Elder’s hand hovers over the print. The back half of the print is about the size of his palm; the elongated toes—or claws—extend a few inches past his fingers.
What kind of animal makes prints like this? The bird monster had curving talons, but this animal’s scaly claws seem to have saw-like edges, as if they could shred my flesh just by brushing my skin.
“We should get that scientist to make another plaster cast,” I say, standing.
As Elder gets up, too, a deep voice calls out, “You need to stick with the group. ” A young man in military fatigues steps forward from the forest—right on top of the animal tracks Elder had been examining. Elder growls in frustration, but the man doesn’t seem to care.
The guy is young—he can’t be that much older than me, definitely in his early twenties. He has startlingly blue eyes that belie his dark hair. I vaguely recognize him as one of the men my father brought with him on the mission to the probe, but I don’t know his name or rank. When he notices me staring, he shoots me a quick smile before turning his attention back to the shuttle and giving Dad, who’s watching us, an all-clear hand signal. I blush despite myself. He wears blank fatigues—no nametape or visible rank. Before I can ask who he is, Dad interrupts.
“Stay close to the group!” he barks from atop the bridge in the shuttle. The soldier turns back to continue his patrol.
Elder glances up furtively at my father as he drags me back toward the shuttle. I tug his arm, ducking around to the other side. There is military on this side of the shuttle too, but at least we’re away from my father’s too-vigilant gaze.
And then I notice the suns. Two of them. I don’t know how I didn’t notice them before—who thinks to look at the sun?—but they’re low in the sky now, casting the area in a dark blue-green sort of twilight.
Two suns.
Two.
Of course, I’d known—I’d always known—that Centauri-Earth would have two suns. I’d even noticed the two giant glowing orbs from the window of the shuttle. There’s a difference, though, in seeing two big stars from a spaceship and seeing two glowing suns from land.
“It’s so . . . it’s so beautiful,” I say, unable to keep the awe from my voice. Elder’s grip on my hand tightens in response.
I turn to look at him, and I see the wonder I feel in my heart mirrored in his expression. My lips creep up and up in a smile so uncontainable that I feel as if my face will never stop smiling. Elder’s hand slips from my own, trails up my arm, leaving goose bumps in its wake.
My breath catches in my throat.
I lean forward, up on my tiptoes, and a warm, earthy breeze from the forest seems to push me into his arms. Our kiss holds none of the furious passion we shared at landing the shuttle. This is different—this is like an ocean’s wave, washing over us, drowning us both in warmth, leaving us breathless and shiny-eyed.
One of the suns sinks under the horizon, the other still clinging to the edge of the world, spilling out its faded light. A few bright stars are visible. And one star—the brightest one that moves visibly against the sky—calls my attention. Is that Godspeed? If I were to get a telescope strong enough, could I make out the broken steel of the shattered Bridge?
I move to kiss Elder again, but he steps away. I glance behind me in time to see my father silently slipping away and out of sight.
I turn my back to both of them just as the last sun falls below the horizon and the world is cast in darkness.
12: ELDER
As we walk back toward the ramp that leads into the shuttle, a woman’s voice, Amy’s mother’s, cuts through the tranquility of our first night on Centauri-Earth. “Look!” she calls.
Amy gasps as her gaze follows her mother’s pointing finger. The ground . . . is glowing.
It’s subtle but there: under the blackened gaze of the bubbled, burnt ground, I can see, ever so faintly, a warm glow lighting up from the earth. It reminds me of when the Feeder Level burned, of how the walls of the Food Distro smoldered red-yellow under the blackened embers.
“What’s making it glow like that?” Amy whispers.
I have no idea—I’m too distracted by what I see on the side of the shuttle. I step forward—the ground underfoot feels hard, like tile or glass, not like the sandy soil the rest of the world is made of. The rockets on the shuttle literally melted the dirt.
Amy follows me. “What are you looking at?” she asks.
I point.
“The symbol?”
She moves to the shuttle, touching the giant steel plate engraved with a double-winged eagle.
Underneath it, in bold, evenly spaced letters, is the name of the ship. The home I left behind.
GODSPEED