Things I Don’t Tell My Sister by MM Schreier

I meet my little sister at the gazebo in the garden habitat after school. It isn’t babysitting if I like hanging out with her.

“You’re Queen Guinevere. I’m Maid Marion.” Jazmin giggles, oblivious she’s mixed two archaic legends together. 

She hands me a crown braided out of Dad’s prized Black-eyed Susans. They’re extinct in the wild. I don’t tell her she’s destroyed years of restorative breeding or that Dad will blow up when I lie and confess to picking them myself. Extra chores are worth an afternoon of make-believe with Jaz. 

I place the lavender circlet on my head and bow. “Well met, Marion. How fares Robin Hood?”

The shipmind pings, demanding my attention. 

Shift complete. Identify replacement crewmember for animation.

“Negative.” 

Warning: extended activity risks adverse effects ranging from diminished reaction times to compromised mental acuity.

“Override safety protocols.” No point waking someone else for this tedious bullshit. I take the double shift. Captain’s prerogative.

When I find Jazmin camped out in the gazebo, she’s wearing my favorite yellow sweater and watching bee-bots pollinate the daylilies with a dreamy look on her face. When did she get tall enough to wear my clothes? 

I swallow a huff. Lost in thought, she doesn’t notice my irritation.

“You know that blond boy on the football team?” Her voice grows swoony.

I know exactly who she means. What I don’t say is I saw him tongue-wrestling with some bimbo after chem lab. 

Forcing an encouraging smile, I tug on her sleeve and change the subject. “Damn. My sweater looks better on you than on me.” I have to admit, it really does. “The blue brings out your eyes.”

Alert. 

Blue? I shake my head to clear my thoughts and address the shipmind. “Report?”

Unexpected course deviation, seven percent.

I ignore a brewing migraine and check the navscreen. “Run recalibration coordinates.”

Full systems assessment in progress. 

That’s going to take forever. 

“Congratulations, Lil!” Jaz holds out two plates of strawberry sponge cake. It looks like the real thing, not the synthesized crap. She must have saved her allowance for cycles to buy the ingredients.

“That’s Captain Lilak to you.” I smirk and thumb my nose at her.

“Whatever, Captain.” Jaz rolls her eyes and plops down on the bench next to me. “I knew I’d find you out here.”

Of course she did. “I just needed to get away for a minute.”

“From your own graduation party?”

I don’t explain Dad’s disappointment that I chose the flight academy instead of botany –– stars over flowers. Ironic, considering how much time Jaz and I spend in this silly, frivolous gazebo. I bite my tongue. She’ll learn his views on space exploration when her own acceptance letter comes.

I push my slice of cake onto Jazmin’s plate. Never been a fan of chocolate.

New arrival window: Eleven rotations.

“Fuel reserves?”

Three rotations.

“Fuck.”

The pristine white of my dress uniform makes a stark contrast to Jazmin’s black sheath. 

Though the habitat maintains a controlled eternal summer, I shudder as if an icy wind tickles my spine. Something isn’t right, but I can’t put my finger on it.

Jaz busies herself with a creeping morning glory vine, twisting it around the gazebo arch. “What will happen to all this now?” 

I shrug. This is Dad’s domain –– cataloging seeds, programming soil adjustments, marking genomes, selecting preferred characteristics. Was Dad’s domain.

Jaz clings to me like I’m her lifeline. A sob pinballs around my chest, caught in between my ribs. I’m the superior officer, the big sister. I won’t cry.

Jaz does. A splotch of mascara-stained saltwater drips onto her snowy jacket. Good captains don’t play favorites, but just this once I keep quiet about uniform regulations. 

The words everything’s going to be okay stick in my teeth.

I should have told her that. Maybe I said it? I’m not sure. The holo-memory sputters inconsistencies as I try replaying it. The images flicker like a mirage.

Holodata corruption detected.

“No shit.” I slam the heel of my palm against the console. Everything on this ship’s gone to hell.

The habitat’s sterilized. All the plants have been uprooted and distributed to other labs. It’s quiet without the humming bee-bots and simulated weather. The dome overhead no longer reflects a digital robin-egg blue sky, only an arc of smoky polymer. 

Jazmin burns our initials –– LC & JC –– into the gazebo with her crew-issued laser multitool. I don’t tell her someone will eventually come and buff out her work when they reclaim the plastine lattice for some other project.  

I should ask her if she’s sure. Does she really want to spend thirty rotations in cryosleep, only waking for the occasional duty shift? Is the risk worth it, traveling to populate an expansion colony in the outer limits? 

Jazmin cuts our names –– Lil & Jaz –– into the gazebo with a kitchen vibroblade.

There’s no need to say anything. Her answer’s the same as mine. There’s nothing left for us here. No garden, no Dad, no future.

Jazmin paints our–– 

The holo freezes. I try rebooting, but the shipmind interferes.

Power save mode: all noncritical subroutines terminated.  

That gives me an idea. “Ship, jettison luggage compartments and recalculate fuel reserves.”

Complete. Five rotations.

“Cut off environmental systems to all sectors outside the living quarters.”

Complete. Seven rotations.

I open my mouth, but my voice turns to gravel. Clearing my throat, I try again. “Terminate life support in cryotubes two through sixteen.”

Unable to comply.

Heart pounding, I do it myself. One by one, I rip out wires and watch the blinking lights fade. The security team first, then the colonists. 

I pause in front of Jaz’s bed. She looks peaceful, like she could wake any moment. I press my sweaty palms to the glass wishing I could hold her hand. 

“Recalculate fuel reserves.”

Eleven rotations.

It’s enough. Now, all I need to do is figure out how to wipe the shipmind. The damn thing saw everything, and Jazmin doesn’t need to know.