Nyxia Unleashed

by Scott Reintgen

  But I can’t bring myself to leave Speaker. He agrees to let me help bury the other two bodies, acknowledging he wasn’t actually the one who killed them. We dig a second grave, then a third. At the completion of each one, Speaker whispers a quiet prayer.

  Something about the bodies has me shedding my rust. Not that we had it easy here or anything, but the mindset Babel forced on us in training kicks back into gear. We are not safe in this world. A thousand unknowns threaten to swallow me, to grind my bones into fine powder.

  When Speaker finishes, we sit there together, eyeing the unmarked graves.

  “What did you say to them?” I ask.

  I can still see the way they looked before he put them in the ground. The slack mouths and the open eyes. My mind echoes a vision of Kaya under her dark shroud.

  Speaker answers, “It’s a poem. Written by a soldier who died in battle.”

  “Can you—I mean it’s okay if you can’t—but can you share it?”

  He nods once. His voice deepens, almost on the edge of song:

  What weigh those things now, that so bent you here?

  Much is made of men

  Who rise like prayers from parted lips.

  I make him repeat the poem twice. It’s as perfect as it is sad. Speaker drifts back into silence. But the words remind me of a song that I love. I ask him to wait while I duck back inside Foundry. I dig through my knapsack and pull out my player. It takes a few minutes to hunt through artists, but I manage to find it. An old beat with stark lyrics. I offer Speaker the earbud and he actually sniffs it. I hide a laugh, showing him how it works. His ears are a bit wider and he has to hold his earbud in place. Together, we listen.

  The chorus comes slow, voices dropping down to the beat and lyrics center stage. Speaker nods along when we reach the bridge, as the words come quicker and a trumpet thunders in some studio background. When the song finishes, he asks me to play it again. I put it on repeat, and we listen until the sun rises, until we feel as far away from the dead as we ever will.

  The days that follow are routine.

  But out here that just means that no one dies, no one abandons us, and no one tries to kill us. We go about the business of completing the task Babel recruited us for, the one we thought would bring us infinite riches when we first signed on the dotted line.

  We dive down into black pits and fill Babel’s already overflowing bank accounts. The wild part is that—compared to the rest of what’s happened—digging feels like doing worksheets did back in school. It’s the everyday, boring stuff. We’re changing the global economics of our entire world, and it amounts to vocab practice or textbook annotations. Again, I wonder how I can ever go back and reclaim any kind of normal on Earth

  The routine goes like this: Arrive. Unpack. Flirt a little. Feel guilty that I’m flirting with the fate of multiple worlds on the line. Flirt some more. Drill down into darkness. Gut the planet. Get that money. Pack it in neat boxes. Sleep with one eye open. Rinse and repeat.

  Only a handful of moments break through the standard routine. Beckway returns on the sixth day. He tells us that Isadora and Ida are safe. We’ve been rotating teams in their absence, taking larger crews to two separate sites, and getting more rest because of it. The setup was kind of nice, but the news from Beckway reminds us their absence isn’t a good thing, at least not for me. They’ve been invited to the Sanctum by the Daughters. It’s a great honor. He explains that the Daughters are the ruling queens of Sevenset. One appointed as the representative of Glacius and the other on behalf of Magness. I miss the mini-lesson on the Imago government, though, as the news drives through me like an iron spike. Isadora has been accepted by the most powerful members of Imago society. The closer she is to them, the more power she has. My life might be in her hands already, and I just don’t know it yet.

  One morning, our routine is thrown off when Parvin announces that Holly’s gone missing. Speaker finds her a kilometer away from the base. She manipulated her nyxia into an ax and started felling trees. By the time we found her, she had enough firewood for a few days. Speaker reminds us that there is a treatment in the works, but the sight drives home just how lost Holly is to us right now.

  On the eighth day of mining, we finally reach capacity. It’s the day Anton has been preparing for. Kit shows us the maps of the area. We’ve hit just about every mine within a 150-kilometer radius. Black dots spiral around a second Babel emblem well to the north. Kit highlights the marked tower.

  “Myriad Station.” He can’t keep the sigh out of his voice. “It’s time to send you Corporal West’s way. I’ll just go ahead and warn you, he’s not exactly Mr. Personality, but he’s serious about the job, so at least you’ll feel taken care of and all that. You’ll have to travel by boat. The midsection of Grimgarden gets gutted by riverways and swamps. No real alternatives there.”

  He swipes the screen and we all get a glimpse of the silo metrics. The entire payload has filled it to the brim, and the digital readout has all our extra nyxia labeled off to one side.

  “Here’s what you’ve gathered,” Kit explains. “Want to go up and take a look?”

  Everyone agrees to go. We’re laughing and joking, moving out across the field, when Morning shoots Anton a look. He gives the barest nod and I feel a chill run down my spine. He’s been ready to go at a moment’s notice for days. It feels impossible that he might actually launch back into space. This could change everything. As we walk, Alex slows so he’s stride for stride with Anton. He reaches out and takes Anton’s hand in his. For just a second, they look like two boys walking down the streets of Bogotá. Like a touch of hands has dragged them both through space, back to the place Alex calls home. It’s a glimpse of some unwritten future with Alex guiding Anton through the streets he knows best and sharing a life free of Babel’s shadow.

  In the here and now, all of that feels so far away. I watch, and the two of them say their silent goodbye with each step, each not knowing if the other will be safe where he’s headed.

  One by one, we climb the ladder of the silo. Jazzy panics halfway up, and Azima has to shove her on from behind. A catwalk circles the silo, and a command from Kit has the roof retracting. We all stare down at the endless stacks of nyxia. Just a bunch of poor kids who Babel thought they could manipulate. I try to remember that we did this. We earned this.

  “So that’s what thirty billion dollars looks like?” Katsu asks.

  “I could buy an entire country with that kind of money,” Jaime says.

  There’s this undeniable moment where we’re all kids again. Smiles trace their way through the group, and everyone imagines what it would be like to be that rich.

  “I would buy a football team,” Omar says. “Barcelona, maybe?”

  “I was going to say the same thing!” Noor exclaims, smiling wide. “Except Barcelona? Are you out of your mind? Come on you, Gunners! Give me Arsenal any day.”

  Longwei smiles. “I would start my own company. Move to Shanghai.”

  Azima leans forward excitedly. “I want to buy Victoria Falls. Once they’re mine, I’ll name them something else. A name that doesn’t taste so much like milk.”

  “Can you buy waterfalls?” Jaime asks.

  Azima looks confused. “I thought we were playing a game.”

  “We were,” Parvin says kindly. “I would buy a zoo. I’ve always wanted a zoo. And I know Holly can’t answer for herself right now….”

  We all glance that way. Holly’s climbed the tower with us, obedient as ever, but she’s staring off into the distance, seemingly unaware. Parvin takes her friend’s hand in hers.

  “But she always talked about using her winnings to start a boxing school in Ireland. Girls only.” Parvin smiles. “So for now, let’s say she’d start hundreds of boxing schools. She’d make a whole generation of girls with a right hook just like hers.”

 
Quiet nods of agreement make their way around the circle. Beside Parvin, Alex runs a hand through his blond curls when he realizes it’s his turn.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “I’d let hungry kids eat whatever they want, I guess.”

  There’s something about the way his jaw tightens, about the way he avoids eye contact after he says it, that crushes me. To his right, Jazzy’s cheeks blossom a bright red.

  “Well, I’m embarrassed. I was going to buy an amusement park.”

  “It’s cool,” Alex says. “Just let the kids from my thing have free tickets, yeah?”

  She nods her agreement. That leaves Katsu, Morning, and me. I can feel the others waiting for us to say something, but I don’t want to talk about what I want to buy. It hurts too much to know it’ll never happen. Babel promised they’d make me rich, but even that prize money is starting to feel like a pipe dream.

  I know Babel’s given my parents a few payments, but what happens if the money stops? What happens if we fail? I had dreams of going back and being a millionaire, sure. I wanted to help the people in my neighborhood. I wanted to go back and carve something better out of what I left behind. Why dream of that, though, if I can’t even make the little dreams come true?

  Morning’s watching me like she knows exactly what I’m thinking. She looks down at the pile of money and shakes her head like it’s just tainted treasure. We’re both saved from the awkwardness of answering by Katsu, who laughs loud enough to shake the railings.

  “Three words,” he says. “Huge. Tower. Of Jell-O.”

  Azima pats his shoulder gently. “That’s four words, Katsu.”

  “You’re no longer invited. The rest of you can come.”

  The whole group laughs at that. I can’t say how thankful I am for Katsu’s jokes, for Morning’s smile. Looking around the tower, I realize these faces are the only thing I’m still fighting for out here. There’s Moms and Pops back home. Earth waits like some distant, guarded prize. But it’s these faces that keep me breathing and fighting. It’s these people who will stand shoulder to shoulder with me in whatever fight’s waiting for us.

  The only outsider, Kit, leads us back down the silo. No one comments, but everyone notices that one member of the Genesis crew isn’t with us. We might never know what Anton would have spent all that money on. If I had to guess, I imagine he’d use it on a few good knives.

  I imagine him, squirreled away somewhere inside the silo, waiting to launch back up into space right under Babel’s nose. The rest of the group follows Morning’s instructions. For the next hour, we create chaos. Games in the common space. Exploring the other hives. Asking Kit to walk us around the base. We force ourselves to move and move and move until the launch sequence activates. When it happens, we all stop and stare.

  Except for Alex. I see him walking back to his room, his face full of grief.

  No one asks if it worked. No one looks at Morning. We make sure that Anton’s name stays out of our mouths. We watch as the massive pod streaks up through the atmosphere, and we offer up silent prayers that Anton can do the impossible.

  I can’t help smiling. Babel has no idea what’s coming for them.

  My day begins at four in the morning and consists of thirty-minute intervals.

  Review shipments. Meet executives. Phone China. Approve flight patterns. Email specifications to Roman. Memorize speeches. And then there is the current square: lunch.

  A hopeful label, but lunch is rarely ever lunch. There are no signs of seared tuna or gorgonzola salad on my desk. Lunch consists, instead, of the day’s fourth coffee and a buffet of reports. What didn’t deserve its own square has been relegated here. A pendulum counts off the seconds as I glance through the latest analysis of media intelligence.

  Approval rates are soaring. Defoe’s plan effectively flipped the reporters who wrote the Babel Files. Their new documentary has been nominated for awards after making a splash on every major network. Interviews with the families of the winning contestants. How has the money already changed their lives?

  Each redemptive narrative strengthens our case. Our harshest critics are starting to sound desperate and unfeeling. When Jeremiah Atwater weeps in his interview, the nation cries with him. Poverty can be beaten. Cancer can be battled. Even the lowly can rise. To the press, we are darlings again. The bright promise of our past finally fulfilled. Thankfully, the truth of what we’ve done hides in wormholes only we can access.

  A second report details our own leaks regarding nyxia. BBC announces it as a solution to impending epidemics. Other reports explore its uses for combating consumerism or the failing field of housing development. It is the dawn of a new age, a post-scarcity future. I sign a pair of documents that will release another leaked video documenting nyxian gravity sealants. Scientists will marvel at the endless potential.

  Roman Beckett slips in halfway through my second signature.

  “Ready for space?” he asks.

  “All packed up. And we won’t have any surprises this time?”

  “One mistake and I’m the baby brother again,” he laments. “No surprises. I spent all night looking through phone calls and surveillance. There’s no one in on this one. Only the families know.”

  “Good,” I say, handing him a folder. “The early reports look promising. We’ve been on planet for a week and the estimated take is already sixty-three billion.”

  “Call me when it’s over one hundred,” Roman replies. “How’s plan A doing?”

  “We have no idea. You know how our surveillance works there. We’ve got eyes on the bases we built and little else. The tech helps, but the Adamites adapt quickly.”

  “It’s the difference between billions and trillions.”

  “We haven’t mined nyxia in twelve years. This mission is already a success.”

  He pauses. “Does it make sense for you to leave?”

  I frown, scanning notes. It doesn’t make sense. But this is the plan we set out years ago. Babel’s getting ready to reach down and pluck the forbidden fruit. It’s always been agreed that I should run that part of the show from the Tower. Still, leaving Roman to his own devices on Earth feels like such a glaring error. So much weight on such unsteady shoulders.

  “You’ll be fine. We’ve made the appropriate hires.”

  He raps both knuckles on the door frame. “Well, bon voyage, then.”

  I make a few final notations for Rogers to look over when he arrives. One more review of our prototypes and the amount we’re dedicating to different industries. Roman’s right. We sit on the precipice between billions and trillions. More than that. World could become worlds. Succeed, and one day people will identify themselves by what planet they were born on rather than which country.

  I press a button. “Lydia, my suitcases please.”

  The door opens and my secretary gestures. Two men remove the bags from a corner and vanish. Lydia hovers after they’ve gone. “Good luck, Ms. Ford.”

  I smile. “Take care of yourself, Lydia. Rogers is a benevolent sort of overlord.”

  The secretary nods and exits. I stand before the mirror and make minor adjustments. My business suit is dark, like smoke threaded into formal wear. A gift from Marcus. An appropriate sort of armor for what is to come.

  I take a back door out. Down three flights of stairs, through two air locks, and into the bright, futuristic room. Ten faces glance up as I cross to the front. Babel officials wait there, offering their regal and important nods. I turn to address the children.

  “You all know why you’re here,” I say, and my words weave out in four different languages, slithering through ears and worming down into hopeful hearts. “You were chosen to be at the forefront of the most serious space exploration known to mankind. The results of your mission will change the outlook for our species. The reward for your efforts will be beyond your imagination.” />
  The next morning we’re all suited up, lined up, looking pristine. The group waits in front of a screen that’s descended out of one of Foundry’s interior walls. My stomach twists itself in knots as the feed statics to life. Kit presses a button and retreats to his place in the line.

  Babel. Our employers, our enemies. A certain hatred snaps to life at the sight of David Requin on the screen. He smiles like he didn’t try to make us murderers. I glance over at Jaime. Kid looks ready to breathe fire.

  “Good afternoon,” Requin says. “We’ve received your first shipment. The nyxian output has been beyond our early projections. Extra incentives are being sent out now. At present, each of your families has received two hundred and eighty thousand dollars. It seems your dedication is already paying off.”

  No one says anything; no one smiles. The money is why we came, but we have no idea if what he’s saying is true or not. Every single one of us heard his voice on that recording. We know their true intentions; we know what’s beneath the crisp suits and fake smiles.

  Morning replies diplomatically, “Thank you, sir.”

  Requin swipes the air, and we can tell he’s looking at his own map of Grimgarden. His eyes trace our progress, and all the black dots that remain unconquered.

  “You will continue to Myriad,” Requin says. “Most of the remaining mines are concentrated in the northeastern regions of the continent. Our systems have highlighted the safest routes through the riverways, but I’ve no doubt you’ll blaze your own trails north.”

  “What about Holly?” Morning asks. “Are you aware of what happened to her?”

  Requin nods slowly. “It was in Kit’s report to us. From what I understand, the plan is to treat her when you arrive in Sevenset?”

  “It is,” Morning says. “But you could push that through. A word from you, and the Ima—the Adamites would escort her now.”