? Does he just want to defend what he sees as his territory against an off-world interloper? The competition for resources is the basis for most conflict across human history. Not just human history: the history of all existence.

  We leave the shelter of the forest for the wide, flat grassland between the trees and the fence. Kora starts to lean out of the ATV and let her hand brush against the grass. I grab her arm and haul her back, maybe not as gently as I should have, because she turns and gives me a sulky, wounded look.

  “What did you do that for?” she demands, and I’m doomed, because even when she’s pouting at me, I just want to start kissing her again. Subprime.

  “It was grass that did this to me, remember?” I hold up my hand. Inflamed rows of angry blisters mark the place where the orange grasses touched me. Mom’s going to be thrilled. That’s only half-sarcastic—once she’s sure I haven’t done myself any permanent damage, she’ll drain the blisters and analyze whatever oil or toxin is clinging to my skin, using it to learn more about this new Zagreus party trick. She doesn’t like it when I get hurt, but that doesn’t mean she’ll refuse essential data.

  “Oh.” Kora stops pouting. She looks around instead, drinking in the grasslands with her eyes, and finally says, “I had no idea it was this beautiful out here. I always thought…”

  “What?”

  She takes a deep breath. “Mom was born on a mining world. It was corps, not independent; it didn’t even have a name. Just this twenty-digit numerical designation. Mom can rattle it off in her sleep. I tried to memorize it when I was a kid, and then I realized she didn’t want me to. She wanted it to be forgotten. That place is not my past, and it’s not my future, either.”

  I don’t say anything. Maybe it’s adrenaline and maybe it’s hormones, but if Kora wants to share something like this with me, I’m going to let her. Anything to bring us closer together, here, under this orange, alien sky.

  “When she talks about the world where she grew up, she always says it was gray, and closed-in, and claustrophobic, and I know it would break her heart if I said this in front of her, but I look at the settlement, and I don’t see the difference.”

  I wince, but I don’t contradict her, because she’s right. The main colonial settlement on Zagreus is a gray, industrial maze of recycled materials and all the parts and pieces the government has been able to scavenge. There are gardens—ninety percent of the colony’s food is grown within the city, and they’re hoping to push all their food production to on-planet within the next five years—but they’re all concealed behind polarized glass that filters the orange light into something the Earth-standard crops can recognize. Their meat is vat-grown, which is standard but not fun to look at. Even the parks are mostly gray, with bright specks of color where some architect or other has done a molded plastic play structure for the littlest kids, the ones who have no idea that skies are supposed to be blue, and wouldn’t believe anyone who tried to tell them.

  Maybe those kids, the ones who were born on a Zagreus that already has teenagers chafing against the initial colonial restrictions, maybe they’ll be the ones who use my parents’ research to turn this planet into a real home, and not just a sort of way station between Earth and somewhere else.

  Or maybe it’ll be Kora. She keeps stealing glimpses of the grasslands around us, and even as she keeps her hands inside the ATV, it’s impossible to overlook her delight.

  “I still think we should have a party,” I blurt.

  Kora turns that delighted look on me. “Really?” she asks.

  No. “Sure.” This is a terrible idea. “I mean, everyone can meet Viola, which might make Michel stop, and it’s not fair that there’s all this beautiful stuff out here that you never get to see. And it’s perfectly safe, as long as you stay on the supply trail between the colony gates and the residence.” Unlike our rough-carved forest trails, the supply trail is actually scourged into the earth, cut six inches deep to clear out all the roots and surrounded by sonic beacons to keep the wildlife at bay. Environmentally speaking, it’s a disaster. Safety-wise, it’s almost better than staying indoors.

  Dad says that the trail proves the colonial government is made up of shortsighted hypocrites, since they were the ones who insisted on its design. It’s an eyesore that will take at least fifteen years of erosion and exposure to go away, while the footprint of our residence will fade in a single season. But we’re the ones exploiting planetary resources. Right.

  Kora is looking at me like I’m the most incredible creature in the world. I puff out my chest like she’s right.

  “I can set up snacks, we can go for a walk—a safe one, safer than we did today—and everyone can see how amazing Zagreus really is. How about it?” Honestly, it’s a public service, and one we should have been providing all along. Maybe Michel will be less of a jerk once he understands how amazing it is outside the colony walls.

  Probably not, though.

  “That sounds like such a good idea,” says Kora, and leans over to kiss my cheek.

  I’m blushing and trying to think of a response when the residence fence comes into view, and in front of it, Mom and Dad, arms folded, clearly waiting for me to come home.

  Busted.

  These are my parents:

  Dr. Katherine Shipp. Xenobiologist, both practical and behavioral; she specializes in “extraterrestrial zoology,” meaning she’s happiest when she’s working with the things we’d call birds or mammals if we found them on Earth. Big predators are her favorite, and she’s the reason we’ve had cats for most of my life. If it weren’t for Zagreus’s ridiculously restrictive animal import laws, we’d have a cat right now. One more thing to resent this orange-sky hellhole for. A serious fondness for khaki and the kind of military training that leads to perfect posture and being able to bench-press your own body weight. I want to be her when I grow up.

  Oh, and super unforgiving. Did I mention that part? Because I probably should. Mom holds a grudge like it’s made of platinum and she’s looking to invest. I take after her, in that regard.

  Then there’s Dad. Dr. John Shipp. Xenobiologist, yes, but also xenobotanist, xenoparasitologist, and xenoentomologist, since while Mom was running around with the colonial marines, he was collecting degrees like there was some sort of prize for the person who spent the most useless hours in school. He has bugs named after him on, like, six planets, and he’s always shooting for a seventh. Or an eighth. Or a ninth. He also has a huge collection of weird teas and a tendency to wander out of the house without his glasses, which makes him seem like the sort of absentminded professor figure that you see in all the science-fiction vids.

  Only he’s not. He’s always watching, always paying attention, and if Mom never lets go of a grudge, Dad doesn’t let things progress to the point where he needs to hold one. He’d rather just end them while they’re small and simple and controllable. He’s like a human flyswatter, and if I’m too much like Mom, Viola’s too much like Dad.

  Finding them both waiting for me at the fence line is … not good. Worse is the way Mom smiles when we get closer.

  “Miss Burton,” she says to Kora, voice as bright as her expression, and equally as false. “I didn’t know you were planning to pay us a visit today.”

  Oh, I am in so much trouble.

  “Hello, Dr. Shipp,” says Kora, glancing anxiously at me. “Olivia invited me. I hope that’s not a problem…?”

  “Of course not,” says Dad. “You’re a citizen of Zagreus. You’re welcome to go wherever you like. I just didn’t know you were interested in naturalism. Would you like to join us next week for our tour of the wetlands?”

  Kora blanches. I’m not sure she knows what a riparian wetland environment is, really, but the name gives a lot of it away. “Um,” she says. “No, thank you.” She climbs out of the ATV, casting a last quick smile in my direction. Not as good as a kiss, but I’ll take it. “Thanks for showing me around, Olivia, it was really neat. Give Viola my best, okay?”

  “Okay,” I say, and before I have time for anything else, she’s taking off, heading for the supply trail as fast as her legs can carry her. I watch until she’s safely past the first sonic beacon before I turn back to my parents.

  Neither of them looks happy.

  “How did this happen?” asks my father, touching the ATV’s dented front fender.

  “Lion-worm,” I say. “The biggest one I’ve ever seen.”

  “And why was it attacking the ATV?”

  There is no answer to that question that is both good and true. They’re going to find out eventually. If I lie to them, it’s just going to be worse for me. So I swallow, hard, and smile as best I can, and say, “Kora fell out in the pollen stands. The lion-worm thought she looked interesting—”

  “Meaning it thought the daughter of the colonial governor would make a nice meal,” says Mom, in a voice like ice.

  Oh, this is so bad. “—and I had to distract it,” I say. “It hit the ATV a few times. I can fix it. There’s no structural damage, I’ll just need a hammer and a belt sander and it’ll be as good as new.”

  “My daughter, the mechanic,” mutters Dad. “This is your fault, you know.” The last bit is directed at Mom, who arches a brow in response.

  “My fault? If she were taking up sharpshooting, I’d accept the blame for that, but how is it my fault that she likes hitting things with a hammer?”

  Maybe I’m not in trouble after all. Once they start picking at each other, I can usually slink away. I start the ATV, intending to drive it to the garage.

  Mom folds her arms. “Where do you think you’re going, young lady?”

  Or maybe I’m in the kind of trouble I’ve previously only dreamt of. “To put the ATV in the garage?” I offer meekly.

  “I want you in the residence immediately afterward, do you understand me?”

  I understand that I’m about to be grounded for the foreseeable future. Subprime. “Yes, ma’am,” I say, and turn the controls toward the hatch in the fence that will allow me to march toward my inevitable destruction.

  The garage sensors open at my approach. I slide the ATV into its place, hopping out to connect the charging cables to the port in the wall. A mixture of electrical power and internal combustion means that we can go for miles without worrying about finding fuel. Always important when you’re on a world that has yet to be fully charted. Internal combustion has been banned on Earth for decades, but out here, efficiency wins out over environmental impact. One more thing for people like Michel to resent my family for.

  It only takes a few moments with the cleaning solution and an old rag to clean Dad’s machete. Even my parents won’t be mad at me for taking the time. Always leave your tools the way you found them, if you can’t somehow find a way to leave them better: that’s the family motto, or may as well be. Everything can be improved.

  Eventually, though, there’s nothing left for me to improve, not without breaking out the heavy tools, and if I do that, my parents will know I’m trying to dodge my punishment. Which seems like a logical thing to do, if you’re asking me, but that isn’t how my parents think. They always want me to show up and acknowledge the consequences of my actions, as if I weren’t there when those actions were happening.

  What are the consequences of my actions? I saved a pretty girl’s life, and she kissed me. I let the ATV be damaged in a minor, largely cosmetic way, and I already said that I could fix it. I’m not so much seeing what I should be punished for here.

  Shoulders slumped, I make my way across the yard to the back door of the residence and let myself in. The kitchen is empty. They never yell at us in the kitchen; some weird superstition Dad has about how bringing bad feelings around food will make the food bad for you. It doesn’t make any sense, but that’s often the way with Earth-born adults. They have all this cultural baggage even they can’t explain, like once something crosses the line into “tradition” it no longer needs to be interrogated. Whatever.

  Mom and Dad are in the living room, sitting on the couch, waiting for me. Viola is in her chair, an oxygen tank resting beside her, just in case she has one of her attacks before she can get back to the safety of the monitoring equipment in our bedroom. Sub, sub, subprime. I am in so much trouble.

  “Sit down,” says Mom coolly. She’s always the disciplinarian. Dad’s usually happy to sit back and let her mete out punishments, like we won’t notice that he’s always on her side. There’s no good parent–bad parent routine here. There’s just two exhausted scientists trying to pretend they have the tactical advantage over two bored, increasingly resourceful teenagers. This is a war they were always destined to lose eventually.

  Too bad eventually isn’t now. I sit.

  “I would like you to explain yourself, please.” Her voice is calm, level: she might as well be asking an underling to explain their improperly filed paperwork. Viola winces, flashing me a sympathetic look. She’s on my side. She’s always been on my side.

  I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have my sister. “Which part?” I ask, and hate the whine in my voice. It sounds childish. It sounds like someone who deserves to be punished.

  “Start with the whole thing, and we’ll ask for details if we need them,” says Dad.

  Oh, this is bad. If he’s abandoning the pretense of neutrality, this is bad. I consider the truth, and reject it just as quickly. Maybe—maybe—if it were just me, Viola, and Mom, I could get away with saying “hormones made me do it.” Mom remembers being a teenage girl, and she’s said, more than once, that she hopes we can find a way to start dating before we turn around and realize that we’re adults, responsible for our own livelihoods and futures.

  Dad, on the other hand, wants to pretend we’re still eight years old, and that Viola’s illness means she’s never going to want to date, and that being a good sister means I’ll be more interested in taking care of her than in letting some colony kid touch my boobs, either above or below the shirt. Dad’s kind of delusional sometimes.

  So I take a deep breath, and give the only answer that leaves me with half a chance of getting out of this alive. “Michel from school has been going around telling people Viola doesn’t exist.”

  6

  FAMILY MEETING

  Silence. Viola looks confused. Mom looks horrified. Dad looks …

  I don’t have a name for the expression on Dad’s face. It’s almost like he’s going to be sick, which doesn’t make any sense. I mean, Vi’s sick, she’s been sick for a long time, and there are jokes we don’t make, because sometimes you don’t want to invite the universe to provide you with a punch line, but that look, it’s like he’s been waiting his whole life to hear he only has one daughter, that Viola has been a particularly vivid figment of our collective imaginations for years.

  Mom recovers first. “Why would he say that?” she asks, voice tight and clipped and strangely disciplined. She’s really upset. She always goes all ex-marine when she’s upset.

  This is weird. I don’t like it, and I don’t like that Vi’s on the other side of the room, where it would be super obvious if I went and stood next to her. So I stay where I am, I take a breath, and I say, “He thinks we left her off the arrival manifest for our transport so we could defraud the colony resource grids. Get more than our fair share. I mean, it was an error. We weren’t trying to defraud anyone, for anything.”

  Mom snorts. “More than our fair share? We refine everything ourselves. We’re actually living off the land, not pulling in pieces of other worlds that have already been ravaged and sold off to the highest bidder, then pretending that somehow makes us better than anyone else.”

  “Kate,” says Dad chidingly.

  “No, don’t start,” she says. “These people have a moral framework that falls apart if you so much as look at it funny, and they want to use it to justify claiming my daughter—my daughter—doesn’t exist? That’s not only ridiculous, it’s absurd.”

  I’m pretty sure those words mean the same thing. I don’t say anything. Mom is furious, and I don’t know why, but as long as she’s not furious at me, I’m going to let her get it out of her system.