Chapter One - Rift Valley

Desdemona reared up and shaded her eyes. As her vision sparkled, the blood draining from her brain, she peered at the shouting workers crowding the deep shadow of the viaduct tower. They were throwing dice. She heard her brother’s nickname shouted in celebration.

“Pico! Pico!”

Sweating under the hot sun, Dizzy felt herself split into a thousand Desdemonas. As much as she lived on the Republic of California Popular Farm CA-313, she lived on a thousand worlds. She felt herself outside of time. She was a star child.

Who am I? she thought, then, as the blood returned to her brain, The little rascal is rolling the bones. I better stop him. Or should I let him bust? It’ll build character.

Desdemona squatted and re-commenced the diagnostics. Halfway through, she suspected the energy scavengers, so she killed the routine and swapped in a new pack.

Paco came running. "Diz! Diz!" he shouted while thirty meters away. "I did it! I -- "

Paco arrived at his sister's side, stopped and bent over, hands on knees, huffing. "Sulami nee, Diz,” he gasped in their secret language. (“I did it, sis.”)

"What?"

Paco stood proudly and grinned. He held up his personal device, displaying his balance: 513,888 Gold Dollars.

Stunned, Desdemona re-read the astronomic balance.

"You bet a kidney, didn’t you?”

“Snake eyes.”

“Yeah?”

“Snake eyes. Snake eyes. Snakes eyes.”

“Three in a row?”

“Seven.”

Desdemona scoffed. “That’s impossible, Paco.”

Paco grinned and cried, “Lucky boy!” He began a victory dance, hopping over the harvester and kicking up clods of earth. “Star Envoys! Star Envoys!” he chanted.

“Whose bones, Paco?”

“Theirs.”

Desdemona scowled. Under her cupped hand, she studied the crowd milling under the tarp. By silhouette, a few looked menacing.

It was a sunny day in the rift valley. From near zenith, the sun poured heat down onto the fields. The Sierra Nevadas spanned the east. Nearer to the west, the Santa Cruz Mountains loomed, dark brown and evergreen. Underfoot, the farmland was striped with groundcover, troughs and crests spanning the horizons. A viaduct crossed from south to north.

Desdemona Suarez O’Loughlin stood tall and straight under the hot sun, casting a foreshortened shadow on the harvester. A surfer, swimmer and hiker, she had a light, powerful build. Her hair was long, straight and black with golden sun-streaks. She had an oval face. Her Irish and Mayan ancestry had bequeathed her round cheek bones, a prominent jaw and a pointed chin. Her eyes were chocolate brown, flecked with gold. Her lips were full and bowed. Her maternal aunt assured her that she was beautiful, blessed with piel de canela, skin the color of cinnamon. At the age of seventeen, Desdemona did not rejoice in her youth and beauty. She did not enjoy the universal attention; her charisma was annoying, those susceptible to it, somewhat suspect.

"We better go," she said to Paco.

Paco was thirteen months younger. He had a taller face and less prominent cheekbones. His eyes were so dark they seemed black. He had a bright, winning smile. As a reedy youth, he had a slim, wiry build, with reflexes like a jackrabbit. He was uncanny in a turbulent break. On slim enough evidence, he was convinced that he was smarter than his big sister, but he followed her loyally, since, oddly enough, it often turned out that she was right.

"Vamanos!" he cried.

Desdemona decided to abandon their bikes, locked to the rack next to the tower. She placed her hand on Paco’s shoulder and guided him in the opposite direction. Together, they hiked across the wide field, stepping over the parallel stripes of banked crops.

“We got enough for the train,” Paco said.

"Settle down,” Desdemona said. “Transportation ain’t the problem. We're barely old enough. I mean, you’re still fifteen."

"We're old enough to compete."

"We're old enough to enter, but are we old enough to compete? The trials are intense. Everything you know is put to the test. It’s brutal. How are we going to compete with millions of people with advanced degrees? And you and me, farmers!"

"Farmers, right," Paco said. “Come on, Diz. We'll do great. The trials don’t start for another six months. We got time enough to train."

Desdemona laughed. "Six months is nothing. People spend ten years training. We'd probably only get past the dummy tests."

"Ah, you're always so . . . I don't know what to say," Paco said. "But that's the way you always are.”

"I am the way I am, because I have to be. I'm older than you. I got to take care of you. So, if you really want to be a Star Envoy, get yourself in a program where you can master a few of the sciences. Maybe a martial art or three. Then in about fifteen years, you'll be good enough to make it through to the second test. Maybe."

"These trials are next year,” Paco said. “We can get experience. It’ll motivate us to study harder for the trials after that. It'll be an adventure. It’ll be fun! Come on. Let's go. We can enter as a team."

"Oh, you bet we’d enter as a team," Desdemona said. "But we gotta get some sort of training, don’t we?”

They arrived at their hamlet, nestled among the redwoods in the foothills. Their shelter, a concrete dome half-covered with moss, needles and cones, swung open at their approach. Their mother was chopping vegetables and heating up the wok.

Paco babbled at their mother about the news, finishing with, "But can we go, Mom?"

Their mother began to warn the two about the dangers of the trials.

“Mother, please,” Desdemona said. “Dial down the emotion.”

Their mother’s face calmed. With a stare, she said, "You're both over fifteen. You don't need my permission."

"Yeah, I know, but it'd be better -- " Paco said.

" -- if you gave us your blessing, Mom." Desdemona said.

Their mother put down her cleaver and dried her hands on her apron. She studied their faces. "I'll tell what: If you train hard enough, I'll give you my blessing."

"Yea!" Paco shouted and began to dance about the kitchen. 

Desdemona smiled and hugged her mother, who kissed her cheek before whispering, "You know the odds are millions to one. Just to get past the first level."

"We’ll go deep, Mom. We'll make a good team."

"Not too deep, m’ija. The lower levels are dangerous.”

"Yes, Mom. I know."

"I know, too, m’ija," their mother said, remaining calm until Desdemona dialed up her emotions again. Then, she wept.

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