The very important man is reporting on the Reaper’s Triumph in Hyperion City. My nephews all nudge each other as he theorizes that the next push will be toward Venus to finish off the Ash Lord and his daughter, the Last Fury, once and for all. My sister watches in silence, stroking her new shoes. So far our brothers and her husband have not been named in the casualty report that scrolls along the bottom of the holo.
Tiran leans toward the far-off world. He’s always been the softest of our family, and the most eager to prove himself. Soon it’ll be his turn. He becomes sixteen in just a few months. Then he’ll leave all this mud behind for the stars. I can’t help but resent him already. None of them should have left their family.
The boys don’t see my sister’s quiet desperation. The images of the HC dance in their Red eyes. The color. The spectacle of the Triumph on Luna. The glory of the greatest son of Red standing with his Gold wife—the Sovereign who promised us so much—lifting his clenched fist into the air as they howl. They think they could rise like the Reaper. They’re too young to see our life is the lie behind the lights.
“Reaper! Reaper!” the crowd shouts.
My little nephews join in the chant. And I reach for my sister’s hand, glaring at the HC, remembering the promises undelivered, and wonder if I’m the only one who misses the mines.
—
I wake in the night to a distant roar. The room is still. Sweat slicks my legs. I sit up in bed, listening. There’s a clamor in the distance. The snoring of far-off engines. Mosquitoes buzz outside the netting that’s wrapped around our bunks. “Aunt Lyria,” Conn whispers from beside me. “What’s that noise?”
“Quiet, love.” I strain to hear. The engines fade. I push my legs off the edge of my bunk. Father’s soft breathing comes from below. He’s still asleep. My sister’s bunk is empty. So is Tiran’s sleeping pallet on the ground.
I slip past the mosquito netting and out of my bed in shorts and a cotton shirt soggy from the humidity. “Where are you going?” Conn asks. “Aunt Lyria…” I seal the netting behind me with the adhesive strip.
“Just going to take a peek, love,” I say. “Go back to sleep.” I slip on my sandals and leave the room. My sister is already awake, standing near the door and watching nervously as Tiran puts on his boots. “What’s what?” I ask quietly. “Thought I heard a ship.”
“Probably just some idiot SR airhead buzzing the camp,” Tiran says.
“Not bloody likely,” I snap. “We ain’t had a supply ship land in a month.”
“Lower your voice,” he hisses. “The little ones’ll hear.”
“Well, if you weren’t being thick, I wouldn’t have to shout.”
“Stop it, you two.” Ava looks nervous. “What if it’s the Red Hand?”
Tiran brushes his tangled hair from his eyes. “Don’t get your frysuit in a twist. The Hand’s hundreds of klicks south. Republic wouldn’t let anyone in our airspace.”
“Like that means pissall,” I mutter.
“They own the skies,” he replies like he’s a Praetor.
“They don’t even own their own cities,” I say, remembering the bombings in Agea.
He sighs. “I’ll go take a look. You both mind the house.”
“Mind the house?” I laugh. “Stop acting the maggot. I’m coming with.”
“No, you’re not,” Tiran replies.
“I’m just as fast as you.”
“Not the bloody point. I’m the man of the house,” he says, and I snort. “Remember what happened to Vanna, Torron’s daughter? Girls shouldn’t wander the township at night. Especially not us.” He means Gamma, and he’s right. I knew Vanna since I was a child. She was tattered flesh when they found her, hands cut off. We buried her by the treeline of the jungle south of the camp. “Besides, if I’m wrong, you gotta to be here to help Ava and the little ones. I’ll go take a look and I’ll be back fastlike. I promise.” He leaves without another word. Ava closes the door behind him. She wrings her hands and sits at the kitchen table. I sit down with her, picking at the scratches on the plastic top in irritation. Man of the house.
“Slag this.” I stand up. “I’m gonna go have a look.”
“Tiran’s already gone!”
“Please. His balls have barely dropped. I’ll be back in a tick.” I head to the door.
“Lyria…”
“What?”
She grabs our lone frying pan from the kitchen. “At least take this.”
“In case I find eggs? Fine. Fine.” I take the pan. “Might want to get water and food ready just in case.” She nods and I leave her behind.
The night is grim and humid as air in a smoker’s mouth. By the time I’ve made it out of Gamma township and into the main camp, a tongue of sweat licks down the small of my back. It’s quiet but for the hissing insects. A withered gaboon lizard watches me from the roof of a refugee domicile as it chews on a night moth. Lights glow from the far end of the camp where the landing pads lie. Eyes glint out from plastic doorways as I pass, peering out from behind mosquito netting. The streets are empty. I’m afraid in a way I never was in the mines. Feeling smaller now than I did in our hut.
There’s men’s voices arguing ahead. I creep carefully forward till I’m crouched behind a stack of discarded cargo containers. Two rusty pelican transport vessels have landed on the concrete pads. One is painted with the face of a lithe Pink model drinking a bottle of Ambrosia, a sweet pepper cola beverage that’s given half the camp cavities. She smiles and winks at me, her mouth full of white, gleaming teeth. The lights of the ships blaze in the predawn, silhouetting the group of men from our camp who’ve woken and gone out to inspect the landed ships. My brother is amongst them, loitering in the back self-consciously. I suddenly feel guilt for snorting when he said “man of the house.” He’s just a boy. My boy, my little brother trying to be big. The clansmen are exchanging words with another group of men who’ve come down the ships’ ramps. These ones are Reds too, but they carry weapons and long bandoliers stocked with ammunition across their bare chests.
The new men are asking where to find the Gammas. There’s an argument amongst the men from our camp, then one of them is pointing toward our township. Another shoves him, but soon several other men begin to point not just at our homes, but toward Tiran and several others amongst their group. The other men drift away from my brother and the three other Gammas. The smallest of the men from the ship says something, but I don’t catch it. One of the Gammas rushes him just as the man lifts a long dark object from his side. Acid-green light churns in the ammunition globe of his plasma rifle, then lunges from the muzzle in a rippling ball that gashes the darkness. It cleaves clean through the center of the man. He teeters to the ground like a township drunk. I’m frozen to the spot. My brother flees with the other pair of Gammas. One of the outsiders raises his rifle.
Metal chatters like a broken silk-threading machine.
My brother’s chest erupts. The other gunmen shatter the quiet night, flashing and bleeding fire from their weapons. Tiran spasms, jerks. Not falling quickly. But stumbling one step, two steps, then another gunshot cracks the air and he is tumbling. Half his head is gone. A wailing cry rises from my belly. The whole world rushes past and goes silent as I stare at that shadowy mound in the mud.