Star-Crossed Page 7

  All that’s left is the girl from the red cells, with no title and no status. The one who held up a finger to touch a ray of light and wondered if she would ever feel the real thing.

  And now, the real boy is here. Right in front of me.

  “What’s going on, Carr?” My voice is shivering, and I’m grasping, grasping for the cloak of authority. “Last I checked, you were nineteen, and the conscription age is from sixteen to eighteen.”

  He sits in the C-trunk across from me. If I’ve shed layers, he’s piled them on. His face is tight, unreadable. A mask that hides his true feelings as effectively as a pie crust conceals the filling. “You’re allowed to volunteer, so long as you pass the physical requirements.”

  Oh. I didn’t know that. Master Somjing never mentioned it.

  “So, you’re administering the Trials.” He tugs at the silver disc around his neck. The disc is the counterpart to Master Somjing’s sensors. It can be scanned at any holo-desk to reveal his address, his genealogy. Every bit of physical data picked up by the black and blue wires. “Wouldn’t have thought you had it in you.”

  “Why?” My neck stiffens. “Because I’m a kid who knows nothing about making decisions?”

  “No. Because I’ve seen you in Protector’s Courtyard with the Fittest families. Because you bring bouquets of flowers to the memorial copse every week.”

  Some of my tension leaks away. “How do you know that?”

  “The flower glasshouses are right next to the airlock, where we exit the bubble to terraform the outside planet. I noticed you.”

  Our eyes meet and hold. For a moment, we’re back in the red cells, with nothing to lose. Where we can do what we want and say what we feel. Only this time, he’s not halfway across the bubbles.

  My fingers creep onto the table, as helpless as steel shavings in the presence of a magnet. His hand inches forward to meet mine—and then, he pulls away and lurches to his feet, severing our connection.

  “The medics confirmed it,” he spits out. “Astana’s body can no longer absorb nutrition through a pill. The medical team put in a request to the council, for permission to give her food, but they aren’t optimistic.”

  My stomach falls down a well with no bottom. I suspected, of course, but now I know for sure. Unless we find a way to give her food on a permanent basis, my best friend is going to die.

  “The council is forcing my hand,” I say dully. “For every day I administer the Trials, they’ll give Astana a daily ration of food. But the food will only last as long as the Trials.”

  His eyes laser into mine. “That’s why you agreed to be in charge of the Trials.”

  “Yes. I’ll do anything to help Astana.”

  “Then you’ll select me as the Fittest. It’s the only way.”

  I shake my head automatically. “Your sister would never let you give up your life for her.”

  He plants both palms on the table. “It’s not her call.”

  “You’re right. It’s not.” I get to my feet, and even though my hands are cold and trembling, I slap them on the table right next to his. “It’s mine.”

  “And you want your best friend to die?”

  “That’s not fair, and you know it. I don’t want either of you to die.” The trembling spreads up my arms. “I might be able to negotiate a solution with the council. Maybe the medics will find a different cure. We don’t know.”

  His face softens. “It’s my life to sacrifice. You’re willing to kill a boy to save your father. All I’m asking for is a fair chance. Let me compete in the Trials along with the others. Let CORA evaluate me on the basis of my merits. That’s all I’m asking.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. It sounds so reasonable. I weighed the evils and decided to give in to the council’s bribe. Why shouldn’t Carr have the same choice?

  Because it would crush Astana to lose her brother, my heart whispers. Just as it would crush me.

  “Even if I tried, Carr, I couldn’t be objective with you.”

  “Because I’m your best friend’s brother,” he says.

  “No.” I look at the shiny plates of his fingernails, no longer lined with dirt. Part of me wants to dive behind the shelter of our noncommunication. The passing glances that might or might not have been intentional. But the time for pretending is over. Too much has happened. Too much is at stake. “Because of who you are.”

  I cross my arms over my chest, as if that can shield me from what I’m about to do. “I’m sorry, Carr. But you’re not staying. As administrator of the Trials, I can narrow the candidate pool however I wish. I don’t even have to give a reason. And I’m tossing you out.”

  “No, you’re not.” His voice is calm. Too calm. “Because I’m calling in my death debt.”

  I freeze. “What are you talking about?”

  “Even back then, you were the brightest thing I ever saw.” His voice is so low I feel like I’m eavesdropping on my own conversation. “Your dress was as white as clouds, your hair as black as the underbelly of a bee. Your laugh called to me, pulling me from behind one tree to another, as you skipped around Protector’s Pond.

  “I couldn’t take my eyes off you. That’s what saved your life, you know. You stepped into the pond and disappeared in an instant. By the time someone else would’ve thought to look, you would’ve been gone.”

  “I don’t understand.” My heart throbs, each beat propelling me back in time, until I feel the water closing over my head, the lace ribbons of my dress tangling like seaweed between my legs. The air pounded against my chest, struggling to be let out. I couldn’t breathe; strong arms yanked me out of the water; and then I could. “You’re my rescuer?”

  He nods, once.

  My lungs fill with cotton. My brain turns to flax. You could sew buttons over my eyes and stick me on a shelf.

  This whole time. The rescuer over whom I fantasized. The voice in the back of my head, the one who never let me down, the person who was always, always here for me. This whole time, it was him.

  “How come you never said anything?” I swallow my shock, but it snags on the corners of my voice. I’ve finally found my mysterious savior, and I couldn’t have chosen better.

  He turns away, and a rush of cool air replaces the heat emanating from his body. “You dreamed of a prince, as shiny and clean as yourself. While my hands left smudges on your skin, even as I pulled you from the water.”

  “That’s not true!” I step closer, desperate to feel the warmth again. “All my talk about a mysterious rescuer—I was fooling around. I never wanted a stranger. All I ever wanted was—”

  I snap my mouth close before I say too much. But it doesn’t matter. He fills in the blank for me.

  “Me? Yeah, right.” He laughs, in a short, harsh way that leaves splinters all over my skin. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “I’m not disappointed.” I lick my lips. “There’s no other rescuer I’d rather have. Honest.”

  He closes the gap between us, seizing my arms with his calloused hands. My skin sizzles as though it’s wrapped by a live wire. “You owe me. If you have any honor within you, then you’ll grant my request. A life for a life, Vela. I saved yours. Now, name me as the Fittest. The worthiest candidate to die for your father.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. “You know I can’t do that. Master Somjing, not to mention CORA, are watching my every move. I can’t fake the results. If you want to be the Fittest, then you’re going to have to earn it.”

  “Fine,” he says. “I’ll earn it. But you have to give me a legitimate chance. A real chance. You can’t manufacture a reason to toss me out. Do you agree?”

  Astana will never forgive me. I may never forgive myself. But even though hairline fractures spider across my heart, even though every cell in my body rebels against the thought, I do not—I cannot—argue.

  The death debt is one of Dion’s oldest tenets. Honor the ones who save our lives. This tenet arose with the system of Aegis and expanded to include the individual. Nothing
is more sacred than the bond between savior and saved. There is no greater debt I could possibly owe.

  So I say the only thing possible: “Yes. I agree.”

  Chapter

  Nine

  The mother-daughter moons shine high in the midnight sky, one big and one small. They’re obscured only by wispy clouds that move across their faces like fingers of smoke. For a moment, I worry they will go up in flames and disappear, like the fabled phoenix. Like so much of my life lately.

  But they don’t. The sky deepens, the clouds shift, but the moons remain, as constant as ever.

  Oh dear Artemis. What should I do?

  I move into the memorial copse. They look different with the sun lamps darkened. Lonelier, with the extra spaces between them. Even sad.

  I sit down, not in the trees but on the ground. It makes me feel closer to the candidates whose lives are remembered here. This task was hard enough when I had to sacrifice a stranger. How can I possibly consider choosing someone I’ve admired all my life?

  When I was younger, I hungrily witnessed all the gifts Carr brought home for Astana. Bottles of scents and necklaces made of polished rocks. She would squeal and laugh, throw her arms around him and declare him the best brother in the world.

  But I’m not sure she ever noticed the smudges under his eyes, the sand that lined his voice and spoke of the many hours he labored in order to give her such gifts.

  I saw. The smudges and the sand, the lean, handsome face and the long, artisan fingers. And I fantasized. How would it feel to be so loved? What would it take to put a smile on those serious lips?

  On two occasions, he included me. An extra length of ribbon, a particularly shiny rock. Presented to me as if I were an afterthought. With the offhand remark that I probably already had drawers full of such trinkets.

  Little did he know that the only trifles I ever saved were the two presents from him.

  Sighing, I take the holo-cube from my pocket. Is Blanca right? Am I too dependent on the cube?

  No. I need it—I need her—now. With the tip of my fingernail, I push the button on the side, wondering which one of the ten holograms will show up this time.

  An instant later, my mother appears in the copse above me, her fingers busily weaving together the long black strands of a little girl’s hair. My hair.

  I shift on the ground, adjusting my head so it aligns with the hair in the hologram. I can’t see my mother’s face this way, but I don’t need to. I’ve memorized the softness around her mouth, the low light in her eyes as she hums.

  Just a field of light. A memory recorded long ago and brought to life today.

  And yet…and yet…I can almost pretend she’s here with me, her fingers untangling, braiding, smoothing my hair. I can almost smell the eucalyptus that used to cling to her skin, the scent that stops me in my tracks whenever and wherever I am.

  “Now what?” I whisper to my mother. “What do I do now?”

  My mother, of course, has no response other than to continue humming her song.

  The melody is haunting yet uplifting. I wish I knew the words. The song has lyrics, of that much I’m certain. I can remember my mother singing them to me. But the words weren’t captured in the hologram, and when I downloaded the tune into CORA, there was no match.

  One more thing lost by my mother’s death.

  I have to let Carr stay in the candidate pool. There’s no question about that. I can’t dishonor a debt signed by my life.

  But I also knew, when I watched my mother’s lifeless body enter the incinerator, when I pressed my lips against her too-cold skin and came away with a dusting of foundation powder, I would do everything in my power to prevent anyone I cared about from dying, ever again.

  This means I have to find a way to save Astana. But it also means Carr can’t be my answer.

  The last bit of my mother’s song drifts over me. The words are at the edge of my memory. If I concentrate hard enough, I can almost bring them back into focus. Something lost and lonely, like the C-trunks in this copse.

  But the lyrics don’t matter. Because I suddenly know what I have to do.

  Carr will do well in the challenges. He spends his days engaged in hard, physical labor. Plus, he’s so honorable. He has all the qualities of someone CORA would select to represent our colony.

  I have to allow Carr Silver to compete in the Fittest Trials. But that doesn’t mean I have to let him win.

  …

  I step onto the athletic field. The sun in the outside planet is actually out, for once, and it peeks over the space shuttle, streaking the sky with violet flames. Most of the two hundred tents have been taken down. The few that remain hunker on the ground like stubborn stink bugs.

  My insides slosh around. Maybe it’s my dream of the serpent last night, its fangs glistening and poised for attack. Or maybe it’s because I still haven’t gotten in touch with Astana. Master Somjing assured me she’s safe and her daily ration of food is being delivered. But she’s not registered at the medical facility, and she’s not at her living unit. Could she be under a different name? Or is the council lying to me?

  At the thought, rage rushes through my veins. I want to punch somebody, hard. But Master Somjing promised leniency, and the council’s never lied to me before. So I settle for ramming my fists against my thighs.

  A guy pops out of his tent twenty yards away, and my hand flies to my throat. Oh Dionysus. His brown hair sticks out like the spines of a sea urchin, and he’s wearing nothing but a pair of shorts.

  I drop my eyes. You could sauté an onion on my cheeks. It seemed like a good idea when I woke up, to conduct the second half of my interviews here. I need to get to know these boys. Find out who they really are. What better way than to go on their turf? What could possibly go wrong?

  Half-naked boys, that’s what.

  I keep walking, my eyes measuring the dirt. Not a problem. Surely, they’ll scramble for their clothing once they realize the Princess is here. It’ll be fine.

  Except it’s not. I skirt around a tent, and a tinkling laugh shoots straight through my gut. I’m too late. A princess is already here.

  Blanca perches on a rock at the edge of the courtyard, next to the blackened remains of a fire. She’s cut holes in her eating caftan so that her bare shoulders gleam in the dawning light, and a blinking amber necklace circles her collar. Surrounding her, latching onto every word, is a group of boys. My boys.

  At least they’re fully dressed.

  My feet stop as if they’ve hit an invisible wall. I haven’t spoken to my sister since she came by my living unit.

  She glances up and rises to her feet in one boneless motion. The boys’ eyes follow her. I don’t blame them. Blanca was beautiful when she sucked on nutrition pacifiers in her crib.

  She sweeps over to me. “I was getting to know some of your candidates. Do you have any early favorites? I know I do.”

  She wiggles her fingers at Jupiter. Trust Blanca to zero in on the thrill-seeker of the group. Jupiter grins and waves back. The two boys behind him, however, dart guilty looks at me and take off for the wash basins behind the tents.

  “You’re so lucky.” She plants a hand on her hip, striking a pose. “All these guys. So many muscles.”

  I stare. “Blanca, one of them is going to die. This is hardly the time or place for you to be breaking hearts.”

  She smirks. “At least he’ll have fun in the process.”

  “You’re disgusting. What are you doing here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be working on your own task?”

  I realize I still don’t know what her task is. When she ignored my earlier question, I thought it was just an oversight. But what if there’s another reason? What if she’s hiding something?

  Before I can ask again, the light around her neck blinks. Oh. The amber circle isn’t a necklace, after all. I should’ve known the thin wire was much too utilitarian for Blanca’s taste.

  “That reminds me.” She pulls an identical loop from the dee
p pockets of her caftan and hands it to me. “Special delivery from the council. That’s the only reason I’m here.” Disdain drips from her words. Hardly a conversation goes by without her reminding me, in some way, that she’s only talking to me because she has to. “It’s a recorder. You’re supposed to wear it every time you’re in the presence of one of your candidates.”

  I slip the recorder over my head, but I don’t turn it on. The metal is both cool and biting against my collarbone. “Why are they making us wear these?”

  “It was your brilliant idea to interview the candidates. I don’t think the council expected you to have so much interaction with the boys. They must’ve realized they have one more way to evaluate us.” She pulls up the loop so that the mic is at her lips, although I’m pretty sure, technology being what it is, that the device could pick up sound within a fifty-foot radius. “So thank you, dear sister. I’ve always wanted a team of psychologists dissecting my every word.”

  She looks up and catches my eye. We exchange conspiratorial grins, like we used to back in our space explorer days.

  And then, the moment disappears like aromas sucked out of the air. “Who’s that?” she asks.

  I turn. Carr approaches the tents, a towel slung over his shoulder, his black hair slicked off his face. He’s not wearing a shirt.

  Quickly, I drop my eyes. I’ve seen him without his shirt before. In fact, I used to hide with Astana behind heavy machinery and spy on Carr and his crew in the apple orchard. She had a crush on the foreman. I only had eyes for Carr. When the sun lamps climbed to the highest point of the metal arc, the crew would shed their shirts. That’s how I can picture, without looking, his leanly muscled pectorals and the hard, distinct ridges along his stomach.

  “That’s Carr Silver,” I say, looking up at my sister but keeping my eyes carefully averted. “You know, Astana’s brother. Don’t you recognize him?”

  “Oh.” She bites the inside of her cheek. For the first time in years, she looks unsure of herself. I thought she was seconds away from propositioning him. Instead, she looks left and then right, as if searching for an exit in the wide, open space. “I have to go.”