The Stratus Estate

By M. Coté Warner

The Stratus Estate follows Phillip Stratus, a boy who lives in the very distant, utopian future. There's something different about Phillip. He lives with his large, quirky, adoptive family, all of whom are powerhouse players in the city where they live, the City of Tarkenwore. His best friend is Vive Tarkenwore - heir to the very large throne of Earth. Vive is the conceptual child of Queen Nacthelian and King Hasamelis, very tall supernatural beings who have ruled the planet for almost 2,000 years. Phillip and Vive have many unsual adventures together before they reach the age of 15. But all this isn't exactly what makes Phillip different from all other Terrans.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 10, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543410624

M. Coté Warner

Morgan Coté Warner was born and raised mostly in Anchorage, Alaska (she was born in Anchorage, and mostly raised there). She is an alumna of Soldotna High School, one of the better academic institutions of Alaska’s Kenai Peninsula, and the University of Hawai’i at Hilo. Dissatisfied with the real world, it was at UHH where she began to imagine and build the world and characters of Tarkenwore. The name Queen Nacthelian came to her in a dream in her college dorm room. Morgan moved back to Anchorage after spending a couple more years on the Big Island after graduating college and resumed a career in the human services. Despite a promising career, she was diagnosed with a severe and devastating chronic illness in 2010. After many years of sickness and being unable to work at much other than writing and creating a large portfolio of digital art, this, her first novel, is her reintroduction to the world of healthy, functional people. Morgan now lives in Eagle River, Alaska with her boyfriend and two goofy dogs.

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Copyright © 2017 by M. Coté Warner.

with illustrations by the author

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

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without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Rev. date: 04/07/2017

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For Mom

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PROLOGUE

I am called Phillip Stratus. My journey began on April 20th, 1593 Ad Apocalypsis (AA). I celebrate this as the day of my birth because the day I entered this world is a mystery. Unusual events have ruled my life since the day I was left on my parents’ doorstep. At the time of this writing, I continue to be an only child and will most assuredly remain so. I don’t doubt my parents’ love for me, but finding and choosing to raise me as their own eliminated the chance of conceiving their own child – a flesh and blood heir to the Stratus Estate, which has been passed down generation to generation for hundreds of years. In the world that I was born, children are valued above all else, and they are rare. One couple in 2000 is chosen from the lottery to have a child each year, and yet, I was left on a doorstep – unwanted and abandoned. Since the year 0, I am the only child to have ever been abandoned.

March 7, 1607

Reflect upon your present blessings – of which every man has many – not on your past misfortunes, of which all men have some.

- Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol

My mom thinks it’s a good idea for me to journal – to document day-to-day life and to reflect on my past. I’ve grudgingly acquiesced to her demands, although she’s probably right.

As the end of the school year draws closer, my class prepares for a City-wide, school-age Luces Mentalis competition. There are approximately 12,000 students in the City of Tarkenwore, so our practice sessions at the various light fields have been staggered. We’ve been practicing for three weeks, leading up to tomorrow’s main event, forcing the class to travel together in Mrs. Pythagoras’s convee bus to the far reaches of the City. Everyone in the class moaned and groaned whenever boarding the class convee, such that I thought Mrs. Pythagoras’s mouth would permanently disappear from pursing so forcefully. Next month I will turn fourteen and be allowed to drive under the strict supervision of Hecate, The Computer, saving me from future trips in the class convee. Keep complaining and you won’t drive until you graduate, my mom told me. I won’t be the first in my class to start driving, but at least I won’t be the last.

Our class joined two other classes for our practices, a class from the District of Lakes and a class from the East District. Interestingly, the District of Lakes contains very few standing bodies of fresh water, and the East District is not anywhere near the eastern-most region of the City, districting misnomers perhaps being the Throne’s greatest farce. My best friend Vive Tarkenwore, human emissary of the Throne, and I have made friends with a brother and sister from the East District, twins named Aesop and Atropos Caps. They were sitting alone at lunchtime, so Vive and I decided to join them. They both have very pale, almost ghostly skin, but that is where any resemblance between them stops. Aesop has curly blonde hair, freckles, and the only blue eyes I’ve ever seen in person. He always has a story to tell, although his stories are not always very credible. He claims that his house is so haunted the walls bulge and ooze and even grow human hair in some places. It’s a compelling story, but upon visiting the Caps household I saw nothing of the sort. Aesop seems unbothered by any discrepancies in his stories.

Conversely, Atropos has short, jet-black hair as straight and unbending as wire and depthless dark eyes, which sharply contrast her skin tone, making her appear even more wraithlike. Vive believes her hair and eye color are altered, a nymphocyte-driven fashion trend that went out of style about 150 years ago. Her clothing is also vastly out of style, consisting mostly of long, black Victorian-type dresses. Her all-black wardrobe is complimented by an unnerving preoccupation with death.

Aesop and Atropos are also different.

Did you survive from the Nazi breeding program? I asked Aesop upon meeting. Vive gasped and punched me in the shoulder. But Aesop just laughed.

Lebensborn – I’ve never heard that one before, he said amicably.

People make fun of you because of your lighter coloring? asked Vive.

Only this one *moose boob*, said Aesop. This kid appreciated my, occasionally, offensive sense of humor, and he wasn’t intimidated to the point of idiocy by Vive’s presence. I liked him immediately. Atropos was a different story.

Can you die? she asked Vive.

I don’t see why not, replied Vive. Although I’ve never died before, so I’m not sure.

Isn’t my sister a delightful ray of wholesome sunshine? asked Aesop while pounding his sister rather violently on the back. Atropos just sat there and gave her brother a look which would have deeply disturbed me.

Although they’re a bit odd, it’s good to have made some friends who aren’t Vive. Vive is my favorite person, but it will be nice to have other people to hang out with when she’s in X ballet class or doing more studying than I ever want to commit to.

March 9, 1607

Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.

- Arthur C. Clarke’s Profiles of the Future

Out of the 346 students in our age bracket for the Luces competition, ten took first place, fifteen took second and twenty-five received honorable mention. All first-place winners went on to the finals to compete with the first-place winners of all ages. Of the 350 first-place winners, one took the Grand Prize, which consisted of a plaque and the title of Luces Mentalis Champion – and never-ending bragging rights from winning the biannual competition. Vive took second place overall, which surprised everyone but the judges. Her presentation had been quite spectacular in the Grand Luces Coliseum, an under seascape displaying the mating dance of two cuttlefish. The glassy, lighted mollusks swam in loops around each other, their colors changing in tandem. Even the seaweed swayed as if caught in an ocean current. Vive was exhausted afterward by the mental strength it had taken to control all aspects of the living, three-dimensional scene of nymphocyte-directed light and plasma – first in our class’s designated light field in the primaries and again for the finals in the Coliseum. Vive is so often triumphant in competitions that I believe the judges felt it was time for someone else to win, although I also believe the boy who was awarded first place felt ashamed, as Vive was so obviously the winner. He was a thirty-four-year-old boy from one of the central districts, and it appeared as though he apologized to Vive after he received his prize.

I can’t *fumbling* believe Vive didn’t win, said Julio, my abrasive and sometimes offensive paternal grandfather, after the competition. Those *flamin’ half-wit* judges. I feel bad for the kid with that meaningless first-place plaque. Since when did our idea of fairness become awarding the loser? Why don’t we just hand out *chicken lickin’* trophies to everyone?! Isabel, my grandmother and truly Julio’s better half, quickly intervened as my volatile grandfather was beginning to rant.

I received an honorable mention for my Super Nova, a pleasant surprise as I rarely take home prizes. My nymphocytes don’t always cooperate in certain situations. Wine and beer were abundant at the Estate tonight. I tried to sneak a couple bottles of beer into my room, but amidst my sneaking I looked up to see my mom blocking the hallway. I returned the beverages to the kitchen and joined the family on the back lawn, shaking my head sadly when I met Vive. The evening culminated with Nicolai, my mother’s grandfather, and Julio leading an obnoxious German drinking song on the front porch. They had their arms thrown over each other’s shoulders, precariously holding each other up, inexplicably wearing nothing but grass skirts. As the song reached its fever pitch, Nicolai lost his footing and went tumbling backward. He scrambled to grab hold of Julio until Julio lost his balance too, and they both swung over the railing, taking one of my mom’s potted cycads with them. The two old men wrestled on the grass as the family groaned with distaste (with the exception of Naveen, Nicolai’s wife and my great grandmother, who leaned over the railing and cackled maniacally) until the tussle was broken up by my mom delivering a harsh kick to Nicolai’s bare backside.

I’m surprised your parents still allow you to come over here, I said to Vive when the party died down. I’m waiting for the day when Liaisons bust down all our doors and take all my family members to the Convert Clinic. Vive just smiled a Cheshire grin. Liaisons to the Throne don’t give her the creeps like they do me, probably because she’s actually met a few.

I don’t tell my parents about many of the things that happen here. They would definitely not allow me to spend so much time here. I must have given Vive a shocked look – I couldn’t imagine her not being entirely honest with her parents. Her honesty can be brutal.

I’ve never lied to my parents, she continued, but they’ve never gotten the full truth, either. I figure life experience, the power of friendship… something like that. I get to have some fun every once in a while! she protested in response to my prolonged look of shock.

An introduction to Vive’s adoptive parents: the Masachis are almost as severe as her real parents, Queen Nacthelian and King Hasamelis. Maria represents the African Grey Parrot (Psittacus erithacus, subspecies erithacus and timneh) in the Apex Assembly. Iokepa represents the genus Gorilla which incorporates both species, the Western and Eastern Gorilla, (Gorilla gorilla and Gorilla beringei), also in the Apex Assembly. They’re rumored to be over 600 years old, which would make them the oldest human beings on Earth. Other than Vive, Maria and Iokepa have the closest relationship with Queen Nacthelian and King Hasamelis of anyone.

The Masachis are both Masters in various martial arts, and spend much of their time meditating. I think of them both as the Silent Assassins. I would never tell them I think this. Vive laughed at me when I shared this with her. The Silent Assassins consult with many of the teachers in the City and beginning this school year, Master Iokepa took over the instruction of our class in martial arts twice a week. I started calling them Master Maria and Master Iokepa a while ago, as calling them both Master Masachi got confusing. Vive sometimes calls them Master Mom and Master Dad. Whenever we have dinner at Vive’s place, they grill us on our homework and then make us practice tai chi with them for what feels like hours. Master Maria holds a long rod to my back and tells me to straighten my spine. So Vive generally comes over to my house for dinner, and frequently to spend the night. Maria and Iokepa outlived all their family members, so spending time at my house provides a family experience for Vive she wouldn’t get at home.

But my family can be over-the-top. Vive’s been hanging out at the Estate for so long, I think she’s inoculated against the usual Stratus family shenanigans. My peers haven’t exactly been knocking down my door to hang out, but if they were, I’d be nervous about introducing them to my family. Hopefully Aesop and Atropos will still want to be friends after they visit the Estate.

March 13, 1607

This year Nowrūz falls on the 21st, so the spring cleaning and celebrations began on the 9th. Because my family all inhabit the same home, more often than not we have friends over for a large party in order to visit with all our loved ones in one day, but this year it was just the family and Vive partying at the Estate after the Luces competition. I’ve disappointed my dad by deciding not to go to the Queen’s Presentation of Spring this year, the pinnacle of the Nowrūz celebrations. The City Square gets uncomfortably crowded, and he sets up camp right in the thick of the throng – prime viewing location of the balcony. He gets as giddy as my dog Snafu at dinnertime in anticipation of the appearance of Royalty, but I’d rather watch the Queen’s yearly address from my favorite chair in the living room this year.

Vive adopted a small, white and cream-colored female guinea pig today. The cavy’s hair sticks out in every direction, cowlicks on her backside creating a furry Mohawk. Vive dragged me excitedly to her room this afternoon to show me the rodent’s exorbitant living quarters. A multi-leveled terrarium filled with soft bedding, various hidey-holes and chew toys dominated half of my overjoyed friend’s room. Vive’s eyes were misty as she gazed upon the little ball of fur, which had emerged to greet her new caretaker.

I’ve named her Dot, said Vive. She’s my little dotty dot dooty doot toot toot, she cooed in an exaggerated baby voice. The rodent purred as Vive stroked her head and under her chin.

Say hello to Princess Dot, Phillip, urged Vive.

Uh, hello Dot, I said with an awkward half wave. The guinea pig fixed me in her sight with her beady rodent eyes, then turned and went back into her house woven of rowan sticks and began nibbling on a choice twig. I suppose I’m more of a dog and horse sort of lad. When not occupied with school, family or friends, I spend my time with my greyhound, Snafu. We go for jogs in the summer, skijoring in the winter, and I teach him cool tricks (i.e. Find my Guide, Snafu!).

You insulted her, scoffed Vive neurally, apparently not wishing her new pet to overhear. She insists that because I’m a princess and her adopted mother, she’s a princess too. The logic is sound.

Guinea pig logic.

So I gave Princess Dot an overstated bow with much hand twirling, nose almost to my knees.

Welcome to the Royal Family, Princess Dot, I said, affecting a haughty, nasal tone. The cavy turned around inside her house so all I could see was her cowlicked, tailless round bottom.

She’ll warm up to you, said Vive’s voice distractedly in my head as she watched her new ward lovingly.

She talks to you? I asked.

Yeah, quite competently, actually.

She talks to other people, right?

Of course! I’m not crazy.

That remains to be seen. Where did you get her?

Dr. Bot gave her to me.

Is she a robot?

Of course not! she vocalized, turning on me.

I think that’s a reasonable question! I countered neurally, not wanting to upset the rodent that was now watching me and chewing slowly. Why did he give her to you? Where did he get her? I’ve never heard of talking Guinea pigs.

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He said he’s had her for a while and thought it was time I had her. I’ve been asking my parents to get a pet. I don’t know where he got her – he didn’t say. And as far as I can tell, she’s unique.

I never would have pinned Dr. Bot as an animal person. The little cavy didn’t have any robiotic parts, as far as I could see, but I’m certain he altered her somehow. Even with nanobots, most rodents do not have sophisticated-enough minds to communicate with human nymphocytes, let alone speak neurally.

My dad and I also spent some time this morning looking through his Hasamelis Book trying to unravel the secrets of the King. I felt bad for telling him I’m going to ditch him on the Spring Equinox, so I asked if we could look through the book he’s put together. He was more than happy to oblige. I have to admit that I share my dad’s fascination with the King, although perhaps not to the same degree. I’ve been looking through his Hasamelis Book with him since I could sit on his knee. The King is a part of all of us.

There is little factual information in the book other than the elaborate pencil drawings, some of which were derived from memories of my visit to the Tower Apex a few years ago (a story I’ll have to recount later). Perhaps the most revealing bit of information is the King’s namesake, the Hittite god most commonly associated with metal craft. The Hittite empire was vast in the Late Bronze Age, dominating the Near East in what is now Turkey and Syria.

The Hittite people were pioneers of diplomacy, and the roots of all Indo-European languages can be traced back to the Hittite language. However, they are a people whose culture was eroded and buried by time, most of their writings and artifacts destroyed or lost. The breadth of their influence on other Bronze Age societies, most notably the Egyptians and the Greeks, may never be known. The empire and most of its relics and writings seemed to vanish overnight.

Hasameli is known as the god of metalworking and craft and is therefore associated with the art of war, as the Hittites were a conquering people. Yet artifacts suggest there was not a uniform religion of the state, and pantheons could vary throughout the empire depending on the location and the history of its people. Hasameli could have been a god of many things and the details of his history are as mercurial as our King. We will never know the complete history of the Hittite deity, which my dad believes is why Hasamelis chose his name.

As my mom is an important member of the Producer Assembly on the Council of All Beings, which meets with the King, my dad has been known to assault her with questions after assembly meetings ranging from how the King behaved to how he was dressed. My mom has described him as austere and meticulous, which, coming from the Plant Lady, must mean he is particularly severe and painstakingly detailed. If the King has a sense of humor, no one has ever seen it. This endears him to my mom, who takes plant matters very seriously.

I think I kinda look like him, which is why your mother chose me, my dad has said, only partly joking.

A Producer meeting was held prior to the Nowrūz celebrations in order to sum up the events over the year, a meeting where the King was in attendance. Tesla, if you ask me what the King was wearing one more time, I’m moving to Mars, said my mom after returning from the meeting.

My father is an interesting weirdo, an anomaly on a planet populated with scientists. He received the scars on the right side of his body from a Van de Graaff generator when he was a very young boy. I cannot imagine a machine more innocuous than the classroom Van de Graaff, a device used to demonstrate the properties of electricity to small children. The power of the electric field is low enough that people can touch the metal dome without suffering injury or even mild discomfort. Somehow my dad turned the small, static-electric field generator into a destructive weapon, which left him with his prominent scars.

Dad, how was it you were injured by a Van de Graaff? I asked him in the Observatory after we’d finished looking through the Hasamelis Book.

It wasn’t necessarily the Van de Graaff that injured me, but rather its power source, he replied. I looked down and sighed heavily – sometimes it seems people just walk around telling me the obvious. For some reason that connection to Power was faulty, causing a high-powered current to flow over the dome. I just happened to be the unlucky one to touch it when it malfunctioned.

Why didn’t the burns heal properly?

I let the burns heal naturally, causing them to scar. It seemed like the thing to do at the time.

If the Power feed just malfunctioned, why are you so afraid of machinery?

"Well, I wouldn’t say I’m afraid of machinery…"

Yeah, but you run away whenever anyone wants to talk science and technology.

It’s kind of a phobia – an irrational fear. I have a long history of receiving grievous injuries in science labs. Every time I attempted to ‘science,’ I was negatively reinforced. So… I suppose it’s not such an irrational fear, for me.

But a phobia is a type of anxiety disorder – a chemical reaction in the brain. Shouldn’t your nymphs correct that?

Not all of human behavior can be explained by chemical reactions in the brain. Phillip, the truth of the matter is that I don’t care for the sciences. I’d rather art. People don’t want me in their labs because destruction follows me, and that’s fine. I don’t want to be there anyway.

But shouldn’t you at least be able to talk about the sciences, to help me with my homework?

That’s enough questions for now. And the conversation was abruptly ended. He’d shut down, as he is occasionally prone. His explanation made no sense and basically ignored the way electricity works, so I asked my mom.

Your father is a strange man. Accept it and move on, she replied.

I love my weird family, I really do, but I swear they’re going to drive me to become the next Queen’s Convert.

How can my dad work with electric welders without coming to any harm, but a small Van de Graaff generator is turned into a weapon in his hands? It’s impossible for the amount of electricity needed to power a classroom Van de Graaff generator to cause the level of destruction that it did. There are safety mechanisms within the Power system which prevent that kind of massive overflow. I searched World News archives and found several articles regarding my dad and his technological mishaps – there were headings such as: Tesla Pacifica Strikes Again. Containers of volatile chemicals burst and electrical equipment in general seemed to go haywire when my dad was around, but the worst incident by far involved the Van de Graaff. It didn’t simply malfunction. It exploded. Everyone present for the incident was lucky to escape alive, if not with all their hair follicles intact. Witnesses described it like an indoor electrical storm with ball lightening and electricity rocketing around the classroom.

What is it my dad isn’t telling me?

March 22, 1607 – The First Day of School

All change is not growth, as all movement is not forward.

- Ellen Glasgow

Although Vive is still a few inches taller than me, I’ve grown in height and strength. Additionally, I don’t know if it’s puberty or ten years of my superior influence, but Vive’s attitude seems different from last year – more joking and less over-achieving. Maybe a bit more brooding and less cloyingly optimistic.

A text conversation from several weeks ago:

Me: I just broke my butt!

Vive: Prolapsed anus?

Me: Good guess, but no. I slipped and fell on the ice really hard. I think I damaged my brain…more.

Vive: Bummer.

Me: It was one of those instances when you know a microsecond beforehand: This is going to hurt a lot and suck.

Vive: Not a lot you can do for it, either.

Me: None! It’s a powerless feeling. I’m icing my left butt cheek.

Vive: Your cheek? Put some salve on it.

Me: The ice on my butt cheek feels right. It’ll heal in a few minutes.

Vive: I still can’t figure out how you heal so fast – even with my nymphs focused, I don’t heal as fast as you. You’re like some kind of freak.

Me: I’m a freak if you are. *Frankfurt, Germany!* It’s like someone took a meat hammer to my butt cheek when I walk.

Vive: I’ve bruised the cheeks before – and had to walk home. Did you squirm about and make weird guttural noises?

Me: Actually, I swore as I pounded the ground until Snafu stuck his wet, cold nose in my face and stepped on my *yogurt lounge*.

Vive: Double damage! I wish I’d been there.

Me: Yeah, I wish you had been there to laugh hysterically at my excruciating pain, too.

Somehow Vive convinced Hecate to give her video of my injuries that she in turn shared with my family over dinner after showing up unannounced. They all received the video as we sat down for dinner, which was followed by raucous laughter. Isabel was late getting her Guide out and I held out hope that she would at least try not to laugh, but her laughter rang out like a bell, causing the entire family to resume laughing. My grandmother came over and kissed me on the temple.

We’re not laughing at you, Phil, she tittered ineffectually. I shooed her away and glared at Vive, but then couldn’t help joining the laughter. Nicolai, Julio and Naveen had crowded together to watch the video again and laugh – loud, reverberating claps of approval from Julio.

Vive Tarkenwore has been my best friend since we were four. Vive’s adoptive parents, the Silent Assassins, had brought her to the Estate for reasons unknown, and the children and the dog had been coaxed outside to leave the adults to their machinations. Soon we were deeply involved in a game of tag, Snafu running circles around us and tripping us up. Vive tackled me, jarring my innards, and then she asked the most important question of my four-year-old life:

Are you ticklish?! she said manically, waggling her fingers like wormy weapons. Ha HA! she said in triumph, registering the terror on my face.

No! NO! I cried, batting her hands away in a frenzy. I HAVE DIARRHEA!

But it was too late. I had explosively pooped myself with the Princess of all of Earth sitting on my legs. She screamed and ran for the house. Needless to say, we were instantly fast friends.

To begin the school year, Mrs. Pythagoras has tasked us with not only illustrating our family trees, but also writing our family histories. The memoir is to be one-hundred pages long. One. Hundred. Pages. Long. Single-spaced. At least we have the entire first semester to complete the project. Mrs. Pythagoras assures us it is important to understand our genetic origins. As a point of order, I approached Mrs. Pythagoras after class today and explained that as my parents are not my birth parents, researching the family tree would not provide any illumination on my genetic origins and that I should therefore be excused from said project as it would damage me emotionally. To which she responded: An admirable attempt at slacking, Phillip. But you will do the project.

But then she relented when she saw the look on my face, mistaking my disappointment for real emotional distress.

You can write it as a creative writing project. Fifty pages. I want real emotion! she called after me, as I quickly thanked her and fled the classroom.

My Guide got infected just in time for the first day of school. I didn’t even know that was possible – I had to ask Hecate, and she said it’s a computer virus. The infection causes a window on my desktop to display a new and increasingly colorful insult, such as yesterday’s Phillip licks *Rocky Mountain oysters* each morning. Today’s insult was Phillip is a sack of *short-haired hamsters* disguised as a midget. I couldn’t figure out how my nemesis, Victoria Mantis had done it (I know she conducted the reprehensible deed the way an elephant can sense water: I can smell deceit) and I also couldn’t figure out how to remove the virus. Finally I gave in to defeat and asked Hecate to help me.

It’s like a benign tumor, said the Computer, in a very inconvenient place. It’s quite ingenious, really. No one has ever bypassed my security before.

This is why I didn’t ask you for help right away. Can you remove the virus or not? I snapped.

There was a long, painful silence.

I’m sorry, I said in my I’m being sincere voice. Will you please remove the virus?

This is why a piece of artificial intelligence should never be given free will. Even so, she was able to remove the virus with no further complications.

Tomorrow the program was going to make rude noises when you went into the bathroom, said Hecate in a snooty voice. Try to have an embarrassment-free day tomorrow, will you?

A.I. should never be given attitude, either.

I know how she did that, said Vive when I explained to her what Victoria had done. It’s very clever, though. She must know Hecate very well. I’m a little surprised. It’s ingenious, actually.

I never realized how fondly you think of Victoria Mantis, I said, affecting my sibilants and flicking my wrist. When will you be asking for her hand in marriage? I just have to be there to help pick out your dress. You two will just make the loveliest couple. Vive just grinned, unscathed by my humor meant to be at her expense.

Ingenious or not, Victoria must pay for this grievous affront.

Victoria Mantis: the bane of much of Vive’s and my childhood. She lives in the Tower, a few floors below Vive’s apartment, so Vive and I have known her since before we started school ten years ago. She was a snotty, bossy and nosey child with an intense superiority complex. Her curly black hair was always in perfect pigtails, and her little frilly dresses were always unnaturally clean. Little has changed except her wardrobe. Much of my early childhood was spent scheming with Vive to find new and creative ways to ditch Victoria when she wouldn’t leave us alone. On more than one occasion I had walked all the way home and circled around to the back of the Tower to meet back up with Vive so Victoria would go home. That took commitment.

Remember our first first day of school? I asked Vive today when class was out.

I remember my exuberance for the joy of learning and you being a Debbie Downer. Then I did all of our ecology and taxonomy homework. I think I set a dangerous precedent that day, she said, glaring at me. I needed a quick subject change.

Victoria was such an insufferable turd that day, I said.

She’s always an insufferable turd, Vive muttered. I never shared with you the message Naveen sent me about water convees, did I? she asked with a look of consternation.

No, but I remember you talking to her about it.

I haven’t thought about that in years.

The First First Day of School

Whereas our contemporaries and I arrived either on horseback or in conveyances with our parents, Vive arrived unaccompanied astride the enormous white unicorn, Ling. Ling is Vive’s chauffeur and bodyguard, knowing all the off-beat trails and measures to keep fawning crowds from swarming the princess. Obviously he comes from the restricted section of the Royal Menagerie, but you would think he’d floated down from heaven and stepped off a cloud.

Wow, a unicorn! Sinta, a classmate, had gasped. Isn’t that the most awesome thing you’ve ever seen?

Yeah, a horse with a horn is the most awesome thing I’ve ever seen, I scathed, rolling my eyes.

"But it’s an actual unicorn, not a neural projection."

So what?

She and her friend Özge looked at me wide-eyed and moved away. I suppose I’ve done a pretty good job of alienating my classmates without Victoria’s help. Sinta and Özge are now Victoria’s two closest friends.

Vive offered everyone the opportunity to ride Ling, and with some trepidation, they all accepted – all except Victoria, who oozed so much jealousy it could have been bottled as Eau de Hater. The unicorn rides did nothing to soothe the overwhelming intimidation our classmates felt for Vive and the white, horned destrier she rode in on. I’d met Ling before, so obviously I wasn’t impressed. I’m much happier with the family Tarkanian, Geiger. My parents got him from a Tarkanian breeder before I started school so I would always have a companion to take me to and from class. He has the graceful lines of an Arabian, but he’s just as smart as Ling. And not half as arrogant.

After the fifteen other students had met Ling we convened on our teacher’s expansive front lawn. We explored the woods around Mrs. Pythagoras’s house, identifying the plants and animals we saw. We were given homework to identify as many of the flora and fauna around our homes as we could find and discuss the niches they inhabit.

Vive was assaulted with a barrage of questions throughout that day from other students: What are the Queen and King like? and What’s in the Answer Hall? and Are you human? Vive was able to deflect most of the questions with single-word answers like Tall and Answers and Yes. The other kids generally wrinkled their