Regeneration

by Stacey Berg

  The girl nodded, kicking at the dust.

  “Guard duty?” Khyn said. “She’s younger than Netje.” The lines around Khyn’s mouth whitened. Echo knew that thrust of memory, the exile’s fear that home would be forever out of reach.

  “The assignment is for her benefit.” A twist of her own fear shivered through Echo’s belly. The cityens might not know what Fury had done, but the hunters did. If Flo had not survived, Fury would not be standing here. Echo’s voice came out harsh. “Have you identified your error?” Fury only scowled. “Think harder, then.” Echo turned on her heel.

  Khyn glanced back, frowning. “That’s not like you. What did she do?”

  Echo did not answer.

  The refectory was packed, even the hunters’ corner crowded. Nyree caught Echo’s eye, baring her teeth as she indicated the two unoccupied stools next to her and Marin. Echo searched the tables, hoping to find another option, while Khyn dawdled over her selection before settling on bread and cheese again. “I guess I’m getting accustomed to it,” she said, lifting her plate with an anxious little smile. That fled when she saw where Echo was looking. “On the other hand, I’m not very hungry. Maybe we can come back later.”

  It would not do to show weakness. Scanning the room again, Echo saw Brit, Gem, and Indine at a table together, leaving one empty space. “Go sit with them. I will join Nyree.” The prospect did no more for her appetite than it had for Khyn’s.

  Khyn started towards the other hunters with a combination of reluctance and relief. Then, as Echo made for Nyree’s table, Brit rose, gesturing for Echo to take her seat. Echo veered that way, inappropriately relieved herself.

  “I have finished my meal,” Brit said as Echo set her tray down. Nyree, watching, scowled. “I am only waiting for teachings.”

  Gem was frowning almost as darkly as Nyree. “If you do not require your cell, you should ask that it be reassigned,” she told Echo.

  “I was not aware that cells were in short supply.” Echo looked over the tables, counting heads. Then she realized: “If I displaced you upon my return, you may have the cell back. I do not care which one I am assigned.”

  Gem’s face flushed, though the fans turned steadily and the refectory seemed no warmer than usual. “That is not what I meant.” She cast a glance at Khyn, who reddened as well. They all ate in silence for a time. Then Gem cleared her throat. “I do not recall seeing wind this strong so early in the season.”

  “Your experience is limited,” Indine said, poking a stray grain back into place on her plate. “Echo remembers the 377 winter well, I am sure.”

  “Orla, Ren and Shiel were killed in a windstorm that season. The aircar crashed when the beacon failed.” Echo’s utensil made a metallic squeal as she scraped the last grains from her bowl. “That would not happen with the new Saint. The beacon’s transmission is strong—at least it was before it was turned off.”

  “How far out were you when you acquired it?” Gem asked.

  “Approximately three days by aircar, if we could fly them that far.”

  “That is a very long way past the arrays.”

  Echo had done the calculation more than once. At least halfway to the Preserve. I could find it again. I could bring more help for Li—for the Saint.

  “Much farther than your estimate,” Indine said to Gem. “It is fortunate that Nyree did not accept your suggestion about patrols. It would have been a waste of effort.”

  “I disagree. A hunter is a valuable resource.”

  Indine harrumphed. “Echo returned on her own in the end.”

  Echo stared at Gem. Before she could compose a question, Khyn said, “Those hunters who died—they were friends of yours?” She had peeled the crusts off her bread as usual; now she fiddled with the pieces, stacking them one on top of the other. At least she had not wasted any of the cheese. “That must have been hard.”

  “They were batchmates.”

  “Batch—oh.” Khyn sat up, meal forgotten. She looked from Echo to Indine to Gem. “I see. I see.” Her forefinger traced an eager pattern on the table. “From what little I could get the priests to tell me so far I was thinking—but of course it makes sense, if you don’t get your seed from a Vault. And if we can figure out a way to do it with the Preserver line, even Birn couldn’t . . .” Her expression changed. “The vektere would be here already if they were coming, wouldn’t they?”

  “I believe so, yes.” An aircar could have covered the distance Khyn and Echo had traveled on foot three times over by now. But sometimes lying in wait, letting your prey grow careless, was a better strategy.

  Khyn let out a long sigh. “That’s a relief,” she said, but the sound in her voice was not all gladness.

  “Perhaps,” Brit said with a glance at Echo, “they will welcome your return one day if you bring them something of sufficient value.”

  “I don’t know. They must be so angry with me.” Khyn seemed about to say something else, then reconsidered, eyes downcast.

  Gem swept the discarded crusts into her palm. “Perhaps not. It is likely that they believe that Echo abducted you.”

  Khyn swung on Echo, eyes wide. “Is that true?” Her voice rose, the way cityens’ did when they felt some strong emotion. “You never told me! How could you—”

  “Quiet,” Brit murmured, but it was too late. Nyree, attracted by the commotion, had left her table and was coming this way, Marin at her side. Perhaps she had not heard Khyn’s words.

  “Echo Hunter 367 has always kept secrets.” Nyree’s teeth glinted. “Even from the Patri. Haven’t you, Echo?”

  “What I shared with the Patri is between me and him.” Let Nyree figure out which Patri she meant.

  “For example, I am aware,” Nyree continued coolly, “that you have not shared everything that happened when the new Saint ascended. But I have heard rumors.” Her glance flicked from Indine to Brit to Gem, then back to Echo. “I have heard that it was never your intention to bring us the Saint.”

  “No doubt he shared what he felt you deserved to know.” Nyree had no quick retort; for a moment Echo felt a childish triumph. Then her chest constricted. Indine, Brit, Gem—they had witnessed Echo’s weakness in the sanctuary that day, and her shame. They had seen her admit things no hunter should know. Reveal things no hunter should feel. They were looking at her now, and she knew they were remembering, the same as she was. If Nyree found out . . . The old fear rose again, only now it was not just for herself. The Saint needed her. She said stiffly, “I am a hunter, Nyree. I serve as the Church requires.”

  “It is not enough to say so. Service requires obedience. The Church requires—”

  Brit interrupted with a gesture towards the front of the room. “The Church requires silence at this moment. Priest Dalto is giving teachings.”

  Dalto’s instructions were brief and efficient. The wind was expected to worsen; the nuns and smaller juveniles were reminded to stay within reach of shelter. Meanwhile, the pipes had been repaired so that it was no longer necessary to hand-carry water to the hunter domicile, and a new set of sun-charger panels would be tested when the weather improved.

  “Good news,” Indine murmured, and the others nodded. Of the Saint, Dalto shared nothing, for none was entitled to know; but Echo thought about the unsolved power surges, and the band around her chest grew tighter. She slipped away from the table before Dalto finished answering questions.

  Khyn caught her just outside the door. “You did it on purpose, didn’t you?” Echo traced back the conversation, trying to guess which offense she meant, but Khyn continued, “The vektere heard you order me out of the dispensary. Then no one saw us together except Netje, and when they heard her story they would have assumed you made me say what I did. But why didn’t you tell me? I’ve been sick to death, knowing what they must think of me . . .” She broke off, choked, but this time no tears followed.

  It is not their judgment that troubles you, Echo thought, but she felt a pang of guilt. She had had her own reasons for n
ot revealing that aspect of their escape. “I regret causing you additional distress. You acted to help the Preserve. That is what should matter to them in the end.”

  “I know, but . . . Don’t you care about what your friends think of you?”

  It seemed so long ago that she had sat before the old Patri, fear chilling her bones, knowing for certain, he is going to have me culled. Because he judged her weak. Unsound. And now there was a new Patri, who hardly knew her at all, and Nyree. Her stomach fluttered. “Of course. A certain amount of trust in each other is necessary for us to fulfill our functions.”

  “That isn’t all it is,” Khyn said, her voice grown wistful. “At least to us.” Then her face firmed with a new determination. “But you’re right about one thing: I did come to help the Preserve. It’s time to get Dalto to tell me more.”

  A hunter would have been withholding information all along in order to gain leverage. Echo feared that Khyn would finally think of it, now that she realized her people might welcome her back. The priests must get everything they needed first. “The best way to do that is to keep assisting him with the Saint.”

  “We’ll see.” Khyn pursed her lips. “What did Nyree mean about you bringing them the Saint?”

  “The story does not matter now.”

  “Another secret?” The breeze plucked a strand of Khyn’s hair from her braid; she pushed it out of her eyes. “Well, whatever it was, I’m sure you were doing what you thought best. You don’t let much get in your way.”

  Chairs scraped inside, voices rising as teachings came to an end. A group of juveniles burst out of the refectory towards freedom, leaving the door swinging on protesting hinges. And there, close by, stood Gem.

  Echo hovered by Khyn and Dalto long enough to assure herself that Khyn was still, at least for now, cooperative. Then she sat beside the Saint, watching her as Lia used to watch the cityens she cared for when they slept, or cityens watched over their children. That made her think of Fury and her brother. No one had watched over them. They had survived a long time on their own in the desert before she found them. It was marginally to Echo’s credit that she had thought it best to deliver them to the Church. The boy seemed to be doing well enough with the priests. But Fury . . . Perhaps, if they decided she was no hunter, they might not bother to cull her. Simply turning her out would be sufficient. What would happen to her then, a child with no place among Church or cityens . . . It would not matter at all, when that end came, that Echo had meant well by bringing her here. Lia had said it a long time ago: what you do matters more than what you think.

  Echo stared at the expressionless mask that was the Saint’s face. Lia had never looked like that in life. Maybe it was only because the eyes were closed, those luminous golden eyes that had always held a hint of sorrow, even when Lia smiled, or laughed, or looked up from the circle of Echo’s arm, contented as if she could have lain there forever . . .

  Light filtered down from the rose window above the loft. A haze hung in the air, dust, perhaps, blown in from the yard outside. She blinked hard; it didn’t help.

  A footstep sounded behind her, so soft that a cityen would not have heard it. “What do you see when you sit here?” Gem asked. She had known Lia, briefly, had hunted her and Echo into the desert and brought them to the Church, when Echo in her weakness sought to flee. To the rest of the hunters—the rest of the Church—she had always been the Saint. It made the figure on the altar seem all the lonelier.

  In Echo’s silence Gem continued, “I asked the Patri the same thing once. He had no answer either. By then he had become quite weak; he hardly spoke at all, and sometimes when he did, his mind wandered. Once he even called me Echo.” Her lips twitched. “He came here often. He seemed comforted when he looked on her.” Echo felt a faint surprise that Gem even recognized the feeling; it was impossible to imagine her ever needing comfort. But the line between her brows was there again. “I was here the last time, watching. He may not have been aware.”

  “You spied on the Patri?” It was outrageous, even for Gem.

  The young hunter lifted a shoulder without embarrassment. “I assisted him to the altar, then withdrew. I thought he forgot I was there. But I have wondered, since. He spoke to the Saint, but I am not certain his words were directed only at her. He said, ‘I served the Church, but one must serve the Saint. So it must be. We are all made to serve.’ It made little sense to me at the time. But now sometimes I think . . . Perhaps he meant me to hear. Or rather, you. It was the day he called me Echo.” Gem regarded the figure on the altar a moment more, then left as quietly as she had come.

  The Saint blurred in Echo’s vision. Too many questions tried to form themselves at once, congealing in a painful lump in her throat, crowding speech from her tongue.

  How may I serve? It should be the only question a hunter could ask. But in the bottomless silence of the sanctuary, Echo could only wonder, how may I serve you?

  It was not the Church she spoke to. Not the Saint.

  Lia. Oh, Saints, Lia. I cannot let you go—not if there might be a way—I cannot.

  Blasphemy.

  But it was not. She knew that old weakness in herself, that she could not put aside her doubt and do as she should. The old Patri, the Saint before Lia—they had used it against her, set in motion the plot that had led her to Lia. That had made her bring Lia to the altar. But now she knew the truth. She saw it happening again, her own hands placing the crown on Lia’s head, her own arms holding her until the thought, the consciousness, all that was Lia leapt away from her, into the vast city-mind that was the Saint’s . . . It should have been over then, and yet . . . I love you, she said again, as she had in the last moment of Lia’s life, and felt again the pain that seared her heart.

  An alarm shrieked, jolting her out of the memory. Echo whirled to see priests stabbing at their boards. The panels flashed, a panicked pattern it took no skill to read. “Divert the power, quickly!” a priest cried, voice rising like the alarm.

  “Storage is still full, I can’t put it there!”

  “Bleed it through the mast,” Dalto ordered. Khyn stood beside him, the boards’ reflected light flashing in her wide eyes.

  “I am! It might not be enough!”

  “Disconnect the secondary.” Dalto spoke as calmly as a hunter, but the fingers gripping the edge of the panel showed white around the knuckles.

  “But that will—”

  “Create an outage in the city power lines. I know. Only for a moment. I’ll reroute from here. Ready? One, two, three—now!”

  The alarm stopped shouting as abruptly as if someone had cut its throat. Echo’s heart pounded with fear, but the tense lines of the priests’ backs gradually relaxed. “It worked,” Khyn breathed.

  Dalto sat back with a sigh. “I’ve set the excess current to alternate between the mast and the storage sink. The fluctuations will stress the system, but it should hold for now. We’re going to have to find a better solution soon. If we don’t, and these surges keep happening . . .”

  “What caused that?” Echo demanded.

  “If we knew that, we would stop it.” He rubbed his jaw, trying to release muscles that had clenched tight.

  But Echo could hardly breathe. Before, she had spoken to Lia in her mind, imagined that the Saint moved. And then, the surge in the system, and the homing beacon shutting off. And now— “Are you certain nothing from within could trigger it?”

  “I told you before, the systems don’t work that way.” Dalto’s eyes narrowed; she clamped down on her fear before his suspicion could fully form. After a moment he turned to Khyn. “How do your controllers handle excess power?”

  Khyn leaned over Dalto’s shoulder to peer at his board. “I wish Stigir were here. He could explain it so much better, but . . . With the stewards the input starts out divided, then it all combines into one final flow. I wonder if you could do the same in the opposite direction? Split the output power into different streams?”

  “Split it instead of a
lternating it . . .” Dalto’s fingertip traced the pattern on his board, then tapped a place where the filigreed lines intersected. “This would be the place. What kind of device do you use?”

  “The stewards do it from within the link.” Khyn’s lips pursed. “Could you make another interface if you wanted to?”

  Dalto recoiled. “Only the Saint can wear the crown. The Church would reject anyone else instantly.” He glanced into the shadows surrounding the altar. “But we have to think of something. We cannot afford too many more episodes like that. The danger to the Saint . . . Rerouting the power is only temporary, one way or the other. We have to find out what’s causing the imbalances.”

  There was more conversation then, the priests and Dalto, Khyn . . . Echo’s mind registered none of it. Breathe, she told herself. See the boards? They are stable. The Saint is stable. Dalto will find a way to stop the surges. Khyn will help him. If not Khyn . . . The pattern shone on Dalto’s screen, pulsing ever so slightly, gold against the green. The power flow, Echo thought. Somehow it looked familiar. And it was beautiful, the filigree of lines and curves, as if the forebears who designed it had tried, despite their desperation, to bequeath some remnant of grace to those who followed . . . Hunters eschewed ornament, the better to blend unnoticed into any background, but cityens liked decoration, some of them even weaving colored threads into their recycled polymer, simply for the enjoyment. They made shiny baubles from the ubiquitous discarded metals and wore them in the ears, in their hair—

  In their hair. That was where Echo had seen that pattern before: in a hairclasp, glinting in the bright light of a workroom . . .

  She slipped out of the sanctuary before anyone could ask where she was going.

  It was a relief to face a concrete problem. Search, capture, retrieve . . . It took no understanding of the boards, no thought more complex than where her prey might hide. It did take some time to accomplish. Exey was not in his workshop; neither was he at his young brother’s habitation in the Bend, the second place she stopped. “I haven’t seen him in a few days,” the young man said, dandling his baby on his knee; it burbled and blew happy spit bubbles. “I was worried because of the trouble with the Ward—he’s not in any trouble, is he?”