The Remnant

“Wait. Please.”

“Please what, Prisoner?”

“Please don’t… throw me out the airlock.”

“I’ve been a judge for over a decade. In that time I have never found any particular pleasure in ruining the lives of the young people who come before me. But in your case, Miss Turner, I fail to see what you gained from ruining us so thoroughly.” She shook her head. “In any event, that’s not how we’d execute someone, surely. Airlocks. Honestly.”

“I did bring you the Noah Board,” I said, hopefully.

“You brought us a strike team straight from the Commander himself,” she said, referring to Eren’s failed mission to retrieve the program I’d stolen. I had the sense not to point out that Isaiah, the blind King of the Remnant, hadn’t given me much of a choice about whether to steal it, or that Eren’s father, the High Commander, had known about the theft way before I confessed. “If I were a different kind of judge, and this were a different kind of courtroom, this is the moment where I’d tell you that you’re young.”

She paused, seeing my expression.

“You are. And if things were only a little different, I would remind you that there is still time for you to consider what kind of girl you want to be. What kind of woman.”

Back on Earth, I’d gotten the same speech at more than one sentencing, albeit for lesser crimes than treason. It was the juvy defendant’s cue to appear remorseful. At least, in my case it was. I had no idea what kind of speech they gave the kids whose parents weren’t doctors and senators.

But the judge was right. Things were different now. Besides, I already knew what kind of girl I was. It was hardly the first time the issue had come up.

“Unfortunately, things work a little differently up here. Look around, Turner. These are the lives you tried to destroy.”

I saw no softness in the faces of those gathered. I read the judgment in their eyes. I was as much to blame as the five governments who’d left them to die when the meteor destroyed the Earth. If the Commander had won the Battle for Sector Seven, what would he have done with them? With their children? Only Isaiah, their so-called King, had saved them, and he wasn’t here to speak for me.

“Citizens of the Remnant. Survivors of the Earth. How do you find the defendant?”

The voice of the Remnant grew terrible and loud, so loud that my ears could no longer bear the pain. But the judge maintained her stature, allowing the noise to swell through the room and settle deep in my brain before she spoke.

“Charlotte Turner. You knowingly betrayed your people to our enemy and actively sought to effect the downfall of the Remnant. You have been found guilty of treason and are hereby sentenced to death.”

Two (#uedf41452-0d56-538b-8bd8-88a075fda840)

I’m sitting in the kitchen, watching my mom ice a cake. Her knife slides up and down the straight edges, creating a series of perfectly even waves of blue frosting. Her other hand is spinning the base of the stand with surgical precision.

It’s mesmerizing.

West thinks so, too, and joins me at the counter. I’m mad at him for some reason or another, but I’m thirteen now, and turning over a new leaf, so I choose to ignore him. Even though he shouldn’t be here.

The cake is for him, for his birthday, and it’s a complete violation of family rules for him to see it before we light the candles, but apparently I’m the only one who cares about tradition around here.

Mom offers him a little smile, just enough to show the first hints of recently formed wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, and he returns it in full force, his stupid teeth gapping in my face.

West loves birthdays. I guess all nine-year-olds do.

“Can I lick the spoon?” he asks.

Mom purses out her bottom lip, pretending to consider the request for maybe half a millisecond, and hands over the entire bowl of sugary, leftover goo.

I am given the knife.

My icing is gone in two licks, one for each side of the blade, and I shouldn’t care that West’s far more enthusiastic efforts have barely made a dent in his supply.

New leaf. I’ll focus on my mom instead. She’s arranging the piping tip over a plastic sandwich bag full of red frosting, and her face takes on a calm, easy focus as she pipes a series of perfect tiny stars around the top.

It’s going to be a beautiful cake.

“Want some of mine?” West asks.

I turn, mimicking my mom’s lower lip-pursing, and pretend not to care. “Sure, if you’re not going to eat it all.” I shrug a little, making the point. “Whatever.”

“Open up,” he says, and I can’t help but match his goofy grin. He shoves an enormous glob directly in my mouth, and I bite down. It’s more icing than I can hold at once, and I’m starting to giggle in spite of my newfound maturity.

“You’re getting it everywhere,” I say, or try to say, and reach for a dishcloth.

West only laughs.

I’m scrubbing away a tiny speck of blue from the countertop when a thick splat hits the side of my neck. I swat at it in confusion, and my fingers come away covered in icing.

I’m glaring up at West, about to make sure Mom saw what happened, when I realize that he’s as shocked as I am. We turn to Mom, who’s suppressing a snort.

I’m still trying to wrap my mind around the idea of my mom voluntarily creating a mess of any kind when West fires back.

The glob catches half on her cheek and half in her hair, just below the ear.

She gives a little snicker. “You’re asking for it, buddy.”

Suddenly, West is covered in a thin stream of sticky red buttercream, straight from the piping tip. It’s simultaneously the strangest and the funniest thing I’ve ever seen. Without thinking, I reach into his bowl and launch the contents at my mother, who spares maybe one second to glance at her ruined blouse before reaching for the flour.

“Get down!” I shout, and we duck behind the bar together. The flour whispers by overhead, dusting us in a silent arc that ends on the floor far behind us, inches from the living room rug.

She has missed! We nearly choke with giddy laughter.

“We’re outta ammo,” I say, as soon as we catch our breath, and West nods seriously. “She’s got total access to the fridge, everything.”

“But we have the pantry,” he says.

“You sure about that?” our mother taunts us.

“Cover me,” I say, and roll toward the pantry.

I’m too slow. A blast of water catches me square in the back, and I’m completely soaked before I reach the door. I grab the first thing I can find, Cheerios, and rip open the bag in a frenzy. I toss it back to West, reserving a few handfuls for myself, and we begin pelting her in unison.

Some of the water has caught the cake, and for a moment, I regret everything. It was such a beautiful cake.

But then West goes flying over the top of the counter and jumps to land on the island, next to the cake.

“West, no!” I scream, but it’s too late. He shoves a fist way down into the delicate icing and lobs his sugary grenade straight at Mom. I follow him, grabbing for the flour at the same time as her.

The bag rips open, and the kitchen explodes into a feathery cloud of white.