The Long-Lost Daughter

              I wake to the roar of the morning podship bringing Earthen commuters and Martian vacationers. The boom of the rocket engines reverberates around the lush, mountain valley of what was once Switzerland. I worm beneath an old, tattered quilt and cover my head with a thin pillow, trying to block out the horrid sound and return to my recurring dream of swinging in my father’s arms. My mother, undernourished and always forlorn, stirs beside me in our too-small bed, also disturbed by the sound of the foreign podships which evokes a deep resentment for the conquering empire. When I close my eyes, I can still hear the machine guns of American Empire troops and smell the blood of my dead friends.

              Mother rouses and pads with light steps the ten feet to the stove and starts a kettle for our daily ritual of morning tea. She says Pappa had loved tea and made a cup every morning when I was little. “His favorite was Rowan Tea,” she would tell me. He grew his own Rowan tea plants in the greenhouse of our old estate, or so I’m told. Mother loves to tell tales of our old lives. “You know, we used to live in this great, big house in the mountains and go to dinner in the city most nights.” And, “Your father loved to take you on trips to the city and would always buy you a lemon danish at Brandt’s Bakery.” I can’t verify her stories from memory, but I do have the one of Pappa swinging me around in our garden.

              After breakfast, I put my dirty-blonde hair into a quick ponytail and pull on the required garb of a tan dress. I walk outside and find my bike leaning against the bullet-holed wall of our pre-war, ramshackle dwelling. I’ve offered to fill them in but Mother demands that we keep them as a symbol of resilience. I grab my bike and push off for town. “Rowan!” Mother yells from the small porch. “Your arm band.” I circle back to the house and pluck the blue band from her hand with a sigh. “I will not have you arrested,” she scolds.

“It’s demeaning,” I retort. “I will not be viewed as inferior.”

“Shut your mouth this instant!” she whispers harshly, looking around our small village.

“We are not a lesser race. Those American pigs should be the ones wearing segregating armbands! And they should genocide themselves while they’re at it!”

“Those are dangerous words, Rowan! You best not let them fall upon the wrong ears.” I just roll my eyes in response and take off down the dirt road. “I love you!” she calls. She would lose her beans if she knew I were in the Resistance. I don’t know how she stands idly by and watches the mass murder of our people. She of all people should be angry!

“Hey Row!” yells a cheery voice behind me, disrupting my fume. Dietrich bikes up beside me with his usual big smile and unruly brown hair.

“Hey,” I frown.

“It’s only morning and you’re mad already?” he teases. I just grumble and look forward as we coast down the big hill into the evergreen-forested valley of Lake Zürich. He tries, “You do look pretty when you’re frowning though.” He wears his almost-breaking-into-a-smile frown and I can’t help but return his smile. Damn him for cheering me up.

The dirt road turns into pre-war cobblestone as we approach the massive stone pillars of the city gates. Armed guards stand watch as everyone entering the city places their palm on a touchscreen scanner, verifying their identity and permission to enter. I scan my palm and a screen on the gate displays information for the guards: Rowan Reinhardt, 18, Non-American, permission: work visa. Next: Dietrich Metzger, 18, Non-American, work visa. We keep our heads down and shuffle through the line, not wanting to draw attention. Resistance participation is punishable by death, as are most activities these days.

We bike into the crowed city streets. Venders yell their offerings of the day, people haggle over prices, and denizens scurry to their jobs; all under the watch of American troops who march the streets in formation. “So, you coming to the summer festival tonight?” Dietrich asks.

“Of course. I never miss Resistance meetings,” I say, jiggering my armband to hide the American eagle.

“I know. I mean the festival itself. We could dance and buy your favorite lemon danishes,” he prods.

“Sure Diet,” I answer dismissively. I’ve picked up on Dietrich’s recent interest, but we’ve always been best friends and I don’t know how I feel about expanding our relationship. Besides, I’m not much for dancing; at least not after Pappa died. I’m not really one for anything but expelling the Americans from Europe.

At the first bridge crossing the Limmat river, we part ways. I head to my job at Brandt’s Bakery along the river and Dietrich bikes on over the Quaibrücke bridge to his job at the podship repair depot.

The bakery is busy today, helping to cater for the summer festival. We bake franzbrötchen(cinnamon pastry) and strudel and pie and my favorite: lemon danishes. I close my eyes and drink in the aroma, trying to remember the outings with my father. I only have these danishes once a year during the summer festival; Non-Americans are forbidden to buy here. After the Imperial War, the bakery became an American-only establishment. Many Americans emigrated to conquered Europe, seeing it as their right to expand the American frontier. We’re now the native peoples that are in the way. American customers enter the shop and rudely order doughnuts, poisoning the daydream of my father.
              When the clock chimes eight pm, I scan my palm to punch out of work and fetch my bike in the back alley. A few blocks away from the city center, the music from the festival is still deafening. I pedal the few blocks to party central and stow my bike in another alley. I round the corner and enter the massive crowd that stretches many blocks from the center plaza. Music blares from hidden speakers and colorful lights dance across the thousands of faces. The humongous wave of bodies moves as one toward the center. Many languages float through the spice-scented air as people of different backgrounds all dance and cheer and eat. Today is the one day of the year when the poor and hungry Non-Americans get to fill their bellies and celebrate.

I blend into the wave and search for tell of the Resistance. Tonight the tell is a vender selling gold silk on Bahnhofstrasse. I start from Börsenstrasse and head north toward the post-war Zürich Plaza von Mars where the podships dock and the American Empire puts on propaganda parades. I strain to hear the venders as I’m pushed along in the tight crowd. “Holen Sie sich Ihre leichte Stöcke hier!”- glow sticks.

“Gâteaux de festival de l’été!”- festival cake.

“Ottenere la vostra pizza festival!”- festival pizza.

Someone grabs my shoulder and whispers, “Rowan,” in my ear. For a second I think the secret police are here to arrest me and my chest burns as my heart skips a beat, then sprints into a race. I try to make a beeline for the alley but the man’s grasp is steadfast. He turns me around and my panic turns to relief and then to anger.

“You gave me a heart attack!” I yell above the chorus of the party, poking him in his strong chest. It’s only Hans; tall, handsome, red-headed, otherworldly Hans.

“It’s just me!” he beams as he wraps his long arms around me, enveloping me with his woodsy scent. Ever since he arrived on Earth not long ago, he’s had an obsession with the forest: wood, mud, pine needles. He loves it so much he has to smell like it too. I sigh into his chest and wrap my arms around his muscled back, breathing in the smell that now instills feelings of safety and stability. And perhaps something more…

“Special, festival gold silk. One night only!” Gold silk! I wriggle out of Hans’ embrace and pull him along with me. We duck into the side alley and knock on a metal door with the secret cadence. A slit in the door opens to reveal menacing eyes.

“The stag runs free,” I validate. The slit shuts and the door swings open with a groan, revealing a small, dark room with a hole in the middle of the floor that emits flickering candle-light and voices in debate. We nod to the muscular sentinel and climb down into the hole, clinging to a ladder. I skip the last two rungs and land with a small thump, disrupting the small congregation. Faust, the head of the empire-wide Resistance, looks up from a large map of Europe and nods her acknowledgment, “Reinhardt. Schröder,” shaking free a strand of black hair from her tight bun.

“Meister,” we salute, taking in the small, dusty basement containing a large, map-covered table in the middle of the room and thirty or so malnourished Resistance members of all ages. We are the core group who spreads the word to the rest of the members around the empire; Dietrich, Hans, and I are responsible for Zürich. Dietrich catches my eye across the room and flashes me his winning smile as Hans and I squeeze into the circle.

Our fearsome leader continues, gesturing her pre-war, bionic hand to a large map that depicts the Americas, Europe, and half of Africa controlled by the American Empire and all of Asia and the rest of Africa controlled by the Chinese Empire. “We’re running out of time to execute this coup. The Americans have squashed the British Resistance and word is that mass genocide is now underway in France.”

A balding, middle-aged man speaks up, “Yes, but we’re recruiting new members faster than we ever have before. We should wait ‘till our numbers are large enough.”

“The genocides have already begun!” debates a short, blonde woman with a high-pitched voice. “It won’t matter if we have one million or ten million. The death camps will kill them all!”

“I agree,” Faust concurs in her harsh, smoker’s rasp. “If the genocide has started in France, it’s only a matter of time before it begins here.”

Faust’s right-hand man and intelligence chief, Adalwolf, chimes in, “Intel has confirmed that construction of the camps are now complete in the Swiss Alps. We estimate a couple weeks or less before they open.”

“What about the Martians?” Dietrich asks Faust, a subservient to his pack leader. “They’ve been promising to pressure the Americans into stopping the genocide for months now and-”

“Mars is no longer in a position to negotiate,” cuts in Eisenberg, a senior member of the intel group. “The Chinese Empire has forgone its neutral position and now sides with the Americans.”

Adalwolf picks up, “The American’s have threatened a total embargo on Mars unless it ceases to export anti-American sentiment, fund rebel groups, and harbor subjugated refugees. As we all know, the Martian colony is still another century away from self-reliance, at least. We did expect the Chinese to stand by Mars though, as they have the majority investment in its creation, but the threat of war with the Americans now outweighs the benefits of a Martian colony.”

“As we see it, Mars has two options:” Faust pitches to the congregation, “abide by American demands and continue life-sustaining trade, or, strike the first blow and-”

“Just like the Japanese in WWII,” interrupts the eccentric Bachmann.

“Yes,” concedes an irritated Faust, “and try to cripple the Americans before an interplanetary war even begins. It all depends on how deeply the Martian ideology of equality-for-all in the solar system runs.”

“And we mustn’t overlook that Mars risks losing all political influence if it bends to the Americans,” contemplates Goldschmidt, one of the eldest Resistance members. “It’ll effectively become a colony under American rule and will likely lose its own freedoms.”

“So, you’re suggesting that war is inevitable?” asks a stunned Dresdner, a twenty-something Resistance recruiter.

“I am.” At this, the circle erupts in debate, some calling for hiding, others for war. As members begin to accuse one another of treason to the cause, an intelligence runner slides down the ladder and pulls a letter from his jacket, handing it to Faust. She breaks the seal and quickly skims the message, all eyes returning to her.

“The American emperor is dead,” she announces, provoking gasps from the small crowd. “Resistance spies in Washington report rumors of assassination. The Americans are supposedly investigating the Resistance, the Martians, and the Chinese.”

“It wasn’t us. Was it?” I venture, bewildered. Faust doesn’t answer, instead rereading the letter and then looking to Adalwolf with raised eyebrows.

“You know as much as I do, Meister.”

“Who will take his place?” poses a woman with radiation burn-scars, the mark of a survivor from Germany. “He doesn’t have any children.”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Faust answers.

“Well, this is a good thing. Isn’t it? This means instability in Washington,” Eisenberg proposes. “Now is the time to strike.”

“Agreed,” affirms Faust.

“The propaganda parade next week. All the Americans will be in one spot,” Adalwolf thinks aloud. “We’ll rally all we’ve got.”

“The podship station: we take that and the Americans can’t send reinforcements efficiently,” theorizes Goldschmidt. “We control the podships, we control the city.”

“So, we’re agreed then,” Faust concludes. “Next week. The empire-wide propaganda parade. We muster everyone we’ve got.” She scans the crowd and commands, “Send word to all our constituents throughout the empire. And send word to the Martians. Next week, we attack!” She slams her metal fist on the map, directly over Europe. The group collectively exalts, bellowing their war cry.

Dietrich wraps his arms around my waist and lifts me off the ground, spinning me in circles. “We’ll finally be free!” he yells as the ribs of our underfed bodies caress each other. I’m so overcome with hope for the future that I burst into tears and bury my face in his neck. He holds me tight and lets me sob into him.

I cry out all the pent-up anger I’ve held in for the past sixteen years, ever since the war started and Pappa died, and when I finally let go, I steel myself for the revolution to come. I turn around to rejoice with Hans, but he isn’t cheering or jumping or high-fiving; he’s just standing there, solemn-faced. “Aren’t you happy?”

“Of course. I’m very happy,” he says through a strained, tight-lipped smile. I’m perplexed by his restrained reaction, but decide to chalk it up to the fact that he hasn’t been here very long; not six months even. He hasn’t experienced the temple-hollowing hunger and spirit-crushing discrimination that Dietrich and I have withstood; that has cultivated a visceral hatred of the American Empire.

“Okay,” I smile back and then turn to face both of them. “Let’s celebrate!” The thirty members climb out of the dingy, make-shift Resistance command center and disperse into the party-packed streets. Dietrich, Hans, and I head towards the center of the festival, the Plaza von Mars, where the debauchery is at its peak. We push through the few blocks to the center as the music swells to an ear-splitting decibel. As far as the eye can see in any direction, citizens dangerously inebriated eat and dance and vomit and eat again. They fill their shrunken stomachs beyond capacity and savor the long-lost sensation of a full belly.

When we reach the plaza, Dietrich splits off and yells over his shoulder, “Imma get us some lemon danishes!” He heads towards one of the many shops bordering the plaza and dissolves into the dancing crowd. The smell of searing meat and baking dough wafts through the humid, summer air, adding to the party atmosphere. The night is pitch black except for the laser lights that dance across the convulsing crowd and the faint, yellow glow of the shops serving food around the perimeter of the square.

Hans takes my hand in his and yells in my ear, “May I have this dance, my lady?” He makes a big show of bowing his head and offers his outstretched arm.

“I don’t know,” I say, feeling out of my comfort-zone. “I haven’t danced since my Pappa died.”

“Come on! I’m sure you’ll be great,” he assures, stepping closer. “Besides, nobody’s looking.” He gestures to the intoxicated dancers around us, all focused on their own bubble of friends.

Just then, a waiter carrying champagne glasses filled with neon-colored liquid bumps into us, “New concoction! Fastest acting in the world!” Perfect. I grab two glasses and hand one to Hans.

“Oh, no thanks, my lady,” he says, putting his hands up. Fine, more for me. I down one glass and marvel at its fruity taste.

“Wow! You can’t even taste the alcohol!” I chirp.

“Maybe that’s not such a good thing,” he says, taking my second glass.

“Hey! Give me that.” I make a swipe for the glass but he lets it drop to the ground, the glass shattering into a million pieces and provoking a harrumph of indignation.

“Now, shall we?” He extends his arm again. I try to discern the exact degree of my impending embarrassment, but in the next instant, all I can think about is how the air is weirdly rubbing my arm and how Hans is now speaking a foreign language.

Deciding I like the sticky air and his new language, I take his hand and stumble into his arms. He anchors his arm around my waist and pulls me along with him in figure eights. “This is the traditional dance of Mars,” he explains, making conversation for the both of us. I just gaze into his dreamy, hazel eyes and watch his lips move in words I cannot decipher. He pushes me away and spins me around in one hand before recapturing me again, eliciting involuntary giggles from me.

Suddenly, his face takes on a grave countenance and his lips start moving again, prompting me to strain for understanding. I stare as hard as I can at his lips, gathering, “-that no matter what happens, know that what I feel for you is real. I didn’t mean to fall in love with you, but I did and-” A tear abruptly rolls over his lip, disrupting my train of decryption. I follow the trail of the tear in suspect up his sculpted, Martian-hinting face to his eyes, which are now brimming with more tears. I don’t know why, but seeing him cry is the saddest thing I’ve ever seen in my whole entire life. All I can focus on is how his trembling lips are giving me physical pain. Unusually emboldened, I grab his face between my hands and draw his mouth down to mine, his hot tears mixing with our saliva. I lean into him as my legs give out, letting his legs bear all the burden. A hunger originating in my chest expands like hot air throughout my body; a hunger I’ve never felt before.

“Own… oh-en… owen… Rowan!” My eyes fly open in an attempt at alertness and look around, trying find the source of my name. Did I just imagine it? “Rowan! -ere are you?” No, I didn’t imagine it! I turn to the source just as Dietrich bursts through the crowd. Why isn’t he carrying lemon danishes? “Rowan! We gotta get outta here! The Americans-” POP-POP-POP-BANG-BANG! The sound of machine-gun fire explodes through the plaza as the drunken crowd erupts in screams. The music continues at full blast as troops swarm in from surrounding streets. Hans and Dietrich each grab one of my shoulders to prop me up as we run for cover. “We gotta get outta the city. They’re penning everyone in!” Dietrich screams the above madness.

“No! We won’t make it. But I have police friends in the podstation,” Hans yells back, tugging our interconnected bodies towards the station in the front of the plaza.

“Like Hell you have police friends! They’ll never take us in!” Dietrich stands his ground.

“Trust me!” Hans tugs harder.

“I don’t trust you!”  

My head still swims in that neon drink. So, when I try to pledge my trust to Hans, all that comes out is, “I -ust you auns…” We break free of the crowd, which is running away from the podstation, and troops yell at us to halt. Hans takes a badge signifying the secret police out of his pocket and yells back to them that this Non-American scum is trying kidnap an American woman. What American woman? I think, looking around, but finding only men. He must mean me. I look at Hans through my daze, utterly astounded. Is he lying to protect me? Hans and Dietrich are now both pulling my arms from my sockets in a tug-of-war.

“Abe! Franz!” screams Hans.

“He’s one of us!” calls a man I surmise to be either Abe or Franz as he runs up to the troops that now surround us. He too pulls out his secret police badge for the American troops to inspect. The badges seem to satisfy the troops and they gesture for Hans and I to continue on to the podstation.

“He… he’s one o- us ta’ too!” I stammer, hooking my elbow in Dietrich’s. Puzzled by my contradiction of Hans’ word, the head soldier orders underlings to search us as he takes out a palm scanner. I panic as I think about how our palms will disprove our story and consider that if we run now, perhaps we could escape. But before I can entertain the idea any further, the circle of troops closes in and grabs our arms as their comrades pull out our pockets and pad us down. The head soldier places Dietrich’s hand on the scanner.

He reads aloud, “Dietrich Metzger. 18. Non-American. Work visa.” Then switching hands, “Rowan Reinhardt. 18. American. Refugee.” One more switch, “Hans Schröder. 19. American. Secret police.” He places the scanner back in his pack. “Reinhardt, Schröder, you may continue to the station. Metzger, you’ll come with us,” the head soldier barks.

Suddenly aware that I may never see Dietrich again, I lunge for him and wrap my arms around him with a vice-like grip, vowing to never let go. He returns the embrace, wrapping his hands around my head and back. Silent tears run down my face as he quietly breathes into my ear, “I may never get to tell you this again but, I love you. I always have.” And with that the soldiers rip us apart and escort our separating parties away from each other.

“What the Hell, Hans! Or is that even your name?” I viciously scream. He doesn’t answer. In fact, he doesn’t even look at me. In protest, I stand my ground, unmoving. But he just picks me up and throws me over his shoulder. “Let me go you lying piece of American scum!” I blubber, descending into hysteria. Hans, Hans’ cohort, and I enter the station- which is surprisingly empty- and take the escalators up to a waiting podship. There’s one young guy waiting there who must be the Abe to our Franz or vice versa.

We file into the small ship and take seats, the door hissing as it seals shut. The three guys take off their American uniforms and replace them with Martian ones. Hans handcuffs me to my vertical-facing chair and then straps me in with a complicated seatbelt. Abe/Franz scans his palm on a scanner and the ship’s screens come to life, displaying possible routes and trajectories the podship can take. He touches the main Martian station with his pointer finger and the rocket engines come to life with a not-so-subtle hiss and then BANG! as the sparks ignite the fuel. An automated voice sounds from the ship’s speakers, warning of high acceleration and proper safety regulation before going into a countdown. 5-4-3-2-1! Station clamps holding down the podship release and we lurch skywards with gut-wrenching acceleration. I close my eyes in an attempt to keep from vomiting all over myself and this pristine, plush-white interior. To my horror, the acceleration does not stop and somehow, Abe and Franz talk through the whole thing, simply amazed at the new technology. “Did you know Dr. Augustine designed the new system?”

“Really? Wow.”

“Yeah. Apparently, they put satellites into orbit around both Earth and Mars and when we take off from the ground and enter into orbit, we pass the satellites and they each give us a magnetic pulse to increase our speed. Each orbit around Earth- and thus the passing of many satellites-  gives us an additional ten thousand miles per hour. So, we just keep orbiting ‘til we reach interplanetary cruising speed. Now the trip only takes a max of thirty minutes; when the planets are the farthest apart.”

“That’s cool, but how do we slow down?”

“Well, the magnetic, Martian satellites will catch us and pull us into orbit; with each satellite sending a magnetic pulse to slow us down.”

“So, it’s like a game of catch between the planets?”

“Yes! And we’re the ball!”

In twenty-three minutes, we’re landing on Mars. I look out my little window and marvel at the red planet that has come to symbolize hope and freedom; only now I’m a captive of its people. Control touchscreens flicker as we pass through the manmade electromagnetic field that protects the humans from deadly, cancer-inducing radiation. The podship gently touches down and we all unbuckle. Hans uncuffs me and leads me off the ship behind Franz and Abe. The first thing that strikes me about Mars is the low gravity; it’s like walking through water, like there’s some invisible force giving buoyancy that isn’t present on Earth.

We walk through many tight, grey hallways and take many confusing turns; the airtight doors automatically resealing behind us. The Martian colony is a city-sized labyrinth of domes and connecting tubes; all sealed from each other to contain a decompression.

We finally come to a door that reads, “President of the Martian Colony,” and are stopped by two sentinels of the revered Red Guard. My three captors salute the two sentinels and then open the sealed door. We enter into an office with a massive window that overlooks the entire colony of plastic domes and red dust. Sitting in a big chair behind a big desk and looking at me with a big grin is the famous, Mars President Evans. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he says with a deep, commanding voice, dismissing them. They leave the chamber and close the airtight door behind them. “Well?” he asks. “What do you think of Mars, Miss Reinhardt? Everything you’ve ever dreamed?”

I’m so stunned by the recent turn of events and out of it from the neon drink that I answer, “Well, the gravity takes some getting used to.”

“Ha. That it does indeed!” he bellows. “It does make it a bit easier for a bigger guy like myself, though,” he jokes, patting his large belly. I just smile and try not to vomit up the neon drink. “So, you must be wondering why you’re here, Miss Reinhardt.” I simply nod, trying to block out the too-bright, LED lights of the office. “Seeing as you need some sleep, I’ll get right to it. Your name is not Reinhardt. It’s Daniels. And you are in fact an American citizen, just as your father is.” Is? Seeing the bewilderment on my face, he clarifies, “Your father is alive and well; very well, I may say. He is to become the next Emperor of the American Empire.” At this revelation, my whole world turns upside down. Is any part of my life true? Has Mother known this whole time? Does Pappa know I’m alive? Not giving this time to sink in, President Evans plows ahead, “As I’m sure you’re aware, seeing that you’re in the Resistance, our worlds are in a troubling situation. And seeing as we’ve chosen your father to be the one we negotiate with, we thought it best to have you in that conversation.”