by K. Makansi
“I wish Aulion could see me like this,” he growls. “I want the old man to die with shit in his pants.”
“You’ll just have to be very good at predicting the future,” Vale says.
“Or I could do this for you every day,” Osprey adds. “It’s pretty hot. Fancy a quickie?”
Soren grins, the scar stretching across his jaw. It’s terrifying.
“Later,” he says.
I catch Vale watching me and we lock eyes. Suddenly the room is much warmer and every hair on my body stands at attention.
Then Bunqu appears in the doorway. “You’d best be on your way,” he says. “Do you have your walkie-talkies?” Soren and I both pat the devices clipped to our belts. Soren helped Bunqu rig together two handheld radio devices, similar to the short-range walkie-talkies used in the Old World. Soren managed to boost the signal, so we’ll be able to communicate from far away. “Let’s just hope you don’t have to use them.” Bunqu steps forward and envelops me in his arms. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this vigil. I wish I could be there.”
“I wish you could, too.”
Bunqu puts a hand into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulls out a small canvas bag, tied with a drawstring. He tips the bag up, and several acorns tumble into his palm.
“I know you already have seeds for the ceremony,” he says, passing one to each of us. “But with acorns, you now have my blessing as well.”
“Like the pendants.” Vale’s hand goes to the golden acorn around his neck.
Soren rolls his eyes. “You Outsiders sure have a thing for acorns.”
We carried our supplies to the POD, boarding as a group behind a scrum of workers heading out for their morning shifts. Okarians are used to seeing people adorned for vigils, so we didn’t attract any undue scrutiny. Meera and I had carefully selected the site a few days ago, a little creek under a bridge in one of the city’s many parks. It’s smaller, and a little off the main walking paths, where Watchmen don’t patrol as often. Most of the bypassers are nearby residents doing their daily Dietician-prescribed exercise routines. It’s a beautiful little spot, with grass and wildflowers growing along the banks of the creek, one of the hundreds of grey water recycling canals in Okarian parks. In the growing daylight, as the sky turns from dusky blue to pink and orange, we set down our bags and prepare.
Osprey spreads the seeds on a small blanket. Vale sets two small drums by the creek. Soren clears an area and lays out a circle of stones, then carefully builds a pyramid of small logs for the fire. Meera joins us shortly after, accompanied by Snake and a few others I’ve never seen. When the sun shows her face, the vigil keepers start to arrive.
Soren lights the fire. The first few to arrive are gloriously decked out. One has a phoenix painted across her entire body, red and gold paint that starts at her left ankle and crawls all the way up to a pointed beak on her right shoulder and feather plumage along her collarbone. Her tight shorts and athletic bra reveal the extent of her artwork—it must have taken hours to complete. A man who looks to be in his thirties has his shirt off and an electrical explosion in shocking blue painted across his chest. I can only guess it represents Bolt fire, and wonder if he knew one of the victims of the massacre personally. A group of younger people arrive with straw, twigs, and sticks woven into their hair, their faces painted to depict different animals: a deer, a wolf, a sheep, a badger, and a bird of some sort, maybe a raven or crow. As more and more of them crest the hill and walk toward us, I am amazed by how many there are. I stand to greet them, nodding silently as they filter in and stand next to Osprey and Soren.
As the sun crests the horizon, painting our miniature valley in decadent orange and yellow, seeming to set the wildflowers on fire, I decide it’s time to begin. I catch Vale’s eye and, sitting at the drums, he begins a light, slow rhythm, quiet enough that my voice can be heard over their sound.
“This vigil is for victims of the massacre almost four years ago at the Sector Research Institute, where seven students and their professor were murdered.” I think of Eli, his miraculous escape from death, and wish long and hard that he were here, too. “Their deaths went unavenged. Justice was never sought. But this vigil isn’t only about the victims of the massacre. We wish to honor the many mysterious deaths and disappearances over the years. Today isn’t about revenge or justice. Today we’ll speak the names of the lost and the dead, and remember them.”
I kneel and pick three seeds from the neat piles Osprey’s organized. I pull Bunqu’s acorn out of my pocket and hold it with the others. I throw two of my seeds onto Soren’s fire.
“Tai Alexander. Brinn Alexander. This is for their deaths.”
I walk the few short paces to the creekside and toss the two remaining seeds into the running water.
“Tai Alexander. Brinn Alexander. This is for their lives, and for rebirth in the trees, the water, the earth, the sky.”
Let us practice resurrection.
I turn back to the crowd, where at least a hundred people are sitting, watching. When I loaded my fliers up around town, I was expecting twenty, twenty-five. I would have been happy with that. I sit next to Vale at the drums, the low rhythm resonating in my chest.
Soren stands and collects his seeds. At the fire, he says, “Hana Lyon. Tai Alexander. Sam. Brinn Alexander. This is for their deaths.” He throws his seeds into the fire. I remember a long time ago, not long after he joined the Resistance, when he told Eli, Jahnu, and me about his brief, almost non-existent relationship with Hana Lyon, one of the other murdered students at the Academy. “Hana Lyon. Tai Alexander. Sam. Brinn Alexander. Odin Skaarsgard. Cara Skaarsgard. This is for their lives.” I wonder at Soren’s naming of his parents. They aren’t dead, but it seems he considers their lives worthy of honoring at this funerary vigil. It strikes me how many people Soren has lost to the Sector’s destruction.
Osprey only has one name: “Violet,” she breathes, tossing her seed onto the flame. At the creek, she throws her seed in, but says nothing more.
Another few come forward, take seeds and cast them into the fire, saying names I don’t know and intoning the words, each with their own spin, their own meaning. One man I almost recognize—was he a student at the SRI? A friend of Tai’s?—has claws painted on his hands and a multicolored skull on his face. Soren watches him, too, and then glances at me and nods. He collects a handful of seeds when he stands, more than anyone else who’s come before him except perhaps Soren.
“Aran Hawthorne. Matthew Malthus. Tai Alexander. Joaquin Pero. Dakota Quinn. Fennel Chang. Kell O’Connell. Hana Lyon. I knew them all, and none of them deserved their fate. This is for their deaths.” He throws his seeds in the fire, and then into the water. “The fire will bring them justice, and the water will bring them peace.” He meets my eyes as he turns, a grim expression on his face.
As the sun rises more people file in to watch or participate, and soon I estimate there’s no fewer than two hundred people sitting or standing in our little valley, clustered tightly together, bound by silence. Some bystanders observe from a distance, painted bodies stand up to throw seeds into the fire and the water, and the sky morphs from red to orange to clear blue.
The woman with the phoenix stands, selects her seeds, and tosses them into the flames. “Rachel Sayyid.” I gape. That’s Jeremiah’s mother’s name! Vale, too, is staring slack-jawed at the woman and nearly misses a drumbeat. I turn to Soren, his eyes wide. “Hana Lyon. This is for their deaths.” She turns and walks to the creek empty-handed, staring at the rushing waters for several seconds. No one moves. “There will be no resurrection for them.” I can hear the anguish in her voice, the bitterness, sour like rotten fruit. “The resurrection will be ours.” She raises her hands into the air, clenched into fists, and now I notice the clear red letter painted on the back of both her hands: R.
“The resurrection will be ours,” someone says nearby, echoing her words.
“The resurrection will be ours,” comes another echo. I look for
the sound of the voice. It’s the man with the skull and claws, the familiar-looking one, who said the names of everyone who died in the massacre.
“The resurrection will be ours,” Soren and Osprey say in sync, looking wide-eyed at the crowd as the chant goes around, not loud but forceful, with the same rhythm and cadence as the beat Vale was tapping out just moments ago.
The resurrection will be ours.
And then it’s over.
Vale stays next to the drum as the vigil keepers begin murmuring amongst themselves, some taking their leave, some gathering into small groups. I stand as Meera comes up to me and kisses my cheek.
“That was beautiful, Remy,” she says. “The Sector may say you’re the face of the Resistance, but today you proved you’re really the face of the Resurrection.”
Meera reaches for my hand as another vigil keeper approaches: the girl with the phoenix. She stops and looks at me with a terrifying ferocity, the red plumage painted around her eyes making her all the more frightening. She glances over at Soren and Osprey and then back to me.
“My name is Saara. I know who you are, Remy Alexander. I want to fight with you.”
“Who are you?” I demand, awestruck by her paint and by her presence.
“I’m Hana Lyon’s sister.”
Soren turns at the mention of Hana’s name. He leaves Osprey’s side and walks over to us.
“You threw seeds for my sister,” Saara says, watching him. “How did you know her?”
“I loved her,” Soren says. “Young love, but love nonetheless.”
Meera and I take Saara’s hands.
“Welcome to the Resistance,” I murmur.
13 - VALE
Spring 79, Sector Annum 106, 11h00
Gregorian Calendar: June 6
I watch from afar as the girl with the phoenix paint walks up to Remy and Meera. Still awed by the vigil’s power, I try to keep my feet on the ground and process what I just witnessed. Instead of joining Remy, I focus on cleaning up, gathering the remaining seeds, and packing up the few things we brought.
When I turn back around, Meera’s gone, but Remy and Soren are still talking to the girl. I opt to stay out of the conversation, choosing instead to sit by the stream and wait. After about ten minutes, I feel a hand on my shoulder, fingers pressing into my tired muscles.
“Meera’s going back to Bunqu’s to clean up,” Remy says as I stand. “She has to go into work. Said a few people called in sick, that there must be some kind of bug going around. She’ll meet us later.”
“Who is that girl?” I ask.
“Her name is Saara Lyon.” Her eyes light up with excitement. “Hana Lyon’s sister. She wants to join the Resistance. Today. She says she has a bag packed and everything.” I realize what this must mean to Remy, to know there is someone else out there who knows what she’s been through, who can understand and empathize completely.
“How did she know Rachel?”
“She’s a nurse. She took care of Miah’s mom when she was turned into a lab rat during the blight that went around when we were at the Academy. She did her research and realized it was all connected.” To my parents, I think, my head swimming. “She’s been waiting for a chance to get in touch with someone from the Resistance for months.”
“Remy,” I say, pressure building in my chest, constricting my throat. The feeling of being underwater, tumbling under waves, grows with every passing second. “What you did today was amazing.”
I can’t take my eyes off her. As she turns to me, her presence is like gravity, pulling me to her as effortlessly as the earth keeps my feet on the ground.
“I couldn’t have done it by myself.” She leans in to me. “What would we have done without your drumming?”
She turns to leave, but I stay where I am, my feet rooted to that spot. I take her hands in mine. Her eyes are as rich as the earth.
“Remy, the vigil was inspiring. But I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about you.” Something changed today, watching her lead the ceremony. I’ve been chasing her for almost four years now, this girl, but today she became more than just a girl. “You are my compass, my guide. I’m in love with you.”
She stares at me for a long time before responding, but the silence between us is as peaceful as a clear lake at dawn.
“I know,” she whispers. “I’m in love with you, too.”
We’re alone, just the two of us, and so I pull her to me and kiss her, and she wraps her arms around my waist. For a few moments that feel as eternal as a few millennia, we stand like that and watch the sun, reminiscent of Saara Lyon’s phoenix, rise to its full, fiery brightness.
Finally we pull away.
“Saara’s going to get her bag. Soren and Osprey are waiting here for her, and they’ll meet us back at Bunqu’s.” Remy looks me in the eye. “We’ll have time to wash off this body paint. Together.”
After an hour of walking, we key into Bunqu’s gate and make our way around to the hidden side door. Something raises the hackles on the back of my neck. The air is too still. I set the drums down and hold up a finger, moving to peer around the corner into the back grounds of the estate.
“What is it?” Remy whispers.
Nothing seems amiss, but still. “Check to make sure the alarm is set.”
She moves back to the door and uncovers the keypad. “Looks good.”
I let out a sigh and rejoin her at the door. “Must be a bit of nerves after the vigil.”
“I get it,” she says. “I’ve been living on knife’s edge for weeks, always expecting someone to recognize me even though I barely recognize myself.”
She punches in the code and, once inside, resets the alarm.
My mouth is dry, my senses still on high alert. Something’s wrong. “You go on up,” I say. “I’m going to get a drink. Want me to bring you something?”
“Sure. One of Bunqu’s protein concoctions sounds good.” Remy stands on tiptoes to kiss me. “Don’t be long.”
“Don’t worry,” I say, my pulse already racing, suddenly very conscious of the Bolt holstered at my side. I watch as Remy disappears up the back staircase and then I head down the long hallway to the kitchen. I stop in my tracks and instinctively draw my Bolt, ears pricked for any evidence of movement in the house, double-checking every shadow, my mind racing as I plot out everything that could possibly have gone wrong.
“Demeter,” I whisper. “Bunqu’s place has been breached. I need intel on who and when and how.”
“I’m blind, Vale,” Demeter says. “Bunqu’s system isn’t linked into the Sector surveillance network. It’s off the grid.” Which was a very helpful thing when all was well, I think, but is less helpful now that I suspect the place to be a trap—or a grave.
“Can you try to hack in?”
“I’m on it.”
I prowl forward. In the kitchen, I stumble upon what looks like a crime scene. A frying pan appears to have shattered one cabinet door and a kitchen knife is buried in another. There’s a scorch mark on the wall and bloody handprints on the French doors leading to the veranda. Someone was wounded. I crouch to get a better look at the floor, see dim outlines of boot prints against the polished wood planks. Soldiers? I flip my Bolt’s capacitor charge to the highest setting and follow the prints through the house. Was there more than one? Is he still here? Is Remy safe upstairs? As quietly as possible, I move room to room, finally turning the corner toward Bunqu’s study where I see it: a soldier with a yawning hole in his back, still wearing the black helmet emblazoned with the gold OAC wheat stalk, lying amidst a riot of streaked and splattered blood.
Black ops.
Trying to avoid stepping in the gore, I move toward the open door to the study. “Bunqu?” I say, my voice just loud enough to be heard in the study. “General Bunqu, are you in there?”
There’s no answer, no movement. But someone’s in there, I can feel it. The question is, are they friend or foe, dead or alive? Bolt up and ready to fire, I charge into the
room only to pull up short. Meera, head bowed and legs outstretched on the luxurious ornamental carpet, sits propped up against Bunqu’s desk as if she’s taking a nap. A dark blossom stains her shirt and a blood-mottled knife—did she pull it from her own chest?—rests cockeyed between her legs. Red-stained fingers are still wrapped around the trigger of an antique shotgun which must have come from Bunqu’s collection.
Kneeling beside her, the metallic tang of iron fills my nostrils. I can almost taste the blood on the back of my tongue. I lift her face, a mass of bruises, eyes staring agape into an empty world. Sadness billows through me, like a sail catching the wind. Then anger. Another life lost in the service of the Orleáns. Then hatred. I choke back the bile as the memory of my mother ordering Chan-Yu to assassinate Remy and Soren flashes through my mind.
Remy. Waiting for me upstairs.
I reach down to close Meera’s eyes—there’s no reason for Remy to see that—and then notice there’s something strange about her mouth. With a quick apology for the violation, and all the clinical detachment of a medical examiner, I reach into her mouth and slide my finger around her cheeks and under her tongue. There’s something there, crumpled into a ball. I pull it out. A tiny v-scroll.
I unroll it and words flash across the fibers.
Onion under arrest. Caught in crossfire. If you find this, follow the acorns to the tree.
My hand goes to the acorn pendant around my neck. The Outsider symbol that will call a Wayfarer for help when traveling through the Wilds. If you find this, follow the acorns to the tree. Are there more pendants like this? Or is she talking about literal acorns—like the ones Bunqu handed us earlier?
I stand and look around the room, remembering the urgency of our situation. I don’t have time for Outsider riddles right now. We need to get out of here.
“Demeter, why isn’t the house being guarded? Why isn’t the place crawling with black ops?”
“I wasn’t able to access Bunqu’s private network, but I can see through the city’s nav system that there are several patrol drones circling the neighborhood in a half-hour loop, operated manually. I can’t control them. You’ve got about five minutes before one of them makes it back here.”