Analog Science Fiction and Fact - June 2013

ANALOG
* * *
Beneath diamond-bright stars, shivering in
the evening chill, Rikki and Blake scurried
down Main Street to the communal dining
hall. Celestial sparkles and the nip in the air
shared a cause. Dark’s thin, dry air didn’t
block much inbound starlight; it didn’t stop
much of the day’s heat from reradiating back
into space, either.
She searched overhead for any hint of
home. As always, the sky had nothing to offer
her but alien constellations, many still unnamed,
too-large moons, and the soul-sucking,
inchoate darkness that was the Coalsack.
“Make a wish,” Blake said.
Turning toward him, studying the western
horizon where he appeared to be looking,
Rikki saw the meteor. Or a different meteor,
because the sky was suddenly filled with faint
streaks.
“Done,” she said, trying to make her tone
light. Alas, no mere wishing star would fix
what ailed her.
The meteor shower ended in seconds, eminently
forgettable. Planets glimmered overhead,
too, the brightest of them so close that
with binoculars you could clearly see its Saturn-like
rings. Back home, Ayn Rand’s orbit
would not have encompassed the inner edge
of the Asteroid Belt; the local version of a Belt
was shoehorned in between the gas giant and
Dark. Nearby asteroids meant nearby resources.
And though they had been fortunate so far,
logically that made Dark a shooting gallery.
“I made a wish, too,” Blake said, waggling
an eyebrow at her.
She laughed. “It must be your lucky day.”
“I’m not admitting anything, or it won’t
come true.”
The dining hall smelled wonderful. Rikki
couldn’t place the aroma. Something different.
Something she had not encountered in a long
time. Carlos’s muttering, from inside the
kitchen, revealed nothing. It was his turn to
prepare dinner, and that somehow always entailed
guzzling the synthed swill that served as
cooking sherry.
Wallpaper to her left and right showed an
Earth forest; the wall straight ahead cycled
through scenes of something from Marvin’s
media library. She didn’t recognize the vid
from its previews, and that didn’t surprise her.
For those who stayed after dinner, the communal
movie was the cook’s choice.
Behind Rikki, a door opened with a squeak.
Li said, “I guess tonight’s treat won’t be a surprise.
Wow, that smells good.”
“Roast chicken?” Blake asked in wonder.
Because while they often had eggs, they
had yet to eat meat. The priority remained expansion
of the flock.
It pained Rikki to have learned the proper
name for a bunch of chickens. And that tomorrow
she would be up before dawn to collect
eggs, scatter bucketsful of feed
pellets—dried, chopped bacterial mat—and
muck out the coop.
Just as with cooking, they took turns caring
for the chickens. Except Li. She refused to do
anything so nonsterile lest one of the babies
should need immediate care.
Logical . . . and so convenient.
“Some chickens got into a fight today,” Li
said. “Marvin alerted me. Before I could get to
the coop, one chicken was severely pecked
and clawed. I had to put the bird down, and
saw no reason to let its meat go to waste.”
“Fair enough,” Blake said with enthusiasm.
Rikki sat at the dining-room table and Blake
sat next to her. Li took the seat straight across
from Blake.
Just to bug me, Rikki thought. And it works.
Even after she had finally satisfied herself that
while Blake respected Li, he did not much like
her.
The door opened again, admitting the stragglers.
“Sorry we’re late,” Antonio said. “Dana
asked to look in on the children.”
Did the little ones hate Dana, too? Did they
avert their eyes, burst into tears, even back
away, when Dana entered the nursery? Rikki
was too ashamed of her failings ever to have
asked.
“Not a problem,” Li said. “But it’s good that
you’re here.”
“Do I smell chicken?”Dana asked.
Li beamed. “You do.”
So Queen Li means to take credit for a
melee among the chickens? Despising the
woman, Rikki changed the subject. “How was
everyone’s day?”
Antonio shrugged. “Another day. Another
few calluses.”
“About that chicken?” Dana prompted.
As Li started to explain, Carlos emerged
74 EDWARD M. LERNER