Starstruck

by Brenda Hiatt

CHAPTER 10: Extraterrestrial origin

  Bri and Deb were less talkative than usual the next day but I didn't really notice until lunchtime. I was too excited about what new revelations Rigel—and his parents?—might have in store for me that afternoon.

  When Rigel and I got to the cafeteria after Science class, I automatically headed toward our usual table, where my friends were already sitting. But just as I got there, they started picking up their trays like they were going to leave. Again.

  "Wait," I said. "Where are you guys going?"

  Not that I didn't want the time alone with Rigel, but I felt like I should say something.

  "We, um, have stuff to do," Bri said without looking at me.

  "Are you mad at me?" I asked. "About the game?" I was still feeling a little guilty about that.

  She shook her head. "No, no, it's fine. No biggie." But she still didn't quite meet my eye. Deb sent me a quick, apologetic glance, but didn't say anything.

  "You sure?"

  "Yeah. Deb and I just need to do some more chorus stuff. See you tonight."

  And then they were gone.

  Rigel frowned after them. "You, um, didn't say anything to them, did you? About the, ah, stuff we talked about yesterday?"

  "Of course not!" I was hurt he would even suspect it. "They probably still think we want to be alone." I hoped that was all it was. I had been ignoring them a lot lately.

  "Don't we?" he asked with a smile that made me forget all about my friends again.

  I nodded shyly. "I guess maybe we do."

  "Sit down," he said then. "If they're feeling left out, you can make it up to them later. So, your aunt and uncle are okay with you coming home on my bus today?"

  It was the second time he'd asked me that today. I almost asked him if he was sure he couldn't read my mind, but stopped myself in time. "My aunt did make me promise to come straight home after the game," I said by way of a partial confession.

  "She still doesn't trust my motives?" He was grinning now.

  "Well . . ." I half-shrugged. "It's not like she really knows you. And you are the first boy who's ever—I mean, um, this is kind of new territory for her."

  He did not need to know that no boy had ever shown even the remotest interest in me before. Pathetic was not how I wanted him to think of me. I wanted him to see me as fun and interesting and pretty and . . . desirable. All the things I'd never been. But somehow, with Rigel, they seemed almost possible.

  "We'll just have to win her over," he said, "since I don't plan on going away anytime soon."

  His words sent a delicious thrill through me, but I couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't sound sappy, so I took a bite of my pizza.

  "Eat all of it," he said when I set it back down. "I've noticed you don't eat very much—at least, when you're around me. You'll need your strength today."

  I nearly choked. "Wh—What? Why?" I sputtered as soon as I could.

  He laughed and handed me a napkin. "I didn't mean to scare you. It's just . . . it's going to be a long day, what with an away game and all."

  But I could tell that wasn't what he'd originally meant. "Your parents do know I'm coming over, don't they?"

  "Definitely," he assured me. "They're really looking forward to it."

  He clearly meant it, which confused me, especially since he'd asked me not to tell them about our graell thing. I'd figured even if they didn't freak, they probably wouldn't approve. Besides, Rigel must have always had girls—better looking, more popular girls than me—flocking around him. Why would his parents care about getting to know me better?

  Speaking of good looking, popular girls, I quickly realized that a real, private conversation here in the cafeteria was impossible. Every single cheerleader, plus what seemed like half the other girls in school, stopped by our table over the next twenty minutes to tell Rigel how much they were looking forward to tonight's game and to wish him luck. A few guys came by, too, to slap him on the back and talk football.

  I might as well have been invisible to most of the girls, though a few gave me quick, perky smiles. But to my surprise, a couple of the guys made a point of saying hi to me and even tried to include me in the conversation. When Pete Warner left after a brief discussion of offensive strategies, Rigel frowned after him.

  "What?" I said.

  "Didn't you notice the way he was looking at you?"

  I shook my head. When Rigel was around, I honestly couldn't seem to notice much of anyone else. No wonder my friends were getting pissed at me.

  Rigel looked into my eyes for a long moment, then shrugged. "Then I guess it doesn't matter, does it?" he said with a sudden grin.

  "No," I admitted, still drinking in his eyes, his amazing face. I never seemed to get enough of that. "It really doesn't."

  I did my best to concentrate on my classes for the rest of the day, but anticipation—and a nagging worry about what Rigel had meant by "needing my strength"—kept distracting me. It was a huge relief when the final bell rang. I didn't even stop at my locker to drop off extra books, but hurried straight to the buses to meet him.

  Though it wasn't a surprise to see him surrounded by girls, it did annoy me a little. Not that he was my property or anything, I reminded myself.

  But then he looked over their heads and smiled at me, and all negative emotions evaporated, replaced by simple joy.

  "Hey, M!" He beckoned me to his side and the press of cheerleaders reluctantly parted to let me through. "You ready?"

  "As I'll ever be," I replied, though truthfully I couldn't be all that nervous when I was close to him. A very nice side-effect of that enhancement thing, if that's what it was.

  He ushered me onto the bus ahead of him, barely nodding in response to the chorus of goodbyes and "see you tonights" from the girls. We sat together in the first empty seat, and though a few people looked at me curiously, no one spoke to me. Like at lunch, several people—guys and girls—talked to Rigel about tonight's game, again making private conversation impossible.

  By the time the bus turned onto the farm road south of town, I was starting to get nervous again, in spite of Rigel's calming effect. Then the bus stopped and he stood.

  "Our stop," he said. "C'mon."

  I followed him off, then paused, swallowing. "You're sure—?" I began.

  "I'm sure." He took my hand, giving me instant courage, and led me up a long, winding drive shadowed by towering oak trees toward a yellow three-story farmhouse with a deep, wrap-around porch. A soybean field stretched into the distance behind it with a cornfield behind that. There was a grain silo visible in the distance, but no other houses within sight. A typical Indiana farmhouse, in other words.

  Only not, I realized as we got close enough for me to see the three satellite dishes on the roof, along with what looked like a couple of solar panels. There was also a ham radio tower off to the side, though that wasn't too unusual out in the country. The tiny video screen next to the front door was, though. Rigel ignored it and turned the knob.

  "Mom? Dad? We're home," he called as we entered the long front hallway.

  We're home. What a lovely phrase. I heard light footsteps approaching and mentally shook myself.

  "Marsha! Welcome!" Rigel's mother exclaimed, coming out of a doorway down the hall.

  She was even prettier than I remembered, her rich, reddish hair piled loosely on top of her head, her hazel eyes—so much like Rigel's—twinkling within their thick-fringed lashes.

  "Come into the kitchen," she continued. "I’m just about to take a batch of cookies out of the oven." Even as she spoke, I caught a delicious whiff and my stomach rumbled embarrassingly.

  "Thanks," I managed, grateful that both she and Rigel pretended not to hear. "It's very nice of you to invite . . . I mean, to offer to drive me to the game and all." I was nearly as tongue-tied as I'd been when I first met her.

  "Nonsense." She waved my words away with a smile and led the way back to the cozy, old-fashioned kitchen. "We were delighted when Rigel
suggested it. Especially now that he's told you—"

  "Mom," Rigel broke in. "Let's have some of those cookies before we launch into explanations, okay?" He looked a little worried, which surprised me.

  She gave him a curious look. "—about us," she finished, and Rigel relaxed.

  "Where's Dad?" he asked.

  "Right here." His father entered the kitchen from the other end. "Welcome, Marsha, it's great to see you again."

  "Um, thanks. Same here." I was startled again by their effusiveness. I didn't feel this welcome in my own house.

  Dr. Stuart poured four glasses of milk as Rigel and I sat down at the huge, knotted-pine kitchen table. Despite the rustic setting, things felt strangely official. Rigel had said they were going to explain about the Martian stuff, but I couldn't bring up the subject. Not when the Stuarts were being so nice. So . . . normal. Instead, I took a big sip of milk, hoping I wouldn't have to be the first one to say anything.

  I wasn't.

  "So, where to start?" Mr. Stuart said, sitting down and smiling at me with his movie-star smile. "I assume Rigel has given you all of the basics by now?"

  "Um . . ." I sent a panicky glance Rigel's way and after just the briefest hesitation, he put his hand over mine on the table—right in front of his parents. Remembering what he'd said about keeping our bond-thing secret, I tried not to let my reaction to his touch show. But, as he'd undoubtedly intended, it did calm me. A little.

  "Actually, there's a lot I haven't had time to tell her yet," Rigel said, again with an uncomfortable edge in his voice. "Maybe we should take it slowly."

  "No, it's okay, really," I said. "I mean, I do want to know everything. Everything you're willing to tell me, anyway."

  Dr. Stuart put the milk back in the fridge, turned and nodded, her expression warm and reassuring. "Of course we'll tell you everything, Marsha, now that Rigel has let you in on our, ah, secret."

  "That you're . . ." I swallowed. "Martians?" I felt a rush of embarrassment, a sudden, terrible fear that I'd somehow imagined everything Rigel had told me.

  I hadn't.

  "In a manner of speaking," she said. "Not that we really think of ourselves that way any longer. We came to Earth intending to stay, and this is our home now."

  I thought I'd been ready for this, eager for this, but I really hadn't been. I'd still half expected this to be some elaborate joke, or for Rigel's parents to somehow explain away everything he'd told me. It couldn't really be true. But looking at their serious faces, I was finally, totally, convinced that it was. No matter how impossible it seemed.

  "How—" My voice cracked slightly and I started over. "How long have you and Mr. Stuart been here? On Earth, I mean?"

  She glanced at her husband and Mr. Stuart gave her a little nod. Rigel gripped my hand more firmly and I noticed a tiny, worried crease between his mother's brows as she replied.

  "About . . . seventy-five years."

  I felt shock all over again. "Seventy-five—? But how—? I mean, you can't possibly be more than forty years old!" In fact, they both looked much younger than that, not that I was a great judge of parents' ages.

  "We age more slowly than most humans," Mr. Stuart explained. "Did Rigel tell you about some of the ways we're different?"

  "He . . . he said there were, ah, enhancements." Except he'd implied that was just when I was near him. "He didn't say anything about immortality!"

  Dr. Stuart's frown deepened. "No, Marsha, we're certainly not immortal. Our lifespan is a bit more than double what's typical on Earth, that's all."

  "All?" I echoed faintly. Then another thought hit me and I rounded on Rigel. "So how old are you, really?"

  "Fifteen," he answered promptly. He was smiling again, which for a moment made me want to smack him. It must have shown in my face, because he put up a defensive hand and hurriedly added, "No, really. I'll be sixteen in November. It's not until full adulthood that the aging process slows."

  "That's right," his father said. "Rigel is the same age you are, Marsha. Ariel and I arrived here on Earth some sixty years before he was born."

  I digested that for a minute while they stayed silent, letting me think. One thing I'd wondered about—meant to ask about—was how ships from Mars had reached Earth undetected. But seventy-five years ago, it probably wouldn't have been difficult.

  "Have others come here since? I mean, are people still coming here from Mars, or was it like a one-time thing?"

  Again they exchanged a speaking glance before Mr. Stuart answered. "The first ship from Mars came to Earth about five hundred years ago. Those pioneers brought back information and artifacts that proved to even the most skeptical that we had in fact originated here. After that, every few decades, small groups emigrated here, some to study the culture, others to settle and raise families. The pace has picked up over the past century."

  "Why?" I hoped if I kept asking questions I wouldn't freak out.

  "That's a long and rather complicated story, involving the political climate back on Mars as well as practical concerns. For now, I'll just say that increasing numbers of people have felt motivated to return to our original—well, our ancestors' original—home."

  "Then people are still coming here?" That brought me back to my earlier question. "How? I mean, why isn't that all over the news? Wouldn't your ships be picked up on radar or something?"

  "It is becoming a concern," he said. "It was much easier before Earth's technology became as advanced as it is now. That's one reason for the increase in immigration, a fear that soon we may not be able to land ships undetected. Fortunately, we use an anti-gravity drive that has been successful in avoiding discovery so far, since it causes little atmospheric disruption."

  I wasn't a huge science geek apart from astronomy, but I was pretty sure anti-gravity wasn't something our scientists had figured out. "So . . . just how technologically advanced is Mars?"

  Rigel's parents both chuckled a little, but not in a mean way. "That's a big question," his mom answered. "And of course the answer keeps changing as Earth science advances—and so does the science on Mars." The oven timer buzzed. "Oops, the cookies."

  She opened the oven and took out a cookie sheet filled with chocolate chip cookies . . . with her bare hands!

  "Careful!" I cried without thinking, then, "How did you do that?"

  "Reactive ceramic," she explained, setting the pan in the middle of the table. "It only heats where the cookies touch it."

  I touched the pan and, sure enough, it was perfectly cool to the touch. "Wow," was all I could think to say.

  "Did Rigel tell you about the advanced race that originally took humans to Mars?" Dr. Stuart asked, distracting me from the high-tech cookie sheet.

  "Only that they did," I said. "Two thousand years ago? But not anything else about them. Are they still there?"

  She shook her head. "They disappeared a long time ago—more than a thousand years ago, from what our records show. No one knows why. But they left much of their equipment behind, as well as the entire infrastructure of our underground habitat. That means we've had a millennium to figure out their technology and adapt it to our needs. And wants."

  So . . . pretty technologically advanced, I was guessing. "Rigel said something about them doing experiments?" I glanced at him and he nodded. "What kind?"

  "It was so long ago no one knows exactly, but we believe mostly genetic. Which would explain why we're so long-lived, as well as having other . . . advantages over the Duchas—that is, the humans of Earth. In recent centuries, our own geneticists have continued to improve on what those aliens began."

  I bit my lip, trying to choose my words carefully and trying even harder not to blush. "So, um, just how far apart are you from regular humans—Earth humans? Genetically, I mean?"

  "We don't know, exactly," she replied, "though we have a few scientists here—Rigel's grandfather, for one—trying to figure that out. Discreetly and ethically, of course. Having developed separately for almost three millennia, the
re are some significant differences."

  "Like being faster and stronger and better at football?" I asked, glancing at Rigel. He'd made it sound like that was because of me, but—

  "We do tend to be physically superior, yes," his mother answered before he could. "Most genetic weaknesses were eliminated generations ago, while adaptive traits were emphasized, giving us sharper senses, quicker reactions, and yes, more physical strength." She seemed about to say more, but then didn't, which made me wonder if they had other abilities she didn't want to mention.

  Not that I could exactly blame her. If I wasn't the reason for Rigel's awesomeness, then it made less sense than ever that they'd tell me any of this stuff.

  "All this—Martians on Earth, or even Martians existing at all—is like a huge secret, right? Our government doesn't know anything about it?"

  "Certainly not officially," Mr. Stuart said. "We do have a few, ah, highly placed people at NASA and elsewhere, who have helped prevent discovery on a few occasions. Rigel says you study astronomy?"

  Mystified, I nodded.

  "Then perhaps you're aware of how many Mars missions have had, shall we say, difficulties?"

  I gasped. "You mean—"

  "Yes. It wasn't exactly an accident that some NASA scientists 'forgot' to convert their figures to metric. And it took quite a bit of spin to play down the discovery of methane plumes recently—exhaust vents from the colony. Keeping our secret is becoming more and more difficult."

  Which brought me to the question I really wanted to ask. "So . . . why is it okay for me to know it, since I'm just a regular Earthling—a, uh, Duchas?"

  Dr. and Mr. Stuart looked from me to Rigel and back with a mixture of surprise and concern. At the same time Rigel's hand tightened almost painfully on mine.

  Then his mom said, "So, you didn't even give her a hint?" which confused me more.

  I looked at Rigel, who was shaking his head and looking embarrassed. "I was going to, but . . . I thought it might be better for her to hear it all from you." Then, to me, "I didn't want to upset you again, especially at school." His eyes pleaded with me to understand, even though I had no idea what I was supposed to understand yet.

  "A hint about what?" What could be more upsetting than finding out Rigel was practically an alien?

  His mother reached out and took my other hand, the one Rigel wasn't holding, and I felt calm flowing from her almost as strongly as I felt it from Rigel. Her eyes—so like Rigel's—held mine, her expression both kind and cautious. Despite their combined calming effect, I felt my heart starting to pound, though I didn't know why.

  "We know you're adopted, Marsha, and that you don't know anything about your birth parents. The truth is," she said gently, "they were also from Mars. In fact, you were born there."

  I looked wildly at Rigel for confirmation and he nodded, a smile tugging at his lips.

  "That's right, M," he said. "You're even more Martian than I am."