by Loren Walker
That’s some measure of relief, Renzo thought. He doubted it would last.
“You might question why we are continuing the search,” Ozias continued. “Thirty-two dead individuals, many of whom with criminal records, with no clear connection to each other. These are just facts to many of you, but with permission from the head of agency, I want to show you why I need answers.”
The screen shifted to a panoramic image of red rocky desert and cliffs. Kings Canyon, Renzo recognized it. On one side of the picture, the mass of red rock, the great base collapse. On the other, twisted, bloody corpses were strewn across the canyon floor. The camera focused on the long shot, and then close-ups of faces: white, strangled eyes, dark red throats, claw marks in the sand, tear tracks down dust-crusted cheeks.
“Regardless of their background,” Ozias’s voice was heard over the image. “Everyone deserves answers, and justice if warranted. This cannot happen again. We need the public’s help in identifying these individuals, and any potential witnesses to this horrific crime. I call on the people to put aside their fears and step forward. Monetary compensation is a possibility, for leads that go somewhere. I have faith in the goodness of people, and the inherent respect for the parents, families, children, and friends of these fallen individuals, who deserve to know what really happened in Kings. If you have any information, contact your local law enforcement. Thank you for your time.”
The screen went dead. Ozias’s voice still seemed to echo through the apartment.
Cohen was the first one to speak. “We need to disappear.”
“Yeah,” Renzo concurred, hardly able to think with his heart hammering in his chest. “Yeah, we do. For good.”
IV.
The Arazura was still where they left it, locked away in the one decent public garage in Daro. Numb with exhaustion, Cohen slammed his fist into the panel, unlocking the door. When the stairs unfolded, Cohen was surprised to see Sydel at the top, blinking with surprise. “You’re filthy,” she called down.
Cohen sighed, rubbing his face. “It was a mess. But it’s done. Everything cleared away and destroyed.” He started up the stairs, each foot dragging.
“Destroyed?” Her voice was surprised. “I thought this was your father’s place of residence, and his belongings.”
“Everything had to go,” Cohen said. “Ren is just making his last rounds, and then we’re taking off. I don’t know if you saw that bulletin.”
“I saw it.” When he cleared the landing, and they were on equal footing, she spoke again. “I’m just glad you’re back.”
Cohen frowned. He could hear her tight breath through her nostrils. “What’s the matter?”
She didn’t say anything, and she was staring at the floor; nearly a foot shorter than him, all he could see was her braided hair and brown shoulders.
Impulsively, he reached over and took her hand. “Come on,” he said, beckoning for her to follow.
When they were in his cabin, the door closed to the world, Cohen slouched to peer into Sydel’s face. Her skin was ashy, her face long with fatigue, he realized with a jolt. “Are you upset about the bulletin?” he asked. “It’ll be okay, we just have to lie low again.”
Sydel shook her head, avoiding his eyes.
“Did something else happen?”
Her words came out in a rush. “I know I pushed to keep CaLarca in our care. But what if I’m wrong? What if she’s here to hurt me, or all of you? I can’t stop questioning my judgment, why I sought her out, after everything that’s happened. If something’s really wrong with me.”
Cohen didn’t know how to respond. He’d wondered the same thing.
“You were trying to do the right thing,” he finally said.
“For who, Cohen?”
“She was hurt, and you wanted to help her. You’re a good person.”
“Not a very smart person, though,” Sydel mumbled.
She’s always so hard on herself, Cohen mused. He never understood why, especially after her big power surge in Kings. “Well, you can sit next to me,” he said, knocking her elbow gently with his. “Be brainless together.”
“Cohen,” Sydel warned, though a smile played at the corners of her mouth.
“Look,” Cohen said, more serious this time. “You’ve got me here. And Ren. And Phair when she gets back. Plus, you’re so strong now! Even if she’s trouble, we can handle her. Right? We know how Ekos work.”
“She’s not just an Eko,” Sydel said. “That’s what concerns me. She’s an Eko, and a Nadi.”
“A Nadi? What’s that?”
“Another NINE trait.” Her hands undulated, as if to conjure the answers. “Her body can generate huge amounts of energy, and it has to be expelled in some way, or her organs will fail…. or worse.”
“Is that what happened in Kings when you - you know?” Cohen winced at the memory of that white blinding light, sweeping through the floor, killing Huma’s minions. Nadi. Nadi. The word repeated in his brain.
Even paler now, Sydel nodded. “But only that one time,” she added in a hurry. “CaLarca’s energy output is constant. I can’t imagine the pain.”
“Wait, you said that it has to be expelled,” Cohen interrupted. “Has it already happened?”
Sydel’s mouth pinched with guilt. Cohen looked at her hands, hidden in the folds of her skirt. He grasped her wrists and brought them to the light.
“Syd!” he cried. “What’d you do?”
Her palms were red and blistered, the worst damage in the center, radiating out.
“I served as conduit. Drew the Nadi out,” Sydel confessed. “She would have died otherwise.”
“How’d you even know how to do that?”
Sydel shrugged one shoulder.
“Well, you’re not doing that anymore,” Cohen said, staring at her hands, his nausea turning to anger. “Wake her up and figure out another way. I don’t care about her energy - whatever, this isn’t right, you can’t do this to yourself. ”
Her hands slipped from his. Then her thin fingers were on his shoulders, and she was kissing him lightly on each cheek.
When she broke away, Cohen was frozen. Pride bloomed in his chest. He fought the urge to grin. “What was that for?” he asked casually.
“For being my friend. And always thinking the best of me.”
His heart dropped into his guts. But Cohen forced a smile. “Of course,” he managed. “Always there when you need me.”
* * *
The sun was beginning to set in Daro. Exhausted from walking, Renzo sat down in a rusty bus shelter, just outside of the university. His mind was still spinning from the law broadcast. Their existence was almost wiped clean from the city; Dasean’s apartment was barren, no trace of fingerprints or any identifying features. He’d already deleted his father’s memorial service records, just in case. The university was the last place to clean out. But first, a moment to breathe.
His thoughts turned to Aeden Nox’s memorial service. They’d signed the guestbook, in lieu of attending. They couldn’t attend it, even though Phaira was openly guilt-ridden, citing Nox’s elderly parents, and how they would be wondering why she wasn’t paying her last respects after being his friend and comrade for so long. It’s no good, Renzo told her. Bad timing. It’s not safe. So, they remained in the Arazura, huddled underground, and the funeral went on as scheduled. They hadn’t even had the opportunity to visit his gravesite yet. Now it might never happen. And he had to remove any trace of their presence.
Unearthing his personal Lissome, Renzo found Nox’s official service page online; in the picture, he was smartly dressed in grey uniform with several decals, looking straight into the lens with his short-cropped red hair and beard. It still made him angry to look at Nox, even though the man was dead, and killed in a pretty unpleasant manner. It wasn’t the kindest sentiment, but it was honest. And Renzo was tired of niceties. No one was a saint. Nox was a good friend in a lot of ways, but he also made a lot of stupid decisions.
Renzo expanded the Lissome, bypassed the security measures, and scrolled through the information, looking for any mention of him or his siblings.
Deepest sympathy, so sorry, loss, passing, rest, peace….
Funny how those words never changed. That vocabulary was the same when their mother finally died from a bone disease, fifteen years ago. There weren’t many people outside of their family unit. But of the few that showed up, every one went through the motions of respectable grief. They chose the proper words, the strategic pats on the hand or shoulder, and then they retreated as far away from the death-place as possible. A sick routine that meant nothing, Renzo knew. It only drew out the devastation.
That was when Dasean first disappeared. There was no memorial service, just an inexpensive burial for their mother, over in an hour. But during that hour, no one knew where their father was.
Nor for the hours that followed. Renzo was thirteen, Phaira was almost twelve, and Cohen was only four. They came home to a barely-functioning apartment that reeked of antiseptic and old skin. Their father was gone, no note, no trace, no indication of when he might come back.
Renzo cooked and sorted out what money remained for living expenses. Phaira cleaned out their mother’s room. Cohen cried and cried, clinging to Phaira’s legs.
A few distant cousins called Renzo, clucking with sympathy. He listened without emotion to their regrets, their reasons for staying away, how they wanted to help but couldn’t possibly take in a child, let alone three.
As the year passed, though, those occasional calls changed to warnings. Dasean wove in and out of their lives, each time more erratic, stealing their saved money, making threats. He was too far gone, the whispers came through the line. Too many hospitalizations, too many arrests. Sooner or later, he would be dead. Renzo was the oldest. He should do the right thing and place Cohen and Phaira in foster care. Then he would be free to accept early entrance into the local university, take the full scholarship that came in the mail, unexpectedly, when he turned fifteen.
“You have so much potential,” they all told him, “but you must take the opportunity when it strikes, while you are young, while you are wanted.”
* * *
CaLarca’s cracked lips parted, and a long, low moan came out. Cohen didn’t react, his arms crossed over his chest. Sydel was on the other side of the bed, her hand hovering above CaLarca’s temple, her fingers moving as if playing a piano.
“Slowly,” Sydel warned the woman. “Move slowly, and breathe deeply. Your muscles are atrophied. It will hurt.”
Sweat broke across the woman’s brow, her face pinched with pain. Then CaLarca tilted her head back, gazing up at Sydel’s palm and frowning. “What did you do?” she rasped.
Flushing, Sydel hid her hand behind her back. “You were burning up.”
“You did that for me?”
“She’s done a lot of things for you,” Cohen broke in. “But not anymore. You need to take care of your own Nadi energy, or whatever it is.”
“Cohen,” Sydel hissed. She probably thought he was being rude. But he was furious at her wounds, and at this stranger hurting her.
“He is right,” CaLarca coughed.
I am? Cohen blinked, surprised.
The woman took in a few deep breaths. Then she continued. “Being a conduit - for another’s Nadi output - that can stop your heart.”
“I can manage it,” Sydel insisted.
The woman’s voice had an edge of anger to it. “You will not. It’s dangerous. And you should only experiment - on the willing.”
Sydel’s mouth dropped open, a deep flush filling her face. At the sight, Cohen was torn between satisfaction and utter disgust.
CaLarca’s head turned, her eyes fixed on Cohen. “Who are you?”
“He is Cohen,” Sydel said. “He’s my companion.”
“From the canyon,” CaLarca breathed. “With that old woman - and that black-haired lunatic - part of the kill squad.” The last words were spoken through clenched teeth.
“No,” Cohen said shortly. “I was there to protect Sydel. What were you doing there?” he added pointedly.
CaLarca’s black eyes fixed on him. Then one hand lifted from the bed, the fingers slightly curled into each other. Something began to glow in the center of her palm. Then a wisp of white emerged, swirling like a vortex, building and thickening, twisting tighter and tighter.
Then the smoke dissipated, and in CaLarca’s hand lay a small knife with a silver handle.
“Manifestation,” Sydel gasped. “You can do that?”
The woman’s hand dropped over the edge of the bed. She released the knife. As it fell, it dissolved, puffs of smoke spreading across the metal floor.
“I can teach you,” was her raspy response. “I can show you.”
* * *
Daro University was mostly empty, as school was not in session for another two weeks. Renzo wandered the halls of the mathematics department. That front desk was where Dasean threatened to strip down naked unless he was allowed access to his oldest son. That north stairwell was where Renzo found his father, filthy, mumbling and drunk, people gingerly stepping around him. Both times, security had taken him outside. Renzo wondered, both then and now, if they had beaten him. Renzo came to expect the sight of dirty, folded paper shoved into his university mailbox. The nonsensical ranting. Pleas for forgiveness. Threats in exchange for money. Sometimes, Renzo sent a portion of his stipend to the return address, just to gain some peace for a few months.
“Are you looking for someone, sir?” a voice inquired from behind him.
He looked over his shoulder. Graduate student, official university name badge, her left eyebrow quirked high. No wonder she was following him; he was wandering around the first floor, mumbling to himself.
“Actually, no,” Renzo replied, clearing his throat and pushing up his glasses. In doing so, he suddenly noted the oil streaks on his sleeve.
“I’m a former apprentice,” he said weakly. “I thought there might be some mail in storage for me. I didn’t provide a forwarding address when I left.”
The student didn’t seem to believe him. That same dark eyebrow lifted another millimeter and held steady. “What’s your name?”
“Renzo Byrne.”
Was he mad, or was there was a flicker of recognition in the student’s eyes? At least that eyebrow went down. Renzo had a fleeting image of being carried out, kicking, by security, in the same fashion as his father. He preferred to avoid that embarrassment for as long as possible.
“Wait here, sir,” the student said, shuffling into the office suites.
Renzo quickly wiped his hands on his pants, and then took the cleaner part of his sleeve and gave his face a wipe. At least school wasn’t in session, and his former colleagues weren’t around to see how useless he’d become, in comparison to their paychecks and awards.
Once upon a time, Renzo was the foremost apprentice in the experimental mathematics department. Now he refused to even look at complex equations; not because he might fail, but because he knew he wouldn’t. Even with all the head trauma, his brain had miraculously healed. He could go back to the university at any time: his reputation restored, his path to acclaim reestablished, his world consumed by grant funding and medals. He should want that.
“Here you go.” A bundle of papers dropped into Renzo’s hands, with their tattered edges, and multicolored paper.
"Thanks. Now go delete the mailbox," Renzo said.
At the student’s surprised expression, he added, “It’s a confidentiality issue. I’m sure it’s not the first time that someone has asked you.”
The student nodded, and left. Renzo riffled through the stack, half-heartedly looking for that familiar handwriting, something from his father in that pile, some indication of what was going on in his father’s head before some unknown thug killed him.
But there was nothing.
Was he disappointed?
Renzo riffled through the stack again. Junk, solici
tation, sympathy card, and a small white envelope from a place called Toomba. Far, far south. In the Cyan Mountains? He couldn’t remember. Inside, the letter was brief, but to the point. It was from some mystery woman claiming to be his maternal grandmother. Vyoma Meklos. Weird name. He’d never heard of it. Though, what was their mother’s maiden name? She had gone by Lora Byrne, and she never talked about her past, even when Renzo and Phaira pressed her for details. He’d forgotten that part about their mother, how stubborn and silent she could be when pushed.
Renzo flipped the letter back and forth, searching for more clues. There were none. It was a fluke, some kind of scheme. There were never any grandparents in his life, and he wasn’t about to believe otherwise. He tucked the stack of papers under one arm and shuffled outside.
When he finally made his way back to the public garage, he stepped back into the Arazura with relief, noting that the exterior was still pristine. Leaving extra money with the attendants was always the trick. He wandered into the corridors, searching for his brother. The door to Sydel’s room was ajar. Inside, Sydel and Cohen were hunched over the bed.
“What’s going on in there?” Renzo called through.
Startled, Sydel and Cohen stood upright. The green-haired woman was revealed behind them: pale, red-eyed, but awake.
“Oh,” Renzo said awkwardly. “You’re awake. Great.”
“You’re Renzo?” Her scratchy voice wafted over the threshold. “The builder?”
“Maybe… what am I building?” Renzo asked warily, stepping into the room. Despite his growing irritation, Renzo’s gaze wandered to CaLarca’s legs; one was still bound tightly from ankle to thigh, the other scratched and exposed, but strangely thin. She’d removed Phaira’s socks, and her toes had a hint of blue to them. Was it lack of oxygen, or some mutation?
“She has a great deal of muscle weakness,” Sydel spoke up. “I believe that she will need some kind of brace, or support structure, as she regains her strength and relearns to walk. I thought perhaps you might be able to do something?”