Page 13 of The Brightness Between Us

Our family ritual is to have dinner the moment the sunset is officially underway, setting the phosphorus on the sky’s horizon glittering green. This half of the Minerva year, Big Sister is the first sun to go down, tailed by Little Sister, who lingers in the sky like she doesn’t want to go to bed. The evening meal is the only one that we have together, since Father is always up before breakfast to haul things around while Dad gets us ready for the schooling day. It happens that the moment of Yarrow’s sixteenth Earth-year birthday falls during dinnertime this year. (With an operating system around, we can be quite precise about these things. Because days here are nearly thirty-one Earth hours long, we decided our years would be 283 days so they’d be Earth length. It would be weird if my brother and I were still, I don’t know, five years old or something.)

Yarrow and I stand shoulder to shoulder, looking out at the broad, flat landscape that’s been our only home. The malevors make their lowing sounds on the other side of the shallow hill, agitated ever since we killed one of their own. “So what are you getting me?” Yarrow asks.

I’m not going to tell him about my actual present yet.“You get to sit in Real Chair tonight,” I say.

His eyes widen beneath his dark floppy hair. “No!”

There’s only one chair left from theCoordinated Endeavor—the rest are all printed by Rover. Real Chair isold.The seat falls off its supports, the arms bend outward alarmingly, my back begins to ache moments after sitting in it. All the same, Real Chair was made on Earth, this distant planet that was the cradle of all humanity, until an asteroid strike meant we became the planet’s only survivors. This chair was made by human hands. Well, robot hands, no doubt, but in a factory that probably had a human somewhere in it. It traveled across the universe, supported lifetimes of our cloned dads, and now it’s sitting on top of the hard dirt of our settlement site, available for our use. That’s why I’m usually the first to claim it, and Yarrow gets to feel superior because he’s the docile and sweet older brother who lets me. It all works out perfectly. But tonight is special.

He sits gingerly on the lumpy seat, facing out at the changing colors of Little Sister as Big Sister sinks below the horizon. “This is nice,” he says, lacing his hands and cradling his head as he leans back.

Real Chair dumps him to the ground, the seat sliding fully off its supports. I laugh. “No sudden movements in Real Chair, Yarrow. It doesn’t like it.”

He rolls to his side and sits up. “Maybe I’ll leave it to you.”

I replace the seat and rest a fraction of my weight on it. “Real Chair has moods. You have to feel your way.”

“Yes. I think moods are an unappealing quality in a chair.”

There’s movement from around the canteen, then the dads appear. They’re deep in conversation, and it’s not about the dish Dad is holding. He’s talking with his hands, like he always does, which means the pudding is listing dangerously to one side as he gets excited about some major point.

“Hey, Dad!” I call. “Careful with the birthday treat!”

Dad smiles in my direction, and then catches himself, righting the shallow bowl before it tips. “Yep, that’s definitely some more algal sugar pudding,” Yarrow whispers.

“You don’t know, itcouldbe lemon cake,” I whisper back.

“Sure. Lemon cake.”

“What were you two arguing about?” I call as the dads approach.

“Discussing,” Father corrects.

“Discussing passionately?”

Dad glances at Father, then gives a minuscule shake of his head. “We’ll fill you in in a bit. There are more important matters to attend to now. It’s someone’s birthday.” He smiles at Yarrow. It’s a dazzling smile, especially once he let OS print a replacement for the canine tooth he lost whenhe tripped and fell onto Rover last year. He didn’t want to, but we’d all insisted. Life is better with Dad’s complete smile in it.

“Thanks, Dads,” Yarrow says.

“Sit, sit,” Father says. “Owl, give Real Chair to Yarrow today.”

“I offered! He doesn’t want it!” I protest.

“Owl...”

“She’s right, she offered and I didn’t want it,” Yarrow says, hands up in surrender.

Dad sets the pudding on the table as Rover floats over across the muckland, holding a tray filled with covered food dishes. “Rover, project the candles over the pudding, please,” Dad says.

“Let’s save that for the moment I turn sixteen,” Yarrow says.

“In that case, I will project the candles thirteen-point-four Earth minutes from now,” OS says.

“Thank you, OS,” Yarrow says.

Rover hovers nearby while Father and I place the food trays on the table, uncovering them one by one. There’s no need to rush. Every dish looks the same and they’re never hot, so we don’t even have to worry about them growing cold. They’re all pretty delicious, honestly. “So what would you like to do with your last thirteen minutes of being fifteen?” Dad asks Yarrow.

He considers it. Then a surprised expression spreads over his face. “I don’t want to do anything different. I like everything the way it is.”

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