“I thought he felt wrong.”
“Nyxia claims their spirit,” Speaker explains. “Have you not wondered at your ability to form new materials? The speed at which they’re created? It is—at least in part—a credit to those who have been Gripped. Where your hands would fumble, their collective work steadies.”
That realization thunders. All the times we’ve used nyxia. The forces that push and pull. The faces I’ve seen floating in that dark, on the edge of form. They’re all prisoners? Slaves? Speaker sees my mind turning those truths over and is quick to make a correction.
“They’re not alone,” he says. “At the end of a well-lived life, most of our kind will commit their spirit to the substance as well. Remember what I told you? We believe in the collective good above all else. Do you see now? It is not a mark of shame. It is a way forward. When you use the nyxia, you’re interacting with our weak and wounded, but also our proud and precious. To enter those shadow lands is a mercy for men such as Seafind.”
I want to push back, tell him it doesn’t feel fair. But I realize I have no idea how long it took the Imago to decide on this punishment, or how it actually works in their society. After all, how long did it take humanity to understand that executions did nothing? Nothing for the guilty or for the innocent, but we still used those methods for centuries.
And if Speaker really pushed me, would I be able to defend our prison system versus their Grippings? The crowded jails full of boys my age? What makes our way any better?
Gavelrond returns and asks a miracle of us.
After watching Seafind’s punishment, we’re to attend dinner.
It’s life-giving to have Holly back. Parvin walks with her, arm in arm, but all of a sudden the Imago feel like shaky ground. I’m feeling recovered enough to not throw up as we take our seats across from the honored soldiers. A first course of breaded fish steams its way onto the tables.
The soldier across from me is mercifully talkative and excited about everything. His name is Myan. He says he’s young by army standards, only thirty-seven years old. I hide inside questions, asking as many as I can and hoping to speak as little as possible. In my mind, it’s Seafind across from me. The fish tastes like a black hole.
“Our average life span?” Myan muses across the table. “I read a study recently that listed it at two hundred and twenty years. The eldest member of our society at present is two hundred and sixty-four. From what I understand, our race is longer-lived than yours?”
I nod, searching for easy facts to throw back at him, simple thoughts.
“I’m sixteen.”
Just sixteen and a witness for the dead and dying. Just sixteen years old.
Myan smiles curiously. “How strange. I can scarcely remember being so young.”
“No?” I ask quietly, then glance down at my plate. “What’s this again?”
And Myan launches into another lengthy explanation. I nod along. I’m not trying to be rude, but I feel like my shadow’s been ripped away, taken to the same place Seafind was taken. It doesn’t help that Myan’s nyxian implant sits in the pit of his right eye. The whole socket looks pitch-black, an echo of Seafind’s empty irises. I can’t help glancing at it as he explains the fish the chefs have chosen and how it adds necessary proteins to a soldier’s diet.
“An army marches on its stomach, so we treat every food like medicine.”
“Your eye,” I ask suddenly. “Is that an implant?”
Myan stiffens slightly. “It is.”
“Speaker said it’s a reminder…”
“Of our ancestors,” Myan confirms. “We’re all connected through the substance. It’s a reminder of those who came before us. And it’s a promise to those who will come after. Once, our people thought it protected us from Magness.”
I frown at that. “From the moon?”
“Surely you’ve seen her in the sky? Magness has the red rivers streaking her surface.”
“They look like scars.”
He nods. “Were the moons explained to you?”
I trace back through our first introduction. So much was happening. Isadora had just threatened me. The emissaries came to greet us, and yeah, they corrected Parvin on the names of their world. “Thesis said one was Glacius and one was Magness.”
“Correct,” Myan says. “In the early years of Magness’s reign, fire showers down from the sky. Those red rivers are volcanic. I do not fully understand the science, but when she’s close enough to our world, the material shakes loose? It falls to our world.”
“So…how does a nyxian implant protect you?”
Myan smiles. “It doesn’t. Research disproved that, but you can see the mysticism behind the choice. A piece of nyxia implanted like a charm to protect you from the falling nyxia.”
Realization slams into me. “Nyxia comes from the moon?”
“Of course,” Myan answers. “It has rained down for centuries. The largest meteors strike the planet, tunneling their way into the ground. The substance cools and becomes nyxia. I suppose it’s logical that you don’t know this. Your kind first came here some twenty or thirty years ago, did they not? The last activity from Magness was nearly a decade before.”
I’m still stunned. All this time Babel could have been tapping the actual source of the nyxia. My brain’s scrambling through a million questions, but one realization hits harder than the rest. Speaker gave me the clue days ago. “It’s returning to its natural form.”
Myan lifts an eyebrow. “I am not sure I understand.”
Moving in a circle, in orbit. Before I can explain, Gavelrond stands. The general raises a glass, and all the corner conversations die away. “I’m very pleased to host this group,” Gavelrond says. “It has been nearly twenty-five years since I last met someone from Earth. To see you walking the streets of the Seventh is a wonder. To old ways and to new.”
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 sold
ier 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.
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 the 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 landsc
ape. 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.
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