Battleplan 32: Diary of Beatrix Lucavi

[Excerpts from the diary of Beatrix Lucavi, retrieved from a Codex seedpod regrown in the new archive on Ekkunar]

//19900.24

Mother says I need to “apply myself” more in my studies. Who cares? I’m in the top 5% of the class without trying. Not sure why it matters so much to her—it’s not like I’ll make it to graduation anyway.

It’s like, she says one thing, and means the complete opposite!

She said she wanted me to transfer into the Archsciences Academy so I could make friends of “more suitable bearing”, whatever that means. Whatever, it’s not like I can make friends here, since everyone’s so much older than me.

And how am I supposed to make friends if she wants me to study all the time? I’m already enrolled in twice as many courses as anyone else…

[a drawing in the margin depicts a Jennerit girl with wings struggling to fly while chained at the ankle to a giant book]

//19900.157

UGH, Professor Alecto makes my blood boil (what’s left of it, anyway)! Since the first lecture, she’s been trying to fail me, just because I disproved her little pet theory about the Jennerit and Varelsi having implicit genetic commonality. It’s not MY fault she’s wrong. Honestly, how she got tenure is beyond me.

[Much of the page is taken up by a drawing of a Jennerit woman trapped in a volumetric flask over a burner; a younger girl stands over the flask, laughing.]

They say the best revenge is living well…Since that’s not really an option for me, I settled for the next best thing and decided to ace her class.

Also, I’ve begun working on my thesis.

Can’t WAIT to see the look on her stupid face when I publish my refutation of her new research. “Hypernegative Void-Tunnel Theory”, really, where does she come up with this comic-book junk?

Speaking of junk, mom sent me more candy. So…yayyy.

//19900.353

Went home to visit the “family”. I know what you’re thinking, and no, he wasn’t there. Shocking, I know.

Mom said we could do a holo-call tonight but I don’t really want to think about it. Don’t really want to think about anything.

I’m really tired.

Another “specialist” is supposed to come by tomorrow. Pretty sure I’ve met just about every cretin in the field at this point, NOT hopeful.

There once was a girl named Trix

Whose body nobody could fix—

She went to the doctor

Who stabbed her and stocked her

With every pill in the mix.

//19901.18

Conference with one of the advisors and mother today. She seemed really excited, if you can believe it.

Apparently, she negotiated the possibility of early graduation, provided my grades don’t slip and I keep my course-load where it is.

Great. At least I’ll die with a degree.

On the plus side, this year I have to get a “Fine Arts” credit. Maybe I’ll change focuses, just to freak her out.

Wouldn’t that be something?

…

I think she might kill me herself if I tried.

[superimposed on the text is an outline of a small, four-fingered hand]

//19901.339

Graduation day, hoorayyy.

Beatrix, age 14, youngest student to ever graduate from ArchCad, that’s me.

Nothing to do now but eat candy till I puke.

Maybe I’ll invent un-puke-able candy before I kick it.

[A detailed picture, labelled “Figure 1”, appears to be a technical illustration of the proposed invention. Illegible annotations surround the figure.]

//19902.1

GRAD SCHOOL?

Are you KIDDING ME?

She’s adamant that I go—she actually applied FOR ME.

Apparently plenty of programs are willing to pay my way if I’m a research assistant. Seems like a waste of an investment to me.

Mom seems weirdly obsessed with the whole thing.

//19902.8

Well.

I guess now I know why she was so obsessed with grad school.

Arch-Sciences division needs all the help they can get, and having a Silent Sister for a mother apparently counts for something.

Does she ask me what I want?

Thought I was done.

I’m really tired.

Second Sun

I am not long for this world.

I’ll see another soon;

With closed eyes and laced fingers, curled

Up like a crescent moon,

A tiny piece of me may glow,

But most will rest in shade.

The memory of me may grow

While what remains will fade.

She tells me to aspire to life

As stars do: timeless, bright,

And keener than a Keeper’s knife,

To cut the dark of night.

But though a star may live an age,

Its life is spent in burning;

And all about it is a cage

Of worlds locked in their turning.

If I should spend a life of stars,

I do not burn for me;

If I endure behind these bars,

It’s only because she

Somehow believes she must atone

For me, her dying girl;

I am not long for me alone,

I am long for her world.