The Panagea Tales Box Set

by McKenzie Austin

  The captain scoffed, then joined her in a short laugh. He continued watching the lightning compete with the sea. “Comes as no surprise to me,” he muttered. “All the Time Fathers I’ve ever encountered were self-righteous jackasses.”

  “You’d almost have to be, to think you’re important enough to control an entire division’s time,” Bermuda mused, turning page after page. “This journal must be old. He talks an awful lot about the natural elements here. Flowers, herbs, vegetables and the like. Here, listen to this.” She ran her finger down to a specific entry. “I have filled my lungs with the generous oxygen provided by these lush trees, but never has any organ inside me been so close to bursting with fullness as my heart when it fills at the mere sight of her ...”

  Kazuaki, about to make a crude joke about full, bursting organs, stiffened as the enthusiasm in Bermuda’s voice trailed off. No greater annoyance existed than a love-struck man with a pen. The atmosphere in the room shifted as the words she read settled over the two.

  His eyes pinched shut and he stifled a groan. Damn it. He should have known better than to gift her the book. The subject of love found its way into every snippet of writing since man first developed the written word. Given the circumstances, he preferred to spare Bermuda any reminders of its existence. “It’s true,” he interjected, trying to change the subject. “Can you believe there once was a time when oxygen was free and plentiful? We didn’t need supplementation in its various forms,” he continued, sliding his hands into his pockets to thumb the syringe hiding inside.

  Bermuda didn’t listen. Her eyes remained glued to the thin, age-soaked sheets of parchment and ink. “She was a vision,” she continued, her words now marinated in venom instead of whimsy. “She coated the world with existence everywhere she went. She breathed life into this place ... much as she breathed life into my soul ...” The woman cleared her throat and slammed the book shut, tossing it onto the table. Several fragile papers flew from the binding, turning pink as they soaked up the wine that still sat on the tabletop.

  Kazuaki stared at the book to give his eyes a focal point that wasn’t Bermuda’s face. Every instinct inside his body screamed at him to say something, do something, anything that would bring her some shred of comfort. Perhaps a well-timed hand placed on her shoulder, or a thought out platitude would ease her torment. Instead, indecision claimed him and he did nothing.

  “I’m getting tired,” Bermuda whispered, turning her back to her superior as she walked over to the door. “If we’re through here, Captain—”

  Kazuaki frowned. It was disheartening to watch. Of all the horrors he had seen in his long lifetime, witnessing the emotional fall of Bermuda was the most traumatizing. It was like watching a great warrior, who bathed in the blood of many to win countless battles and wars, fall to their death from the common cold. Too often, the only one alive strong enough to destroy Bermuda was herself.

  “I should see that Brack is staying on course,” Kazuaki uttered, straightening his rain-soaked long jacket as he approached the door. “So easily distracted; gods know that man could find an old mop attractive if he was left alone with it long enough.”

  “Right.” Bermuda opened the door to see him out. “Goodnight, Captain.”

  Before he mustered a reply, he felt the door close behind him. The rain poured without mercy, weighing down his clothing and matting his untamed hair to his bearded jaw. He cursed himself for not further delving into the contents of the book before he handed Bermuda’s glaring weakness to her on a silver platter ... or rather, on aging paper. But she would bounce back. She always did.

  The captain started toward the ship’s wheel, concerned now that Brack “The Rabbit” Joney might well be caught with his pants down if he did not relieve him of his duties soon enough. He trusted the man with everything he had in him. He trusted each one of his crew members to a similar degree. But Brack ... he was an odd sort. He was a man who would take a bullet for you, but then try to feck the hole it left behind.

  “Cappy!” The shrill voice cut through the storm like a knife through a manufactured butter substitute. Brack held the wheel steady, but the strained muscles in his arms highlighted the effort it took. “Quite a storm, eh?”

  Kazuaki approached Brack with his usual sense of authority and took over the ship’s wheel. He made it look effortless despite the wheel’s desire to spin out of control like a wild animal. After years of practice and muscle memory, there was no storm yet Kazuaki Hidataka could not tame. “It’s Captain, Brack, and so it is,” he shouted over the whipping winds and water the sea spat onto his face. “You're relieved, Rabbit. Return below deck if you please.”

  “Aye, Captain.” Brack grinned, using his calloused hands to wipe an hour’s worth of rainwater from his sun-damaged face. “You and Bartholomew find what you was looking for in them old books?” he yelled back, accustomed to loud conversations held in apocalyptic weather.

  Kazuaki grinned, allowing the thrill of their next adventure to replace the guilt of Bermuda’s anguish. “We did, my good man.” He held the ship’s wheel steady with one hand, patting Brack’s shoulder with the other. “We’re well on our way to Mimir’s well.”

  “You sing a sweet song, Captain!” Brack laughed, pumping his fist and spinning on his heels. His primitive jig showed only a fraction of his excitement. “When do we hit land? I need to count the hours between now and eternal happiness.”

  "I struggle to believe you could count so high," Kazuaki smirked. "Eternal happiness, is it? That's what you'll ask Mimir for?"

  Brack broke out into riotous laughter. “Go on, we all know what I’ll be asking that little lesser god for now, don’t we?” He flashed a toothy smile and Kazuaki found himself grateful the winds were strong, as they spared him from the off-putting smell of Brack’s breath.

  Kazuaki furrowed his brow and tried to stop his imagination from thinking too hard. “I shudder at the very idea, Rabbit. We’ll be there in seven days. Go on, grab some bottles from the storage below deck and tell the rest of the crew the good news.”

  “Bottles?” Brack howled with more laughter. “I’m sure you mean bottles of the good stuff, aye?”

  Kazuaki sent the man a glare. It took one look to know nobody was to put a hand on his personal supply. The captain exercised a consistent creed: hard but fair. He had distributed a specific amount of the valuable goods to the crew when they raised that old world wine from its resting place. Why should he suffer, simply because he was better at rationing them than they had been? Since the grape's disappearance, quality wines were impossible to come by. The bottles were far too precious to Kazuaki to chug. The taste brought him back several lifetimes ago, before he saw as many horrors as he had. To Kazuaki, that wine was invaluable. It tasted like better memories.

  Brack withdrew his jubilance, but it did not vanish altogether. Not much existed that could dampen the happy man’s spirit. “The regular stuff it is, Captain.” He slipped off into the belly of the ship to deliver the news to his mates.

  Kazuaki breathed deeply and returned his eyes to the raging sea. Though the air was much thinner than he remembered it being in decades past, the glorious chaos of the waves were always enough to oxygenate his blood. Tempests such as these were soothing. When one traveled the world for as long as he had, it was easy to develop an algorithm for occurrences, but storms were unpredictable. They held an element of surprise. He loved the feeling. It felt like the thrill of mortality again, if only for a moment.

  He made his home on the ocean. It provided him with things the land could not, such as freedom from prosecution. A thieving history and unwillingness to bend to social expectations banished him from the mainland of Panagea long ago. While a part of Kazuaki Hidataka missed having a stable place to plant his feet, the sea melted into him. They may have been forced into cohabitation, but saltwater ran through his veins.

  With both hands planted on the wheel, Kazuaki's thoughts drifted back to Bermuda. They often did, despite his best eff
orts. How could he have so carelessly handed her that ticking time bomb of words? The man shook his head. Soon it wouldn’t matter. In a week, their anchors would drop into the sands of Mimir’s hiding place. If the legend held any truth to it at all, and there was always a fraction that did, the lesser god would fulfill her heart’s greatest desire. Then she could be free of what ailed her.

  Though seeing Bermuda enter a stage of newfound peace was a top priority on his agenda, Kazuaki couldn’t help but feel the tingle of anticipation in seeing his own desire come to fruition. To no longer be doomed to see civilizations rise and fall ... to be free from the shackles of watching each new dawn begin and end the same as it had over the course of what seemed like forever ... to feel surprise again, not just in the eye of a storm ... to feel like even the most meaningless interactions between loved ones were memories to hold on to, knowing one day they would have an expiration date. To know he would have an expiration date.

  If not a soul in the world thought it made sense, it made sense to him.

  Kazuaki leaned into the ship’s wheel. Though he had lived more lifetimes than he cared to remember, he recalled the instance when he’d spent eleven years shackled to the rusting chains of a dungeon before he freed himself from that place where time stood still. He endured days so monotonous they almost drove him mad. He would have to channel that mental experience now. Out of everything he’d been through, with his anxiousness as high as it was now, the trip to Mimir’s well would be the longest seven days of his life.

  Chapter Two

  A hand flew up from its haven under soft blankets, crashing onto an end table. A vase filled with faux flowers forged from copper toppled over and fell to the floor. Writhing fingers searched the tabletop until they curled around a syringe-like device. Skin and fingertips teetered on the edge of turning an off-putting blue before the hand jammed the tip of the needle into the chest of its owner.

  There was no graceful way to gasp for air. Nicholai shot straight out of bed as the shot delivered much-needed oxygen to his blood. His heart, thundering like the gears of an overworked engine, slowed to its normal rate. Dropping the now empty syringe to the floor, he pressed his palms over his face. After sweeping beads of sweat from his forehead, he focused on his breathing to return it to normalcy.

  As the man rehearsed a calming mantra in his mind, an alarm clock sounded from his opposite side. A clumsy, mechanical bird, fashioned from aluminum, popped out of its brass cage. The man-made creature sounded seven grinding warbles before retreating into its prison. Nicholai peered at it from behind his fingers.

  “A day late and a coin short on that one, old friend,” he muttered, coaxing his legs off the edge of the bed. An alarm clock seemed pointless when a little oxygen dip supplied enough adrenaline to start the day.

  The industrial advancements of mankind ushered in many great things, but generations of thinning air weren't one of them. Hypoxia became a frequent occurrence. Enough that oxygenated vials were never far out of reach. Nicholai scratched at an itch on his scalp, ruffling his dark hair until the irritation disappeared. He stretched his arms out and yawned, preparing his mind for the duties of another day.

  “Are you okay?” A concerned voice, and the lovely woman it belonged to, called into Nicholai’s room from the hallway. Her red curls continued to bounce, though her body stopped moving. They softened the look of distress on her face.

  Nicholai smiled from his place on the bed. “Perfect,” he replied, his gaze trailing from the young woman to the decorative flowers on the ground. “Your flowers probably wouldn’t say the same, but ...”

  The woman sighed and smiled back, swooping down to scoop the metal artwork from the floor. She returned the flowers to their rightful place on the table. “It's all right.” She arranged them as if it mattered. “It’s not as though you can kill them.”

  Nicholai placed a hand over his heart. The warmth of his sternum was a stark contrast to the cold pocket watch dangling around his neck. “Then I envy them their existence,” he chuckled, choosing to find amusement in his rude awakening.

  Lilac rolled her eyes and sat beside him on the bed. She threw a heap of blankets onto her lap to warm her legs. They were chilled from running around the sharpness of early morning in a flowing skirt. Her gaze zeroed in on the mark left by the syringe. She frowned. “I can swing by Papa’s today and get an ointment for that.” She motioned to the tiny hole.

  Nicholai arched a brow, trying to assess the damage by looking down. “Don’t worry about it.” He wiped at the injection site with his index finger. It was small and there was little need for an ointment, but Lilac was a worrier. “Not as though that’s the worst thing that’ll happen to me today.”

  “Oh?” Lilac laughed, her voice a bandage for all that ailed him. “Big day today?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Nicholai muttered, grabbing the clock that dangled around his neck. Guided by muscle memory, he winded the top, ensuring the hour, minute, and second hands would rotate for another day. “But at least I have a very important date with an incredibly beautiful individual to look forward to.”

  Lilac’s laughter interrupted his corny charade. “Nicholai Addihein”—she smacked his arm—“you can beg all you want to, but I have a very busy day, myself.” She threw the blankets from her lap and stood from the bed.

  Nicholai reached over to grab a crumpled white shirt left on the floor from the evening prior. “Someone’s got a big head. What makes you think I’m talking about you?”

  The redhead rolled her eyes a second time and put a hand on her hip. “Who else would possibly have you?”

  The same hand that forced oxygen into his deprived bloodstream not several minutes prior reached over and seized Lilac’s hand. With unbridled affection, he laced his fingers together with hers. Nicholai gazed at her from his place on the bed and smiled. “Wouldn't matter, there’s nobody else I’d possibly want.” He tugged her back down into his lap as he wrapped his arms around her waist.

  Lilac smirked, straddling her legs around him and placing her hands on his chest. “Honeyed words,” she accused, kissing him regardless. The two fell back onto the bed and enjoyed one another’s embrace. In a world of metal, the touch of a lover’s skin remained one of the only soft, organic luxuries left.

  Nicholai lingered on her lips for as long as he could, gliding his hands up her bare back from beneath her shirt. His heart raced again, for reasons much different than oxygen deprivation. The moment was short lived however, as Lilac slid herself off him. Though her body left, her eyes lingered on her lover. Much as she wished to lose herself to him, there was far too much to do today.

  He wished to escape the world with her under the sheets, but he understood the need for her departure. Nicholai’s eyes met with Lilac's and he grinned. “Though,” he mused with sarcasm, finding a paisley vest on the floor to throw over his shirt, “I am meeting with Nordjan today. If he treats me to a fancy dinner, you may have a little competition.”

  Lilac scoffed with a playful smile. She threw her hands up in false defeat while Nicholai buttoned his vest. “How could I compete with the bottomless pockets of the Northern Time Father?” She sauntered to the edge of the room but tossed her head over her shoulder before exiting. “If he treats you to a free meal, I’ll take something to go.”

  Nicholai chuckled, standing to throw his legs into a pair of dark pants. “Anything specific?”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Lilac unabashedly watched him get dressed. “Everything tastes the same anyway.”

  Nicholai smirked. Her great exaggerations were adorable. Although there remained a limit to the number of flavors today’s chefs manufactured from the materials available, there still existed a veritable smorgasbord of options. Having come from a long line of individuals who romanticized all things natural, Lilac Finn was a tough critic of everything synthetic. Nicholai gazed at her in adoration. Yes. A beautiful creature born in the wrong era. She wasn't afraid to be vocal about her disinterest in the
Time Fathers’ push for an all-metal world of efficiency.

  So it was ironic, he found it, that she was sleeping with one.

  “I’ll meet you back here, say, 5:00 tonight?” Nicholai walked over to a mirror to slick product through his loosely curled hair. He tempered the craziness of each strand until they settled atop his head. A hand reached out to grab his hat, placing it atop his head with little concern to his appearance. Goggles balanced on the hat's brim, ready for use should he need eye protection against any sweeping bursts of coal dust.

  “5:00ish.” Lilac smiled with whimsy. Never one to bind herself to the suffocating restrictions of hours or minutes, she walked farther down the hall and into the kitchen they shared. She raised her voice to be sure he could hear her through the distance that separated them. “Ointment or no, I’ll be stopping by Papa’s anyway. I have to bring him more water. He also promised me a snippet of microgreens. They’re big enough to share now.”

  Nicholai nodded as he continued to get ready. Malcolm Finn, Lilac’s father, remained the only man in the entire Southeastern division who still grew plants. More impressive still, he was one of the few left in Panagea’s entirety who dedicated his life to raising living vegetation. Despite its rarity, his shop was not suffering. Though the majority appreciated the ease of today’s modern meal, a handful of die-hard naturalists remained who enjoyed the fascination of watching something grow.

  Limited space and desire for efficiency aside, the water rations kept most residents from growing in the confines of their own property, but Malcolm made it work. While it was fine for hobbyists, the efforts were abandoned on a large scale. Growing food became an inefficient way to feed an exploding population. People did not wish to suffer through a three-month wait to grow corn when a factory made a suitable substitute within a matter of minutes.