If I Ruled the World: Chapter One

Life on Gujetta Er can be quite pleasant if you work hard and never give up.

Photo by Mohamed Nohassi on Unsplash

Mille’s shaking hands opened the letter. “We regret to inform you—” The next thing she knew, she was tumbling down the steps of her family abode. Bumpety! Bop! Blump! There were only three stairs between the landing and the walkway below, but she landed hard at the bottom. Still holding the letter, she pushed onto her knees and looked up at her sister, Hesha. She was standing on the landing with a jutted chin and hands on her hips. Mille sighed. Hesha read the letter over her shoulder. The letter that said Mille had failed again.

“Why did you push me?” Mille asked, though she already knew. Then she took one look at her clothes and pouted. “My outfit is ruined.”

Hesha’s eyes cut into her, and so did her words. “You are such a loser, Mille! I am embarrassed to call you my sister!”

Mille’s bottom lip trembled. “I tried as hard as I could,” she said, tears stinging her eyes.

Hesha turned on her heel and stormed through the door. “Mother!!! Mille failed again!”

The luxury accommodations at Section Three’s outer wall were built on stilts to avoid seasonal flooding, but the walkways, almost always, were coated with thick brown silt. Mille tried to wipe the sticky, smelly muck off her matching shorts and top but only made it worse—like her life. That was ruined, too, as far as Hesha was concerned. Applicants to Mebo Academy could take the test up to three times, and Mille had already failed twice.

Both of Mille’s older sisters attended Mebo Academy and their positions within the outer sections of the city were secure. Those who did not get in? Well—they got relegated to the inner sections of the city to live among the poor. Mille was not overly concerned about that. If she lived frugally and curtailed her expectations, she knew could live a pretty decent life on Gujetta Er.

Gujetta was one of nine Er in the Theda galaxy capable of sustaining life. It was closest to the galaxy’s center and had plenty of natural resources to support its burgeoning populace. The rivers and lakes covering most of its surface teemed with delectable creatures, and the rich, irrigated soil produced a great number of food crops. And just under the surface, there were limitless ores waiting to be made into something useful. The people of Gujetta were always busy harvesting, building, and creating all day, every day. If that was the stuff that made a person happy, they would be happy on Gujetta Er.

A stinging pain made Mille look down. Her knee was bleeding.

Mille did not enjoy making the most of everything, every day. She wanted to stop. And think. Why was the inner city filled with poverty and hopelessness? How did it get that way? Was there a way to make it different? Surely, there were more inclusive ways to live. She gazed up at the sky, overcast with wide overlapping strips of pink, coral, and magenta that framed Gujetta’s three moons. It was not possible, though, for her, or anyone else, to leave Gujetta to live on another, perhaps more compatible, Er. They were too far away.

Mille squeezed her eyes shut and breathed in the pungent scent of overflowing riverbanks.

According to legend, the Travelers, a mysterious humanoid species, possessed the power to travel across great distances in space at will. That’s how the inhabitants of Gujetta learned about life on other Er. Then, hundreds of years ago, the Gujetta council banished the Travelers for committing crimes so atrocious no one dared speak of them.

Mille smirked.

Parents often used the legend to encourage suitable behavior. She, for one, was overly familiar with it. But as a sensible teenager, she no longer believed in the legend. Scientific instruments developed at Mebo proved there was other life within the galaxy.

Mille trudged up the stairs to where her mother was waiting with her arms folded across her chest. She tapped her foot impatiently as Mille inched her way forward.

“I’m sorry, Mother. I tried as hard as I could.”

Mille’s mother, Mamore, had graduated from Mebo, and her mother, and her mother before her. Even Mille’s father had gone there, though he barely made it through. So, Mille tried. Not because she dreaded being poor. She hated the thought of disgracing her proud family.

“You will get into Mebo,” her mother said through clenched teeth. “Make no mistake about that.”

Mille hung her head and followed her mother into their living quarters. She would do whatever her mother instructed, though she doubted it would help. She had completed every task on the preparation checklist leading up to the test, but when it came to recording the answers, her writing utensil would not move fast enough. Time was always called long before she finished.

Early the next morning, Mamore hired transport to Section Two, right outside the city center. The cities in Gujetta tended toward the huge, covering thousands of square miles from the city center to the outermost walls. Surrounding each section of the city was also a wall, though not impenetrable. There were many open gates, mostly unguarded, that freely permitted traffic both in and out. But transportation to the outer sections was not cheap. Many drivers had to be bribed.

Mille looked over at her mother. Mamore was spending a lot of money on this trip from their home just outside of Section Four. She held her breath and prayed it wasn’t one way.

The driver dropped them off in front of a small building. It was not one of the new builds made of shiny metal and glass. It was old and made of sturdy brick, an ancient technology that had stood the test of time, but the bricks were crumbling, and the paint on the trim was flaking. It was sure to be on the tear-down schedule any day.

Inside, they sat in a little room lined with chairs made from the trees that grew rampant at the river’s edge. They were hard and uncomfortable, probably made by local students to fill their time with busy work. Look at what we made teacher. Why were children encouraged to waste their time like that? We can give it to the poor. The poor could do well without such useless ugliness.

“Mille Sarten?”

Mamore grabbed Mille’s hand, and they followed the clerk down a long, narrow hall to a door near the end.

The clerk knocked. “Mamore Sarten, hear to see you.”

The voice inside was a rushing wind. “Come in.”

The clerk opened the door and gestured for Mille and her mother to enter, but Mille could not move. Her parents were getting rid of her! There was no other reason to bring her to this place that reeked of failure.

Mamore grabbed Mille’s arm and dragged her along behind her. There was only one seat and Mamore took it. Mille stood awkwardly beside her, not knowing what to say.

The one whose voice had stopped Mille’s heart was sitting behind a large, impressive desk made of exquisite wood. They looked to be over six feet tall, and their skin, the color of wet rice paper, was almost transparent. It was as if they got no sun at all.

Klado took a deep breath through their wide, flat nose. “Is this Mille?”

“Yes,” Mamore said, tossing her thick brown braid behind her back. “Mille, stop dawdling and introduce yourself.”

Mille bent her right knee and leaned forward, as was their custom. “My name is Mille Sarten. I am pleased to meet you.” She looked down at her hands. Their vibrant pink color made her feel more confident.

The one sitting behind the desk glared at her through narrowed eyes, as if he could hear her thoughts. “I am Klado,” they said, flatly. “I am your tutor.”

Mamore leaned forward, her eyes pleading. “Can you help her pass the exam?”

“Yes,” Klado said, still glaring at Mille. “I guarantee it. We will start tomorrow. Be prepared to stay the entire day.”

Mille returned the next day, early as requested. She walked down the hallway on her own and knocked on the door.

There was no answer. She knocked again. “Come in,” Klado said, at last.

Mille entered and stood in front of the door. The room looked unfamiliar. Yesterday, there was only a desk and one chair. Today there were two chairs in front of the desk, several chairs lined up against the walls, and a table beside a window with even more chairs on the other side of the room.

Was that there yesterday? Maybe she didn’t see it.

“Sit down!”

Mille shrugged her shoulders, sheepishly. “Where?”

“Over there.” Klado pointed to the table. “Where else do you suppose you can do your lessons?”

Mille sat at the far end of the table in front of a stack of answer sheets. They looked all too familiar. She sighed and picked up the writing tool beside them. It was thick, greasy, hard to hold, and left smudges of black on her delicate pink fingers. She looked up at Klado. They were still bent over their desk, but their skin, pink today, looked fake—as if painted on. Mille wrinkled her nose. Poor people did that—anything to fit in, but Klado was not poor. Their tunic revealed their position. It was so white and smooth that it shimmered, even in dull indoor lighting.

Mille looked out the window. What would that tunic look like outside, under the brilliant pink sky? Her gaze followed the modest outfits of the ordinary people walking by. She looked over at Klado again. No. Klado was rich. Under the desk, she could see their tunic was knee-length and worn over creamy-colored, loose-fitting pants made of the same material. She wrinkled her nose. Only the rich dressed like that. Why take on the humble work of a tutor?

Klado eased up from their desk to the wall where the day’s activities were listed in order. The first item on the list: Mille arrives on time. They reached under the wide pleated panel on the front of their tunic, pulled out a writing tool, and with a dramatic swoop, made a large check mark beside it.

The morning dragged on as Klado drilled the lessons Mille had practiced many times at home, but when her fingers moved too slowly over the answer sheet—WHAP! He struck the back of her hand with a wooden rod as if that would make the tool move faster. As if she had control over its speed. WHAP! She shook it off and kept writing. Did she have control?

By lunchtime, her right hand was bright red and smarting, and Klado’s resolve was beginning to fade.

“We will start again after lunch,” they said, holding open the door.

Mille could not get out fast enough.

Embarrassed by her swollen hand, she went outside to sit and eat alone on a high patch of lawn overlooking the massive stone wall surrounding the city center. City planners spent little time or resources upgrading the city center, yet it was still oddly beautiful. The ancient wall was at least ten feet tall with icons of the nine Er chiseled into the thick gateposts leading to the cobblestone streets inside. The buildings inside the city center, also made of quarried stone, would last much longer than her abode in Section Three. But the people who lived there? She watched them milling about as if waiting for someone to tell them what to do. How long would they last?

She licked the last of her meal from her lovely pink fingers.

There had to be a way to get Klado to understand they were wasting time with their antiquated tactics. Her mind did not work that way. Soon, she would stop responding altogether, and they would thrash her to within an inch of her life. She looked at her puffy hand and moaned. Maybe if they broke all of her bones, she could live in a rehabilitation facility instead of behind the superstitious walls of the city center.

Mille dragged her feet down the long hallway and knocked on Klado’s door. There was no answer. She knocked again. There was still no answer. Maybe they had gone out to eat. She looked around. There was no other way out. She placed her hand on the knob and turned. They would not mind if she waited inside. The door opened. Surprise! Klado was entering the room, but not through the window. They were materializing in the air right in front of her face!

Mille gasped. “You’re a Traveler!”

Klado moved quickly, slammed the door behind her, and grabbed her arm.

Mille’s eyes were wide with both fear and outrage. “You are in so much trouble!”

Klado reached into their tunic. “Not as much as you are.”

Then they both disappeared.

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In The Next Episode

So, is kidnapping the crime unspeakable? Or is it something even worse?

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Publishing Updates

Me, when I get ready to pitch, In Our Bones. Pray for me.

But I got some great feedback from Beta Readers for, Don’t Cry Mishalariah. This one is one of my favorites.

This is the strongest narrative start of anything I’ve read in recent memory. I’m instantly hooked because I’m so curious: You’re making Spirit a character? That’s bold! Who’s Mishalariah? Also, I love the details of the room, and it cracks me up how Mishalariah tries to school Spirit about you. — Beta Reader

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