Khe

by Razevich, Alexes

  Pradat gives me a hard glare. “I can maybe get one out of here, but not four.”

  “I won’t leave them.”

  She stops and takes hold of my shoulders. “We are on the ground level, and near enough to the door that we stand a chance of escaping. Your companions are on the seventh level. If we try to rescue them, no one will get out. What good will that do?”

  I let out a shaky sigh. She’s right. I can barely walk; I’d never make it to the seventh level. And Weast will not stay silent for long. Our only hope is to go now and find help for the others. I slowly nod.

  Pradat lets loose of my shoulders. “We’re going through the pink door.”

  Three doors and another passageway lay between the pink door and us. Pink, the color of nurturing. The door should be red-black, the color of my rage.

  “Can you make it?” Pradat asks.

  I nod again.

  “Through the door is a foyer,” she says. “A guardian and a few helphands will be there. You’ll have to walk past them as though nothing is wrong.”

  My heart pounds against my ribs. I feel nothing on my neck.

  “We’re going to make you a helphand,” Pradat says. “Wait here.”

  I slump against the wall and rest while Pradat walks to a white door, opens it, and disappears. She reemerges a moment later with a yellow hip wrap and pair of brown foot casings in one hand and two collars in the other.

  “Put these on,” she says, holding the fabric and foot casings out to me.

  I unknot the wrap I’m wearing—Tanez’s—and Pradat helps me fold the yellow cloth around my hips the way helphands wear it. She steps back and appraises the results. Satisfied, she hands me a collar. I don’t tell her that I don’t think I need it.

  “We’re on our way to the corenta for supplies,” she says, and fastens a collar around her neck.

  I do the same. Tanez’s wrap lies on the floor. “We can’t leave that.”

  Pradat picks up the wrap and tosses it into the room behind the white door.

  “Ready?” she asks.

  I nod and we head down the hall. She pulls open the pink door, showing a nerve I couldn’t have managed. We walk through.

  The foyer is painted the pale-green of contentment. Three helphands look up when we enter. They obviously recognize Pradat; deference is all over their faces. Two guardians, wearing cloaks held closed by the same type of insignia clasp Larta wears, stand near the door. Pradat pays them no notice. She strides to one side of the foyer, to a small nook that’s filled with cloaks. She takes two and hands me one. My shaking fingers can barely manage the clasp.

  “Oh,” one of the guardians says, “Off to the corenta, I see.”

  Pradat nods.

  “Something for your special cases?” The guardian’s eyes widen and a slight smile stretches her lips.

  Pradat strides to within inches of the guardian and glares at her. “Not even within these walls are you to speak of what is none of your concern.”

  The guardian shrinks back. I think how clever Pradat is. Now the guardians and helphands will be thinking about Pradat’s harsh words, the guardian’s embarrassment. No one will be wondering who the unfamiliar doumana with her is.

  Pradat glances over her shoulder and motions with her head that I am to follow her. The door irises open. We walk into daylight and see the doumanas of Chimbalay kler going about their everyday business.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The land is the deep song. The land is the creator’s laughter.

  --The Song of Growing

  A crust of ice-snow sheets the ground and a chill wind is blowing. The hem of my cloak flaps against my knees as we walk along Pale-Green Circle, two anonymous, collared doumanas heading for the corenta. The traffic in and out of Chimbalay is lighter than when I first came to the kler, but still busy enough that we don’t stand out.

  Pradat and I walk in silence. It takes all my will to move one foot in front of the other. No one seems to be pursuing us, but I don’t trust anything that seems to be in this place. The lumani could be “letting the incident run to its natural conclusions.”

  Or Pradat could be leading me to a trap. Her emotion spots are hidden. When I look at her in an empath’s way, the purple-black of guilt shines like a beacon. I wonder why she’s in Chimbalay instead of Morvat Research Center. I lean toward her and tap her arm.

  “Where are we headed?” I whisper, even though no one walks near enough to overhear.

  “The corenta,” Pradat says.

  “Not there. Sooner or later the lumani will come looking for us. They have Azlii. It’s the first place they’ll try.”

  Pradat’s mouth thins to a narrow line as she thinks this over. I can see she knows I’m right.

  “There’s a cave in the wilderness,” I say. “It’s less than a day’s walk. We’ll be safe there.”

  Pradat sucks in a breath.

  Probably the idea of the wilderness terrifies her. That almost makes me laugh. I have seen a different world than Pradat in all her travels.

  Exhaling, she nods.

  I’m not certain we’ll be any safer in the wilderness than the corenta. I don’t know how the lumani spy on us, or what their abilities to track and find a specific doumana might be. It might make no difference where we go.

  I have another reason for returning to the wilderness. I hope Pradat will know a way to help Marnka.

  The wide-armed metal embrace of Chimbalay’s gates loom before us. My chest tightens and my neck burns. If the lumani want to stop us in the kler, now is their last chance. Several doumanas are close to us now, funneling from the streets into the passage between the gates. We are squeezed together by the slow moving vehicles passing on our left. None of the doumanas I see wears a guardian’s insignia, but that doesn’t mean anything. My shoulders tense. I expect someone to grab hold of me at any moment. We pass through the gate, carried along with the small crowd heading toward the corenta.

  The corenta seems closer to the kler than it was when I came here. I blow out a breath. The corenta sits directly in our path. My eyes lock on the white mud walls that mark the corenta’s boundary—the sentient walls. Do they take notice of us? I think I should ask them. The idea of communication with walls and buildings doesn’t seem so strange anymore, not after Weast. If something like that can have consciousness, why not structures made of mud, or of bricks and mortar? I almost call out to the walls then change my mind. There could be empaths in this crowd who are not so kind as Inra.

  The corenta’s main gate is open. Empty-handed doumanas stream in, and doumanas bearing goods stream out. A group walking near us chatters happily about the trades they intend to make. A single vehicle makes its way past us, leaving little Vs of stirred up snow in its wake.

  I bend my head close to Pradat and whisper, “How did you make Weast sick?”

  Pradat’s mouth crinkles in a smile. “The Powers are made of tiny bits of matter held together by the attraction between positive and negative forces. I adjusted the machines to disrupt the balance.”

  An idea starts forming in my mind. It’s vague and I can’t really get a hold of it.

  “Could you have done it with any of the machines or only the one you used?”

  Pradat takes my arm and casually walks us to the edge of the doumana stream—where fewer can possibly overhear our words.

  “Just the one. The machine I used—” Pradat frowns. “This does get complicated, and you may not be happy to know exactly what was done to you.”

  Another slow-moving vehicle comes up beside us. We adjust our speed to match it, letting its low hum mask our words.

  “For us,” Pradat says, “fertility is triggered by changes in the planet’s magnetic field. The machine created a temporary artificial matching field in the room. I used that field to make the Power’s bits bounce back and forth until they overheated and began to scatter.”

  “I felt that,” I say. “Like I was burning inside, and then as if I would fly apart
. Did you feel it, too?”

  “No,” Pradat says. “We are made up of the same kind of positive and negative elements as the Powers, but we are flesh, bone, blood, and muscle, too. Your body has changed, Khe. My guess is that your bones are weakened, your blood thinned—some of the physical parts of you altered into pure energy. The Powers were more successful in making you what they wanted than I’d have thought possible.”

  My stomach churns and I want to be sick. My neck burns, but I don’t feel my spots lighting.

  “How?” I say. “How could I be changed that way?”

  Pradat reaches out to touch my neck, but thinks better of it. The last thing I want is for her to feel sorry for me.

  “In the artificial magnetic field, your negatively charged elements were kicked into a faster energy orbit. You are no longer made of the stuff you were, but are now, in some part, made as the Powers are.”

  “A bird can’t become a tree,” I say.

  I hadn’t realized we’d slowed our pace until the vehicle hiding us suddenly moves on ahead. Four kler doumanas come along side of us, chattering happily. We wait until they pass us.

  “Because, Khe, at times we are not so different from the Powers. During Resonance, the planet’s natural magnetic force changes us, knocking our elements into an excited state that is not unlike the Powers’ natural condition. Your elements are now in an even faster orbit than they would be during Resonance.”

  “Forever?”

  “It’s possible that your elements will quiet. It’s just as possible—” Pradat does touch my neck now, but lightly, just brushing her fingers by. “It’s more likely that your body will continue absorbing high energy levels from the planet’s magnetic fields and making use of that energy.”

  Pale-blue is the color of despair. If my spots would light, that’s what they’d show. I knew I’d been changed but had hoped that, away from the lumani’s dreadful machines, I would go back to normal.

  We walk a while, the corenta’s walls growing closer, before Pradat says, “Khe, you are still yourself. The core of who and what you are hasn’t changed.”

  I sigh and tell myself that body and soul are separate. That one part can change while the other stays true and immutable. I tell myself, but I don’t believe it.

  We’re close enough to the corenta that I can see the corenta doumanas inside the open gate. In the kler, all the cloaks I saw were of a single color, like ours at the commune. The corentans’ cloaks have dark blue bodies with hoods in different colors and stripes of a third shade down either side in the front. Maybe the colors represent guilds or show what type of products they offer. Everyone I see is wearing a collar.

  My collar feels suddenly tight; I don’t like being this close to the corenta but it lies directly in our path to the wilderness. It’s unnatural, and makes me nervous, until I think that no—the corenta is the most natural living arrangement on the planet. The only way it could be more natural were if males were there too.

  I’m tiring and need to rest, but can’t until we are safely away in the wilderness.

  Pradat grabs my arm.

  “Look, there at the gate,” she says.

  Two corentans have come out and are heading toward us.

  Pradat’s face tenses. “They hardly ever leave their community. Something’s wrong.”

  “Move toward the plain now,” I say. “Run, if you have to.”

  We angle off, but the corentans adjust their course to match ours. They come slowly, as if they know where we are heading and are waiting until we get around the corner and out of the sight of Chimbalay’s doumanas. I have the uncomfortable feeling that we are being herded where the corentans want us to go.

  None of the kler doumanas seem to notice that we’ve turned and are walking alone now—Pradat and I— following the wall and heading away from the corenta’s gate. The corentans still trail us.

  We come to the corner and turn. Midway down the long wall, there’s another gate, this one shut. I look around. The corentans have gone. As we come near the closed gate, I exhale a sigh. We’ve hit the halfway mark. Each step now takes us closer to putting the corenta behind us and reaching the wilderness.

  When we’re dead center of the gate, it bursts open, thumping against the wall. The sound makes my neck burn and my heart knock against my ribs. A collared corentan steps out, planting herself in front of us.

  “A word, if you will, Sisters,” the corentan says. She’s almost as tall as Azlii. Her skin is pale red, her eyes nearly as black and unfathomable as Inra’s.

  Two more corentans follow her out. Both have ruddy, red-brown skin. All three wear dark-blue cloaks with yellow hoods and white stripes down the front. All are collared, but I feel their anger as clearly as if I could see the brown-black of their spots. Behind us, I hear the sound of foot casings crunching snow. I don’t need to look to know that the two who were following us now stand at our backs.

  “Of course, Sister,” Pradat says pleasantly. “How can we help you?”

  The tallest corentan stares. “You are the orindle, Pradat.”

  A shiver streams up my breastbone. Do they know her because she trades here, or has Azlii managed to send them word of our escape? Does Azlii know we’ve escaped? Are these doumanas in league with the lumani?

  Pradat nods as if she’s completely unconcerned. The two darker-skinned doumanas move to the outer sides of Pradat and me, hemming us in.

  “The day is cold. Come inside,” the tall one says.

  The other corentans gently push us toward the open gate. I push back, but Pradat lays her hand on my arm and motions for me to go inside.

  The gate slams behind us, though no one touches it. There are buildings in the distance, but only open ground where we stand.

  “Where are Azlii and the others?” the tall doumana demands.

  Pradat spreads her hands, showing her palms. She looks calm enough, but I know the fear in her.

  “Chimbalay Research Center One, so far as I know,” Pradat says, then glances at me. “Except for Khe, who is here beside me.”

  The corentans pay me no mind.

  “Are they alive?” the tall one asks.

  Pradat shifts her weight. I feel her hesitancy and her fear click up a step.

  “Two were this morning,” she says. “Azlii was.”

  I turn and grab her wrists. My voice breaks. “Who has gone to the creator?”

  Pradat sighs. “I’m sorry, Khe. It was Inra.”

  My neck burns as if a thousand fires roared inside it, but no spots light. I slump over. The lumani have destroyed Inra.

  One of the dark-skinned doumanas takes my arm and helps me to stand straight. My bones are water. I lean against her for support.

  Inra.

  “Who is with Azlii in the research center?” the tall corentan asks.

  “Tanez,” I answer, the name coming out in a choked whisper. “From the hatchling house in Chimbalay.”

  The tall doumana looks at me for the first time. I don’t like the way she stares down her broad nose at me. I pull myself up as tall as I can, though I’m still a hand’s breadth shorter than she is.

  “You are Khe,” she says. “Who Azlii thought was worth saving. And now you are with this . . . orindle?”

  “She got me out,” I say in Pradat’s defense. “She saved me from the Powers.” A long tremble shakes down my backbone. Once it starts, I can’t stop shaking. Inra’s dead, and I’d be worse than dead if it wasn’t for Pradat. Perhaps I’m dead anyway—altered by Weast into something horrible. I’m afraid that Weast will give me what it promised, and I will go on a long, long time knowing that once I was a doumana, and now I’m not.

  “Saved you from orindles like herself, you mean?” the tall one says. “Maybe saved you for herself, some little experiment she has in mind.”

  The harshness in her voice shocks me from my trembling.

  “She saved me from the lumani,” I say.

  The tall doumana grabs my wrist. “Who told
you to say lumani? Azlii? Only corentans know that word. Set-placers say Powers.”

  I pull my hand away; I hadn’t realized I used the word. “The Power. It said that was what they call themselves.”

  “You have talked with one? How?”

  “And seen three of them,” I say. “In the research center. Azlii told me how corentans speak with other sentients. I tried it with the lumani. It worked.”

  All five corentans glare at me.

  “Why would the lumani show themselves to you?” the tall one asks.

  I hunch my shoulders and fall silent, too ashamed of what was done to me to speak of it. Ashamed and afraid. What would these doumanas—who hate the lumani—do if they knew what I’ve become?

  Pradat takes a defiant step toward the tall corentan. “You’d do better and accomplish more if you asked me about Azlii. She was already damaged when I left her. I did what I could, but she and Tanez will likely be Returned soon if someone doesn’t go after them.”

  There is a long silence.

  “Can they be gotten out?” the tall one asks.

  “If someone knew where they were, and knew some of the secrets of Research Center One,” Pradat says.

  “Secrets you’re going to tell us?”

  Pradat nods. “Do you have a stick, anything sharp?”

  The doumana who’d helped me stand takes a few quick steps to a nearby tree. She sets her palms flat against the trunk and I hear her think-talk, asking the tree if she may have a branch. If the tree answers, I don’t hear it, but the corentan sends Thank you, and pulls off a thin, pointed branch that she hands to Pradat.

  Pradat takes the stick and, hunkering down, begins to draw in the thin crust of snow as she explains how she thinks a rescue might, just might, be done and succeed.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Beware the deceiver. No good can come of her scheme.

  --The Rules of a Good Life

  Pradat explains her plan and rocks back on her heels, waiting for reactions. I close my eyes and hope for a moment’s rest.

  “I can see how that might work,” the tall corentan says, “but I don’t like it.” She wipes her hand across her mouth. “There’s violence and destruction in your scheme. That’s not our way.”