The Last Planet Is a Forgery

How it begins

The coastline had been painted left-handed.

Inez saw it from the shuttle window, a hesitation in the curve of the eastern bay. Three strokes, a correction, then the same flourish she had authenticated on a canvas no larger than her palm.

The pilot mistook her silence for admiration.

“Beautiful, isn't it?”

“Yes,” she said. “That may become a problem.”

At the landing field, a schoolteacher waited with twelve children and a banner welcoming the imperial survey. Inez had expected a geological team. Instead, a girl presented her with a stone that looked like a sleeping rabbit.

“For your collection,” the teacher said.

“Rafi Kess. We thought you would be interested in local materials.”

Inez turned the stone in her hand. Ordinary basalt. Warm from the child's pocket.

Beyond the field, the hills rose in the exact shade of blue used by a woman who had been dead for four centuries.

“Has anyone surveyed the underside of your northern moon?” she asked.

Rafi glanced at the children. “Not as a school activity.”

“I need a clear image.”

He brought her to the observatory above the classroom. On the stairs hung photographs of graduating pupils, weather reports, a notice about the lost-property cupboard. Three hundred years of people being late, falling in love, building things, and failing to return library books.

The moon appeared on the screen.

At its southern edge, half concealed beneath dust, was a signature.

Inez sat down. Rafi waited beside the open classroom door.

Rafi read her face before she could speak. “Tell me what you've found.”

Her employer's instructions were precise: confirm authenticity, certify ownership, identify unauthorized imitations.

Downstairs, the children were arguing over who should keep the welcome banner.

Inez placed the rabbit-shaped stone beside the keyboard.

“First,” she said, “tell me how long your family has lived here.”