Star-Crossed

by Pintip Dunn

  Blanca and I look at each other, in a rare moment of camaraderie, ready to defend our father. But we don’t need to. Even as my heart leaps at our shared connection, the other spectators shuffle together until a ring of space forms around the woman. The Circle of Shunning. The easiest—and most effective—way to tell a person: we do not condone your behavior. You are not one of us.

  It works as well here as it does on the playground. The woman looks at the absence of bodies around her, and her skin ripens to the color of tomato. “I was joking,” she says. But it’s too late. She’s spoken against their beloved King, and this crowd does not forgive easily.

  Above our heads, the news feeder continues: “…only under the most extenuating of circumstances will the King and his council make an exception to the First Maxim. In order to award the family of the Fittest candidate, for example. Or to honor the man who saved us all.”

  Master Kendall finishes his meal and wipes his mouth with a silk napkin. He leans against his pillows. Even as his body relaxes into the mattress, however, he darts his eyes from one unseen spot to another, so quickly a lesser technology might be accused of broadcasting a blurry image.

  The news feeder’s voice lowers as if she’s telling us a secret. “As Kenneth Kendall lies on his deathbed, he has given the King his final request. Give him a taste of heaven, and then, before his body can reject the food it’s not used to eating, end his life the way he tried to live it. Heroically.”

  Master Kendall’s eyes focus as a thick gray gas begins to cloud the holographic air onstage. For a moment, he freezes. Then he straightens, lifts his arms in the air, and takes a deep breath.

  Each rise of his chest fills his lungs with the gas. Dark. Odorless. And deadly. I can hardly make out his features through the vapor anymore. But there’s no mistaking the instant his body slumps to the side.

  “Rest in peace, Master Kendall. You were the very first hero in a colony founded and sustained by heroes.”

  The news feed is cut, and we all drop to our knees, our hands pressed to our hearts. But even in this moment of silence, my mind doesn’t stop churning. I’m as grateful to Master Kendall as anyone else, but this ceremony has made me realize more than the heroism of my fellow people.

  It’s reminded me the council rarely makes exceptions to the First Maxim. In fact, other than the Fittest families, Master Kendall is the first colonist who has been granted permission to taste food. And so, it doesn’t matter if the medics figure out what’s wrong with Astana. If I’m right about what’s ailing her, they may not be allowed to give her the one thing she needs to get better: food.

  Only I can do that. And judging by the severity of Astana’s symptoms? If I don’t get her real food soon, she could very well die.

  …

  Half an hour later, I’m standing inside the Banquet Room, watching the food preparation team set up the early evening meal.

  Fondue tonight. Pots of melted soy cheese, flavored with white wine and roasted shallots, sit on every table, along with mountains of crusty bread and brightly colored bell peppers, sliced into perfect cubes. Fat bee larvae wait next to the smoking hot oil, ready to be dipped for mere seconds.

  I can smell the crisp scent of fried insects. Feel the rich, fatty bite melt on my tongue. According to the archives, bee larvae is supposed to taste like the bacon they had back on Earth. I wouldn’t know. Although we have frozen embryos of every Earth species stored in our space shuttle, we don’t have any livestock in our colony. Not yet. We simply don’t have the land.

  Right now, though, the last thing I feel is hunger. All I crave is a successful getaway.

  I should probably wait a while before making another attempt. Lie low until Blanca turns her microscopic scrutiny somewhere else. At least ride out the next two days until I’m crowned Top Aegis.

  But Astana doesn’t have a while. Carr says she’s getting worse. I need to alleviate her symptoms now, before it’s too late.

  I pull back my shoulders, trying to trick myself into feeling confident. A hurricane roars in my ears, and the thin cotton of my trousers sticks to my legs.

  My best friend needs me.

  The thought propels me to the dessert table, where Barbados, one of the food preppers, is arranging the chocolate fondue. Streams of dark liquid chocolate wind around islands of strawberries, while graham cracker towers spiral into the air.

  Sweet and bitter, moist and crunchy. In spite of my mission, my stomach growls its approval.

  Barbados squints at his creation, turning one of the graham crackers a few degrees.

  “This looks beautiful, Barbados,” I say.

  He straightens and beams at me. “I’m glad you noticed. It takes me hours to build these scenes, but the Aegis seem to decimate them in a matter of seconds…” His voice falters with the last word, as if he’s realized he’s speaking to an Aegis. “What I meant to say, Princess Vela is, uh, I hope you enjoy the presentation.”

  I pick up a strawberry from his stash and pop it into my mouth. The juices squirt over my tongue. “Delicious. I’m sure I’ll eat more than my stomach wants, thanks to your hard work.”

  Which is Barbados’s entire purpose in creating this edible landscape. The purpose, in fact, of the entire food preparation team. Manipulating flavors, texture, aroma, and colors to entice us into taking one more bite.

  When my fellow Aegis and I first started our training classes, food was this miraculous adventure, this whole new world of unexplored tastes and sensations. But now that it’s our job? Now that we must stuff ourselves at six different meals, day in and day out? I’m still able to take pleasure from food most of the time. But some days, eating is nothing but a chore. Those times, I even wish that I’d never tested positive for the Aegis gene.

  But there’s no point wishing for a different life. Being an Aegis is who I am. Providing for my people is what I’ve been called to do. I leave Barbados to his work and walk around the room, saying “hi” to the other preppers and sampling a cube of bread from this pile and a scoop of cheese from that pot.

  No one blinks at the few bites that find their way into my mouth. They might look twice if they notice the food that’s disappearing into my clothes.

  Five cubes of bread nestle at my elbow. Two plump strawberries lodge in my left pocket, three bee larvae in my right.

  My heart pounds. I’ve never taken this much food before. Every other time, it’s been a bite of tart or a quarter-cookie or half a spring roll. Items I could feasibly pass off as absentminded mistakes. But now, I’ve got a whole meal hidden in my caftan. If I’m caught, there will be no excuses.

  I bend my elbow and casually wrap my arm around my torso, surveying the room. A royal guard stands in the corner, but she’s grinning at a female prepper as she constructs a heart out of veggie strips. The other preppers are scattered across the banquet tables, busy with their work.

  So far, so good. I start moving toward the door. Twenty more steps, and I’m out of here.

  I try to control my breathing, aiming for the even in-and-out we used to practice during our training classes. Not only did we learn the most efficient ways of eating, but we also built up our physical stamina and practiced fortifying our wills. I wasn’t half bad at meditation—but now, my nose sucks in air before my mouth can expel it, and I end up with jerky, overlapping pants.

  Fifteen steps.

  The strawberries squish against each other, and juice drips down my leg. A few drops blossom like blood in the white cotton.

  Ten steps.

  The cubes of bread slip. I bend my elbow harder, but the cubes fall from their cradle, forming noticeable lumps at the bottom of my sleeve.

  Oh Dionysus, don’t let the guard look now. Please keep her focused on her prepper girlfriend.

  Five steps.

  I’ll do anything if I get out of here safely. Give up the title of Top Aegis. Concede the Successorship to Blanca. Just let me get this food to Astana.

  Four, three, two…

&
nbsp; I take one step across the threshold, and then a hand claps onto my shoulder.

  My blood freezes, falling apart like shaved ice as an authoritative voice floats over me. “Princess Vela, you are under arrest for the smuggling of edibles on your person.”

  Chapter

  Three

  Under arrest.

  Me. Vela Kunchai. Princess of Dion.

  I turn slowly, as if my limbs push against a medium denser than air.

  The guard cuffs my wrists and recites the rest of the custody warnings. “Do not speak now. You will be given the opportunity to testify before the King and his council. At that time, you may deny or excuse, justify or explain. But choose your words carefully because the council will reach a verdict upon your Testimony, and like all council decrees, the verdict will be final.”

  Her eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second, and something I can’t read flits through them.

  Probably just as well. My legs seem to be holding up, but my mind is numb and cold, like someone doused it with a dewar of liquid nitrogen. A million emotions swirl, trying to surface, but the ice cage locks them up tight. If I look into the guard’s eyes and see disappointment—or even worse, shame—in the actions of her Princess, my emotions might split the cage wide open.

  She leads me out of the shuttle and to the Red Cell Prison, at the back of the center bubble. In the processing room, a warden empties my pockets and strips me of my caftan. She tells me her name is Palmetto and lays the contraband on the table. Bread. Strawberries. Bee larvae.

  A few thoughts break through. It’s just food. Not a weapon. Not illegal drug pellets. Not flammable, toxic, or poisonous.

  Just. Food.

  But I don’t protest as she hands me a slimmer version of my eating caftan and urges me into a Transfer Room. I strip and lay on the table, slipping my arms and legs into clear plastic tubes. A local anesthetic is misted all over my body, and then Palmetto adjusts the plastic shield around my torso and flips on the machine.

  A powerful vacuum suctions my entire body off the table. My skin is a glove I’ve put on backward, and my organs feel like they’re being squeezed out of my body: my lungs out my chest, my heart dragged up my throat, my stomach through my belly button.

  The procedure is highly uncomfortable—but at least the anesthetic guarantees that there’s minimal pain.

  Six times a day, every day for the last two years, and I’ve gotten used to the strange sensation by now. Maybe, one day, I’ll even forget the discomfort.

  After the machine extracts every excess nutrient, I get dressed, and Palmetto takes me into a room the size of the Banquet Hall. The smells hit me first. Urine. Underwear. Unwashed bodies. I pull my shirt over my nose, but the stench is like a gruesome crime scene—one contact, and no amount of time or scrubbing will ever get it out.

  Palmetto continues walking, and I have no choice but to follow. The room is divided into cells by intersecting red beams, and inside each cell, men and women with greasy hair and identical uniforms sleep or stand or pace. As soon as they see us, they stop whatever they’re doing and stare.

  Their eyes sink into my skin like poisoned barbs, and a single step feels like a thousand. My stomach twists with fear and pity. Some of these people might have been incarcerated for a nonviolent offense, like mine. But others might be assaulters, kidnappers—even murderers. Still, I wouldn’t wish these living conditions on anyone. A lifetime passes, and then Palmetto stops in front of an empty cell. She pushes a button on the square device hanging from her belt, and a section of the beams blinks off.

  “In you go, Princess. Don’t touch the rays. They’ll cook you like a wonton.”

  “I want to talk to my father.” The words are flat and unfeeling, the product of a frozen mind, but the very act of talking is melting, melting, melting the bonds. I notice, for the first time, the way my toes slide against each other, slick with my body’s sweat.

  “After your Testimony. Red-cell policy,” she says and then leaves.

  Through the red beams, I have a clear view of the detainees on either side of me—and glimpses of the detainees on the other side of them.

  One woman is topless, nasty red streaks across her breasts, as if she would slice herself into ribbons to scratch an itch she can’t reach. Another guy does push-ups as if the demon that drove him here still rides his back, whipping him into submission.

  I take a shaky breath. It’s going to be okay. I know all about the red cells. I learned about them in school a decade ago. Once, I even came here on a field trip. I’ll be fine.

  Funny how no one ever told me the guy in the next cell might be sitting on a toilet. They forgot to say his face would scrunch together, as red as vine-ripened tomatoes, as he defecates.

  The foul smell of pill crap washes over me.

  Although it makes my stomach turn, I sniff the air again. Yep. Urine, underwear, unwashed bodies—and pill crap. My neighbor has been taking nutrition supplements instead of eating.

  My heart strikes against my chest. I suck in mouthful after mouthful of air, my lungs punctured tires. But it’s not enough.

  Because I only had a few meals left before my title was official. Before I would be named Top Aegis.

  “Hey!” I stand as close to the red beams as I dare and shout, “Hey!”

  After four or five iterations, Palmetto returns. She’s only a few years older than me, and her eyes are kind, although she has the hardened features of all the colonists who work in close proximity to food. It’s as if steeling the soul against daily temptation sands the softness right off your face.

  “Yes? Is there something you need?”

  I stuff the panic down my throat. As if on cue, my stomach growls. Of course it does. It’s been three hours since I last ate. The colonists’ stomachs make plenty of noise, but only the digestive juices of an Aegis are so routinely exercised you could set a clock by the tell-tale gurgle. “My next meal’s coming up. When do I go to the Banquet Hall?”

  She frowns. “I’m sorry, Princess. You don’t get to resume eating duties until after you’re sentenced.” She pulls a peach pill out of her pocket. “You can nutrition with this until the council has a chance to hear your Testimony.”

  I take the pill from her. It’s not like I’ve never taken one before. In fact, they supplied the majority of my nutrition before I became an official Aegis when I turned fifteen. Even now, I might take one in a pinch. But this pill means more than a skipped meal.

  I won’t be eating tonight. I won’t make my quota. Blanca will swoop right past me in the standings.

  This innocuous peach pill means I’ve just lost the title of Top Aegis.

  …

  I lie on my back in the middle of the cell, as far as possible from my neighbors. My stomach grouses and grumbles like a mad baby, but I ignore the noises. The guy to my left battles with his toilet, and the girl to my right claws at her legs. I ignore them, too.

  The concrete is cool and smooth against my skin. If I close my eyes, I can pretend I’m not here. I can go to that moment, ten years ago, when I coughed and gagged on the muddy shore, spitting up sludge and pond water and possibly a lung. My throat burned like bubbling magma; my chest ached like I was popped into the wrong dimension. I was sure I was going to die.

  But then a hand pressed into my back. A boy said, “This pain, too, will pass. Just hold on, and life will get better. It always does.”

  I was so confused and water-logged that I didn’t register much else about the voice, other than the fact that it was masculine. But I held on for a moment, and another moment after that, and then the pressure unlocked around my chest and I could breathe again.

  The hand disappeared from my back, and by the time my eyes started working again, he was gone.

  I wish I had seen his face. I wish he would come back now. Not just because he’s played a starring role in my daydreams, but also so I could thank him. For that moment, and for a thousand other moments since. Any time I was lost or unsure, an
y time I felt like there was no way I could survive, I think of his words.

  This pain, too, will pass. Just hold on, and life will get better. It always does.

  Somebody clears her throat. The sound is too close to be coming from the next cell. I open my eyes, and Palmetto is bending over me, her fine hair dangling around her face.

  “Your Testimony is in half an hour. You get one holo-call before that.” She shakes the phone in her hand. “Who would you like to reach?”

  I sit up, still smelling the damp scent of pond moss. “My father.”

  “Not possible. He’s not allowed to speak to you until after your Testimony. How about another family member? Your sister, Blanca?” Her tone is even, without a hint of sarcasm. Is it possible she doesn’t know about the rivalry between the princesses?

  “Blanca will want to know I’ve been red-celled, all right. But her joy’s not what I want to hear right now.”

  “Oh.” Palmetto flushes. “No family then. Anyone else?”

  I give her Astana’s code. She sets up the call and leaves, presumably to give me privacy. Which is nice but unnecessary. Itchy Girl and Defecating Guy have abandoned their obsessions and stand nose-to-red-beam, peering into my space.

  I give them a wave and turn my attention to the holo-phone. An instant later, an image of Carr is projected in front of me.

  Talk about not being able to breathe. The cell is suddenly sauna-hot, and I feel like I have too many arms and legs. The hologram is so precise I can see the stubble on his jaw and the way his too-long hair brushes over his ears.

  Maybe that’s why I obsess over my mysterious savior. He’s never comng back, and that makes him a whole lot safer than a flesh-and-blood boy—or even the holographic image of one.

  “Vela.” Carr’s eyes flicker from my face to the slimmer-fitting caftan to the red beams behind me. “What happened to you?”

  Ah. The question worth a life’s supply of pills. How I answer here and more importantly, during the Testimony, will make all the difference in the world.

  My world, at least. Free or red-celled. Princess or convict. Successor or loser. These things are grains compared to the sandstorm that is my best friend’s life, but even the smallest particle can sting when it’s wedged in the silent space of the soul.