Nyxia

by Scott Reintgen

  He’s looking at me like I’m a monster, a black hole.

  Something whispers in my ear to stop. Instead of finishing him off, I let my hands drop and I walk away. I’m not a monster. I won’t become what Babel’s trying to make me.

  We lose another capture-the-flag game in the afternoon, and I find myself where I was when I started the day. Losing ground to Genesis 12. The rest of the crew is dejected. Longwei punches a glass partition on our way back to the rooms. He’s in danger of losing his captainship on Eden now. I’d feel bad for him, but at least he’s going.

  Bilal and I sit together in his room afterward.

  We’ve spent the past few days ignoring the fact that we’re fighting each other for the last spot. It’s always been easier to pretend it’s us against the rest of them. A few days after his surgery, his doctor showed him the vid of me attacking Longwei. Something unspeakable formed then. He looks and talks to me like a brother. I didn’t want that. There’s too much pain and guilt when true bonds turn rotten. A branch can be cut away, but roots run deep and dark. What I wanted didn’t matter. When someone treats you like a friend, that’s what you become. His words have made a brother out of me. My words have carved him into the same.

  Which is why every conversation with him breaks my heart now.

  “I will have to start fighting soon,” Bilal says quietly. “But my doctor has advised against it. The leg can’t take combat. Most days, I will lose. Everyone else is catching up to me.”

  I can only nod. “Maybe you can fight the weaker opponents.”

  He’s quiet for a while. “You are going to pass me.”

  I shake my head. “You don’t know that.”

  “What will happen will happen.”

  “Bilal, there’s still time. Maybe our team will turn it around against Genesis 12.”

  “Do you think so?” he asks.

  No. Of course not. “Maybe.”

  Bilal nods, like he believes it. “We must hope.”

  “And someone could get hurt. Alex, maybe.”

  Bilal looks shocked. “We must hope, but never for that.”

  I hope for it every day, pray for it every night.

  “Bilal, it’s either you or them. You know that, right?”

  “I cannot wish harm on anyone,” he says. “They have worked hard too.”

  I shake my head. “They don’t deserve it like you. You’re good. Better than me and better than them. That’s why you deserve to go, no matter what the scores say.”

  He blushes. “Before I came, I slept outside. I had a rug for a bed, a shirt for a pillow. My best friends were sheep and my family was poor. The loser gets money too. Remember?”

  I remember a promise on a piece of paper. I remember Babel giving us their word about how life on Genesis 11 would work. Those promises have been broken before, but I don’t have the heart to remind Bilal of that. Instead, I say, “I remember.”

  “It is more money than my father has made his entire life,” Bilal says dreamily.

  My heart breaks just watching him. I make a promise to myself to find him if I do get to Eden. When I get back, I will take my paychecks to Palestine and split them with him.

  “What will you do with the money?” I ask.

  His marbled eyes are distant, lost. “I will buy my father livestock. I will go to school. Even a small part of that money will get us a house three times as big. Life will be better.”

  “I’ll come visit you,” I say, but it tastes like a lie. There are no guarantees in life, especially not out in space with Babel calling all the shots. “You’ll have to teach me Arabic.”

  Bilal is teary-eyed. “I hope for these things. Not all is lost, yes?”

  “No,” I say quietly. “Not all is lost.”

  DAY 20, 5:23 P.M.

  Aboard the Tower Space Station

  I dream of Bilal. He stands in a desert and I am the wind, coming to devour him.

  As Defoe promised, Babel isn’t allowing any more Sabbaths. This part of the competition isn’t about rest. It’s about seeing who can survive the grind and come out the other side as champions. But today’s the last day when we can call home, before the winners leave for Eden, so Babel schedules both our Waterway competitions in the morning and sets aside ten minutes in the afternoon for everyone.

  Morning guides Genesis 12 to victory twice in the span of a single hour. After collecting our losses and eating lunch, Vandemeer sends me down to the Tower’s version of the Contact Room. I don’t know how to tell my parents that I’m still in the bottom four. I’m gaining on Bilal, but he won his first duel yesterday, against Parvin. He could still beat me. And Loche or Roathy might catch me. How can I possibly go home to them empty-handed?

  The scheduled appointments are tight, so it’s no surprise to see Morning exiting the Contact Room just as I arrive. It is a surprise, though, to see her crying. When she sees it’s me framing the entryway, she doesn’t look embarrassed or apologize; she just comes forward and buries herself in my chest.

  It happens so fast that I barely get my arms out and around her. She cries, louder and harder, and I stand there with a million pointless phrases running through my head. But I don’t know why she’s crying or what I’m supposed to say. So I just stand there and hold her, the way Pops always held Moms, the way both of them always held me.

  When she finally has the strength to pull away, she keeps one hand on my chest and uses the other to wipe away tears. She sniffs twice, takes a deep breath, and looks up.

  “I need you to tell me that everything’s gonna be all right.”

  “What?”

  “Just say it. Say everything will be all right.”

  I stare at her, then speak the words quietly. “Everything will be all right.”

  She swallows once, gives me a firm nod, and slips out of the room. I’m left with my head spinning. I can feel myself falling for her, but at the same time, I know she’s the most likely one to send me home. One of us has to fail, and I’m hoping her dreams of bringing all of Genesis 12 to Eden don’t come true. If I’m going to have any prayer of going, she has to fail.

  I head into the Contact Room and prepare for my own goodbye. When the screen flickers to life, my heart almost breaks. For the first time, Moms is sitting next to Pops. Tears rush down my cheeks, but I don’t wipe them away. Her smile is every sunset and sunrise I’ve missed out here in the lonely black of space. She’s wearing a summer dress, sky-blue and bright against her dark skin. Her hair’s pulled up into a pretty bun. Her eyes shine with pride.

  “My boy,” she says, and her voice is sweeter than any song. “My brave, brave boy.”

  “Moms, I missed you so much.”

  Pops has his arm around her bird-thin shoulders. She leans into him and smiles wider.

  “Your father’s told me everything. We couldn’t be more proud.”

  I nod. I want to tell her so much. It comes out all at once.

  “We still have some time left, but I think I can do it, Moms. I think I’m going to make it. When I come back, we’re going to be rich and I’m going to take y’all out for a nice dinner and buy you pretty dresses. Pops, I’ll get you a car. Not a Ford. Forget Ford. I’ll get you a Ferrari or something. When I get back, it’s going to be different.”

  Moms nods. “We got the first few checks already. Everything’s changing. And my treatments have been going well. These Babel doctors are so good, Emmett. I wanted you to know I’m at the top of the list. I get the next kidney transplant. It’s such a difference, sweetie. All because of you. When you get back, win or lose, life’s changing. It won’t be the way it was. You just make sure you be smart and you be good, hear me?”

  “You’re already smart and good,” Pops adds. “So be smarter and better.”

  “I’ve still got the key,” I say through tears. “What do you want me to do with it?”

  My father’s face tightens. He’s fighting off tears too. “Bury it. If you go down there, we’re free. You’re free. You
’ll be the first one to hand down something new. Bury the key on Eden as a sign, okay? A sign that all that’s over and that we’re starting new lives. Bury it for your sons and your daughters.”

  He’s crying now and I’m crying more. Eyes swimming, I try to change the subject.

  “Anything you want me to tell the aliens?”

  Pops smiles. “Teach them football for me.”

  “Sing them love songs,” Moms says. “Sing like we used to sing.”

  “I will,” I say. “I promise, I will.”

  “Never forget where you came from,” Pops reminds me.

  “Or how much we love you,” Moms adds.

  “Never,” I say.

  On the corner of the screen, it ticks the final seconds we have.

  “I love you.”

  “To the moon and back,” they both say.

  The feed cuts and I’m left alone, crying. A techie peeks in but thinks better of telling me to leave. I cry good tears and bad tears, missing tears and hopeful tears. When I finally pull myself together, each footstep sounds like a promise.

  For Kaya, for them, for myself, for every Atwater there ever was: I’m going to Eden.

  Determination pours into every bone and muscle. I can’t just sit still. Knowing we won’t be back in the Waterway until tomorrow, I head down to log some time on the tread floor. Working out has become a release ever since Kaya died. Disappearing into the tanks for an hour of swimming keeps me from going insane. Running dulls the mental strain of fighting for every damn point. The crazy thing is that my father’s been this tired for twenty years. I was born to grind. If I can just keep fighting, maybe it will be me who breaks those chains.

  The altered Rabbit Room is empty. I slide off my nyxian rings and bands, thankful for a workout that won’t involve someone swinging a weapon at me. A few taps on the corner of the big screen has the tread floor grinding to life. I input distances, elevations, and speeds. I hate running in silence, so I plug in my player and run to the rhythm of old beats. Which is why I almost don’t hear them.

  In the seconds between songs I catch the faintest breath of the blast door. My eyes flicker to the corner of the screen. I’m almost at the end of my ninth kilometer. Each breath comes unevenly. My calves are burning and the front of my shirt is soaked with sweat. I want to collapse. Instead, I straighten my shoulders and punch the power button. The tread floor carries me halfway to the intruders before stopping. I should have known they would come after everything I overheard.

  Roathy and Isadora flank the entryway. The intent of their visit is clear: Isadora’s shaped her nyxia into a fine-tipped spear. Roathy waves at me with one of his short swords. Neither weapon looks blunted. I glance to the corners and find the cameras there. Red dots in black bulbs. It’s tempting to signal for help, but I stand there and wait instead.

  “ ’Lo, Emmett.”

  “Finishing Karpinski’s work?” I ask.

  The two lovers exchange wicked smiles. I expect Roathy to speak, but it’s quiet Isadora who answers the question. The girl who saves most of her words for Roathy, and almost always in whispers. Since his injury they’ve been together, but I never pegged her as the leader.

  “Karpinski? He’s nothing.” Her voice is cold and casual. “We tell him to go and he goes. Stay and he stays. He’s a dog. A good dog sometimes, a bad dog sometimes. But only a dog.”

  Her words tie knots in my stomach. She doesn’t sound like a kid. I’ve seen myself transform under Babel’s bright lights. Eyes turned in, I must have missed how the others have changed. Where have calluses formed? What has Babel killed in them? What’s grown up in those dead spaces? Isadora twists her spear casually, eyes dark and unblinking above her mask.

  “You told him to kill me?” I ask quietly.

  My hands are trembling. They notice, and they mistake it for fear. This isn’t fear; it is anger. Something dark stirs in the empty air. I am a waiting pit, the beginnings of blackest night.

  Isadora flashes a look of mocking sympathy. “You were in our way. That’s really what it comes down to now. We can’t risk you taking Roathy’s spot. Not when we’re so close.”

  Roathy holds up my gym bag. With a smile, he tosses it into the hallway and seals the door. All my nyxian rings and bands, gone just like that. They both tighten their grips on their weapons, and I know it will happen soon. He’ll come first; she will follow. He’ll swing low and she’ll dart high. I know enough of their fighting styles to see the first few moves play out in my head. But my mind fails to form a counterattack. Without nyxia, I’m dead where I stand. Neither Isadora nor Roathy is a great fighter, but this isn’t a fight. It’s a slaughter.

  “You can’t beat us without nyxia,” Roathy says.

  Isadora nods encouragingly. “We know how this ends.”

  Before they attack, I grab the towel hanging over the mesh barrier. Slowly, I wipe the sweat from my forehead. They don’t move. They just stand sentry over the door scans, waiting. Calmly, I drape the towel back over the net and lean down to tie my shoe. A flash of quick fingers pulls the little black coin from beneath my heel. I hid it there for a moment like this. I hid it there because I learned a long time ago that I couldn’t trust anyone.

  Today is not the day that I die. The thought beats like an anthem in my chest. Not today.

  “They’ll know you killed me,” I say, standing. “There are cameras down here.”

  Isadora smiles. “We’re not here to kill you.”

  “Just to hurt you,” Roathy adds. “What do you think, Isadora? The leg?”

  “A leg sounds perfect,” she says. “We can give him and Bilal matching scars.”

  They’re playing with their prey. As they speak, they begin to move. Slow, mirrored steps that bring them onto the tread floor with me. I palm the nyxian coin, waiting.

  “You’re making a mistake.”

  The power in my palm pulses, dances, hungers. It feeds on my rage and anger.

  “Mistake?” Isadora laughs. “Roathy, where’d I promise I would take you?”

  “To Eden.”

  “And what will we do there?” she asks.

  “Start a new life.”

  “I always keep my promises, don’t I?”

  “Always.”

  Their circle tightens like a noose. Knowing I’m caught, Isadora lunges. The point of her spear darts at my neck. I roll that shoulder away, but the blow never reaches me. Half a meter from my face, it catches. I watch the metal point wedge into thin air. The shaft reverberates and flexes from the blow. Isadora’s eyes widen just before a pulse of black air engulfs me. It is the darkest night. It hovers blackly and asks a question of me.

  My body answers yes. The empty air snaps, and the lights blink back into my vision. Isadora and Roathy are still there, but now they exchange a nervous glance. My feet retreat on their own. I look down at the coin in my hand, but it’s not there.

  And that’s when I feel it. In the air that I’m breathing and the thoughts that I’m thinking and the movement of every muscle, all charged with dark energy. I am in some distant corner, an observer. From that distance, I watch Roathy slash at me. His blows are turned aside. They panic. He and Isadora strike together; I do not flinch. I do not do anything at all.

  Until my hand moves. Black flickers from the shield and completely surrounds Roathy. His screams are muted, but Isadora’s cut through the silence of the room like a siren. When my hand falls, the nyxia reforms around me. Roathy looks like a broken doll at my feet. His nyxia is gone, consumed by my own. I am turned by an ungentle hand. Isadora’s smart enough to transform her spear into a shield. Before I strike again, she stumbles to her right, one hand pressed to a cramp in her stomach, the other held out protectively over Roathy.

  An angry part of me wants to end this here and now. With this power, I could break both her shield and her bones. The nyxia ignores this. It notices an open path to the door and pulls me toward it like I’m a marionette. Isadora weeps as the door scans open. I do n
ot look back.

  DAY 20, 7:21 P.M.

  Aboard the Tower Space Station

  Vandemeer finds me. The door to my room scans open. He glances in cautiously. His eyes note the nyxian rings I’ve removed from my gym bag and placed safely on the dresser. After what happened, I’m afraid to touch them. As he enters the room, Defoe fills the entryway like a shadow.

  “Emmett,” Vandemeer says quietly. “Are you all right?”

  “Bad question.”

  He nods. “You’re right. Bad question. We saw the vids.”

  “They came for me,” I say. “They wanted to hurt me.”

  Vandemeer sits at the edge of the bed. “We know. We saw.”

  “Roathy?”

  “He’s alive. Recovering.”

  Relief floods through me. Two fears took over as I waited. First: I am at the mercy of a dark power I don’t understand. Second: I am leaving a trail of destruction behind as I make my way to Eden. First Kaya and now Roathy. Vandemeer’s words remove one of those fears. I point to the six nyxian rings on my dresser.

  “It manipulated me.” I throw a dark glare at Defoe. “You have no idea what this stuff is, do you? You’re treating it like a Lego set, but you don’t have a clue.”

  When I got back to my room, it wasn’t hard to figure out what had happened. The nyxia saved me. It wasn’t just an extension of my desires. It took control. It acted like a living, breathing being. The most frightening part is that this living, breathing being felt a lot bigger than I am.

  I’ve felt helpless before. In school and at home, I’ve felt what it’s like to be powerless, and I can tell the difference between that and this. With this, the nyxia took what little I call my own and did what it wanted. I know it saved my life, but that doesn’t mean I’m stupid enough to think it’s a good thing. You should never give something that much control over you.

  “It can be conquered,” Defoe says with confidence. “We’ve had episodes such as yours. People have found themselves in the grip of the substance. We know the risks and have tested it extensively. It was my understanding that you cared about honoring Kaya’s memory and being one of the competitors chosen to go to Eden. Above all else. Is that no longer the case?”