The Redwood Trilogy Box Set

by Jaxon Reed

  They nodded in understanding, and for once didn’t fight or even express jealousy. I think they were excited to be in a wedding. None of us had ever been part of a marriage ceremony before.

  Of course, word leaked out and the teen mags went nuts, printing all sorts of gossip.

  The headline for one read, “ENGAGED!” and had photos of us kissing somewhere in public. I’d never seen the photographers, and wondered how they’d managed to get that close. A breathless story inside revealed a few details the reporter knew, and lots of speculation. Some of what he reported as fact had to have been made up on the spot when writing the story.

  “What makes him think friends and family will fly in from Redwood? That’s a two month roundtrip.”

  Another headline read, “VAMPIRE WEDDING OF THE CENTURY!” with a subheading asking, “Will Their Children Be Hematophagous?”

  Well, no. We already knew the answer to that question. No children possible for either of us. But the reporter didn’t know that, and wrote up a four page article speculating one way or the other. This one had pictures of us taken at the Fall Football Dance.

  The stories continued throughout the remainder of the semester, growing more and more breathless as the wedding date approached.

  I had to stop reading them.

  “Good grief, these people are getting worked up over nothing,” I said to Dee Dee one morning. We sat at the breakfast table, and I tossed aside my vid sheet with the latest teen mag on it.

  She shrugged.

  “They’re just giving their readers what they want.”

  “What does our wedding have to do with the lives of their readers? Who cares if or when we get married? What difference does it make to somebody on the other side of the world who’s never met us and will never know us personally?”

  “You just don’t understand celebrity gossip.”

  She smiled and walked out to the pool.

  “I understand it enough to know I don’t like being a celebrity,” I muttered to myself. “No privacy and pointless gossip.”

  -+-

  We noted Jeremy began spending less time with us and more time with Paris as their relationship bloomed. Paris seemed a little more reserved than Charlie and Andrea. I noticed when she was around, she didn’t engage in our usual hijinks.

  One sunny day out at the pool, Jacob bent down and had Andrea crawl up on his shoulders. He dared anybody to knock her off. Jason and Charlie jumped in, and soon the four of them were howling in laughter, the boys moving close to one another, dancing away, moving in close again. All while the girls tried to grab and pull each other off their boyfriend’s shoulders.

  Eventually Andrea pulled Charlie off her perch and she splashed into the pool.

  “Woohoo! Victory!”

  Jacob performed a little dance, with Andrea on his shoulders waving her arms and laughing.

  I looked at Dee Dee. She looked at me.

  “Should we show them how it’s done?”

  She nodded, and we jumped in the pool. Dee Dee climbed on me. Charlie climbed back on Jason’s back and the three teams hooted and hollered and splashed around for several more minutes, the girls laughing as they grabbed and tried to pull each other off their boyfriends.

  Through it all, Jeremy and Paris just watched.

  When his brothers confronted him later about Paris’ lack of enthusiasm for fun, he defended her.

  “She just takes things a little more seriously, that’s all.”

  One day as the semester drew to a close, Jeremy approached me in private, asking me to attend a poetry reading and class discussion with him and Paris.

  “A reading of what?”

  “Works by Ezra Pound. It’s at Professor Alto’s place later this week.”

  I thought about it for a moment. I had no experience with Ezra Pound. Twentieth century authors were more Jeremy’s cup of tea.

  “Why me?”

  “We get extra credit if we bring somebody,” he said with a shrug and an apologetic smile.

  “Oh. Okay, sure.”

  He sighed in relief. I went to the terminal in the suite’s library to look up Ezra Pound and try to learn something about him beforehand, idly wondering why he hadn’t asked one of his brothers.

  -+-

  On the evening of the meeting, I followed Jeremy and Paris to a street of modest houses near campus. We walked into a sedate party filled with students and Professor Alto holding court in the living room.

  “Ah, Paris and Jeremy! You’ve certainly brought the most interesting guest, one of our resident vampires! Congratulations, extra points for you two.”

  I shook hands with a thin, short woman about 40 years of age. Long curly brown hair, the same shade as her eyes, fell to her waist. No makeup. A simple cotton dress colored off-white, almost yellow, with a thin rope cinched tight around her middle. She wore simple sandals, and I noted no trace of fingernail or toenail polish.

  After the introductions I wandered over to a food tray with Jeremy. No meat on the tray. I took a cracker with some kind of vegetable paste spread on it and bit into it, experimentally. It wasn’t bad. Not great, but not bad. I popped the rest of it into my mouth.

  “Nice dress,” I murmured with my mouth full.

  “It’s made of unbleached cotton,” Jeremy said. “Her belt is made of hemp. She believes in only dressing in all natural fibers. ‘Nothing artificial touches my body,’ she says. English Professors, huh? What can you say?”

  I frowned, my brows furrowing in thought.

  “They’re not all like that,” I said. “Professor Marceau wears a business suit to class every day. And lipstick, and nail polish. I mean, she’s a stickler for grammar. I’ve never seen anything like it. But, she doesn’t get into this all-natural stuff.”

  I looked down at the food plate and frowned.

  “And I’m pretty sure she likes meat, too.”

  It occurred to me Professor Alto’s eccentricities might be one reason Jeremy didn’t want to invite his brothers. They would have mercilessly kidded him about her for weeks.

  About that time the Professor called us together to begin the discussion.

  An hour passed as different students read portions of Pound’s poetry and discussed various aspects of his life. Guests were introduced in turn and contributed to the discussion.

  At last, Professor Alto turned toward me and said, “We have with us tonight our first non-human guest! Indeed, he’s the first unnatural person I’ve ever had in my home. Everybody, this is Marcus Savitch, our very own alien vampire.”

  I blinked at the introduction. Several sharp-edged and smart-aleck responses flickered through my mind as I paused for a moment. Finally, I decided to brush it off. No need to be rude as a guest, I thought. I chuckled lightly.

  “Well, I don’t know about the ‘alien’ part, but I’m glad to be here.”

  “Why, certainly. I mean, you have to . . .” she made air quotes with her fingers. “‘Suck human blood’ to survive, right?”

  She smiled back at the others as if this were blatantly obvious.

  Actually, any mammalian blood will do in a pinch, I thought. But I bit my tongue again. What flashed through my mind instead was the hatred on Peterson’s face, the fellow Servant I’d killed in self-defense when he caught me drinking blood on a spaceship traveling back to Redwood. It seemed like a long time ago, now. But the image of Peterson screaming, “Bloodsucker!” still haunted me.

  Seated to my left, Paris began squirming in her seat. I glanced over to her and Jeremy, and noted Jeremy’s face turning bright red. He stared away, at a spot on the wall somewhere on the other side of the room.

  Paris decided to fill the awkward silence.

  “Uh, Professor . . . he’s human.”

  She shrugged.

  “He’s hematophagous.”

  “So are some Old Earth creatures like leeches and certain bats,” I said. “But it doesn’t make them a different species.”

  I felt pretty firm in t
hat statement. I’d studied a lot of biology and Old Earth species classification was something of a hobby I’d pursued during long hours of menial labor on Redwood.

  “Well!” The Professor’s tone turned frosty. I suspected she didn’t appreciate students correcting her.

  “Do you have anything to share with us about Ezra Pound, Mr. Savitch? Do you even know who Ezra Pound is, or is he not something hematophagous quasi-humans are concerned about?”

  Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be, I thought.

  “Yeah, I’ve got some thoughts about Ezra Pound. Mainly, I think he was an idiot.”

  A collective gasp came from a dozen English students around the room.

  “I’ve read a couple biographies, and a sampling of his work. His hero was the dictator Benito Mussolini, Hitler’s bosom buddy. He became fascinated with radical politics and economic policies. He met Mussolini the day Hitler became Chancellor of Germany, and shared several ideas with him. But Mussolini brushed him off and sent him away. His own idol wasn’t even impressed with him, considering him nothing more than a marginally useful idiot. Pound’s work suffered after that, as he spiraled into an obsession with fascism.

  “There’s no denying the poetic greatness of his early work. But the man went off the deep end later in life, becoming a State-loving, anti-Semitic kook. He wasted his talents pursuing the State of his day, consumed with an unholy love of totalitarianism.”

  Everybody seemed to be holding their breaths. Professor Alto tilted her head, staring at me in cool regard.

  “Well. You’re certainly entitled to your opinion, Mr. Savitch.”

  -+-

  Walking home that night, I grumbled about the whole thing.

  “She thinks that’s an opinion? It’s a fact! That statist idiot went full-on certifiable the end of his life.”

  “It’s okay, Marc.” Paris patted me on the arm. “Everybody knows Pound went downhill toward the end. Professor Alto probably just has an issue with you because you’re not ‘natural.’ I’m sorry, we didn’t know it was going to be like this when we invited you.”

  She seemed genuinely troubled. I wrapped an arm around her shoulder and squeezed it.

  “Don’t worry about it, Paris. This wasn’t your fault.”

  She smiled and seemed to feel better.

  “It’s Jeremy’s fault for inviting me,” I said with a wink. “No more poetry readings!”

  -+-

  Dee Dee and I were invited to a handful of parties and social events with 12 throughout the semester. These were always delivered on paper invitations that burst into flames shortly after opening. I guess somebody in charge had a flair for the dramatic.

  These secret social events always went better than the student ones. The parties took place in the Smith Building, and they were typically low-key and laid back. Never loud or boisterous. Good food and champagne, though.

  Nobody wore nametags, and introductions were always voluntary. We never learned the names of many people we saw at these functions, especially those from other parts of the world. But Professors, and those more local to New Bryan, we were more likely to know outside of 12. If not, they’d sometimes introduce themselves to us.

  At one party, an older lady with gray hair and wrinkles approached us and hugged Dee Dee.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  Dee Dee shook her head.

  “I have been wanting to say something ever since I heard you were coming back to New Texas. I’m Ellen Tussy. I was friends with your mother! Your birth mother, not Melody Cruz.”

  Dee Dee’s jaw dropped. I cleared my throat.

  “That’s quite a bombshell, Mrs. Tussy.”

  “Oh, call me Ellen,” she said, flashing me a smile.

  It felt odd for me to be on a first name basis with someone that old. Privately, I never made the switch.

  Turning to back to Dee Dee, she continued. “I wish I could have met you earlier, dear, but I figured a soiree at Twelve would be the best place. You know, I haven’t seen you in person since we put you on that spaceship. How many years has that been? Fifteen? Seventeen? So sad, what happened to your father and mother.”

  Dee Dee finally found her voice, managing to overcome the shock of surprise.

  “I would love to learn more about my parents. What can you tell me about them?”

  “Why don’t you drop by my place for tea, dear? How does tomorrow sound?”

  “That’d be great! We’ll be there!”

  -+-

  The next day after lunch we strolled down a street near Professor Alto’s house. It proved to be a modest neighborhood, housing Professors who either couldn’t afford more luxurious quarters on campus, or those choosing not to spend a lot of money on living expenses.

  Mrs. Tussy met us at the door, welcomed us in, and we sat down to a table decked out with three types of tea and several trays of cookies.

  “It is so good having you back in my home, Diane. You and your parents lived two doors down. Your mother always used to visit me on afternoons like this, and she’d bring you over too. Oh, she was a delightful woman. You should have seen her when she was pregnant with you. So happy! She had a glow about her.”

  “What can you tell me about my parents? I know so little, and you’re the first person I’ve met who knew them.”

  Mrs. Tussy leaned back in her seat, sipped some tea, her eyes focusing on times past.

  “Your father was a political science Professor, like my husband. It was a particularly dangerous position in those days. They were observed more closely by the State, since they discussed ideology in their lectures and handled information the bureaucrats deemed dangerous.

  “He and your mother were new to A and M. They were young, energetic, happy. They came from New France. New Texas is still considered the outermost ‘civilized’ planet, and I remember Diana saying they were so grateful for the opportunity to be here.”

  “My mother’s name was Diana?”

  “Yes. Very similar to your own, Diane. I remember the day she told me she was pregnant. They already had your name picked out. And your father’s name was Paul. Paul and Diana Fremont.”

  An hour went by as Mrs. Tussy told us story after story about the Fremonts and baby Dee Dee. Eventually, she turned to less pleasant memories.

  “Your father became quite bold in his lectures and discussions with students. He’d always hinted about his inherent distaste of totalitarian systems. Several of us in Twelve warned him not to rail too hard against the State. Bringing unwanted attention to yourself was never a good idea in those days.”

  Or these days, I thought, remembering the assassin drone and the classroom gunmen. Maybe that’s one of the reasons I hated the teen mags and their constant gossip spotlight. The more attention focused on us in national media, the more our risk of attack.

  “But it was not in your father’s nature to be submissive. Or silent. When you were about three, he delivered a lecture with his strongest anti-State sentiments yet. It was too much. He’d been monitored by Agents for years. Maybe someone who’d never stirred things up could have gotten away with that lecture, but not Paul. He’d crossed the line too many times.

  “They came for him at night, in a raid about four in the morning. Your mother, bless her, she knew immediately what was going on the moment they knocked down the front door. She ran into your room, scooped you up out of bed, opened the window, and told you to run to our house. You did. You always were such a sweet little girl.

  “I woke up to you knocking on our door. My dear Samuel was still alive. I woke him up and told him someone was at the door. We opened it to find you, in your nightgown, tears streaming down your face.

  “Agents checked all the houses in the neighborhood the next morning looking for you. We lied, of course. They never found you. And we never heard from your parents again.

  “Twelve looked into what happened to them. Certain members made discreet inquiries until we discovered the truth. Your father was ex
ecuted after a sham trial three days later. His body was cremated. Your mother was sentenced to life on Orange. We found the prisoner manifest with her name on it, and we have a record of her disembarking there. But of course, we have no idea if she’s still alive. Once someone goes to Orange, they disappear forever.”

  We nodded in understanding. She was right. Once someone goes to Orange, that was it. No more contact with the outside world, usually. Still, a glimmer of hope shined through. Maybe Dee Dee’s mom was still alive somewhere on that planet.

  “Then there was the question of what to do with you. For a while, a three year old little girl was the most wanted person on New Texas. Tony finally figured out a solution. It was before he was President, of course, but he knew all about the efforts on Redwood. He asked his old friend Curtis Cruz if he would be willing to adopt you rather than let you go to an orphanage and be exploited by the State.

  “Of course Curtis and Melody agreed, and other members of Twelve arranged to smuggle you to Redwood on a spaceship. The last time I saw you, dear, you were between Samuel and me, holding onto our hands. We gave you a hug and told you to be brave, and we watched you get on that ship.”

  Tears streamed down Mrs. Tussy’s eyes.

  “I’m so glad to see you again, dear. Look at you, all grown up and beautiful. You look just like your mother. Oh how I wish Samuel was still alive to see this day.”

  Dee Dee reached over and hugged her, shed some tears of her own. I even choked up a little, myself.

  “Look at me, I’m a mess. I do have something else I can share with you, dear. Samuel was something of a photographer. I have lots of photos of you and your parents from those days. Let me get over to the terminal and I’ll show you.”

  A moment later, a hologram appeared on the table, showing a group of people.

  “Here we are at a party in our backyard. There’s your father and your mother. Look, there you are playing with our dog. I think you were about two when this was taken.”

  I gazed at the image with Dee Dee, studying her parents. Paul Fremont stood tall and thin. Dark hair, light skin. He looked French. Mrs. Tussy was right about Dee Dee’s mother. Mrs. Fremont looked like an older version of Dee Dee. Pale light skin, long dark hair. Beautiful.