The Shadow
Making decisions before breakfast is a terrible idea in my experience. I want to buy something today, to add to my inventory in The Haven. It’s too early to decide, yet I can’t help but obsess over the choice between a walnut mage staff to enhance my attack spells by twenty-five percent and a drone that can lay down devastating suppression fire. Not to mention the staff has cool runes carved into the wood that glow when casting spells. Sure, I have no clue what the runes mean. They could say, The wielder of this stick is a dumbass. But who cares? It looks incredible.
Technically, I don’t have to decide anything right now. There’s time before having to plug in to The Haven. Really hate starting the day without a game plan, though.
“Ava, breakfast is ready.”
Our dome is small, so my mom doesn't have to raise her voice.
“Coming,” I reply.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting at my bedroom window, trying to decide what my newest weapon purchase in The Haven would be. Squinting against the light glinting from the reflectors outside, I briefly wonder what a true sunrise might be like. A giant carbon-capture dome encircles our small town, which is great for the planet but blocks a lot of the sun. Carefully placed refractors provide some sunlight, but Dad says they’re a feeble resemblance to the real thing.
It’s not the first time I’ve wondered about unfiltered sunlight. One time, after putting this question to Mom, she assured me it’s basically the same thing. Maybe one day they will allow us outside again and experience a real sunrise.
I place my hand against the windowpane and a digital brightness indicator materializes. The window turns a darker tint after I tap the bottom of the gauge. When I return, I don't want my room to feel like a sauna. Not that I have any real-life experiences to draw from. I’m told the saunas in The Haven feel close to the actual thing.
I grip my wheelchair’s push rims and reverse. It takes slightly more effort in my bedroom than it does in the living room or kitchen. My room has some thick carpeting, which adds some resistance to my maneuverability. Several months have passed since my dad requested the Committee of Dome Upkeep and Maintenance for engineered hardwood flooring to replace the carpet. We were on the schedule, they assure us, but no ETA could be given. Apparently, they have an extensive list.
I smile, rolling out of my room, remembering Dad had used the committee as another example of government care and efficiency, or rather, the lack thereof.
“Could’ve had it all done by now if I didn’t have to ask for permission,” he had told me.
“It’s not that big a deal though, Dad,” I answered. “I can get around smoothly enough.”
It was sweet of him to want to do that, but the carpet is only in my room. While our dome is some sort of concrete mix, the living room floor is faux wood, and the kitchen is linoleum. I don't have to fight carpets throughout the dome.
Now if we could get off that massive waiting list for neuro/robotic surgery to restore my legs . . .well, a girl can dream.
“Look who made it to her own birthday breakfast,” my mom says as I roll up to the kitchen table.
“Sorry,” I say, noting that I’m the first one there.
Mom doesn’t reply. She brushes some stray red locks out of her face, turning back to the oven.
I stare enviously at my Mom’s luscious, deep auburn hair falling in waves around her shoulders. How I missed out on that genetic cocktail in utero and came out with plain, straight brown hair, I’ll never know. I’m not bitter or anything. Goes perfectly with my enormous nose and thin lips.
“I was warming up with the refractor light, and let the time get away from me,” I say, banishing thoughts of hair color from my mind. I don’t need that type of negativity in my life.
“You weren’t cold, were you?” Mom asks, still not turning around. There is a soft clink of glass touching glass, and I know what she’s doing, though her back is blocking my view. Mom spikes her coffee from time to time. It always depends on how busy she thinks work will be. Or the mood she’s in.
She turns to face me, holding a plate of cake in her hands.
“Happy birthday,” she says with a tired yet satisfied smile.
I grin. It's a good day when I can eat cake and buy new weapons.
“Happy birthday Ava!” a duo of small voices shouts from the other end of the dome. My two little sisters, Sofia and Riley, burst from their shared room. They bound into the kitchen, jumping up and down on either side of my wheelchair.
“Thanks, guys,” I say with a wince, plugging my ears. “I wasn’t planning on doing any listening today, anyway.”
Sofia is seven, with a mess of curly, light red hair and a face speckled with freckles. She giggles at my sarcasm, knowing I’m not upset.
Riley, however, is only five, and sarcasm is sometimes lost on her.
“Sorry,” Riley says, her big brown eyes wide with concern.
I can’t help but grin at her cuteness. I ruffle her hair, which is like mine, but still looks red. She cackles and shoves my hand away.
“Ah, I see the pancake cake has already been served,” Dad proclaims from behind me. “My timing is perfect, as always.”
I crane my neck to look back at him in time to glimpse his thick bearded face, lips puckered, inches from me. Before I can react, he plants a sweaty kiss on my forehead, giving me a full whiff of his post-exercise body odor. I stifle a gag.
He tries to swipe some icing, but Mom jerks the cake out of his reach, cocking her eyebrow. Dad smiles, holding up his hands as if in surrender before pouring himself a cup of coffee.
“Is it real coffee beans this time?” he asks, glaring at the dark liquid suspiciously.
Mom huffs, setting the cake on the table before me. “I don’t know, Robert. You realize I can’t control the food allotments.”
Dad sniffs the coffee, then takes a cautious sip. “I guess it doesn’t matter. When they send real beans, they’re so old and stale…”
“Magic bean juice,” Riley cries out, grinning and pointing at Dad’s mug, parroting one of his favorite descriptors for coffee.
Everyone smiles at her while I inspect my cake, the mouthwatering sweet scent of maple-flavored icing filling my nose. We had to save a few weeks’ worth of vouchers for the pancakes and frosting. My parents had started the tradition of pancake cakes when I was young, stacking them tall, frosting between each pancake and around the stack.
“Alright, time to sing Happy Birthday,” my dad bellows.
I grin awkwardly through a very off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday.” After my ears nearly bleed, Mom cuts the cake and Dad distributes the pieces; of course, I get the biggest slice.
My mouth waters with the first bite. Creamy sweetness rolls over my palate, and I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face.
“Is it good?” my mom asks, gauging my reaction.
I nod contentedly, not wanting to interrupt the party happening in my mouth. Mom grins proudly, then tries to hide it behind an admonishment not to eat too much too quickly. Her warning comes too late for my sisters, who glance at each other and giggle, frosting stains on their lips, half their cake pieces already gone. They bounce in their seats as they finish the rest of their treat. The sugar is already affecting them.
Dad talks over a large bit of cake in his mouth. “Happy birthday, sweetie. I can’t believe my oldest child is turning sixteen!”
His eyes get misty. He’s getting more emotional in his old age. It’s both sweet and awkward.
Before I can reply, another voice interrupts me.
“ . . .progress has been made.”
The voice sounds familiar. In the living room, the 3D projector is on, giving the illusion that a woman is in our living space, standing in a patch of tall grass.
“Is that President Mercer?” Sofia asks, pointing.
Mom sets her phone on the table. She must’ve turned the projector on through the app on her phone. My dad looks down at his plate, devoting an unusual amount of concentration to his cake before quietly answering, “Yes.”
“Yes,” Mom says in a considerably louder tone.
The president is a middle-aged woman with a rehearsed smile, short graying hair, and wearing a neutral-colored pantsuit. Knee-high blades of grass appear to be growing out of our living room, fading from view off to either side of the president. Her immediate surroundings seem to move around her whenever she walks. It’s almost like she’s walking on a treadmill in a green screen studio.
“Because of my administration’s hard work, our partnership with the Ungulithi, and your continued sacrifices, humanity isn’t the only thing that’s healing,” President Mercer says.
“Un-gul-tithi are the aliens, right?” Riley asks, looking around the table, stumbling over the pronunciation.
“Un-gul-ithi. You guys should already know this,” Dad says, still not looking at the projection. “It’s the sole history they teach at school anymore.”
“It’s the only history that matters right now,” Mom retorts.
Please, not today. The last thing this birthday celebration needs is my parents arguing over dumb politics and dumb space aliens again.
Kneeling, President Mercer cups one of the lone flower buds in her hand. She smiles down at it like a mother reassuring a shy child. “I can’t wait for the time when we can all go out and enjoy the beauty of nature again. I know we all want that day.”
My dad snorts. It almost sounds like he mutters the word “puppet” under his breath.
President Mercer stands, her expression now more serious. “Unfortunately, today is not that day. When the Ungulithi crossed the galaxy to our world nearly seventy years ago, humanity was on the brink of ruin. Wars, unchecked climate change, and rampant late-stage capitalism were destroying us. Until they showed up. Until they united us.”
Dad finally looks up from his plate, glaring at the image of the president in our living room.
“Unlike many popular science fiction films, there was no apocalypse when they landed. There was no plundering of our resources, no genocide of our species. Instead, unlike anything seen in human history, global unity has happened. Intergalactic and interspecies cohabitation, cooperation, and peace have become everyday norms for everyone on the planet,” the president says, beaming.
Mom nods appreciatively. Dad is still as a statue. I’m not even sure he’s blinking.
“My fellow Americans,” President Mercer continues, “The Ungulithi are proud of humanity’s progress. They have repeatedly told me how key our cooperation has been in achieving seventy years of no wars, equal sharing of resources, justice, climate-friendly housing, and better standards of living. As the seventieth anniversary of Arrival Day draws near, they are asking for our help.”
“What more do they want from us?” Dad grumbles. “What more can they take from us?”
Mom shoots him a look.
“Progress takes a fair but firm hand. The Ungulithi realize many still are incapable of sharing this new world with us. Some prefer the old, regressive ways. These people are trying to destroy everything we have built. They have forgotten we are in this together. If you see something, say something. Only by working together, united against those who wish to agitate and divide…”
The president’s image fades. The field disappears, replaced by vague, shadowy images. I blink, confused. Mom seems equally perplexed.
“Mommy, did you turn the president off?” Riley asks.
“Of course not,” Sofia responds before my mom can reply. “It never goes black like that when it’s off.”
My eyes widen as realization dawns. She’s right. Dad leans forward, a small frown on his face.
Something rumbles. A sudden blast of audio static nearly causes me to jump straight up out of my wheelchair. That would’ve been an interesting first.
The noise stops.
The black image changes, morphing into a distinctly human shape. Standing in the middle of the living room is the silhouette of a tall, thick man, with indistinct features, a projected 3D shadow. Though his eyes aren’t visible, it feels as if he is watching me.
Goosebumps dot my skin. Behind me, Dad says, “No, honey, wait…”
Mom’s hand freezes over her phone, glancing at Dad in surprise. She’d been about to turn off our projector when he stopped her.
He looks as if he’s about to say something else.
Instead, another man’s voice interrupts him. The shadowy form speaks.
“President Mercer is a liar.”
