Page 95 of Retrograde

It took everything I had not to yell back at him, “Well, that’s the fucking point, isn’t it?”

This time two years ago, we were already down in the bunker. But the night before, I was here, in my bathroom, getting an outfit ready for my eighteenth birthday party that was planned for the next day. The door banged open, and he rushed in without bothering to knock.

“Papa!” I’d squealed then, covering my body—I was only in my underwear.

“Pack things for two weeks. We leave in ten minutes.” He tossed a suitcase on my bed. He looked tired and dishevelled, his salt-and-pepper beard dull and messy without its usual coat of pomade, his eyes bloodshot.

“What? Leave for where?” I demanded in a high-pitched voice, but he was already on his way out. “Papa, but what about my party?”

“Cancelled.” He didn’t even bother to look at me. “Be ready in ten.”

The rest of the day is a blur. A short car ride: my dumb younger sister bickering with my even dumber younger brother—the crown prince. A flight in a private jet that was just as short. And then the rush of galloping feet, descending into the well-stocked, perfectly prepared bunker. Gleaming white surfaces, bright lighting, everything new and spotless. A sleepless night, people sitting around, most drinking, watching live TV—a satellite dish above ground connected to the bunker. Women sipping from martini glasses.

Martini glasses! With actual olives!

The next day, it was all over the news. Synechord dropped nuclear bombs. Not a bomb. Bombs. Plural. They created a radioactive border running from north to south across the entire continent. Kids didn’t understand, women still sipped their martinis, and men discussed something among themselves in monotone, unexcited voices.

And I just sat there on my eighteenth birthday—neither a child, nor a woman—lost in my own confused thoughts. Because if it was Synechord who dropped the bombs, how the hell did all these people—these politicians and their families—know to get inside a bunker the day before? How did Papa know?

Done with my preparations, I teeter downstairs on my high heels. My mother rewards me with a sigh and a disapproving look, my idiot sister giggles, and my brother just keeps running around me, looking like a caricature in his tuxedo and with a toy aeroplane in his hand.

“Vrooooom. I’m dropping nukes, sis.”

“Time for a fucking martini then,” I remark under my breath, but my mother hears me.

“Daria!”

Little bro circles around me, and in one well-timed movement, I knock the plane out of his hand. He tries to lunge at me, beet-red face contorted in rage, but I grab him and shake him.

“Stop it before I slap you into another dimension!”

“DARIA!” My mother covers her mouth—why does she always have to look so shocked, like it’s the first time I’ve done or said something that I in fact do and say every damn day.

A limo picks us up. Always a limo. I hate limos, I’m so bored with them. I want a car that overheats and breaks down often. A car that makes me get my hands dirty.

We drive through the streets of Everrise. Everything is under construction, bone-white monolithic-style buildings rising from the ground, old architecture being gradually erased. I never thought I’d miss the old cement block apartment buildings and domed churches, but here we are.

We arrive at the venue. A butler opens the door on my side, and I barely swing my legs out before cameras start flashing.

“Here comes the birthday girl!” Someone shouts, and I want to punch them in the face. “Give us a smile, Miss Volker. How does it feel to no longer be a teenager?”

No one really gives a shit about my birthday. Not on the anniversary of the worst geopolitical disaster of all time.

We all rush inside, more butlers clamouring over us to take our coats away, hushed whispers sizzling all around when my dress choice is uncovered. I smirk for the cameras, tossing my hair over my shoulder, the flashes blinding. Then we head into the main hall.

Round tables, starched white tablecloths, champagne flutes and ten different kinds of cutlery, all of which I’ll ignore in favour of using only one fork for every course—savouring Papa’s death glare more than the pretentious food. If asked, I’ll say I want bangers and mash for my main course.

I’m making my way to the head table when I see her, right next to Papa.

Riley.

Papa has an arm around her shoulder and is whispering something into her ear. She’s leaning away from him with a look of ill-concealed disgust on her face. Why the fuck is she here again, and in the seat next to him?

I stop directly in front of the table, and Papa raises his eyes, rage bleeding into his glare as he takes in my appearance.

“Darling,” he addresses me coldly. “Was it your intention to look like a common whore today?”

“Yup.” I jut my hip to the side to exaggerate my curves. “It was.”