By Samantha Mendell
Mom used to tell us stories about October on the Old Planet. Like clockwork, the autumn breeze would billow across the valley, tugging leaves from their branches and filling the yard with ember orange and gold. She’d gather them into piles for her siblings to launch into, the foliage crunching and crackling beneath flannel jackets and denim jeans. This time of year had always been her favorite, and I remember how her eyes used to glimmer as she’d describe the beauty of the season with its crisp weather, spiced pastries, and famed holiday centered around candy.
Fall on Earth must have felt like magic.
My mind wanders as I push open the doors of the lecture hall and descend the synthetic stone steps. Fellow cadets shuffle past me, murmuring anxiously about this afternoon’s skills test. I should probably be devoting the mental energy to preparing for my retake, but I prefer my cinnamon-scented reverie.
Artificially engineered grass crunches beneath my combat boots as I enter the courtyard. Steel topiaries line the plexiglass pathways between the barracks to the training arena, with cameras and speakers protruding from the artificial shrubs to monitor our movements. My gaze lingers on the clouds ticking across the screens overhead—the Imperial Intelligence Bureau’s attempt to cloak the charcoal skies of this nameless moon where they train us new recruits. During waking hours, the dome maintains a dull blue shade, programmed to mimic the skies of Mom’s homeland before the Migration. I smirk as a malfunctioning panel in the far left corner catches my eye, the single flickering panel poking a hole in the Empire’s simulation.
My comm link pulses against my wrist. CODE ORANGE. A smile sneaks across my face, and I pivot toward the mail room, stomach growling in eager expectation of whatever Old Planet delicacy awaits. Not that I’m ungrateful for the freeze-dried meals provided by the Academy, but it wouldn’t hurt to have dessert once in a while.
The glass doors slide open as I enter the sterile gray office building. A faded banner hangs on the wall to my right. “Enlist Today! Protect the Galaxy!” As if the unnecessarily emotive punctuation somehow softens the reality of fighting an intergalactic war. The outdated AdminX-04 service bot idles behind the desk, a thin layer of dust coating its rusted shell.
“Pickup for 201.”
X-04’s photoreceptors flicker, emitting a pale white light, as it gently hums and reboots from stand-by. It rolls backward, spinning on its single wheel, and searches the nearly empty metal shelving units fastened along the back wall. The Coalition has increased taxes and trans-planetary postal rates—again—to pay for additional troops in the Outer Rim, making the cost of personal mail unaffordable for the average citizen.
But there’s no convincing Mom.
“It’s worth the expense,” she’d written on the note in her last package. “Holidays are meant to be celebrated, no matter what planet we call home.”
X-04 retrieves the parcel and wheels back to the desk. My heart flutters as I spy the jack-o-lantern doodled on the label.
“Identification,” it drones.
I hold out my wrist.
As soon as X-04’s radar scans my comm, its visual sensors flash red. “Mail service has been suspended until successful completion of basic training.”
“Blasters,” I mumble. My commanding officer had warned that my privileges could be revoked until I passed the final skills test, and apparently yesterday’s laser training incident was the final strike.
In my defense, I thought the safety switch was on before I’d aimed at the Batt-IX disciplinary droid.
I snatch the package from X-04’s flimsy mechanical arms, causing it to teeter and crash against the desk. Ignoring its threat to call security, I rush out of the building and push my way through clusters of cadets and OFIX droids patrolling the grounds. My aching sweet tooth pushes me to sprint faster, and I narrowly avoid colliding with my superior as I exit the courtyard and enter the barracks.
By the time I reach room 201, my face matches my Imperial-red jumpsuit. I brush my comm against the digital scanner, and the door clicks open. Taking three giant steps, I fling myself onto the bottom bunk as if it were my own mound of October leaves.
I’m grateful my roommate is on rotation this afternoon—nobody to guilt me into sharing. My fingers run across the address label, stopping on the penciled pumpkin, and I swallow the lump rising in my throat. Carefully, I remove the seal and rip open the cardboard tabs.
A sugary scent wafts from inside the box. I pull out a plastic bag filled with tiny orange, white, and yellow candies in the shape of an Old Planet autumn vegetable and find the tiny white note taped to the underside.
Happy Halloween, sweetie! Hope you get this before your exam. Remember, third time’s the charm.
Love, Mom
I pop one of the sweets into my mouth and close my eyes. I imagine Mom across the galaxy, trimming our bunker in homemade decorations, transforming cabin 1401 of The Voyager into a “spooktacular sensation”—her words, not mine—while my brother munches on these same confections, feigning disdain for their waxy texture.
A wave of homesickness swells, and I clear my throat, urging the tears to cease.
The comm buzzes again. It’s time. Rising from my bunk, I grab my blaster from the desk and holster it. I pause in front of the crooked wall mirror and tug at the collar of my jumpsuit, my shaky breath fogging the glass.
“Third time’s the charm,” I whisper.
Turning for the door, I grab a handful of the candied kernels and shove them into my pocket. Perhaps the saccharine treat is just the magic I need this time around.
At least I know I can disable a Batt-IX from two hundred meters.
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