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Conn puts his arms on his hips. “You’re stupid. Warlock would blast him to bloody bits.”

“Well, they’re friends, so they won’t be blasting each other to anything,” my sister says. “They’re too busy protecting your father and uncles, aren’t they?”

“Do you think Da has met them?” Conn asks. “Char and the Reaper?”

“And Ares?” Barlow adds. “Or Wulfgar the Whitetooth?” He slams his hands like he’s a menacing Obsidian. “Or Dancer of Faran! Or Thraxa au—”

“Aye, they’re probably the best of friends. Now eat.”

We eat dinner huddled around the plastic table as the rain drums the roof. There’s barely enough room for bowls and elbows, but we layer around the thin soup and chatter on about the merits of ripWings against starShells in atmosphere. My sister smiles when the boys say the soup tastes better today.

After dinner, we gather around with Da to watch one of his programs. I break half of a Cosmos chocolate bar into seven pieces to share. I pocket my piece for Liam and smile when I see Tiran give his piece to Ava. No wonder he’s so skinny. The program is a news show. The host a Violet who reminds me a bit of the helions—a tropical bird that lives off our trash. He has an incredible shock of white hair and a jaw you could carve granite with, but pathetically delicate hands for a man.

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.”