night. He wanted it to be visible during the summer.”
A long silence. Then, a quiet, “There’s nothing to hunt in the summer, anyway.”
“Sorry?” I ask, but she
extends a hand for her own form and says nothing more.
*
“You’re wearing a gun,” I observe at one point while she is working on the form.
She doesn’t look up. “It’s for protection.”
“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.”
“I never miss,” Artemis replies, seemingly without thought. Then her face transforms, and she excuses herself to the restroom. I think I hear her throwing up.
*
Our company’s customers tend to fit a certain mold. They are invariably fantastically wealthy (as it is difficult to afford the fusion technology otherwise) and more than a little whimsical (Why build fake stars when you could get a bigger housing unit instead?). Despite these similarities, though, these individuals also tend to have quite dissimilar reasons for wanting us to build them a constellation.
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?
“Everything appears to be in order,” I reply, “other than this one blank. What do you want to name your constellation?”
Her mouth forms around the letters silently before she says, hesitantly, “Orion.” The syllables come out slowly, separately, O-ri-on, as if her lips do not want to let them go. And I know.
She loved him. He died. Sometimes, that is the reason.
She loved him. He died.
*
Seven dull stars. I tell Artemis that she should look for the constellation tomorrow night, but, honestly, I’m not sure if the dull stars will be visible from Luna, with all the collateral air and light pollution from Earth.
I can’t help imagining Artemis straining to catch the faintest glimpse of Orion in the winter sky. Something aches within me as I think of this.
And then, as I board the space shuttle to go place the stars, I get an idea.
*
She’s back the next day. I try to keep my face neutral.
Her eyes are wide as she removes her helmet and clutches it to her chest, her knuckles turning white with the force. “You did a great job. Orion… was beautiful. I didn’t know the dull stars were so lovely.” Then she stops to stare at me. “You gave him the bright stars?!”
Apparently my face is not as neutral as I thought. “Oh, did I? Must have been an administrative mistake of some sort. My bad.”
“I-I don’t know what to say,” Artemis stammers.
“A ‘thank you’ would suffice,” I answer, finally letting myself smile.
“Thank you.” She presses her sleeves to her eyes. “I don’t know how I could ever repay you."
A thought comes to me. “There’s one thing you can do,” I say.
“What is it?”
“Don’t make any more constellations.”
She shuffles uncomfortably. “It was foolish of me to fall in love, wasn’t it?”
“That’s not what I meant,” I tell her. She meets my eyes and seems to understand.
“Then I will live bravely,” she says softly. “I will live so that I will have no more regrets to record in the sky.” She nods a farewell and steps into the airlock. “And thank you again. For Orion.”
The door slides shut behind her as she turns from me towards the horizon.
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