The Girl Who Fell To Earth

Adjusting

Fan art by Ruth Suh for Future Now

It's been two days since the opulent landing party in my honour, and I've largely been left to my own devices, which is boring me stiff. I was shown to my room in the Wang's palatial penthouse—the amount of unused space makes me queasy. My quarters are just as extravagant. My bed is large enough to comfortably fit a family of four and piled with some of the finest linens and silks my skin has ever felt. On Venus, every colonist is issued a lone sheet and a rough wool blanket sized for a single bed.

I've spent my free time skulking about the penthouse, bothering the workers in the kitchen for tastes of bright and colourful vegetables and fruits, and taking in the stinking hectic city below from the balcony. It's not so much the alone time that's driving me mad—since the monarchy was instituted on Venus, I've become used to plenty of alone time. It's that there's nothing here to distract me from the loneliness—no gardens to tend to, no food to prepare, no broken fixtures to mend. Mombot suggested I go for a walk along the city streets, but the idea makes me uneasy: Where would I go? What if I got lost? Would strangers talk to me? The unstructured freedom has me tense and edgy.

This morning, I was summoned for a breakfast tea with the Wangs. Though I was grateful for a change from the protection bots I've been eating all my meals with, my stomach was in knots. My isolation told me the family hasn't quite warmed up to me yet. I was delivered to a bright solarium, and ushered toward a table already set. Now, I sit here, squinting in the sunshine, so tense I might crush the delicate china cup I'm holding if I'm not careful.

The solarium doors gasp open. Mei Zhen seemingly floats above the marble tiles into the room, as elegant as the first day I met her. She folds herself into her seat with a grace that makes me feel about as coordinated as the oldest and creakiest bots on Venus, and acknowledges me with a faint dip of her delicate chin. Her husband shuffles in behind her with an aura of dignity and authority that immediately dwarfs me and instils a heavy silence at the table. Mei Zhen smoothes a napkin over her lap as her husband struggles into his seat. Qiang doesn't acknowledge either of us.

Hao bursts in next. "Mother!" He scurries over to the table and plants a gentle kiss on Mei Zhen's cheek, whose face blooms into a smile like a flowering plant.

"My boy," she squeezes Hao's hand and they exchange a meaningful look.

"Dad," Hao nods at his father, all the childish excitement drained from his body.

"Take a seat, Hao. It's time to get our discussions underway," Hao obeys immediately. As Qiang speaks, silent servants appear to fill the table with silver trays of pastries, fruits, cheeses, and nuts—more than the four of us could possibly eat in one sitting.

I follow Hao and Mei Zhen's lead and pick over the food sheepishly. I focus my energy into ensuring I use the chopsticks correctly and mimic their etiquette—customs unfamiliar to the necessary utilitarianism back home. We wait for Qiang to begin. It takes effort to minimize my reaction to a bite of a tart pink fruit with yellow skin. The Wangs are too proper to stare, but I can sense they're gauging my body language.