Star-Crossed

by Pintip Dunn

  Three turns and a few scratches later, we enter into a copse of C-trunks. The trunks of these genetically engineered trees curve in a C-shape, perfect for the human body to sit. We plant them all over the colony, in lieu of actual chairs, to maximize oxygen. But what makes these trees unique is that they’re planted ten feet apart, rather than crowded together.

  That’s because this copse isn’t part of the air-producing machine, but rather, a tribute to all the boys and girls who have sacrificed their lives to save the King. The copse was my idea, and this memorial was built five years ago. I fertilize the C-trunks and trim the grass. And once a week, I bring a fresh bouquet of flowers to place at the base of each tree.

  My father places his hand fondly, almost reverently, on a C-trunk, where a boy’s name has been carved. I know, without seeing the letters, whose name it is.

  Cairo Mead. He died for my father thirty years ago, before I was born. His brother tells me Cairo had bright green eyes and was always playing practical jokes. One time, he taped a faucet handle down, so whoever turned on the tap would get sprayed in the face. Another time, he took his baby sister out of the cradle and bundled up a butternut squash in her place.

  They say he died with a smile in his eyes and a punchline on his lips.

  “Do you know why we’re here?” my father asks, his fingers dipping into the grooves of Cairo’s name.

  I nod. “The Fittest Trials are coming up.”

  Every five years for the last five decades, we hold trials to select the candidate who is most physically strong. Most morally worthy. Most deserving to be memorialized in our colony’s history, forever.

  In short, the person most fit to die for the King.

  My father received the genetic modification when he was twenty, and thus he should have reached the end of his shortened lifespan fifty years ago. But our colony was young and unstable, and CORA predicted that without a consistent leader, universally beloved by his people, it would dissolve into chaos. The Fittest tradition began, and every five years, my father receives a transplant of all the major organs from a colonist to replace his own damaged ones.

  As this cycle’s Fittest Trials approach, I sense a shift in the families of the previous Fittest candidates. First and foremost, there’s pride. Out of all the eligible people, their sons and daughters, their brothers and sisters were selected to be honored. To be placed on a pedestal above everyone else. To be awarded the privilege of performing the greatest sacrifice of all—a sacrifice that will save an entire colony.

  But at the same time, the parents and siblings seem to draw closer together, as they prepare to welcome a new family into their fold. A family who will share in their grief and loss.

  “Master Somjing typically administers the trials, and CORA selects the Fittest. But this year, we’re doing things a little differently.” My father’s hand closes in a fist on the bark. “This will be my last transplant.”

  The words sucker punch me in the throat. “What are you saying? Are you…dying?”

  “We all die, my eye-apple. My body’s getting old, and there’s a limit to how long we can extend my life through artificial means. Five years from now, I will retire from the throne. That’s precisely why we need to choose the Successor now. We need adequate time to prepare her to take my place.”

  The pressure around my heart eases. Five years. Half a decade before he leaves me. And only a few years that I’ll have to live on this world without him. I can handle this.

  He gestures for me to sit. I choose a tree carved with the name “Branson Steel.” Miss Sydney’s son. And one of three Fittest boys who have been sacrificed in my lifetime.

  I settle my spine against the curve of the trunk. The rough bark bites through my caftan. Unlike the C-trunks in Protector’s Courtyard, which have been worn smooth by thousands of bodies, these trees have hardly been used.

  The King sinks into the C-trunk next to mine. “Your Testimony shocked us, me most of all. We were stunned you had been violating the law this entire time, especially since we were in the midst of debating your merits as the Successor.”

  I rub my fingers along the rough bark. I can’t look at my father. Don’t want to see how much I’ve let him down.

  “CORA predicted you and your sister were equally likely to succeed as a ruler, and the council was undecided which of you we preferred. Obviously, your Testimony changes things.”

  “Obviously.” If the word had a shape, I would’ve choked on it.

  “The council spent the entire night discussing exactly how much. I’ll be frank with you, Vela. The vote was unanimous. Every council member voted to disqualify you and elect Blanca as the next Successor.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, every cell in my body deflated. I was always a long shot. I know this. So why does the news feel like a cake knife to my gut?

  “There was only one holdout,” my father says, his voice fierce with something I can’t identify. “Me.”

  I shiver, even though there’s no breeze in the copse. Even though the wind fans are probably on the opposite end of the bubbles by now. Other than Astana, my father has always been my biggest champion. He believes in me, even—and especially—when I don’t.

  “When we plugged your transgression into CORA, surprisingly enough, it didn’t change the analysis. Not by a single percentage. So, the council had no choice but to listen to me.”

  “Listen to you about what?” My voice is as small and timid as one of the moles we use for agriculture, reluctant to poke its head out of the ground for fear of what it might see. “Are you saying I’m not out of the running for Successor?”

  “Not yet, my eye-apple.” He gives my chin a tweak, the way he used to do when I was a little girl. “The council and I have decided on a test. You and Blanca will each be given a task, and your performance on the tasks will determine who will be the Successor.”

  I collapse against the trunk, my mind spinning.

  “Each task is designed to test your respective weaknesses,” my father says. “You see, the reason we had so much trouble deciding between the two of you is because you’re opposites. Blanca is a thinker. She’s logical, quantitative, practical. When it comes to balancing the competing interests and determining what is best for the greatest number of people, she has no equal.”

  I nod. Everything he’s saying is true, but now I have even more evidence that I’m not a very good sister, since I can’t bring myself to feel happy for her.

  “We fear, however, that your sister lacks the ability to empathize with people. And a ruler must understand when a moral imperative trumps everything else.”

  He taps his fingers against the bark, and I realize, for the first time, a serpent has been carved underneath the boy’s name. It seems I can never get away from the snake, no matter where I go.

  “You, Vela, have no such problem. You feel so passionately for the individual that sometimes you fail to see the bigger picture. I had almost convinced the council that with time and experience, you could overcome this characteristic. But your action this past week raises grave concern. It makes them wonder if your personal feelings will always interfere with your ability to make the right decision. You have to show them otherwise. Do you understand what I’m saying, my eye-apple?”

  “Yes, Dad.” As always, he is my teacher, and I am his student. He wants me to echo his lessons back to him, to make sure that I understand. “I have to show the council that I can make the correct decisions, in spite of my personal feelings.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  I’m almost afraid to ask. “So, what’s my task?”

  He doesn’t speak for a moment, and every hair at the base of my neck prickles. Somewhere, between the thud of my heart and the roar in my ears, I know, with absolute certainty, that my life is about to change. And no matter what I do, it will never be the same again.

  A broad, palm-shaped leaf flutters from a tree. The King grabs it from the air and offers it to me. We’re forbidden by law to pick l
eaves off the branches, so to catch a falling leaf is considered good luck.

  “You will administer the Fittest Trials this year. You will narrow the candidates on the criteria of your choice, and you will select the challenges in which they compete. More importantly, you and you alone will have the power to veto CORA’s verdict. There are some things a machine cannot calculate. This decision is one of them.”

  He looks me straight in the eye. “In essence, Vela, your task is to choose the person fit to die for the King.”

  Chapter

  Six

  Choose the Fittest? Be responsible for a person’s death?

  I shake my head and keep right on shaking it, as if the action can take away this decision. Propel me into the past, where my biggest concern was being named Top Aegis of the year.

  “I can’t.” I mouth the words rather than say them, but my father understands me. He’s never needed anything as pedestrian as audible speech to hear what I have to say.

  “You can. I have complete faith in you.” He cups my chin, and because it is him, because I’ve done nothing lately but disappoint, I stop shaking.

  Instead, I stand and walk to the center of the copse. Ten C-trunks surround me, one for each Fittest candidate. Their palm leaves turn inward, as if the trees are embracing me. As if they’re protecting me from this task.

  I was only twelve when Branson Steel died, and I’ll never forget the moment he was crowned. His jaw hardened to cement, and he lifted Miss Sydney right off her feet, as if he was trying to cram a lifetime of love into a few short seconds. I couldn’t help it. The tears poured out of me the way lava rushes from a volcano—fierce and unstoppable.

  Blanca gripped my wrist. “Quit it. You’re disgracing the ceremony.”

  “What do you mean?” I wrenched my hand away and pressed my sleeve against my eyes. “He’s going to die. Shouldn’t we be sad?”

  “No, Vela. Branson has been distinguished with the most honorable position in our colony. This is a happy occasion.”

  That’s when I first learned the fiction we have to tell ourselves to allow the Fittest Trials to occur. As I grew older, I understood it was a necessary fiction, since the rule of my father was vital to our colony’s very survival.

  But that doesn’t mean I have to be a co-conspirator.

  “When this copse was planted, I swore a tree would never be planted here because of me.” My voice is as low as our underground caverns, as forceful as the waters that rush through them. “I swore I would never allow anyone to die, just so I could live.”

  “If and when you become ruler, that decision will be yours to make,” my father says, his lips straight, his cheeks relaxed. I call it his “King face,” the one he wears when he wants to conceal his thoughts. “But that day will never come if you don’t participate in this task.”

  “Can’t you give this task to Blanca? She doesn’t even know the names of the Fittest candidates. This test would be a cinch for her.”

  “That’s precisely why it’s your task and not hers. The council knows how many hours you spend visiting the Fittest families. We know how much this copse means to you. Prove to us you can rise above your emotional attachments and make the right decision, and you’ll show us you’re ready to rule.”

  My father unfolds his body from the C-trunk and crosses the clearing to join me. Two, three, four leaves flutter around us. Neither of us makes a move to catch them. The greatest luck on the orb isn’t going to get me out of this dilemma.

  “I never said this would be easy. But the life of a ruler isn’t easy.” The corners of his lips twitch in a quarter smile, less serious than sad, more tired than anything else. “Are you fit to rule, my daughter? A ruler must be willing and able to make the tough decisions. The decisions no one else is willing to make, for the good of the colony.” His voice is heavy, as if it’s filled with all the choices he’s had to make during his reign. The tragedies he’s authorized. The casualties he’s deemed acceptable. “Can you do that?”

  Can I? Miss Sydney’s face drifts across my mind. The last time I visited, we watched the holograms of her son from the cube. When we finished, her blue sash was askew. And she’d taken no less than five swipes across her eyes.

  Can I be responsible for that? Can I look into a mother’s face, a brother’s eyes, knowing I approved the death of someone they loved? My father believes in me. He stood up for me when every other council member voted against me. For his sake, I’d like to try.

  But I can’t. Out of all the tasks they could’ve picked, this is the hardest possible one. I cannot be responsible for another person’s death. Something shriveled inside me the day I caused my mother to die, never to be revived, and I cannot—will not—go through that pain again.

  “I guess I’m not fit to rule, then.” Each word is a pin jabbing into my heart. “Go ahead. Give the Successorship to Blanca. That’s what the council wants, anyhow. She’ll make a far better ruler than me.”

  “If I believed that, we wouldn’t be here.” His hand claps onto my shoulder, large, warm, and reassuring. Always reassuring. “I told the council this would be your response. And since it is imperative we choose the proper Successor, we’ve declared this an exigent circumstance. The council is willing to make an exception to the First Maxim.”

  My mouth goes dry. “What do you mean?”

  The King smiles, but it’s the same sad one he wore for days after my mother passed. The one that suggests his insides are so ravaged they’re beyond tears.

  “It’s simple, really. For every day you participate in this task, we will give your friend Astana one day’s ration of food.”

  My knees buckle. My father knows me so well. He can predict what I’ll say and how I’ll react. And he knows, with this one sentence, he’s taken away every choice I have.

  Chapter

  Seven

  If I crane my neck, I can see the candidates in Protector’s Courtyard out of my small shuttle window. Lined up in rows, put through a series of grueling exercises by the royal trainers. As they were yesterday. And the day before. Their backs form a sea of gray, uniform but for the different splotches of sweat that have soaked through their T-shirts.

  In half an hour, I’ll be standing before them. Addressing them for the first time. And making my first cut.

  I move from the window and wipe my palms down my trousers. All the furniture has been packed into my walls, and the tiled floor gleams. I can’t quite make out my face in the reflection, but the outline of my form is clear in each tile.

  That’s how I feel sometimes—an anonymous girl stuffed into a royal position. It hardly matters which girl, so long as she makes the right decisions. Wears the right clothes.

  Today, I’m wearing my official Princess gear, a brocade jacket similar to my father’s, over a white top and pants. Instead of gold, however, the jacket is purple.

  Purple like the eggplant in last night’s early evening meal. Sliced into quarter-inch coins and dipped into a mixture of flour and water. Fried to a crisp golden brown and layered with cheese, tangy tomato, and basil leaves. Ordinarily, eggplant parmigiana is my favorite dish, and after a couple days in the red cells, I should’ve savored every tingle of my taste buds.

  I didn’t.

  My mind was too full of the meetings I’d had with the council. Too jam-packed with the considerations of my task.

  A person will have to die. And I’ll be responsible.

  A slim figure bursts into my sleeping unit, flinging the waterfall of her black hair off her shoulders. I’ve only seen her practice that motion in front of the mirror a hundred times. Blanca.

  “Dad said I should check on you,” she says flatly, so I don’t think that she’s here of her own volition. So I don’t think that she actually cares. Heaving a large sigh, she stalks around me, scrutinizing me from head to toe. “You’re not appearing in front of the candidates like that, are you? Your skin’s the color of almond gelatin.”

  Pale, in other words. Pale and
jiggly, which is quite a feat considering the natural brown hue of my skin. She reaches for my cheek, and I push her hand away.

  “Maybe I’m just shocked to see you,” I say, fighting the tremor in my voice. “I mean, you couldn’t even visit me in the red cells. I guess Dad didn’t order you to come see me, then?”

  She pauses, her heel striking extra-loud against the tile as if it hung in the air an instant too long. “Nope. And I had no reason to think you wanted me to visit.”

  I clench the back of my teeth. Same old story. Same old Blanca. That isn’t moisture nipping at the back of my eyes. That isn’t pressure pushing against my chest. It didn’t bother me when she failed to show at my birthday party last year, and her indifference doesn’t get to me now.

  “Go away, Blanca. You’ve fulfilled your obligation, and I’m busy, if you can’t tell.”

  “I’m not finished. Are you really going through with this task?”

  Every inch of my clothes is steamed. My hair is freshly washed. And yet, all I can see, under my sister’s scrutiny, is the faint smudge on the cuff of my pants. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  She abandons her orbit around me and drifts to the door, where she tugs a holo-cube from its home in the wall. The cube fits comfortably in her palm and is made of shiny, black glass. Identical to every other holo-cube in the colony, and yet, Blanca handles it a little too assuredly, as if she knows exactly what’s inside.

  “Are you still having nightmares, Vela?” Her voice is sweet, innocent. A frozen fruit treat on a day when the sun lamps are cranked. “You know. The ones where you wake up sobbing for our mother’s forgiveness?”

  Silver flashes as the cube spins in Blanca’s hands. I lace my fingers together to stop from snatching it out of the air. “I haven’t had one of those dreams in ages.”

  “That’s not what the royal cleaner said. She said she had to change your bed linens mid-rotation, they were so soaked with tears.”