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Two suns rose in Lark's orange sky, beckoning heat waves from the golden sands. The cowboy pulled his scarf tighter around his wide-brimmed hat and squinted up at the stars. They were close. Closer than they ever had been before. The other Houses had told him that the Empire in the stars would soon be here. The cowboy didn't pretend to know much about space; perhaps he should have. But today would be the best day of the year, and as he trotted his horse through the sand, he twirled his big iron in his hand.
It was a hard job, being a cowboy. The cows on Lark grew large and hardy, only able to survive in the extreme heat of the surface. They ate the sparse wild fauna, fauna that only lived a week, forcing the cowboys to find them new pastures day in and day out.
Wild game bounded through the sands that he, Donovan Blue, head of his House, would hunt and drag down into the tunnels where his family and the rest of the Houses lived.
The hard work left his skin like leather and his mind aloof. The din of the tunnels, the sparkling chandeliers, the impressive spiderwebs of lace and silk the Houses made, and the sweet fruits they grew in their artificial sun all felt fake to him. Though his job was an important one, there were whispers, always whispers, behind Donovan's back. Brute. Simple-minded. Short-sighted.
He hummed, watching the clouds scatter through the orange sky. Today would be different. Winter Solstice. The day that the Houses came up to the surface. They could see their world, finally, the place that had given them life. He ran his hand over his horse's mane, and in the distance, he could see Pandora of the Green House, leading her buckskin mare around barrels and over makeshift jumps. She waved at him, and he felt a warm flush rush to his face.
Behind him, the hatch creaked open. He could hear the click of heels and didn't bother, just watched Ms. Green, the fringe of her leather jacket bobbing with each flap of her arms. The planet's surface was so flat, that without the sandstorms, you could see in any direction for miles.
"Mr. Blue." He heard her suck in her breath. The metal path from the hatch ended in sand, and most likely, the head of the White House was already up to her ankles. "You're up early."
He finally directed his horse to turn, his big iron still clasped in his hand. Mrs. White was a dazzling sight today, dressed for the Solstice. Her dress, gold like the hot sands, and an obligatory wide-brimmed hat atop her pile of pale hair.
"A cowboy has to practice, doesn't he?"
They were several feet apart, but neither chose to close the distance. Finally, she cleared her throat.
"I know you won the vote, but I'm begging you and the other Houses to cancel the Solstice Celebr—"
He shot her a look. His blue eyes were full of ice. "I'm not afraid of what's out there. And I doubt you are, either. I think you don't want to come up and mingle with us."
"Nonsense! It's just too dangerous for everyone to be on the surface, right now. Look at the sky!"
"Everyone?" He laughed. "Everyone but me, and Ms. Green, and fifty or so other men and women who are responsible for the food that goes on your gilded plate?" Donovan ground his teeth. "No. I—"
Donovan never finished his sentence. One of the stars had gotten so close during their conversation that it was bearing down in a shriek of fire and metal. Ms. White tore for the hatch, but Donovan kicked his stallion into a gallop in the opposite direction, toward Ms. Green, whose horse had fled. She was crouched behind a barrel, the butt of her bolt-action rifle pressed to her shoulder.
The closer the star fell, the larger it became, a deadly shadow built of silver metal. It was long and sleek, so large that if Donovan had to guess, he'd hazard that it was larger than all of the tunnels untwisted and stretched out. The descent slowed, its form hiding both suns from sight.
He jumped off his horse, allowing it, too, to flee. At this distance, the massive animal would only be a hindrance. Ms. Green removed two shells from her pocket. "I was just expecting to practice, not to hunt."
Donovan hadn't brought his rifle at all. He hadn't intended to stray more than fifty feet from the hatch. The six cartridges made of rolling paper and black powder in his cylinder were all he had.
The shadow slid down, hovering about a foot off the ground. Ms. Green aimed at what appeared to be a door, and so did Donovan. The ship was so close that even with only a handgun, the cartridge might find its mark.
The door slid open slowly, only revealing the hem of a shimmering black skirt. There came a yawn. "What a dusty, hot planet. No wonder the Empire hasn't touched it."
Finally, the form of a woman in a black beaded dress fully revealed herself. But she hid her face with a black parasol, held like a shield. "Much work must be done."
Donavan stood slowly, his gun pointed where the woman's head should be. "This is our planet. Now leave."
But the woman didn't speak to him. "Pandora Green, we've read about the culture of your world—tough little people. But tell me, the only reason you're not in the stars like us is because of the atmosphere. You're damned to the tunnels and excruciating heat. But we can change that."
Pandora's aim was true. "Don't speak my name."
"I see potential, here. I see palm trees and flowers of every color. Saphire oceans. A world where your people can see the sun more than just once a year."
She lowered her parasol, revealing sparkling black eyes and glowing pink skin. "We only want to help you and the children of your houses. That's why we're here. Mr. Blue, I don't speak to you, because you're selfish. Pandora, I know, is willing to save her people."
Pandora, tan from the sun, was somehow pale at this moment. "You destroy planets."
"No, honey. We have a bad rap. We save them. And we can transform this world into something livable, something beautiful. Your families are named after colors, after all. We know that though you are cowboys, your people are artists. Now, we might ask a fee, but we are an empire, after all." She rumbled like a sand cat, a devious purr.
Pandora bit her lip.
Donovan cocked back the hammer, his finger on the trigger. But he was too late.
The sound blew out both his eardrums. He looked down at what was once his chest and up at the barrel of Pandora's rifle, so close that it dripped with blood. It was on her face, in her hair, and clung like red raindrops to her jacket fringe.
