The Girl From Mars

by Brenda Hiatt

  “Morning, Dad, morning, Sean.” Since she serves as the Sovereign’s Chomseireach or Handmaid, Molly has a room right here in the sumptuous Royal Apartments.

  M—better known in Nuath as Sovereign Emileia—smiles up at us from her place at the table. “Did you have fun last night?” she asks me.

  As her “future Consort,” I went absolutely everywhere with her before she got Acclaimed and for the first week or two afterward. Now, not so much—though Molly still does. Not that I’m bitter. Much.

  “Um, yeah, I did.” Forcing a smile, I take my usual place on M’s left while my dad moves to sit on her other side. “You guys missed a great game—the Ags made the playoffs! Our whole group went to Sheelah’s in Newlyn afterward to celebrate.”

  “Oh, wow, now I wish I’d gone after all.” Molly’s not nearly as big a caidpel fan as I am, though we both supported the Ags while growing up in Glenamuir.

  Dad grins widely, for a second looking like he did before politics took over his life. “Hey, that’s great. We should get tickets for their first playoff game.”

  Molly puts the last dish on the table and sits down next to me, since M refuses to follow Nuathan tradition and make her stand when it’s just us.

  “Who all went to the game with you?” Molly asks.

  “Most of the old gang from Glenamuir. You know, Doyle, Brian, Floyd, plus a few others. Floyd, of course, couldn’t resist using my status to insist on the best room at Sheelah’s. Most of the Ag team showed up right after we did. I wanted to invite them to join us—that would have been cool—but they left before I got a chance. Anyway, it was fun, though I, um, probably stayed out later than I should have.”

  I glance at Dad, who gave me a hard time when I got in, but he turns to M, his mind obviously back on business. “Do you feel prepared for this evening’s speech, Excellency, or would you like to go over the key points again?”

  “I think by now I can recite them all in my sleep,” she replies with a wry smile.

  I frown, a forkful of scrambled eggs halfway to my mouth. “You’re doing another in-person speech tonight? I thought you were cutting back on those. Isn’t that why you’ve been recording all those vids?” That’s what she was doing last night, in fact, while I was at the game.

  “Shim thinks actually visiting the villages, talking to people face-to-face, is more effective,” she says with a cute little shrug. “We’re not getting as many bookings as we need yet. And now he’s hinting that if I can’t convince enough people to sign up for the next few Earth-bound ships, I might need to delay my departure till the next launch window—which I’m totally not going to do.”

  I examine her face—the most beautiful face in the universe to me—with concern. She doesn’t look nearly as wrung out as she did while campaigning to get Acclaimed two months ago, but she does look tired.

  “Would that be such a terrible thing, really?” I say, though I know it’s pointless. “With another two years to change people’s minds, you’d be able to slow down, not push yourself quite so hard. You don’t want to get sick again, do you?”

  She glares across her plate at me with those amazing green eyes. “Of course it would be a terrible thing. Why would you even ask that, Sean? If there’s any chance I can help Rigel get his memory back—get his life back—I have to try. As soon as I possibly can. One of those Mind Healer reports said the longer we wait, the harder it will be.”

  “And nearly all of those reports say it can’t be done at all. Look at Elana. She’s been under continuous care from the Mind Healers for months now and still hasn’t improved enough to be released. And she just had some memories extracted, not completely erased, like—”

  “That’s totally different!” she interrupts. “I’m really sorry about your sister, Sean, I am. But unlike Rigel, her mind was tampered with by Faxon’s people, who didn’t know what they were doing.”

  She averts her gaze from me but the anguish pinching her face proves she knows, deep down, I’m right. It also, unfortunately, shows how much Rigel still means to her, no matter how hard I try to fill that void. Dad, I notice, stays completely out of the discussion. Not surprising, considering his role in what happened to Rigel—and that M hasn’t exactly forgiven him yet.

  “The fact that his memory wipe was done by the head Mind Healer herself just means it was a lot more thorough.” Though it never works, I can’t help trying again to make her face facts. “You told me yourself that she didn’t—”

  “I know, okay?” she snaps. “I still have to try. Which means filling up as many ships as I can as quickly as I can, so Shim can convince the Legislature it’ll be okay for me to leave—that there’ll be enough Nuathans on Earth by the end of the launch window to justify me going back there, too.”

  “But think how much more good you could do here! I know if you—”

  Molly puts a hand on my arm, stopping me. “Don’t, Sean. You’re only making it worse.” Then, to M, “When you finish eating, you and I can go pick out what you’ll wear tonight, okay? Hollydoon is only a couple miles from Glenamuir and pretty similar, mostly Ags, so I already have some ideas.”

  Molly’s right, of course. Arguing with M, especially about this, only pushes her further away from me. Which is the last thing I want to do, since she’ll need me more than ever when…if…we get to Earth and she realizes the Healers—and I—were right about Rigel all along.

  3

  Populists

  Populists: a minority movement among Nuathans advocating equal rights and representation for all fines. (Sometimes referred to as “Anti-Royals”)

  * * *

  At school the next day, the two main topics of conversation between classes are yesterday’s caidpel game and the Sovereign’s impending visit to Hollydoon. Being congratulated about the first one helps me ignore the second, and mostly restores my good mood from our win last night.

  “I replayed that maneuver you and Doona pulled off in the first half about six times,” Alan Dempsey tells me at lunchtime. A year older than me, he plays wing back on the Ag fine’s all-male caidpel team—not as prestigious as the co-ed league I’m in, but a bigger deal than the village teams. “Did you two practice that cool over-under thing in advance?”

  “Sort of. We have a drill like that, so when we saw our opening yesterday, we took it. Luckily, it worked.” Our relay down the field, fast-pitching the larger ball back and forth, high, then low, set up the goal that ended the first half.

  “Luck? I don’t think so.” Shaking his head admiringly, he leans closer but just then Eileen, a classmate who plays on Hollydoon’s girls’ team, joins us to ask questions of her own.

  Which is fine with me. Most girls consider Alan handsome, with his thick, white-blond hair and silvery blue eyes, but he’s not really my type—and I know Eileen has a bit of a crush on him. I let the two of them carry the conversation, already thinking ahead to this afternoon’s practice—and whatever Brady plans to tell me.

  On the zipper to Monaru later, it’s all I can think about—until practice actually starts. Then, as always, I’m completely sucked into the intricacies of caidpel.

  “That relay Kira and Doona ran yesterday got a lot of attention on the feeds,” Coach says as we gather around him behind one of the goals. “Since that means we can’t use it again anytime soon, we’ll work on some other passing drills.”

  We form two lines of ten down the middle of the pitch, twenty meters apart, one side starting with the pell and the other with the smaller schlitur. On the coach’s instructions, we alternate passing the two balls diagonally down the line using our feet and open palms for the bigger ball and sticks for the little one. As always, it takes a few minutes to get into a groove but by our third time sending the balls down the line we look like a well-oiled machine.

  After twenty minutes we move on to scoring drills, running up and down the field balancing the schlitur on our sticks or dribbling the pell with feet and hands—occasionally both at once, if we get lucky. Twice
I send the larger pell through the topmost, smallest section of the A-shaped goalposts, worth seven points in a real game.

  Practice runs a little over, leaving me exhausted, but in a good way—and more eager than ever for our next match. Only when Coach wraps up his post-practice strategy talk do I remember the main reason I was looking forward to this afternoon.

  “You looked good out there today,” Brady comments as we head to the equipment bins. “I can’t believe how much you’ve improved over the past year or so.”

  “Thanks.”

  I try to think of a way to broach the topic he hinted at after yesterday’s game as we return our sticks to the rack. Under Faxon we weren’t allowed to carry our camman on the zippers—or anything else that might be used as weapons in the uprising he increasingly feared. That rule was abolished, of course, but by then we were used to the coaches storing them between games and practices. Four-foot poly sticks are kind of awkward to deal with off the field.

  “Still interested in hearing what some of us are doing post-Resistance?” Brady murmurs before I have a chance to bring up the subject.

  “Absolutely,” I whisper back. “You said there’s still a way I can make a difference?”

  He nods. “What do you know about the Populist movement?”

  “Crevan Erc’s party? I caught some of his speeches when he was vying for Acclamation back in April. If my dad came into the room, he always switched to a different feed but I thought Crevan had better ideas than any of the others. Didn’t his party mostly fall apart after the Sovereign got Acclaimed?”

  “Nope. It’s not only still around, it’s growing. They have more support now than most people realize, they’re just not as public these days. Crevan’s being more careful—says trusting the wrong people is what undermined his campaign for Acclamation.”

  I remember Crevan was banned from that final debate between the then-Princess and her top contenders, just because he wasn’t Royal. “Yeah, that sucked. Everyone kept talking about how great it would be to have a proper Sovereign again, but to end up with an inexperienced teenager who’s practically a Duchas besides…”

  “Believe me, you’re not the only one who’s less than impressed by our new Sovereign.” He lowers his voice even more, though we’re now well away from our other teammates, walking slowly toward the nearest zipper station.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Leitis giving me a thumbs-up, but I ignore her. “Do you mean the Populists actually want to do something about it? What?”

  I barely breathe the words, which could be construed as treasonous. But I’m dying to hear more.

  Brady clearly notices my sudden nervousness because he hastens to reassure me. “Nothing violent. Information gathering, spreading the word about what we uncover—a lot like what we did in the Resistance, actually.”

  “But what are they—you?—hoping to achieve, exactly?”

  Glancing quickly around, he angles away from another group headed for the same zipper platform.

  “A fully elected, truly representative government, though we know we’ll have to take it in stages. We’re definitely not looking to stage a coup, if that’s what you’re worried about. The idea is to build up more grassroots support, do plenty of research into— Oops, that’s your tapacarr, isn’t it? I…guess I should let you go.” His reluctance is flattering.

  I shrug, trying to play it cool. “I can catch the next one. I’m in no hurry. My parents plan to spend the evening fawning over you-know-who. She’s giving a speech in Hollydoon.”

  Brady looks at me, a speculative gleam in his eyes. I’m struck again by how incredibly handsome he is. His fervor for such a worthy cause makes him doubly appealing.

  “There, ah, happens to be a meeting tonight, right here in Monaru,” he says after a moment. “If you don’t have to get home right away, maybe you’d be interested in coming? I can message ahead to vouch for you so they know you’re okay.”

  My breath catches. “Tonight? Sure! I—” I break off, glancing down at myself. “I’m kind of a sweaty mess, though. I’ve got my school clothes in my bag, but—”

  “No problem.” He gives me an easy grin. “You can clean up at my place. I need to change before the meeting myself.”

  “Really? Thanks, that would be great.” What would Leitis say if she knew about this? Not that I plan to tell her. Anyway, it’s not like I’m excited for the same reason she would be—mostly.

  “C’mon, it’s not far. We can take the local zip.”

  Monaru is Nuath’s biggest city, twice the size of Thiaraway and more than fifty times larger than Hollydoon, population-wise. Though it’s only fifteen minutes away by zipper, I’ve only visited it for games and practices.

  “So, what kinds of things do you talk about at these meetings?” I ask as we board one of the smaller, local tapacarrs.

  “Too impatient to wait?” He slants an amused glance down at me. “Information updates, strategy…potential new operatives.”

  Excitement fills me at the idea of being an operative again, working for a cause greater than myself. As we pass through sections of Monaru I haven’t seen before, I examine the city. Unlike Thiaraway, with its soaring spires of pink crystal, Monaru’s buildings of gray and dark red stone appear more prosaic, more functional. More real. I decide I like it better than the capital city’s glittering facade, the pretty face masking oppression—whether by Faxon or the Royals.

  “Our stop.” Standing, Brady extends a hand to me.

  Startled, I take it—and feel myself flushing, which is ridiculous. His almost-grin shows he noticed. The moment I’m on my feet, I pull my hand away, not wanting him to think I’m like all those silly girls crushing on him. Because I’m not. At all.

  We step off the zipper at the intersection of two streets choked with hovercar traffic. The walkways bordering the streets are also thronged, people moving purposefully about their business between tall cliffs of gray stone punctuated by occasional windows.

  “I live just down here.” Brady leads the way to a lane too narrow for zippers or any but the smallest hovercars. “My place…it’s not much, but it’s close to the aquaponics testing center where I work.” He sounds almost apologetic.

  “Hey, as long as the shower works. I don’t exactly live in a mansion either.”

  “Yeah, don’t know many Ags that do.” His voice holds a trace of the same bitterness I feel myself every time I’m reminded of the various perks enjoyed by Royals and most Scientists—especially those in government.

  Just ahead, I notice a man in a ragged tunic hunched up on the ground next to a trash receptacle. He looks half-asleep, or maybe sick, but Brady doesn’t slow his stride as we pass him.

  “Should we try to help that guy?” I glance over my shoulder.

  “Wouldn’t do any good. He’s just drunk or high on gloraigh. Probably lost his job and doesn’t have anything better to do. We get some of those here in Monaru. Guess the villages mostly don’t?”

  “Um, not that I’ve noticed.” I look back again, but the man hasn’t moved. “There isn’t enough work here for everyone? What about food and stuff?”

  Brady shrugs. “The markets give away whatever’s left over at the end of the day, if people make the effort to go. Some don’t bother, though, just scavenge on the streets or hope for handouts. Of course, if you’re Maintenance or Mining—or even Ag—you never get the best stuff, even with a few sochar to spend.”

  “I thought that was supposed to get better after we got rid of Faxon?”

  “So they said. Though there were plenty of inequities under Leontine, too.”

  I look up at him curiously. “Can you remember what it was like before Faxon? You can’t be that much older than me.”

  A corner of his mouth quirks up. “I’m twenty-three. You’re what? Sixteen?”

  “Almost seventeen.” I sound defensive, even to myself. “What do you remember from that time?”

  “Not a lot. I was only eight when Faxon started d
ecimating the Royals. Early on, I remember my parents and some of their friends, Ags and Mechanicals mostly, talking about how much better things would be getting. They’d bought into his promises, like most people did—until it became obvious they were all lies. This is my building.”

  It looks like all the others—tall, gray, hardly any windows. Brady leads me through a narrow doorway, up three flights of stairs and down a long hallway before palming open a door.

  “Like I said, it’s not much.” He stands back to let me enter first.

  The living area is less than half the size of ours, the only furniture a table, four straight-backed chairs and a small couch. The recombinator in one corner looks even more basic than the one at home.

  “The shower’s off the bedroom.” He points at the only other door. “You can go first. I’ll message Crevan to let him know I’m bringing you.”

  I blink. “Crevan Erc himself will be at this meeting?”

  “Sure. Most of our meetings are in Monaru because he lives here. He likes to stay fairly hands-on, especially about what we put out for public consumption. Doesn’t want to give the media another chance to spin things the wrong way, you know?”

  That makes sense. “Cool. Okay, I’ll be quick.”

  “No rush. There’ll be food at the meeting, so we won’t have to stop on the way.” He pulls out his omni as I head into the bedroom.

  Brady’s bedroom. Nope, not thinking along those lines. Not. He seems to think he’s too old for me anyway.

  This room is as spartan as the main living area, with just a bed, nightstand and small desk with drawers down one side. Tunics and other clothes hang on hooks along one wall.

  His ionic shower is almost identical to ours at home. I takes me less than five minutes to strip, get myself clean and put my school tunic and leggings back on. Wishing I had something nicer to wear, I exit the bedroom.