Leaning in close to the camera on my phone, so my eye filled the view area, I yelled my catchphrase, “That was InZane!” Then I leaned back. “InZane Vidman out!” Tapping the red button, I stopped the recording.
My name is Zane Torres. But to hundreds of thousands of fans, I was known as InZane Vidman. My videos went viral almost every week. I’m still not sure what the magic was, but I had it. People loved my stuff.
Back in the old days, a top-end VidTuber could get millions of viewers. But with the Exodus, there were barely a million people on Earth, all together. I had hoped some of my videos would get delivered to Sally Ride, our new home planet, when the Magellan left the next month, and that millions of viewers would be waiting for more when I arrived two years later. It took ten years to get there, but passengers spent that time in cold sleep. If I could stockpile enough videos, I’d still be relevant two years after they arrived—right when I did.
I sat back in my chair and uploaded the video to my computer. Taking only a few minutes, I edited the content, cutting out the dead airtime and that false start at the beginning. Then I pressed upload.
Nothing happened.
Rolling my eyes, I checked the internet status. Out, again. I checked the hardware, but everything on my end was good, so it had to be a system outage. With a sigh, I set the video to upload when the connection went green, then locked the login screen. I didn’t need my stepbrother, “Dozer,” messing with my hardware or accounts. I’d learned that the hard way, months ago.
It was late—past curfew, but Dozer wasn’t back yet. “Dozer” wasn’t his real name, of course. But he was a weightlifter—really huge—so everyone called him that instead of Paul. That night, he’d gone to an underground concert. He frequently rolled in after hours. Dozer’s dad, Howard, didn’t care, and my mom had been gone for almost a year. Dozer’s mom was an unknown quantity. I had never met the woman, and as far as I knew, she hadn’t seen her own son since he was very young.
A tap on the window startled me. I peeked through the gap in the curtains, then ripped them open. Starla Everbright blew me a kiss. It should have looked odd with her PAC—Personal Air Cleaner—on, but everything Starla did looked amazing. I hadn’t expected to see her tonight, and I felt a warm glow in my chest. I gave her my best “hey, babe, good to see you” smile, winked, and pointed to the door. No one in their right mind would open a window—there was no way to keep the polluted air out. I’d meet her in the lobby, as always.
I opened the bedroom door a crack, but the living room was dark. No one on the couch, so Howard must be asleep. Probably drunk. I ghosted through the living room and out the front door.
Starla ran up the hall to meet me, throwing her arms around me. I wanted to kiss her, but she pressed her face against the curve of my neck. I reveled in the warmth of her body pressing against mine, and my heart skipped into overdrive.
When she pulled away, my neck felt damp and cool. “Are you crying?”
Starla pressed her fingers under her eyes and sniffed. “I—” Tears started to trickle down her cheeks. She wiped them away, carefully using a tissue to blot without streaking her makeup.
Starla was beautiful. Dark eyes with thick eyelashes, perfect lips, wavy, gleaming hair, amazing body with strong arms and legs, and a perfect figure. She’d be beautiful even without her makeup and expensive clothes, but I’d never seen her that way. She ran a very successful beauty channel on VidTube. She never left home without looking perfect—it was an essential part of her brand.
That’s how we met—at a virtual con for VidTube high-earners. I was one of the top VidTube influencers and Starla headlined their beauty channels. All of them. We’d been on a panel together—the video of our argument had gone viral. Fans shipped us faster than you can click a like button. We stayed in touch after the con, and when I discovered she lived in Washington DC, I’d wrangled a trip into the city to meet her.
We’d been almost inseparable since. Well, at least when we could get together. Starla lived in the city—her dad was a big cheese in the government. I lived out in the housing blocks of Maryland. I didn’t have a car, and the Metro had become unreliable in recent years. So, I lived for those days when Starla came to visit.
“Why are you crying?” I asked, trying to pull her back into my arms.
She resisted. “I have some bad news,” she said, looking away.
I wanted to reach out again, but her tone put me on edge. I kept my hands at my sides. “What?”
“We’re going Upstairs tomorrow.” She blurted it out in a rush. “I’m so sorry!”
“What?” I stared at her, my brain spinning. It didn’t make sense. “I thought you were going on the next ship. With me. We’re supposed to go together!”
“I know,” Starla’s voice broke. “That was the plan. But my dad—”
“Tell him you won’t go. You’re almost eighteen. You can decide for yourself. We’ll go together, on the Explorer.”
“I know,” she repeated. “I told him I wanted to wait. It’s only two more years.”
“Tell him you won’t go!” I repeated. “You can just stay here with me! Or we can go somewhere else. Together. Just don’t go with them.”
“I have to go!” She bit her lip.
My eyes narrowed. “There’s something else. What aren’t you telling me?”
She turned away, rubbing her hands up and down her arms as if she were cold. The temperature-controlled housing blocks stayed at a steady seventy-two degrees, year around, so she couldn’t be chilled.
“I—Daddy—” She took a deep breath. “I wasn’t supposed to tell you, but Daddy says there won’t be another ship.” She glanced over her shoulder at me, the tears still shimmering in her eyes.
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