Dreaming of the Stars

by Cora Buhlert

  Lalita pouted, but she nodded.

  “Anyway…” Anjali continued, “…next year I’m going to go the recruitment centre at Chettikan and I’m going to sign up for the Shakyri Corps.”

  “The Shakyri?” Both her sisters stared at her with their mouths wide open.

  “You can’t,” Lalita blurted out.

  “Sure I can.”

  “The Shakyri are the best warriors in the universe. They won’t take you.”

  “Sure they will,” Anjali declared with more confidence than she really felt, “At school, I’m the best at sports. Athletics, martial arts, you name it. I’m the best.”

  “You’re a girl,” Lalita pointed out, “The Shakyri don’t take girls.”

  “Sure they do. If they’re good enough.”

  “I’ve never seen a girl Shakyri,” Lalita insisted, “The ones that march in the great parade for the Emperor’s birthday are all men.”

  Anjali had watched that parade as well. She’d watched the warriors of the Imperial Shakyri Expeditionary Corps, men and women from Rajipuri — well, mostly men — march past His Majesty, the Emperor himself in their splendid green and gold uniforms. She’d watched them salute the Emperor, watched as the Emperor, supreme ruler of the universe, had returned that salute.

  The sight had made her heart swell with pride, for here were men and women of Rajipuri, lowly born peasants like herself, standing before the Emperor himself, their bravery recognised and acknowledged by all. For the Shakyri warriors were the Empire’s elite troops, best of the best, the stuff of legends, bravest and most skilled fighter in the whole universe.

  And Anjali wanted to be a part of that. She wanted to make a difference, wanted to march through the streets of the capital in a splendid uniform of her own, wanted to salute her Emperor and feel his smile warm her face.

  “The great Vijaya Rai was a woman,” she said, “A peasant girl from Rajiuri who joined the Shakyri Corps and saved the life of the Emperor himself.”

  Well, the Emperor’s father, since the great Vijaya Rai had been dead for fifty years now, fallen in battle against the Republic.

  “Yes, but the great Vijaya Rai was a legend,” Lalita pointed out, “The stuff of vid dramas.”

  “New legends are born every day,” Anjali said, “Or do you think I don’t have what it takes to be a legend?”

  “I don’t know about legends, but I know you don’t have what it takes to be a vid heroine,” Lalita declared.

  “I think you do,” Sundari piped in, “I think you could be a great heroine just like Vijaya Rai one day. And I’ll fly on one of those spaceships some day. And maybe, I’ll even be the one to fly you into battle.”

  Anjali squeezed Sundari’s hand, absurdly touched by her little sister’s confidence in her. “I’d like that.”

  “You’ll only get yourselves killed,” Lalita said darkly, “Just like Vijaya Rai.”

  Anjali shrugged. “Everybody has to die some day. And it’s better to die fighting for something you believe in. Just like Vijaya Rai.”

  “Mama and Papa won’t let you go,” Lalita declared, “They’ll forbid it.”

  “Once I turn fifteen, I can apply for the Shakyri Corps without their permission,” Anjali countered, “I looked it up.”

  But Lalita wasn’t quite out of arguments yet. “When you run off to join the Shakyri Corps, no one will ever marry you. You’ll be…” Lalita struggled, looking for the word. “…committed?”

  “Compromised, you mean? Yeah, maybe I will be. But that’s okay. I don’t want to get married anyway.”

  Girls married young on Rajipuri, particularly peasant girls like Anjali. And mostly, they didn’t have much of a say in the matter.

  There’s been a girl at her school, a few years older than Anjali. She’d been an excellent runner, swimmer, martial artist. Certainly good enough to join the Shakyri Corps. But once she finished school, she’d gotten married to a boy from the neighbouring village her parents had chosen for her. Anjali still saw her sometimes at the market. She had a baby by now and had grown soft and flabby and never played sports any more. She’d grown boring.

  Anjali didn’t want that. She never had. It wasn’t that she minded boys, boys were perfectly all right for brawling and playing ball and as sparring partners. But that didn’t mean she wanted to marry one of them. Besides, sparring only with the same person for the rest of her life sounded very boring.

  Lalita’s eyes, meanwhile, went wide. “You don’t want to get married? But everybody wants to get married.”

  “Well, I don’t,” Anjali declared.

  “Me neither,” Sundari added.

  Lalita still couldn’t believe it. “Never? Not even to a vid star?”

  “What would I do with a vid star?” Anjali said, “And besides, it’s not as if either of us has much of a chance of catching a vid star anyway.”

  “What about a prince of the Imperial house?” Lalita wanted to know.

  “As far as I know, they’re all married. And besides, princes of the Imperial house don’t normally marry peasant girls from Rajipuri.”

  “In the vids they do,” Lalita insisted. She had a thing for vid melodramas, particularly the ridiculous romantic ones. Not that Anjali didn’t watch vid melodramas — the fight scenes were usually good — but Lalita was obsessive about it.

  “Yeah, but that’s vids. Not real life.”

  “But if you pretend you were a vid heroine, isn’t there anybody you’d want to marry? Anybody at all?”

  Anjali considered that question for a moment. “A great warrior,” she finally said, “The best there is. That’s a husband I could respect.” Never mind that he’d make one hell of a sparring partner.

  “I want a pilot,” Sundari added, though no one had asked, “The pilot of a spaceship. The best pilot in the galaxy.”

  “And where better to find a great warrior than among the best warriors of the galaxy?” Anjali said, “And where better to find a pilot than aboard a spaceship?”

  Lalita shook her head, upsetting the wreath she’d so laboriously wrought. “You’re both insane. And you’ll both get yourselves killed.”

  Anjali shook her head. “No, we won’t. We’ll be careful.”

  Sundari nodded emphatically.

  “It’s still wrong,” Lalita insisted, “People like us, peasants, we don’t get to go to the stars.”

  “Rajak was a peasant boy from our village and he left to join the Navy. Vijaya Rai was a peasant girl from Rajipuri and she became a Shakyri warrior and saved the life of the Emperor himself. If they could go out there to the stars, then why not us?”

  Lalita didn’t have an answer to that, so she quoted one of Mama’s. “Because some things just aren’t done.”

  “If our ancestors had felt that way, we’d still be stuck in the overcrowded slums of Old Earth,” Anjali countered, “Sometimes, you’ve got to step into the unknown. And sometimes, you have to gather together all your courage to leave the life you know behind.”

  She turned to her sister.

  “What about you, Lalita? Where would you go, if you could go anywhere at all?”

  Lalita blushed and lowered her eyes. “It’s stupid…”

  “More stupid than wanting to join the Shakyri Corps or wanting to serve aboard an interstellar spaceship?”

  Lalita still said nothing.

  “Come on, we told you our plans for the future, so tell us yours,” Anjali prompted.

  Lalita was still wrestling with herself. Finally, she too a deep breath and blurted out, “All right, if I could do anything, anything at all, I… well, I’d go to Lakshmidi to become a vid star.”

  Anjali was a little surprised, but she shouldn’t have been. After all, Lalita had been obsessed with vid melodramas and their stars for years, so it only made sense that she’d want to perform in the vids.

  Plus, Lalita certainly had what it took to become a vid star. She was beautiful — or rather would be one day — she had a lovely singing voi
ce and the natural grace of a dancer. She was good at reciting poetry by heart, too.

  Sometimes, when they didn’t think Anjali was listening, Mama and Papa said that it would be no problem to find a good match for Lalita, that potential suitors would queue up to court a girl with her qualities (unlike Anjali, who had no useful qualities and would be difficult to marry off, was the unspoken implication). She suspected Mama and Papa wouldn’t be happy that Lalita had other plans for her life.

  So Anjali reached out to take her sister’s hand. “I think you can make it. You’ve certainly got what it takes.”

  “You’ll be a very big star one day,” Sundari added, “And maybe I’ll fly you around the galaxy in a private yacht.” She flashed Anjali a gap-toothed smile. “Sorry.”

  “That’s all right,” Anjali said, for truth to be told she’d feel much better, if Sundari were serving on a civilian spaceship far away from any war zone, “The Imperial military has plenty of pilots. And someone has to take care of Lalita, lest she be mugged by adoring fans.”

  Sundari giggled at that thought.

  Lalita’s eyes went wide. “So you think I should really go for it?”

  “Of course, you should. It’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  Lalita looked doubtful. “But what about Mama and Papa and Grandmama? What will become of them, when we all leave?”

  “We’ll visit,” Anjali said breezily, “We’ll visit as often as we can and then we’ll tell everybody of our adventures among the stars. And besides, they’ve still got Milan.”

  Milan, who had never wanted anything else than become a silversmith. He was good at it, too. Anjali had seen his practice pieces.

  “Milan can make your jewellery, when you’re a big vid star,” Sundari said. Lalita giggled at the idea.

  Anjali watched her sisters fondly. “I’ve still got a special treat in the fresh box,” she announced, “Ice cream for all of us. So how about it?”

  The two younger girls erupted into a loud cheer.

  A few minutes later, the sisters sat on their thermo blanket in the mountain meadow, happily eating the ice cream Anjali had brought.

  There was another deafening roar and a spacecraft streaked past overhead. A big one, probably an interstellar liner or a mega-transport. Sundari would know.

  All three girls looked up longingly. One day, they’d be on a ship like that, leaving behind the only life they’d ever known. One day soon…

  II. Mikhail

  Half a galaxy away, on the far edge of the Republic of United Planets, one of the two great polities that had divided the galaxy amongst themselves, lay Wamsler IV. It was a cold and miserable rock with a breathable atmosphere, but hardly any vegetation. Just rocks and mud and more mud.

  Wamsler IV had been a mining colony once, but the demands of the war effort had long stripped the world of any useful resources. So the Scientific Council in its infinite wisdom had decided to put the used-up colony to another use, namely to house the masses of refugees displace by its ongoing seventy-seven year war with the Empire of Worlds.

  Juvenile Camp 12M8 was a facility for war orphans, though you wouldn’t know it by the looks of it. Instead, the place looked more like a prison than an orphanage. Rows of drab pre-fab barracks sat on the muddy ground, surrounded by an electrified perimeter fence tall enough to keep even the most nimble of youths inside. The single gate was manned by uniformed guards twenty-four seven.

  Loitering near that gate, though not near enough to attract any undue attention from the guards, was Mikhail Alexeievich Grikov, one of the more than two thousand children and adolescents housed at Juvenile Camp 12M8.

  Mikhail was a lanky boy with pale skin, dark hair cropped brutally short and brilliant blue eyes. The drab blue uniform worn by all inmates of Camp 12M8 hung loosely from his skinny frame, too big and too small at the same time, for a recent growth spurt had left the sleeves and legs too short.

  Though the uniform at least hid the bruises that covered his body. Discipline was swift and harsh for troublemakers at Juvenile Camp 12M8. And Mikhail was considered a habitual troublemaker.

  One of the gate guards was looking his way, so Mikhail quickly ducked back into the shadows between the barracks, lest he catch another beating for whatever stupid rule he was breaking this time. He leant against the wall of the barrack and tried to ignore his growling stomach. The daily calorie allowance of one thousand eight hundred calories was never enough for his growing body, leaving him perpetually hungry.

  Mikhail was fifteen years old. He’d been at Camp 12M8 for seven years now.

  He’d been born on Jagellowsk, a world of extensive woodlands and yellow wheat fields, once called the breadbasket of the Republic. Mikhail had spent his first eight years on Jagellowsk, growing up on a farm among those wheat fields with his parents, grandparents, an older sister called Katya and a dog called Laika. They were all gone now, blown up along with his homeworld by an Imperial superweapon. Mikhail was the only one left.

  In seven years on Wamsler IV, Mikhail had learned to lock away his memories of his family and his homeworld in his heart, so no one could take them from him, just like they’d taken everything else. His clothes, his hair, shorn brutally short so it was easier to manage, his language, for the camp guards punished the kids for not speaking Standard, even among themselves, even his name, for the official camp records only listed him as Mikhail Grikov, aged fifteen, omitting the patronymic, since the database had no field for it.

  Mikhail did not care. In his heart, he was Mikhail Alexeievich Grikov of Jagellowsk, son of Alexei and Irina, brother of Katya, and would always be.

  There was some kind of commotion at the gate. Curious, Mikhail peeked out from his hiding place to see what was going on.

  A ground car had arrived, military issue, the very latest model. The car stopped duly at the gate, the guards requested identification and the driver’s reason for being there. Apparently, they weren’t satisfied with the answer, but then Mikhail privately suspected that there was no answer in the universe that would satisfy the gate guards. At any rate, an argument erupted that caused the driver to step out of the car.

  It was a man, dressed in a uniform of a Republican officer. He was middle-aged and not overly tall with a stocky built. His skin was light, his reddish hair was threaded with grey and he had a neatly clipped beard. And though the man might not look like much, he nonetheless radiated authority and even caused the camp guards, who normally considered themselves God or at the very least, one step beneath him, to become uncommonly deferential.

  Mikhail’s mouth flashed a rare smile, as he emerged from his hiding place and sauntered towards the gate.

  He arrived just in time to hear the visitor pronounce in a thundering voice. “Well, I don’t care what your superior said, you will fetch the boy now. Or you can call your superior and I’ll take it to him.”

  The man spotted Mikhail.

  “On the other hand, don’t bother. Here he is.”

  “You still can’t take the boy,” the guard argued, “He’s got detention.”

  “And why?”

  “Because he broke the rules. And I can’t really take the responsibility for releasing him to you.”

  “Fine,” the man roared, “I’ll take full responsibility then. Do I need to sign anything?” He reached into the breast pocket of his uniform, withdrew a wallet and flipped it open. “Or will this suffice?”

  The guard paled. “Th… thank you, sir, but this will suffice perfectly,” he stammered and even managed a crisp salute.

  The guard spotted Mikhail. “You there, Grikov. The Major wants to have a word with you.” He lowered his voice. “And if you’ve done anything, then…”

  “He hasn’t done anything,” the Major interrupted, “In fact, I’m just visiting an old friend.”

  Mikhail wasn’t certain whether he would describe the Major as an old friend, though he supposed it was as accurate a description of their relationship as any.

  Seven
years ago, Major Brian Mayhew, then still the newly promoted Captain Brian Mayhew, had commanded one of the ships detailed to evacuate as much of Jagellowsk as possible before the planet killer tore the world apart. Mayhew had stuffed every square metre of his ship with children, violating pretty much every safety regulation there was. He’d even plucked an eight year old boy from the arms of his desperate older sister — at thirteen just above the maximum evacuation age — and personally carried the boy on board in his arms, holding on to him through all the horror that followed.

  That boy had been Mikhail Alexeievich Grikov and he’d never forgotten the man who’d rescued him. Neither had Brian Mayhew.

  He gave Mikhail a kindly smile. “Come on, boy, hop inside.”

  So Mikhail got into the passenger side of the ground car, careful so his grimy uniform wouldn’t soil the new synth-leather seats. His backside hurt, as he sat down, due to the beating he’d received the night before.

  Mayhew got in on the driver’s side and gave Mikhail the once over. “You’ve grown,” he remarked matter of factly, “But you’re also way too thin. What are they feeding you in this place?”

  Mikhail shrugged. “Nutri-bars and protein sludge. It supposedly has all the required nutrients…”

  “And tastes like shit. Yeah, I remember that stuff from basic training.” Mayhew turned to Mikhail and flashed him a quick smile. “Come on, let’s get you something decent to eat. You look like you could use it.”

  He activated the engine and the car glid smoothly away from the camp.

  “Sir…” Mikhail began hesitantly.

  Mayhew gave him a curt nod to go on.

  “What was in that wallet you showed the guard?”

  “Military ID and universal authorisation,” Mayhew replied, “It comes in real handy when cutting through red tape. Of course, it’s only supposed to be used in cases of national emergency, but…” He winked at Mikhail. “…I’m sure you won’t tell anybody.”

  “No, sir, I won’t.”

  Mayhew took Mikhail to the District Diner, a drab eatery in a nearby town that would never win any gourmet awards, but whose offerings were nonetheless lightyears better than what Mikhail had all year.