Empathy

by Ryan A. Span

YEAR TWO: CLAIRVOYANCE

  Gina Hart had been known by many names in her lifetime. She went through three identities before even settling on ‘Gina’, let alone a permanent last name. It took her more than a year to find that last name, trying out new ones and then discarding the empty husks behind her, but she knew perfection the moment she heard it. It just sounded so right together. ‘Gina Hart’. Like a film star.

  She wondered what her parents would think of it. Director and Mrs. Vaughan would probably be aghast, their darling girl going around by an appellation fit only for some manner of prostitute. But there was nothing left of their naive little daughter inside the woman she had become.

  Her hammock rolled again, and she remembered that she was on a ship. She’d been drowning, but some people dragged her out of the water and gave her food and a place to sleep. She really ought to get up and thank them. She tried to do it, but found her muscles wouldn’t respond. The next moment there was a big woman by her hammock murmuring soothing words that Gina couldn’t understand, piling cold cloths on Gina’s forehead. A dark-skinned man with a huge beard stood beside her looking worried. Gina couldn’t understand him either. Their voices sounded so distant, like her head was wrapped tight with clingfilm.

  Who were they? What was happening? How did she get here? Nothing made sense. She couldn’t think, couldn’t concentrate on anything for more than a few seconds at a time.

  They’re the people who rescued you, said a voice inside her, the voice that remembered things. She didn’t hear it much anymore. It continued, You have a fever. You were in the cold water a long time.

  The memories came back to her in waves, imperfect and full of holes. So many things had happened to her. Too many, too intense, too weird. She could no longer tell what had really happened and what was just a fever dream.

  She remembered her life before everything. She’d been a freelance telepath, selling her mind for money, taking drugs that let her feel other people’s thoughts and emotions. Then a man came to her and promised her a job she should never have taken. They rode together in a car, or it might have been a plane. They met more people, but foremost among them was another man, a dangerous man. She looked inside his head and at first found only horror.

  The terrible images repeated themselves in front of her eyes, made more powerful than ever by the fever burning in her body. Half-melted steel skeletons of buildings leaning and sagging in every direction. Rows of trees stripped of their leaves and branches, dead or dying in the poisoned ground. Ash statues that had once been people, now frozen in time at the moment of their death. A red sky that only bled more evil down onto the world. The streets echoed to the soft keening of the wind, like the sound of a hundred voices screaming in the distance. A dead city mourning itself.

  Her confused thoughts went back to the time before she became a telepath, before she took to the Street of Eyes, and found only fuzzy shreds of memory. Those days had gone by so fast. She had a boyfriend then who helped her run away from home. For a while they lived together in a couple of condemned flats with a group of his squatter friends, pretty happy, not needing much. Then he got addicted to blue dust and spent more and more time away with the faeries. She wasn’t into that, but she stuck by him for as long as she could stand it. In the end she left him to go out on her own, and a while later heard from a mutual friend that he had died of dehydration in a blissful happy haze.

  That, at least, was real. She clung to those memories with desperate strength. They were all she had left of her innocence, after everything she’d seen and done.

  She saw the dangerous man again, glowing with inner light, something more than human. Gabriel, she remembered. The name was something clear and powerful in the muddy morass of her mind. She feared him, hated him, pitied him and loved him all at the same time. And he loved her. At least, she thought he did. Some things had happened, and she wasn’t sure anymore...

  Slipping back into the darkness, she rested for a while, but the unfocused dreams spinning through her head weren’t any more coherent than her waking delirium. Occasionally she tasted food or water passing her lips but couldn’t be sure if it was real or imagined. Even things so simple and physical were now as surreal as the rest of her life.

  Then, one morning, she awoke with a sliver of clarity returning to her senses. She saw the little cabin around her, smelled honest salt and wood, felt fresh air pouring over her face from the open door -- this time without seeing dancing kidney beans and purple elephants. The only downside was the splitting headache that appeared the moment she moved her head. She moaned, and within moments the big woman appeared to layer more damp cloths on Gina’s forehead. She wore a faded apron caked with a lifetime’s worth of flour, gravy stains and coffee.

  “Some painkillers would be better,” Gina suggested through her dry throat, and the woman nearly jumped back in surprise. Then she broke into a fit of delighted giggles and ran off cackling about lords and the praising thereof. Gina grunted and tried not to move. Everything hurt.

  The woman marched back into the room with the bearded man from before. Gina tried to remember his name, flogging her fuzzy brain until it uncovered the right one like a shining jewel. He was called Mahmoud, and the woman was his wife, Maryam. Far too many Ms in there for Gina’s liking.

  “It’s good to see you awake,” said Mahmoud, smiling under the black mass of hair that covered most of his face. “You had Maryam worried sick, you know. She kept saying, ‘She will die of fever, she will die, poor girl,’ and I told her over and over, ‘No, she is young and strong, she will survive.’ But you took your time in proving me right!”

  “I’ll try and do better next time.” Gina forced a smile, then barked a dry cough. “How long was I out of it?”

  Mahmoud signalled his wife to get some food and drink, and she shot off like a bullet. Once she was gone, he pulled up a chair and sat down next to Gina’s hammock. “It’s been about a week since we picked you up. You remember? You were adrift in a lifeboat, we found you and fished you out the water. You came down with fever the next day.”

  She nodded, then immediately regretted it. “I remember,” she grunted. “Not my best day ever.”

  “No,” said Mahmoud, “though you were lucky, very lucky. You could easily have died in the water, and again here in bed.”

  “I know. I’m grateful.”

  He broke into a grin. “Be grateful to God, my girl. We had little to do with it, we merely followed the paths set out for us.”

  “Okay,” Gina murmured politely. Her head wasn’t in any shape to deal with gods at the moment. “A week... Christ, that doesn’t sound right. How could I be delirious for a week? Didn’t you give me any antibiotics?”

  “How would we give you what we do not have?” he asked, his voice sounding slightly hurt. “This is not a pleasure yacht, though I’m sure it’s an easy mistake to make. For all our riches we are humble people with humble means.”

  The idea of not having antibiotics threw Gina for a moment. She couldn’t imagine anyone being so poor as to not have access to basic medicine, especially people who ate real meat instead of moulded protein. It didn’t seem to make sense. Regardless, she didn’t want to offend Mahmoud’s feelings, so she worked up an apologetic smile and met his gaze. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to come off like that.”

  He nodded in acceptance and stood up again, shoving the chair back into its corner. Then he said, “Try to rest. We’ll be coming into port in a few hours, home with our catch. Then you can leave if you wish and make your own way to wherever you are going.”

  “Thank you.” A moment of silence passed between them. Gina’s gratitude was plain to see, requiring no further explanation. “You never even asked my name.”

  “I’m sure you will share it when you are ready.” He dipped his head in a brief bow, then headed for the door. She called out to him just before he made his exit.

  “There was a man travelling with me,” she said softly. “A friend. Not on the lifeboat, bef
ore that, before we even launched the thing. Have you seen any sign of him?”

  “None,” he admitted with some regret, “but I will keep my good eye out. Really, try to rest. I must go pilot this thing into port, but Maryam will be back soon, she’ll get you anything you need.”

  Gina thanked him again and leaned back into her pillows. Food and rest sounded pretty good right around now, so she settled in to wait, feeling truly safe for the first time in years.

  Gina struggled up the stairs despite her body’s protests. Her muscles were stiff and weak from days of lying in bed, but she needed to get out, needed to see the sea and the sky again. They always reminded her that she was still alive.

  The ever-present smell of salt became even stronger as she poked her head up through the hatch. Sea spray spattered across her face, and she pulled her borrowed jacket tight around her against the cold wind. She climbed the rest of the way, undaunted by the pitch and yaw of the waves, and walked out onto the wooden deck with a blissful feeling. Her hands kept a firm hold of the railing in case the boat did anything unexpected, although the mooring cables on the other end kept everything pretty steady, and she looked out over the bobbing green waters like a queen surveying her newly acquired lands.

  The sky was grey, but not confining like the smog blanket above the City, in China, where she’d lived most of her life. Dark, rocky shore stretched out on either side of her, far away along the waters of the bay. The two lines of land met just behind her at a massive concrete pier, an ancient relic from the previous century, discoloured with hundreds of repaired patches where the original concrete had crumbled away under the beating of the waves. Wooden jetties sprouted haphazardly from the pier. The boat was tied up at one of these, bobbing next to the rusted hulk of a small freighter that obviously hadn’t moved in years. Up on the pier, oily yardsmen fought with nets and dredging equipment, unloading the ships as they came in.

  And above the pier she could see a massive stairway leading up the hills to the city above, the longest and tallest set of steps she’d ever seen. To the right of it stood the remnants of a small monorail line, long fallen into disrepair, and to the left was a container elevator going up the hill to a large complex of warehouses. Beyond that she could see nothing but roofs going off into the distance. The stairs comprised the only significant space in view that wasn’t covered by buildings.

  Gina had to step back and think, otherwise the amazing sights would just absorb her completely. This town might not rival the continent-spanning vastness of the City in size, but it looked big, and it gave a feeling of... oldness. Proper old, in a way that neon lights and mirrored glass could never really hope to achieve, no matter how many years they lasted.

  “Where the hell are we?” she asked herself.

  “Home,” Mahmoud said from behind, startling Gina, but she quickly regained her composure when he joined her at the railing. He positively beamed with happiness. “My sea, my town. I have missed them. And it has been a good catch! The Federation has paid our haul, we have money to spend and time to enjoy the land!” He thumped his fist against the wood of the railing, grinning. Then he turned to look at Gina and added, “You will join us for the celebration tonight?” It was more a statement of fact than a question.

  Gina shrugged. “Sure, not like I’ve got anything else planned just now.” To be honest there were a couple of things she ought to do, like get back into contact with the friends and allies she’d made during her time on the run, but she was quite happy putting it off for the foreseeable future. Instead she closed her eyes and listened to the rustling of the waves. The city was too far to hear, and there were no birds or animals to break the mood. It relaxed her so thoroughly that she nearly fell asleep on her feet. At last she opened her eyes again and said, “What is this place? It’s not like any city I’ve ever seen.”

  She had been building up to that question for so long, and she still didn’t really want to hear the answer. It meant looking at her place in the world again, trying to figure out where to go and what to do next. She was lost, adrift, without anyone trying to kill her or protect her. It made a nice change. Anything was better than—

  “Odessa,” answered Mahmoud suddenly, “in the True Marxist State of Ukraine.” He didn’t seem to notice Gina stiffen where she stood, her blood going cold in her veins. Instead he continued, “It is the place of my birth, and the birth of my father, and of his father, all the way back to the Cossacks of ancient times.”

  She asked haltingly, “I’m... in the Recommunista?”

  Mahmoud blanched. “People here aren’t fond of that term. It’s hardly fair to equate us to--”

  “The last thing I need right now is a political lecture!” she burst out. Suddenly it all made sense. The lack of antibiotics, the primitive living conditions, the food -- it was a nightmare. “Mahmoud, I’m a Federation citizen! Do you have any idea what they do to people like me here? And the gangs...”

  His dark eyes looked at her with such gravity that much of her anger and panic melted away. He said in a dead serious voice, “Things have become less drastic over the years. We have lived at peace with the Federation for some time now. Enough for them to make contracts with local fishermen like us, at least.”

  “That’s...” She sighed. “Okay, Mahmoud. Thanks. “

  Faint signs of a smile around the corners of his mouth. “You do not trust me.”

  “It’s-- it’s complicated.” She was at a loss about how to explain the threat of getting ‘disappeared’ into some Russian slave pit, getting tapped by the mafia, or -- even worse -- being extradited to the Federal Police. She was wanted for any number of felonies, depending on how much the Feds disliked her after helping to raid their Hong Kong base to free her friend, and being a foreigner here certainly wouldn’t get her any favours from the local law.

  Just about the only thing that could be said for the Federation was that it was slightly less of a stinking, corrupt hellhole than the glorious Marxist States.

  Mahmoud turned around to look up at his city, its buildings ancient and majestic under the endless grey sky. “Your Federation is a safer place,” he admitted. “But my State is a free place, where men can still live without the bootprint of police and government all over them. You cannot have both.”

  Gina nodded dubiously. She wasn’t sure she believed Mahmoud or agreed with him, but if a man like him was happy here then she supposed it couldn’t be all bad. Mahmoud gestured to the rickety jetty leading toward the shore and proffered his hand, an invitation to come along and explore.

  “Alright,” she said, working up a smile despite herself, and took his arm. “Show me the good bits.”

  Their tour of Odessa lasted only a few hours before dusk fell. Gina and Mahmoud rode a rundown blue tram through the tight streets of the city centre, viewing as many pubs as palaces, both of which were abundant throughout Odessa. They all looked equally ancient and intriguing. The Vorontsov Palace in particular -- though in itself just a solid mass of neoclassical architecture, seemingly made up of nothing but columns and facades -- offered a truly breathtaking view of the harbour far below, leading out to the great green plain of the Black Sea.

  She enjoyed the pubs just as much, though, and had already downed three pints of beer by the time they made it back to the dockside. Her head was warm and buzzy but not quite drunk yet.

  Mahmoud guided her towards a large bonfire burning on a stretch of pebbly beach in the lee of the pier. People moved all around it, except a few who stood to one side playing instruments, fiddles and guitars and even an accordeon. They accompanied an untalented but enthusiastic singer, who worked the crowd in-between his singing with shouts in Russian, and always got a massive cheer in return.

  Gina’s stomach rumbled when she spotted the island of collapsable tables shoved up against the concrete, piled high with platters of food. The revelers didn’t seem to bother with the usual garden-party affair of paper plates and disposable cutlery -- there were no such things to b
e seen anywhere. Instead they just grabbed what they wanted and ate as they liked.

  A large figure came running out of the crowd -- it was Maryam, Mahmoud’s wife, Gina remembered -- and stormed up to Mahmoud for a kiss. Then she turned and crushed Gina to her chest. “There’s m’girl!” she said with her thick English accent. “Glad y’re ‘ere, it’ll be fun an’ dancin’ all even’n!”

  Gina just smiled and nodded. They supposedly spoke the same language, but she hadn’t a clue what the woman had just said to her. Maryam’s strong hands dragged them along to the food, where Gina politely nibbled at a handful of things she didn’t recognise. She wasn’t really hungry.

  “You look uncomfortable,” Mahmoud observed from beside her.

  “I’ve never been to...” She was lost for words to describe the scene around her, so she spread her arms to try and encompass it all in a gesture. “Anything like this.”

  He smiled as if he believed she was having him on, willing to indulge her little story. “Surely you have seen parties before, even in the Federation.”

  “Nothing like this,” she repeated. “Stiff parties with white tablecloths and immaculate buffets. Some night clubs when I was younger. I’ve even been to church once, but...” She shook her head.

  “You must have been wealthy,” he said.

  “My parents were. I was their little princess until I hit puberty, and they bought me anything I wanted. Sometimes I--” She suddenly realised what she was saying, how much she’d opened up to somebody she didn’t even know, and clamped a hand over her mouth. It had to be the beer loosening up her tongue. And, she had to admit, Mahmoud was a terrific listener, which made him all the more dangerous to her.

  Worst of all, he seemed to guess her exact thoughts and put a fatherly hand on her shoulder. “I have said before, anything you wish to share, you may do so of your own will. As much or as little as you like. I ask no questions.”

  “Thanks,” she said huskily, then cleared her throat and sent him a playful smile. “What about you, though, great fisherman and rescuer of strange women? What’s your story?”

  He gave a slight snort. “Are you sure you have that long? I wouldn’t want to ruin your evening.” He stepped closer to the fire as if to warm himself, but then took off his thick jacket and threw it on the pile of discarded clothing where people had left what they didn’t need for the moment. Gina followed his example and put down her borrowed jacket, exposing her borrowed t-shirt and borrowed jeans. She wanted to go shopping so badly, just to get into some clothes of her own again.

  “I’d like to hear it, if you want to share it. As much or as little as you like.”

  She couldn’t suppress a grin at his sour expression. Using his own psychology to draw him out was clearly an impropriety of the highest order, and this kind of cleverness and audacity ought to be nipped right in the bud. Finally he gave up and sighed.

  “As you wish, my girl,” he said. “It’s a good night for a story. But not a story about me, exactly.” He clapped his hands three times loud, and the musicians stopped their playing. He spoke to the crowd in Conglom. “I should like for you all to sit around the fire and listen to a tale of my ancestors, who are of the blood of the ancient Cossacks, and you will enjoy it because I am the man who pays your wages and therefore you will listen politely.” He scanned the crowd for any signs of dissent, and found only a few glum -- but silent -- faces. Then he added with appropriate magnanimity, “But I would not be a Captain if I were without mercy. You may still drink.”

  The crowd cheered and applauded at that, and they all settled on the sand around the fire to listen. Someone shoved a bottle of vodka into Gina’s hand as she made herself comfortable, and she figured a sip wouldn’t do any harm. She could barely taste anything as she swallowed the oily liquid, but it burned sweetly all the way down her throat.

  Mahmoud’s deep, rolling voice picked up over the fading murmur of the crowd, and Gina allowed herself to be swept up in his words as the story began.