Eko (NINE Series, #1)

by Loren Walker

  * * *

  Pain shot through Cohen’s body, jolting him awake. When he gasped for air, it hurt even more. Then memory flooded into his brain. Keller. Xanto. Blue electricity. Nox.

  Cohen opened his eyes. The world was dim, the air a strange mix of dust and humidity. Where were they? Cohen tried to lift his head. His spine rippled with agony.

  “I know,” he heard Nox’s voice. “They used a lot of voltage. Plus some kind of sedative to keep us down. Take your time.”

  Cohen forced his body upright, his legs swinging over the edge of a rickety cot. His eyes adjusted. Nox sat on the floor by Cohen’s feet. They were in a windowless room. Partitions were set up, creating private spaces for cots. There were other people throughout the space, sitting or sleeping. The air was heavy, recycled. Were they trapped underground?

  “Nox,” Cohen whispered. “We have to get out of here.”

  “Co,” Nox said moodily. “We’ve been recruited.”

  “Those guys were military?”

  “No. But trust me, we should just go along with what they say.” He turned to look over his shoulder at Cohen, his voice growing even quieter. “I’ll do my best to keep you out of it, Cohen. You just have to keep your head down.”

  “What is this?” Cohen asked, aghast. “What have you gotten me involved in?”

  “Quiet,” Nox snapped. “It’s just some freelance work: protection, enforcement. I do it for some extra rana and to keep myself in top condition.” There was a muted excitement in Nox’s voice. It made Cohen want to punch him.

  “They assaulted you,” Cohen reminded him. “And me. Electrocuted us, drugged us, dragged us here, wherever we are. And you’re fine with that?”

  “It’s one day, two, at most,” Nox countered. “Then we go home and it never happened. Like I said, maybe I can keep them from - ”

  Nox’s voice trailed off, and he scrambled to stand up. Cohen craned his neck to see.

  A man’s silhouette was framed in the only exit to the room. His pale blue eyes seemed to glow. Eyeing the crowd before him, Keller jerked his head to the right. Everyone in the room rose, filtered into single file and followed him through the exit. Cohen stared at the men and women as they passed by, maybe twenty in total; a few were young, thin and sickly, but the rest rippled with power, sharp weapons at their hips. Strangely, his mind turned to Renzo and Phaira; were they here, too?

  A push on his shoulder. “Come on,” Nox murmured, joining the line. “And don’t argue.”

  In the next room, the white-haired man, Xanto, stood on a raised platform, surveying all those who entered. His suit was fresh and crisp, but his face was bruised. Cohen enjoyed a small rush of pleasure at the sight, as he squeezed along the back wall with Nox, behind the gathering crowd.

  As the space filled, Keller stepped up to join his companion. Then he turned and extended his hand to someone in the crowd.

  A woman’s hand glided into his, followed by a blur of white.

  At the sight, Cohen’s throat constricted. No mistaking that short silver hair and those hard green eyes; those features were burned into his brain. It was the last thing he saw before he went unconscious, and his first memory when he awoke in the old Volante, his sister haunted and mute, his brother justifying his choice to sacrifice.

  Cohen looked around the room wildly, his heart pounding so hard that his vision went blurry. Was Sydel here? The room was so dim that he couldn’t make out people’s faces, they were packed together so tightly....

  Nox glanced at him, mouthing: “What?” Cohen ignored him. His eyes slid back to Huma. She hadn’t seen him yet. It was hard to not think Sydel’s name over and over again. But he had to control his thoughts and remain still.

  The overhead lights dimmed, and video screens unzipped above. Everyone’s heads tilted up, their features lit by the projected colors. Cohen scanned the room.

  No Sydel. No Phaira or Ren, either. His lungs felt like they were sinking into his gut. He was alone.

  The images above changed. Cohen’s eyes drifted up with the others. The screens displayed grainy surveillance footage: young men and women huddled into groups, deep in discussion, their faces obscured from the overhead view.

  “Twenty-five years ago,” Xanto began, his voice booming over their heads. “A group of citizens participated in something referred to as the ‘NINE.’ Privately funded, organized under top-secret conditions, these people were kept underground for two months to undergo experiments, designed to enhance their paranormal abilities -”

  “Paranormal?” Cohen heard a woman exclaim.

  “- and when they emerged, they killed three innocent civilians, and damaged the minds of four children with them -”

  “The minds?” someone hollered out.

  “By the time patrol responded, the participants had disappeared,” Xanto continued, ignoring the outbursts. “When the law learned who the victims were, the incident was immediately classified, its few survivors relocated, the information destroyed. Privately, the law saw no value in pursuing the case, not with the victims holding such vast criminal records. There was no public sympathy or outcry, so it was easy to sweep aside.”

  Then Xanto’s face darkened. “But we never forgot. And you all are here to help us hold the NINE accountable.”

  The room went silent for many seconds. Then murmurs carried through the crowd: “Them?” “Who else?” “Did they say four?”

  “You were the children?” a woman questioned.

  “Me and my cousins,” Xanto said.

  Every eye in the space drifted over to Keller. The man never blinked.

  “Why wait so long for revenge?” someone shouted.

  “It’s only recently that we remembered what happened,” Xanto said. “Our memories were altered. Even now, it’s bits and pieces.”

  He swept his hand across the room. “It took years of searching, but our efforts finally led us here. You currently stand in the birthplace of the NINE: untouched in a quarter-century.”

  Cohen stared at the walls all around. His skin broke out in goosebumps. Sounds of surprise echoed all around him.

  “And with its discovery, the project’s abandoned journals, lessons, and, in limited cases, surveillance footage,” Xanto added smugly. “Like the video above you.”

  Eyes shifted up again, as Xanto continued to speak. “Through these records, we’ve started to uncover what the NINE acronym stands for, and what we are up against. One N is for Nadi: energetic manifestation and manipulation.”

  A ripple of disbelief coursed through the crowd. But Xanto pressed on: “The I for Insynn: some form of precognition. And E for Eko: telepathy, memory manipulation. We don’t know about the second N yet. But we will, when we get our hands on them.”

  No one seemed to know what to say. Next to Cohen, Nox’s red eyebrows were bunched together. Cohen gulped; if Nox was disturbed, then it was even worse than he thought.

  Cohen’s mind turned back to Sydel: how she healed his burns, the conversation in the cockpit when they captured that blonde terrorist. She said she was an Eko. So was she one of these NINE? No, Xanto said twenty-five years ago, it wasn’t possible. Huma, then? But she wouldn’t be standing on that platform if that were true, would she?

  “How many are left?” someone yelled from the other side of the room.

  “We don’t know,” Keller said in his low, muttering voice, surprising everyone. “But we believe that capturing one will create the path to the others. The first of you to find a NINE receives 500,000 rana.”

  Sounds of approval moved through the crowd. Huma surveyed the group with a smug expression, that stupid white cape swept over one shoulder like a queen.

  Cohen couldn’t help it; his temper exploded.

  “Where is Sydel?” he roared.

  Heads swiveled, including Keller, Xanto and Huma.

  Go ahead, Cohen thought, staring into Huma’s eyes and ignoring the rest. Read my mind. I know who you really are.


  Huma cleared her throat. “Cohen Byrne,” she called out. “We will be working together to right a wrong - ”

  “Like hell we are,” Cohen shot back.

  Gasps rippled through the space.

  “One more word out of you - ” Xanto spat, his face growing red. Keller had no expression, though his pale blue eyes were locked on Cohen.

  A hand clamped down on Cohen’s arm, Nox hissing in his ear: “Stop talking, Co. Stop!”

  Then Nox stepped in front and waved weakly at Xanto. “He’s young,” he called. “I’ll teach him!”

  As Nox made excuses, Cohen battled with the desire to yank his arm free, bolt for the platform, and snap Huma’s neck with his hands. Huma still watched him, and from the stricken look on her face, she could see all that he imagined. With effort, he pushed aside the looping, violent sequence in his brain.

  For Sydel, he thought, glaring at her. For now, you live.

  “This was the not the introduction I planned, but so be it,” Xanto huffed. “To my right is Huma. She has recruited and trained seven Ekos and Nadis to shield us.”

  Disbelief rippled through the crowd. Xanto raised his hand. “To defeat the enemy, we need to counter their offense, whatever it might be. These individuals are currently shielding this base from human detection, and they will also infuse our weapons, rendering them twice as powerful.”

  The tone of the crowd shifted from confused to interested.

  “I thought you might like that,” Xanto smirked. “I know I do. Now, back to the barracks. We will have food brought in. If you want to get paid, keep quiet and be ready to move.”

  The volume in the room raised several levels. Nox pulled on Cohen’s arm again. “You can’t say things like that with these people,” he berated. “You have no idea - ”

  “Cohen Byrne.” Keller’s voice made them both jump.

  The pale-eyed man stood next to them, as if he teleported from the platform. The crowd gave a wide breadth around the three.

  “Follow me, please.” Keller’s voice was void of any emotion.

  “Keller,” Nox begged. “I promise, no more issues, he’s good - ”

  “He comes now, or this ends,” Keller replied.

  Nox opened his mouth to argue, but Cohen held him back. “It’s fine,” he told Nox. “I’m fine.” He jerked his head at Keller. “Let’s go.”

  Everyone stared, or pretended not to stare, as the two wove through the partitions. The thick metal door was locked by keycode; when Keller punched in a series of numbers, Cohen followed the man into a stairwell of red rock, the dust so thick that Cohen had to control his breath to stop from sneezing. Keller didn’t seem to notice as he walked down a long flight of stairs, heading for the lowest floor. Cohen’s skin prickled in the silence. He assumed that Huma was behind the summons, but Keller could be separating him to kill him.

  The man paused on the last step. Cohen stiffened as Keller’s head turned to the side.

  “You know, I don’t just choose anyone to work for me,” came that weird, whispery voice again.

  Cohen’s hands bunched into fists.

  “You hate Huma.” There was a hard, gleeful clip at the end of Keller’s words. “We’re like brothers, you and me. We’ve faced the same kind of evil.”

  Cohen clamped down on the shudder that threatened to run through his body.

  Finally, Keller hit the bottom platform. Six feet ahead, a metal door stood, marked with a 3, fingers of rust around its edges. He waited until Cohen’s boots clomped down. Then the pale-eyed man stepped aside. “Go in. First door to the left”

  Cohen stared at the door handle. Should he run? Should he try to incapacitate Keller?

  “Cohen, my friend. Please.”

  Was that a hint of a smile on the man’s lips?

  Cohen steeled his nerves. Then with one hard jerk, he yanked open the door, swooped in and to the left.

  The bright light was blinding. He could only make out a silhouette of someone in the room.

  Huma, he thought immediately, adrenaline blasting through his body, his hands balled into fists.

  Then his vision began to clear. But the eyes before him weren’t cold and green. They were deep brown, wide and shocked. He heard an intake of breath. It was his.

  “I can be kind, Cohen. To those I consider an ally,” Keller’s voice carried into the space. “I hear you two know each other.”

  Then the door closed with a click.

  She was hunched over, like something precious had been taken from her. Her skin was ashy, instead of that warm copper he remembered. But Sydel’s face was full of relief as she stared at him.

  Cohen’s mind raced with a thousand things to say. But each sentence died as soon as he tried to speak.

  “Co.” Her voice was just as he remembered, soft and melodic.

  “Hi,” Cohen said. Then he internally cursed at his stupid response. “Are you okay?” he added.

  Sydel nodded.

  He did his best not to fidget. “Nothing bad is going to happen,” Cohen declared. “I promise. I won’t let it.”

  One side of Sydel’s mouth turned up, even as her eyes stayed sad. “Oh, I’m not worried for my safety.”

  Cohen didn’t know what to say to that, but he took a chance. In his arms, she felt like a trembling bird: bony and frail, so easy to snap in two. But she was unnervingly hot, almost burning to the touch. Cohen ignored the discomfort, and held her with as much steadiness as he could give. Maybe she felt some kind of security, Cohen didn’t know. But Keller’s words festered inside him, rising up his throat and threatening to strangle him.

  They were trapped.

  II.

  The sun rose, but the shadows in the cell remained cold and blue. Phaira shivered, tucking her body into a ball. She longed to drift off to sleep again, but her body was coming to life, blood pumping, livening her muscles, energizing her, like it or not. This was not a vacation. She had to finish this. Get back to her brothers. Find Sydel. Resolve everything.

  “When you grow angry, your defenses drop. It’s no wonder that woman was able to invade your mind. She could have done it even without touch.”

  Phaira’s anger flared at the snide comment, but she kept silent, and concentrated. Yann sat in the center of the Jala Communia, ten feet away from her. The ice swept over her brain again, despite her efforts, and Yann plucked out a surface memory with ease: she and her brothers sitting in the grass after the Hitodama hack, deciding what to do and where to go.

  “I will say this again,” Yann said. “You must learn to control your emotions. Blind emotion, the body’s basic chemical reactions, they are of no use to you.”

  Easier said than done. She always had a quick temper: like touching a hot piece of coal, one girlfriend called it. The structure and physicality of military life had quelled it somewhat. But since her discharge and everything after, her anger had resurfaced, violent and unexpected. When she trekked across the grasslands, and first caught sight of the Communia’s border, and Yann waiting by the gates, she had to take several minutes to calm her rage before walking to meet him.

  “Leave, Phaira. Your first and only warning.” His hands buried in his tunic sleeves, the elder’s face was void of any expression.

  Phaira dropped her satchel into the grass. “Sydel’s in danger,” she declared. “I can’t save her without your help.”

  Yann’s expression didn’t change.

  “Does that make no impression on you?”

  “She is not a part of my community,” Yann said evenly. “And as I recall, it was your responsibility to ensure her safety until her return.”

  It was agonizing, but Phaira forced the words out: “I am humbly asking for your expertise, Yann. I need to learn how to protect my mind from an Eko assault.”

  He stiffened, glaring at her with his watery eyes. “Sydel,” he said under his breath, like a warning.

  “Yes, she told me,” Phaira said pointed
ly. “And unless you want your secret to go public, let me in.”

  Yann was silent for a long time.

  “I can’t save her without your help, Yann. A fraction of your time. Please.”

  “You want to learn. So focus.”

  That was Yann’s sole retort when she was led into the inner compound, into his barracks and presented with a series of strange tests.

  Look at these cards and project the image. That was a complete failure.

  Sit quietly, concentrate and receive information delivered telepathically. Phaira managed to relay random words, blurry images and some colors.

  Then tests to her natural defenses. Think about your family. Remember something sad. Recall what last made you angry.

  The results were mixed, but interesting. Yann decided that Phaira had a natural sensitivity to Eko phenomena; she was a borderline receiver and perceiver, but had no ability to project. And when calm, it seemed that her mind automatically generated a thin defensive barrier.

  “But,” Yann added. “When you cross over to feelings and fear, everything breaks down and you have nothing. You understand?”

  It sounded logical; her temper was the catalyst for so many sins.

  So Phaira complied. She was shown to Sydel’s old cell. She stayed silent at mealtimes, eating sparingly of what was offered, cringing at the under-salted food, but making no complaints. None of the other residents would acknowledge her, or even look her in the eye. Only Yann would speak to her, and then only for one hour a day: sixty minutes alone in the meditation garden, him invading her mind, Phaira flailing to keep him out. After each session, Yann refused to answer any questions. At night, Phaira trained under the stars, scaling the walls and roofs within the compound, working her body to release her burning frustration.

  The routine continued for one week, with no change.

  At the end of another fruitless day, Phaira drudged back to her cell. It was the same as Sydel had left it: a hard bed, a single light, and a badly built armoire, a few books stacked under the bed in a language that Phaira couldn’t read. Phaira’s satchel lay in the corner, still unpacked, odd-looking in the austere space.

  But something new lay on the bed: something small and wrapped in brown paper.

  Staring at it from the doorway, Phaira’s senses pinged, warning her of all the potential danger within. But who knew she was there? Just her brothers.

  And that other guy who kept showing up.

  A little thrill went through her. Phaira locked the door behind her. Then she went to the window and searched the courtyard. Whoever left it was long gone.

  The package had no weight to it, but there was definitely something inside. She unfolded the paper as quietly as she could.

  Inside laid a silver half-circle of wire, approximately a foot in length, barely a centimeter in width. A tiny metal chip was fused into the exact middle. Phaira turned the wire over in her hands, puzzled.

  She heard a soft pinging sound, coming from her satchel. The Lissome within carried a message: “It’s called a HALO. Secure it around the base of the skull, under your hair. Then press the chip in the middle.”

  Her curiosity won out over any hesitation. The HALO affixed to the hair just behind her ears, looping around the back of her head. But what did it do? She felt along the length until her fingers found the rough chip in the middle. Half-expecting an electrical shock, she tapped it.

  Nothing. Phaira looked around her cell, checking for any difference in her hearing, her sight or her thought patterns. Nothing seemed different.

  Her Lissome beeped again. Connection request. She turned to sit on the bed, linking only the audio.

  “So what do you think?”

  “I don’t know what to think.” Phaira admitted. “What does it do?”

  Theron’s voice had a satisfied ring to it. “Your mind is now protected from any Eko invasion. In fact, from anyone trying to overhear this conversation.”

  “It’s - what?” Phaira said, one hand drifting to the cold wire.

  “You can leave now.” His voice was strangely urgent. “This device not only blocks any kind of psychic assault, but projects stock images and thoughts in its place. When you have it on, no one can touch you. So you don’t need these people.”

  Shadows fell across the length of the cell as Phaira tried to think of a response.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “I believe you,” Phaira said. She bit her lip, running her fingers over the delicate wire. No, she knew what had to be done. “But I still have questions. I need answers before I can leave.”

  “You didn’t go for answers; you went to learn how to stop an Eko. Now I’ve given you the means to do so.” He sounded insulted.

  Even though he couldn’t see her face, Phaira rolled her eyes. Why am I arguing with him? she wondered. “And what if it malfunctions?” she said out loud. “Or gets pulled off? Then I’m vulnerable all over again.”

  Silence.

  “I can’t rely on anyone or any kind of device to protect me,” Phaira continued. “I have to know that it will never happen again, no matter who - ”

  “Do you dream about it?”

  The question made her pause. Through the Lissome’s tinny sound system, Theron’s words rippled out like waves. “I manage to block out the memory most of the time. But lately it’s been resurfacing in my dreams. I barely sleep as it is. Now it’s almost impossible.”

  She understood. The smug look on Huma’s face; icy fingers dragging over her brain; Phaira helpless and screaming, grasping at memories as they slipped out, one by one, dying in the exposed light. Then she would wake from the nightmare, covered in sweat and barely able to breathe. Almost every night.

  Then Phaira realized that Theron had gone silent. “Are you there?” she asked.

  No answer, but the crackle of static told her that the line was still connected.

  She wondered if she should ask him to explain what happened to him, if that seizure she witnessed was related to it.

  But the silence unseated her courage.

  “Huma has followers,” Phaira finally spoke. “I have to be able to deflect any Eko attack, even just for a few seconds. Just long enough to get my hands on her.”

  “You know you can’t trust Yann. Or anyone in that commune. They aren’t stupid. They all know what’s going on, both inside that place, and in the outside world.”

  Funny he said that. She’d suspected the same for a few days now. Yann was certainly an Eko, but the rest of the Communia, she wondered about them, too. There were too many knowing looks, too many averted eyes. There were missing pieces to this situation: the reason why Yann allowed her to stay, whether his training advice was beneficial or harmful. How could she know for certain, though?

  “I don’t trust them,” Phaira finally said. “Believe me. I never will.”

  When the call ended, Phaira went to unclip the HALO. There was a sound outside her door; probably just someone taking a walk, but she stiffened just the same. She left the HALO on. Her brothers were expecting her to call that night, and something sensitive might come up.

  Phaira punched in the cc for Nox’s apartment. As she waited, she rolled her neck from side to side. She wished that she didn’t have to talk any more that night. Yes, she missed Cohen and Renzo, but the conversations were always long and intense, and the aftermath made her think too much. Theron had already put enough thoughts in her head.

  The Lissome tried to connect for a full minute. Then an error message beeped. She checked the series of numbers and letters again. It was the right order. She tried again. Error.

  Phaira’s heart began to thump. She quickly typed in the cc for Anandi and Renzo. Scenarios flickered through her mind. Kidnapped. Dead. Gone.

  “Phaira?” Renzo squinted through the screen. “What’s wrong?”

  “Have you talked to Co lately?”

  “A few days ago. Why?”

  “No one is picking up at Nox
’s apartment.”

  “So they’re out right now.”

  Phaira was already stuffing her few belongings into her satchel, strapping the borrowed longblade across her back, plotting the quickest route to Daro.

  “Whoa, Phaira, wait!” Renzo ordered. “Wait until morning. Let me see if I can reach him. Maybe Nox got called into work.”

  “Maybe,” Phaira said. “But Cohen would have called to tell us. I know something’s wrong. I know it.”

  “You’re letting those people mess with your mind. I’ll get Anandi on it, okay? Call you back.”

  Phaira dropped the satchel on the bed. Every muscle in her body was rigid. The touch of cold metal on the back of her neck made her jump. Theron’s HALO was still attached; she had forgotten about it. She unclipped it and held it in both hands. Simple, but incredibly powerful. Deceptive. A bit of a cheat, too.

  Then again, Yann was too. She could tell from the first moment she saw him in that medical center: how he loomed over her with that smug expression; how he lorded his authority over Sydel, a girl who burned with insecurity, aching to please him. How coldly he rejected Sydel, saddling her with three strangers.

  Phaira had been going about this the wrong way. Honor and rules had no place in this new world. Yann would never tell her anything.

  If she wanted his honesty, she had to make him afraid.

  * * *

  The next day, Phaira was already waiting in the garden when Yann appeared for their session. Fifteen feet away, the older man settled into a seat on the grass, as per usual, and folded his hands over his knees. Her satchel sat by her feet, along with Theron’s longblade. She wore her black street clothes, her hood pulled over her hair to conceal the HALO underneath: inactive but there, just in case.

  “Are you leaving?” Yann finally asked. He sounded bored at the thought.

  “I have questions first,” Phaira replied. She placed her hands behind her back. “And I’m asking one last time for answers.”

  “I have nothing to share with the likes of you.”

  “So be it.” Phaira took a step forward. Her eyes never left his.

  “What are you doing?”

  Phaira said nothing and took another step, and then another.

  She was five feet away when Yann raised his hand.

  There it was: icy tethers, seeping into the back of her head. Panic rose in her throat. But instead of pushing down her emotions, as Yann had taught her, she did the opposite: she let her fear take over.

  A flash of cold blasted through her blood, followed by adrenaline, her nerves sparking white-hot. In those rampant seconds, the rush was terrifying and ecstatic. And Yann let out a strangled cry as Phaira looped her arm under his chin, his hand still outstretched as his body jerked for air.

  “Questions, Yann,” Phaira stated. “Ready now?”

  “Yes…. yes…”

  Phaira released him. As Yann took in a gulp of air, Phaira reached back to turn on the HALO. Her teeth chattered, her muscles spasmed, and her eyes were wet with tears. But her instinct was correct. Emotion was the key to her defenses.

  Feel the fear. Just like Sydel said.

  And Yann had been manipulating her this whole time, using her naivety to pick through her memories. She glared down at Yann’s bald head, disgusted at believing a single word from his lips.

  “How - your skill-set has developed so quickly - how - ” Yann was gasping.

  “Questions, Yann.” Phaira cut him off. She pushed her knees into his shoulders, and gripped his chin and his forehead. “Say the wrong thing and I break your neck. You’ll be gone before anyone can reach you. Understand?” She torqued his neck, putting more pressure on the cervical spine. “Why did you throw Sydel out?”

  “There is history here that you cannot begin to understand,” he sputtered.

  “Try me,” Phaira said, twisting more. “Now.”

  The lines on Yann’s face caught the sun. Then he slumped over. “I ran out of chances,” he wheezed.

  “What does that mean?” Then Phaira asked the question she had held onto for weeks: “And what did you mean when you said that Sydel is older than she looks?”

  Yann’s body jerked. “When did I say that?”

  “When you excommunicated her. What does that mean? She looks barely eighteen.”

  “She is not.” The answer was a whisper.

  “I’ve guessed that,” Phaira said, impatient. “How old is she, really?”

  Yann deflated again. “I tried to mold her,” he murmured, not seeming to hear Phaira’s question. “I started her fresh and ignorant again, so many times. She never seemed to age, so it was easy. But always the same result: too powerful, too dangerous, on the brink of exposure.”

  His eyes rose up to Phaira’s. “I never took part in hurting those children,” he whispered. “I ran for my life when the chaos began. I’ve kept myself hidden for twenty-five years, out of respect for those who died. But I always knew they would come after us.”

  Phaira released Yann’s head and stepped back. Her mind swam with all the strange details, but one picture formed clearly: one of Sydel guided, prodded, lectured, chastised for her abilities, and then her mind erased to start the training anew. A fresh start. A blank canvas. Another chance to gain control.

  “How many times did you wipe Sydel’s memory?” she asked, barely able to comprehend the words.

  “Too many,” Yann murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. “When you and your brothers arrived, I was on the last restart. My brothers and sisters were tired of pretending that she was normal. They were no longer willing to take the risk of housing her. It was a unanimous vote.”

  Phaira wanted to place her boot into his back and shove him through the dirt. Instead, she crouched down to ensure that Yann heard her. “Why let me in here and pretend to train me?”

  “Sydel, of course,” Yann muttered, not turning around. “I wanted to know what you knew. How she lived in your care, if she continued to grow in power. I know I was the force behind her departure, but I couldn’t help but worry about her. I never had a child of my own.”

  “You still don’t have a child,” Phaira corrected. “Rot here with your minions. You’re never going to see that girl again.”

  Then she swept up the fallen satchel and longblade, walked through the tunnel, and onto the dying grass of the Midland plains.

  III.

  Anandi’s shoulders drooped from exhaustion, but she kept working into the night, trying to uncover information about the so-called psychic attackers, as Phaira had relayed.

  I shouldn’t bring Anandi into this, Renzo thought more than once. But Cohen was missing. And he didn’t know what else to do.

  Within the hanger, the Arazura stood in silence, complete and operational. After a hearty congratulatory party and some raucous test flights, the other scientists, rebels and squatters had drifted back into the shadows. Standing before the Arazura, reliving those moments, calmness settled over Renzo. These past few weeks would remain close to him. Though his brain was still unpredictable, it was one of the first memories since the assault that Renzo felt determined to keep.

  As the sun rose, Renzo fired the engines. They barely made a sound. He only had to touch the throttle for the ship to respond. And as the Arazura lifted into the air, exhilaration rushed through him, quickly followed by guilt. But in a strange way, he could hear his sister’s voice, joking: “It’s a good thing, Ren. Don’t punch yourself in the face about it. We’ll find Co, and he can be proud too.”

  The Arazura travelled out of the Mac and across a stretch of parched grassland. Within the six hours of flight, the landscape dotted with houses, thicker and thicker. Then the Arazura descended into the east end of Daro. Building exteriors grew more rundown, mottled with rust. Renzo reduced his speed as the black parking hanger loomed into clarity. On the third floor, he caught sight of a human silhouette, sitting on the edge. That telltale blue hair came into focus.

  The
Arazura seemed to change everything; on entry, the parking attendant offered him access to the higher floors, where the more expensive transports were housed. Renzo smiled and paid the attendant a few rana to ensure the ship wasn’t stolen. When the Arazura clicked into a landing crate, the magnetic bolts fastening with a groan, Renzo fought the urge to check the exterior for scratches. Instead, he hurried down to street level, where Phaira waited.

  “Did you find Co?” she asked him on sight.

  The memory of Nican Macatia swept into Renzo’s mind. Her anger once led to Nican falling off a bridge. And Cohen was still missing. How would she react when he told her?

  But then Renzo noticed her eyes. They were fixed on his feet.

  He’d forgotten. They hadn’t seen each other for weeks. And he wasn’t limping anymore.

  And right before him, that dark woman became his little sister again, her face contorted into that baffled expression he’d seen a thousand times before.

  Renzo grinned. “I know.” He leaned over and lifted his trouser hem. “I made it. Well, Anandi’s friend helped.”

  He took a moment to admire the work. The silver prosthetic had the flexibility and working musculature of a human limb; perfectly balanced, he felt no pain. He could walk, he could even run and jump, though he hadn’t worked up the nerve to try the latter yet.

  His sister continued to stare. Renzo cleared his throat. “You know, I never… I never apologized to you,” he said gruffly. “For that last night in the apartment. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

  Phaira flinched. “Don’t, Ren,” she muttered. “It was my fault. All of it. I make some really terrible decisions.”

  “They aren’t all catastrophes,” Renzo corrected. It was the most he dared to say, and luckily, it was enough; he caught her faint smile in response. Relieved, he gestured to the curve in the road. “Down this way?”

  Within minutes, they were outside Nox’s apartment complex. The door was locked, but Phaira twisted the mechanics and popped it open with little effort.

  Inside, the place was a disaster. Smashed glass. A smear of blood across one wall, a scorch pattern burned into another. Chairs upturned. Dried blood spattered on the carpet, though not enough to make Renzo panic. Not yet.

  Renzo searched the other rooms. Dust was already starting to settle on the few belongings.

  Then his Lissome beeped.

  “Phair,” Renzo said, breaking the silence in that dead apartment. “Phaira.”

  Phaira’s head turned towards him. He could see the sharp angle of her nose, her dark mouth set in a line, but nothing else.

  Renzo held up the Lissome. “What did you find, Ani?”

  Anandi’s voice was tinny and nervous. “I cracked some encrypted surveillance, and I saw them. Cohen and your friend Nox, taken by two men, loaded into a ground transport. Too far away to identify anyone or any registration number. But - ”

  Anandi hesitated. She was nervous, Renzo realized. Why?

  “Did you know that Nox has been working for the Sava syndicate?” she finally asked.

  “The what?” Phaira and Renzo asked simultaneously.

  “The Sava Family. Crime syndicate in the south cities, though they’ve started to creep up the coast. They have a lot of eyes and resources. It’s why it’s taken me so long to uncover even a bit of information, I had to switch routes three times to avoid being tracked. By the look of it, the heir apparent to the syndicate was one of the kidnappers, Keller Sava.”

  Phaira cradled the base of her skull, her jutting elbows hiding her face. Briefly, Renzo entertained the fantasy of swinging a crowbar at Nox’s head. Then he forced himself to focus. “Why would they take Co?” he wondered out loud. “Would Nox have brought Cohen into - ?”

  “No,” Phaira said shortly, surprising Renzo. “Nox is bored with civilian work and looking for a thrill. I know him, Ren. I have to believe that he wouldn’t intentionally involve Cohen.”

  “There’s more,” Anandi spoke up. “There are rumors on the network that some kind of big event is about to take place. There are new entries about Ekos, too: more theories than before, more stories of encounters. And other people are missing too. Remember Lander from the Hitodama? He’s listed as missing. There’s a rumor that he was blackmailed into service, though where - ”

  Phaira took the Lissome from Renzo’s hand. “Like you were?”

  A long pause. “What do you mean?”

  “Did that woman Saka try to blackmail you to work for her, in exchange for your father’s safe return?”

  Renzo looked from the back of Phaira’s head to the Lissome.

  “I wasn’t sure at the time,” Anandi finally confessed. “A large deposit was made into one of my dummy accounts and a pick-up time and address forwarded. No signature. I ignored it; I get requests like that all the time. Then those Hitodama were killed and my father taken. Five minutes after I got the news, another message with a pick-up time came through, and I realized they were connected. I was so scared, but then I met you, Phaira, and I knew you could get him away and keep us safe…”

  Anandi’s voice trailed off. “I’m sorry. I was trying to protect my father and me from exposure. I should have told you everything. Both of you.”

  “Yes, you should have,” Phaira retorted. Then she disconnected the line. The Lissome hung at her side. Renzo couldn’t tell what his sister was thinking. He wasn’t sure what to think of that exchange, either.

  “How did you get here, Ren?” Phaira asked suddenly, blinking like she’d just woken up. “Did you take public transit?”

  “I flew,” Renzo said. “On a private ship. My ship,” he corrected, nervous for some reason he couldn’t identify. “I’ve been - well, not just me, but - I restored a live-in transport. With Anandi and some other people.”

  Phaira exhaled, her breath a sigh. “I don’t know what to do, Ren. This is so far beyond anything I know.”

  As she trailed off, Phaira’s hand slipped into her jacket’s inside pocket, rubbing her thumb over something. Renzo frowned. “What’s that?”

  Phaira retrieved the object: a silver half-circle that Renzo recognized immediately. “Where did you get that?” he exclaimed.

  “This?” Phaira asked, still half in thought. “It was sent to me. What, you know what it is?”

  “Seen it?” Renzo scoffed. “I created it! Well, with another guy in the group. He perfected it, but we drafted up the plans together. I have more in the ship for us, but Theron kept the HALO prototype. Why would he send it to you?”

  “Theron?” Phaira exclaimed, her blue eyebrows shot high. Then her body slumped. “Unbelievable,” she muttered.

  “What are you talking about?” Renzo asked impatiently, but Phaira was already heading in the direction of the broken front door.

  Renzo threw up his hands, mouthing curses at the ceiling. All this secretiveness drove him mad. But there was nothing left to do but follow his sister back to the Arazura and hope for inspiration.