by Erica Rue
“Okay.”
Cora showered, and when she came back out, breakfast was ready, delivered straight to her room. It was a feast. There were pollas, but also red and yellow berries, a fresh floral tea made from pink blooms that reminded her of early spring, and porridge boiled with sucra leaves that gave it an aromatic sweetness.
Seeing it all made Cora’s stomach rumble. Perhaps she was hungry after all. Her aunt had already begun eating. Cora, dressed in clean sleeping clothes, sat across from her and dug in. Her aunt always ate slowly, but soon, Cora realized she had paused mid-meal.
“Yes, aunt?” Cora said, in between bites. It was probably about Evy. She felt a pang of guilt, but Evy had not wanted to come with her. She had tried. It wasn’t her fault.
“It looks like Evy won’t be here for your Matching. The city is on lockdown.” Her aunt didn’t try to hide the bitterness in her voice. “Your father also won’t make it back today.” This last sentence was meant as a jab, but Cora was ready for it. She remained calm, much to her aunt’s surprise. Her aunt was helpful, sure, but this wasn’t the first time she had tried to needle a reaction out of Cora.
“I understand. He’s doing the Farmer’s work.”
Amelia raised an eyebrow and continued on. “I wanted to talk to you about one more thing, child. I know you’ve been spending time with that boy—”
“Will,” Cora said, smiling at the thought. She couldn’t help herself.
“Yes. It’s highly unlikely that he will be your Match. You need to start coming to terms with that now, rather than during the ceremony. Any unfavorable reaction would be unbecoming of the Regnator’s daughter.”
“Don’t worry, aunt, I have faith that the Farmer has chosen me the only suitable Match,” Cora said.
“The Farmer doesn’t always work in the way we think. Sometimes he sends us adversity. Even now, your father is paying for your indiscretion. The demons have returned.”
Cora clenched her spoon a little too hard and paused when it was about halfway to her mouth. She was about to be matched, and still her aunt treated her as a child. “Aunt, do you warn me because you were unhappy in your Match? What indiscretion of yours prevented you from bearing my uncle more children? Perhaps you didn’t have enough faith.”
Amelia pursed her lips, opening them only to have a sip of tea. After a moment, her features relaxed into a saccharine smile.
“Well, we all learn the truth about the world one way or another. Some of us would rather take the bruises than allow another to soften the blow. Finish up. It’s time to get you ready.”
Cora realized she should have been nicer at breakfast once her aunt began brushing her hair. Each stroke of the brush felt like it was tearing hair out. She wished her mom were alive. Clara would have been gentle. That’s what everyone said about her, at least those who liked her. The others called her mother weak. Cora heard them when they didn’t realize she was listening. Even the Regnator’s daughter was ignored in the bustle of the marketplace.
Her aunt would not let her brush her own hair despite her polite requests. When the twisting and braiding and pinning part came, Cora was in tears. This must be why hair was always done before makeup. Her aunt might be enjoying this torture, but when she was matched with Will, she would have the upper hand. One day, she would wield the power of Regnator, and her aunt would be sorry.
Amelia had finished with one side of her head, and just as Cora was wondering how she would survive the other side, a woman summoned Amelia away to begin her own preparations. Another woman, this one quite old, came in to take over. Before leaving, Amelia said, “Happy Match Day. I’ll see you at the luncheon.”
“Thank you, aunt.” Cora wouldn’t be alone with her at the luncheon, at least. Her uncle would be there, even if her father was still gone, thanks to those awful liars. Rotten Ficaran spies. They still had Evy, too. Cora felt a little sad to realize that her luncheon would just be her and her aunt and uncle, but it wasn’t so bad. Again, she remembered that she was lucky enough to get to stay in her father’s house after her Matching. Her official Matching ceremony would take place in a few weeks. Her father would certainly be back by then.
The old woman approached her and smiled, sending a ripple of wrinkles across her face and filling her eyes with warmth.
“Hello, grandmother,” Cora said, lowering her head in respect. Though her biological grandmothers were dead, women of a certain age became the grandmothers of all.
“Hello, child,” she said, running her fingers through Cora’s hair on the unfinished side. The woman’s touch was much gentler than Amelia’s, and Cora relaxed a bit more.
The woman held up a few sections of hair, and Cora saw her gnarled hands with their swollen joints. She doubted that this woman would be able to match the precision and tightness of her aunt’s side, but as the woman began twisting and braiding, Cora was amazed at her speed and skill. Of course, she had probably done this dozens of times.
“How many daughters have you made ready for the Matching?” Cora asked.
“Seven,” she replied. Cora widened her eyes. That was a lot of daughters. The woman continued, “But I also prepared my three sons. It is not easy for the men, either, and they do not have the warning that we women do.”
Cora had never considered that. She had known all her life when she would be matched, but the men never knew when, or if, they would be chosen as suitable matches. That could be a little scary.
“How many Matches did you have?” Cora asked. This woman had probably had two. That would explain the large number of children. Cora wanted to know what it had been like, to be married to your first match, but to have obligations to your second.
“Three,” she said.
“Three?! I didn’t know that was even possible,” Cora said, twisting her head back to look the old woman in the eye.
“Sit still, child,” she said, dropping the section of hair in her hand to start again. “It no longer is. And one day, soon, there will be no second matches. We won’t need them anymore. And one day, the Matching may not even exist, at least not as a way to choose partners.”
“What do you mean?” Cora had never heard her uncle talk about this, though he didn’t like to discuss his work in front of her and Evy.
“Those who left, those who became the Ficarans, they didn’t like being told who to marry. They refused to be matched. While many called them selfish and dishonorable, they were just impatient. Short-sighted. We have the Matching to protect our genetic integrity. It’s not about breeding out physical traits, it’s about preventing genetic illnesses. They are a danger to our population because we are so few. But once our numbers grow, once the gene pool is strong enough and large enough, there will be no need to mandate matches, just as we no longer need third matches, like I had.”
“You sound like you pity the Ficarans.”
“I do. We shouldn’t hate them. They are our blood.”
“They keep attacking us! How could you say that?”
“With ten children, don’t you think it likely that a few joined the Ficarans when they left?”
“So you have children who left us?”
“Many my age do. My own daughter mutilated herself, so that she would never be able to bear children. She thought that was her only escape. Then the Architect showed her another way, and Victoria was gone.”
Victoria. A chill swept through Cora’s body. “The leader of the Ficarans is your daughter?”
“Yes, child, keep your head still.” The woman had worked more quickly than her aunt, and her hair was almost done. “It is my hope, and the hope of many my age who are still alive, that one day, we’ll be able to heal the divide. We have always been more patient than the younger generation, but I fear my patience may outlast these old bones.”
The old woman put the final pin in place, and Cora admired the intricate pattern of braids and coils. Everything was becoming real. Today, she would be matched.
“Blessings upon your Match, c
hild.”
“Thank you, grandmother,” Cora said. She hesitated, trying to find more words to say, but the old woman was gone, replaced by a young pregnant woman with a large belly. The new woman applied makeup to her face and eyes, but said little when Cora questioned her. She seemed tired or busy, and had no time to give Cora any insight or advice in regards to her condition.
Cora dressed alone, in brilliant billowing pants of gold and brown, with a simple white shirt. It was almost time to report to the main hall of the Temple where she would wait with the other girls and make final preparations for the parade.
She hesitated for a moment on the threshold. She felt a little sick. Was it excitement? Fear? All of a sudden, the certainty she had felt just hours before was draining from her. Victoria had harmed herself to avoid the Matching. Hundreds had rebelled and fled. Why was she only questioning this ritual now? No, the Ficarans were wrong. They were selfish. They did not believe in the Farmer and his vision. They did not respect the process. She would honor her responsibility in the Matching, and marry Will. If she was given a second match, she would honor that responsibility, too.
Cora headed to the main hall downstairs, confident in her future.
23. DIONE
Dione and Professor Oberon were the only ones left on the Calypso. Lithia and Evy had gone to get a shuttle ready, and Zane had followed Bel into the Mountain Base. Dione finally had a moment alone with the professor, and she needed to say something. But the words kept getting stuck.
“Dione, is there something you wanted to talk to me about?” Professor Oberon’s voice was gentle and patient.
“I’m sorry,” she said, blinking back tears. “On the Ven ship, I thought… I thought you were dead. You weren’t moving, and there was so much blood.”
He put his hand to the back of his head where his wound was still healing. “Dione, you can’t blame yourself. If you had stayed, we’d both be dead, and so would the others. You gave them a chance to escape, and somehow, me, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“You probably noticed the Vens hunting me had the same symbols as the blue ones that boarded the Calypso. I don’t understand it all, but I think they were hunting me for retribution. It’s strange, because they don’t seem to have the same ritual for adults who are killed in battle. It’s almost reassuring that they hold the lives of children sacred, too.”
Dione had never thought about that. The Vens seemed like a monolith to her—all the same, all violent, evil, irredeemable—but they had to have hierarchies or social structures, surely, and culture. No. Curiosity had its place, and this wasn’t it.
“They’re monsters,” she said, emphatically.
“Maybe. Certainly from our point of view. I’m not condoning their behavior, but I’m asking why. Why are they doing this?”
“Maybe it’s how their culture operates, or there is some biological imperative within them to kill. Who cares? They almost killed you. They killed hundreds of Ficarans. The sooner they’re all dead, the better.”
The professor thought a moment. “I think what you’re saying is that this question doesn’t matter right now, because we’re all in danger, right?”
“I guess so,” Dione said.
“What if understanding their motivations helped us defeat them?”
Dione said nothing. She was torn. This was not the time to study the Vens, unless it could be done at the same time she was killing them.
“I think that survival is our number one priority,” she said.
“I won’t tell you to show them mercy or spare them. They won’t spare our lives. Just don’t let your anger blind you to opportunities to understand, because those opportunities may save your life. They may save the planet.”
“Bel has been studying the one we killed on the ship. She has a hypothesis,” Dione said. “She was making observations about the Ven’s physiology, and she noticed a pattern. The Vens have a lot of the adaptations of prey: the thick plating, the rectangular pupils, the appearance of being dead while regenerating tissue.”
The professor furrowed his brow. “She thinks they’re actually prey.”
“What if they’re not nomadic hunters roaming the galaxy for prey? What if they are fleeing something more terrible?”
“That’s a troubling idea. More terrible than the Vens?” The professor considered the proposition for a moment, then shook his head. “For humanity’s sake, I hope you’re wrong.”
Dione looked down. “I’m sorry.”
Professor Oberon put a hand on her shoulder. “Never apologize for asking questions. Without scientific questions, we’d never get any answers. I think that this Ven hypothesis is worth investigating.”
Dione stood up to leave, but hesitated.
“Yes?” the professor asked, sensing her unasked question.
“Do you think we can make it out of this?” She needed to hear him say the words.
“I do. And I’m not just saying that. If we can get everyone on the same page for long enough, I think we’ll be able to stop them. The Vens thought they would have another Invader class vessel full of soldiers from what you’ve told me. They are at a greater disadvantage than they planned, but for some reason they won’t back down. They have no problem fighting until the end, even if every last Ven dies. We don’t know why. Another cultural quirk, perhaps.”
“That’s stupid of them.”
“So it seems to us, but they must have their reasons.”
“Thanks, professor,” she said. He looked tired. “Get some rest. We’ll need you later.”
He chuckled. “You know, I should be panicking right now. Four of my students are running around this planet in the middle of a Ven invasion.”
“You’re not panicking?”
“Oh, I’m panicking, but I also see what you’ve done so far without me.”
“We’ve screwed everything up,” she said.
“You did the best you could under the circumstances. I believe in you, Dione. I believe in all of you, because you are some of the most capable students to come through StellAcademy.” Professor Oberon put his hands to his temples and winced.
“You need to get some rest,” Dione repeated.
“Unfortunately, you’re right. I don’t think I can come with you. Wake me if there’s anything I can do.”
Dione helped the professor to his cabin, then entered the base to prepare for their trip. Bel sent her to search the basement for communicators. Sam had barred most Ficarans from entry, worried about what they might get into or find. Bel didn’t warn her that Brian would be here, too. He was sitting with his back against a wall, eyes closed. A box of cleaning supplies was on the floor next to him. He looked exhausted.
“Need any help?” she asked, startling him.
Brian jumped. “Dione?” He looked up at her, his eyes bloodshot. She wasn’t sure if he had been crying, or if exhaustion was weighing him down.
Her heart ached for him and his people. “I wanted to say I’m sorry. After the Vens landed, I was overwhelmed. And then the professor was alive, and… I didn’t know what to do. I should have been there with you.”
“You don’t need to apologize. There’s nothing you could’ve done that would have changed things.”
“I thought you blamed me for the Vens.”
“I know it wasn’t your fault. Not really. I was just focused on saving my people.”
“So we’re okay?”
“Yeah.” Brian paused for a moment and looked at her. “You know, you remind me a lot of my father. He questioned everything, and I forgot that. I let my anger at the Aratians take over, and that’s not what he would have wanted. Even though he’s lost, I feel like I’ve found a piece of him in you.”
Dione didn’t know what to say. Brian stepped closer and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. She leaned in to kiss him, but he took a step back. Was she misinterpreting things?
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s… nothing. Just promise me yo
u’ll be careful. You can’t trust the Aratians.”
“I thought you were warming up to them,” Dione said.
“Just because we need to make a deal with them doesn’t mean we have to trust them.”
Brian’s communicator came to life. It was Bel. “Brian, did you find those cleaning supplies? What’s taking so long?”
“Yeah, I’ve got them. On my way.” To Dione he said, “See you when you get back.” With a kiss on the cheek, he left.
She didn’t understand. She knew she shouldn’t take it personally, but his rejection consumed her thoughts. Something was going on with Brian. And Lithia, she wasn’t the same either. What had happened at the Field Temple?
Dione gathered up the remaining communicators to bring to the Aratians as a peace offering. Their manumeds had been enough to convince Cora that they were working for the Farmer, so maybe these communicators would help them negotiate.
A message from Lithia appeared on her manumed: Time to go.
24. BEL
Bel was busy organizing welcome baskets. At least that’s how she tried to think of them, but the welcome felt hollow. When the Ficarans came to her, stained with tears and blood, a stack of clean clothes and some soap, with directions to the shower, felt almost callous. Each face was a mirror for her own pain. How could she tell them they were lucky? Lucky to be alive. Fortunate to have a friend or a family member to put a steadying hand on their shoulders.
Bel had nothing. No, that wasn’t true. She had the memories, good and bad, and she was grateful for those, once the nightmares had stopped. Her throat felt tight, but she knew she wouldn’t cry. Not anymore.
“Hey.”
Bel jumped a little and turned to see Zane. His deep blue eyes pulled her out of her dark thoughts. Without thinking, she pulled him into an embrace and didn’t let go. She leaned her head against his chest and felt his chin rest gently on top of her head.
She let go, and as nice as the hug had been, she immediately regretted it. He would probably read into it. How could he not? They’d been getting closer and closer, but she’d always kept a necessary distance to protect him. To protect herself. Even if he understood, he wouldn’t be interested. He wouldn’t be willing to make that sacrifice.