Authors: Alastair Reynolds,Sophia McDougall,Adam Roberts,Kaaron Warren,E.J. Swift,Kameron Hurley
Makemake shakes her head. “Uh-uh.”
“Shut up, retard,” Pluto hisses at her.
“I didn’t kill them!”
“Maybe not literally, but it’s because of you they had to die. They couldn’t go to the enclave with both of us. They should have chosen me. They should have survived.”
“That’s not true. They got sick, that’s why they –”
“It is true.” Pluto snaps and Haumea flinches. “If it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t be in this cold, stinking place. I wouldn’t have to...”
Sharon can’t stop the tears. “You wouldn’t have to what?” The Ugly Pretties have picked up on Sharon’s distress and start moaning in unison.
Pluto straightens up and glares. “I hate you, Sharon.”
Sharon backs away from her, tries to remember the words to the Novena of Our Child Jesus, but can’t find the words. “Hail Mary full of grace. The Lord is with –”
“Prayers aren’t going to help you. The nuns aren’t going to help you. Your pathetic life is in my fucking hands.”
They may be twins, but Pluto is bigger and stronger. She darts forward, her dyed hair swinging in front of her face, filling Sharon’s vision. Sharon drops to her knees, covers her head with her hands.
“Ug.”
Sharon looks up. Makemake is swaying in front of Pluto. Pluto is staring in disbelief at her, blood gouting out of her nose.
“Your retard hit me!” Pluto roars. “Get out get out get out get out!”
“Come on,” Sharon whispers. Tears soaking her face, she flees the library, the thump of the Ugly Pretties’ feet close behind her. She stumbles blindly to the hatch that leads down into the chapel. She’ll pray to Jesus and Tyra for guidance and if that doesn’t work, well, she’ll think of something else.
When Sharon and her circle have left, Pluto closes the door carefully. She’d love to slam it but she doesn’t want to risk a leak. She rubs her hand over her throbbing nose and looks at the blood on her palm. She can’t believe that freak hit her but, in a way, she’s impressed that she did. Showed some initiative, some fucking backbone. The blood pools dark in her palm and thins out to scarlet where it slips over the edge, by far the brightest colour in this room, on the whole godforsaken rock. She wipes it into her T-shirt, not in the mood to swallow her pride and go down the corridor to the bathroom. She sits on her chair and leans back, swallowing the warm choke until the flow stops.
At length she straightens and looks at the screen in front of her. The maintenance grids still glow softly, each line checked in green. Supplies are still at decent levels and she knows the system will send a replenishment request before they get too low. Or at least that’s how it’s supposed to work.
As Sister Margaret explained it all to her, she said, “Don’t worry, child. You don’t have to remember it all now. There’ll be plenty of time to go through it again.” Her hands shook and her face was shocked through with spasms of pain as she spoke. There wasn’t plenty of time and the fragments that Pluto remembers are shifting and reshaping in her memory. She’s messing it up.
She’s lived here half her life and the coming and going of supply pods every six months was just part of the scenery; she began to take it all for granted. The replenishment system’s supposed to unpack and restock and keep the compound’s supplies level, but what if it’s failing like Eskombot’s voice chip and L.O.L.A’s surveillance unit?
“Eskombot?”
Oodle-weet.
“Bring up the communications tableau, please.”
Barp-oodle-blort.
“I am an administrator. I’m the only fu – I’m the only administrator here. I’ve taken over from Sister Margaret. You know this.”
Bloop-eedle.
A box flashes onto the screen. “Enter administrator password.”
Oh, Goddess. What was it? The sign of the cross something, or the stations of the cross. How many were there? She checks the encyclopedia on the tablet next to her. Fourteen, that’s right. And then her pet’s name. She had a pet creature on Earth, which she had to leave behind. One that was small and didn’t take up resources. She kept it in a cardboard box until it ate its way out. Then she kept it in a jar when she found it again. That’s it.
She types in “14xRoachy” and the communications tableau slides over the screen.
She scrolls through the contact list. There are lists of names of the diocesan leadership and, more to her relief, there are contact names of people at the supply station. Someone there will help if things get too rough.
An icon is throbbing red near the bottom of the pane and it takes Pluto a moment to realise that it indicates that there are unopened messages. She swipes the icon and three headers come into the centre of the screen. The first is addressed to Sister Margaret. Pluto taps on it and a small holo of a priest emerges and starts offering the last rites. The second is addressed to “OLER Orphanage: Urgent contact request”. It’s a text message and Pluto skims it guiltily, even though she’s now in charge: “Would
Sharon doesn’t bother with the mirror. She hacks blindly at her fringe, tries not to look down at the pile of blonde hair growing at her feet. Snick, snick, snick, all fall down. Sister Margaret used to say that shorn hair was a symbol of penitence, but she and Sister Angelique seemed to take great pride in their long plaited locks.
The Ugly Pretties grumble and grunt behind her. “I’m sorry,” Sharon whispers, grabbing another hank of hair and slicing through it. “I know Tyra wouldn’t like it. But the makeover didn’t work. If I’m uglier, maybe then Pluto will like me.“
It doesn’t take long. She runs her hand over the uneven surface of her scalp, the tufts tickling her palm. Her head actually feels lighter. She turns to look at the Ugly Pretties. For a split second, Makemake’s eyes catch hers and Sharon catches a shadow of sadness in them before they lose focus again. Sharon takes off the short skirt she spent hours customising and changes into a plain blue robe.
One last chance. If Pluto goes to hit her or shouts at her then she’ll give up forever. She considers leaving the Ugly Pretties in the solarium, but decides to take them with her to the library. Just in case.
Sharon enters cautiously. Pluto’s standing with her back to the door, staring down at a screen, her shoulders shaking. Is she laughing at something?
“Um... Pluto?”
Pluto’s back stiffens. And when she turns around Sharon realises she’s not laughing after all. Her body is wracked with sobs, blood and snot caked on her cheeks. A spike of fear stabs Sharon’s heart. “Pluto? What’s happened?” Sharon has never seen Pluto cry. Not even when they were first brought here. Not even when the other girls laughed at her for spending all her time reading. Not even when they wrapped up Sister Margaret’s body and sealed it in her cabin so that the smell of her decomposing body wouldn’t spread through the compound.
Pluto doesn’t answer straight away. Sharon holds her breath. For once, the Ugly Pretties are completely silent. “Pluto? Are you sad because Makemake hit you? She didn’t mean it.”
Pluto jerks, wipes her face and struggles to get her breathing under control. “No. It’s not that. You need to see this. Come here.”
Sharon hesitates.
“I’m not going to hit you.” Pluto taps a code out. “Look.”
A holo of a man and a woman wearing brightly coloured sarongs shimmers to life. A huge expanse of blue ocean glimmers behind them. In the background, Sharon can hear the sigh of gentle water, the squeal of children’s laughter.
“Who are they?” Sharon asks, but she knows. She just doesn’t want to say it.
“It’s them. Our parents.”
“This is the holo you never let me see? The one they made before they died?”
“No. They sent this yesterday.”
“But ... but that’s impossible.”
“Just watch it,” Pluto snaps. Somehow, Sharon’s relieved she’s back to her usual irritated self. Makemake starts clapping her hands and Sharon waits for Pluto to shout at her to stop. She doesn’t.
The mother (Sharon can’t quite make herself think of this woman, with her dyed orange skin and glaring white teeth as her mother – she looks nothing like Tyra) glances uneasily at the father. He tries a smile. “Hello, Pluto. Hello, Sharon. It must come as a shock to see us after all these years.” He laughs nervously. Sharon flinches as Pluto reaches over and grasps her hand. Sharon doesn’t recognise these people, the sight of them doesn’t ignite any old memories or flood her with longing. She feels more emotion when she watches the old shows. “We decided it was kinder if you thought we were dead,” the man continues. “We love and miss you both more than we can say.”
“Oh yes,” the mother adds. “So much.”
“But we need you now. Earth needs you now.” He pauses, grimaces. “What we feared is happening. Eros is heading to Earth. It’s... it’s on a direct collision course. It needs to be broken up before it gets here, my darlings. Before it can smash into the world and cause untold devastation. The monsignor says you are the only ones left alive up there.”
Haumea makes a sound that could be a moan of anger; could be an attempt at a laugh.
“This is your destiny. And it’s not just us, your parents, who love you, who you’ll be saving. Look.”
The library fills with swelling orchestral music. The parents’ holos fade and grow transparent, replaced by a sweeping shot of an island, a lush tropical paradise. Sharon gasps. It’s as beautiful as the locations where the models on the 2Ds are sent to do their final photo shoots. The island image morphs into an image of a mewling baby animal, its coat striped black and yellow, then segues into a shining silver fish, followed by a close-up of a bright pink flower unfurling its petals.
The music fades away, and the parents’ holos solidify. “Do you see?” the father says, sounding more confident now. “You can save all of this. Only you can do it. It’s your destiny. Please, contact New Vatican base as soon as you can. They will instruct you on what to do. Destroying Eros is a simple matter and the monsignor has assured me you won’t feel a thing. And remember, we love you. We’ll always be with you.”
The holo flickers. Sharon hears the mother’s voice saying: “Was that okay?”
The image cuts out.
After the holo has faded, Sharon looks straight at Pluto. “They’re alive.”
“Yeah.”
Sharon tries to assess how she’s feeling. Just numb, really. Maybe slightly nauseous. “They didn’t die after all.”
“No.”
“They sent us here, but didn’t die. Did you know?”
“No!” Pluto’s eyes, like Sharon’s, are now dry.
Sharon doesn’t want that orange-skinned woman to be her mother. She wants Tyra. She doesn’t want to think about what they’ve been asked to do. She wishes with all her heart that she hadn’t cut her hair off. If she runs back to the solarium and collects it, maybe she can make it into a weave. Yes. Then things will go back to normal. She turns to leave, but Pluto grabs her arm.
“Sharon. Wait.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry.” Pluto pulls her into a hug, and Sharon’s too surprised to resist. “I’m sorry, Sharon. I’m so, so sorry.”
“Ug,” Haumea says. Eris and Sedna moan and Makemake lets out an ear-piercing scream.
Pluto lets go of Sharon and whips around to where the retard is screaming behind her. Makemake’s hanging by her hair in one of L.O.L.A’s pincers. How can they not have heard the bot entering the library? And fuck, there’s a syringe in one of L.O.L.A’s other protuberances.
“L.O.L.A! Stop!” Pluto cries. The other braindeads are clawing at her chassis and tugging at Makemake’s legs but the more they pull, the more intense the screaming becomes. “Stop!” Pluto shouts again, and runs around to the robot’s power switch. The capacitors whine their release and she shuts down, the crying girl still dangling from the claw, swinging gently.
Sharon’s already pulled a chair over and climbs up onto it, hacking away with those blunt scissors of hers, and at last the girl slumps, crying and shuddering, into her arms.
As Sharon gathers the braindeads together in a corner of the library, Pluto goes to the screen. “Eskombot, why the fuck did L.O.L.A do that?”
Oodle-pat. Bloot.
“Can you show me?”
An order flashes up on the screen from the New Vatican: “Euthanise non-essential personnel.” Logged the moment she opened the message from her parents. They didn’t even wait for an answer before they started. They just assumed.
But the clarity of their task, its decisiveness, is calming. At least this way it will be over soon. They won’t be tumbling out here in the darkness forever. How would Pluto have ever been able to run this place by herself anyway? She wouldn’t, that’s how. At least this way she has the chance to do something right.
A new message indicator throbs on the pane. It’s from the New Vatican Cardinal of Security. The instructions are simple: prime the Contingency 7 units in the kernel room and set the levers to arm. Press confirm when ready. “Kindly effect immediately. There is no time to waste,” he says. “Your rewards will be added unto you.”
Pluto looks across at her sister and the girls. The injured retard is sitting on the floor in front of Sharon, who’s combing her hair and smoothing it down. Two other girls are playing some sort of game with their hands and the round, drooling girl is leaning up against Sharon, her head on her shoulder. For the first time in however long, Pluto looks at her sister properly. She’s like St Francis or the Madonna or something.
It’s too late for regret, she tells herself. The only reason she’s feeling this way is because it’s about to end. That’s what she’s always wanted, isn’t it? She peers out of the viewport at the stark composition of grey and black. She watches how the whirling sun paints slow, perfect spirals in the sand.
She pulls up the parents’ new holo again. She won’t bear to watch it another time, but she stills it at the start, when they show themselves against the backdrop of blue water and sky, the laughing children in the background. Now she remembers; she has seen this before.