by Nik Korpon
It feels like digging in and hoping to hell Henraek gets my message is my only option. That and look for any opportunity to hamstring her operation. If that’s my only option, it’s a shitty one.
“I’m not coming with you,” I say.
“Hope you’re fast on your six, then.” She nods at the faces poking from the windows, the glares and the daggers they stare at me. “And I’m not leaving a gun with you, let you shoot me in the back as soon as I turn around.”
I take my time getting out of the truck. Only then does she hand me a pistol.
I follow her along the sidewalk, creeping down the same side as the cantina. These streets, once packed with people under the Tathadann’s rule, are now largely deserted. Most of the people who lived here either fled during the fighting in the fear of being captured by the rebels or were killed. The cantina appears to be deliberately built to look broken down, that slumdiving aesthetic that had been so popular with the Tathadann people, giving them the illusion of danger without having to risk anything. Then the uprising happened, and the place became genuinely broken down. I heard the owners were hanged and nailed into the front of the building as a warning, but never felt the need to confirm that for myself. Either way, the rebels who took it over are not prone to surrendering.
“What did you mean back at the house?” I say to Brighid.
“You don’t understand what a cunt is, or you don’t know how to stop being one?”
I cringe at the return of that uneasy banter we’d developed during the uprising. I look at the pistol in my hand – not a rifle like all of those assholes are carrying – and imagine myself lifting it, setting it behind her head, then firing. Imagine what her brains would look like as they flew across the sidewalk. I blink away the image, whisper to myself Just don’t get shot, Emeríann. You can’t kill this goddamned traitor if you’ve got a hole in your own head. Bide your time and remember that going along with something doesn’t mean you’re actually going along with it.
“No. I’ve been around you long enough to know what one is. I meant making the city whole.”
There’s a clattering sound in the alleyway between here and the cantina. The soldiers hold up their hands, keeping their rifles trained on the opening as they strafe toward it. The lead one waves for the other to flank him as he kneels to cover his compatriot. The second one goes around, calls out for someone to halt, flicking his muzzle to the side. A disheveled man shuffles out of the alleyway, his eyes empty and staring at something far away, his mouth hanging open.
“Goddamn lagons,” I say.
“Everyone has their crutch,” she says.
The man totters off, and we keep moving.
“So,” I say, “the city?”
“We have the backing of one of the most powerful parties in the hemisphere. Do you know what kind of resources Ødven has access to? Do you know the kinds of technology at our disposal with him as an ally?”
“But he’s a savage,” I say. “You’ve met him. You’ve heard the stories about him.”
“Do the stories make the man or does the man make the stories?” She glances back at me. “Is anything he’s done worse than executing a girl at point blank range just for doing her job and protecting the water plant?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. But I still see that poor girl’s head in the water distribution plant, the way it snapped back after I shot her, the way she begged for help as the atomizers prepared to blow it all to Hell.
“These people wouldn’t see her as a necessary sacrifice. They’re too enamored of fighting. That’s all they know anymore, which is what made them so good for taking down the Tathadann and so bad for trying to rebuild Eitan. Without someone to lead them, to guide them through the rebuilding, they’ll start fighting against anything that doesn’t meet their vision of revolution,” she says. “But you’re different. You can see–”
There’s a clap, a gunshot. Then one of the soldiers screams as he falls to the ground, his fatigues washing from grey to red. Everyone ducks down, guns at the ready, eyes scanning the sidewalk. Then the cement near my head fractures, shards of it smacking against my cheek. More gunshots, rapid fire, peppering the sidewalk around me.
“It’s an ambush,” Brighid shouts at me.
“No shit.” I point at a car to the right, the wheels long gone. “There.”
Staying crouched, I hurry over behind the car, Brighid close behind. I wager a peek through the window. A rusted cab sits in front of the market across the street, boards across the market’s windows but no barrels poking out from inside. A small shop sits next to that with a few people inside, but they’re all cowering on the ground, covering their heads.
Then up on the roof of the market, a man pops up from behind the ridge along the edge. Three bullets ping the car hood, skipping off and burying themselves in the wall. I pull the trigger without thinking and a red circle blooms in his forehead. He falls forward, crashing on the sidewalk below. Two other voices call out to each other to fall back.
We wait for a moment, listening for any other signs of attackers, but only hear their footfalls retreating down an alley. The soldier creeps out from his cover, rifle drawn, and clears the area. Brighid and I stand cautiously, then I make my way across the street.
There’s a splatter of gore on the sidewalk surrounding the man, a shard of pale bone with sinew stuck to it lying in the puddle of blood. I come up to him, nudge him with my toe out of habit. No way he’s moving, what with his neck bent at an obscene angle and his eyes somehow examining his own back. That’s what he gets for shooting at me. Rule number one, Henraek used to say: don’t shoot at someone if you don’t want to get shot at.
I step over his body and when I crouch down the breath rushes out of my lungs.
I scramble backward, slamming into the wall, pressing my hands against my temples.
Nael’s eyes avert mine. Nael, our bombmaker. Nael, who helped engineer the Gallery bombing. Nael, who fought with Henraek for many years during the Struggle.
And I just shot him in the goddamned face.
I didn’t mean to shoot. It was instinct. I’d never hit a shot like that again even if I tried.
I just saved Brighid and killed Nael. I killed one of my own. I’m one of them now.
No, you’re not. You’re just trying to stay alive so you can continue the fight.
And part of me believes that, but another part keeps saying, You just killed one of your own.
“Hey,” Brighid says, her tone like it wasn’t the first time. “They’re not inside. Come on, let’s go.”
When I don’t move immediately, she rushes over and grabs me by the arm, hefting me up.
“I have no idea who else is here and don’t want to get in another firefight. Move it.”
I shove her hands off me, cock back my fist, ready to punch her, but for some reason don’t. Maybe because, after seeing Nael’s face, his eyes, the thought of more violence just nauseates me. Instead I walk around her and climb back into the truck, sink down into the seat, then close my eyes and wait for this to end.
“I’m not hungry,” I shout at the door when the soldier knocks. The doorknob jiggles, then the lock turns. “Are you goddamned deaf?”
Brighid walks in through the door. Wonderful. Best day ever. Then I see her holding a bowl in her hands. Steam rises from the bowl, and as soon as I smell the aroma, my stomach unleashes an unholy growl. I don’t remember the last time I ate a full meal. Still, I press my hands against my stomach, trying to stifle the noise.
“I thought you might need something to eat,” she says as she sets it on the night table. “Those sandwiches get old after a while, but we have to ration food, and it’s better than squirrel.”
“I’ve eaten a lot of squirrel. Worse than that too.”
“I’m sure you have.” She nods at the bowl. “A little taste of home. You’re from the lowlands, right? The bogs?”
“Yeah.” I lean over and check out the fo
od. Big chunks of golden potatoes sit in a creamy base, with chopped kale or spinach mixed in. A sizeable hunk of dark brown crusty bread torn from a loaf. I can feel my mouth watering, smelling all the garlic and yeast. There are even a few pieces of pink meat that are definitely from a farm, not a park. I reach for the food, then stop.
“How do I know there’s not poison in this?”
“I guess you can’t know for sure,” she says. “But I could’ve killed you a dozen times already. Wouldn’t make much sense for me to waste perfectly good food to do that.” She shrugs. “I appreciate the dramatic flair, though.”
She has a point, and I’m starving. So I dig in. After almost a week with little food – and months and months surviving on scraps – the flavors are so intense I’m briefly afraid they’ll overwhelm my brain circuitry and make me pass out. Then I shovel more into my mouth and stop worrying.
Brighid smiles, watching me eat. I must look like a pig at a trough, but at this moment I don’t care.
I only pause when the lights blink out, darkness settling over the room.
“Is this part of your grand plan for the city?” I say. “Teach us to navigate by echo?”
“We’re working on it.” Her voice sounds different in the dark. Less guarded. Maybe I’m projecting. “That’s part of the reason we’re trying to get the rebels under control. The last thing I need is to have someone like Speider blow up our new power systems just because they weren’t the ones who thought of it.”
“That’s not–” The lights flash back on and I can see my food clearly. I decide against arguing and continue eating.
“I really am sorry about today,” she says. “Grateful, but sorry.”
I ignore her and keep eating.
“Who was he, the man you shot?”
I chew on a piece of meat, concentrating on the flavor and texture. For some reason, it brings an image of my mother to mind, of her washing our clothes in the sink to conserve water.
“Nael was his name. He was a bombmaker during the Struggle. Organized the Gallery bombing.” I shovel more in my mouth. “Him and Henraek were pretty good friends.”
“You don’t ask about Henraek very often.” She rests against the edge of the dresser. “Why not?”
I spoon more food into my mouth to avoid giving an answer.
“You don’t want to seem vulnerable? Constantly asking me about him would mean I could lord something over you, so you sit there, suffering in silence?”
“If you’re so sure you know already, why are you asking me?” I dunk the bread into the cream, letting it soak up the sauce and get heavy.
She looks over at the window, the branches lashing against the sky.
“I killed my first boyfriend,” she says.
I inhale a piece of bread, start coughing until my eyes water. Eventually I eke out a response. “Why doesn’t that surprise me.”
This makes her smile slightly.
“Salamaar was his name. He was from,” she taps her chin, thinking, “I don’t remember what country we were in. It was hot. There was a lot of sand. Lots of flowing robes.
“Anyway, I met him in one of the big open-air markets they had there. I was wandering around the city while Daghda was doing whatever it was he was doing. I was starving, but didn’t have any money, so I stole two pieces of fruit from a stand. To this day, I don’t know why I did it, because I stood out so much already. Daghda and I were about the only pale people there. Salamaar saw me do it. It was his father’s stand. His father was arguing with some of the other men, but he happened to turn right as I was stuffing the fruit inside my pocket, just one of those random things. Over there, the penalty for stealing was having a hand chopped off. The whole thing sounds ridiculous looking back on it, because with a penalty so severe, why would you even try it? But at that age, you never expect anything bad to happen to you.”
I swallow my bite of food. “How old were you?”
“Twelve, I think. Maybe eleven. Anyway, his father turns and almost catches me, except Salamaar yanks on his robe and distracts him long enough for me to hide the fruit. His father rapped him on the head for interrupting the men, then went back to arguing.
“A little bit later, I’m sitting on the sidewalk, eating the second piece of fruit, when Salamaar comes up. He keeps his eyes down, even when he’s standing in front of me, and holds out two more pieces of fruit. I take one of them then scoot over so he has a place to sit. We did that for about a week, every day, same place, same time. One of the last days, he finally worked up the nerve to lean over and kiss me. I kissed him back. His lips were really soft and his mouth tasted sweet.” She crosses her arms and leans back, eyes dancing far away in the past. “I remember thinking that kissing was pretty great and that this was how they would all be. It made sense at that age, you know?”
I nod that I do. I was a little older the first time Riab and I kissed – fourteen, I think – but I remember thinking the same thing.
“The next day, Daghda assassinated one of the most outspoken tribal leaders in the region. Everyone went insane, people fighting in the streets. From the little I understood, the conflict was between two factions of the same tribe. I guess they had a tenuous peace agreement, until Daghda went and blew it all to hell.”
I gesture, indicating the city. “He seems to have a habit of doing that.”
Brighid barks out a laugh despite herself, and I think that’s the only time in six months I’ve ever heard her laugh.
“I headed back to the market to meet Salamaar that afternoon – because, of course, that’s the most logical thing to do when a civil war is breaking out. Young love, I guess. But as I get over there, I hear someone scream my name. I look up and Salamaar is standing there, his robe covered in dust and flecked with blood. His face was just… unholy. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anyone as betrayed and hurt and scared as he was right then. I can still see him if I close my eyes. He was holding a long tent stake in his hand. Apparently word had traveled quickly about the pale assassin, so I was immediately pegged as his conspirator. But what I didn’t know until later was that Salamaar’s father had been the tribal leader Daghda was hired to kill. He was probably organizing something with the other men while his son was stealing his fruit for his pale-faced girlfriend.”
I realize that I’ve stopped eating as I’m listening to her story, and as delicious as this food is, I’ve sort of lost my appetite.
“And then Salamaar charged at me. He was sprinting, the tent stake pointed at me, and all I could think was I’ll pay for the fruit. But when he was a couple feet away from me it all registered, what was happening, and I reached down and grabbed a big rock from the sidewalk and swung it at Salamaar. Hit him right here.” She taps her temple. “One shot, and he was down. Died right there.” She pauses for a long minute. The only sounds in the room are our breathing. Somewhere outside, rifle shots echo. “I threw the rock into an alcove, and then I turned and ran. There was so much commotion going on that no one noticed me. No one noticed that poor boy lying dead in the street.”
I want to say something, to console her, to share my own story, but in the same turn I also want to ridicule her for thinking a story could wipe away the fact that she shipped my family to a far-off land and has been holding me hostage for days and turned me into a traitor against my own people. But seeing her sitting there, her warrior-woman mask slipping ever so slightly, it makes me feel bad for her. And what could I possibly say anyway that would mean anything?
“Anyway,” she says abruptly, standing, “I’m going to rest. We have a mission tomorrow morning and can’t be tired. Intel gave us something we need to look into.”
And my body deflates, all sympathy and connection draining out. “After everything you just told me, we’re still going to go on these missions?”
She looks at me like I’m insane. “Nothing has changed. Our objective is still the same. We’re trying to rebuild Eitan.” She walks to the door. “But before we go, I’m going to tak
e you somewhere. I think it will help you understand.”
She leaves without another word, the door closing as loud as a rifle shot.
The room is quiet except for a sucking sound inside my chest. It takes a few minutes for me to process that swirling and roiling, but eventually I can identify it. It’s realizing that I can’t remember the last time I had a real conversation with another woman.
It’s the sound of loneliness.
13.
HENRAEK
The ride out to Rën is much shorter than it seems it should be, owing largely to the massive transformation in landscape, but that also could be because of the hyper-fast train that runs on magnetic levitation, not the old rails like the ones in Eitan used to. Where Vårgmannskjør was largely flat, with great mountains far in the distance and tall evergreen trees scraping against the sky, as we traveled west the land began rupturing, the frozen plains cracking at first before splintering into giant fissures that butt up against massive, jagged ridges. I want to call them fjords but don’t think that’s quite accurate. As we approach Rën’s central station, those ridges creep higher and higher on the north side, then drop away dramatically as they crash into the sea on the western side of the continent.
As the outside whisks past us, Donael leans over.
“Dad? Are you really doing this?”
I don’t know what he’s talking about, but at the same time I already knew he’d ask. I manage not to sigh hard.
“Do what, Donael.” It should be a question but I can’t quite make it into one.
“Find all the Nyväg people.”
“We’re just out here as observers. Just like I said.”
“You mean, like Ødven said to say.”
“Same difference.”
Donael shakes his head. “They’re just like you, you know.”
“Who, Ødven?”
“No. Duh, Nyväg. They’re fighting Ødven like you fought the Tathadann.”