Star-Crossed Page 6

  “I spilled water on my pillow.”

  “Salt water, you mean?” She wiggles the cube in front of me.

  It’s a test. If I take the cube now, I’ll be admitting how dependent I am on the hologram inside. How I still project my late mother’s image several times a month. When I can’t sleep, when nervous embers pop and sizzle inside me. Sometimes just because I want to hear her voice again.

  “There’s no reason to feel guilty.” Her voice softens. “You were a kid. How were you supposed to know the shuttle would be put on purple alert when you fell asleep in the apple orchard? You didn’t make Mom go out without her allergen tabs. You didn’t make her step on a hive of bees.”

  “I…” My throat closes up, the way Mom’s must’ve when the bees swarmed out and attacked her. Three hundred and twenty-seven stings, the coroner said. Swollen red bites ballooning her face, closing her eyelids and puffing out her cheeks. Seems like overkill when it would’ve only taken one.

  “It was my fault,” I say slowly, relenting and taking the cube from her hands. I’m not sure why I’m telling her this now, other than the fact that she seems gentler than she normally does. More approachable. More like the Blanca I used to know. “Because I wasn’t asleep. I was hiding, calculating how long it would take Mom to find me. Except I forgot to tell her we were playing a game.”

  Her mouth falls open. I’m not surprised. My confession is far beyond the terse, combative exchanges of our normal conversation.

  “You…you should’ve told me.” The last word tilts up as if Blanca herself isn’t sure if it’s a statement or question.

  “Why? So you can have one more reason to hate me?”

  “I’ve never hated you,” she says. I almost can’t hear the words above the drills outside my window. “And I don’t blame you, either.”

  In all these years, it’s the closest she’s come to comforting me. It’s like my mother was a buffer between us. The former Queen was the most important woman to the King, to her daughters. To the entire colony. When she died, everything became a competition. From my father’s affections to the people’s respect. And my relationship with Blanca was never the same.

  “You really don’t blame me, Blankie?” The childhood endearment slips out. As the story goes, on the first day of my Aegis training, the teacher instructed the children to stow their favorite toy or blankie in their cubbies. “No!” I shouted, horrified. “I can’t put Blankie in the cubby! She’s my sister!”

  At the sound of her old nickname, Blanca’s features shutter down, and she turns from me to look out the window. The candidates are doing push-ups now, the row of their backs moving up and down like the segments of a centipede.

  “Do you actually think you can perform this task?” she asks. “Be responsible for a boy’s death?”

  Her words slice through my chest, straight to the freshly baked walnut bread and hazelnut spread I scarfed down this morning. I sway on my feet, and my father’s words echo in my head. It’s not meant to be easy. A ruler must make the decisions no one else wants to make.

  “I don’t have a choice.” I don’t tell her about Astana, about how the council made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Knowing Blanca, she’ll find a way to use the information against me. “Besides, I see it as maintaining Dad’s life, not taking one of theirs. And maybe…” I lick my lips. “Maybe, if I can save him, it will be a way to atone for Mom’s death.” Or will it? Sometimes, I’m not sure there’s anything I can do to make up for my childish prank. But doing my part to keep the King alive would at least be a start.

  She puts her hand on my arm, but it means nothing. The motion is too practiced. The sincerity doesn’t reach her eyes. “For your sake, I hope that’s true.”

  I doubt it. If I quit now, before my task even begins, her path to becoming Successor will be that much easier.

  “What’s your task, Blanca?” I ask, realizing the council never told me. “Are you considering dropping out?”

  “No way.” She sneers at the holo-cube I’m still clutching. I don’t have any similar baggage, her look seems to say. I don’t need to rely on an inanimate object, no matter whose image it projects. “If you’re determined to play, then I wish you luck. May the best princess win.”

  She spins on her heel and leaves my unit, not answering my initial question about her task. I think about going after her, but the digital clock on my ceiling begins to beep and flash.

  Time to find the boy who will die for the King.

  …

  Two hundred candidates stand before me in Protector’s Courtyard, in ten rows of twenty. That means four hundred eyes are trained on my purple brocade jacket, dissecting my posture, my figure, my face. Four hundred ears wait to hear the words scrambling around my brain. Two hundred hearts beat inside two hundred bodies, but I’m willing to bet mine is louder than all of them.

  Sweat breaks out on my forehead, and black spots zoom like angry bees across my vision. I grip the podium, and the platform tilts beneath my feet.

  Dear Dionysus, don’t let me pass out now.

  Help comes not from Dionysus, god of wine, but from deep in my memory. My mysterious savior presses a phantom hand against my back. This pain, too, will pass. Just hold on, and life will get better. It always does.

  I hear those kind and gentle words, and my heart rate slows. The black spots stop dancing, and I can see again.

  Above me, red and gold flags wave from the top of the space shuttle, dangerously close to the energy shields. Behind the candidates at the bottom of the courtyard, triangles of blue dot the ground of the athletic field. Tents. Of course. Some of these boys have come from the edges of our colony’s bubble, two miles away. Making the trip every day would be burdensome. They have to sleep somewhere, and the shuttles aren’t so big they can absorb two hundred extra bodies at a moment’s notice.

  Master Somjing creaks up to me, his braces sounding like the rusty wheel of a bicycle.

  “Remember. The more physically fit the candidate, the more successful the transplant. That should be your first criteria in narrowing them down.” His gruff tone turns the words into a threat. “It was always mine.”

  I nod, even though I have no intention of complying. This is my task. The council manipulated me into participating, so Master Somjing will have to live with my decisions.

  I climb the three steps onto the raised podium, trying to keep my knees from shaking, and survey the crowd. My eyes stumble on individual features. A green spiked mohawk. Dimples as deep as ice cream cones. A smattering of freckles.

  But these features don’t coalesce to form any distinct personalities. There are too many boys, and I don’t know them. At least not yet.

  “My name is Vela Kunchai.” My voice wavers like a five-year-old’s. No. I can’t sound like this. I need to be authoritative, in control, especially since the boys are more or less my age.

  All teenagers, every last one of them. Our ideal candidate is a person whose body has stopped growing and whose organs have matured but are still healthy. CORA predicted that the people would more readily accept the sacrifice if we alternated between a male and female Fittest. During the last trial, Romania Cayan emerged as the best candidate, and so this time, we must select a male. Thus, every boy between the ages of sixteen and eighteen has been rounded up to participate in this year’s Trials.

  I conjure up an image of my father’s square jaw and alert eyes. He believes in me. I can do this. “I’m the King’s daughter, and I’ve been tasked with administering the Fittest Trials.”

  Better. At least my voice holds the same note, instead of jumping from one end of the scale to the other.

  “You have been called upon to serve your colony. To prolong the reign of our beloved King. But in the process, you will forfeit your life.”

  I wet my lips. The rows of boys waver like the current of a river, but the ten-by-twenty formation holds.

  “There will be rewards, of course. You will hold a place of honor in our histor
y, and your family will be invited to move into the shuttle. They will reap the benefits of being an Aegis without the cost.” I pause to make sure my words sink in. “Without the cost. This means they will receive a monthly stipend for the rest of their lives. They will eat a daily ration of food. And they will not receive the genetic modification. The nutrition will not be extracted from their bodies. Your family will thus be among the few in our colony who have the best of both the Aegis and colonist worlds. They will enjoy the taste of food, without sacrificing a single day of their lives.”

  A whistle pierces the air, and two boys in the front row whoop and give each other a high five.

  “The Fittest will sacrifice himself for the colony, and so the colony, in turn, will sacrifice for him.” As I continue talking, I forget my nerves. My entire focus is on these boys and what they’re about to give up for my father. “In the entire history of Dion, this is our only regular exception to the First Maxim. This is how much we honor the Fittest candidate.”

  More whistles and a few scattered cheers. This is what humanity understands, after all. A fair trade. More than loyalty to a colony, more than duty to a king. If the Fittest is to give up his life, he must receive something in return. Even if he’s not around to enjoy it.

  “I will now make the first cut.”

  The murmurs die. I feel Master Somjing’s eyes blistering my back. “In spite of the rewards, if there are any of you who do not wish to be here, you may leave. It is a noble thing to sacrifice yourself for your country. You will be remembered as a hero forever. But it is also strictly voluntary.”

  I stop talking. And wait. Nothing happens for a few seconds. A boy with tattoos covering half his face looks at me as if he can’t believe his ordeal is over this easily.

  Well, it is. This is my first criteria. And the most important one. “Did you hear me? This is voluntary. So please, if you want to go back to your family, if you want to continue to live, do so now. You not only have my permission; you have my blessing. Go.”

  The boys move then. The formation breaks like a puff of dandelion, and the majority of them scramble for their tents.

  Master Somjing steps onto the podium next to me. His normally oaken face has turned birch white. “What if they all leave?”

  For a moment, panic clogs my airways. Breathe. Just breathe. “Then, they’ll leave,” I say, my voice smooth, even as my intestines tie themselves into macramé.

  “You might’ve let our most physically fit candidate go!”

  “I don’t care.” I clench my jaw so hard my teeth ache. “You wanted me to do this task, so I’m doing it. My way.”

  He peers at me, the lenses in his eyes, which correct for near- and far-sighted vision with the flutter of an eyelid, making them abnormally large. “Your stubbornness doesn’t endear you to the council.”

  “Sorry to disappoint,” I say, not sorry at all. “But I’m not trying to impress you.”

  I turn back to the candidates. To my relief, approximately fifty boys remain, and they bunch together in a confused mass, formation forgotten. I adjust the microphone at my collar. “There’s going to be a second cut.”

  “What? But we always have only one cut on the first day!” a scrawny boy with a pill-necklace exclaims. “We’re supposed to go straight to the challenges.”

  “Not this time.” Taking a deep breath, I address the rest of the crowd. “I don’t want your reasons for competing in the Fittest Trials to be financial. I will not allow a boy to give up his life because he needs to pay his family’s rent. Therefore, by being here now, all of you will receive one year’s supply of pills. So, if finances were your primary reason for volunteering, you may leave.”

  The scrawny boy hoots, jumping into the air with his legs kicked to the side. He lands and takes off for the athletic field. Approximately half of the other boys follow him.

  Beside me, Master Somjing groans. “A year’s supply of pills for all these boys? The council’s coffers will suffer for it.”

  Good. That wasn’t the reason I offered the incentive, but a small, petty part of me wants to make the council pay—literally—for forcing me into this situation.

  “This isn’t what the council intended when we gave you control.” His hand taps, taps, taps the side of his brace, as though he’s counting the candidates and calculating the costs.

  “Should’ve thought about that before you put me in charge.” I make my voice as cold as his must’ve been when he voted to manipulate me.

  The twenty or so remaining boys gather in front of the podium, forming a semi-circle. I can make out individual faces now. Turning away from Master Somjing, I scan the lineup. And then, all the blood drains out of my body and seeps through the metal slats onto the ground.

  I recognize one of the faces. It’s a face that’s taken permanent residence in my mind, but one I’d never, ever expected to see here.

  Carr Silver.

  Chapter

  Eight

  What is Carr doing here?

  The world spirals into a kaleidoscope of purple skies and red and yellow flags. I grip the podium to stay on my feet, and even then, my knees have the consistency of a chocolate soufflé.

  Make that a soufflé that falls flat.

  He’s nineteen years old. One year older than the conscription age. So how is he here?

  Oh, I can guess why he would want to be. Astana needs to eat real food, and Carr can give her that right if he’s selected as the Fittest. But surely he knows she would never allow it. Surely he knows I could never, ever let him die.

  I stumble over the next lines of my speech. I have no idea what I say, but I must be somewhat coherent because the boys begin to disperse.

  Frantically, I search for Carr among the retreating bodies. Maybe I didn’t see him, after all. Maybe it was a trick of the eyes, the energy shields bending the light in weird ways. Before I can confirm or deny, Master Somjing appears at my elbow. Again.

  “Vela.” His bushy white eyebrows climb toward his scalp. “I really don’t think you should interview the candidates. I don’t see what good can come out of it.”

  I struggle to focus on his words. Interview? Right. At least I managed to tell them about the next phase of my selection process. “Of course I have to interview them. How else will I figure out who’s Fittest?”

  “The physical trials!” He pulls a fistful of black and blue wires from his satchel and waves them in the air. A round adhesive sensor is attached to each wire. “Stick one of these on each boy and run them through my trials. Then, feed the data into CORA, and it will spit out your answer.”

  “What about the moral character of each candidate?” I ask. “How do your physical trials determine that?”

  He presses his lips into a thin line. “Look, the moral character of the candidate is a bonus. CORA predicted the Fittest Trials would be more palatable to the people if the winner was held in the highest moral regard. The very fact that these boys are willing to die for the King makes them worthy enough.”

  I press one of the sensors against my wrist. It feels cool and sticky, like a frozen ice that’s been forgotten in the Banquet Hall.

  His suggestion is tempting. I could hide in my living unit for the rest of the selection process. Leave the work to the physical trials and then come out for the final veto. Astana would get her daily ration of food, and I wouldn’t be intimately involved in the selection. Wouldn’t have to face Carr in the event he remains in the competition.

  Of course, if he were to win, your problems would be solved, a voice inside me whispers. Astana would be saved. She would get food for the rest of her life.

  No. I could never choose Carr to die. Never.

  I yank the sensor off my skin, and my wrist screams. Good. “The council didn’t assign me this task so I could let CORA do my thinking, Master Somjing.”

  “Fine.” His nod is a sharp slice in the air, but something flashes in his eyes. He didn’t expect me to stand up to him. He thought I would cave at the
first opportunity and take the easy way out.

  That’s when the knowledge sinks to my stomach like a pound of pasta. My overall task might be to administer the Fittest Trials. But the council is testing me every step of the way.

  …

  It takes me half an interview to figure out Master Somjing has a point. Getting to know the boys is a bad idea. Before the interviews, the candidates were a set of statistics, an abstract idea that might be able to extend my father’s life. Now, I’m putting names to faces, and my heart breaks to think about any of them dying.

  There’s Fargo who longs to be an Aegis. He dreams about food, day and night, because he once snagged half a cookie from a transport cart. Ever since, he’s spent every moment chasing another taste. He wants to give his family the life of his dreams, but as his final request, he’ll ask for the most sumptuous feast imaginable. A meal to die for.

  Baton is so poor he sleeps in corridors, curled up against the doors of living units to absorb the escaping heat. When people find him, they shoo him away like a stray mole. He could take the year’s supply of pills and run. And he will, eventually. But in the meantime, he’d like to spend a few nights in the insulated tents.

  And then there’s Jupiter. He’s scaled Protector’s Slag, jumped out of moving transports, tried every pill that’s ever existed. He’s on the search for the next big adventure, and he thinks the Trials will top each of his previous experiences. “It will be,” he says, “an orgasm in parts of my body that have never felt orgasms before.”

  I like them all. I’m charmed by the earnest ones, I feel sorry for the less fortunate ones. I’m even touched by Jupiter’s passion. These are my boys. Every last one of them. They’ve entrusted their futures to me, even though I’m not at all sure I can figure out my own fate, much less anyone else’s.

  And then Carr walks in.

  Everything falls away. Every artifice, every coat of polish, every facade to make me appear more confident, more authoritative, more legitimate.