by Loren Walker
“I only want answers, Phaira,” Sydel continued. “So I can move on. I hope you can support me in this.”
“And if she is here to hurt us?” Phaira accused. “Does that mean anything to you?”
Sydel’s gaze wavered. “If she attempts to harm anyone, I will not stand in the way of retribution.”
Not words you expect to hear out of Sydel’s mouth. It made Renzo even more curious about what she was thinking. Still, no one said anything.
After several long seconds, Phaira turned her attention to Sydel’s bed, the beeping mechanics next to it, and the heavily bandaged woman on it. “Can she be woken?”
“Her given name is CaLarca,” Sydel said pointedly. “And yes. But it would be very painful.”
“So keep it under control. We need to talk.”
Sydel opened her mouth to protest, but went silent when Renzo shot her a look. His sister was hot-tempered and abrasive, but she was rightly cautious, given the events of the past month. And he was just as anxious to see who this CaLarca was.
Renzo, Cohen, Phaira and Emir stood in a semi-circle. Sydel glided to the head of the bed. Then she raised her hand.
The woman stirred. In the corner of his eye, Renzo saw Phaira’s fingers graze the handle of a blade holstered at her thigh. Even Emir was shifting from foot to foot.
Then CaLarca’s eyes snapped open. A blast of pain shot through Renzo’s head. White light. High voices.
Just as quickly, it was gone. But in that second, Phaira’s blade was in her hand, reversed, her arm drawn back to throw.
Renzo grabbed her forearm: not to lower it, just to hold it in place. “Wait,” he hissed.
“You’re safe,” Emir spoke up from the foot of the bed “I’m a doctor. Emir Ajyo. You were badly injured from a fall. Can you understand me?”
A low hiss came from her mouth. Emir lifted both hands and backed away.
Phaira wrenched her arm from Renzo, and sheathed her knife. “That’s it,” she announced. “She’s out of here.”
“No.” The green-haired woman croaked. “You will not. You cannot.”
Renzo quickly moved in front of his sister. “This is not the place for you,” he told the woman. “Emir and Sydel did their best, but we can contact….”
Something shifted in CaLarca. “Please,” she rasped. “I’m alone. I have no one. Don’t….”
Her chest rose and fell, struggling for breath, her forehead densely wrinkled with pain. Still at her bedside, Sydel turned over her palm. The woman’s body sank back into the mattress. She was unconscious again.
“We weren’t finished,” Phaira said to Sydel curtly.
“Leave her alone,” Renzo shot back. “Come outside,” he directed the group. “We need to make a decision.”
In the corridor, a vote was cast. Phaira railed against CaLarca: it was too dangerous, too unpredictable, they had to get rid of her. Cohen was visibly reluctant, but he stood by Sydel, who pleaded again for mercy.
Renzo was the deciding vote. He was cross with Sydel for bringing this mess into the Arazura, but at the same time, he recalled the way she’d taken his arm, pleaded with him for answers to the void in her brain. And he was curious just who this CaLarca was, and what she was really capable of.
Phaira was right in that taking on an outsider was dangerous, given their precarious future. He couldn’t secure their future without more information, and no matter how many times Lander hacked into the law patrol, there were some questions that could only be answered by this woman, he knew it. She was badly injured, she wasn’t going anywhere, and he’d make sure she had no means to communicate with anyone on the outside.
So for now, he stated, CaLarca could stay.
Three-to-one. So Phaira went silent. It wasn’t over, not by far, Renzo knew, but for now the decision was respected.
Emir offered to catch public transport back to Plainfield, and save them the trip. When the Arazura landed, adjacent to the Daro train station, Phaira, Renzo and Cohen walked Emir to the exit.
“Sorry to drag you out here, Emir,” Phaira apologized, still sullen. “It was very considerate of you to help.”
“Truthfully, Phaira, I had an ulterior motive for seeing you, anyways,” Emir said, one hand on the doorframe. “A favor to ask.” He struggled with his next words. “You all know about my blood disorder, I presume.”
Phaira didn’t respond. Cohen was very intent on not looking at Emir’s arms. Admittedly, Renzo found it hard to keep his gaze from jumping over; the older man’s sleeves were rolled up, his skin scarred from so many blood transfusions. But he held firm, and nodded in response to Emir’s question.
“There’s a treatment further south, in Liera,” Emir continued. “Experimental, but encouraging results. I’ve decided to undergo the process. It will take some time, so Anandi wishes to come along.”
“Well, now’s the time to disappear,” Renzo began.
“Anandi has asked if you will accompany us, Phaira,” Emir interrupted gently.
“Me?” Phaira said, surprised. “Why?”
“Protection,” Emir said. “Plus, I will be rendered unconscious during the procedure, for days, possibly. I think she could use a friend in the silence.”
“For how long?”
“Ideally, no more than three weeks,” Emir said. “Will you consider it?”
Phaira had a look on her face that Renzo couldn’t quite interpret. When she looked to each of her brothers, Renzo nodded at her, impatient. Why was she hesitating? Emir and Anandi would keep her concealed, and they owed the father and daughter team for so much already.
“Yes. Of course,” she finally said. “I’ll go with you. When?”
“We hoped to leave tomorrow, via rail,” Emir said. “There is one stop to make, in Honorwell, before we head down the coast to Liera.”
Emir ducked through the exit. His snow-white head stopped, then bobbed back into the Arazura.
“What will you do about that woman in there?” he asked. “She has a long road to recovery. I can’t imagine the three of you are interested in handling that.”
“She’s going to a medlab, eventually. But before that, we talk to her,” Renzo said grimly. “Get more information about what happened and where she’s from.”
“And what she is,” Cohen reminded him.
“And who she works for,” Phaira finished the thought.
III.
Only a couple of hours had passed since Emir’s departure, but Phaira was already packing her leather satchel. Sitting on her unmade bed, she pulled on black lace-up boots. Renzo leaned against her doorway, watching the back of her blue head and her fingers, as they expertly tied knots.
“Staying here in Daro?” his sister’s voice floated back.
“Yes. For Father’s final arrangements.” There was clear annoyance in his voice, and he let it ring.
“I didn’t ask to go with Emir and Anandi,” Phaira said over her shoulder. “I would have preferred to stay. Keep watch over what’s happening with that woman. And Sydel -”
“Let’s lay it out, Phair,” Renzo said, pushing off the doorframe. “What’s with you and Sydel? You went through all that effort to find her. Then when we get her back, you can barely look at her. Why?”
Phaira said nothing. Her jagged hair swept over her profile, hiding her expression.
“I understand Cohen, being in love with her and all,” Renzo said. “But why are you hiding things from me? You don’t trust me with whatever you’re holding onto? Not me, or any of us?”
Phaira’s boot hit the floor with a loud BANG. “If we’re being straight with each other, Ren,” she hissed back, lifting her gaze, “building this ship must have cost, what? Ten million rana? More? I assumed that Anandi had connections to finance it, but I guess not. So, where did the money come from?”
Staring at his sister, Renzo chewed the inside of his mouth. Instinctively, he ran the back of his hand up the smooth cool metal of the doorframe. This day had been coming, he knew it would come at som
e point. He knew how it looked to the outside eye. He knew it was going to make things bad again, when they had just made peace with each other. But in a way, it seemed like Phaira already knew what he was going to say; she was watching him, her hand gripping the strap of her satchel, almost flinching with anticipation.
It felt so strange to open back up this chapter in their life. But once again, the focus was back to Renzo’s assault, his hospitalization, his accusation of local playboy Nican Macatia as his attacker, and Phaira’s pursuit of Nican in the name of justice. When the boy accidentally fell off a bridge, his wealthy family issued a bounty for his sister’s head. It was the start of everything.
“It just showed up in my accounts,” Renzo finally said. After ducking several attempts on her life, Phaira disappeared, and the money showed up in Renzo’s account the next day. Blood money, his conscience reminded him. Simpering, apologetic money.
“And those odd jobs you worked?” Phaira interrupted his thoughts. “At the Vendor Mills?”
“Some were real,” Renzo admitted. “Most were not. I’ve been drawing from the account as needed, and moving it constantly.”
“How much is left?”
“Most of it I invested in the Arazura. For all of us, not just me,” he reminded her, though his voice sounded strangled.
Phaira just gazed at him. He couldn’t read the expression on her face.
“It was just money, and it was in my grasp,” Renzo pressed on. “You can’t blame me for taking it. How many years did we barely scrape by?”
“You don’t have to explain.”
Phaira stood up. She pulled a wrinkled black overcoat from the floor, slipping her two Calis pistols into holsters. Once again, her blue hair masked her face. If they had a different relationship, he might have embraced her, insisted that she stop with the pretenses. Told her that the money from the Macatias was used for good, not for selfish reasons, the way it should have been. How he never meant to hurt her, but tried to protect her and Cohen.
But Renzo didn’t have the words. And Phaira was shifting into that self-contained, all-business persona, where she heard nothing and saw nothing but her objective. She was already out the door and far away, even before she even lifted one black boot from the floor.
So, after several moments of silence, he left.
And within the quarter-hour, Phaira set off for the railway.
* * *
Infection. When Sydel changed the woman’s bandages, Ren caught a glimpse of red skin underneath. Maybe Emir’s tools were not sterilized properly. Or it was just too late by the time they reached her in the bottom of the crevice.
CaLarca moaned in her sleep. Sydel washed the wounds and let them dry in the open air. The smell of antiseptic and flesh made Renzo feel woozy. And every now and again, he felt a jolt, saw the quickest flash of light, heard someone laughing. It had to be CaLarca. She was shorting out, so to speak. An Eko like Sydel, with fantastic psychic abilities. He wondered if they should all be wearing HALOs, the half-circle devices he’d invented to interrupt psychic transmission.
Someone was behind him. Renzo looked over, and then up at his younger brother. Cohen was scowling. It surprised Renzo to see it; usually Cohen was the most jovial one in the family. “What’s your problem?” Renzo asked, nudging him in the side.
“I don’t trust her,” Cohen muttered.
“You voted to keep her here.”
“For Syd.”
“Just for her?”
Cohen’s mouth twisted. “She and Syd had some weird exchange in Kings,” he said curtly. “Then she disappears, and Syd gets dragged off and beaten up. That lady didn’t even try to help her. Or me. And now she’s back. There’s a reason.”
“You sound like Phaira. Paranoid.”
“Whatever. I don’t trust her. And I sure don’t trust her alone with Sydel.”
“Well, get over it, because we have things to resolve,” Renzo shot back, irritated at Cohen’s dramatics. “You’re coming with me. She can handle herself.”
As if to confirm Renzo’s statement, Cohen peered into the room. They watched Sydel, methodically passing her hands over CaLarca’s broken body. Her mouth moved in silent whispers.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come and get some air?” Cohen called over to Sydel.
“No, I should stay,” Sydel said. She didn’t look at him. “In case she wakes up in pain.”
Renzo knew his brother, he could tell what Cohen was feeling: frustration, guilt, uncertainty about the right thing to say, whether it was fair, or not to be jealous. Oh, Cohen, he thought with a sigh. It’s temporary, kid. She still likes you. Sometimes Cohen struck him as a grown man; other times, like a wounded puppy. Maybe that’s what it was like, when there was such an age difference between them? You could see the child or the man, depending on the angle.
“Come on,” he told his younger brother, nudging him again. “Let’s get this over with.”
* * *
When their father was confirmed dead, all medical and state records were released into Renzo’s custody, including the address of Dasean’s most recent residence. The apartment was on the other side of Daro, perhaps twenty kilometers from their old building.
Twenty kilometers. They hadn’t seen Dasean in years. And he was only minutes away? Renzo couldn’t believe it.
The apartment was on the third floor. Insects scurried into cracks in the walls. Renzo held his breath as he trudged up the stairs, careful to test the strength of every rotting wood plank. The door was jammed. Cohen threw his shoulder into it to force it open.
A blast of freezing air shot through the opening, mixing with the odor of rotten food and urine. Renzo shuddered as he slipped inside. Cohen followed, closing the door with a grunt and leaning against it. “Now what?” he asked.
“We figure out if there’s anything we want to keep. Or sell. And junk the rest, I guess.”
It took several minutes to forge a path through the clutter: years of piled-up garbage, boxes and discarded clothes. The walls were rippled with spidery cracks, dark spots and water stains. By the window, a thin mattress held one threadbare sheet. Shivering, Renzo kicked at the fabric. It was practically frozen into folds.
“Ren?” Cohen’s voice filtered in from the other side of the space.
Renzo made his way back through the forged path. Some papers tipped over, spilling dust into the air and making him sneeze. Even with the cold air, Renzo’s back was already damp with sweat, his glasses were fogging up.
There was one small clearing in the back corner, where Cohen stood, with a small table, and a single weathered photograph pasted to the wall above it. A woman with long, wavy brown hair, holding a blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms.
Renzo swallowed hard. He couldn’t pinpoint any particular memory, but emotions rushed into him just the same. Which one of them was in that blanket?
“That’s her, isn’t it?”
His brother was just looking for confirmation. He knew what their mother looked like.
So, Renzo only nodded, trying to grasp onto the wisps of memory, just out of reach. There had to be more, buried somewhere in his bruised mind. But the doctors had warned Renzo about his long-term memory, how he may never regain the recollections of childhood.
For the most part, that was true. He could barely remember a time when his parents were together, both alive and healthy. There were other memories, instead, from after their mother got sick: how quickly their father disintegrated, becoming so controlling, paranoid and erratic. Sometimes violent. He would disappear for days on end. He would threaten to drown them for their own good. Several nights, Renzo and Phaira kept guard over Cohen, just a toddler then, huddled in a bedroom, a crowbar within arm’s length. Until one day, their mother died, and he was gone, and they realized they were alone, truly alone to fend for themselves. He remembered that shift in the world, like the planet moving on its axis.
Renzo nudged Cohen with his elbow. “Take it with you. Cut it off the
wall if you have to.”
Cohen hesitated.
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Renzo told his brother. “He’s gone. Take whatever you want.” He took one long look around the room, quiet anger flickering in his chest at the sight of his father’s filth, hoarded remnants of a life that he never felt the need to share with his children.
Cohen flicked open a switchblade, and began to peel the photograph from the wall, stuck so long that little trails of paper and glue were buried into the drywall. Renzo watched, his skin crawling with disgust. He didn’t want to touch anything. He didn’t want a single item in this dump. It was a mistake to come here. He’d call a service, have them clean out the apartment, dispose of everything. He’d been the head of this family for long enough; he didn’t need any more bitter reminders of what might have been.
There was the sound of static. Renzo glanced out the window. Through the grease-smeared glass, he could see across the street, where one of the building-top billboards was flickering - a public notice was about to be broadcast.
“Co,” Renzo said, drawing his brother’s attention over. Then, with a grunt, he forced one of the crusted windows open. Cohen squeezed next to him, peering across the street at the screen coming to life.
An image emerged: a solid woman in grey and blue police uniform. Perhaps forty, her face was somber, yet angular, with close-cropped hair and deep brown skin. Authority rang through her voice as she spoke, her words echoing through the street.
“My name is Detective Daryn Ozias, and I need your help.”
Renzo couldn’t breathe. His guts twisted with fear.
“Isn’t that - ?” Cohen began, his face growing pale.
Renzo held up a hand to quiet him, trying to hear the muffled words coming from the loudspeaker. The officer’s picture distorted every few seconds; the wiring in this Daro neighborhood wasn’t up to code, of course, it was a miracle that the broadcast even lit up.
“Many of you read about the incident that occurred in Kings Canyon two weeks ago,” Ozias was saying. “After initial investigation, our department is still looking for answers.”