Survive

by Vera Nazarian

“He is being hydrated,” one of the medics tells me matter-of-factly, continuing to check Dad’s vitals, and I notice the small portable IV drip unit. “Was slightly low on fluids. This is merely a precaution. He is also receiving medication to improve his lung function and to help his organs cope with the additional stress of the gravity.”

  “Absolutely fine,” Dad says again, nodding. “In fact, feeling much better already. It occurs to me: I must be the oldest guy from modern Earth who’s set foot on this planet. No wonder I’m a little off. . . .”

  Gracie opens her mouth in sudden amazement. “Daddy, I think you might be right.” She looks up at Aeson. “Is that true, do you think?”

  “Indeed,” Aeson says after a brief pause.

  “Is that why Atlantis brought over only teenagers?” George asks.

  “Yes, for the most part,” Aeson replies. “Jump travel is very dangerous to older adults and very young children. Having to ferry the general population across the universe would have taken incredibly long if we had to employ the stasis chambers—even if we had enough—which we don’t, unfortunately. Teenagers are the right age to be integrated into our society, and into our culture in general—teenagers are the most active working generation. What you consider adult responsibilities we consider teenage regular duties.”

  “How utterly fascinating,” Dad says, looking up with avid attention. He appears to have indeed perked up, and is now sitting up straight in his chair. “Aeson, my dear fellow, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but would you be willing to have an in-depth talk with me some time, so that I might ask some probing cultural questions? Would that be appropriate, that is?”

  “Not only appropriate, but very welcome, Amre-ter Charles,” Aeson says. “I will enjoy such a conversation very much.”

  “Excellent . . .” Dad says, nodding and smiling. His gaze sweeps around the room, including all of us, and he chuckles at Gracie’s stress pout and intent expression, then gives Gordie an extra reassuring nod.

  A few minutes later, the medics pack up their equipment, leaving only the portable IV unit—still attached to Dad and running a drip for at least another half hour—and leave. Dad is instructed to take it easy for the rest of the day, with a prescription to drink plenty of fluids, bed rest, and minimal exertion.

  “Kids, now that I’m here, I’m not going anywhere,” Dad says to us with amusement, as we continue fussing all around him, and the Imperial Palace staff arrive to set up an eos bread service in the suite.

  Most of us have already eaten, but no one can resist watching George and Dad be introduced to the pleasures of morning lvikao and eos pie. Naturally, Gordie decides to have second breakfast along with them.

  Chapter 54

  “This is not bad,” Dad remarks, as he sips his second cup of lvikao. “A fair substitute for coffee, with a hint of cocoa and some kind of exotic spice. Is there caffeine in this?”

  “I’m not sure.” I glance at Aeson.

  “Yes, some caffeine, though not as much as in Earth coffee.”

  Dad sips again. “Ah, definitely a plus.”

  “Yeah, you need your morning roast,” George says to Dad, experimentally chewing a nutty, syrup-drenched dumpling. “But this is good. Not that we had much coffee or any other pantry supplies remaining in the house near the end,” he adds.

  “What’s that?” I stare at my older brother with concern.

  George glances at me and sighs. “Things were bad, sis. . . . A global mess. Toward the end—these past six months—food shortages became the norm. Grocery stores in town were mostly empty. We’re talking tumbleweeds on the shelves in St. Albans, and fuel too precious to waste on a drive to Colchester much less Burlington. Local Vermont farms and co-ops, supplemented by hunters, had a few supply chain things going, at least while it lasted. But otherwise—once the local produce crops ran out—everyone was on their own. We had to ration everything. No idea how we managed to re-stock some of Mom’s meds. Actually, with some of it, we didn’t.”

  Dad glances at George meaningfully and shakes his head. “Don’t.”

  “Yeah, anyway. . . .” George goes silent and scoops up another dumpling with the newfangled-to-him Atlantean utensil.

  “How are you feeling, Dad?” Gracie asks a few minutes later, as George removes Dad’s finished IV line, as the medics instructed.

  My father flexes his arm and sits back in his chair. His breathing, I note, has improved overall in the past half hour. Those meds are definitely working.

  If only Mom could’ve had access to—

  No, stop.

  Aeson’s wrist comm emits a tone. He checks it, then tells us that Quoni is back on the surface, and the rest of the Lark family luggage is coming.

  Moments later, another tone sounds, this time on my own wrist. It’s a message from Consul Denu, inquiring if now is a good time to drop by for some Court attire measurements.

  “What do you think, Aeson?” I ask. “Should I ask him to come somewhat later? Dad is in no condition to—”

  But my father wants to know what it’s about. I explain about the need for measurements for the required wardrobe for upcoming events—the first of which is scheduled as early as tomorrow—and he says he is “perfectly fine,” and “let’s get this over with.”

  And that’s how my Dad and my brother George get to experience the magic that is Consul Denu.

  The Consul returns here with his assistants, and converses elegantly with my Dad while the assistants perform non-intrusive body scans even as my father remains seated. George is measured next, and the whole process takes less than half an hour.

  “I do believe I’ve gleaned your tastes and fathomed your preferences, in a range of suitable colors, Ter Charles, and young Ter George,” Consul Denu says, raising one perfectly manicured, ring-clad finger. “You will have your outfits for tomorrow’s Imperial dea meal completed and delivered by morning.”

  “Much appreciated, Consul—may I ask, what is the best way to address you?” my father Charles Lark says, looking with curiosity at the splendid wig and gilded robe of the flamboyant Atlantean.

  “You may, certainly,” the Consul says with a gleam of amusement. “It would be my greatest pleasure to assist. The simplest form of address would be Consul Denu. More familiar—Consul Suval or Ter Suval. There are other variations. In fact, I will be overjoyed to impart to you the most pertinent details of Protocol you might find useful immediately in your new role as the Father of the Imperial Bride and Consort, during your first Imperial encounter.”

  “Oh, that would be fantastic!” I exclaim, happy on behalf of my father. Consul Denu will teach him everything he needs to know.

  Now that it’s settled, we let Consul Denu give both Dad and my older brother George a crash course in Imperial Protocol basics, while they continue eating their eos bread. Gracie and Gordie both listen in—since it pertains to them, also—as the Consul explains how to react, speak, eat, and sit during the Imperial meal. In a nutshell, the less is said by all of the Larks, the better.

  Aeson, who also observes the mini-lesson, nods meaningfully. “Indeed, I recommend everyone enjoy the food and allow my Imperial Father to do most of the talking.”

  “So—no small talk?” Dad asks.

  “Oh no, of course that’s fine,” the Consul replies. “However, such casual talk is relegated to the later portion of the meal, once the first dish is served and consumed, and the Imperial Sovereign sets the tone of the conversation.”

  “No problem,” George says. “Will just keep it zipped, or talk about the weather.”

  “Georgie, they don’t really talk about the weather here,” Gracie says. “I mean, they do—it’s just that there really hasn’t been that much weather variation since we got here.”

  “They have weather control,” Gordie adds, chewing a large chunk of savory eos pie.

  “To a degree,” Aeson says. “There is regional weather variation, and seasonal. But to counteract the most drastic fluctuations, there’s urb
an weather monitoring and control over the largest cities such as Poseidon. But we’ve just come out of Green Season which is known for its mildness and stability. Red Season is just starting, so prepare for heat and winds.”

  “Utterly fascinating,” Dad remarks with a soft smile.

  We talk some more, and Consul Denu gives everyone useful tips, then promises that he is entirely at my family’s disposal if any more questions arise.

  “You are very kind,” Dad says to him in parting, and offers his hand in that classic Earth gesture. “I would love to continue this conversation and enjoy many others with you, Ter Suval. Your expertise is admirable.”

  “My pleasure, Ter Charles.” The Atlantean man takes my father’s hand in a perfectly proper handshake, as he’s learned on Earth. “I will be honored to partake of your own erudite and aesthetic views and the riches of your knowledge in the near future. Classical Earth history fascinates me to no end, and I am told you are a professor of such.”

  Dad gives a sad smile. “I was indeed, once. And now—here we are.”

  About an hour later, Quoni Enutat delivers the rest of the Lark things from the velo-cruiser that’s parked directly in the Imperial airfield. Servants bring up at least ten mid-sized boxes and stack them in the guest suite.

  “How cool! What is all this stuff, Dad?” I ask, as we all crowd in with excitement. “What did you bring?”

  “I’m amazed they let you have more than two bags,” Gracie says.

  “It’s not like they had to go through Qualification.” Gordie snorts. “Makes sense they were more flexible with the family of the Imperial Bride.”

  “Oh yeah,” George says, stepping up to one of the cardboard boxes with a familiar Earth warehouse superstore logo on it. Seeing that U.S.A. corporate logo here in Atlantis gives me a weird instant of mind dissociation.

  “They were actually very accommodating when they first came to get us. They said we could bring as much as we needed onto the big starship,” Dad says. “The young man who originally contacted us, Nefir, explained that the same luggage restrictions did not apply to us as they did to all the teenage refugees.”

  Nefir. . . . At the sound of that name all of us exchange grim looks. Aeson’s expression in particular, turns to stone.

  “So, what did you bring?” I say hurriedly with a smile, to change the subject. “More of your book collection, I bet?”

  Dad nods. “I chose to bring only the most rare and beloved editions, and officially donated the rest to Atlantis. That way, everything gets saved. They actually have about three hundred boxes—the entire library of mine, all of it rescued. These here are just the personal books I absolutely had to keep. Also, a few things from the house, as mementos and keepsakes.” He looks around at us. “Including digital photos and video recordings of our family holidays, all of you kids growing up, the grandparents and cousins, and of course, Margot . . . your Mom. Some of her personal things. All of it, family heirlooms now.”

  And Dad glances to the side table nearby where he’s placed Mom’s urn.

  I feel an instant painful twinge in my chest.

  I still haven’t watched Mom’s video farewell recording intended for me.

  Yes, I know it’s weird. I’m not entirely sure why I haven’t. . . . Maybe, because—if I put it off long enough, I can keep telling myself I still have something new with Mom to look forward to in the future, fresh Mom material to watch.

  If I don’t watch it, then we’re not done, and she is not quite gone yet. . . .

  And now I’m ashamed and oddly scared to admit it to Dad and the others.

  I suspect that Gracie and Gordie know I haven’t seen it yet. I’ll probably confess to Dad later.

  Right now, they have more urgent things to deal with and worry about.

  The rest of the day goes by quickly, as we mostly hang out in the suite and keep Dad and George company. Dad is still not functioning at one hundred percent, so we make him take many short naps. Gordie takes George for a walk down in the park area, but only after I make sure George is wearing the thick wraparound sunglasses that were standard issue to all the Earthies.

  Aeson goes out to do some errands, and at some point, I’m left alone to watch Dad while Gracie steps out for a short while.

  I take the opportunity to tell my father about the strained relationship with the Imperator and what he has done to me, to Mom, to Aeson, to everyone. . . . I speak softly, assuming the nano-cameras or other surveillance is everywhere, but I don’t hold back.

  Charles Lark, my father, listens, with a serious expression. I find it hard to read him now, because he remains very composed, even as I tell him the worst—the true reasons behind the rescue delay, and how the Imperator forced me to be in the Games.

  When I’m done, Dad says thoughtfully, “Gwen . . . what you describe is a monster. Are you certain? He can’t be all that bad. Most human beings, even the most difficult ones, do have some redeeming qualities. It could be, there’s some kind of misunderstanding—cultural differences even. Recall, you are dealing with a very elevated individual in a highly static, class-bound society. Pride and self-importance and ivory tower mentality are nearly unavoidable under such circumstances.”

  I shake my head. “Dad, believe me when I say—”

  “This position of Imperator, if I understand correctly—it is a dynastic inherited title with almost religious overtones—as close as they come to the definition of the divine right of kings. And having done my research on the Kassiopei Dynasty, the family is ancient beyond anything we’ve ever dealt with, much less heard of, in our modern historical perspective. Nowhere in the annals of Western Civilization is there a record of such a long-standing, uninterrupted bloodline—”

  “Wait, Dad, please . . . stop. Why are you excusing him?” I say, frowning with surprise. “He killed Mom. Or at least, caused a delay that denied her medical care. He forced me to participate in the killer Games. He—”

  He was going to hide me away in a lab and experiment on me because of my Voice. . . . But I don’t mention that part yet. The things I already said are bad enough.

  Dad slowly lets out a breath. “Sweetheart, you can’t be certain of such a thing. Mom was doing very poorly toward the end, it was end-stage. . . . The circumstances that contributed to her decline were already there, months before—if you could only see the kind of . . . difficulties we’ve had keeping her meds refilled, and running out, rationing meds. Yes, I said it, we had to ration her meds. I had to ration her meds. Which makes me just as damn guilty—”

  Dad pauses, his breath catching. For several excruciating heartbeats he is silent, breathing slowly to regain composure before continuing. “When tragedy happens, it’s so easy to cast blame. But there was plenty of blame to go around—the political climate in the country, the very world, the resources. Everywhere, frightened, angry, desperate people on short triggers, waiting to die in a matter of months. All of us, doomed to die from the asteroid impact. Maybe we should’ve fought harder. We—I could’ve tried more pharmacies, different urban centers, gone further, all the way to New York—”

  “Dad . . .” I whisper, reaching with my hand to press his arm gently.

  “So, as you can imagine,” he says, pressing his own hand over mine in turn, “if this one heartless man—this Imperator—and his genuinely malicious actions contributed to the misfortunate lineup of circumstances that took your Mother away from us, it was not the only reason, nor the main reason.”

  “But Dad—”

  “Allow me this—this manner of thinking, at least for now, my sweet,” Dad says in a powerless voice, looking at me with agony in his eyes. “I want to meet this Imperator for myself, judge him for the kind of man he is. It is so hard for me to imagine your Aeson, kind and honorable, having such a father.”

  “I know,” I say. “Aeson is very different. So much more like his mother.”

  And then I tell my Dad about Devora Kassiopei, and how loving and kind Aeson’s mother has bee
n to all of us. I also mention his sister Manala with her gentle and innocent personality, almost painfully empathetic and in tune with the emotions of others.

  Dad nods, listening. “There is always complexity in the family—in all families. Even ours.”

  For several minutes we sit in familiar silence, next to each other. Then I lean in closer and wrap my arms around him and rest my head on Dad’s chest. Even as I do so—remembering how I used to do that as a little girl—I worry now that I’m putting too much pressure on his chest and lungs. So, I move back a little, giving him room to breathe.

  But Dad pulls me back in. He rests his hand over my hair, stroking the top of my head and gives me a gentle kiss on my forehead. “My girl Gwen. . . . Wonderful, wonderful daughter. Margot would be so proud.”

  I remain, for several long minutes, saying nothing, just sitting with Dad, hearing his slightly irregular breathing, and feeling the solid warmth of his arms.

  Whatever happens tomorrow when our two wildly disparate families meet, at least we’ll get to face it together as one unit.

  Chapter 55

  Early in the morning of Red Amrevet 7, with just two days now remaining before the Wedding Day, several large packages with the Court-appropriate attire for my Dad and George are delivered to their suite. The servants carry in the outfits wrapped in the Atlantean equivalent of clear plastic, and matching footwear, and place them in the closets.

  “All of this overnight? This is just amazing,” Dad wonders, as we sit around in their suite eating eos bread.

  Our big Imperial Family event is scheduled for mid-afternoon, second hour of Khe. It gives us time to get ready and to brainstorm last-minute ideas on how to deport ourselves.

  Even with the Protocol lessons from Consul Denu, the idea alone is terrifying, in particular for my younger siblings. At least Dad and George have no actual sense of what they’re in for, but Gracie and Gordie have seen the draconian figure of the Imperator—from afar, admittedly, since they were never formally introduced to him—and they know enough of the bad stuff to be both angry and scared.