The day Owen left Earth, the last thing he saw was his dog.

He was six years old. The fires had exploded like a violent tangle of red flowers blooming too quickly. Following Emergency Protocol, his parents had bundled him into the helicar; all around, pods rose above curling smoke. Realizing they had forgotten Sparrow, Owen sobbed, nose pressed to the glass. His dog sat in the driveway, gazing up at him.

She didn’t bark as the torrent of flames closed in around her.

* * *

Nis Kal was his home planet now. Owen had been a biologist on Fed ships for decades, but when a Researcher post opened on the newly discovered planet, he leapt at it. His wife had died years before, but their daughter Sarah and her family lived with him on-planet at Fed Station 3, tucked among the nodding fronds.

Owen had immediately fallen in love with Nis Kal. On Fed ships growing up, he’d thumbed endlessly through his parents’ photoreels of Earth, their colors spinning beneath his eyelids at night. Here, everything shone. Emerald waves lapped at the shore, sending sprays of lavender foam surging onto the sand; trees overflowed with blossoms and jewel-like birds.

Owen documented all the fauna, but one species particularly enchanted him. The Palata’Kal looked like a cross between antelopes and jaguars, with lithe, white-striped legs, spiraling horns, and intelligent golden eyes. Initially, Owen had spooked them, but over time he’d gained their trust. The turning point was when the herd’s matriarch - whom he named A’Palat - decided he was a friend. He suspected that a pile of particularly juicy p’ele fruit had convinced her.

A’Palat was a remarkable leader. The herd, Owen noticed, wouldn’t go anywhere, wouldn’t eat anything, wouldn’t even lay down to sleep, without her guidance. He doubted they would survive without her. It was, as were so many things on Nis Kal, curious and delightful, odd and charming. At least once a day, he’d wiggle his eyebrows at his grandchildren over the dining table. “Nis Kal, my dears,” he’d say, “is pure magic.”

* * *

Sometimes, he dreamed he was in the helicar again. He could see deer in the trees, leaping through tongues of flame. One by one, he saw them stumble and fall. Always, he watched Sparrow as she watched him, growing smaller and smaller amongst the billowing black clouds until his tears blurred her from sight.

* * *

On his eightieth birthday, he rose early. It would be a regular day. He would take his vitamin, listen to the hiss of his helmet locking into his rebreather suit, and step out of the airlock into the warmth of the twin suns. Rummaging in his pockets for his vitamins, he scooped out syringes, HydrEssence tablets, and binoculars onto the table. He had just found the vitamins when he heard voices. Turning, he saw his family, wearing cone-shaped hats, clutching sparklers, and carrying a cake and a sign. He grinned.

“Happy Birthday to you,” they sang, voices wonderfully off-key. Owen had taught them this relic of Earth life, and they sang it every year.

“We wanted to surprise you with your favorite food,” Sarah said, pecking him on the cheek.

“You managed to find deep-dish pizza?” Owen joked. He hugged her. “This is perfect. Thank you.” She served him cake; the sweetness bloomed like spring on his tongue.

“Owen, something’s happening.” His son-in-law was pointing outside. It was A’Palat. She was staggering, mouth agape and sides heaving, speckled tongue lolling and smothered in froth.

Owen recognized the symptoms. She had been bitten by a venomous Ansh’Kal. He charged into the airlock, impatiently waiting for his helmet to seal before he rushed outside. As he approached, A’Palat collapsed. She gazed up at him, eyes misted with pain, and let out a low, keening cry.

“I know, I know,” he murmured. He found the bite at the base of her neck, two pink holes withering to grey. Patting his suit, Owen cursed. He didn’t have an extra syringe. He always had an extra syringe.

He glanced back towards the Station, half-obscured behind a tumble of rocks. His family was craning their necks, conical hats bobbing. His grandson had smeared frosting on his face, and he watched as Sarah turned to wipe his cheeks, laughing. Owen closed his eyes.

Charred carcasses of foxes and rabbits strewn on pavement. Birds crying, lost within sooty clouds.

He pictured a young Palata’Kal, bounding over the sand, hooting with joy. His memory shifted and he saw the entire herd, sound asleep, curled together in a sun-dappled grove. A’Palat raised her head at the crunch of his footsteps, blinking sleep from her golden eyes, and let them fall shut again.

He removed his helmet and knelt to suck out the venom.

* * *

When he returned, everybody had sunk into chairs, yawning. The cake was half eaten on a table in the corner, a dimple in the frosting where it had been swiped by a pudgy hand. Somebody had affixed the sign - “HAPPY 80TH, DAD/GRANDDAD” - to the table. Owen smiled.

Sarah stood. “Everything OK? I couldn’t see you.”

“I’m fine,” he reassured her. “Ansh’Kal bite. I extracted the venom. That’s why you keep extra syringes handy.” He winked and patted her shoulder. “Now, where’s my cake? I want to properly enjoy it.”

As he ate, his grandchildren waddling about, he felt a rising tide within him, a swell of warmth. The outside air he had inhaled when he removed his helmet was starting to take effect, but Owen was not frightened. He gazed at his family. The suns warmed his back.

“Look!”

A’Palat stood by the windows, breath clouding the glass. She held Owen’s gaze. His vision was darkening, violet fog seeping around the corners of his mind.

“Sarah,” he said, and his tone made her turn. “I have no regrets. Everything is as it should be.” As she searched his face, confused and alarmed, he exhaled deeply and closed his eyes, leaning into her arms.

Sparrow, I’ll see you soon.