Eventually the matter was settled: The Houston group under Jones would put forward one candidate, and the Bangalore group its own. The top vote-getter would become “mayor” and the runner-up would chair a council of seven. The council would be elected directly after that, three from whichever group won the mayoral job, four from the other. “That should give us some kind of balance,” Jones said. He was the one who had proposed the winning formula.

“In spite of the fact that there are more Bangalores than Houston folks,” Scott said.

Makali Pillay stood up. “We can’t re-create representative democracy here, and we don’t need to. I believe you have a saying at NASA. ‘Perfect is the enemy of good enough.’ This formula is good enough.”

Everyone would get one vote, including Rachel but minus Camilla and the baby. Zack searched out the girl, who had been his only companion for two days. She was sitting by herself…not truly apart from the Houston or Bangalore groups, but in her own world.

He could hear far-off barking. The dog…

Everyone broke to search for food. Zack assumed the “weather” would stay the way it was—a permanent hazy overcast, much like the famed California marine layer—meaning they would not have to scramble for shelter.

True, most or all could fit into the giant ground-floor chamber that had been the domain of the Architect, the outsized alien being Zack and Megan had followed into the Factory habitat, to their great regret. But it would be tight and nasty.

Just pondering that made him think of Megan, and Keanu’s brand of life, death, a sort of life again. He went searching for Rachel, just for the mere sight and touch of her.

ARRIVAL DAY: HARLEY

Not that it was the kind of activity Harley Drake sought, or even considered, but exhaustion, immobility, and hunger combined to make him an observer at the group meal near the wall of the Temple.

The impromptu foraging parties had produced a decent feast—food enough for everyone, it seemed. Not that Zack Stewart was much cheered by the accomplishment. “Two hundred people eat, what?” he said. “Two, two and a half kilograms of food a day?”

“Sounds about right,” Harley said. He had some memory of the figures, since they had been relevant to planning for long-term space missions. At the moment, however, he was too busy gnawing at one of the purple “vege-fruits,” to use Sasha’s handy term, to think about logistics.

“That’s half a metric ton of food every day. Throw in four liters of water…I mean, we’ve got some kind of big pond not far from here. Don’t know what feeds it, though—”

“You’re saying we need a lot of food and water every day.”

“I’m saying we managed to find enough nearby for one day. It was handy.”

“‘Low-hanging fruit’?”

“Literally. What about tomorrow?”

“Excellent question,” Harley said. He had been doing rough measurements of the habitat, which seemed to be about ten kilometers long, a third as many wide. Call it thirty square kilometers. Even if every square meter was used to grow food—and there was no way even half of the area would be suitable—how much could be produced? This was far outside Harley’s comfort zone; he had vague memories of the amount of acreage needed to support, say, an American farm family of the early twentieth century…. How did the conversion from acres to kilometers go again? What other factors affected things?

Zack was doing the same calculations, likely with more precision. He said, “The numbers aren’t promising.”

“Not for human technology or agriculture,” Harley said. “But look at the bright side: Your Architects must have designed this to support humans, and you’ve got to believe they wouldn’t scoop up two hundred if they didn’t want that many.”

“I really, really want to agree with that. But, look, I’m telling you this, but don’t repeat it: I’m not sure all the systems here are working right.”

“Oh, come on—”

Zack reminded him of how the Sentry seemed ill-suited to the environment or its mission, about the lack of night in a human habitat, about strange shifts in weather…about Megan. “What I’m saying is, this is an old, old vehicle…we shouldn’t be surprised if it’s got its share of malfunctions.”

Before Harley could press him further, Rachel arrived, redirecting Zack’s attention.

Harley was relieved. There were times when a man just needed to sit back, enjoy what was on the plate before him—or, in this case, in his messy hands.

Which was how he came to observe Rachel and the strange Brazilian girl, Camilla, in their different approaches to Keanu dining. Both were dealing with one of the purple vege-fruits, but whereas Camilla was happily chomping away, juice running down her chin as she chattered with a Russian woman, Rachel was struggling to peel each morsel, clearly forcing herself to eat. Camilla seemed to have found someone—likely the only person in the group—who spoke Portuguese. That would make anyone happier, especially a lonely nine-year-old girl. Her conversational companion was a middle-aged woman Harley had seen talking with Dale Scott not long before—a person she obviously knew.

He was curious about this girl. But Rachel’s voice was commanding his attention now. “Tell me we’re going to find something else to eat,” she was saying to Zack.

“We’ll get through this,” Zack said. “Whenever one door closes, another opens.”

“You sound like Mom.” Although Rachel’s tone was typically flip, Zack detected a quaver that could, with very little encouragement, lead to a meltdown. She turned to Harley. “Doesn’t he sound like my mom?”

This was dangerous conversational territory for a variety of reasons—Harley would no more get between a daughter and father than he would between wife and husband.

And the whole idea of Megan, and Harley’s role in her death…well, no, do not go there. “Harley wants to stay out of our argument,” Zack told Rachel.

Then he glanced at Harley, as if to say, I’m going in…save yourself. He told Rachel, “Look, you always said not to B.S. you.”

“Since when did you start listening to what I wanted?”

“I always listened, kiddo.” He smiled. “Sometimes I just didn’t do what you asked.”

“Sometimes?”

Zack elected to change the subject by using a physical prop. “Here, try this instead.” He offered Rachel a different vege-fruit, this one more barklike. “I’ve been gnawing on this for a whole day and it hasn’t killed me yet.”

“Ha-ha.”

But she tried it. “It’s like…what is that, herky jerky?”

“Beef jerky. But herky jerky might be a good name for it. You like it?”

“Better than that purple crap.”

“Hunger does wonders for the appetite.”

“Now you sound like Grandma.” And so the latest emotional crisis passed. Rachel brought Harley back into the discussion. “Both of you keep watching her,” Rachel said. “Camilla.”

“Because they brought her back, right?” Harley said. He hesitated only a moment. This was too important a matter to be put aside just to spare feelings.

“Exactly,” Zack said. He lowered his voice. “And because they brought her back, and she’s the only one that’s still alive. Megan and the others…didn’t last more than a couple of days.”

“Who’s ‘they’?” Rachel said, too loudly.

“The Architects,” Zack said. “That seems to be the name for the aliens that run the place, or rather, ran it. We only met one, and he’s dead.”

Harley watched Rachel as she took in this information. To any child born in the last fifty years, this was just some familiar sci-fi story.

But it was also real. And involved her parents. Harley could only liken it to the way in which real combat—something he had played at as a kid, and studied for years—suddenly became real.

It had not been pleasant for him. This could not be pleasant for Rachel.