Nyxia Unleashed_The Nyxia Triad

by Scott Reintgen

  Strange lanterns cling to the dark walls of the tunnel. We pass through seven doors before sunlight slashes the dim. A stone balcony. Above, the sky’s blue is interrupted briefly by the color of a TV screen tuned to a dead channel. It reminds me of Morning’s manipulation, except the Imago have covered their entire city with it. As I watch the protective layers flicker in and out of view. So that’s what Babel couldn’t get past. I’ve never seen anything like it.

  Below, the sound of five hundred fists beating five hundred chests echoes. I can’t help leaning over the railing to watch. Jazzy lets out a syrup-thick “Wow.”

  Imago soldiers are arrayed in perfect rows with matching leather armor. They don’t look up as their general leads them through a march. Groups cross the square in intricate, weaving patterns. They turn at the sound of a barked command. Somehow they slide through other groups without bumping shoulders or stepping on toes. The general conducts them, hand gestures wild and voice as grating as the sea.

  Beside me, Azima observes it all with pure delight.

  Thesis and the rest of the escorts watch our reactions, smiling.

  The troops straighten out, taking up their original positions. The general barks more commands, and we watch as they manipulate nyxia with seamless precision. A sword, a shield, a helmet, an arrow, back to a sword. They shoulder their weapons and stop on a dime. Statues and stones, every single one. The general marches along the front lines, but he finds no fault among his men. Proudly, he climbs the stairs two at a time, graying hair swept up in a neat knot.

  “Allow me to introduce General Gavelrond,” Thesis announces. “He has directed operations along the Seventh Ring since the seven hundred thirty-seventh year of Magnia. There is not a soldier in Sevenset he has not trained in some form or fashion. He will be our host on the Seventh Ring.”

  Gavelrond bows. “It is a great pleasure to have you grace the halls of the Seventh. The men you see below are our finest soldiers. They earned the right to perform before you today. Their protection of our people has also earned them the right to be the first ones to witness your historic entrance into our city. May I permit them to look?”

  We all smile at each other. Morning says, “Of course.”

  Gavelrond crows an order. They’re not full words, but sounds. Short and crisp syllables that sound more like drumbeats than anything. As one, the soldiers look up. They do not smile or react; they stare. The general laughs to himself, proud as any father, and gives a second order.

  His words release them like a spell. Every single face breaks into a grin. Some of the bolder soldiers wave up at us. There is laughter and unchecked joy. Gavelrond’s eyes swivel back over our group. He has a shrewd face, an eye drawn to details.

  “Your party is four short of its original number,” he says. “Is that correct?”

  Thesis nods. “I’m glad you’ve been informed, general. Will this be an issue?”

  “I chose fifteen soldiers to honor,” Gavelrond informs us. He gestures down to the first row of men spaced perfectly across the square. “We hoped that each would have the opportunity to sit across from a guest at dinner. As a reward for their service to Sevenset, but also as a gesture of good faith to our guests. We will simply reduce the number, so as to match the number of guests we are hosting. Not a problem, emissary.”

  Thesis looks satisfied, but Morning shakes her head.

  “Were the men already informed of the honor?” she asks.

  “They were,” Gavelrond answers. “Earlier this morning.”

  “Then let them come,” she says. “We would be honored to have them with us, even if we are a little outnumbered. I’d hate for them to have the opportunity taken away.”

  It’s a kind gesture, but Gavelrond’s face pinches with distaste. I realize this must be some deeply inherent custom. The general’s eyes dart from Thesis to Morning.

  “But the numbers won’t be right.”

  Morning falters. “We don’t mind.”

  “Fifteen men to sit with eleven?” Gavelrond looks like he’s considering some impossible math equation. “One simply cannot serve a proper dinner with such numbers. The table would be so disorganized.”

  The other Imago look uncomfortable, shocked even. Thesis clears his throat.

  “General, a request has been made by our honored guests. I understand your concerns, truly I do, but it will be a small sacrifice to make for them, yes?”

  Gavelrond’s face pinches even tighter. “I’ve never heard of a table set for twenty-six. It’s a travesty is what it—”

  “Travesty or not,” Thesis replies sharply, “it will be done.”

  Gavelrond sighs. “Are there any other peculiar requests I need to consider?”

  “Yes,” Thesis commands. “We’ll need an outer table for ten.”

  At this, Gavelrond looks ready to explode. I have no idea what’s happening, but it feels like one of those British dramas Moms used to watch. It’s been a while since I’ve seen someone argue about dinner. Morning gets a word in before the general can snap off another angry reply.

  “I’m sorry for complicating things,” she says. “I really didn’t mean to.”

  Gavelrond bites off his remark. After a breath, he recovers his respectful, contained manner and gives Morning half a bow. “We will make the necessary changes.”

  Morning nods again. “Thank you.”

  “Wonderful,” Thesis says. “Now that it’s been settled, can our guests get some rest?”

  “Of course.” Gavelrond whistles and a fleet of servants come pouring out of nowhere. They smile and whisper, taking knapsacks and satchels from us. Beside me, Longwei wrestles for his bag until I explain what’s going on. He gives an embarrassed smile and releases the servant to his duties. The general waits for them to finish before continuing. “I have scheduled time for you to rest. Before dinner, however, we have scheduled a Gripping ceremony.”

  Thesis sucks in an excited breath. “They found a match for the girl?”

  “The girl?” Parvin echoes. “Holly? You mean Holly?”

  Gavelrond nods. “The timing was flawless. Your friend is very fortunate. We cannot guarantee perfect results, but she’ll be treated and you will be witnesses. I’ll be certain that you’re escorted to the Maker’s Claim at the appointed time. Until then, enjoy the Seventh.”

  The news spreads through our group. The idea of having Holly back, whole and unharmed, is like having a dark cloud lift from overhead. Smiles weave their way onto every face. I grin over at Morning and can see the relief there.

  As we follow servants down the stairs, the soldiers straighten, eyes fixed on the walls behind us. Near the front of the group, I notice Alex stop. He’s been quiet ever since Anton left, that playful smile of his virtually absent. Some days he barely looks like he’s holding it together. His golden hair’s long, so wild and curled, that he looks like a beach bum. But there’s nothing ragged about the way he straightens himself before the nearest soldier.

  He gives a perfect salute.

  At first I think he’s joking around, but he doesn’t laugh or smile as he rejoins the group. He just turns and marches after our escorts. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that we all had lives before Babel. We walked into their world, but that doesn’t erase what we were before. Most of us are wearing our history and our memories somewhere deeper, in places Babel couldn’t touch.

  We’re almost past the group of soldiers when Azima sweeps forward and kisses one on the cheek. The man startles, only to shiver back into a statue as she slips away.

  Thesis leads us out of the square and into the Seventh proper. A salty ocean smell pours from the stones. A central street stretches ahead of us, dark and flawlessly paved. Over the shoulders of distant buildings, we can see snatches of sun-streaked ocean.

  Our escorts explain the barracks to us. Fifty soldiers live in each building. They’re given permanent homes in the Seventh only after their first assignment is completed. The structures are flat-faced, metallic squ
ares. Each rises about five stories high, piling up in stacks like an abandoned Jenga tower. Pieces are missing on the second and fourth stories.

  Instead of rooms, those spaces look like open-air courtyards. I can see dangling vines and comfortable chairs in each one. Thesis praises the designer, a man he claims is from the Second Ring. He also explains that the structures extend two stories underground. These basement rooms, he claims, are coveted for their easy access to the city’s network of tunneled waterways.

  At the main crossroads, Thesis gestures left and right. The curve of the main road is barely discernible to the eye. Thesis invites Speaker forward to share his research with us.

  Our quiet escort accepts gladly. Between each ring, he tells us, there are exactly fifty kilometers of ocean. He lists the diameter of the Seventh Ring at 620 kilometers. Speaker claims that if a man started walking along the Seventh road without stopping, it would take him nearly twenty-one days to return to his starting point.

  “How do you know our measurements?” Longwei asks.

  Speaker smiles at the question. He explains that he was in charge of taking their system and converting everything into the one used on Earth. With a trace of pride, he tells us that the process took him nearly three years, but was entirely rewarding, as he knew it would allow him to give us a true sense of Sevenset’s size and majesty.

  From end to end, the width of each ring stretches only two kilometers. The Seventh follows the same standard pattern of the other rings, he informs us. Homes along each outer rim and a main street bisecting them. Here, the main street is almost always clear and empty. Occasional marches, but not the slew of street vendors and performers that Speaker predicts we’ll see in the other rings.

  “And it’s the most dangerous ring?” Jazzy asks. “Isn’t that right?”

  “It’s the most exposed,” Thesis answers. “Several of the planet’s deadliest creatures live in the sea. And while some are nastier than others, all are dangerous. Before our people rallied around Sevenset, the population fell to dangerous lows. We were unnecessarily exposed. There were a few unexpected migrations—primes entering new territories—that created even more problems in the vulnerable regions.

  “Now the Seventh stands proudly as a barrier against those dangers. Our systems analyze everything that swims beneath the walls. The soldiers are quick to identify threats, within Sevenset and without. Aside from hunters, they’re the only Imago who face such dangers regularly.”

  “Sounds exciting,” Azima remarks. “I’ll keep my spear ready.”

  Thesis replies, “And I will pray that you don’t have to use it.”

  Our tour ends at a central barrack. We’re escorted up through winding stairwells to private quarters. We’re all on the same floor, but thankfully, we have our own rooms. Even if we had private rooms in Foundry—and even on Genesis 11—I always assumed Babel was watching. It’ll be nice to have privacy for once.

  The servant orients me to the room. Convinced I know where to sleep and where to shower, he leaves, and it’s all I can do to collapse onto a bed that’s flush with the floor. It’s heaven. I don’t have the energy to kick my shoes off, so I fall asleep with them on.

  I wake up disoriented. Somehow I’m in only underwear. There’s a freak-out moment where I think the Imago came in and undressed me before I remember waking up sweaty midnap and stripping down. The idea of someone carefully slipping off my boots makes me laugh.

  I roam into the other room in search of the shower. The floor is tiled, and natural light sneaks through a wall of shuttered windows. At the back of the room, there’s a slight drop to a clearly separated area. Ventilation shafts run up and down all three walls with grated drains on the floor. Stripping down to nothing, I glance around for a shower handle.

  Confused, I step inside.

  And flood.

  It’s like I fell through a magician’s door and landed in a waterfall. Instead of knocking me over, the heavy blasts of water come from every direction with so much pressure I can’t even move. All I can do is keep my eyes and mouth closed as it pounds over me in surprisingly satisfying torrents. There’s a click, and something that smells like honeysuckle washes down with the water. I open an eye long enough to see a cloud of white suds running over my skin.

  Another click and the water stops. I’m drenched and gasping and not at all ready for the blast of air that comes next. Ten seconds later I’m completely dry and remarkably clean and smelling a little too much like Moms.

  Wary of setting something else off, I backpedal slowly. Everything’s a threat now. Lean the wrong way and I might get flushed out to sea. I’m a few steps clear when I hear:

  “Oh.”

  I whip my head around to see Morning, eyes wide and the deepest red fighting up her neck and her cheeks. She should look away, but she doesn’t. I cover what I can, moving away from her slowly. “I think I found the shower.”

  She laughs, but the noise is drowned out as the shower activates, flattening me again.

  Chapter 28

  The Gripping Ceremony

  Emmett Atwater

  Morning sits with me on the balcony. There’s no mention of the embarrassing moment in the shower, but she’s still flushed and half giggling. Endless ocean stretches out below us. To our right, hundreds of ships toss at anchor.

  It’s beautiful, but my eyes keep finding their way back to the strap of Morning’s tank top and the hip peeking past her jeans. She grins when she notices.

  “Hey, I didn’t come here for that,” she says. “It’s time to run the details. This is what I used to do with Anton. Walk through the scenarios. I want to see through your eyes, think with your brain. Let’s break everything down. The less surprises the better.”

  “About Babel?”

  “About anything.”

  “Right,” I say, thinking back through it all. “Let’s start with Rahili.”

  “Suspicious as hell,” Morning mutters.

  “Requin didn’t have to send us there,” I add. “He could have confirmed she was alive on his own. The confirmation was a ruse, but to do what?”

  “Plant something? Bug something?”

  “Requin needed us in range of her or the base. That’s all we know.”

  Morning chews on one nail, eyes out to sea.

  “Right. How about the Imago?”

  “Speak says there are only twenty women left.”

  Morning nods. “Which confirms Longwei’s theory. It’s not about physical reproduction. They can’t reproduce because they’re running out of women.”

  “And that means they’re going to die out, doesn’t it? Why would Babel push to get all of this done right now if they can just wait fifty years or so?”

  “Defoe and Requin,” Morning says simply. “Do they strike you as the kind of people who are willing to hand off the inheritance of all their hard work to the next generation?”

  “Fair point.”

  “Back to the Imago,” she says. “They’re long-lived. Their average life span is way longer than ours. But you’re right. No matter how you swing it, this is the last generation.”

  I’m still navigating through the details. “It doesn’t make any sense. Why bring us?”

  A knock at the door startles both of us. Morning raises one eyebrow, wondering if I was expecting someone. We step back in from the balcony as Parvin peeks inside.

  “Sorry, hope you’re decent, but, Morning, we need to talk.”

  Morning stands. “Sure, come on in.”

  “This is more of a show-and-tell. I need you to look at some of the readouts we’re getting from Corporal West’s glove. I’m mining some very interesting data from Corporal Rahili.”

  Morning glances at me. I wave her on. “Catch me up later.”

  She ducks out after Parvin. I stand, trying not to feel restless, and decide to find company. I take one of the lifts and roam into the second-story courtyard. We still have time before the Gripping Ceremony, so I’m thrilled to find Katsu l
ounging in one of the chairs. We’ve had time to get used to walking around without our nyxian masks, but I’m struck for the first time just how much he looks like a kid. He sits there, quiet, enchanted by the ocean waves.

  I take the seat next to his. “Nothing like vacationing on an alien planet.”

  He smiles over. “Agreed. Too bad the service in this hotel sucks.” I laugh as he rattles an empty glass and calls out to no one, “Another mojito! Now!”

  “The hell is a mojito?”

  “No idea,” he says. “Saw it on a TV show.”

  We both laugh. “How are you doing, man?” I ask. “Hanging in there okay?”

  He shrugs. “Better than you. I didn’t get kidnapped. And I don’t have a pregnant girl acting like she’s a bounty hunter or something. If there was a scoreboard, I’d be a few thousand points ahead of you.”

  I don’t want to talk about Isadora, because I don’t want to think about Roathy and Bilal and Loche and Brett. “Can you imagine?” I ask. “Five million people and just twenty girls.”

  Katsu raises both eyebrows. “Stiff competition. I couldn’t even get a date in Tokyo.”

  “Do you miss home?”

  It’s a question I ask myself every day. Detroit was beautiful, the way a flower is beautiful right before it’s about to die. Some days, I wake up and don’t ever want to go back. Other days, I can’t figure out why I decided to leave in the first place. I wanted to make my life there better, but things haven’t really worked out that way.

  “Tokyo?” Katsu scoffs. “Hell no. I hated that place. Why do you think I came here?”

  “For the money, I guess.”

  “Yeah, and that turned out well.” Katsu looks down at his hands like he’s never seen them before. He’s quiet for a while before he says, “You think we’ll make it back to Earth?”

  Another question I keep asking myself. Another fear that’s eating me alive.