The natural barriers in the stomach lining mean there is only a short stretch of border that needs to be guarded, and while technically there is no wall dividing them from us, accountancy guards stand nearly within arm’s length of one another, under the guise of providing security and protection for our new guests, rather than from them. The guards don’t look quite so friendly when they see us coming.
“State your purpose here,” says the guard. She’s tall and muscular, with a brow so rigid and pronounced a wash hoglet could perch upon it. Intimidating as they come.
Kallum doesn’t blink an eyelash and holds out his assignment papers.
The guard checks them over, then looks at me. “I don’t know you,” she says.
“Do you know every accountancy guard there is?” Kallum cuts back at her. Men have been entering the guard in record numbers lately, making it harder to keep up, and we’re using that to our advantage. “This is Xendis Gills, my personal escort.”
“I’m new,” I say. “Been working Block 84 for the past few weeks.”
She grunts, then steps to the side to let us through. “Don’t be long,” she calls after us.
We nod, then immerse ourselves in the chaos around us. Five steps ago, we were on familiar ground, and yet now, I feel as if I’ve been transported to somewhere completely foreign. The smells hit me first—some flowery and cloying, others spicy and inviting. And even through the heavy tint of my goggles, I can see the attention that’s gone into turning the drab Ides homes into works of art. Mosaic paint patterns dapple the once brown structures, and beads are strung up in all the entrances, providing a hint of privacy and more than a hint of beauty. A vocalist tucked in an alleyway, just out of the path of foot traffic, belts out a warbling string of notes accompanied by a twangy stringed instrument. His people and mine are a thousand years removed from sharing the same air, and yet I still catch hints of words and phrases I know, interspersed with syllable arrangements wholly unfamiliar, ringing like chimes in my ears. His small audience claps as he finishes his song, offering him bits of food and cloth wraps in appreciation. I instantly start to doubt Tesaryn Wen’s warnings of the dangers this place holds.
“Sodi sodi!” a gruff voice yells from behind us.
I turn and see a man brandishing a long, metal knife. I fumble and push Kallum behind me, though my only weapon is being able to recite all five sections and all eighteen subsections of our civil code by memory with the hope of boring our assailant to death.
“Sodi sodi nuts for you?” the man says again, nodding at the stand next to him. His words are thickly accented and I strain to understand him. “Good deal. Yours for five shell money.”
I look closely at his stand. He’s selling some sort of snack wrapped up in little paper packets. Roasted nuts of some sort. They smell divine.
I turn back to Kallum. “I don’t know, I think I need to buy some. For cultural research. Firsthand knowledge, so that I can relay an extremely thorough account of my experiences.”
He grins at me. “We should definitely gather as much data as we can.”
He means five cowries, I’m assuming. A little steep for a snack, but I hastily part with the money, and in exchange, Kallum and I each get a bag overflowing with roasted nuts rolled in pine sap and sprinkled with some sort of ground spice. I bite into the nut. It’s chewy, almost meaty in texture. I’ve been dragged to more high-society functions than I can count and have tasted the very best gourmet dishes prepared by some of our most renowned chefs, yet I’ve never had anything like this. It’s so delicious, a curse to the ancestors crosses my lips.
Kallum’s eyes go wide, but he doesn’t admonish me, just nods in agreement and stuffs three more nuts in his mouth.
I grab another nut and examine it closely. Round with a little pointy end on one side and a divot where a stem had once been on the other. There’s a subtle hint of striping beneath the spice layer. “Kallum,” I say nudging him in the shoulder. “I think these are helm’s cap. The little warts that grow on the soggy outskirts of the woodward canopies.”
Kallum shakes his head. Helm’s caps are good for a lot of things. Playing catch. Using their shells to trap unsuspecting hedge lice. You could even race them if you were very, very, very patient. Kallum and I had played all sorts of games with them when we were kids, but if there was one thing they weren’t good for, it was eating. Kallum leans over to the vendor and says something in their tongue. He continues, and Kallum keeps nodding along, though I can tell from the subtle changes in his body posture that he’s uncomfortable now.
Kallum touches his chest, then extends his hand out toward the vendor in a gesture of thanks, then places his hand on the small of my back and guides me into the flow of traffic.
“What was that all about?” I say, popping another nut into my mouth.
“Just brushing up on the language. I’ve gotten a little rusty since my liaison duties ended.” Though Kallum is still behind me, I can hear him grimace through the words.
“Liar,” I say, then turn to squint at him. “How do they make the nuts edible, Kallum?”
“It’s complicated,” Kallum says. “And wash hoglets are involved. But he assures me that everything is extremely sanitary. Just consider it culinary ingenuity and enjoy your nuts.”
I want to pry deeper but don’t have long to dwell on it with so many people pressed around us. So many couples of all sorts, hand in hand. So many men among them, it’s almost dizzying. Families with two and three kids frolic. Two men hold hands in front of us, each of them holding the hand of a child. Kallum and I glance at each other.
“Imagine,” he says, almost a whisper. “Imagine if it was just us.”
“I thought you liked our life.” I say in return, not wanting to imagine, knowing that the only place that could lead was resentment toward Charrelle and our other spouses. I get enough of that with Seske.
“I do. It’s perfect. And our child, I can’t wait for her to get here. But don’t you ever think about it, what it would be like? Maybe Seske and Adalla are onto something. Maybe we’ve spent too much time marrying for Lines when we should have been marrying for love.”
“We married for love,” I say in defense.
Kallum’s hand slips into mine. “Yeah, but my lineage certainly helped, didn’t it? What if I had given it up? What then?” He looks at me, his eyes pleading. Without his Line, two men would have never been allowed to marry. He wants to know if I would have turned it all upside down for him. Forsaken my Line, our traditions. Torn down the whole of society for him. If Seske and Adalla’s story had been ours, would I have risked everything and thrown myself across the emptiness of space for him?
I will the right words forth, but they refuse to come. Instead, I stand there, mouth hanging open, like a pitcher plant trying to catch flies.
Something in his eyes fades. The tiny sliver of a hopeful smile drops from his face. He tries to tug his hand away from mine, but I hold tight.
“Let go,” he says under his voice.
“No, Kallum. I’m sorry. I should have said—”
“Let go,” he says again, this time nodding ahead of us. Two accountancy guards stand there, watching our every move. A chill runs through me. We can’t afford to get caught here. Going behind Tesaryn Wen’s back was one thing, but to stoop to such trickery and deceptions—even the trust I’ve built up with my supporters in the Senate would be shattered.
I drop Kallum’s hand and try to blend in, try to look like I belong here, but it’s too late. There’s no blending in. There’s no belonging. Not in a place like this. They make their way toward us.
“Run!” I shout to Kallum.
We dash down an alleyway, brushing past a few vendors and hurdling over a group of kids playing billy tag with a bunch of sticks—the same game I played as a kid, though our sticks had been copper-plated and hand-etched with our family Lines. We press deeper and deeper into the maze of homes, glancing back, but the guards are still on us. We’re nearly to
a dead end, just a collection of pods in front of us, no way to get through, and it’s too late to double back. Just when I’ve given up hope, a pair of hands reaches through the beaded door we’re next to and drags us inside. Clammy hands clamp down onto our mouths and quilted shawls are thrown over our heads. We’re pushed to a pit of burning coals, with several people excitedly chatting around it. The bead door is thrown open, and the guards peer inside. Kallum and I keep our heads down and our arms outstretched, pretending to chat with them in their animated style. I hear a woman argue with the guards briefly, and then they are gone.
I breathe a heavy sigh, then dare to peek out from under the quilt. Kallum’s face brightens when our savior turns around. His whole body opens to her, and then they’re caught in a deep embrace. They converse for a long moment, but I’m only able to pick up a few words here and there. Finally, Kallum turns and holds his hand out at me.
“Doka, I’d like you to meet Tirtha Yee, the Klang’s lead environmental scientist. We worked very closely together. We tried so very hard.” His voice cracks.
I nod. “Kallum has mentioned you. He says that you worked many miracles with your Zenzee. That you were as close as the Klang have to royalty.”
Tirtha blushes. “We are all equal under the Adhosh,” she says, and though I strain to parse her clipped consonants and rounded vowels, her words are clear. “But I am honored that Kallum thinks so highly of me. I must return the favor, as I hear is your custom, and say that Kallum served us as one of the most brilliant diplomats we have ever seen. He picked up our ways of speaking within two weeks, and by the time he left, you would have thought he’d been born among us.” She grins at me. “You are very lucky to have a husband who is such an agile linguist!”
Then she laughs, hearty and deep—the kind of infectious laugh that you can’t help but be envious of how free it is. I can see why Kallum likes her so. Even after all she’s been through, Tirtha can find pleasure in making juvenile double entendres. And now it is my turn to blush.
“Quite agile,” I say, and Tirtha laughs again, pulling us both into a tight hug.
“Well, I am very glad you have each other then,” she says.
Finally, we peel back, and my clothes smell of her flowery sweetness. It’s not in the slightest bit unpleasant. I instantly feel at home.
“Doka wishes to know more about how your accommodations are working out,” Kallum says.
I nod, taking my cue. “Yes, I’ve gotten reports and have made visits, but I’ve got this feeling that somehow I’m not getting the full view.”
Tirtha’s smile drops, but her eyes brighten. She is eager to tell me her story, though I sense it will not be an easy one. “Firstly, we will be forever grateful for your aid. Your quick thinking saved thousands of lives, and for that, we owe a great debt. Our basic needs have been met. However, we are now many months removed from the state of chaos that brought us here, and it is time for us to reconnect with our ways. Our minds are meant to solve problems and perform experiments, yet our instruments and equipment have not been returned to us. Our hands are meant to do meaningful work and be in touch with of all the organs, yet we have not been allowed to acquaint ourselves with your Zenzee. We don’t even know her name! We are used to living freely upon Adhosh where every voice mattered. Here, we have no voice. No choice. No freedom.”
I bite my lip. It is now that I understand the true danger the Klang present. It is not their knives and harsh tones that pose a threat to us. It is their ideas. Not even among our own people do all voices matter equally. Some of them haven’t even mattered at all. Our ways are so incongruous that they cannot coexist together, and yet here we are, shoved right up next to each other.
Because I insisted we bring them aboard.
“Can you tell me more about how things work for your people,” I ask, undeterred by the danger, because even with my self-admonishment, all I can see is an opportunity to better ourselves. “I mean before your Zenzee got sick?”
Tirtha puts her hands on both my biceps, then squeezes. Kallum mentioned how friendly she was when he was aboard their ship. “Handsy,” he’d said on more than one occasion. Now I was beginning to understand, feeling as though I’ve become her child to dote over. “Of course, iho, but first we must feed you. We can’t afford for you to wither away on us. Bakti!” she calls. “Bring my sweet potato plant into the kitchen. Come, you two, we will chat there.”
The man who must be Bakti jumps to his feet, and I can see from his face that Tirtha is his mother. Same features, though his skin is a much darker shade of brown, almost near mine. Handsome and well-fed, his lips press together in a wry smile. He tugs one of the large, beautifully decorated ceramic pots from its position near the entrance of the home back toward the kitchen. Kallum and I offer to help him, and he looks relieved.
We each grab a side, and the chore is done quickly and efficiently, though the leafy green and purple leaves sticking up from the gelatinous soil keep slapping me in the face as we go. We set the pot down near the cooktop and Tirtha nods in approval.
“We were on Adhosh for thirty-five years before we started having problems,” Tirtha says, dipping her hands in a basin of soapy water. She rubs them together vigorously, then grabs the base of the leaves.
“Mama . . . ,” Bakti whispers, but Tirtha swats him away.
“Adhosh. She is . . . was, your Zenzee?”
“More than that. She is our keeper. Our lifeline. And her life has not ended. She has merely gone on to be with her kind.” She tugs and tugs, and eventually the gelatin soil crumples and cracks, releasing a knotty, purple root the size of a newborn babe. She lays it down on a cutting board, then looks at me. “Hold this for a moment,” she says. “You like sweet potatoes, right?”
“Um, sure but . . . ,” I begin, pressing my hand down on the tuber as Tirtha goes to sharpen a long, thick knife. “I’ve never—” I nearly bite my tongue when the tuber starts squirming beneath my hand. The tiny root offshoots whip futilely at my hand. Small knotty mouths all over open and close like a fish out of water. “It’s moving.”
“Stick your knuckle in one of its mouths. Too much stress will sour the taste.”
I do what she says, looking over at Bakti for a hint that I’m doing it right. We’ve had sweet potato hash numerous times, but we get it from the market, already finely chopped and ready for cooking. Bakti looks at me and gives me an encouraging nod as the potato nearly sucks the skin from my finger. I grit my teeth and tap my foot to take my mind off the pain.
“Things were not perfect, of course,” Tirtha continues, “but we had an egalitarian society. Every person as important as the next. Everyone had a chance to speak up on the issues that were important to them. Each year, we selected representatives at random. Everyone knew they had a duty. It was a slow process, but an effective one. We knew what the alternatives were. We’d been down that road already.” Tirtha nudges me out of the way with her hip but holds my hand in place when I try to remove it. “Not yet,” she whispers.
Then she raises the knife and slams it down inches above my fingers. The mouths on the sweet potato wail. The knife comes down again and again, and after a few seconds, the cries fade to nothing. The mouth with my knuckle held hostage falls open. I take my finger out and cradle it against my chest. Kallum stands behind me and wraps me up in his arms. Do I look that unsettled?
Tirtha continues until she’s got a cutting board full of perfectly diced cubes. She pops one into her mouth. “Perfect,” she says. “You did well.”
“Thank you,” I manage to squeak out.
She tosses the greens into a pot of boiling water, then oils the potato cubes, adds a thick red sauce, and sets them to roasting in an oven. She sighs. “Things started to fall apart when we suffered a doldrum breach. It was completely unexplained, but we were able to patch it, though we suffered a dozen casualties in the process. The cascade was slow enough that we were able to ignore the warning signs longer than we should have. Maybe it wa
s pride on my part. Even through failed crops and leaky heart valves, we’d kept our Zenzee stable longer than most of the other clans through careful use of detailed metrics and environmental readings. When our leader pressed me to consider culling another Zenzee, I protested. I told her that Adhosh would not fail us. She put her trust in me, and in the end, I failed them all.”
“You didn’t fail us, Mama,” Bakti says to her, then to us, “Don’t look at her like that. Don’t pity her. Who prevented the first cascading heart failure? Who diagnosed the tainted water in the idle lakes hours before it was set to be released into the main aquifers?” Bakti stands up in his chair with the confidence of an adventurer, then gestures for his mother to do the same. She steps up into her chair. “You saved us, Mama. You saved our lives more times than we could ever count.”
Her lip trembles for a moment, then she pulls herself up tall and stares me straight in the eyes. “We will have to agree to let the past remain in the past. Adhosh has ascended, and we are here now. I hope that I can contribute to the success of your Zenzee and the others we have colonized.” Tirtha flushes again, but this time, I know that it is not from embarrassment. Stress has taken its toll on her body. I attempt to help her down from her chair, but she swats me away and takes a seat on her own.
Bakti picks up where his mother left off, gesturing as if to distract us as she composes herself. “It is you who have saved us, but we have so much to offer you in return,” he says, still standing on his chair as if he’s had zero home training. I can’t decide if he’s grandiose or passionate or reckless. Maybe it’s a mix of all three. “You must allow us to return to living our normal lives. We will help with existing peacefully with your Zenzee, turning away from our history of parasitism and working toward something beneficial to us all. It is possible if we break down the barriers between our people. Let us sit and talk further.”
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