Page 18 of Full Speed to a Crash Landing

Rian snorts.

“Next, you want an easy slide on ground. If the crew has control of the ship and if the engine’s not completely shot, then if you have to crash, you can aim it.” I hold my spoon out at an angle, pointed to my tray, then rush the spoon down so it slides into the goop. “Roundaboutdidn’t do that. It basically hit that planet like a dart. Which complicates looting.”

Rian doesn’t say anything; he just sits there, eyes zeroed in on me as if he’s seeingeverythingI’m not saying. And I’m not saying a lot. That makes me nervous, which makes me want to talk more, so I stuff another protein ball in my mouth.I don’t really want him to think too much about how the crash happened; I want him to consider how much he needs me planetside. I’m getting itchy, cooped up on this ship.

The door slides open, and the rest of the crew—minus First—enter.

“So,Roundabouthit nose first and broke into two pieces,” I continue, focusing on Rian. “They crashed wrong.”

“Damn right they did,” Saraswati says. Magnusson and the captain head over to the food dispenser. Nandina cuts in front of them when the captain motions for her to, and she takes two trays—one for her and the other, presumably, for First, who must be on some sort of duty right now. She leaves with a little smile to me.

“You saw.” I point my spoon at Saraswati. “It’s a mess down there. Which, actually, works to my benefit. Scrap’s easier to pick up when it’s already broken off a ship.”

Magnusson growls and thumps his tray down on the table. The captain sits down beside Rian.

“The fact that the ship is broken is bad enough,” Saraswati says. “But the nose hit a ridge, and—”

“We are not discussing the mission in front of a civilian,” Captain Ursula says coldly.

“I’m not acivilian,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Think of me as a consultant.”

“You’re a refugee. Only.” She glares at me, which is dumb, because she could be using that energy to eat instead. I demonstrate the more practical use of time, which just seems to make her glare harder, if possible.

“Okay, then,” I say. “Small talk. Who’s from Earth?” I raise my left hand while scraping the tray with the spoon in my right hand.

They all know I mean Sol-Earth. The planet that revolves around a sun that was once thought to be theonlysun. The Earth where homo sapiens came from. All the other planets—Centauri-Earth, Rigel-Earth, Gliese-Earth—they’re the colonies built later. But if anyone asks about Earth without putting a different star’s name in front of it, they’re talking about the original.

Surprisingly, it’s Magnusson who tentatively raises his hand, as if unsure that’s what he should do. “Oh, really?” I say, turning my attention to him. “Which part?”

“Iceland.”

I cringe, and he nods. Iceland’s seismic activity has only gotten worse lately; there are stabilizers, but it’s been increasingly difficult to sell the island as a tourist location after one too many buildings collapsed. Plus, it didn’t exactly have the historical and architectural draw like other places—Iceland sold its landscape, but the continental rift kept undersellingit. I suppose that’s why he’s here, in space. Easier to make a living on a ship than a dying island.

“I was born near Yellowstone,” I say. Now it’s his turn to cringe. That volcano was dormant for a millennium or more, but when it blew, it ripped apart North America. “My family immigrated to Malta the year before.” At least we had warning that it was going to blow, and the smog eaters kept the smoke from changing the atmosphere to a catastrophic level.

“Malta’s nice,” Magnusson says.

“I did tours,” I say.

Magnusson nods stoically, but somehow I don’t mind the blank face now that I know where it comes from. Malta’s hadits share of issues as well. Formerly the location of the global government, the only thing bringing in funds now are the tourists looking for a bit of history. At least we have some trulyancient digs and locations to go alongside the beaches that are still pristine—although the only thing that keeps the ocean water blue surrounding the island nation is liberal application of dye and a perimeter of cleaner drones blocking trash from washing up.

That’s what Earth is now. Little bubbles of tourist locations that hide the last dying gasps of a world that’s been polluted to death.

“If you’re from Earth,” Rian says, “do you know Jane Irwin?”

Three things happen at once.

1. Magnusson’s head snaps up to Rian, shock evident on his face for a split second before he grabs his cup and chugs some water.

2. Rian doesn’t notice this because he’s too busy watching me.

3. I keep my face so perfectly regulated that I am actually a hundred percent certain he doesn’t see even a flicker of recognition. There’s another test I’ve passed.

I roll my eyes. “Why do people assume everyone on Earth knows each other? Just because our population is down and our cities are bubbled doesn’t mean Earth isn’t anentire planetof people. There arebillionsof people still on Earth.”

“Oh, uh, yeah. I guess,” Rian says, flustered. A rare misstep. He thought he had me.

“My parents transferred to Centauri-Earth before I was born,” Saraswati offers. “I’ve always wanted to visit Agra.”

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