Lifespan of Starlight Read Online Free Page A

and carry it proudly to our room. Alistair and the Richardsons use the big
share kitchen to prepare their meals, but Mum installed a small stovetop and sink
in our room years ago so our split ration sizes aren’t obvious to everyone else in
the house.
    The veg sausages are sizzling nicely when Mum comes home from work. She makes a questioning
sound and frowns at the pan. ‘Hold on, there must be a mistake.’
    ‘No mistake.’ I make a big show of dropping mushrooms into the pan then lift a whole
orange out of the box.
    Mum grabs my arm before I can slice the orange in two. ‘Wait, I didn’t order any
of this. We’ll have to trigger a return request.’
    ‘It’s fine, Mum. Trust me.’ I slice the orange in half, take her hand and guide her
to her armchair. ‘Now, sit and eat.’
    For some reason I can’t get enough of the confusion on her face as I balance a plate
on her knees. She just stares at the orange half in front of her. I can see her calculating
how many weeks of hunger we face if we’re charged for it.
    ‘Enjoy.’ I leave her sitting there and get back to stirring the mushrooms. The veg
sausages seem dry but they smell delicious.
    Mum’s only eaten a quarter of her orange when I turn back, so I carry our two plates
over and sit next to her.
    ‘You can eat all of that, you know.’ I settle in and take a bite of sausage.
    Mum watches me for a while and then her eyes track down to the pile on her plate.
Finally, she turns to me again. ‘What’s going on?’
    A grin with full cheeks. ‘Told you I’d handle it.’ The sausage is sort of disgusting
and sort of delicious at the same time.
    Mum watches me eat, her mouth a straight line. ‘Coutlyn, what have you done?’
    Fork on the plate, I click the comscreen on and bring up my deets. My name. My address.
My ration points. At least the glitch doesn’t seem to be affecting the stuff I added.
    Mum blinks, still taking it in, then motions with her hand to bring up her own deets.
They’re all still there. She turns to me and at last I see a flicker of delight cross
her eyes.
    ‘I know, right?’ I raise my eyebrows at the amazingness of it all and finally Mum
lets out a disbelieving laugh. It’s the best sound in the universe.
    ‘But … how ?’ she asks, shaking her head.
    ‘Well …’ I cringe. ‘It’s probably best if you don’t know, but from now on you’ll
have your own rations all to yourself. Pretty good, huh?’
    Mum’s smile threatens to fade. I can see her fighting to hold it in place. ‘Scout,
tell me how this happened.’
    I have no idea how to say this. I’ve been shuffling through various versions in my
mind – everything between an outright lie and simply refusing to say anything – but
I realise now that I can’t lie about this, not to Mum.
    Carefully I take her through last night, trying to make it clear that I didn’t plan
any of it. Mum’s quiet as I talk, listening rather than reacting. There might have
been a time when death freaked people out; I’ve studied the same history course as
chipped kids who go to school. But these days we see death all the time. On the news,
for a start, but also when retirees on 300 ration points a day waste away, or when
unchipped refugees can’t access water.
    Mum asks some questions about the woman. I say nothing about the weird stuff on her
history map. Mum nods faintly once or twice but otherwise stares at the floorboards
as she takes it all in. So then I move straight into the deets I’ve already added online. How no-one, not even government officials, could tell that the chip wasn’t
on my wrist since I was born.
    It’s only when I tell Mum that I’ve registered for the select-entry test that she
snaps back into focus. ‘Wait. You’ve registered already?’
    ‘Yeah. So? I thought that’s what you wanted.’
    She doesn’t reply, just leaves the plate on the arm of the chair, stands and takes
a few steps towards the comscreen; it’s black now, on standby, but still