by Loren Walker
* * *
The Volante broke through the clouds, revealing parched land below, greens and dead browns. Through the window in the common room, Sydel saw the outline of a city in the distance, the flashing lights, pinpricks of motion. Within minutes, the Volante slowed and began to turn, rattling the whole while. Sydel heard the landing gear unfurl in rusty protest, and then the final clunk of the parking magnet.
Curious, she crept into the hallway, looking for one of the strangers. Cohen slept, she knew. Renzo’s door was closed, and there were no sounds within.
But Phaira was in her quarters, the door ajar. She was fastening buckles on some kind of black, rubbery, sleeveless bodysuit. The slick fabric shielded her neck, covered her torso, and then disappeared under a pair of gray trousers. A holster sat on her hip.
“Are you coming with me?”
The question made Sydel jump. Phaira’s head turned, that sharp profile over her shoulder.
“Where are you going?” Sydel asked, huddled by the doorframe.
The woman looked like she was about to tell Sydel to go away, but something shifted in her expression.
“I’m going to reconcile this misunderstanding,” she said. As she spoke, her hand drifted to her ribs. As if to challenge Sydel.
“You’re going to kill him,” Sydel said, aghast. “The tall man.”
Phaira pressed her dark lips together. Then: “No, not necessarily.”
Not necessarily. Sydel swallowed hard. “But he saved you.”
Phaira rolled her eyes. “I don’t expect you to understand.”
Sydel bristled. “I might, if there is any logic behind your action.”
Anger burst through the room like a firestorm, and Phaira suddenly loomed over her. “You have spent your life with your head in the sand,” the woman spat. “You don’t know what we’ve been through. So don’t you dare to judge how I keep my family safe. Understand?”
“But I - I do,” Sydel stammered, backed into the wall. “I mean, I’m not judging. I just don’t understand why – “
“It’s a game,” Phaira shot back. “A sadistic game. And I’m not exposing Ren and Co to it.”
“But there has to be another way to resolve this,” Sydel said passionately. “Something that doesn’t require violence and - ”
Phaira glared at her. Then, unexpectedly, she shrugged. The tension in the air dissipated.
“Fine,” she said coolly. “Come see for yourself. When I go to meet this guy, convince him to walk away and leave me be. I won’t touch him.”
“You’re meeting him?” Sydel asked, still shaken. “Why are you meeting with him if he tried to kill you?”
“Because he asked me to,” Phaira said, as if the answer was obvious.
Sydel couldn’t think of what to say. Did she not understand something?
As she backtracked through their conversation, Phaira slid her arms into her long black coat, the one with heavy collar and cuffs. There was a pistol in the holster now, glinting at her hip.
Firearms are illegal, Sydel almost said out loud, but thought better of it.
Then Phaira sifted through a pile of clothing on the floor and drew out another jacket, this one navy blue. She held it out to Sydel. “You’ll blend in better.”
Sydel looked down at her dress. It didn’t look so unusual to her, but she took the jacket. When she slid it on, the coat was so long that the hem almost brushed the floor; she had to loop the belt around twice. A pretty design, though, the way the coat fastened together with a series of folds across the chest, like an outstretched wing.
What if this is stolen? she suddenly thought. If it is, and I wear it in public…
Sydel looked up at the sound of tiny clicks. Phaira was fitting a metal half-circle around her hairline. As she slid it back, Phaira’s blue hair turned mahogany. Sydel gasped with surprise.
“You’ve never seen a CHROMA?” Phaira asked, surprised. “It’s not permanent; I set it for three hours.” She offered it to Sydel. Phaira’s eyes were even paler with that red hair at its edges; the effect was unnerving. “Do you want to try it?”
Even as she shook her head, Sydel couldn’t help but ask: “Does that thing keep your features dark, too?”
“Does it what? Oh. No, that’s just how I look.” Her hair fell over her face as she secured one of the buckles on her jacket.
Was she embarrassed? Sydel tried to get a better look at Phaira’s profile. “Why is that how you look?”
“You don’t need to know,” Phaira said curtly. “Come on, then.”
She strode out of the room. Her heavy boots thudded down the corridor and down the steps towards the exit.
Hovering in the hallway, Sydel desperately looked back to the brothers. Where was Renzo? Should she wake up Cohen?
But there was no one to go to for help.
So Sydel followed the woman to the outside.
VI.
Enthralled, Sydel turned slowly, taking in the panoramic view: the cluster of tiny apartments with curved roofs, the slim towers with a million glittering windows. Pods and private transports zipped down gridlines, as did ground cycles. The air was flavored with spices, overlaid with the sweet smell of gasoline. The heart of Daro, the capital city. She never imagined it would be so spectacular.
Past all the heads of the crowds, she caught a glimmer: the coastline. Her breath caught. The skerries. Were the skeleton buildings there, just like she’d read in books, those ghostly remnants of the old coastline? She hadn’t been born when the meteor broke apart in the atmosphere, when three unexpected masses crashed into the sea, and the coastlines of Osha were swallowed up five miles inland: cottages, highways and hotels destroyed, waterlogged, swept away, though thankfully, few lives lost.
It was too expensive to rebuild what was lost – instead, rana would be poured into building a reinforced stormwall, creating a new border between the devastated and the still-standing, separating the wreckage from what remained. What was left behind was nicknamed “the skerries,” and it was forbidden to go there: too dangerous, too unstable, too vulnerable to another impact. But even Sydel had heard the stories: how the abandoned wasteland was the setting for evil deals and secret murderers, where thieves and smugglers did their trades. When she heard the tales, the skerries seemed mythical. Now she wasn’t so sure, staring at the shimmering horizon and the hint of dark lines jutting out.
When Sydel came full circle, she saw Phaira approach a beggar, slumped on the side street. A girl with a cloud of curly black hair sat next to him. Phaira crouched down to speak to the man, and then the girl, her trench coat rippling behind her. Sydel took a step forward and then back, uncertain of what to do. Her memory clicked back to Yann’s diagnosis of mekaline withdrawal. What if Phaira sought to use Sydel’s presence as an excuse to purchase narcotics? What if Phaira involved her in an illegal drug deal?
Nervous, Sydel looked over her shoulder to the looming black parking hanger, stretching thousands of feet high; somewhere in there was the old Volante.
After several seconds, Phaira pressed something into the beggar’s hand. Then, rising to her feet, Phaira gestured for Sydel to follow down the bustling main street.
Sydel held onto the cuffs of her borrowed jacket as she darted to the woman’s side. “You gave that man money. What did you buy?”
Phaira ignored the question, keeping pace with the crowd.
She could be on narcotics now. She could be leading me into danger.
As they continued to walk, Sydel let her mind open, just a little, reaching over to measure the aura around Phaira.
Still looking ahead, Phaira’s mouth drew tight. “I’m not lying to you. Do you want to check my pockets for mekaline?”
Embarrassed, Sydel closed off her senses. Phaira never looked at Sydel, but her voice rippled under the noise of the crowd: “I bought information, if you must know. That girl just told me that our man is here and waiting. So let’s get on with it.”
; She forged ahead of Sydel, effortlessly gliding between the surging bodies. The vibrations of heat, sourness and impatience surrounded Sydel, and she held her breath, scurrying to catch up to the woman. Her thoughts raced. What was she going to say when she saw the tall man? What if she couldn’t speak? What if he tried to hurt her?
Phaira finally turned into an alley, lined with trash barrels and street rubble. Together, they climbed up a series of wrought-iron stairs, up and up until they reached the building’s red rooftop. Phaira hoisted herself over the edge easily. Sydel strained to roll her body onto the concrete.
Panting from the exertion, Sydel stared at the elevated horizon: the crooked skyline, the incredible, fiery sunset. For a moment, she forgot about her precarious situation.
Then something tiny and cool slipped inside her palm: a smooth, flat black square, one inch in area. Sydel peered at the thing, turning it over and over. What was she supposed to do with it?
“You’ve never seen a Lissome, either?” Phaira asked, with that same note of surprise. “Okay. Well, here’s one thing you can do with it.”
Phaira held the Lissome at chest level. With a twist, she separated it into two components. The tiny piece, no bigger than her little fingernail, she affixed behind her ear. The larger part was slipped into the cuff of her jacket.
“Transmitter and receiver, in this form,” Phaira explained. “We can hear and talk to each other.”
Sydel copied Phaira’s movements. Despite her fears, the Lissome broke apart smoothly. But when pressed behind her ear, the small piece moved automatically, and tiny prongs attached to her skin like an insect. Sydel held back her shriek at the quick pinch. When it subsided (was that normal in this world? How could that ever feel normal?) Sydel unclenched her fingers and stared at the remaining square in her palm. There was nothing to it: no buttons, no ridges, just a little slip of plastic. How did it turn on? How did it work?
“Listen, Sydel,” Phaira said, her tone serious. “I need to keep watch. You stay here and be quiet.”
Panic hit Sydel like a shockwave. “You’re leaving me?”
“For the moment. If you sense any kind of danger, if anything strikes you as wrong, just say a word, any word. I’ll hear you, and come right back. Don’t speak, otherwise. I’m counting on you.”
Then she stepped off the roof.
Sydel gasped. But her hands fell away from her mouth when she saw Phaira turn in mid-fall and catch the crest of the shingles. The woman readjusted her grip with her right hand, the left holding steady. Then Phaira let go.
Sydel scrambled to the edge, just in time to see Phaira land on a ledge two floors down. The woman inched over to an open window on the diagonal. With one quick leap, she grabbed the sill, swung her legs up and slipped through the opening.
“Can you hear me?” Sydel jumped at Phaira’s voice in her head.
“Yes,” Sydel replied loudly as she sat down in a heap, a drop of sweat trickling down her spine.
“You don’t need to shout,” the voice lectured. “Now stay hidden, and speak if you sense any trouble.”
Sydel did as she was told. Her borrowed coat wrapped tightly around her, she waited. Though, as the minutes crept by, she began to wonder why. I could just leave, she thought. I could just disappear in the crowd. Maybe I can sell this Lissome-thing. And this jacket.
Her mind switched to a new possibility: she could go to a law enforcement agency. She could tell them what she knew about the strangers, and the very tall man. They would protect her, help her find somewhere to stay.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
There was a man’s voice in Sydel’s head: low and rolling, with a hint of a smirk.
Her skin broke out in goosebumps. She knew that voice; she had only heard a few in her lifetime.
“I’m here.” Phaira’s voice was sharp in Sydel’s ear. “How high is the bounty on me? Know upfront that I can’t match it. So I guess we’re at a standstill.”
“I’m not a bounty hunter.”
“You might not have pulled the trigger, but don’t insult me.”
“I’m not. Hence the meeting.”
Through the Lissome, Sydel heard a click, and then a small thump.
“What are you doing?” Phaira was yelling. “Pick that back up!”
“I’m trying to make peace,” the man said. “I was meeting with a potential partner when the others dragged you in. You defended yourself, one of them took a shot at you - ”
“Why did you take me to Midland?” Phaira demanded.
The man said nothing. Sydel concentrated, trying to hear any little whisper as she simultaneously reached out with her mind. She found them two floors below. The man’s heart beat fast. Phaira’s energy was yellow and intensifying.
“This is a mind game,” Phaira finally spoke. “You must have been known Nican well.”
Nican. Sydel mouthed the name.
“I’m familiar with your bounty. And I’ve heard of the Macatia family,” the man countered. “Never met the son, though given his reputation, it sounds like he deserved what he got.”
Nican Macatia. Sydel committed it to memory.
“I don’t believe you,” Phaira accused. “Are your friends here, surrounding the building? Sydel, who else is here?”
Startled, Sydel looked wildly for any sign of men approaching.
Then an explosion rocked the building.
Sydel fell to her knees with a shriek. Clouds of black smoke billowed past the rooftop. Then it started again, just like the Mill: one voice after another, building into an assault of screams and death rattles, terror roaring through the streets. The loudest voices were right in front of the building. Sydel peered over the edge of the roof, her eyes tearing from the heat.
There, in the midst of the panicking crowds below, two faces looked skyward, one man, one woman. Both clad in the magenta robes of merchants, both with brown hair and skin, they were serene and smiling in the fog of smoke, and looking straight at Sydel.
At the edge of Sydel’s peripheral vision, a splotch of dark red entered the frenzy.
“Phaira!” Sydel screamed, pointing. “Those two! They did it!”
Then she clapped her hands over her mouth. What was she doing?
On ground level, the man and woman were backing away. Phaira vaulted over the wreckage in their direction. All three disappeared into the rush of crowds.
Sydel sat back on the terrace with a thud, her hands still over her mouth. The fire blazed below on street level.
Long minutes passed before she could stop shaking. Then she leaned over the roof’s edge, searching. Below, firefighters were spraying some kind of foam on the explosion site fifty feet away. There was no sign of Phaira or the very tall man. Why had she yelled to Phaira about those two on the ground? What did she expect Phaira to do?
I should just take shelter until things quiet. Find some form of law enforcement. Find a kind face and ask for help.
“Sydel.” Phaira’s voice rumbled in her ear. Behind her voice came a medley of awful sounds.
“Phaira, did you - is that man - ?”
“Time to go,” came the reply. “Now.”
* * *
The brothers were in the Volante’s common room, huddled around a pixelated screen, rife with images from the destroyed marketplace, the voiceover droning: “…already apprehended the persons behind the attack, perpetuated just one hour ago….”
On hearing the reporter’s words, Sydel took in a sharp inhale. Phaira shot her a warning look and brushed past her.
Renzo glanced over. “Where have you two been?”
“Supply run,” Phaira said. “Never got a chance to stock up, last time we stopped. What are you watching?”
“Did you see this happen?” Cohen was bundled into one of the chairs, wrapped in a blanket, staring at the bulletin. Sydel squinted as the report switched to live video. Her mouth dropped open: it was that man and woman from the street, bound at the wri
st, their robes torn, surrounded by law enforcement.
The audio continued: “…both exhibiting questionable mental stability, possibly under the influence of street narcotics….”
Wide-eyed, Sydel opened her mouth to speak, excited to get Phaira’s attention. But none of the strangers turned around.
“Just the aftermath,” Phaira finally answered Cohen’s question. “We weren’t in the zone.”
How easily she lies to her family, Sydel thought, sickened. Should she say something, anyways?
“Well, I’m glad you’re both back,” Cohen said, getting to his feet. “I’m going back to bed.”
“You shouldn’t have gotten out of bed in the first place,” Renzo said pointedly.
“Okay, okay.” Cohen shuffled out of the room, giving Sydel a grin as he passed, his eyes flicking up and down. She still had Phaira’s jacket on, she realized. Sydel shrugged out of it, yanking her hair down from its knot. The strands reeked of sulfur and smoke.
Neither Phaira nor Renzo noticed her shedding. They weren’t looking at each other, either, their faces lit by the broadcast as they spoke.
“Two bombs go off in the two locations we dock at.”
“Phair, it has nothing to do with you.”
“Have you talked to Nox yet?”
“Not yet. I thought you should call him first. This is his parents’ old Volante, you know.”
“I figured. Saw some of his stuff in the closet.”
“He was really worried about you.”
“Hm.”
Bundling the coat in her arms, Sydel chose that moment to duck out of the room. The bombers’ faces drifted into her vision again. Had they set off the bomb in the Vendor Mill too? Why did they smile at her like that?
“Sydel.”
Sydel froze. Phaira’s soft footsteps drew closer, finally stopping six feet behind.
“I shouldn’t have taken you into the capital,” she heard the woman murmur. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t want to be that person, who takes advantage of another’s - ”
Then she fell silent.
Sydel waited. Weakness? Misfortune? What word was dropped?
“I’m sorry,” Phaira said instead. “It won’t happen again.”
When Sydel turned to protest, Phaira was already gone.
VII.
Secluded in her closet, Sydel puzzled over all her collected facts, replaying Phaira’s words and the overheard conversations, rolling the foreign names around, trying to understand. Things were changing so quickly. Phaira’s behavior was so confusing. She couldn’t rely on Cohen’s word that she was safe. She needed answers, real answers. And from sources outside of the siblings’ circle.
That now-familiar dip in her stomach told her that the Volante was in flight. When a half-hour crawled past, and Phaira and Cohen were sealed away in their quarters, Sydel made her way to the cockpit. Standing in the doorway, she gawked at the sight of so many screens, switches and lights, the barren landscape a hundred feet below, streaking past.
From the pilot’s chair, Renzo turned to look, frowning. “Oh,” he started to say. Then he faced forward again. “You need something?” he asked, his hands busy on the ship’s console.
“I want to stop,” Sydel said, working to keep her voice steady. “And purchase some personal items.”
“Didn’t you already do that with Phaira?”
“I didn’t have the chance, with the explosion.” Her heart sank at the deceit, how easily it unfolded from her lips.
“You understand - ” Renzo trailed off for a few seconds before continuing: “I’m a little spooked at the idea of stopping anywhere right now.”
“You believe your sister’s suspicions?”
The question wasn’t meant to be a challenge; she genuinely wondered about the older brother’s thoughts on all that had transpired. But regardless, it had an impact. Renzo’s face darkened. “No, I don’t,” he declared. “But someone should go with you.”
“I want to go on my own,” Sydel said firmly. “I promise to return within minutes. I will not speak to anyone. If the goal is for me to eventually become independent - ”
“All right, fine,” Renzo huffed. “There’s a rest station below. We land, you head straight into the center of the market and get what you need.”
He popped open a compartment to his left and rummaged through it. Then Renzo spun in his seat to face her. “Come here,” he said as he opened his hand to reveal five coins. “For services rendered,” he added. “Take it.”
When she followed his instruction, Renzo’s pale eyes met hers for a moment over his glasses. Then he took hold of the flight controls again, and Sydel made her escape.
Back in her space, Sydel slid on Phaira’s navy jacket again, and slipped the bronze coins into the right pocket. Her ears popped as the Volante began to descend. Sydel waited until she heard the click of the magnets, securing the ship in place.
Outside her door, the corridor was deserted. She crept down the hall and the stairs, opened the exit door as quietly as she could. Then she ran to join the flow of the crowd, all heading to the center of the tiny marketplace.
Sydel quickly found the magenta robes of the vendors, and accepted the first price offered for a hairbrush and serum, a scarf and gloves; there was no time to barter. Then she studied the rusty signs hanging from the ceiling and followed the arrows.
The public info-lab was dank and cramped, with a constant buzz that made her feel jittery. A few travelers talked or typed, the light of their screens illuminating their weary faces. There were two open workstations with privacy shades on either side. Yann had a similar station in his quarters; she’d watched him research once or twice. She’d never touched it herself. But she could figure it out. She had to.
Sydel took in a deep breath, checked the time and ducked behind the plastic shields. Two screens flickered and fuzzed, waiting to display information. Above her head was a camera lens, likely for security measures. Sydel shook her hair loose and lowered her head so the long brown waves hid her face. Then she used her two index fingers to type: Phaira.
The console whirred. Sydel’s nerves sparked with every sound.
Then lines of text scrolled down the screen: thousands of entries, the name Phaira, again and again.
It’s a common first name, she realized with embarrassment. Ridiculously common.
She needed more.
Then she remembered the names spoken in the capital city.
The first listing was a death notice posted three months prior. Nican Macatia, twenty-two, son of a wealthy manufacturing entrepreneur and beloved social figure, died in a tragic fall in the city of Daro. Ruled an accident by the law enforcement. The Macatia family released a statement, thanking the public for the outpouring of support. Memorials were planned. Pictures accompanied the story: a man with a confident smirk, black hair, pale skin. No mention of the siblings in the article. But Phaira was involved in the accidental death of someone powerful; Renzo had said so. It must be this man, Nican. But why?
She couldn’t stay out any longer, not without arousing suspicion. Sydel gathered her items and ran straight through the marketplace, back to the landing platform. Her mind swirled with questions, the closer she came to the old Volante.
The door swung open when she tried it. No one was waiting on the other side.
But Sydel had barely set down her items in her little closet when she heard Phaira calling her name.
The siblings were back in the common room, seated around the table, with one of those little black squares placed in its center. Sydel cleared her throat nervously. “I’m here.”
Phaira spoke first. “Where were you?”
“She went out,” Renzo said. “Why are you calling her in here?”
Phaira’s gaze remained on Sydel, unwavering.
“I’m making an introduction,” she finally said, tapping on the black square. “Officer Aeden Nox. Say hello, Nox.”
“Our stowaway,” Phaira said wryly. “Never mind. Just tell them what you just told me.”
“Those two brought in for the capital city bombing are dead.”
“Dead?” Sydel exclaimed without thinking. Cohen and Renzo turned to stare at her. She flushed and shrank back.
“That’s your stowaway, I gather,” the voice rumbled. “Yes, dead. Heart failure. Thirty minutes ago.”
Silence. Sydel stared at Phaira’s profile, but the woman’s gaze remained on the black square. “Tell them the other thing, Nox.”
“In the past month, four other similar explosions were set off throughout Daro. No civilian deaths or serious injuries, but - ”
Sydel started as the black square clicked. Two translucent screens unzipped above it, and two portraits flashed: an older male, a young man. “The only two suspects ever arrested and brought in for questioning? Died from heart failure in the station. Autopsy linked it to a stimulant mix on the market, called Zephyr. It’s most likely the same for these two new ones.”
Phaira studied each picture intently, her face a few inches from the projection. “Heart failure,” she murmured.
“That’s my line,” Nox quipped.
Phaira threw a grin at the device. The sudden change in her face was unnerving.
“The bombs were the same in all those cases?” Renzo asked, disturbed, but clearly curious.
“All improvised explosive devices: alkali-based, water, aluminum, sodium hydroxide. Basic and effective, though small scale. More of a noisemaker than anything serious.”
“Yeah, injured party right here, Nox,” Cohen broke in.
“I’m talking in comparison to others I’ve seen.”
Renzo’s face grew pink. “I appreciate the information, Nox, but what does this have to do with Phaira? Or us?”
“Your sister seems to think that these recent incidents were meant to draw her out of hiding.”
“Maybe not,” Phaira broke in, casting a dark look at the device. “I just think it’s strange that the last two have been so close to us. Do you have a list of the injured? The witnesses?”
“Not all in one place, but statements were taken. It wouldn’t be difficult to compile a list.” Nox paused, his voice growing low. “Are you going to tell me where you’ve been all this time?”
Sydel saw a blush in Phaira’s throat. “Later.”
A huff of air rippled through the soundsystem; Nox didn’t like that answer. There were a series of beeps and static pulses, then the screens disappeared from view, sucked back into the Lissome.
“Why are you getting involved in this?” Cohen asked Phaira.
“Because these people hurt you. And hurt a lot of people,” Phaira said, like she couldn’t believe the question. “There’s more to it than just random - ”
“Didn’t you hear what Nox said?” Renzo interjected. “It’s been happening for the past month. Part of a series of planned attacks, separate from you, or us, or anything. So let the patrol deal with it.”
“Well, I’m not convinced yet. There’s something more to this.”
Renzo threw up his hands. Sydel saw fiery white anger around Phaira, coiling like a snake, ready to strike.
In his own way, Cohen seemed to recognize the danger, stepping between his brother and sister. “You’re going to get killed if you keep poking around,” he told Phaira.
“Co,” Phaira said, her tone gentler. “I’ve been running for so long now, I’m not going to sit in this ship and wait to be hunted down - ”
Renzo snorted.
Phaira’s voice lost its softness. “Say it, Ren.”
“You might convince him, but not me,” Renzo said. “You haven’t changed at all. You’re still being foolish, and reckless, as - ”
Phaira leaned around Cohen to scowl at Renzo. “How many times can I tell you that I’m sorry, Ren? You keep lecturing me on - ”
“No, I’m just stating the truth,” Renzo shot back. “Co won’t say it because you’re his big sister and he hates it when people are mad at him.”
“Hey!” Cohen objected.
“At least he pretends that he still likes me,” Phaira accused. “If you hate me so much, you should have let me remain a ghost.”
The tension in the room rippled like an earthquake. Finally, Renzo pushed off his chair and limped away. Stopping at the door, he spoke without turning around: “You’re not the only one who has nothing, Phaira.”
“I know,” Phaira murmured, surprising Sydel. “And you know I’m sorry for it.”
Renzo ducked out of sight. Cohen covered his face with his hand. Phaira sighed and nudged his leg with her foot. “It’s okay, Co. Really.”
“You know it’s not,” Cohen muttered through his palm as he left the common room. Sydel heard his footsteps in the hallway, slow and dragging. She wondered if she should follow him. Did anyone ever follow him?
“I need to speak with you.”
Phaira’s tone made Sydel shudder. She let her hand rest against the wall, bracing her will.
“You have questions.”
“Do I?”
“Don’t play coy,” Phaira warned. “I know what you’ve been up to.”
Sydel lifted her chin. “I’m not up to anything.”
“When you search for sensitive information in public, you put all of us in jeopardy.” Phaira’s tone was cold, every word exacting. “You cannot do that and expect to remain here with us.”
“How could you know that?” Sydel retorted. “Were you spying on me?”
“If you want to snoop around, we’ll get you a Lissome of your own,” Phaira said, ignoring Sydel’s outburst. “There’s a million vending machines, and after we encrypt it, you can pull up any kind of information: photos, video, whatever you want to know about us, or Nican Macatia.”
Sydel recoiled. Then Phaira’s voice grew quieter. “Ren may not want to listen, Sydel, but there are people out to hurt me. I’m not looking for you to get caught in the crossfire too. Understand?”
Phaira is concerned for my safety? The notion stunned Sydel. But she had to ask, regardless of the consequence. “You were involved in Nican Macatia’s death?”
Phaira flinched. Her grey-green eyes zeroed in on Sydel’s, but they weren’t fearful. They were full of hatred.
Murderer. Serial killer.
Her hand was on fire.
Gasping, Sydel jerked her fingers away from the wall. She stared at the center of her palm; the flesh was bright red and stinging. Waves of heat reverberated off the wall. What just happened? Had Phaira noticed? No, Phaira was looking at Sydel, not her hands, with a strange expression on her face. Almost like hurt?
As Sydel cradled her hand, a memory floated up to the surface, something Cohen had said days earlier in response to Phaira’s skepticism: “She might understand what we are going through.”
There was a beeping sound. Phaira turned back to the table, waving her fingers over the black square. The Lissome clicked open and projected a new screen, smaller this time and full of names. Phaira’s hand waved slowly up and down, the blue light scrolling over her face.
Her eyebrows lifted. Then she rose to her feet and swept past Sydel.
Sydel slumped against the wall, lifting her raw, pulsing hands to her eyes. Blisters were already rising. Her blood quivered through her veins. She flexed her fingers, trying to block out the pain, trying to keep breathing.
VIII.
Cohen wasn’t in his massive bed, but slumped in a chair wedged beside it. Standing in the doorframe, Sydel hesitated, a fresh pack of gauze in her bound hand.
Then his eyes opened. “Hi.”
“Is it okay to come in?”
Cohen nodded, shifting his position. He looked wan and exhausted as he shrugged out of his shirt. Sydel sat on the edge of his bed as she rippe
d open the bandages.
“What happened to your hand?” Cohen asked suddenly, his brow furrowed. “Did you cut yourself?”
“I’m fine,” Sydel deferred. “It’s nothing.”
But Cohen’s forehead remained in a bunch. His concern made her feel lighter, somehow, as she peeled the gauze from his chest.
“How?” came Renzo’s voice, startling them both.
He limped into the room, staring at Cohen’s chest.
Then he turned to Sydel. “How did you do that?”
“Ren!” Cohen protested, one hand lifting as if to push his brother back. “What are you doing?”
But Renzo shook his head, pointing to Cohen’s chest: tiny, pale pink notches dotted his chest, hardly any trace of evidence that shrapnel was once removed.
“That is impossible in a week’s time,” he announced. “That’s impossible.”
He was right. Sydel stared at the scars, their smoothness, their light color. Not even the balm could heal that quickly. How could this be?
Sydel balled her right hand into a fist, pressing the nails into her palm. Her left hand drifted towards Cohen. “Let me try to explain,” she began weakly.
“No,” Renzo shot back. “Don’t touch him.”
“Ren!” Cohen exclaimed. “Stop it!”
“No, this is wrong - this is freakish - ”
As the brothers argued, Sydel sank into the mattress. Did she do this, somehow? When she saw red, when her hands burned - was she capable of healing? Was this a part of Eko that Yann never told her about?
A ripple struck her, like a sudden gust of wind.
Sydel frowned, looking past the brothers. There was something strange in the air, some kind of anticipation.
“Where is your sister?” Sydel interrupted the argument.
“She’s flying the ship,” Renzo said shortly. “Why?”
Then they all heard the screech of the landing gear.
“We’re stopping again?” Cohen asked.
Renzo limped over to the window. Sydel peered over his shoulder to see.
They were descending into an industrial area: great swatches of flat concrete, with hundreds of metal warehouses lined up like pins. Dread formed in her stomach at the sight. But why? She let her mind wander, searching for the source.
There was nothing.