The crack is as tall as I am, the edges ragged, reminding me of torn paper. I can fit my whole arm into it, although it’s not wide enough to accommodate my shoulders or hips.
“I think there’s another cave down there,” I say to nobody in particular, trying to see through the darkness enough to distinguish what’s beyond.
“Sorry? What’d you say?” Harlee asks distractedly.
I glance at them over my shoulder, but they’re kissing again.
“I’m going to…” I don’t bother finishing my lame excuse before heading down the tunnel Killan had taken, leaving the lovebirds to their own company.
If the lake caves that are part of the brothers’ farm existed before they moved to this planet, then it’s extremely likely that there are other caves down here, too. Maybe a whole network of them, waiting to be explored.
The tunnel widens, and I find myself in the drying cave. It’s considerably smaller than the one I just left—and considerably less humid.
Killan is piling algae onto a conveyor-belt-like table that takes up most of the space, creating an even blanket of algae about a foot deep. Water runs off the edges, and the table itself is glowing, the temperature in the room reminding me of a Sydney summer.
The most interesting things about this cave are the robotic arms set into the ceiling, much like the one that lives in Killan’s kitchen cupboard. There are rows of tracks that crisscross the ceiling, along which the robotic arms can move. They’re helping Killan spread the algae evenly over the table, constantly rotating it so that the algae at the bottom doesn’t dry faster than what’s on top. They remind me of an over-enthusiastic worker, flipping burger patties on the grill so one side doesn’t burn before the other side has cooked. My first boss was that type of person, always opening the oven to check on progress before the bread had finished rising.
“Did you need something?” Killan asks.
“No.” His question prickles. I’m notalwaysasking him for things. And when I am, it’s not my fault. “How long does it take to dry?” I remember the dried Nufaral he showed Harlee and me the first time we came down here. It looked like crispy seaweed but melted in my mouth like cotton candy.
“Two days,” Killan says, which isn’t nearly as long as I’d been expecting.
“And then you ship it to your home planet?”
“This is my home planet,” he growls.
“To your birth planet,” I correct.
“We grind it into powder, and then we ship it to Ril I.” He continues off-loading algae onto the drying table, and the sounds of him working are muffled by the thick rock walls.I might have tried helping, except that there isn’t enough space between the table and the cave wall for both of us and the wheelbarrow.
There’s something strangely mesmerizing about watching him work. Killan’s unrelenting focus on his farm is something I actually understand about him. We have that in common—both of us are business minded.
Once upon a time, I might have believed that would mean we’d get along. I know better now.
I back away, and when it becomes evident that he intends to continue ignoring me, I turn and flee to the lake cave. Roan and Harlee must hear me coming, because they jerk apart, Harlee wiping her mouth on the back of her hand and giving me a bright smile.
“So…” The perpetual third wheel, I hunt around for something to say, beginning to suspect that maybe I should’ve stayed in Killan’s kitchen, sulking. “Watch anything good on TV recently?” I end up asking Roan.
“Akh…” He frowns.
“Broadcasts,” Harlee translates, which must be the Ril’os word for TV.
“Nothing lately,” he answers, with a not-so-subtle glance at Harlee.
I roll my eyes. It doesn’t take a genius to guess what they get up to in the evenings. And I’ve seen Roan’s extensive collection of contraceptives. He could be the poster boy for safe sex.
“LOVE GALAXY?” I suggest. Although why anyone would want to watch that crap, I’ve no idea. I’m almost glad it got cancelled—if only its cancellation hadn’t been what left me stranded on Ril II.
“Before, yes,” Roan agrees. “I like feature-length narratives, too. Romances and live action, mostly. And I also watch true crime documentaries.”
“Really?” Harlee straightens a fraction, surprised but not displeased.
“Mayhaps we can watch one together,” Roan says.
“With Lydia,” Harlee adds, glancing in my direction, but I wave a dismissive hand through the air.
“The only documentaries I’m interested in watching are the ones on how to find a lost planet.” Which is actually not a terrible idea. I make a mental note of it for the next time I can borrow Killan’s tablet. Maybe there’s even a documentary on LOVE GALAXY, Reality Investments, and Mr. Smith.
