I’m cutting in, I whispered. I whacked the head of my cane on the floor and stood, stability belt on maximum and belligerence oozing from my every pore.
“You won’t get anywhere near that far,” I growled. “You’ll never get past the starting gate.”
“That’s a provocative statement,” said the principal. She was in her sixties, short and tough, with ropey veins webbing her bony forearms. “Would you care to elaborate?”
I paced in front of their table, like a barrister in one of Bruce’s old courtroom dramas. I made eye contact with each of the reps in turn, then leaned over the table to address the project principal directly.
“Crèche programs are part of a hab’s social fabric. They don’t exist in isolation. But Luna doesn’t want kids around. You barely tolerate young adults. You want to stop the brain drain but you won’t give up anything for crèches—not hab space, not billable hours, and especially not your prejudices. If you want a healthy crèche system, Luna will have to make some changes.”
I gave the principal an evil grin, adding, “I don’t think you can.”
“I do,” Long Meng interjected. “I think you can change.”
“You don’t know Luna like I do,” I told her.
I fired our financial proposal at the reps. “Ricochet will design your new system. You’ll find the trade terms extremely reasonable. When the design is complete, we’ll provide on-the-ground teams to execute the project phases. Those terms are slightly less reasonable. Finally, we’ll give you a project executive headed by Long Meng.” I smiled. “Her billable rate isn’t reasonable at all, but she’s worth every credit.”
“And you?” asked the principal.
“That’s the best part.” I slapped the cane in my palm. “I’m the gatekeeper. To go anywhere, you have to get past me.”
The principal sat back abruptly, jaw clenched, chin raised. My belligerence had finally made an impact. The reps were on the edges of their seats. I had them both repelled and fascinated. They weren’t sure whether to start screaming or elect me to Luna’s board of governors.
“How long have I got to live, Long Meng? Fifteen years? Twenty?”
“Something like that,” she said.
“Let’s say fifteen. I’m old. I’m highly experienced. You can’t afford me. But if you award Ricochet this contract, I’ll move back to Luna. I’ll control the gating progress, judging the success of every single milestone. If I decide Luna hasn’t measured up, the work will have to be repeated.”
I paced to the window. Mons Hadley didn’t seem grey anymore. It was actually a deep, delicate lilac. Framed by the endless black sky, its form was impossibly complex, every fold of its geography picked out by the sun.
I kept my back to the reps.
“If you’re wondering why I’d come back after all the years,” I said, “let me be very clear. I will die before I let Luna fool around with some half-assed crèche experiment, mess up a bunch of kids, and ruin everything.” I turned and pointed my cane. “If you’re going to do this, at least do it right.”
Back home on Ricochet, the Jewel Box was off-hab on a two-day Earth tour. They came home with stories of surging wildlife spectacles that made herds and flocks of Ricochet’s biodiversity preserve look like a petting zoo. When the boost came, we all gathered in the rumpus room for the very last time.
Bruce, Blanche, Engku, Megat, and Mykelti clustered on the floor mats, anchoring themselves comfortably for the boost. They’d be fine. Soon they’d have armfuls of newborns to ease the pain of transition. The Jewel Box were all hanging from the ceiling netting, ready for their last ride of childhood. They’d be fine too. Diamante had decided on Mars, and it looked like the other five would follow.
Me, I’d be fine too. I’d have to be.
How to explain the pain and pride when your crèche is balanced on the knife’s edge of adulthood, ready to leave you behind forever? Not possible. Just know this: when you see an oldster looking serene and wise, remember, it’s just a sham. Under the skin, it’s all sorrow.
I was relieved when the boost started. Everyone was too distracted to notice I’d begun tearing up. When the hab turned upside down, I let myself shed a few tears for the passing moment. Nothing too self-indulgent. Just a little whuffle, then I wiped it all away and joined the celebration, laughing and applauding the kids’ antics as they bounced around the room.
We got it, Long Meng whispered in the middle of the boost. Luna just shot me the contract. We won.
She told me all the details. I pretended to pay attention, but really, I was only interested in watching the kids. Drinking in their antics, their playfulness, their joyful self-importance. Young adults have a shine about them. They glow with untapped potential.
When the boost was over, we all unclipped our anchors. I couldn’t quite extricate myself from my deeply padded chair and my cane was out of reach.
Tré leapt to help me up. When I was on my feet, he pulled me into a hug.
“Are you going back to Luna?” he said in my ear.
I held him at arm’s length. “That’s right. Someone has to take care of Long Meng.”
“Who’ll take care of you?”
I laughed. “I don’t need taking care of.”
He gripped both my hands in his. “That’s not true. Everyone does.”
“I’ll be fine.” I squeezed his fingers and tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let go. I changed the subject. “Mars seems like a great choice for you all.”
“I’m not going to Mars. I’m going to Luna.”
I stepped back. My knees buckled, but the stability belt kept me from going down.
“No, Tré. You can’t.”
“There’s nothing you can do about it. I’m going.”
“Absolutely not. You have no business on Luna. It’s a terrible place.”
He crossed his arms over his broadening chest and swung his head like a fighter looking for an opening. He squinted at the old toys and sports equipment secured into rumpus room cabinets, the peeling murals the kids had painted over the years, the battered bots and well-used, colorful furniture—all the ephemera and detritus of childhood that had been our world for nearly eighteen years.
“Then I’m not leaving the crèche. You’ll have to stay here with me, in some kind of weird stalemate. Long Meng will be alone.”
I scowled. It was nothing less than blackmail. I wasn’t used to being forced into a corner, and certainly not by my own kid.
“We’re going to Luna together.” A grin flickered across Tré’s face. “Might as well give in.”
I patted his arm, then took his elbow. Tré picked up my cane and put it in my hand.
“I’ve done a terrible job raising you,” I said.
The Donner Party
Dale Bailey
Lady Donner was in ascendance the first time Mrs. Breen tasted human flesh. For more years than anyone cared to count, Lady Donner had ruled the London Season like a queen. Indeed, some said that she stood second only to Victoria herself when it came to making (or breaking) someone’s place in Society—a sentiment sovereign in Mrs. Breen’s mind as her footman handed her down from the carriage into the gathering London twilight, where she took Mr. Breen’s arm.
“There is no reason to be apprehensive, Alice,” he had told her in their last fleeting moment of privacy, during the drive to Lady Donner’s home in Park Lane, and she had felt then, as she frequently did, the breadth of his age and experience when measured against her youth. Though they shared a child—two-year-old Sophie, not the heir they had been hoping for—Mr. Breen often seemed more like a father than her husband, and his paternal assurances did not dull the edge of her anxiety. To receive a dinner invitation from such a luminary as Lady Donner was surprising under any circumstances. To receive a First Feast invitation was shocking. So Mrs. Breen was apprehensive—apprehensive as they were admitted into the grand foyer, apprehensive as they were announced into the drawing room, apprehensive most of all as Lady Donner, stout and unhandsome in her late middle age, swept down upon them in a cloud of taffeta and perfume.