Allen,

I remember when you would come home for a few days on leave. You would wait until mom and dad were asleep before you would steal me from my room. We would tiptoe to the basement and there construct our mansion of blankets and pillows. Then we would stay up all night and you would tell me all about your adventures amongst the stars, stories I heard a dozen times and still begged to hear over and over again.

I listened to your resonant whisper give life to the tales in our secret place, and longed for my life to be as exciting as yours, like a never-ending adventure. I wanted to grow up and be just like you, as younger sisters often dream. Do you remember when I asked you if we were twins? We were always so alike despite being more than a decade apart, and we were inseparable when together.

As I write this now, the transport to the station where we will wait to board for flight to the Citadel is loading. Attendants are rushing up and down the aisles, expertly avoiding elbows and arms, assisting the boarding passengers with storing their items and buckling restraints. On the surface it all seems chaotic, but their fluid movements between seats and quick patience with questions or complaints tell me that these attendants are experts in their field. I offer no response when an attendant checks my restraints and flashes a smile. He continues down the row with a beautiful efficiency. How sad it is that few people, if any, will notice these artists at their craft.

This will be my first time leaving Earth. It is still difficult to believe that I was selected for this "grand opportunity." There is a girl across the aisle about my age or easily younger, with silvery hair who looks just as out of place as I imagine I must appear. We are surrounded by passengers who are either on official business with the Alliance or extremely wealthy; for few laymen could afford the expense of a trip off-world for a mere vacation. The girl has glanced my way a few times and I smile back, hoping to reassure her somewhat. I make up my mind to sit by her if she is indeed another one of the students headed toward the Citadel, as I suspect. A small gesture on my part may be enough to boost her resolve when apprehension is so clearly written on her face. For my part, I try not to think on it too much. Thankfully, I have my book.

Mariah

Chapter 1

It was a wretched realization that nearly everything I owned could be packed into a medium-sized duffel bag.

That's not to say the fact had evaded me in the past, but it was something entirely different to see it all laid out in front of me like a miserable little trove of artifacts at a two-bit museum only visited by grade-school students on a mandated field trip. It seemed a pathetic display of few accomplishments and even fewer sentiments.

I owned a couple of sets of slacks and shirts that were stained and mended; the nicest articles already on my back. The white tunic was a little dingy but it had no major holes or stains and the slacks were almost new, if not a little snug. Shoes were another matter: I only had the one pair and they were looking haggard, but I had been genetically cursed with large feet and size elevens were hard to find, even in the best of times. Flickering text on a cracked data pad listed my flight itinerary – the device itself functioned half of the time at best. Only a die-hard habit of saving everything beyond it's useful life, and the fact that it had been a gift, kept me from tossing it in the trash in a bout of frustration. Beyond the clothing and the data pad there were only a few toiletries, an old folded photo of myself and my brother, and four worn but cherished paperback books.

My most valuable possession, both by monetary and prideful standards, was waiting on the side table for its new owner to arrive. Passing it on felt like a betrayal; the weapon had been my silent companion for almost ten years. Despite my apprehension over the upcoming journey, I doubted the embassy would allow me to bring it along. Matthew Howe, one of my long-time neighbors and one of the oldest members of our community, had made an offer I couldn't refuse and I was less anxious knowing that at least it was going to someone who would appreciate its worth, as well as its history. In fact, it had once belonged to him.

Matthew was a sordid man, the kind most people would take care to avoid in public places. Of course, that was in the old days. Matt now held a place of respect in our community. He spent four years in the coast guard, stationed all over the great lakes during his career with a six-month stint in Alaska. Afterwords he took over the family business in a small-time gun shop, letting his sixty-eight year old father retire. He was our resident weapons expert and taught me most of what I knew about shooting a gun.

I met him when I was fourteen, trying desperately to hunt for food with a heavily modded pistol I found at an old mercenary camp. I remember his laughter, a heady guffaw that resounded off the trees and seemed to make the branches sway around us. He offered me his rifle, taught me to aim at my target down the sweet spot of the sight, to brace for the kickback. He helped me lug my prize back to the small camp of six hungry and cold adolescents who had banded together in a desperate grasp at survival. After teaching us how to skin, dissect and dress the deer, he showed us how to cook and preserve the meat. Following that day he stuck around, became one of us and was accepted as a surrogate parent, a fact which I often suspected he resented.

He came heavily armed, even had a weapons cache in the woods and we felt safer for it, our bellies fuller in those first weeks than they had been in a year, our few hours of sleep less fitful, as he taught us what he know of living off the land. I often wondered how long he had been alone before joining up, where he had come from, what he had lost and endured. What kind of level of desperation and loneliness would lead a man with the means of providing for himself to befriend a group of starving teens? Despite my curiosity I didn't ask. There were just some lines you didn't cross, and this one was in the middle of a minefield.

Knowing Matt would arrive at any time to collect the weapon, I had left the heavy door to the converted steel shipping container that was my residence open. His boots clanked up the ramp and I turned to welcome him in.

"Hey kid," he said with a nod, tipping his tattered hat with two fingers.

"Hey, Matt. It's over there." I pointed to the table where I had laid the gun. He inspected it then put it in an empty holster on his bet. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a wad of bills and handed it to me.

"You know this gun used to be yours, right?"

"You're gonna need it. Take it," he demanded.

I knew he was right, but I was reluctant to take money for something he had given me as a gift. He tossed the cash onto the small table in the corner where the gun had been and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. Dirt and sweat covered his face, cutting into the lines brought on by time and trepidation. There was wisdom locked behind his dark eyes, and a thousand years of bad memories.

"I had a daughter. She was real smart, like you. Wanted to go to college, be some kind of scientist. I saved for years, knowing she was worth every credit I laid by. Irony is, she got her acceptance letter to MIT not two weeks before those squid bastards came. Had it framed, I was so proud." He had kept his eyes locked on the ground during his speech. Looking up at me, his forehead creased in concern, eyes shadowed by the furrowing of his brow.

I felt the muscles tighten in my jaw. That was the first time he spoke of anything personal from his past. All his stories were about hunting or his time in the guard. People tended to keep their dearest memories close and the most tragic memories hidden. From anyone else, such a confession could have been meant as a kindness or motivator to take the money without guilt, but Matt never had any ulterior motives. He meant exactly what he said, and he all but said he thought of me as his daughter. I knew I should have felt special for having him reveal something so private and sacred, let a lone compare me to his own flesh and blood. On the contrary, though, I felt something in my chest free-fall into a churning pit of dread.

"I told you before, don't listen to what anyone else is saying. They think you'll come back to us and somehow fix all our problems. Like it's some divine answer to everything. They've had nothing to look forward to in a decade and they are clinging to this."

"I didn't ask for it," I reminded him. "I didn't ask for any of it."

"I know. And they know too, but they forget. So when you're up there," he said, pointing his left hand to the sky. "When you're there, you forget about them. About all of this. Take advantage of every opportunity, like I taught you. Learn what you need to learn. Focus on your objective, let the world fall away. Keep your eyes open..."

"And your heart closed," I finished, and Matt nodded in approval.

"Ignorance is death," we said in unison. Years together had made me like-minded with him, and I knew his quips of wisdom by heart. It was that statement that motivated me to anticipate this opportunity with something other than fear. After all, all knowledge is worth having.

"Whatever you do, I know you'll make me proud, Mariah."

"I'll try," I said, and I meant it. "Take care of my gun."

"Sure thing."

Matt took two steps toward me and before I could react, he pulled me into a tight hug. I bristled, but quickly relaxed. His embrace was surprisingly comforting, calming the chilling anxiety that threatened to overtake me. Matt was one of a few remaining friends I could trust and count on for anything. The others were far away and I would most likely never see them again.

After he left, I shoved my few belongings in the duffel bag, taking care to stash the money into a miss-matched sock. I would have to find a place to exchange the cash for credits before heading off planet, since I doubted that they would exchange ancient human money once on the Citadel.

The shuttle to the sky station arrived on schedule, but we were delayed before boarding the ship that would take us to the Citadel. My mind ran wild with imaginings of all kinds of terrible reasons for the delay, but my unease was eventually soothed as our boarding number was called. The sky stations had once been vast structures of magnificent proportions, hovering in geosynchronous orbit a few miles above Earth. Now there was only one, serving all countries, governments and armed forces of the world, created from a hodgepodge of remnants of ships and other structures blown to pieces over a decade ago. The Earth Systems Alliance had their own sector, as did the larger countries and corporations who had been major financial contributors to the rebuilt structure. There were proposals to build a second station synchronized with the eastern hemisphere, but political and social policy had branded it a low priority and placed any plans on the back burner.

The waiting room housed a vast view port among the various seating arrangements and serpentines for queuing, and in the moments where my mind could escape the surreptitious panic I felt, I admired the view. I watched the comings and goings of shuttles, cargo ships and larger transports. There was even a crew of workers piecing together a new wing off in the distance. I had always wondered what a spacewalk would be like, how it would feel to be weightless and bound to nothing with the fathomless void of vacuum all around me.

I thought of the fact that somewhere, perhaps in this room, there were fifteen others just like me, waiting to board the ship to a new possibility, a chance at bringing better things into their lives. There was the girl I recognized from the shuttle, with shimmering hair and clammy skin. She sat at the other end of the bench, wringing her hands, and I understood how she felt. To say I wasn't afraid or nervous would be a lie. From the moment I stepped on board the first shuttle, it felt as if a frozen weight had settled in my chest, threatening to expand beyond its limits. Crossing my arms, I tried to steady my uneven breathing, willing my limbs to stop shaking and my fingers to find feeling again. Space was cold, they said, and I repeated this mantra, cursing the thermodynamics of the universe for the fear that manifested in my mortal body.

Our group was finally allowed to board, and this time I made it a point to sit next to the girl with the silver hair. Something about her seemed to soothe my nerves. I had never been shy, usually just blunt and brutally honest, a reputation which serviced me well and kept people at a distance, right where I liked them. She flickered a nervous smile in greeting and kept her eyes downcast, fumbling with a data pad that was obviously in another language, and not one that I recognized.

"Hello," I said, hoping I would be understood. A conversation would be a welcome distraction to all these new experiences that were both terrifying and enthralling.

"Hello." She flashed a bright smile, teeth white as porcelain. I felt a surprising pang of envy in knowing I was far from this girl's beauty with my dirty blond hair braided in haste, my skin tan and rough from working outside.

"I'm Mariah." I thought of offering a hand to shake, but the girl looked nervous enough.

"Sylvie," she responded, her voice soft and melodious.

"Off to the Citadel?" Obvious question, but I was trying my best to make polite conversation.

"Citadel? Oui. Yes." She punched a few commands into her data pad and held it up for me to see. The Galactic Youth Immersion Program, it read. So, she was also a recipient of the scholarship.

"Me too." Her few words told me she was not from this country, or even this continent. "You speak English?"

She responded with a shy shrug, and holding her fingers in a sign that meant a little.

"Français?" she asked me.

"No, sorry." Would that we had grown up twenty years past, we would have both learned a half dozen languages in our schooling, including the language of galactic trade used by the other species before humans entered the picture. As it were, I knew my native American English and few words but greetings and goodbyes in other tongues.

She appeared to be young, perhaps younger than me at twenty-three. Her skin was pale and opalescent, her eyes a gossamer blue. The ethereal silvery hair, her most inimitable quality, was straight, tucked behind her ears and it followed down the length of her arm to her elbows. She absentmindedly twirled a strand in her off-hand while perusing her data pad. I thought she was certainly lucky to have one, along with the clean and crisp clothing she wore. Perhaps she was from a larger city, enjoying the privilege of being the priority of rebuilding efforts after the war. I foolishly hoped she hadn't noticed my shoes, and then nearly laughed at myself for entertaining such a thought. Where I came from, worn clothing and shoes were almost badges of honor, a marker of survival during the war.

I was twelve years old when Earth was invaded by the Reapers and my thirteenth birthday passed during the occupation of Earth. It was a memory that felt distant and surreal, like the lingering nightmare of a horror movie watched in the dark. In the aftermath, it was all you talked about. Where you were when the first invasion hit, how many friends and family members died, who you knew in the Alliance Navy or in the home-grown Home Guard. There wasn't a human left that did not know someone who had died. Hundreds of millions dead in the war, millions more killed in the aftermath, and many colonies, countries and cities forever silenced. No one could cite the exact toll, though it was quite possible billions across all species had been silenced forever.

I still remembered the fiery decent of those demonic forms. Memories blotted out any light left in the world, and though history counted the occupation in months, the effect rippled to years. Even though a decade had passed, there was still rubble to sort through, bodies to identify, and families to be notified of the final resting places of loved ones. There were still yet many aliens stranded on Earth and on many other planets and colonies throughout the galaxy. Some had since made Earth their new home, claiming sectors in cities across the planet and integrating with society as much as their own distinct culture would allow.

The progression of the invasion felt like something out of a history book, but this post-war world was unlike any other I had learned about in my short time in school. First there were the military sweeps amongst the declaration of martial law, then the wide spread rebellions, too spotty and numerous to be given distinct names other than their locations. Terrorists, opportunists and religious extremists took advantage of every downtrodden sentient they could spew their tireless rhetoric to, and everyone suffered.

And there came the scavengers (or 'opportunists', as they called themselves), selling pieces of armor, metal scraps from ships destroyed in space and half-burnt up in atmo, memorabilia of the tragedy that had befallen all of humanity. After the scavengers came the hackers who, for a nominal fee, could attempt to contact family in other cities, continents, even planets using military-designated communication systems that were slowly reemerging across the galaxy. The aliens left stranded on Earth were desperate to know about their family and paid any price for information.

Slowly, very slowly, society began to piece itself back together only to have the fragile unity torn asunder yet again by factions warring for control in a pandemic post-war society. Remnants of terrorist organizations, crime syndicates and street gangs took advantage of this dystopia and profited on the insatiable desire for individual survival.

The major threats had to be eliminated before the Alliance was able to take back control and step in to begin the process of healing our broken world. My older brother was with the Alliance as an Intel Officer, and when my parents were killed, I was left alone with countless other kids my age. We stuck together, became a family of sorts. We built shelters, crafted our own society, learned skills none of us ever dreamed we would need.

And yes, we killed. Reapers, collectors, aliens, and even other humans. Anyone who threatened our existence was dealt with accordingly. And we survived.

And those of us who were kids at the time of the war later became known as the Forgotten Generation.

We passed our adolescent years not in schools but on the streets, in the consecrated rubble of towns and cities that survived the invasion but fell prey to greed. We taught each other what we knew, we taught the younger ones to read and write, to aim and shoot a gun, how to hide from mercenaries with mere seconds of warning. What food and resources we had we shared with the group. If one went hungry, we all did.

I was nineteen when help finally came for us, though it was little more than crude structures and cast-off military supplies. They set up a small contingent of soldiers for protection, not knowing how little we needed it. We had become self-sufficient over the years, soldiers in our own rights. Our rescuers were more like a peace corps than a true military unit. When they first arrived I was wary; I had met with many declared MP's in the past that turned out to be less than genuine and cautiously greeted them down the barrel of my M-9. They didn't seem surprised at all, as if this was not the first confrontation they had witnessed.

Once the standoff was resolved, they set to work. They brought in old shipping containers and told us this is where we would live until proper structures could be built. They set up a soup-kitchen, a mess of sorts; provided us with the means to plant vegetables and fruits, passed out outdated MREs and overused water purifiers. There was clothing to be had, as long as you didn't care about how well it fit.

The best thing they brought, though, was the music.

Two of the soldiers had found some old guitars and brought them along with them. At night we would gather in the empty mess, the only building big enough to house our small community now counting eighty-four members. They would sing songs they knew, sometimes in other languages, and we would sing ours. It became an evening ritual, one that the soldiers said they had seen across the planet. This was our way to commune with one another. We couldn't talk about the past, or the loss. It was too soon; too deep a cut to just be cast about upon the tongues of others as if they were discussing the seasonal rains and how they would affect the crops. Five years, six years, seven and more gone by, and still it was not enough.

Occasionally some would drift home. Children were reunited with parents, now as adults themselves. They got the preferential treatment for the slow process of building dwelling structures. One of my own close friends, Jake, had just been reunited with what remained of his family and he had reluctantly relocated to the east coast. I was happy for him, jealous even, not knowing the whereabouts of my own brother, Allen.

Eventually those who resided with me in the three-bunked shipping container left, and I was alone. I enjoyed having the space that was mine and mine alone, creating make-weight of the work to set it up to my preferences. I found old paint brought by a supply truck that had been looked over, and though the rust could still be seen, the walls looked much cleaner and brighter. With the help of one of the builders I cut a window in one of the walls, securing the metal piece with hinges that I could open and shut and a latch to keep it secure.

I dismantled the bunks and built a larger bed for myself, selling the leftover scraps and extra mattress in the free market for some extra money. I considered buying some extranet time with it but the prices had jacked up recently after some mercenary group had taken over one of the comm buoys and nearly destroyed it. Instead I went off to the library, thinking of hunting for a new book to read, pushing the possibility of sending a letter to my brother to the back of my mind for later consideration. It was there I heard the news about the first group of humans that were granted scholarships to study at the Citadel University. In a matter of hours the news spread around town. Everyone was talking about it. There was speculation that there would soon be another human embassy established. Relations between Earth and the rest of the galaxy had been severely tested, almost to the point of war, but over the past two years tensions had died down. There were still protests, but everyone knew it was inevitable that humanity would once again join the galactic community. The move would be cautious, perhaps slower than before, but it was a surety.

A year later, after Ambassador Julien had been chosen to serve humanity, the call went out for another wave of humans to attend the university. The Galactic Youth Immersion Program, it was called. However, functioning school systems existed only in larger cities, and they were still far from being on par with the education systems of decades previous. That's when the spotlight was shone on us, dubbed the Forgotten Generation. Many were like me, with barely an eighth-grade education, extended learning done through smatterings of reading and talking with travelers during. Some never learned to read or write and became laborers instead, and felt it was unnecessary at this point in their lives.

The Ambassador, along with the Systems Alliance Prime Minister, came to the conclusion that to equalize the field, to better serve the smaller communities ravished by war, the next group of scholars would be chosen at random, from rural areas, and encouraged anyone interested to register for the lottery of a lifetime. Those chosen would attend the university from four to six years, all expenses of tuition and board paid, and they would be encouraged to return home to start or strengthen the schools of their chosen community. The lottery would be sponsored every year, and sixteen lucky individuals would get the opportunity.

I could not believe it when I learned I had won.

My community rejoiced, offered me congratulations and wished me luck. They took a collection in my name and I climbed on the shuttle three hundred credits richer. These people who had become my family gave me what they had, smiles on their faces and optimism in their eyes.

Try as I might, I could not take my parting at face value. I knew what they expected of me, and I was torn between anger and fear. Matt's words and reassurance still rang in my mind, but I couldn't help but feeling responsible for them and obligated to come home in four years with all the answers as to how to make their lives better.

I looked to the young girl next to me, now asleep, wondering if similar thoughts had crossed her mind as she departed. She certainly wanted for less, based on her appearance; her clothing being clean and fitting her nicely, her data pad that still lit up beneath slender fingers free of cracks and imperfections, though I knew it was illogical for me to form these conclusions. If the beginning of her journey was anything like mine, she had not slept since receiving her acceptance letter. She would be exhausted, as was I, but whether it was to be blamed on excitement, adrenaline or fear, I could not sleep, could not rest. I could only spend the time of travel staring out the small view port and ignoring the paperback book in my hand, wondering if I had made the right choice.