Escaping Exodus

by Nicky Drayden

  Something catches my attention out of the corner of my eye. My head swivels, heavy, disjointed. I look, but Khasina is no longer there. I lose my balance, and then I’m falling. Falling toward the wall. My cheek hits with a dull smack. I sink into it, held tight by the spirit wall’s sticky grip. I try to pry myself off, but I only end up lodged farther in.

  “Khasina! Khasina! Please help,” I call, but there’s no answer. The digestive mites work their way toward me, ready to inject me with their embalming juices. I struggle, and they skitter away—I’m livelier than the flesh they’re used to dealing with. “Guards!” I yell at the top of my lungs. They should be able to hear me. I call again and again until my voice is raw and hoarse. The more I struggle, the deeper I get. Hours pass, the candles extinguish, and soon, my senses return. Their hallucinatory properties are well-known, but that batch must have been made doubly potent. The mites have grown used to my yelling and moving already, and I can feel them at my feet, my fingertips; tiny pinpricks injecting their venoms. I need to find a way to free myself. I can’t believe Khasina would just leave me like this . . . well, actually, I can.

  A daughter of the Abacca line might have no claim to the throne, but with me out of the way, that would leave my parents free to adopt. Rule of Tens . . . nine parents, and one child to share between them. They couldn’t adopt a nameless Sisterkin. That would be out of line.

  Khasina, though . . .

  She’d knocked at the doors of every matriline that had yet to conceive a child or had lost one through death or marriage, until she’d found one desperate enough to soil its name for favors. I feel foolish for underestimating the depths of my sister’s tenacity. The thought of losing my line is more upsetting than losing my life, because if I go, I will be erased. It will be as if I never existed. Not even a failure—a never-was.

  I quiet my mind and think. The guards are gone. Bribed, likely. No one else has come to pray. They must have closed the chambers off. That means there’s no one coming to my rescue, and I’ll have to do this all on my—

  Wait. I have just enough wiggle room to reach the pocket in my raiment. I hold a tiny piece of jerky meat between my fingertips. “Who’s a good girl?” I yell into the room. My voice echoes, but I listen. I can hear the hoglets rustling against their tethers. “I’ve got a treat for you!” More rustling and straining, and with no guards there to wrangle them back, maybe I’ll have a chance to get free if I can rile the hoglets up enough.

  “Treats! Come and get it!” And then I whistle, and they squeal like someone’s torturing them. Then I hear one splash into the basin and then thump on the floor. One is coming. Then another. Bodies flip-flopping toward me, stumpy little clawed fins propelling them sluggishly across the floor, eyes wide on my little morsel. It’s perhaps the slowest rescue there ever was, but they’re coming, and finally three of them are climbing up the wall. They fight over the morsel, and when that’s done, they take to their second favorite treat: licking the spirit wall. Their saliva neutralizes the tacky grit surrounding me, and I wiggle and twist, until finally, with one last turn, I peel away from the wall, and my feet settle back on the floor. My toes and fingertips burn, but the damage isn’t too extensive, which is bad news for Khasina.

  I wrestle the hoglets back into their tethers so the wall isn’t completely destroyed, and go to create some destruction of my own.

  The Hundredth Night Masquerade should be well under way by now. Everyone will be wearing a mask, which I’ll use to my advantage. I steal some pond fronds for feathers. A broken shell for a beak. I’m a sad, sad-looking bird, but no one will recognize me.

  I make my way to the party and get sucked into the crowd. I keep an eye on the stage, pushing closer and closer to it, so that when Khasina appears, I’ll be close enough to confront her, here, in front of everyone.

  A waif grabs me, dressed in tentacles of some mythological sea beast. She tries to get me to dance, but I keep my focus on where it should be. And then I see someone, standing there—a reddish-brown creature, pointy snout and ears, bushy tail. I get closer, peer through the mask. Her eyes, yes, they are Adalla’s. I can almost feel the ancestors smiling down upon me, to grant me a chance at fate such as this!

  I’m struck still, and all the world fades away. It’s as if my mother isn’t terribly, terribly sick. It’s as if my sister hadn’t probably most likely left me for dead. As if we aren’t a bunch of parasites, murdering beast after beast.

  It’s just a lovely night, a simple, pleasurable moment that can be measured by the beat of a song.

  “I made a mistake,” I say to her. “I should have chosen you. Given the throne away. I’ve done nothing to deserve it anyway. I’ve done nothing to deserve you.”

  “Seske?” comes a muffled voice from beneath the mask. Yet it is not Adalla’s voice, but something harsh and scratchy. She takes off her mask. I nearly faint. It is not Adalla, but this girl . . . she looks so much like her, they could be sisters. The very same sister Adalla and I had gone exploring the second ass for. “You must be Seske, the one I’ve heard so much about.”

  “You’ve talked to Adalla?” I ask. “Have you seen her lately? Is she—”

  There’s a scream not far from us, a waif gone mad—no, looks like a boneworker, judging by her hair. She’s ripping masks off everyone’s face. I tug Adalla’s sister away toward safety. Accountancy guards show up a moment later to resolve the situation, and after a brief altercation, the woman is dragged off, kicking and screaming. For a moment, I think—

  No, it can’t be her. Just my mind playing cruel tricks on me.

  “I haven’t seen her in a while,” Adalla’s sister says once things are calm again, “but I suggested that she invite you here, and since you’re here, I’m sure she’s around here somewhere.”

  “She didn’t invite me,” I tell her. “I’ve come to give a speech. Up there.” I point to the raised podium on the stage twenty feet above us. Khasina has just now arrived, dressed in splendid gowns, not the humble ones she’d worn to the spirit wall. Her naxshi are completed and now gleam. The orange and silver paint are in the same pattern as the naxshi of the woman in an auditor’s uniform standing by her side. Must be Chief Auditor Abacca.

  I walk three steps toward them, but then servers are shoving glasses of ale into everyone’s hands. One falls into mine. I look back at the girl who could be Adalla’s sister. My mind wants to tell me something . . . it’s so close, I can hear the whispers, but I can’t make out the words. Something here is not right.

  The music cuts out. “Dearest workers,” Khasina says from her perch upon the stage. “It is with great honor that I stand before you today to celebrate your hard work with a congratulatory toast. I am here carrying out the will of our Matris. She wishes to be here more than anything to celebrate your dedication. In just under eight months, you’ve helped to turn this hunk of space beast into a living, thriving city . . . a feat that could not have been done without you. So, it is with great honor that I, Khasina Kaleigh, true daughter of mothers, salute your service.” She raises her glass. “Let us drink to you!”

  My drink slips from my hand and spills at my feet. Kaleigh! That’s my line!

  Kaleigh, Abacca, Khasina, Sisterkin . . . suddenly the girl with no name has too many. She sees me. I run up to the stage. Adalla’s sister gives me a boost, and I climb. Soon I’m standing eye to eye with my sister. “Khasina, true daughter of mothers of the Kaleigh line? How can that be when I stand here before you? Surely you have misspoken.”

  “I . . . you must have misheard me. I said ‘Khasina Abacca.’ Didn’t I?” She turns to the auditor chief, who nods like any good lackey would. But Khasina’s naxshi go pale.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” I shout at her. “Well, me, I’ve seen several, and you know how our ancestors feel about those who step out of line. The Senate will hear about this violation. There’s no weaseling your way out of it this time. I’ve got thousands of witnesses.” I gesture at the crowd.
>
  The girl with too many names laughs at me, then pulls me in close. “All of your witnesses will be dead within the hour.”

  “What?”

  “They’re grisettes, Seske.”

  “What’s a grisette?”

  “Really—and you think you’re worthy to guide our people?” Khasina shakes her head in contempt. “They’re temporary beastworkers. Matris really has protected you, hasn’t she? She knows you can’t handle the truths about how our society functions, that this mind of yours is too shallow for such big ideas. But you go ahead and tell her. She wants this adoption to happen as much as I want it to. As much as our people need it to.”

  The cries start coming then. Below, by the dozen, people are falling to the floor. “What was in that ale?” I demand.

  “Cell destabilizing agents. Don’t worry. It will be painless. They’ll turn into pools of dense fertilizer for the plants. This year’s harvest will be beyond exception.”

  “This is barbaric!” I say. I have to do something, but the workers are falling so fast. So quietly. I pray to the spirits of the mothers to intervene, to give me strength. Neither of those things happens, and I’m groveling at my sister’s feet, begging her to undo it.

  “It cannot be undone,” she says with disdain. “And even if it could be, we have no room, no resources for them. No work for them to do. It’s unsustainable.”

  “It’s murder. I’m telling Matris!” I say, feeling like a helpless child.

  “She’s the one who sent us here, Seske. She would have been here herself if she could. I know this is a lot, but this doesn’t even scratch the surface of the fortitude it takes to keep our beast up and running, to keep our people safe. This is the way it is. This is the way it’s always been.”

  Then she walks off, even as the hundreds and hundreds of waifs behind her dissolve into nothingness. Just as Sisterkin had expected me to hours earlier.

  And with the same amount of remorse.

  Part III

  Extinction

  When our first foremothers saw the signs of extinction, they did not bemoan the end of their world. Worlds end, again and again. Extinction is a time for celebration, for what is lost makes room for what is to be found.

  —Matris Tayg,

  670 years after exodus

  Adalla

  Of Strange Fruit and Familiar Signs

  “This is the way it’s always been,” Laisze says, rubbing a cool cloth over my swollen eye. The cut still stings, but her touch takes most of the tenderness away. “What you did was foolish. You put us all at risk.”

  “I know, I just thought . . .”

  “Don’t think. The truth is hard. Life is hard, but we’ve got what we’ve got. If you want to help, keep your mind on boneworker issues. We’ve got plenty of our own.”

  The lash counter in our section of the field scowls at us. We’ve been talking too long, which means the fruits aren’t being harvested, which means I’m setting myself up for yet another beating. I can’t believe Laisze and the others just accept it. All those lives, lost for what? So the Contour class can move into their homes sooner and without dealing with any inconvenience?

  I guess I’d been sheltered from it all as a child, but life comes at you fast once you’re grown. One minute, you’re a prodigy in the most prestigious organ on the beast, and the next, you’re knee-high in a boggy fruit patch, swatting away flies and picking ticks off your calves. But I’d take those little annoyances any day over that other thing that’s pestering me. Haunting me would be a better word. I glance over my shoulder. She’s not there now, but I’ve seen Parton’s ghost, standing not twenty feet away from me. The guilt overwhelms me. I chase it away in the evenings, guzzling my meager wages down with watered-down mead. It helps ease the guilt. Some. But never for long.

  I twist the next fruit head, shuck the outer shell, then toss it into my bag with the others. On to the next. My hands are stained deep purple with the fruit’s thick juices, which makes it impossible not to think of the lives of those sacrificed and turned into produce. I can’t help but think of how many of Ama’s eight embryos had suffered the same fate. How many of my sisters had died at Matris’s hand? How many of them are left, not yet born? No wonder this ship is haunted.

  I slash the next fruit, but I notice it has a weird growth. It breaks open in my hands, and among the shiny black seeds sit four white ones . . . underdeveloped, I think at first, but they’re squarish. I look closer and realize that they’re teeth. Human teeth.

  I scream, drop the fruit. Laisze comes running, and she looks down, sees it too. And it’s not like the other times I’ve nearly fainted on the field, not like the first time I saw Parton’s ghost. Laisze had tried to calm me down, telling me there was no such thing and I had nothing to be afraid of.

  Tell that to me now.

  “It’s a sign from Parton. I can’t just sit by and let her—”

  “She’s already gone, ’Dalla. Already gone. It’s just teeth. It happens sometimes. Not everything gets rendered down properly. Usually toward the end of expansion, when extinction is about to start up, but it’s much too early for that.”

  I try not to think about it, the cycle that keeps our people alive. One day, you’re eating crops; the next, your body is nourishing them. And there had been so, so many bodies at the masquerade. And then I’m crying like a baby, and Laisze clutches me closer, and my tears are running all down her chest, and I feel weak. Useless.

  The lash counter comes over, pokes her baton between Laisze and me and wedges us apart. Then she takes a look at the fruit and gives a terse laugh at the teeth tucked inside. She smashes it with the baton, then pokes me in the ribs. The slick juices run down over my hip, and I think . . . I think I feel one of the teeth sliding down too, but I don’t look because I couldn’t take it. That could be Parton’s tooth. Parton’s tooth that’s so funny to the nasty lash counter, who thinks lives are tallies. My fists ball, and Laisze notices, grabbing my hands and forcing hers into mine to keep them occupied.

  “Come on, ’Dalla. We’ve got a lot of crop to harvest,” she says, before I can make this situation worse.

  I need to do something to avenge Parton’s death, to make things right. But breaking one lash counter’s jaw wouldn’t solve anything—can’t do much if I’m hanging by my thumbs. I need a bigger plan.

  That night, after I think we’ve both had enough time to sober up some, I make the climb down from my bunk to Laisze’s. She’s fast asleep, snoring. Real snores. I slip under her thin blanket, drawing comfort in her warmth. Her bed is large, one of the largest, and only three stories up from the ground. Which is good when you’ve binged on mead all evening. Not so good when you want to keep secrets secret. The lash counters watch. They listen. But I can’t make myself care.

  I jiggle Laisze’s side until she wakes. Glassy red eyes pry open, first one, then the other.

  “’Dalla in my bed? I must still be dreaming,” she says with a sloppy smile. She reaches for me, pulls me closer, but I am not here for that.

  “Laisze, I can’t. I can’t just forget. Parton was my friend. She was my sister.” I say this word too loud, and I feel the tension cleave through the air. Loud enough to raise lash counters’ hackles for sure.

  “Shh . . .” Laisze tries to calm me, but I won’t be calmed.

  I inch closer, until my lips are all but upon Laisze’s ear. “All throughout our history, we sing of two kinds of women . . . those born into power and those who disrupt power. I intend on being the latter.”

  I feel her body tense. She throws the covers over our heads and says, “Moan.”

  “What?” I ask. I’m still a little dizzy, still a little drunk.

  “Moan. To help cover my words.”

  I nod, finally getting it. I take a moment to gather myself, then let out a smooth, throaty purr.

  “You’re just one person,” Laisze whispers beneath the sound. “One boneworker picking fruit. What power do you have?”

 
“We’re two, if you’ll join me,” I say, and she moans now, to give any eavesdroppers a sense that we’re simply finding pleasures in each other’s bodies and not plotting to bring this system to its knees. “Together we double our chances. Hands like ours have touched every single inch of this beast. We built this infrastructure. We know its strengths and its weak points.”

  “Daidi’s bells, those guards must have beaten the sense out of you, ’Dalla. It sounds an awful lot like you’re planning a revolution,” she says, and I moan, a roar of satisfaction. These are words that must not be heard. “Like we’re planning one,” she says with a smile.

  “Settle down, you two,” comes the voice of the boneworker in the bunk above.

  And so begin our plans, now pressed up together in my little hovel of a bed, covers drawn, whispers passing between us like those of doting lovers. Still, even though we’ve moved up here, whispering is not enough when so many ears are about.

  I think of Parton and her language of signs. And when I teach them to Laisze, I am still consumed by anger, but it’s not the sort of anger that is resentful for the past, but the kind that fuels hope for our future. We are pressed together so close that our signs become more like caresses.

  Difficult concepts that cannot be summed up in a touch of a thumb to the inner arm or a brush of knuckles against a collarbone are scarred upon my skin: diagrams of buildings, tactics, weak spots, hidden among illustrations of my past.

  And then next thing I know, Laisze’s telling me the location of a secret meeting spot, her mouth hot upon mine, her tongue twisting, twirling in my mouth—each turn and counterturn a set of directions on where we are to meet. A neat shortcut, one I didn’t know about. She pulls back, licking her moist lips. “Good?” Do I understand, she means.

  I nod, picturing the exact spot in my head. “Yes,” I whisper, and then I trace more of our signs upon her skin.

  But just in case, once again . . . and take me the long way around this time.