By the time I realize she isn’t going to leave, the young woman has been standing in the airlock for a good hour, occasionally slamming her finger down on the doorbell. Still in my nightclothes, I shuffle forward from my couch to face her. We’re not open, I mouth through the thick glass. She continues to stare up at me, her jaw set and her bloodshot eyes defiant through her helmet visor.
Reluctantly, I press a large button on the wall to release the airlock. “We’re not open yet,” I try as the door slides open, but the girl glides in and takes off her helmet—space talk for I’m going to be here awhile.
“You’re the constellation builder?” she asks as soon her lungs adjust to the change in pressure. I nod. “I want a constellation.”
A customer. I try to force down my annoyance and observe the distinct cut of the girl’s black robes and the heavy way she slides her feet, as if she expects them to be lighter. “You’re a Lunar, aren’t you?” I ask as politely as I can, and she nods, once. “Listen, I know that Moon Days are shorter, but it’s actually really early on Earth-”
“I know it’s early,” the girl snaps. She takes a shuddering breath and continues, more calmly, “I have to do this now to… surprise my brother. And Madam Asteria gave me a note.” I start at the name of my boss. The girl raises the palm of her glove to me, and a quail hologram (being my superior’s chosen holographic envoy) materializes a few inches away from my nose. Do as the girl says, the quail chirps before vanishing.
“She’s good friends with my mother,” is the only explanation the girl gives me.
“Is Madam paying for the constellation, then?” I ask.
The young woman frowns uncertainly. “I don’t want this to be a gift,” she says, stepping forward to wave her gloved hand, thumb in, over the cash register. “I’m not sure how the conversion works here. Is this enough?”
I take my place behind the counter, look down at the screen, and almost choke on my own spit. “Um,” I say, quickly doing some mental calculations, “It looks like you have enough for either three bright stars or seven dull ones. But how in the world did you get this money?”
This gets a faint smile on her face. “I have a pretty big allowance. By the way, I’m Artemis, Viceroy of Luna. Pleased to meet you.”
"I'm Artemis, Viceroy of Luna."
*
Artemis looks over my shoulder while I shuffle through some forms, stifling a yawn behind my hand. “A scorpion,” she says, suddenly.
“You want a scorpion?” I ask, looking up at her. She doesn’t reply, her fists trembling by her sides, and I follow her gaze to one of the order forms I have absentmindedly cast aside. “Oh, right. Apollo—your brother, right?—sent in an order for a scorpion constellation last night. He wanted it to be visible during the summer.”
*
“It’s not a problem unless you aim it.” Staring curiously at the old-fashioned weapon at her hip, I add, “How do you aim it, by the way? You don’t have any sights.”
*
Sometimes, the reasons are grandiose. Emperor Zeus proved that his pockets went deep when he asked me to memorialize the life and deeds of his favorite hero (and, naturally, son) in the night sky: that’s where we got Hercules as well as Draco and Centaurus and Hydra.
Sometimes, the reasons are petty. Empress Hera ordered the creation of the constellation Cancer to represent a crab that had once pinched Hercules in the foot.
As soon as Artemis hands me her completed form, I know that she has a different reason altogether for wanting the constellation. I stare down at the left hand corner of the paper, nearly worn through with erasures, where she has sketched out with great difficulty a hunter formed of seven dull stars.
“Is it okay?” she asks after a moment. Is this enough? I know she wants to demand. Will anything ever be enough?
A RECORD OF REGRETS
National Convention
Creative Writing Winner:
Mina Yu
Oconee County High School
20