Exigency

by Michael Siemsen

  TOM: Promise an unrestricted interview at a later date?

  AETHER: What I don’t understand—why aren’t we talking about the kee burning and threckee and all that? Do you think that none of these people know what happened?

  Unhkte explained to the audience, “Syons People speech is often delayed. We will address when onto language topic.”

  TOM: I know. Weird.

  AETHER: Unhelpful.

  TOM: I’m happy to be the hole. I’ll cut in and explain that your time is precious or something. Like an assistant keeping tabs on the schedule. Say the word.

  Tom’s offer didn’t instill much confidence. Delivery could be crucial.

  “Well-thought question,” Aether sent to fill the air as she devised a hopefully judicious statement. She sent as she wrote, hoping for the best. “Syons People are open, honest, and obliging people. We see and appreciate your group’s cravings for knowledge and understanding—traits we deeply share. All Syons People are Thinkers, and we desire this same sort of session wherein we ask of you questions that fill in the gaps of knowledge we have regarding your city and people and history.” This was met with enthusiastic—though silent—praise. “However, today we have come here not to this end, but to discuss three specific subjects. Because these subjects are urgent, we wish to delay the start of our delightful exchange of knowledge to some future day.”

  Aether observed a wave of mixed reactions circulate through the audience, though most appeared promising: curiosity, surprise, anticipation, impatience, “More.”

  Unhkte appeared to absorb and interpret the consensus, then addressed Aether. “You may announce these urgent subjects.”

  Aether inhaled deep as she pulled up the precomposed list, dropping it into her Livetrans queue.

  “Gratitude,” Aether signed. “The first subject is that of the atrocities two nights ago. We wish to explain our experience and the events following.” Mindful of the earlier guards’ apparent lack of familiarity, she added, “If we may.”

  The Thinkers bore no such puzzlement. The majority looked on without outward reaction, while a scant few beckoned her to continue. Their conspicuous lack of reaction exuded an unprecedented intensity. Unhkte motioned for Aether to proceed.

  Aether unpaused the recounting. “Two nights ago, barbaric atrocities took place during your sacred keepock ritual …” concluding with “… As evidenced by the wrongdoer’s execution, Eeahso condemns this act and seeks peace, vowing to permanently end all raids on the city.”

  A handful of solitary Threck bodies rose from the assembly and waited.

  Unhkte pointed to one. “Proceed.”

  “Where is Eeahso now?”

  Half of the standers sunk back into the ranks of heads and eyes, leaving only three standing.

  “Eeahso is in hiding,” Aether replied.

  Unhkte pointed to another. “Hiding somewhere you know?”

  Aether had expected this line of questioning, but hadn’t formulated a definitive response. She had figured she’d wing it.

  She’d said her piece and decided to move on. They could return to it after, if still insistent. “The second subject is that of stranded Syons People. Across the sea, in the place you call Hynka Country, three of our people got lost, ending up in this dangerous place. Our flying machines can travel far, but not so far as the sea. We wish not to endanger Threck lives in addition to our own, so we’re not asking for any of your people to come ashore. Your afvrik would stop as soon as land is in sight. We would require three to six days to find and return with our people, and then be transported back across the sea.”

  The Thinkers chatted quietly amongst themselves, motioning to Unhkte that this subject “Is not ours.”

  Unhkte addressed Aether. “This request is not for Thinkers group. Afvrik are tool of Fishing group. Your third subject?”

  “The third was previously introduced by Tom, but never answered—”

  “Request to build city in Threck Country,” Unhkte interrupted. “This was delegated by the Council to the Thinkers for consideration and advisement. This is why all await continuation of questioning. We must have all information prior to submitting our advice.”

  Aether glanced at Tom, irritation creeping from the back of her head to her temples. She turned back to Unhkte. “The Thinkers must know what garb we wear in our homes? This is how you will come to your decision on whether to allow my people to survive or to turn us away?”

  Unhkte seemed to stammer. “This is not only … This is one of many … It was well-thought question …” She leaned close to Aether, normally droopy eyes wide with intensity.

  “Allow,” Unhkte muttered.

  The sound had been inaudible to Aether, but Livetrans picked it up. Aether didn’t know what it was supposed to mean.

  “If one of your people …” Aether began again, “… happened upon Syons People land, became lost, and lay in the sun, drying out, dying, would you find it reasonable for us to ask one hundred questions and deliberate before deciding whether to apply shade and water?”

  “Syons People are not dying,” Unhkte countered for all to hear, and gestured for Aether to let her continue.

  “Yes we are!” Tom blared from his PA. Aether raised a hand to protest, but paused. “Angela, the one with me at the Council, was killed by Skinny just two nights ago. In Hynka Country, there are three more of us who could suffer the same fate from creatures your people know well. They are, right now, lying in the sun without water or shade, waiting for this group to decide if they live or die.”

  The assembly’s movements revealed an even mix of confusion, alarm, pity, and thirst. All this talk of dry and hot …

  Unhkte was silent.

  Aether elected to resume. “In exchange for Threck help with these matters, Syons People will use our knowledge of small life to resurrect your lost kee, make new kee, and establish new fshkee where we can ensure the kee thrives. This we offer because we are in Threck Country, and while Syons People may live here temporarily—if permitted—it is Threck who must live on, flourish, and grow your city.”

  Unhkte peered around the room, observing the group’s feedback as she slid around the circular pool.

  TOM: Well-thought, well-said.

  A rare eye hide from Unhkte as she completed her lap and stood to face Aether and Tom. Another whispered address, intended only for them. “You should have allowed me to help.” She backed away and resumed full volume for the entire room. “The Thinkers consider the logic of things. All pieces. You wish not to provide these pieces. If I am dying—unshaded and dry beneath your symbol sun—I do not attempt to set conditions of my rescue. As you stand nearby with shade and water, I do whatever is required of me—all that I am still able to accomplish—to satisfy your requirements for help.”

  “Of course—” Aether attempted, cut off with a wave from Unhkte.

  “You wish to trade life for life,” Unhkte went on. “You offer kee—substantial trade if the very foundation of our people were destroyed—but the risk of single fshkee was recognized long ago. There are many fshkee, all full of ample kee. Our people are in no danger of vanishing. Thus, it would seem to the Thinkers that Syons People need many things from Threck, but Threck need nothing from Syons People.”

  3.0

  Minnie’s paired skimmers hovered over the Hynka bone shrine, drifting right while rotating counterclockwise. Beyond the tiered rock wall, the rumble of stampeding Hynka grew louder, their shrieks and hissy, throaty calls echoing over the snaps and crashes of innocent vegetation. Minnie yanked her eyes from the mesmerizing, unfathomable sight of Ish, up to the unpromising view of a thrashing jungle canopy. Reaching Ish before the first of the horde arrived would be impossible. Her gaze returned to Ish and she began recording, zooming in to capture the details before taking her leave.

  The Hynka had been meticulous. From the near-perfect circle Ish’s body formed, like a serial killer’s Christmas wreath, Minnie guessed that every one of her former colleague�
��s bones had been pulverized—crushed to tiny bits and powder. All but her head. Aside from a few bruises and lacerations, and missing clumps of hair torn from her scalp, Ish’s head was intact, set right-side-up at the grisly circle’s six o’clock, her blackened neck stretched and twisted and folded like a deflated tire. She’d been stripped nude, her suit shredded into the thin bands used to truss her devastated body and to bind her wrists to her ankles, forming the circle. And finally, the display: raised and suspended there by three bundles of multicolored wire at 10, 12, and 2 o’clock. The wire had to be from the missing EV.

  Hectic movement entered Minnie’s peripheral. Ten more seconds—five to be safe. She needed to know if it was still there … zooming closer, closer still, a quaking view of Ish’s nearly shut, drooping right eyelid. Spectrum switch to mag. A glowing green ball appeared inside the yellow housing mounted to the ocular cavity. Ish’s fone was still in there, and from the looks of it, intact.

  Bits of sandstone dust trickled from cracks in the rock and Minnie heard the thumping beat of too-close Hynka footfalls. Without wasting a second to glance left, Minnie throttled the skimmer up and right, the high g-force testing her subopt muscles and sore knees. She returned her optics to default as she ascended, glimpsing the amassing crowd of vexed Hynka below, arms thrust upward as if to pull her back down with some invisible line. Others scaled the tiers of chiseled blocks toward the Ish wreath. Minnie held at 60 meters and watched, hoping they’d leave the body alone.

  Upon reaching the fourth level, the first Hynka reached up to Ish’s body and gingerly poked an exposed armpit.

  Yup, she’s still there, buddy. All’s good. Head on home now, y’hear? Take your friends.

  Two more joined the first below Ish, reaching up to touch her, but met with “no picking at the cake” swats from the first. All three turned their attention to the strange white object in the sky, probably yearning to snatch another orange-suited wall decoration.

  Minnie zoomed back in. These three behaved unlike the frantic crowd still beating their way through the jungle to be directly under her. They simply stared. There had been composed ones like this when she and John had first touched down, their bronze eyes exuding measured intensity, implying a chilling intellect. Had the horde captured Ish due to her lunacy eclipsing any remnants of good sense, or had they somehow outwitted her? It’d be foolish for Minnie to consider her own survival skills among these creatures to be more worthy than Ish’s, especially while she lacked the Hynka specialist’s research catalogue.

  Foolish indeed, Minnie thought, what with the ridiculous nature of her new plan. She brought the skimmers around to face south, tightened her grip on the controls, and—

  But what does it mean?

  Her own voice in her head, but unlike an ordinary thought. She’d literally heard her voice, but a bit deeper, a little older, perhaps, wiser, like an insightful future self, sent back in time to advise at a critical moment.

  Minnie replied in her head: What do you mean, ‘what does it mean?’ I’m supposed to interpret the brutal acts of a primitive, violence-based race? Who cares what it ‘means’ to them?

  The voice was more than a voice. Minnie perceived a disappointed sigh, the reproachful no-nod of a virtual head.

  Minnie persisted, Well what then? Do you know?

  Wise Minnie put a hand on Minnie’s shoulder. Your cosms got all silo’d, babe. Macro, micro … you’ve completely lost the big picture.

  It was true. She’d been wrapped up in linear tasks. Hadn’t taken a moment to step back and change scale. But what did Ish have to do with it all? Was she some huge keystone to the bigger picture?

  Wise Minnie answered without being directly asked. The complexity of this thing goes so far beyond Ish. Yes, she’s a keystone—one of many—but to say “bigger picture,” as if there was but a single image to grasp, it screams naiveté.

  “Screw you!” Minnie yelled aloud. “You said big picture first! … Oh sakes, I’m yelling at myself. What the hell is going—”

  And then she caught it. The final dregs of meds had left her body. Or John had been right. The cave worm emissions obviously had psychotropic effects, but could they have been managing all the key systems to keep her HSPD fully in line? The notion wasn’t entirely implausible. If her regular meds were given to some Sane Janes, they’d be climbing the walls and scratching the skin from their faces. If John was correct, the worms that had ravaged his body might just save her life.

  Minnie said aloud, “So, you’re one of them, eh?”

  Everyone has a conscience, babe.

  Peering at the nav panel, Minnie watched as the digits in the proximity box decreased with smooth, writhing transitions—8 uncurling and morphing into 7. The orange digits looked like snakes, or impossibly nimble belly dancers. Yeah, belly dancers. The readout complied and five rexic orange women bent and twisted into ever-shifting, often applause-worthy, numeric poses. Minnie was mesmerized.

  How could you ever wish to suppress this? You are superhuman.

  The dancers sang out in hypnotic harmony, “Oooooooooo …”

  An alert. A prox alert!

  “Shut the hell up, you!” Minnie shouted to both Wise Minnie and the console.

  She shook out her head as the sights and sounds of the world recommenced. Her skimmer pair had drifted dangerously close to the nearby mountain. She reversed and peered back, spotting a reinvigorated (if they were ever de-invigorated) legion of Hynka tearing up the hillside. If she hadn’t snapped out of it, they’d have been on her in under a minute.

  “Wow, you almost got me killed,” Minnie said as she banked the skimmers right and zipped south.

  Smooth and sultry, Wise Minnie vamped, Can’t blame me. I’m the one trying to pull the blinders off your face. You’re busy studying blue flowers.

  “Don’t try to use my own metaphors against—” Minnie closed her mouth, pressing her lips tightly shut.

  Minnie slowed and reduced altitude, giving the Hynka time to catch up. She suddenly realized she was smiling. A wide, toothy, uncontainable grin. How narcissistic was it to find such enjoyment in hearing her own voice talking in her head? In sparring with herself? Too fun! And the air … it smelled so good, felt amazing in her lungs, as if there existed breathing—regular old “Hey, look at me, I’m alive.” type breathing—and then there was this. Dessert breath. Yes! Inhaling a delicacy.

  A foggy euphoria crept up the sides of her neck and lit up her brain. Her chest tightened, like she couldn’t get enough of the delicious air. But it still felt good—really, really good … however …

  She knew what this meant. Despite the ages passed since the last episode, she knew this sensation all too well. She understood the physiological mechanisms behind it. She knew all of the little intricacies of her “unique” central nervous system, pituitary gland, spinal cord, adrenal glands, blood, and neurons when an episode was building, peaking, and falling, and remembered well the aftereffects. At present, her pulse was rising as beta-endorphins flooded into her spinal cord and brain capillaries, so now was the time that her astrocytes would mosey out for their coffee break, eliminating the crucial blood-brain barrier, and waving a green flag to the revving meltdown engines at the starting line. The adrenergic storm would soon follow, throwing fuel on the fire, and crossing the point of no return. It was like opposite day in there, where all the checks and balances evolution had put in place and refined over millennia, rebelled with a haughty “Nay.”

  When caught early enough, she’d successfully talked herself down from episodes, but it had been so long since she’d felt this. It was the same old ploy, she knew, baiting her with soothing, reassuring whispers: You’ve let it go longer than this before and still pulled out. You deserve this one little dalliance after a decade of self-denial. You’re safe right now. It won’t be like it was before. You’re stronger now … smarter …

  Her eyes had closed at some point. A distant, hollow biostat alert in her fone and ear module tried to catch h
er attention, but its feeble buzzing hadn’t presented her a compelling case. Biostats, I’d like you to meet Disabled.

  She slid down from the console and settled in against the warm panel door, like some cozy, enveloping pillow. A bent knee pressed in at her chest while the other leg lay flat, stretched out to the center of the pad. Fingers wrapped around her neck, seductively caressing, while the other hand pressed in between her legs.

  Enjoy. There’s not another human in the world who gets to feel this.

  * * *

  Nothing new from Minerva since their DC broke. She’d managed to take care of both of them all this time with no help whatsoever from him, but John still worried, still felt that simmering dread in his gut. He had zero control over her fate. He was effectively useless. And when she’d last asked him to rate his pain, he’d replied with the trusty old five. It’d been more like a strong seven at the time, and now ranked a steady, searing eight.

  Curled in his sleeping bag, heavy head pressed into the packed bag Minerva had thoughtfully slid beneath him before leaving, he rolled a capsule between thumb and forefinger. It was one of twenty-eight remaining diclomorph pills from their combined reserve. They’d already squandered twenty-two on him. Half of the medipads gone. Stem cream, antibiotics, gauze, tape, etset—all intended for a lifetime of rationing. Even if he had a chance at long-term survival, it’d be as a convalescent, a mouth to feed, an anchor, a risk. If they were somehow able to escape this lions’ den, Minerva would be forced to live out her days as a caretaker, and he as a burden.

  John elbowed away the top of the survival bag and slowly raised his head. His ruined neck protested and punished. It hurt less to turn it the other way, but he could only lie on his back or left side.

  His eyes adjusted to the glare from the cave opening and Ish’s EV sharpened into focus. Was Minerva deliberately keeping the medkits away from him? Wise, if so, but what if she didn’t return, or came back much later than anticipated? She’d only left him two pills. The first he’d taken shortly after she left; the second lay in the bowl of his upturned palm, nagging him for a trip down the hatch. How many more would it take to slam the door on existence, once and for all? Four? Five to be certain? Five more pills spent from Minerva’s lifetime supply. Or a single multiround from his MW. Another irreplaceable asset; however, not so scarce as meds. Though in two to three more days, those five pills would be used on him anyway.