Visiting Pluto was a mistake. Since Sister Margaret went to join Jesus three days ago, there are no nuns or older girls to mediate. “Please don’t be mean to me, Pluto. I haven’t done anything to you.”
“You’ve done everything to me!” Pluto roars. “I was first. I came out first. It’s not fair that they kept you too. You’re the reason our parents are dead, Sharon.”
Makemake shakes her head. “Uh-uh.”
“Shut up, retard,” Pluto hisses at her.
“I didn’t kill them!”
“Maybe not literally, but it’s because of you they had to die. They couldn’t go to the enclave with both of us. They should have chosen me. They should have survived.”
“That’s not true. They got sick, that’s why they–”
“It is true.” Pluto snaps and Haumea flinches. “If it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t be in this cold, stinking place. I wouldn’t have to…”
Sharon can’t stop the tears. “You wouldn’t have to what?” The Ugly Pretties have picked up on Sharon’s distress and start moaning in unison.
Pluto straightens up and glares. “I hate you, Sharon.”
Sharon backs away from her, tries to remember the words to the Novena of Our Child Jesus, but can’t find the words. “Hail Mary full of grace. The Lord is with–”
“Prayers aren’t going to help you. The nuns aren’t going to help you. Your pathetic life is in my fucking hands.”
They may be twins, but Pluto is bigger and stronger. She darts forward, her dyed hair swinging in front of her face, filling Sharon’s vision. Sharon drops to her knees, covers her head with her hands.
“Ug.”
Sharon looks up. Makemake is swaying in front of Pluto. Pluto is staring in disbelief at her, blood gouting out of her nose.
“Your retard hit me!” Pluto roars. “Get out get out get out get out!”
“Come on,” Sharon whispers. Tears soaking her face, she flees the library, the thump of the Ugly Pretties’ feet close behind her. She stumbles blindly to the hatch that leads down into the chapel. She’ll pray to Jesus and Tyra for guidance and if that doesn’t work, well, she’ll think of something else.
When Sharon and her circle have left, Pluto closes the door carefully. She’d love to slam it but she doesn’t want to risk a leak. She rubs her hand over her throbbing nose and looks at the blood on her palm. She can’t believe that freak hit her but, in a way, she’s impressed that she did. Showed some initiative, some fucking backbone. The blood pools dark in her palm and thins out to scarlet where it slips over the edge, by far the brightest colour in this room, on the whole godforsaken rock. She wipes it into her T-shirt, not in the mood to swallow her pride and go down the corridor to the bathroom. She sits on her chair and leans back, swallowing the warm choke until the flow stops.
At length she straightens and looks at the screen in front of her. The maintenance grids still glow softly, each line checked in green. Supplies are still at decent levels and she knows the system will send a replenishment request before they get too low. Or at least that’s how it’s supposed to work.
As Sister Margaret explained it all to her, she said, “Don’t worry, child. You don’t have to remember it all now. There’ll be plenty of time to go through it again.” Her hands shook and her face was shocked through with spasms of pain as she spoke. There wasn’t plenty of time and the fragments that Pluto remembers are shifting and reshaping in her memory. She’s messing it up.
She’s lived here half her life and the coming and going of supply pods every six months was just part of the scenery; she began to take it all for granted. The replenishment system’s supposed to unpack and restock and keep the compound’s supplies level, but what if it’s failing like Eskombot’s voice chip and L.O.L.A’s surveillance unit?
“Eskombot?”
Oodle-weet.
“Bring up the communications tableau, please.”
Barp-oodle-blort.
“I am an administrator. I’m the only fu◦– I’m the only administrator here. I’ve taken over from Sister Margaret. You know this.”
Bloop-eedle.
A box flashes onto the screen. “Enter administrator password.”
Oh, Goddess. What was it? The sign of the cross something, or the stations of the cross. How many were there? She checks the encyclopedia on the tablet next to her. Fourteen, that’s right. And then her pet’s name. She had a pet creature on Earth, which she had to leave behind. One that was small and didn’t take up resources. She kept it in a cardboard box until it ate its way out. Then she kept it in a jar when she found it again. That’s it.
She types in “14xRoachy” and the communications tableau slides over the screen.
She scrolls through the contact list. There are lists of names of the diocesan leadership and, more to her relief, there are contact names of people at the supply station. Someone there will help if things get too rough.
An icon is throbbing red near the bottom of the pane and it takes Pluto a moment to realise that it indicates that there are unopened messages. She swipes the icon and three headers come into the centre of the screen. The first is addressed to Sister Margaret. Pluto taps on it and a small holo of a priest emerges and starts offering the last rites. The second is addressed to “OLER Orphanage: Urgent contact request”. It’s a text message and Pluto skims it guiltily, even though she’s now in charge: “Would <person-in-charge> at OLER Orphanage contact Security Cardinal Joseph at New Vatican base with extreme urgency.” Then something about a contingency reactor and something about “CA distance in AUs” and “relative velocity”. The header of the third message pulls her eye away. It’s been forwarded to OLER Orphanage, but the message title is “Pluto and Sharon, our brave girls”.
Sharon doesn’t bother with the mirror. She hacks blindly at her fringe, tries not to look down at the pile of blonde hair growing at her feet. Snick, snick, snick, all fall down. Sister Margaret used to say that shorn hair was a symbol of penitence, but she and Sister Angelique seemed to take great pride in their long plaited locks.
The Ugly Pretties grumble and grunt behind her. “I’m sorry,” Sharon whispers, grabbing another hank of hair and slicing through it. “I know Tyra wouldn’t like it. But the makeover didn’t work. If I’m uglier, maybe then Pluto will like me.“
It doesn’t take long. She runs her hand over the uneven surface of her scalp, the tufts tickling her palm. Her head actually feels lighter. She turns to look at the Ugly Pretties. For a split second, Makemake’s eyes catch hers and Sharon catches a shadow of sadness in them before they lose focus again. Sharon takes off the short skirt she spent hours customising and changes into a plain blue robe.
One last chance. If Pluto goes to hit her or shouts at her then she’ll give up forever. She considers leaving the Ugly Pretties in the solarium, but decides to take them with her to the library. Just in case.
Sharon enters cautiously. Pluto’s standing with her back to the door, staring down at a screen, her shoulders shaking. Is she laughing at something?
“Um… Pluto?”
Pluto’s back stiffens. And when she turns around Sharon realises she’s not laughing after all. Her body is wracked with sobs, blood and snot caked on her cheeks. A spike of fear stabs Sharon’s heart. “Pluto? What’s happened?” Sharon has never seen Pluto cry. Not even when they were first brought here. Not even when the other girls laughed at her for spending all her time reading. Not even when they wrapped up Sister Margaret’s body and sealed it in her cabin so that the smell of her decomposing body wouldn’t spread through the compound.