by Loren Walker
* * *
From the second floor of the women’s barracks, in one of the empty cells, Sydel watched the two men as they walked the perimeter of Jala Communia. Cohen walked slowly to accommodate Renzo’s gait. Their mouths moved constantly, their brows furrowed. They were anxious, and frustrated.
When the sky turned dark and the moon slid overhead, she went to the clinic. Inside, Yann was washing his hands, his shoulders stooped with fatigue. Sydel studied the open drawers, the cabinets, even peered in the disposal unit. No sign of empty vials. No chart to review. Why was he being so secretive about the woman’s treatment?
“I’m sorry.”
Surprised, she glanced at her elder. His pockmarked face twisted. “My behavior has no excuse. Forgive my harshness earlier.”
Sydel winced. “I know - I mean to say - you only mean the best for me,” she managed.
Yann sucked in a breath, as if in pain. For a moment, he looked like he might cry.
Long seconds passed. Before them, Phaira gave a sigh.
Finally, Yann waved Sydel off. “You’ve been here all day, you should be resting.”
“I’d rather stay.” And she meant it. “I can sleep here if I need to. But if the brothers come again,” she added. “May I let them in?”
Yann frowned. “Is that wise?”
“They are worried about their sister. I’m not afraid of them.”
Yann chuckled. “You are too magnanimous. But don’t worry: they won’t come back until morning.” His smile dropped. “But if you need me, reach out.”
“I’ll be fine.”
The door closed behind him. She was alone again.
To fill the time, Sydel took stock of the clinic supplies. The routine soothed her, forcing her to be present in the moment: making lists, neat piles of supplies, of white linens...
“You again.”
With a gasp, Sydel dropped the last towel in her neatly folded pile. When she turned to look, Phaira’s head turned on the pillow. Navy and aquamarine strands of greasy hair fell over her cheek. Her gray-green eyes were clear now.
Sydel forced her hands to her sides, digging her fingernails into her palms. The pain was a reminder. Calm. Control.
“You - you’re in a medical clinic,” she began. “In Midland. Do you remember what happened?”
The woman said nothing, her dark mouth pinched.
Suddenly, Phaira arched her back. Little pops echoed through the space. Then the woman swung her legs over the edge of the bed. As she held the sheet to her chest, she studied the swath of bandages on her ribs, touching the edges.
“You did this?” she asked Sydel, her tone skeptical. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen,” Sydel said, stung. “How old are you?”
The woman smirked. One of her bare feet kicked in the air. “Where are my things?”
Sydel flushed. “We had to cut off your clothes. But there are clothing donations on the shelf behind you. I kept your boots, though,” she added. “I thought you might want them.”
Phaira dropped her head back, searching for the folded pile. As she reached, the sheet fell. Sydel turned away. For many seconds, she only heard the sound of fabric brushing on skin.
“You can turn around,” the woman’s voice wafted over. “Very considerate.”
When Sydel completed her circle, she froze at the sight. Phaira was so tall for a woman, at least eight inches taller than Sydel. Standing upright, she had broad shoulders and a narrow waist, and even the muscles above her clavicles were pronounced.
Mercenaries.
A knock on the door. Phaira paled. Her eyes darted around the clinic, finally resting on the clinic door.
The only exit, Sydel realized.
The door opened. Sydel barely avoided a collision with Cohen as the man barreled inside, and swept Phaira into an embrace, lifting her off the ground.
“Ack!” Phaira cried, smacking her brother. “Put me down, I’m still hurt!”
“Sorry,” Cohen apologized as he set her down. “I’m just glad you’re all right. That was scary.”
The sound of hinges again. Then the threshold grew dark, and stayed dark, and the warm sentiment in the room began to cool.
“Hi Ren,” Phaira said pointedly.
Half in shadow, Renzo’s face had no expression.
Then the man glanced over at Sydel. “Thank you for your help - Sydel, right? She looks good.”
“Are you going to come in or what?” Cohen asked impatiently.
Renzo shook his head. Sydel’s curiosity bubbled up inside her, and a strange confidence. Buoyed by the rush, she moved into the line of sight between Renzo, Cohen and Phaira.
“I have a few questions,” she announced, in what felt like a brazen voice.
Instantly, all three wore the same wary expression. They really do look alike, Sydel thought. She pressed on. “For our records. I need clarification on what happened. It’s required,” she added. “As part of public healing services. Full disclosure.”
The threesome glanced at each other. They were weighing their collective impulse to run, she realized. And, really, what would she do if they ran? Chase them?
“And when there’s evidence of narcotics, we have to report it.” Yann’s voice echoed through the space.
All turned, save for Sydel, who bit her lip and lowered her gaze.
“So the truth, if you please,” Yann said, sliding past Renzo into the clinic.
“Narcotics,” Cohen said. He sounded ill.
“Mekaline,” Yann corrected, as if speaking to a child. “In addition to the gunshot wound, your sister was in withdrawal.” Sydel sensed her master standing behind her. “That was the cause of her respiratory distress.”
Silence.
Then Renzo exploded. “What have you been doing?”
Phaira lifted her chin, eyes glittering.
It just seemed to make Renzo angrier. “We spend months looking for you and you’re -”
“I didn’t want you to come after me,” Phaira corrected hotly. “You should have let me disappear.”
In the bitter hush that followed, Cohen looked between his brother and sister. A ping of sympathy rang in Sydel’s chest. But she remained quiet.
Finally Phaira spoke up. “Please leave us to discuss our personal matters. Then we will comply.”
“Very well,” Yann agreed. “I’ll return shortly.”
He took Sydel’s arm and steered her out of the clinic. Sydel gladly followed.
Outside, the moon had broken through the clouds. Sydel kept pace with her elder as they moved to stand by the latticework gates. Under the soft white light, it was almost peaceful.
But Sydel couldn’t hold back her question any longer: “Master, are you certain that a narcotic caused her distress?”
Yann studied the wood of the gates, running a finger along the grooves. “Mekaline abuse is easy to recognize. It’s a street hallucinogenic, highly addictive. Very foolish girl to even try it.”
“You ran a blood test to confirm it?”
He shot her a look. “I could smell it on her. You wouldn’t understand; you haven’t been exposed to those kinds of people.”
“But it wasn’t medically confirmed,” Sydel pressed.
“Sydel.” The tone of his voice made her stiffen. “Why are you questioning my judgment?”
“I - I just fear to cause a rift between these people if none truly exists.”
“And that’s all?”
Sydel worked up her nerve. “I want to know what this is all about.”
“You already know. They are criminals, all of them, and we are caught in the crossfire.”
Sydel bit her lip. “How can you be so certain of that? Other than the gunshot wound -”
Yann shushed her, looking around. It just increased her frustration. “Who was the tall man from that night?” she insisted.
“Keep your voice down.”
“No, I won’t! Not until you - ”
“I’m not,” Sydel retorted, jerking away from his grip. “I’m asking for honesty.”
“You’re not ready to know what’s out there.”
Sydel recoiled. Did he really say that? Did he really think that about her?
“You have no idea what I’m capable of,” she burst out. “What I’ve been able to do - ”
“What did you do?” His eyes pierced into hers, but they weren’t angry anymore; they were full of dread.
Sydel swallowed her words, staring at the ground. “Nothing,” she said through gritted teeth. “I spoke out of turn.”
When she glanced up, the look on his face was the coldest she could recall.
“Go to bed, Sydel.”
Tears welled up in her eyes. But before he could see her weakness, Sydel ran, not stopping until her feet hit the steps of the barracks, then the floor of her cell.
III.
When the sunrise eased into Sydel’s room, a folded note slid under her door. Sydel sat up in bed and uncoiled her hair from the top of her head. The braids fell over her shoulders; her scalp was numb from sleeping on them. Stumbling to her feet, she picked up the paper. Yann’s handwriting, scribbled on the diagonal, as if in a rush: Phaira has been cleared to leave, it read. All three are leaving at dawn. Met us at the main gate.
She had to make amends. When the strangers left, she would ask for Yann’s forgiveness. She would do her best to listen and learn. She would be the heir to the clinic; she would set herself on her chosen path, and embrace Jala Communia and all its blessings from now on.
Outside, the inner compound was deserted. Walking its breadth, Sydel kept looking over her shoulder, searching for signs of life.
Ahead, the latticework gate was open. In the growing light, Sydel caught sight of the vertical line of the planetary ring, arching up and disappearing behind clouds, the one time of the day when it could be seen clearly. Normally, she would be spellbound. Now she could only focus on the siblings, who were on the other side of the gate, waiting. Were they waiting for her? She slowed her pace, uncertain of what to say to them.
But none of them would even look at her. Renzo’s face was in profile, staring up at the orange sky. Cohen’s eyes were at his feet, arms crossed over his broad chest. Phaira had changed clothes; she now wore a black overcoat with heavy collar and cuffs, her throat wrapped with a silver scarf. Her hands were in the back pockets of her grey trousers, her gaze overlooking over the rocky plains.
The sound of footsteps behind her. Sydel stopped walking, and lowered her head. When Yann’s shadow passed her, she stayed close, behind her master.
“You are ready?” Yann asked the siblings.
Renzo gave the slightest nod. No one else moved.
Sydel wondered what the medical records said, what secrets were divulged to Yann when he returned to the clinic. Would he ever show her?
“Regarding payment…”
All three strangers looked at Yann with surprise, as did Sydel. What was he talking about?
Something bumped into her feet. A leather satchel.
“… take Sydel with you,” Yann completed his sentence.
She must have misheard him.
“Take - what?” Phaira said finally. The brothers wore the same perplexed expression.
“I’m placing her in your care as payment for services rendered,” Yann said. “For three months, until we reconsider her for residency. Until then, she is your responsibility.”
Was she still asleep? This was wrong, all wrong.
She saw Renzo crane his neck, staring at something behind her. An audience, Sydel realized: several eyes fixed on the back of her head, pinning her in place.
The whole community had gathered to cast her off.
She was being excommunicated.
“Look,” Renzo began. “We’re not taking anyone - ”
“You have no right to refuse,” Yann cut him off. “Unless you want the details of this visit released to the public, you’ll do as I ask. Take her to a safe location, find her shelter and occupation, and then ensure that she has the means to return in twelve weeks.”
Sydel couldn’t feel her skin, only her frozen, cracking insides.
“But - but why?” she finally choked out.
“The vote occurred last night,” Yann said, his voice strangely flat. “It’s out of my hands.”
“But why would they - ”
“I’m sorry, Sydel.” Now there was a strangled edge to his words. “But that you are of age, you must earn the trust of the community. And at this moment,” he faltered a little, before resuming. “You’re a hazard.”
“A hazard?” Sydel heard Renzo exclaim. “Her?”
Yann continued to talk, but Sydel couldn’t make out the rest of his words. Her senses had dulled into nothing. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. She was breaking apart.
Then someone touched her arm from behind. A rush of warm breath hit the side of her face.
Startled, Sydel’s hearing sharpened, just in time to hear Phaira’s whisper: “Don’t let them see you cry. Control yourself. You have to leave with pride.”
Somehow, the words registered in Sydel’s brain, and her senses began to thaw, slowly expanding until her body felt functional again.
“She comes with us, then,” Phaira announced. “Co?”
As if moving through water, Sydel turned around, finding Cohen in her blurry vision. He was staring at her. Then, jerking to attention, he walked over and offered his arm to Sydel. It was warm, and solid.
The other two siblings loomed over Yann, glaring down at the man. Finally, Phaira muttered something unintelligible and turned her back. Renzo remained standing. “You’re disgusting,” he spat. Then he lifted his voice, addressing the audience in the distance. “You’re all disgusting! She’s just a kid!”
“She’s older than she looks,” Yann replied. For a moment, Sydel thought she saw a flash of regret in his face, before his features settled into cool regard. “I wish you a peaceful three months, Sydel. And wise choices from here on out, to ensure your safe return.”
Sydel forced her body to bend over, for her hand to reach for the satchel at her feet. But Phaira beat her to it. As the woman slung it over her shoulder, Sydel caught the tiniest shake of Phaira’s head. Say nothing, the motion seemed to say. Show nothing.
Then Phaira stood next to Sydel, Renzo just behind. The strangers’ collective energy was a vibrant orange; it buoyed Sydel with the strength to walk.
As a foursome, they passed through the main gate, and into the plains. They walked in silence, never turning their heads.
But within the mile, hidden in a flushed-out gorge, the vessel appeared: boxy and brown-gray, bulky with mismatched parts, patched with corroded metal. Its wings jutted out like a broken bird’s, spray-painted with graffiti in languages she didn’t understand.
A Volante. Sydel had only heard of them in books: cheaply manufactured, used for transient living, often by criminals to avoid registration. They really were mercenaries. And Yann placed her in their care? How could he?
The Volante released little hisses as they came closer, as if it lived and breathed. Frightened, Sydel’s hand dropped from Cohen’s arm. Her nerves itched; her skin itched; her mind screamed at her to run away.
But what else could she do?
As Renzo yanked open the rusty door, every step forward was a reminder.
This is the last time I will see the Communia.
The last time I will smell the rush of rain and the sand.
IV.
At the back of the Volante, there was a storage compartment filled with water tanks, and a small pocket of space in the center. Sydel barricaded herself in. She slept on a coiled-up quilt, soothed by the sound of water rippling all round her. When she woke, she stared at her reflection in the metal walls: the circles under her eyes, her waxy brown s
kin, her still-round face, her slightly hooked nose rimmed with pink, waiting for the next wave of fatigue to come and take her away.
Thankfully, the siblings let her be, their presence shown by a meal pack left inside the door, or water with M-purification tablets affixed to the bottle. Sometimes Sydel heard them through the ventilation system, whispering.
The Volante seemed to be in constant motion. Sydel’s stomach dropped every time the world lifted; her insides shuddered at the backwards push of gravity. She wondered where they were going, how far she was from home. Sydel couldn’t tell how many days had passed since her expulsion.
Excommunicated. It didn’t seem real. Was it real? Maybe this was a test. In her heart, though, she knew how the Communia was governed. Despite Yann’s guardianship, and her lack of exposure to the outside world, all adults had to be formally accepted into the community.
And she had fallen short.
She couldn’t bear to think about it.
So instead, she slept.