by Pintip Dunn
Ever since I was a little girl, my father taught me a few basic lessons. Tell the truth. Value all life. Accept responsibility for my actions.
And yet, my decision’s not clear. I could say that the food was for me. That I was saving it for a midnight snack, even though the pantries are open to us at all times. I could say that I was being lazy, that I didn’t want to budge from my bed in order to shore up my calories. Or…I could tell them the truth.
If I thought being honest with the council would save Astana, I’d do it. But can I trust them to do the right thing? Or will Astana just get in trouble for eating?
“Never mind what happened to me. How’s Astana? How are you?” I take an involuntary step toward his image. I just left him this morning, but he looks like he’s aged five years. The bruises under his eyes almost match the blacks of his cornea, and his lips are a bindle stick carrying too much weight.
“She’s worse.” He glances behind him. I can’t see what he’s looking at, but his view must be bad. I can tell from the jerk of his elbows, from the tremor in his eyelashes. “The improvements didn’t last long after you left.” He faces me again. “I sent a message to the gorge, asking my mom to come home.”
I go still. Carr’s never asked his mom to come home before. Not when he lost his job at the apple orchard, not when their holo-feed got turned off. Not even when the unit-lord threatened to evict them.
Lucky for him, things always seemed to work out. A new job would pop up out of nowhere, or an unexpected deposit would show up at the pill bank. As if someone was looking out for him. His mother, maybe. Or more likely, a guardian angel.
“Did you ask her because you think she might be able to help?” I try to wet my lips, but my mouth is suddenly, desperately dry. “Or because you want her to say…goodbye?”
The word feels foreign in my mouth, maybe because I haven’t uttered it for years. I never got to say goodbye to my mother, and so now, I make a point never to say it at all.
“My sister’s lost consciousness.” His voice trembles like the ground during an orbquake. “I took her to the medic, but he didn’t know what was wrong, either.”
My saliva is a rock I can’t swallow. His despair matches the one inside me, the one that’s been growing ever since I wrapped my arms around my best friend and felt like I was hugging a skeleton.
Here’s my answer. It doesn’t matter if I’m red-celled for the rest of my life. It doesn’t matter if I lose the position of Successor. My best friend is unconscious. She won’t be able to tell the medics what they need to know in order to help her. So I have to. Right here, right now, no matter who might be eavesdropping.
“Carr?” I edge closer to his image. “You know how Astana’s symptoms improved earlier? And you thought it was because of my company?”
He nods, leaning forward, too. At least I’m not the only one deluded by a field of light.
“Well, that wasn’t the reason at all.” I fill my lungs to capacity. I’ll need the air. Once I say the words, there’s no going back. “I think she got better because I gave her food to eat.”
Someone gasps. It’s not me or Carr, so it’s got to be Palmetto or one of my cell neighbors. I’m now committed to the truth—and its consequences. With these witnesses, I’ll have to tell the council the same story.
“I’ve given her bites in the past. And I think that’s why she can’t absorb the nutrition from her pills. That’s why she’s been starving. I tried to sneak more food out of the banquet hall this afternoon. Not crumbs this time. An entire meal. But I got caught.”
“You’re in the red cells now? Because you stole food to help my sister?”
“Yes. I give my Testimony before the council in a few minutes.”
He looks over my shoulder, toward the itchy girl with the red streaks, although I know he doesn’t see her. My heart constricts into a tight ball, as if it’s been strapped behind a plastic shield and all the blood has been sucked dry.
“My sister’s dying,” he says roughly. “And now, you’re imprisoned.”
“I should’ve said no.” The words shoot out as though from a speargun. “All those times she asked me for one more bite, I should’ve refused.”
“My sister can be very persistent.” If his mouth wasn’t anchored down, it might’ve smiled.
“You’re not mad?”
“Under these circumstances? No. I’m sorry she’s so sick. I’m sorry you’re in the red cells. I’m sorry any of us are in this pill-suck of a situation. And you know what else I’m sorry about?”
“What?”
Instead of responding, he holds his hand in the air, his fingertips reaching for me. My mind knows this is just a recording that’s reconstructed a split second later. There’s nothing in front of me but a structure of light with varying density, intensity, and profile.
But when I lift my hand and touch his, I swear there’s a spark. My fingers burn. My skin turns to static, and my heart swells to twice its normal size. I thought only the stomach had the capacity to stretch and expand. I never knew my heart had the same elasticity.
“I’m sorry I didn’t touch you when I actually had the chance.” His voice is a low, dark rasp. “A million chances over the years, and I’ve wasted them all.”
Everything I’ve ever wanted to say to him comes brimming to my lips.
I used to watch you for hours, digging in the dirt. Do you remember finding a dish of worms one morning, waiting for you on the shore? That was me. I woke up before the sunlamps, and I kneeled in that mud for hours, so I could make your work a little easier. So that you would have time to play with Astana and me. But that pile of worms only made you work harder.
I want to say all of this, and more, but I don’t get the chance. Palmetto rattles back into my cell, and I snatch my hand out of the air.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, Princess Vela,” she says. “But it’s time for your Testimony.”
Chapter
Four
I tell the council everything.
Looking into a holo-cam, in a small room with a one-way mirror, I tell them how I gave Astana a taste from my training meal before I even became an official Aegis, how I’ve been sneaking crumbs to her over the years, how she’s been slowly but steadily getting sicker.
I tell them about how food seems to improve Astana’s symptoms, about watching Master Kendall’s execution on the news feeds, about my decision to sneak an entire meal out of the Banquet Hall.
On the other side of the mirror, the members of the King’s council listen as I give my Testimony.
What do they see? A screwed-up Princess who threw away her future before it began? Or a girl who’s made a series of mistakes?
More importantly, what does my father think? Is he disappointed in me, or does he understand?
I’m not a bad person. I was trying to help my friend. I don’t belong here in the red cells.
I scream this out with every confession, every detail, every word. But I don’t know if and what they hear.
I tell them everything and then I beg them to help Astana. I am willing and ready to accept the consequences for my mistakes, but please. Don’t hold my actions against my friend. Help her get better.
When my Testimony’s finished, I go back to my cell and wait.
And wait.
And wait.
…
One day, six pills, and zero words on Astana later, the council summons me to the Royal Towers, a tall building at the junction of the two space shuttles. I stop in front of the double doors of the King’s chambers, my heart racing like I’ve been running through the wheat fields. My palms won’t dry, no matter how many times I wipe them on my caftan.
This pain, too, will pass. Just hold on, and life will get better. It always does.
My savior’s not here, but I can follow his advice. I think about his words and study the mural etched in the doors. A man and a woman, naked except for a few leaves and the flowing tresses of the woman’s hair. They stand
underneath a lush, bountiful tree, and a serpent slithers its body around an apple, as if offering it to the woman.
Their names are Adam and Eve, and the scene is from one of the religions back on Earth. As the story goes, the world’s troubles came when Eve first took a bite of the apple. The picture’s carved here not only because the man is the King’s namesake but also to remind us never to take eating for granted.
As if we would. I don’t think I’ve ever forgotten the countdown to my death began the moment I received the genetic modification.
But the serpent scares me. It always has. When I was a kid, I used to have recurring dreams about its coiling, twisting body. About a shiny red apple on the ground, with a bite taken out of it. If I’m being honest, the nightmare still shows up now. Maybe it’s all the more scary because we don’t have any real snakes in our colony.
I’d rather face a snake, real or imagined, than what’s inside that office.
I square my shoulders and look into the camera positioned above the serpent’s head. The lens scans my face, and the door slides open.
The King stands in front of his desk with a group of council members. His face is square and placid, his formerly black hair shot through with silver. I used to say the color reminded me of the mane of a unicorn. He would respond that if the mystical creatures actually existed, their manes would be gray and dusty, on account of the dirt.
Today, my father is neither gray nor dusty. He wears a gold brocade jacket that hangs straight to his knees, over white pants and a white shirt, along with his royal insignia, a pine cone dipped in gold. The royal uniform alone should remind me I’m appearing before him not as his daughter but as a subject.
I pay no attention.
“Dad!” I shout as I run to him. He spreads his arms wide. I leap into them, and he pulls me to his chest, crushing my cheek against the pine cone. He smells like the woods behind the shuttle after the rain spigots have been running.
I feel six meals lighter. He still loves me. I’m still his daughter, no matter what I’ve done. “I’ve missed you,” I say.
“You’re shaking.” He kneads my shoulders, as if he can stop the vibrations. As if searching for the missing nutrients. I feel in his squeeze the words he cannot say. What have they been doing to you in the red cells? Have you suffered?
“I’m fine. I’ve been taking pills instead of eating,” I say. “I missed winning the title of Top Aegis by a few meals.”
The council member closest to me, a woman with skin a few shades lighter than my medium brown, nudges her companion and tilts her head toward me. I flush. I was doing what I always do: giving my father a rundown of my day. But that’s not how they see it. They think I’m complaining. They think I’m a spoiled princess, used to getting everything I want. Maybe they’re right. But the King’s never given me special treatment because I’m his daughter.
I’ve been in the red cells for two days! I want to shout. Why would the King let me stay there if what you believe is true?
But shouting is not the way to impress the council, so I take a few steps back. Hands clasped, head inclined. Subject once again.
The leader of the council, Master Somjing, shuffles forward on his mechanical braces. He wears a hologram pendant around his neck, and he’s almost ninety, the same age as my father. Without the benefit of the King’s transplants, however, he looks considerably older. The skin sags from his bones, so you can’t tell where his cheeks end and jaw begins, and his bushy, white eyebrows point in every direction. The braces wrap around his legs and help him get through his daily routine. Walking, standing, even jumping.
“Shall we begin the formal sentencing?” His tone implies the father-daughter moment was a courtesy to the King.
My father sits on his throne, and the council members shuffle themselves into a semi-circle. The council is made up of colonists, old and middle-aged, male and female. Each member also doubles as head of the various departments in our government. Master Somjing is one of our few remaining original colonists.
“Princess Vela, you’ve made a full confession,” Master Somjing says, his voice low and gravelly, the way a serpent might sound if it could talk. “We are not here today to issue a verdict on your guilt but rather to sentence you for your crime.”
My heart ricochets into my mouth. I try to summon my rescuer’s voice, but here, in front of this semi-circle of eyes and expectations, it won’t come.
“I’m ready,” I say, my voice two decibels above a whisper.
“The council has carefully considered your Testimony. While the reasons you stole food as a child were frivolous—in order to share a taste with your friend—there are some of us on the council…” His eyes slide to my father. “…who believe the motivation behind your more recent violation was based on loyalty and friendship. Surprisingly, CORA agrees.” Even if I don’t, his tone implies. “We on the council have taken that into consideration, even as we deem your actions a clear transgression of the law.”
CORA, short for control room analytics, is a computation engine that runs scenarios, using every piece of available data and extrapolating from all known human behavior, to calculate a percentage of success or failure. Every decision the council makes is backed by CORA’s findings. In fact, every aspect of our life on Dion has its roots in this computer.
The best of both worlds. Machine-like objectivity, powered by human subjectivity. The highest level of statistical success, tempered by moral judgment. Whatever my sentence is, it’ll be the best possible decision, based on the history of human experiences from both Earth and Dion.
I don’t know if that’s supposed to reassure me, but I nod, not daring to speak. Hardly daring to breathe.
“Therefore, you will not remain in the red cells.”
The air whooshes out of my lungs. If it weren’t for my father’s gaze reining me in, I would’ve swished around the room like a leaking balloon.
“You may return to your residence in the shuttle and resume your eating duties,” Master Somjing continues. “However, you will be sentenced two years’ worth of excess pills for violating the law.”
“Two years?” I blurt. “That’s not fair.”
The woman closest to me knocks into her friend so hard he stumbles.
Okay, I get it, lady. You don’t approve. I take a deep breath. I’m guilty of the action. Therefore, I must accept the responsibility. “I mean, it is fair. I apologize.”
If I were the girl they trained me to be, I would shut my mouth now. But if I were that girl, I wouldn’t be here now. “What about Astana?” I ask. “Is she in trouble?”
“Your friend will have to give Testimony but not while her health is compromised.” Master Somjing glances at Mistress Barnett, the council member with the long silver hair and wine-red lips who heads our medical facility. “You are right that we do not easily make exceptions to the First Maxim. We cannot waste our limited supply of food. But we shall see.”
What, exactly, will we be “seeing”? Does he mean the council might make an exception, after all? Or simply that Astana may get better through other means?
I learned long ago Master Somjing only says what he intends, and if he’s being vague, it’s deliberate. Even if I ask, I won’t get any more answers.
“The council understands her addiction to taste began when she was a child, too young to understand the ramification of her actions,” he continues. “She will be shown the same leniency given you.”
My shoulders relax. I guess that’s it, then. I couldn’t have hoped for a better outcome. Sympathy from the council, my friend under expert care. Master Somjing didn’t say anything about my candidacy for Successor, but perhaps that consequence is understood. I’m a criminal now, confirmed and sentenced. It goes without saying I’m no longer under consideration.
The disappointment is a fishbone stuck in my throat. Now I’ll never help my people the way that I want. Now I’ll never live up to my father’s high expectations of me. “Thank you. I appreciat
e your understanding.”
I bow to Master Somjing and prepare to leave, but then, my father stands and breaks through the line of people. “Wait, Vela. There’s more.”
He nods at the council members. As if by prior agreement, they begin to file out of the room.
He turns back to me. “A whole lot more, I’m afraid.”
Chapter
Five
My pulse leaps. Something more? What can he mean?
I watch the council members walk out of the Royal Office, each disappearing body turning the crank on my pulse. By the time Master Somjing lurches out the serpent door, his mechanical braces scraping over the door jamb, my heart feels like it’s busted the dial.
“Is it good news or bad?” I ask.
The words are from a game I used to play as a little girl, when my father would sit Blanca and me down in the evenings for a “talk.” I could never stand the anticipation back then. I always had to know, as soon as possible, if I should steel myself or bounce in my seat.
And then came the day my father turned into a stone carving and said, “It’s bad news, girls. Your mother passed away.”
I never asked the question again. Until now.
Three creases appear in my father’s forehead, and for a moment, he looks as old as Master Somjing. “A little of both, I think. Let’s go for a walk.”
So I’m going to have to wait, after all.
We exit the back of the building into a thick throng of trees. Like everything else inside the bubble, the trees are crowded together, roots overlapping roots, as they perform their job of sucking in carbon dioxide and spitting out oxygen.
The trunks stand tall and pristine. Back on Earth, forests were cut down for lumber and paper products. But wood is a scarce resource on Dion. We only have what we can grow inside our bubbles, so the trees remain.
We squeeze behind a trunk as thick as my arm span and duck underneath a low hanging branch to take a path I know well. The dirt is moist, as if the rain spigots have just rotated through this sector, and the trees are plump with colorful leaves.