We all raise our glasses and tentatively tip them toward one another, filling the room with soft clinks. The Imago repeat Gavelrond’s phrase, and I wonder again if it’s a common saying, a common hope for them. Before we’ve even set our glasses down, servants bustle into the room and deliver plates with the kind of classic silver covers I’ve only ever seen in episodes of The Fresh Prince of Ganymede. The general holds up both hands to stop us from lifting our lids.
“I planned this dinner in the hope of displaying the life of a soldier here on our world. Eating is only another form of training. What enters the body will either make it stronger or weaker. I teach my men to understand what they are building out of themselves. There is no dish more healthy and competitive as the one that’s been placed before you. It’s the most time-honored tradition of ours here on the Seventh.”
By some signal, the soldiers across from us all stand. They snatch sharp, hand-length skewers and shift into combat stances. I notice that the silver dish covers have started to move, rattling against plates and even lifting briefly from the tabletop.
Straining, I hear a soft fluttering sound like silk. Gavelrond holds up his right fist and the soldiers each pinch the handle of their dish cover between thumb and forefinger. Some smile. Some are so focused they don’t seem to be breathing.
“The game is called Strike the Slight.” Gavelrond looks giddy. “Strike!”
We watch a sequence of fast-forwarded movements blur across a single breath. Every soldier flashes his silver dish cover sideways. There’s a burst of bright color and wingbeats and a dart of vague movement. The soldiers lunge forward with their skewers, and it’s like someone hit the pause button.
Of the fifteen Imago, fourteen have each speared a small, delicate bird on the end of his skewer. The only escapee flutters to a corner. Before the servants can get there, it triple taps the glass window with a sharp beak and slips through a hole the size of my thumb. It vanishes in a dash of pink.
The only failed soldier takes his seat first, cheeks blushing with embarrassment. The other soldiers take their seats, and the nearest elbow him playfully. The way they’re joking around reminds me of PJ and the Most Excellent Brothers. Gavelrond explains.
“Per pound, slights are the fastest creatures in our world. One in every ten Imago can do what these soldiers just did. They are trained to be quick, to be deadly. And their reward?” He gestures down the ranks of his men. Each of the successful hunters has slipped the little bird from his skewer. The slights look small and bright on the stone plates. As we watch, smoke curls out of black-dot eyes and narrow beaks. The men use little knives to strip away the feathers, and Myan holds his out, showing me the exposed meat beneath. Somehow it’s cooked perfectly.
Gavelrond answers before we can ask. “The final attempt to escape accelerates the heart rate. When the slight is properly skewered, its heart bursts. The energy explodes into the bird and you’re left with roasted perfection. It is one of the most tender and delicious meats that exist, I dare say, in our world or yours. Not only is it delicious, but it provides an unparalleled increase in energy and adrenaline. A lot of gravs eat them before their ranked matches.”
I find myself wondering what a grav is as the soldiers dig into their meals. Steam ushers out, and the sharp scent of smoked meat crosses the table. Myan cuts his own meat into two pieces no bigger than bottle caps. He eats them slowly, savoring each bite and closing his eyes like the world has quietly come to an end. Gavelrond laughs when he sees our faces and gestures for us to stand.
“Come now,” he says encouragingly. “It’s your turn.”
We glance down the rows, exchanging nervous looks and laughter. Everyone stands and grabs a skewer. I pinch the handle and try to mimic the way Myan stood. A glance shows he and the other soldiers are loving this.
I take a deep breath and think about the birds. They’re really fast. If I’m going to snag mine, I have to make a good guess. Find the color, the direction, and aim high.
“Strike!” Gavelrond shouts, and the room descends into a chaos of moments.
Bright pink. Up and to the right. I stab my skewer out and am stunned when the blow lands. My slight’s wings spasm and stop. Overhead, a handful of birds flutter to the ceiling. They’re just as smart as they are fast. We watch them dart to the same corner as the first and escape through the ready-made exit. Laughter fills the room and I glance around at the others. On my left, no birds. On my right, only one. Morning offers me a little wink as she slides a red-nosed slight onto her plate. We’re the only winners.
“Ah, man,” Jazzy says. “I was looking forward to that.”
Gavelrond signals to a corner and servants enter bearing uncovered plates with prepared slights on display. Little sauces are splashed brightly around the birds, and everyone looks relieved that they won’t be missing out.
The taste flattens me. For a second, I forget the world exists. Myan laughs at my reaction, and for the rest of the night we trade descriptions of other foods and favorite cuisines. Katsu spends a long time describing chocolate cake to the Imago, who’ve never heard of it before. A little more research and we discover the worst: the Imago live in a world without chocolate.
Katsu jumps to his feet when he’s told. He delivers a long and ridiculous speech about how insulted he is to not be eating chocolate in this new world. With dramatic flair, he exits.
At first they’re not sure if he’s serious. Then Bally stands.
The Imago escort gives his own supposedly serious speech about his new mission to fly to Earth and bring back chocolate for his people. He refuses to stop until every Imago has tasted the divine mystery. He makes a show of marching out, calling after Katsu. We all laugh and drink and lose ourselves in the taste of good things, in the comfort of good company. It feels like the first step in a necessary partnership with their people.
When I’m finally back in the quiet of the barracks, I shrug out of my clothes and collapse into bed. I reach over to shove open a slatted window, and the sound of water and wave crashes into the room, each withdrawing roar quieter than the next. Before I can fall asleep, Morning slips into my room. Moonlight washes over her face.
She curls up next to me, head pressed against my chest, arm draped across my hips.
I kiss her forehead. She kisses one of my ribs.
At dawn, shutters beat back the rising sun.
Chapter 30
The Sixth Ring
Emmett Atwater
Speaker chooses to split our group onto three separate boats. The Imago claim it’s just a precaution, but it’s not hard to see how nervous they are today. Word reached Gavelrond during the night. Soldiers and citizens have heard dark rumors, all of them about me.
Emmett Atwater is in every whisper.
Isadora has made her first move against me and it isn’t subtle. She’s calling for my head. Jazzy says it’s just like John the Baptist. I’m thankful when she doesn’t explain the comparison.
I thought I’d be safe in Sevenset, but when I mention that to Speaker, he shakes his head.
“We will obviously do everything in our power to protect you, but reports are conflicting. Isadora and Ida are with the Daughters in the Sanctum. I would have expected them to manage the situation before it skipped across the water and found the ears of other rings. You have to understand, Emmett, that the bonds of women in our world are very powerful. I’m afraid she might wield more influence than we could have guessed.”
I take my seat on the ship and try to pretend I’m not terrified of dying. There’s a difference between pretending to be tough and ignoring the truth, though. Pops has always told me ignorance is the most dangerous thing in the world. Fools, he used to say, will ignore whispers until they become shouts. And by the time a whisper is a shout, it’s usually too late to make a difference. The only problem is that I don’t know what to do with these whispers.
Our boats unmoor. The engines thunder to life. These Imago vessels look almost identical to th
e ones we worked with on the Waterway, but with some slight advancements. All the technology Babel hasn’t had the time to copy yet. They’re a little bigger, with a series of inner cabins for sleeping. A few of us help work the boats into the water, but our Imago escorts step in as captains. Even with the dark news, Speaker is confident we’ll reach the Sixth Ring with ease.
“What about the Sixth Ring?” I ask. “Will it be dangerous there?”
His explanations had me thinking the Sixth Ring was like my neighborhood. Detroit is the only home I’ve ever known, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous. The opposite, really. I can’t help wondering if the Sixth has the same reputation. Maybe it’s a place where Imago from the inner rings keep a hand over their pocket as they pass through.
Speaker shakes his head. “It is unlikely. A successful attack would require intense organization and high-performing operatives. That is not the hallmark of the Sixth.”
I’m surprised how harsh he sounds. He’s worried, I know, but it sounds like he’s forgotten that all of us come from the Sixth Rings of Earth. We’re not wealthy or high class, not even close. The unfairness of it roots deeper inside me.
I thank him mechanically before joining the others at the back of the ship. Morning slides over to make room, and I take deep, steadying breaths as Beckway shoves the ship into a higher gear. A few kilometers later, the wind whips across us with such force that I have to close my eyes to keep them from watering. We cross the fifty-kilometer stretch of ocean in half an hour.
“How’s Holly?” I ask.
Morning glances that way. Holly is still looking pale, staring off most of the time, but at least she’s not a walking zombie. “Just keeps saying she wants to go home. Her memories of what it was like are kind of fuzzy. She just—she just wants to go home.”
“She’s not the only one.”
A few minutes later, Morning nudges me and nods to shore. A crowd has gathered around the docks. Thousands of faces dot the landscape. They fill every street and alley, every window and rooftop. Speaker whispers a command to Beckway, and seconds later the ship’s submarine cover emerges. We watch the nyxia stretch and seal before the vessel dives. Blue swallows everything. One hundred meters later, blue gives way to black as we plunge into the tunnels. It’s a narrow underbelly, marked by distorted light and roller-coaster twists.
Beckway attaches our ship to a bright air lock. We’re led up and out, passing through a dimly lit basement, up stairwells, and into a room of domed ceilings and vast arches. It reminds me of an old, empty church. The rooms are far larger than I would have expected in Sevenset’s poorest district. The other crews join us in the same open hall, though by different routes and led by other captains.
Once everyone’s gathered and settled, Thesis raises a hand to get our attention.
“Welcome to the Sixth. We hope you will find your stay comfortable and educational. Though these are the least esteemed among our people, of all the rings, this might be the one that needs you the most. They need the hope you offer. Please, let us know if you lack for anything, and we will attempt to accommodate you. We’d encourage you not to give gifts to the beggars you see.”
His words fall like lashes from a whip. The others stiffen too, but I can’t tell what they’re thinking. Is this how people talked about me when I lived in Detroit? Am I like the beggars? Don’t give me too much of a handout or I’ll be encouraged, I think darkly. Babel should be taking notes.
“We do think you’ll be pleased to hear,” Thesis continues, “that the finest chef in Sevenset has agreed to host you for a meal during your time here. In his care, you will lack for nothing. He has cooked for every famous citizen in Sevenset. His renown is well noted by all.”
The other Imago smile. In their eyes, this seems to redeem the fact that we have to see their poor and lowly. It takes effort to unclench my fists as Thesis dismisses us to our rooms, hopeful we’ll find the meager spaces comfortable. I end up sharing a room with Longwei.
Based on their talk, I’m expecting something the size of a closet. But it’s almost four times the size of my room in Detroit. A servant explains that the water pouring from a fountain in one corner of the room is entirely drinkable. He shows us a nyxian converter that takes in salt water and transforms it into fresh. The technology reminds me of Babel. Finer than anything I had on Earth, and yet the Imago are worried we’ll think them poorer for it.
Before we can see the waiting crowds, Speaker reminds us not to give anything to anyone, not to separate from the group, and not to pet the stray half-hounds. His voice drips with disdain. I decide to show them how wrong they are, to treat these people like royalty.
We move through the first gates and into an open square. Outside a second gate, the crowd is waiting for us. The faces there look no different. I see nothing to mark them as poor or less. They have bright, wide-set eyes on even wider faces, and they’re built with the typically sturdy frames common in Imago people. They’re all smiling.
Their clothes look a little shabbier, maybe, but you have to look close to notice the difference between them and our escorts. A missing button here, a makeshift belt there. As we march forward, hands reach out for us; excited murmurs follow our steps.
“Genesis,” they call. “Welcome!”
Many in the crowd are older. I wonder if life has slowly demoted them here, leaving them to live out the last of their days on the very outer reaches of society. The descriptions from our escorts had me expecting dirty and ragged, but they’re not that. Mostly they’re clean, with sharp beards and styled haircuts. I look as many of them in the eye as I can. I shake the hands that reach out from the crowd. I smile because these are my people, more than Speaker and Thesis could ever know or understand.
The buildings too are as pristine as any on the Seventh. They’re stacked a little higher and hunched a little tighter, but otherwise they’re the same. Clothes hang over alleys and under brightly colored awnings. When we finally make it to the main road, the crowd parts to reveal a series of street entertainers staggered as far as the eye can see.
A group of gold-painted men dances, their movements weaving a story or a song or both. On one corner, a juggler manipulates objects in midair as he works to keep them up. I get drawn over to a group of deep-voiced singers who sound like beatboxers. One invites me into the rhythm and I can’t even dream of saying no. I offer up some of my favorite stop-and-go snares and they listen for a while before joining in. Seconds later, they’re weaving their song around my beat.
I finish breathless and smiling so wide my face feels broken. Our group is spread out along the main drag now. Everyone’s drawn to different exhibitions, and it feels like a county fair. Speaker and the other escorts stand to the side, mocking smiles on their faces. A passing man asks something and Thesis dismisses him coldly.
I forget for a second that they’ve treated us well so far. I forget how I could have built any affection for them as the man stumbles away, empty-handed.
On Earth, I was never the welcome guest. I got the sideways looks; I saw the hands drifting toward purses. Feared or dismissed, I got used to living my life as both.
So I seek out the next entertainer with my biggest smile. I try to lose myself in appreciation for these people. They greet us warmly, making room for me to watch.
Longwei and I stand together, watching two men with painted faces trying to climb the same ladder. It’s some kind of silent humor show, the kind of thing Pops would find hilarious while Moms and I rolled our eyes at each other.
They pretend that neither one knows the other person is trying to climb the ladder too, so they keep accidentally knocking each other down the wooden rungs. The ladder spins and wobbles, and the crowd gasps at all the right moments. The act ends when they both make it to the top, only to finally see the other person and pass out backward in shock. Each of them twists into a graceful tuck, rolls on the landing, and offers a series of sweeping bows.
One of them pulls Longwei out of
the crowd and tries to get him to climb the ladder. I’m amazed when he agrees to it. He’s never liked fun or games, but maybe he sees them as his people too. The performer makes a show of offering Longwei his most prized possession if he can get all the way to the top. Longwei actually laughs with the crowd and starts climbing. We watch as some trick keeps him just a few feet off the ground. He’s climbing fast—scrambling, almost—but the rungs are rotating somehow, keeping him from making any progress.
The man calls out laughing encouragement until Longwei starts climbing down. It looks illogical, but the new motion has him vaulting toward the top of the ladder. The man’s eyes go wide, but Longwei stops short of the top rung and smiles down theatrically.
“My arm cramped,” he says. “I suppose I can’t reach the last one.”
The performer grins and the crowd cheers as Longwei reaches the bottom and clasps the entertainer’s forearm. There are a few whistles and catcalls for the blushing performer, but most of the crowd is quick to move on to the other attractions.
I spot Katsu diagonal from us, laughing as an artist paints his face with bright colors. Moving closer, I see that it’s some kind of predatory cat. The artist puts his final touches on the design and whispers to Katsu. My friend laughs and lets out an absurd roar. The colors flash to life, leaving his face and manifesting in the air. The cat’s about the size of a tiger, but colored snow-white with silver streaks. It rubs an imaginary head against Katsu and sits beside him.
It’s all so amazing and eye-catching that I almost lose sight of Morning. Turning, I find her standing at the edge of the crowd, speaking with a shopkeeper. The man is surrounded by hanging silks and beaded scarves.
Morning’s shaking her head, but the man stands up and offers her the nearest bloom of bright orange. He gestures for her to hold it tightly in her hand. She nods. Then he lurches into movement. Holding the other end of the winding cloth, he dances around her. The cloth dives under arms and swathes around Morning’s neck and crosses over her stomach. Twenty seconds is enough to have her fully draped, as bright as an angel from some other world.
Nyxia Unleashed_The Nyxia Triad Page 20