Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The academy’s major ceremonies take place in the grand hall, a vaulting hangar space with Dimokratía flags lining one side and Fédération the other, a giant Cusk logo suspended in between, an amalgam of four different types of real quarried stone. Two years ago the press dais was occupied by Minerva, decked out in her crisp spacefarer suit, grinning wildly as reporters captured inspiration reels of her to distribute around the world.

I wouldn’t have thought it was possible, but they’ve managed to cram even more people into the grand hall today. In the front row is the press, recording the event on their bracelets, deploying microdrones to capture multiple angles so they can render the reels in three dimensions. Behind the dais are rows of cadets in formal regalia, standing at attention with their hands folded before the Cusk logo on their belts. My eyes instinctively go to Sri, on the mid-left. They salute—a little sassily—as my mother enters in her bespoke suit, walking crisply to a podium on one side of the red-velvet dais.

On the other side of the hall is an identical podium. It’s empty.

I’m supposed to be standing at it.

My mother’s face stays composed, but I can just imagine what she’s thinking: Surely my child wouldn’t do this to me. He might be angry, but he wouldn’t wreck his future and shame his family name, his country, his mother. He will show up. As long seconds drag by, I zoom in, watching for her expression to crack. But it’s like when I first entered the vault room, like her reel has been paused. The only sign that I’m seeing a person and not a static image is the occasional restlessness from a member of the press corps. And Sri. They are the only cadet whose gaze isn’t straight forward. They look up. Many hundreds of cameras are capturing the ceremony from many hundreds of angles, but Sri knows which one is the Cusk corporate feed. As they look right into it, right at me, a smile spreads on their lips.

I’m watching all this from suborbit.

Earth has four space elevators. The nicest one is (of course) here at the Cusk headquarters in Mari, within the Fédération territory of former Syria. My mother blocked my official onyx-level access, but I have no fewer than three onyx accounts. One is my official one, one is a hack I created as part of my final programming thesis for quaternary class (wasn’t supposed to actually bring it online, but no one ever explicitly told me not to, joke’s on them), and the third is Minerva’s, which she gave me before she departed, hiding it under my plate during our final meal of manicotti. Make good use of it. There are no onyx perks on Titan.

I kiss that onyx card as the elevator climbs. Minerva’s portrait—which the personal elevator pod thinks is my own—stares back at me from the ID screen, all white teeth and confidence. I toast it with my bottle of PepsiRum. “Here’s looking at you, Sister.” I burp. This will not be my first bottle of PepsiRum today.

I sprawl out, my fingers drumming on the upholstery. I’m all alone, which heightens my “let’s fuck around” feelings. I cannot wait to arrive and get started doing just that.

Cusk operates three different pleasure satellites, but the one above Mari is the biggest and oldest. It was named Disponar—technically in honor of the first Dimokratía prime minister so that Cusk could increase its business across country lines—but everyone calls it Death Star, because it rhymes and, well, Disponar looks like it’s from this old reel called Star Wars that gets trendy again every twenty years, a pale tech-y moonish thing up there in the daytime sky.

The Earth falls away below as I near the end of the elevator trip. There’s the planetary horizon, blue below and black above—if the elevator went even a kilometer farther, I would be in outer space.

Dressed in civilian blacks, I use my sham onyx card to skip the queue and get the next automated taxicraft from the arrival station to the pleasure satellite. I requested the taxi be preloaded with a fresh bottle of PepsiRum, even managing to get it in the new limited-edition Wild Ginger flavor. I crack it open as the craft whisks me through the thin atmosphere.

It’s a short trip, and at first, I’m content just looking at the Earth horizon, telling myself I’m not going to keep watching the press junket. But finally curiosity gets the better of me.

Though I keep the reel on mute, I watch the great hall as it empties, projections of commentators desperately trying to fill up airtime, impromptu panels of pundits proposing tangled explanations for my absence. My mother is long gone.

I can imagine the Cusk press secretaries trying to spin my non-arrival. They’re trained professionals. They can announce a canceled rescue mission without me. It’s not the end of the world. No one gets to fool me and then depend on me to fix it.

The reel switches to other news. Sources: Dimokratía Secretary of Defense missing after explosions heard in Brasilia. Local Fédération authorities have not yet released a statement.

I stare down at the globe, at the sand-colored cyclones of hot dust swirling around Mari and into Old Iraq, around everywhere except Firma Antarctica and Firma Arctica, the green oases at either pole. It’s undeniable: the Earth is a worse planet than it was when humans arrived. The last species of seagull recently went from “vulnerable” to “endangered.” Seagull!

Sri would argue that the best way forward is to let humanity die off here, to stop the contamination. Today I’m really seeing their point.

Should we really be settling new planets?

My sister is dead.

I take a long swig of my precious Wild Ginger PepsiRum. The label shows a paradise of tropical palms and thick green grasses. Drink the Escape , it suggests. Don’t mind if I do .

I came off the Cusk Academy assembly line. I’m an heir to the Cusk fortune. And here I am, smoothly flying into something that looks like a supervillain’s lair.

It’s not that humans in general might be the enemy. Maybe I am the enemy.

Really should have asked for two more bottles of Wild Ginger. It’s going down fast.

The taxi slows, hovering at the edge of Disponar. With onyx access I shouldn’t have to wait for permission to land; I should already be gliding into the executive bays, where I’ll be greeted by a virtual attendant who’ll let me know which residential suite is mine. But instead my taxicraft is stopped in space. I can feel the beginning of a tension headache. I’ve basically imprisoned myself by getting in this taxi. There’s no way out, unless I’m willing to plummet through Earth’s atmosphere for three minutes and splat at the end.

This isn’t good. Have my mother’s goons figured out that I’m traveling on Minerva’s onyx?

My taxicraft rocks gently in the thin atmosphere, buffeted by the occasional gust from a ship accelerating out of orbit on its way to the moon. An automated message appears before my face: Disponar is at capacity, due to a booking for “Molina Quincea?era” until 14:00 on November 8. Please wait for more information.

Oh. There’s just a party. I place Minerva’s onyx card on the reader and tap in her special code. The taxi glides into motion. Permission granted. The Cusk Suite will be liberated and cleaned and ready for you within thirty minutes.

My sister is dead. But she got me a room.

I take another sip of PepsiRum. Looks like I’ll be crashing a quincea?era, and kicking someone out of their quarters to boot. I hope it’s not the lucky birthday-person themself.

I put sunglasses on and keep my head down after the taxi lands, refusing the helping hand of the attendant. I do accept the water patch he offers, though. Can’t forget to hydrate.

I keep my eyes out for guards. A police officer gives me a long look, but he licks his lips lewdly when I pass. That’s fine. You can stare at me because I’m hot. Just don’t stare at me because I’m supposed to be arrested.

As I pad through the hallways to the Cusk Suite, I call up the pleasure satellite’s reservations and glance through, so I can plan my day to avoid the worst crowds. There’s a daylong party in the “pool”—a floorless spot, where you can dance with the Earth distant below, magnetic forces suspending your body in open space. Even drunk on PepsiRum, it’s not my scene. The tech has been revamped since the Telos satellite dropped a teenager eight kilometers to his death, but I’m still not looking for that kind of thrill. Instead I’ll probably be heading to the hyperreal erotic simulation rooms, which are just about the most distracting place you could ever imagine being. I need something to keep this yawning grief over my sister and desolate fury at my mother to the edges of my mood and no closer. I’ve already been flicking through which avatars I’d like to choose to frolic with in my fantasy waterfall. One is actually named Wild Ginger. Probably product placement. Their body is covered in freckles, like carbonation. It’s too perfect.

I am beyond sad, and beyond furious. No one watching me stalk by would know it, I don’t think—I’ve got serious repression skills—but I’m simply shimmering and vibrating with feeling. It’ll come out eventually, probably in some ultra-destructive way, but not yet. That’s another side effect of my childhood. I always wind up eating my fury cold.

I’ll find the most incandescent distraction I can in the meantime, while I wait for the crush of hopelessness. I scan through the quincea?era’s agenda. That’s when I see the listing. It appeared at some point over the last minute:

17:00 (NEW): [Private concert for Molina Party Guests] The Heartspeak Boys

No. The universe has to be kidding me.

Maybe my sister is dead. Maybe my life’s purpose has been ripped from me. Maybe my mother has betrayed me so fully that I’ll never speak to her again. Maybe I’ve lost my faith in the country and corporation that produced me. Maybe I’ll spend the rest of my tragic days chasing the nearest pleasure instead of working toward some other abstract future that will only turn out to be a fresh lie. Maybe the only person who ever really loved me is long dead on a distant moon.

But, as far as nearest pleasures go...

Devon Mujaba. Biggest crush of my life.

Is here.

That’ll do.