Exodia by Debra Chapoton Page A

pride instead of irritation.
    “ Indeed I am,” he says.
“First generation. Born on the west coast. Old California. My
parents moved inland after I was born. We were gypsies, moving
further east year by year, setting our sights on the Mid-Land.” He
squeezes my shoulder, points with his other hand. “There. See that
shooting star?”
    I do see it. It takes its time
traveling in an arc across the dark night sky. A final dip and
flare and it’s gone.
    “ Did you see how it passed
between the second and third star of the dipper’s
handle?”
    I nod though I didn’t really notice
that.
    “ My daughters’ gifts connect
with mine in ways that are truly amazing. Deandra guessed that you
would be here a while. That was a guess that I can confirm. Two
years is what I see.”
    Two years? I want to argue with the man, but his hand is
still on my shoulder, grounding me.
    “ And my daughter, Sana, has
revealed uncanny truths: red enemies trot and rioter meets end. I
see this in the stars now. I know who you are, Dalton Battista.
There’s a bigger battle than you can imagine coming your way, our
way.” He finally drops his hand. I still feel its weight. “There’s
a timeline here. Two years and our rebellion will begin in earnest.
We are the Red enemies of your grandfather’s regime. He is the
Rioter who will meet his end. Perhaps he’s already met his end. I
saw the death star last night.”
    Raul Luna, dark-haired father of seven
blond daughters, stops talking. My ears are left ringing. Who am I
to argue with prophecy, star-reading, gemfry guessing, and the
touch of Kassandra.
    I decide I want to stay two years. I
want to live with this family. I want to escape the punishment of
my crime.
    But I don’t believe that there could
ever be a rebellion strong enough to stop Bryer Battista’s
government.
    I remember the last set of anagrams and
say them aloud, “‘Witch let doom, amen.’ ‘Walked to teen.’ What do
those mean?”
    He scans the skies. “Nothing that I can
see. Not yet, anyway.” I can tell he is holding back something.
Something big.
    “ What else do you see?” I
prompt.
    He hesitates, clearing his throat. “One
of my daughters.” His voice is tighter now. He breathes deeply,
still shying away from revealing something he apparently
dreads.
    I wait.
    “ Dalton,” he sighs again,
“you’ll have to figure out which one. Certainly it’s not Araceli,
Sana, or Flor, but one of the older girls.”
    “ What?” For some reason I
can feel those thorns prickling against my heart.
    “ The one you will marry …
soon.”
    * * *
    I lie in the bed that their mother has
made for me and think of marriage. I’m six weeks away from turning
seventeen and though it’s common to marry at my age, it’s not
something that I’ve considered. I know from my studies that the
marriage laws had swelled in number to over a hundred twenty
separate regulations by mid-century, but now, under the Executive
President’s orders, there’s not one federal law or tax that has
anything to do with marriage anymore, except the one about
intermarriage. People marry, divorce, remarry according to their
church, family, or community customs; the government doesn’t care.
Most people get married at least twice since there’s a certain
shame to being single.
    Fewer first marriages are arranged now
since the collapse of technology, but there are still human
match-makers. Like my mother. I ought to have given this more
thought. My mother’s been hinting around the subject, suggesting
that her frequent trips away are not totally political. I have the
weirdest feeling that she has probably returned home expecting to
tell me about some perfect girl for me and instead has found that
I’m wanted for murder. I don’t want to imagine the scene between
her and my grandfather.
    I close my eyes and listen to the night
sounds of this odd house. I hear faint voices, sisters giggling,
footsteps, windows creaking open or closed, a tap on a