by Loren Walker
* * *
“Sydel?”
The door opened, and then closed with a soft click. The sister looked different than before, healthier and far softer with her blue hair tucked behind her ears, wearing gray cotton trousers and a matching shirt that slipped off one shoulder. As she approached, Sydel pushed herself up to a seat, rolling her loose, greasy hair into a knot at the nape of her neck.
Phaira crouched down, peering into Sydel’s face. “So we need a plan here,” she told her. “You can’t keep hiding in our closet.”
“Yes,” Sydel said. “Where are we - where are you going?” she corrected.
“I’m not sure yet,” Phaira said. “We’re still trying to figure out where to take you. You’ve got no rana, no connections, and we don’t have any to spare.” She sighed. “This is a strange situation you’ve gotten us into. And lousy timing.”
“I have been thinking.” Sydel closed her eyes, drawing in her focus. When she opened them again, Phaira hadn’t moved from her precarious position, her heels hovering in perfect balance. “While I realize that you are…”
She tried to think of the politest way to say ‘criminals.’
“…strangers,” she finally inserted. “Given my circumstances, I believe the wisest course of action would be to remain with you, and be of service for the next three months.”
Phaira raised an eyebrow. “Doing what, exactly?”
“Healing, of course.”
“Sydel,” Phaira said. “I respect the situation you’re in, how difficult it must be, but your master, or father, or whoever that was, he said that - ”
“I noticed the number of scars on your skin,” Sydel broke in. “I could ensure that any future wound heals twice as quickly. No matter the circumstances around it. I won’t question your activities….”
Maybe this is how I’m to regain my Jala path, she thought as she spoke. Maybe this is my destiny.
“…and if you are concerned about another mekaline reaction, like the one you experienced,” she added nervously. “Having a healer nearby can only benefit you, correct?”
Phaira didn’t say anything. Sydel’s heart thudded. She had gone too far.
Then Phaira stood. Sydel caught a flash of tight jaw, a flush on Phaira’s cheek, before the woman left the closet.
Some minutes later, whispers moved through the ventilation pipes, into the little storage unit. They were talking about her, Sydel knew it. Making decisions.
She couldn’t remain a recluse.
So Sydel braided back her hair. A wrinkled, sleeveless pink dress, unearthed from the depths of her satchel, replaced her dirty chemise and trousers. It was better than before. Then she crept into the narrow corridor.
Lights flickered overhead. The Volante was split down the middle, with rails, grated floors and wires snaking along the edge. One side housed the three cabins, one for each of the strangers; the other side held a small kitchen, a lavatory, and a common room. The three strangers were in there now.
Clasping her elbows, hovering by the entrance, Sydel listened to the hushed argument inside:
“She’s ideal. No connections to the outside world. Dependent on us for basic needs.”
“Ren, I can’t believe you’re actually considering this.”
“You could have died, Phair. And what about the other times? If another attempt’s made while we are out here, we wouldn’t have to scour for medical options.”
“Wait a minute, we can’t involve her! Not without being honest about Phaira’s - about our situation.”
“Co’s right. You realize how sheltered she is? She doesn’t know anything outside of that creepy commune.”
Sydel winced, stung by the judgment. The strangers continued to argue the same points, their voices growing louder. She had to intervene. She rehearsed her speech, gathering her courage. Then she stepped inside.
The common room was dim and musty. Sydel could make out one chipped table and two makeshift desks made of storage containers. Papers, parts and wires dangled off the edges. A dusty console ringed the room’s perimeter, with buttons that hadn’t been touched in years, by the look of it. Cohen and Renzo sat in two chairs; the third turned slowly, abandoned. Phaira stood by one of the windows, looking outside.
The two men looked up as Sydel entered. Cohen’s face turned a funny shade of pink. Renzo ran a hand through his blond hair. “I guess you overheard some of that,” he mumbled.
Sydel wet her lips, clasped her hands in front of her, and announced: “As I told your sister, I can be of service to you.”
She quickly checked for Phaira’s reaction. The sister didn’t turn around.
“I chose the path of medicine when I was twelve. I’ve been training for six years, and I can manage several illnesses and injuries.”
No one spoke. Sydel continued, concentrating hard to not stutter. “Your sister was brought to my clinic because you had no funds. And you still don’t, so I’ve learned. This can be seen as a benefit to your situation.”
The brothers had identical expressions of surprise on their faces.
Sydel pressed on. “And I can help in other ways. Whatever is useful. And I can be discreet. Please, let me stay.”
Then she bobbed a small curtsy and hurried back to the storage closet.
She didn’t want to stay with them, of course. She loathed the idea of living in a machine, choking on recycled air, healing the wounds of terrible people. More than anything, Sydel longed to run back to Yann and beg for forgiveness.
But even as she wished, it was a unanimous vote. If she wanted any chance of returning to the Communia, she had to wait out her banishment.
A knock on her door. Sydel lifted her forehead from the cold metal.
Phaira’s blue head poked through the opening. A decision already? Sydel braced herself for the news.
“You said someone brought me to your commune.” The woman’s voice was low and rushed. “Who was it?”
“You don’t know?”
“Clearly, I don’t. The last thing I remember - ”
Phaira stopped, her dark mouth pressed together.
“Man or woman?” she asked instead.
“Man,” Sydel said nervously. “I couldn’t see his face – but he was very tall...”
Before Sydel could finish, the woman was gone.