5Days pass, and normality settles back around me in a familiar pall. Though I bend my considerable intellect to the mystery of Shar, checking every public record I can think of and even a few not-so-public records, I can’t find so much as a trace of her presence here. The passenger lists from the spaceport yield nothing—though considering her talents as a stowaway, that’s not a surprise—and even the hole in the shield has been patched, preventing any further search of the Rainforest I might make, assuming I were oxygen-deprived enough to try. She’s as much a ghost to me as any Spectre, and if not for the images I took and the square of cloth tucked in my bag, I might think it was all a dream. But though it wasn’t a dream, over time it begins to feel like one. Shar, the shield, that bunker in the forest—all recede under the routine forms of class and schoolwork. Recede, but not vanish. Rather, they crouch just below the surface of my awareness, not gone, but . . . waiting.

Waiting. I’m good at that. In fact, sometimes it seems like all my life has been one long series of waits. Waiting for the war to be over, waiting for my military parents to come home, waiting for everyone to stop treating me like a child and let me live my own life.

Waiting for Michael to forgive me.

My lips twist. Futile hopes all, not worth the time it would take me to set them to paper let alone the weeks, months, and years I’ve wasted on them. Endure and move on. At least that’s what I tell myself in those bitter moments between one wait and the next, when it feels like all the universe has let me down without even the courtesy of an explanation, let alone an apology. But though I endure, I never seem to move on.

Today the rain pours down ceaselessly, deluging the green world in a gray tribute that only seems to make the foliage glow more verdantly. It’s so bright, the town itself looks downright dull in comparison, the pale rain only washing out the faded tile walks and duro-steel buildings even more. As if this place, ravaged for thirty years by a planet that has defied its existence from the very beginning, has ever looked anything but defeated.

I sigh at my parents’ choice of exile locales. This town is one of five settlements loosely arranged to the north, west, and south of a central spaceport, with the town’s main source of water, the Shoqua River, flowing parallel to it all a klick to the east. Homesteads cluster on the outer fringes of the settlements, all owned and worked by the few dozen families who originally settled Iolanthe. All together, they can’t yield a population of much more than that of a smallish town, and singly the settlements feel more like isolated hamlets. Ghost towns, almost—faded, worn streets haunted by faded, worn people stuck here due to a combination of circumstance, stubbornness, and bad luck.

Seated at a table in the dorm lounge, I tilt my chair back and let out a sigh. It’s been pouring since before I got up, and yet somehow this endless deluge only feels appropriate, considering the day. It’s my sixteenth birthday per the official Celestian calendar, not that I’ve bothered to tell anyone. What’s the point of birthdays anymore, anyway? With the way this war is going, I’ll probably be dead before I’m twenty-five—along with the rest of the human race. The only good thing about today is that after all this time, I’m finally old enough to enlist.

Dropping my chair back to the floor, I open my chit hand to allow the form minimized over my palm to spring up over my hand.

*Application for Celestial Military Service*

I’ve had this application filled out for almost two years now. I’ve checked and rechecked my answers, dotted all my i’s and crossed all my t’s. I could pass the physical entrance exam in my sleep. Everything is ready to be submitted, with just one exception:

The Parental Signature.

A growl of frustration escapes me as I stare at that blank line, blinking in some sort of twisted taunt over my hand. Navy. Marines. Ground Forces. Planetary Guard. It doesn’t matter which branch I ask about, the answer is always no. Not we’ll see or we’ll talk about it when you’re sixteen, but no. My parents have cited every reason in the book, from school issues to career concerns, but it always boils down to one thing: with Michael gone off to war, they can’t bear to let me go too.

I scowl in disgust at their totally unfair decision and contemplate for the hundredth time how I might get it reversed. I’ve tried everything, from emotional manipulation to claims of patriotic duty, and gotten nowhere. Their reluctance has always been frustrating, but today that missing signature is more maddening than ever. If only the age of majority were sixteen, not eighteen. Fingering the signature line, I vaguely wonder what the penalties for getting caught committing forgery are . . .

Bzzzt!

Before I can take the thought any further, my chit hand vibrates in a familiar buzz. With an annoyed huff, I glance at the holo ID.

Gran.

My brow wrinkles in annoyance. Damn. How does she do that? It’s as if she somehow knows, even halfway across the Expanse, what I was thinking. Even though I know it’s only coincidence, I can’t help feeling a little creeped out anyway.

I roll my eyes at the incoming link. This is the third time she’s called me—once yesterday night and twice today. She’s no doubt linking to wish me a happy birthday. Mom’s text, the same every year except for the age—Happy 16th birthday, Teal. Take care. I love you. Mom—arrived this morning at 0903 exactly, the time of my birth, and Dad . . .

I frown as I suddenly realize I have yet to hear from him. Usually his message comes first; he always goes by Stella Station time, which has one of the earliest time zones in the Expanse. It was the last place we were all together before he went off to war. I guess that after all this time, he’s finally figured out we’re not on Stella anymore. I’ll probably hear from him later today. As for Michael . . . well, my brother hasn’t wished me a happy birthday in two years. I doubt he’s going to start again now.

My chit buzzes again, more insistently this time to indicate the caller has designated this a priority message. I glare at my chit hand in annoyance. Three calls in fourteen hours is a little much. It’s not like Gran to be so pushy. She’s probably just feeling overprotective with both Michael and me gone. Though I know I should answer already, for some reason I find myself crooking my finger to decline the link. Better to wait, anyway. I’m doing homework now, sort of. I’ll call her later.

Going back to the service application, I stare at it for another minute, then finally deactivate it. Maybe I’ll wait for a day that’s not my birthday to attempt application fraud. Instead, I tip my chair back on its rear legs and look out over the room.

Mario is curled up in a huge armchair, reading a book as usual, while in the opposite corner, Megumi is linking with her sister back home, her graceful hands flying a mile a minute as she signs all the latest news from school. At the next table over, Mercury wires some new piece of electronics into his already tricked-out tip-pad, and across the room, Jovan is duking it out with his two best buddies, Trey and Ri, in some holo game. The remaining corner of the room belongs to Xylla and Djen, who sprawl across a sofa while multiple entertainment feeds run across the digitized wall. Zane completes the picture, slumped in a window seat near me, dark eyes narrowed in concentration as he laboriously scribbles something on his pad.

I eye Zane curiously as he adjusts the temp chit clipped to his ear. Of everyone in the group, he’s the outlier. Though the rest of us have been here at least a year, he came only a few months ago, part of the group by dint of being Jovan’s roommate. But though he runs in the same circle, I know little about him, save that he’s a ward of the Celestian government, tossed here by circumstances never quite explained. He’s as reserved as Jovan is obnoxious, and even when he speaks, he rarely seems to say anything about himself. Not for the first time, I find myself wondering what his story is, from his unexplained circumstances to his reserved demeanor to his scarred chit hand, with its puckered flesh where his chit used to be.

“Hey, all!”

Vida struts through the door, hips swaying and ponytail bouncing as she takes dominion of the room. She scouts the lounge in a glance before making a beeline for Jovan. Stepping straight into the middle of the hologame, she gives him a long, lingering kiss, to an assortment of eye rolls from the rest of the group. Clearly, any hard feelings over the laser-disc game a two-square ago have vanished, Sheridan’s premiere couple now back together once again. No surprise there. On a planet where everything is constantly changing and mutating, V and J’s on-again, off-again relationship is probably the most consistent thing here.

My eyes unwittingly slide over to Djen, who is currently glaring daggers at the couple. Her lips are pressed together so tightly they’re practically white. I raise one eyebrow. If looks could kill . . .

Finally separating, Vida leaves Jovan to his game, making her way over to the sofa, where she plops down between Xylla and Djen and immediately commandeers the control for the digitizer. Xylla seems happy to let her have it; Djen, not so much. She hangs on to the control for just a second too long before finally letting it go and turning away with a slight moue. Not for the first time, I find myself wondering how the two manage to be best friends when Djen has such an obvious crush on Vida’s boyfriend. Still, whatever unspoken feelings lie between them, it doesn’t seem to impose any barrier to their constant chattering.

“Oh my stars! Isn’t that the most exquisite dress you’ve ever seen?”

“It’s not bad, but the silver edging is a little colonial for my taste.”

“Maybe if it were lilac?”

“I just wish I could get some new clothes,” Vida complains. “All my stuff is positively ancient! I can’t wait until my parents get back from their latest galactic vacation. Mamá has promised me the shopping spree to end all shopping sprees—anything I want, I can have.”

“You’re so lucky.”

“Totally,” Xylla agrees, even as she exchanges a smirk with Djen behind Vida’s back.

I snort at the exchange. They know, like everyone else, that Vida’s parents are never coming back. They dumped her here long before any of us arrived and haven’t returned since. Probably so they could enjoy the high life without having to drag a kid along. Or, as the girls all whisper cattily to each other when she’s not around, because her parents can’t stand her. The poor little rich bitch ditched by her parents. It’s the sort of singsong gossip teenage girls eat up.

The fashion talk continues, and with a roll of my eyes, I turn back to the window and search the streets for a respite from this chatter. At one time, I would have relished all of this as much as the other girls. Clothes, gossip, boys—that was all I really thought about at thirteen. Then the Spectres came, and Lia died, and suddenly it all seemed so pointless. The other girls would babble on about some new fashion trend or argue about which pop star was the cutest, and all I could think was:

Lia’s dead.

Michael hates me.

Nothing will ever be right again.

My reflection stares back at me from the window. Aside from a few changes—my cheek bones have become more defined, and I’ve grown several centimeters—I look exactly the same as I did back then. Like that snotty, self-assured, holier-than-thou Teal with her perfect hair, perfect clothes, perfect makeup. She’s the one everyone has come to expect, and I dutifully play the part, yet sometimes I can’t help wondering:

How can I look so much the same when I feel so different?

“Hey, you okay?”

It’s Mario, quietly sneaking up on me while the others talk. She drops down at the other end of the table, and my mouth quirks into a half smile. That’s the thing about Mario. She’s so quiet that half the time you forget she’s there, drifting along silently with the rest of us. Then she speaks, and you realize that while you didn’t see her, she saw you. Saw you like few people ever do, like she can see straight into your heart without ever being disappointed by what she finds.

The same way Michael once did.

I meet her gaze in the window. We look like polar opposites, Mario short and plain and pale while I’m tall, leggy, and mocha-skinned. But while on the outside we may be different as can be, I can’t help feeling more of a kinship with her than I have with anyone else in the past year. For a second, I’m tempted to speak, to tell her what I’m thinking . . .

 . . . and then the moment passes.

I smile softly. “It’s nothing. Just trying to tune out the . . .” I flap my hand in an impression of Vida’s chattering mouth, and Mario laughs.

With a smile, she goes back to her book, and I reluctantly take out my Terra Bio assignment, an essay on the spontaneous evolution of flora and fauna in response to environmentally cataclysmic terraforming events. Pulling up my textbook on my chit hand, I scan the pages while idly scribbling notes on my tip-pad, while all the while, the chatter flows on in a continuous stream in the back of my consciousness. For a half an hour or so, I manage to tune it out, until—

“Oh, hey, did you hear? TruCon put in an offer to buy Sheridan’s!”

At Xylla’s exclamation, I drop my chit hand and look up.

“Oh, yeah. I heard that too,” Xylla’s boyfriend, Trey, chimes in from across the room. “They’ve made offers to everyone with Original Settler’s Claims.”

“Does that mean the school’s closing?” another student asks in alarm.

“I don’t know. I suppose, if Sheridan’s takes the offer. Unless TruCon wants to run the school.”

“Why would TruCon want to run a school?”

“How would I know? It was just a thought.”

While the others argue about it, I consider the prospect logically. The news is unexpected, but it’s not impossible. While TruCon is the current owner of Iolanthe, Sheridan’s has one of the Original Settler’s Claims, which means that despite their ownership, TruCon can’t simply dispossess the school and toss us off-world. Legally, they’re required to buy out any and all settler’s claims if they want to get their hands on the land. The question is, why would they want to do that?

Though they own the planet, TruCon never actually wanted Iolanthe. At least, not like this. When they bought the planet from the Celestial Terraforming Corporation forty years ago, they thought they were getting a paradise, not a raging Rainforest that had already eaten practically every planned city site and settlement on the planet. CTC knew a losing prospect when they saw one, and they made damn sure that when Iolanthe’s true reputation got out, they weren’t the ones holding the bag.

With the improved enviro-shield technology then available, TruCon managed to save this small group of settlements at the original colony point, but the rest of the planet was already a loss. Once the Rainforest claimed dominion, there was no way to take it back—not with fire, not with herbicides, not even with laser logging. No matter what they threw at her, Iolanthe only came back twice as strong, twice as fast, twice as impenetrable. Eventually, the only remaining option was to raze the entire planet and reterraform from scratch. An expensive prospect, and a risky one, to boot; the success rate for terraforming do-overs is only about 10 percent. Nothing else to be done, they absorbed the loss, wrote it off on their taxes, and moved on. After all, TruCon is one of the biggest corporations in the Expanse, subdivided into so many smaller divisions with interests in so many industries that it’s impossible to say what they even do anymore. One planet was not going to break the bank. Their original compound still sits at the edge of town, empty but for the administration staff here to collect taxes and keep an eye on TruCon’s assets, but the rest of the planet got left to Sheridan’s and those original colonists too poor or too stubborn to leave.

Or rather, the rest of the planet got left to Iolanthe. Because make no mistake: It doesn’t matter who holds the deed to this place. The only one who owns Iolanthe is Iolanthe. The rest of us merely dwell here by her sufferance.

For half a second, I allow myself to dwell on the unexpected hope that Sheridan’s will finally call it quits—sell out their claim and shut this place down forever . . .

“Not going to happen.”

At Vida’s matter-of-fact negation, Xylla and Trey exchange a look. “But if they take the offer . . .” Xylla begins.

“Not going to happen.”

“But—”

With a huff of annoyance, Vida tosses the digitizer control down. “You think this is the first time TruCon’s tried to buy out all the OSCs? They tried this a couple of years ago at the beginning of the war. Look, there’re only two reasons to buy out everyone’s claims. Either you’re planning to raze the planet so you can attempt to reterraform or you have a buyer who wants an empty rock. Either way, it only works if you can get everyone to sell. But that’ll never happen.”

“What makes you so sure about that?”

“Because the people here are too stubborn and too stupid to know what’s good for them,” she mutters, disgust clear in her voice.

I glance at her in surprise. Though I wouldn’t expect a rich girl like Vida to have any sympathy for a bunch of dirt-poor homesteaders, there’s an edge of genuine rancor in her voice, a wellspring of deep resentment I recognize only because I carry a similar one myself.

She hates these people, I find myself thinking, though I can’t imagine why on Iolanthe she would care either way. Maybe she had a run-in with some of those “stubborn, stupid people” once long ago; that would certainly explain why she never joins us for our walks in town.

“Well, I still think it’s possible,” Xylla declares with a toss of her red hair. “Who knows what could happen, with the war on. Oh, hey, look! It’s Bomb Girl!”

At Xylla’s nod, I glance toward the wall, still covered in feeds from half a dozen channels, and freeze.

Splashed across the opposite wall is a very familiar space station: two concentric rings attached with spokes to an inner hub shaped like a top. A news headline scrolls across the screen beneath it, a red blur in my periphery, but I don’t bother to read it. I don’t have to. I know this place by heart. I should. After all, I lived there for three years . . . before I let Lia destroy it.

New Sol Space Station.