This is the sixth.
We were only teenagers when Gemini broke apart, revealing its deep stores of indigo to the galaxy. In another decade, it would all be gone, every last wave extracted by twins shipped from nearby star systems to make a better life for their parents. A decade or less left, claimed the latest estimates. But that would still be enough time for Lila and I to be enshrined as the greatest indigo extractors of all time. Maybe we'd even get a shard of Gemini with our names etched in indigo. They'd done it for Castor and Pollux Troy, why not Lila and Leelu Swann?
"Hmm," was Lila's response when I mentioned the idea.
"It'd be a nice little gesture from The Company for all we've done, don't you think?"
"What have we done, though? I mean really. I can't remember the last time we left this rock, did anything other than drill or drink, saw anything other than one half or the other of this dying planet. Are we really going to do this for another decade?"
"This again? Those are some awfully existential questions. Have you been sneaking bursts of indigo?"
"I just want something more than this, Lee. You used to, too—back before Mom signed the contract."
"Oh, get over it. She saw an opportunity and she took it, which is what I thought we were doing. We're the best there's ever been at what we do, and what we do makes worlds better for our elders."
"I'm tired of living my life for someone else's benefit."
"Got one."
I'd hit ore and we sprang into action: me angling the prism, she threading the spectrum. This happened every anniversary, the existential questioning. The younger ones struggle the most with acceptance. Kids.