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It was not even a week after we won when our listless bodies were puppeted from celebration to celebration. We painted grins on our faces, and the husks of our bodies walked through the motions as we each grew dimmer and dimmer within ourselves.
Thank you , we said.
It was our honor, we said.
We did what we had to , we said.
Crowds cheered, crowds clapped, crowds roared, and we ached for their joy. We could not feel it.
One hundred and fifty-six US soldiers.
Seventeen Auxiliaries.
Ninety-eight host bodies, and their Yeerks.
Seventeen thousand, three hundred seventy-two unhosted Yeerks.
Rachel.
Rachel.
Rachel.
And then I snapped back into myself, the first to do so out of us four, and it went like this:
A man, middle aged, rich, asking Jake a question and looking at him while I answered.
A man, twenties, pompous, ignoring my outstretched hand to offer his to Marco’s.
A man, twilight years, traditional, speaking over me while I explained a situation he could not possibly understand.
“I wasn’t finished talking,” I said then, and he gaped at me, and I knew I could never give in to the gnawing inside.
It took a while to find a therapist who made me feel heard, who said things that made sense and whose words didn’t feel recited and rehearsed. I gave them each three sessions. If I didn’t like them, I told my father how I felt, and he made the phone calls I could not and found me someone new. When insurance companies got difficult, my mom got on the phone and yelled and yelled, even if I just wanted to pay for everything and be done. Mom said it was because I wasn’t the only person insurance companies tried to screw over, and she wouldn’t have it.
They moved out to D.C. with me. I still live with them.
They are my heart and my soul. My body, too, some days, when I can’t move.
It got easier one year after the Battle on the Pool Ship. I connected with my smiles. I felt them.
Putting in the work to get there was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
I stood in Cape Canaveral with my former Spanish teacher, trying to pretend that things were normal and okay. I was all of five feet and three inches. I gathered it all, wrapping what height I could around me, standing with my head tall and shoulders back. There were three men, imposing and terrifying, and a woman who felt no need to project power. That meant she had it, that she had it more than anyone else, and I kept my eyes locked with her. We needed her approval the most.
“Cassie sent me a message before the Animorphs destroyed the Yeerk pool,” Mr. Tidwell said, his voice steadier than mine ever could be at seventeen. “I gathered a small group of like-minded folks, other members of the Peace Movement who had a healthy and loving relationship with their Yeerks.”
Two of the men sneered. The woman scoffed. Tidwell did not flinch.
“We fled to Escondido. We survived off of edible Kandrona—”
“ What? ” said one of the men.
Tidwell nodded, as if he’d expected that question. “Edible Kandrona was a pet project in the Empire, inspired by humanity’s habit of ingesting our medicine. It would have taken away all dependence on Kandrona rays, and if the breakthrough with the edible version had happened even just one month earlier— well. Let’s just focus on the fact that it did not.”
“But it was created,” said one of the men.
“Yes,” said Tidwell. “The scientist Remi 629 finalized the formula days before the fall of the Pool ship. She was Peace Movement, and she spread the formula—”
“And did it remain among your people and only your people?” interrupted the woman.
Tidwell, without missing a moment, said, “No.” He did not fidget, he did not hide, he did not deflect. In that moment, I was in awe of his strength. “Others were just as dissatisfied with the Empire as us, but they had other intentions. We believe Remi 629 may have shared the information with some of those fractions.”
One of the men swore. Another one started to nervously pace. “Is this why we’re having a conversation?” asked the woman. “To warn us that remaining Yeerks have a viable way of surviving?”
“No,” said Tidwell. “Though it may be part of why NASA should be interested to speak with my people.”
“Why,” snapped one of the men. “You have already admitted to stealing and leaking dangerous information.”
“Because,” said Mr. Tidwell, “Among the ranks of the remaining Peace Movement are three aerospace engineers, an expert in Z-space, multiple mathematicians, and a propulsion technician. We would like to donate our specialties in exchange for immunity. We understand the Andalites are holding the secrets of space travel over your heads like a stick-and-carrot. We from the Peace Movement have them. Let us allow Earth to explore space on its own.”
The first time I met Ronnie Chambers, I was totally caught off guard by his face. Not in the way you’d expect. I knew he was from some big, old money family, and normally those guys look like life-sized Ken dolls. I swear, I don’t think half of those families are actually falling in love and getting married. I think they’re just breeding for a specific look, like show horses.
Ronnie is different. He’s super short and really broad, like people on TV when the aspect ratio isn’t right. He’s got red hair, small eyes, and a big, goofy grin. He looks like a cartoon character that came to life. That’s mean, but he’s said it about himself and, well, it’s true.
“Hi,” he said, holding out a hand for me to shake. He smiled, open and bright, with eyes that crinkled at their corners. He didn’t need to be attractive with a smile like that. I immediately felt safe with him. He felt like the sort of guy who would miss a day of work because he saw a sick bird on the highway.
Stop it, Cassie, I thought to myself. You don’t have time for a crush.
The next time I saw Ronnie Chambers, he was late to our meeting, but he was holding a pink bakery box.
“Donuts?” I asked, my eyes going wide.
“Donuts,” he said, grinning.
“You can be late because of donuts,” I said, returning his smile.
“I thought so. But to be honest, I got behind—you know that stray I feed?”
“Madame la Mer. Of course.”
“The Madame apparently had a paramour and became in the family way. She gave miraculous birth right underneath my porch, which I discovered this morning. I got distracted. The donuts are a smooth cover up.”
“Oh,” I said lamely. “Good cover up.”
Oh no, I thought to myself.
Naomi Berenson was running for the Senate, and it was almost certain she would win the seat. She had become a media darling; the grieving mother of a beautiful war hero, a friend of the Hork-Bajir, beautiful. The fact that she was highly intelligent, savvy, and strong was something unexpected by the public, and we were glad she had taken to the spotlight. She had become very fond of the Hork-Bajir, and used her status to champion alien rights. Who knew that this spoiled, privileged woman would have come to love aliens so much that she fought for them tooth and nail.
She was not letting her daughter’s sacrifice go quietly.
She called me to her new home in the rebuilt Santa Barbara. I arrived in sensible boots, a comfortable flannel shirt, and jeans.
I had expected to talk politics. Instead, Naomi Berenson greeted me with a black garment bag. She looked me up and down, raised her eyebrows in a way that said she wasn’t surprised but she was disappointed, and waved me inside. I have worked hard to stand on my own against adults; I have even hired various coaches to help me with poise and speech, but I had known Naomi since I was in third grade. I shuffled inside, feeling as young as I, well, was, I guess.
She unzipped the garment bag, professional and efficient, and pulled out some blazers, some blouses, and—to my horror—some skirts. She laid them across the couch. I noticed a stack of three shoe boxes on a side table.
Naomi sat down and folded her hands on her lap, her knees neatly together.
“I want to talk to you about presentation,” she said patiently, like I had somehow disappointed her. I tensed. It was the same tone Rachel had used with me, time and time again, when I wore something stained or torn. My face grew hot, and I wasn’t sure if it was embarrassment or tears. Both, I guess.
“I have nice clothes!” I said, choosing to be defensive and petulant. Naomi had been Mrs. Berenson, after all, adult and imposing. I became a younger Cassie in a knee-jerk response.
Naomi nodded, expecting that response. “You have nice clothes,” she said, “And you look good in them. You are confident, smart, and talented. Ideally? That should be enough. It’s not. Not with these people.”
“ What people?” I asked.
“Politicians.”
I wanted to say something, to argue, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. She’d already said everything I would have said against a bloated budget for clothes, condensing what would have been a rant down to three brusque sentences. “Have you looked into getting a tailor, Cassie?” she continued.
“No,” I said, crossing my arms.
She gave that same nod, the one that said she already knew the answer. “You’ll need one.” I opened my mouth, and she held out a hand. “No,” she said, “You will.”
Naomi stood up and took a blazer off the couch. She held it up to my shoulders, studying it, as if she could calculate what I would look like wearing it. “I bought this one because it looks like something you already own.”
It did. I had worn it the last time I sat in on a senate session.
“What you currently own looks acceptable enough,” said Naomi, clipped, nearly rehearsed. “But when I’m close enough, I see that the stitching is loose, and the fabric is slightly too much sheen. It’s cheap.”
“It was, like, fifty dollars!” I said, my eyes wide. “On clearance!”
Naomi gave me a soft smile. It was condescending. I was getting mad. “Sweetie, I’m sure it was, and we both know that that is cheap for someone like you.”
I straightened my back. I knew how to deal with people calling me ‘sweetie.’ Coming from Naomi, it felt almost like a betrayal. “I would rather funnel my money into more productive endeavors,” I said, maintaining a firm eye contact.
Again, Naomi nodded. My eyes burned with tears, but I kept my expression calm. I’m young and emotional, and even if I had more experiences than adults three times my age, I was quick to cry. But I could be seventeen later, when I was home and safe and could cry into my dad’s chest. Now, in front of this woman, I made myself a war hero.
Then she spoke, and her tone was that of scrapes and bruises on summer days, of saying goodnight to Rachel and me in Rachel’s bedroom, of coaxing Sara to pet the first dog she ever saw.
“How you dress is part of pursuing productive endeavors, and I hate that,” she said. “I hate that I look at your beautiful, strong face with no foundation and know that a man thinks you look tired. I hate that you can say passionate things that are right , objectively right , and be dismissed because your blouse is from five years ago. But the world of politics is not defined by good people with sharp minds. That is, in some way, part of it, but not all of it—it’s hardly any of it at all. The people in this world, the world of the rich and power hungry, they are playing other games beneath the surface. And I want you to know what they are, so you can play that game, too.”
I relaxed. She was not attacking me.
She was nurturing me.
Naomi opened a shoe box. “You’re a woman,” she said simply, “So you are at an immediate disadvantage. When a male member of Congress wakes up, he puts on a suit, and he goes to work. It means nothing. When a woman wakes up, she must open her closet and choose a poison. Be too feminine and the men leer at you, but be too masculine and you are sexually deviant, and god forbid you forgo lipstick and heels and actually be gay. If you wear too much makeup, you’re trying too hard; if you wear too little, you’re not trying enough. The correct amount of makeup to wear varies from situation to situation, from city to city, from man to man.”
She handed me the shoes. They were black, with a thin heel, and looked uncomfortable. I looked up at her, panic on my face.
“I could never walk in these,” I said.
“You can,” said Naomi. “Because you are young and short and heels give you height. You’ll need it. Make the men see your eyes.”
I stared at her, then bent down, slowly, and began to undo my boots.
Naomi spoke in that instructional tone again, all experience and wisdom and knowledge. “From today on, you must choose the sort of woman you will be, and be that woman consistently and aggressively , because it will never please anyone. Put the shoes on. Let’s fit you for your armor.”
From that day forward, whenever I was in Washington, I wore muted clothing and red pumps.
Let them know I had walked in blood.
Sometimes, when I go to Yellowstone, it’s just for business. Sometimes, when I go to Yellowstone, it’s to actually enjoy the park as it is meant to be enjoyed. Sometimes, when I go to Yellowstone, it’s just to see Toby.
She saw me coming in the distance and ran toward me. She had her hands held out in front of her. I held out my hands. She pushed into me and we stood palm-to-palm, our version of a hug.
She threaded her fingers between mine. “Are you ready to see him?” she asked.
I squeezed her hand. “Of course!”
Behind her, a Hork-Bajir stepped forward delicately, holding a baby Hork-Bajir. Two feet tall and squirming, soft small mounds where blades would grow. Toby’s son was small, so small, tiny and delicate and new.
“Can I hold him?” I asked.
“Of course,” said Toby, and then she said something to the other Hork-Bajir in their language. I recognized her as Toby’s friend Gef Jarat.
I held my arms out to her and she placed the baby in mine, careful of my soft human skin. The baby blinked up at me, then turned around in my arms, pressing his face into my chest. I smiled.
“What’s his name?” I asked, rocking instinctively. I wondered if Hork-Bajir rock their children. I may have looked insane to them, but that’s part of what makes our time spent together so amazing. We’re constantly learning about each other.
“Cas Barket.”
I looked up at her, blinking. “Cas?” I asked.
She gave me a Hork-Bajir smile. “Cas,” she said.
Tears welled up in my eyes.
I never expected my best friend to be a seven-foot-tall alien made out out machetes, but she is, and I am so glad for it.
The most obvious solution to the Yeerks left on Earth was to send them back to their homeworld. The Andalites would not allow this. They spoke of their barricade on Yeerk and how they did not want these Earth Yeerks to exchange information on their homeworld, but I truly think it was to distract humans and give us a problem. The Andalites wanted control of humans. Humans are not easily controlled.
So we sent them to the water.
The nothlit Yeerk territories were built around the Yeerk undersea stations, repurposing old Empire tech for more peaceful uses. We gave them harbor seal DNA, and expanded on the already existing sea stations to create something of a true city. Humans could visit, traveling in submarines, spending time inside the enclosures, and visiting the man built island. It was expensive, for now, but there were future plans to make it accessible.
We got the idea to build the city around the sea stations from Aftran.
As a whale, she had used her inconspicuous form to spy for the Peace Movement. Peace Movement Yeerks stationed underground provided her with companionship and entertainment. She also connected with dolphins, who knew the sea stations were inherently wrong, and together they would do raids. This helped convince the Empire that there were more Andalite Bandits than they had previously thought. She had kept fighting, and had done more for the war effort than even we knew at the time. Her influence wasn’t something that would make the history books, but it had been absolutely vital, and we wouldn’t have won without her.
The “yeals,” as they were called, had given up their old lives, their bodies, and their ability to reproduce sentient life. Now they were becoming a tourist attraction on top of all that: something quirky for humans to gape at.
They were often forced to spy for the U.S. also. That was off the record.
And yet they live, and they’re safe, and I still don’t know how I feel about any of it.
But I got to visit Aftran. Openly.
I would swim to her, dolphin formed, and then I would demorph on an island we had claimed as our own. We talked about anything and everything, and we watched the moon rise.
I end up at Marco’s house twice, maybe three times a year. He held parties with influencers that I needed to meet, or who needed to meet me. His house was almost always completely decorated. You’d think he had some sort of passion for interior design, but I knew that wasn’t it. He had more money than he knew what to do with and when he started spiraling, which he did far more than he recognized, he blamed external factors. His house was always too green or too red or too stark or too ornate, and if he fixed it, then everything would be okay. It was obvious to everyone but him, but I couldn’t expend the time and patience and energy that it would take to get him to understand. I used to try, but I know it’s not good for me. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to help him. It doesn’t mean that seeing him in his dark places isn’t painful.
Currently, his house was very modular and white, accented with hints of teals and dark greens and browns. It was mostly solid colors, no patterns. It wasn’t the house of a funny, expressive eighteen-year-old. It was the house of a workaholic CEO who spent little time at home, his house only serving to impress young women he seduced with money into his bed. I wondered if someone had called him immature recently. I wouldn’t ask. He wouldn’t have told me, anyway.
His butler brought me to one of his many sitting rooms. Marco was sitting on a couch, his legs crossed and his arms splayed over the back. He flashed me a forced smile, and I tensed.
He flung himself off the couch. “Cassandra!” he drawled, his arms outstretched. He had never been a hugger. “How wonderful to see you!”
I wrapped my arms around him cautiously, wondering where this was going. He seemed present and calm, which typically meant he was in a stable place, but this still wasn’t the behavior I expected. We withdrew and I looked him up and down.
“Are you alright?” I asked cautiously.
“Oh, sure!” he said. “I love clearing my schedule so I can ‘catch up’ with old friends.” He flopped back onto the couch and gestured dramatically with one hand. “I got your text and I was like oh, of course! It’s been so long! It’s so rare that she initiates contact with me! ”
I closed my eyes. “Marco,” I muttered.
He adjusted himself so that he was sitting with his elbows on his knees. “But then— then —I turn on the TV and see a debate about voluntary controller rights. Namely, that they don’t deserve them. Apparently, the Senate is trying to float a bill through that would protect employers in their right to fire ex-voluntaries. Which seems crazy to me, seeing how there are a relative handful of ex-voluntaries compared to the entire population of the United States of America, seems excessive to bring it to a national level, but hey, who doesn’t love a morality parade? The more Congress speaks out on it, the more they can distract everyone while they silently pass bills to pocket more money, or fund more wars, or whatever the hell they’re up to these days.”
I was silent. I’d let him finish his scene.
“And I thought to myself, I thought, self? That seems like a good issue for my dear friend Cassie to speak up on. But she can’t, can’t she,” he said, his tone getting dark.
“No,” I said softly.
“Because of Lil’ Karen coming forward with her heartwarming tale,” said Marco. “Of a young woman sacrificing herself for her freedom. So charming. So happy she wrote that book and published it behind our backs, and by ‘she,’ I mean the ghostwriter her parents bought. Heard they’re making a movie about the whole shebang. But now there are whispers in the public— significant whispers—that you’re perhaps too sympathetic toward Yeerks and other aliens. And I remembered that you and Naomi are gathering support for a vote to expand Yellowstone for the Hork-Bajir. And then I realized that fighting for that while speaking up for voluntary controllers, of all things, was really going to tip public favor in, well, not your favor. If you lose enough credibility with the public, than you can’t get anything done for anyone, ex-voluntaries and Hork-Bajir alike.”
I sighed. “I need your help, Marco,” I said softly, trying to seem as contrite as possible.
“Then ask for it,” he snapped. “Don’t tell me you want to catch up when all you want is a favor.”
He was right. I should have been more direct. I didn’t prioritize Marco in my life, and he didn’t understand that it was because he was draining. All he knew was that I was always too busy to stop by.
It was wrong of me to hide my intentions. I should have known he was smart enough to figure it out. I should have been more careful, I should have been more obvious. He was hurt, which made him angry, which made him stubborn.
But if I asked for a professional meeting, he would have dodged me the same way I dodge his invites to dinner. In my heart, I already knew where he stood on this issue. I just wanted a chance to win him over, and I’d already blown it.
“If you could help sway public opinion before this got out of hand—” I started, switching into Cassie The Professional, but he interrupted me by bringing his hand to his chest.
“What? Lil’ ol’ me? But I’m merely an actor! A simple man who only wants to entertain the masses!”
I crossed my arms. “You have more sway with the public. More than I do, and you know it.”
“I can only go on so many talk shows.”
“You don’t just go on talk shows,” I said. “You pull in favors with producers, you get films shut down that glorify messages that don’t support what you need, you blacklist actors that say things you don’t like. It’s not just Hollywood that knows how much power you have. It’s Washington, too, and politics and entertainment have held hands as long as both have existed.”
“I have a limited amount of favors,” he said, straightening up and putting on his own professional tone. “I have a limited amount of connections. I can only ask so much before I get a reputation myself, and I end up with no clout at all. I’m in a more delicate position than you. Oh, sure, you need votes and you need support, but politicians can and will manipulate that shit. Me? I’m only useful as long as I keep the public happy, the producers happy, and the directors happy. Sure, I could manipulate a studio into spitting out a summer blockbuster about a sympathetic voluntary or get Barbara to interview Mr. Tidwell. Hell, I even know two household names that are closeted ex-voluntaries, and I could possibly convince them to come forward. But then I won’t be able to get anything else going for a while, you know? Why waste all of that energy on a group of people that made their own beds.”
“Because they’re losing their jobs,” I said. “Because they’re not getting the help they need, because therapists turn them away. Because they can get denied insurance coverage. Because there’s nothing protecting them at all. Not all of them stayed voluntary, but as long as the Yeerk records show that they once said ‘yes,’ then people assume they want another Invasion, or that they’re protecting Yeerks in their own homes.”
“There’s not enough of them,” said Marco, his tone icy and harsh. “And we don’t know which ones actually defected and which are just saying they did. I’m not wasting my time. If the public wants to witch hunt voluntaries, let them. It’s a finite problem with a beginning and an end. It’ll blow over.”
“People are going to die,” I said. “More than already have.”
“Not my problem,” said Marco bluntly. “If you really care so much, then speak up yourself.”
“I can’t,” I said softly.
“I know,” he said, expression stone cold. Then, as if flipping a switch, his face lit up in a smile. “Well, it sure was fun catching up!”
Sometimes I am so, so angry at Jake.
I’m not saying he has it easy. He was accused of being a war criminal, after all, and more than a few media think pieces agreed. Certain people were deeply upset that he was Jewish, and not only did they tear him down because of it, they created conspiracy theories that he hadn’t been involved in the war at all. He has his own struggles. He has own image problems.
But my God was that image as white as the driven snow.
Marco and I are out there every day, charming talk show hosts, talking about issues. But it’s not the two of us listed first in every book—if we’re even listed at all. It’s not the two of us that people write songs about. It’s not us that will be remembered as the true hero, the main character, the real reason we won the war.
Jake Berenson could get more done in a day than Marco and I can in a year just because he’s tall and handsome and white.
Yet he doesn’t. He continues to rot away in his own bedroom, hardly coming outside at all, nevermind going in front of cameras.
I get it. I get why. I also know that help is out there, and available, and he has every resource at his fingertips.
I am furious at Jake for giving into his depression, and furious that he’ll never truly understand why.
Mertil and Loren live a quiet life out near my parent’s barn. Loren didn’t like too much noise and was suited for a quiet lifestyle closer to nature, so she had a house built far as far away from civilization as she possibly could while still being close enough to buy groceries. Mertil happened upon her one day, and they had been inseparable ever since. Mertil had lost the greatest partner he would ever know, and Loren had lost a huge chunk of her own life. They were two imperfect shapes folding in on themselves to fill the hole left in the other. It satisfied them in a way nothing else could. They gardened together and watched movies in the evening. It was something of a romance, though I don’t know for sure if they were lovers. Whatever they were, it was enough for them.
It also made them perfect candidates to intercept Andalite communications. No one expected a bladeless Andalite and a middle aged woman, both up to their elbows in mulch and seeds, to be the two of the most dangerous spies in the galaxy.
The Andalites didn’t quite understand that they weren’t just making deals with the US Government when they asked for a Cinnabon on their homeworld. They were also cutting a deal with the CEO of Cinnabon herself.
Rosa Alverio was very, very surprised to wake up and find that her company, Focus Brands, was now a hot ticket among aliens. I think anyone else would have led their company to greed. Rosa Alverio rose her company to greatness.
She cut deals with both the Andalites and the government so smoothly that neither of them realized how powerful she was getting. Focus Brands went from a company that owned a bunch of restaurants in malls to become FOCUS, a leader in technology and innovation. Under Rosa’s direction, FOCUS was now the It brand for palm pilots, digital storage, and alien tech computers. She funded research toward furthering energy solutions and space travel. Culture was changing, rapidly, and she was shaping it.
She gave me her personal phone number the day she met me, told me to call it whenever I had problems with boys—professional or otherwise. She told me to watch Mean Girls, and to watch out for women who did not support other women.
A week later, she sent me a pair of Louboutins.
Melissa Chapman had disappeared after we kidnapped Chapman to protect Jake’s dad. As it turns out, she got sent off-planet, so her presence wouldn’t upset her parents and they wouldn’t make life difficult for their Yeerks. It was far from a heartwarming tale.
What was positive was that Ax’s ship, the Intrepid , basically drove around the galaxy looking for errant Yeerk Empire ships to capture. Melissa had been on one of those ships. Ax gave me a personal call to let me know she had been rescued, and to ask me to make sure she ended up okay. He didn’t devote time to ex-host rehabilitation, but even he knew about the suicide rates and drug addictions. I promised him she’d be safe.
She was taken to an ex-host refugee center for those rescued off-planet. It’s little more than a hallway with food and cots, but it’s generally enough to tide ex-hosts over until their families can be contacted.
I flew over to see Melissa personally. I offered her a job. She took it before I could finish the sentence.
She’s the best assistant I ever had. She keeps everything organized in a planner that she meticulously color coded. She had memorized every phone number I needed to call. She dealt with and deflected people who want more time more than I want to give. She also knew my tea order and always kept Reese’s Peanut Butter cups in all her bags in case I needed them.
Her mother was host to one of the Yeerks on the Blade ship. When the boys returned and immediately announced that they were going to turn right back around, she asked if I could help her get on the Rachel .
When she spoke, she did not look calm, nor did she look wild. She was beyond passion and beyond obsession. She was hungry. She was starving .
I had seen that look in Jake, in Marco, in Ax, in Tobias. All of them were craving a solution, aching for a one-stop fix to fill the emptiness inside of them. They had never learned to fill themselves with support and love, preferring to seek big moments and fireworks. They were all too afraid to put in the work, too afraid to discover themselves without their war torn identities.
I helped Melissa stow away on the ship.
I couldn’t reach the Animorphs. Couldn’t fix them. Wouldn’t be able to do it for Melissa, either.
The night The Rachel left for the second time, I didn’t cry. I just felt tired.