Nyxia Unleashed

by Scott Reintgen

Based on their talk, I’m expecting something the size of a closet. But it’s almost four times the size of my room in Detroit. A servant explains that the water pouring from a fountain in one corner of the room is entirely drinkable. He shows us a nyxian converter that takes in salt water and transforms it into fresh. The technology reminds me of Babel. Finer than anything I had on Earth, and yet the Imago are worried we’ll think them poorer for it.

  Before we can see the waiting crowds, Speaker reminds us not to give anything to anyone, not to separate from the group, and not to pet the stray half-hounds. His voice drips with disdain. I decide to show them how wrong they are, to treat these people like royalty.

  We move through the first gates and into an open square. Outside a second gate, the crowd is waiting for us. The faces there look no different. I see nothing to mark them as poor or less. They have bright, wide-set eyes on even wider faces, and they’re built with the typically sturdy frames common in Imago people. They’re all smiling.

  Their clothes look a little shabbier, maybe, but you have to look close to notice the difference between them and our escorts. A missing button here, a makeshift belt there. As we march forward, hands reach out for us; excited murmurs follow our steps.

  “Genesis,” they call. “Welcome!”

  Many in the crowd are older. I wonder if life has slowly demoted them here, leaving them to live out the last of their days on the very outer reaches of society. The descriptions from our escorts had me expecting dirty and ragged, but they’re not that. Mostly they’re clean, with sharp beards and styled haircuts. I look as many of them in the eye as I can. I shake the hands that reach out from the crowd. I smile because these are my people, more than Speaker and Thesis could ever know or understand.

  The buildings too are as pristine as any on the Seventh. They’re stacked a little higher and hunched a little tighter, but otherwise they’re the same. Clothes hang over alleys and under brightly colored awnings. When we finally make it to the main road, the crowd parts to reveal a series of street entertainers staggered as far as the eye can see.

  A group of gold-painted men dances, their movements weaving a story or a song or both. On one corner, a juggler manipulates objects in midair as he works to keep them up. I get drawn over to a group of deep-voiced singers who sound like beatboxers. One invites me into the rhythm and I can’t even dream of saying no. I offer up some of my favorite stop-and-go snares and they listen for a while before joining in. Seconds later, they’re weaving their song around my beat.

  I finish breathless and smiling so wide my face feels broken. Our group is spread out along the main drag now. Everyone’s drawn to different exhibitions, and it feels like a county fair. Speaker and the other escorts stand to the side, mocking smiles on their faces. A passing man asks something and Thesis dismisses him coldly.

  I forget for a second that they’ve treated us well so far. I forget how I could have built any affection for them as the man stumbles away, empty-handed.

  On Earth, I was never the welcome guest. I got the sideways looks; I saw the hands drifting toward purses. Feared or dismissed, I got used to living my life as both.

  So I seek out the next entertainer with my biggest smile. I try to lose myself in appreciation for these people. They greet us warmly, making room for me to watch.

  Longwei and I stand together, watching two men with painted faces trying to climb the same ladder. It’s some kind of silent humor show, the kind of thing Pops would find hilarious while Moms and I rolled our eyes at each other.

  They pretend that neither one knows the other person is trying to climb the ladder too, so they keep accidentally knocking each other down the wooden rungs. The ladder spins and wobbles, and the crowd gasps at all the right moments. The act ends when they both make it to the top, only to finally see the other person and pass out backward in shock. Each of them twists into a graceful tuck, rolls on the landing, and offers a series of sweeping bows.

  One of them pulls Longwei out of the crowd and tries to get him to climb the ladder. I’m amazed when he agrees to it. He’s never liked fun or games, but maybe he sees them as his people too. The performer makes a show of offering Longwei his most prized possession if he can get all the way to the top. Longwei actually laughs with the crowd and starts climbing. We watch as some trick keeps him just a few feet off the ground. He’s climbing fast—scrambling, almost—but the rungs are rotating somehow, keeping him from making any progress.

  The man calls out laughing encouragement until Longwei starts climbing down. It looks illogical, but the new motion has him vaulting toward the top of the ladder. The man’s eyes go wide, but Longwei stops short of the top rung and smiles down theatrically.

  “My arm cramped,” he says. “I suppose I can’t reach the last one.”

  The performer grins and the crowd cheers as Longwei reaches the bottom and clasps the entertainer’s forearm. There are a few whistles and catcalls for the blushing performer, but most of the crowd is quick to move on to the other attractions.

  I spot Katsu diagonal from us, laughing as an artist paints his face with bright colors. Moving closer, I see that it’s some kind of predatory cat. The artist puts his final touches on the design and whispers to Katsu. My friend laughs and lets out an absurd roar. The colors flash to life, leaving his face and manifesting in the air. The cat’s about the size of a tiger, but colored snow-white with silver streaks. It rubs an imaginary head against Katsu and sits beside him.

  It’s all so amazing and eye-catching that I almost lose sight of Morning. Turning, I find her standing at the edge of the crowd, speaking with a shopkeeper. The man is surrounded by hanging silks and beaded scarves.

  Morning’s shaking her head, but the man stands up and offers her the nearest bloom of bright orange. He gestures for her to hold it tightly in her hand. She nods. Then he lurches into movement. Holding the other end of the winding cloth, he dances around her. The cloth dives under arms and swathes around Morning’s neck and crosses over her stomach. Twenty seconds is enough to have her fully draped, as bright as an angel from some other world.

  I stand off to one side until I catch her eye.

  “How do I look?” she asks.

  “Beautiful,” I say without thinking. “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”

  The smile she gives me back is something no one can ever take from me. A burst of cheers pulls us both down the street. I notice a pair of hounds slinking off in one direction, looking as much a part of the crowd as anyone else there. We find ourselves staring into the same kind of translucent cube the sling used to ward off the defensive fire of Foundry. It’s bigger than that one—and the one Morning conjured—but not by much. Boxers stand outside the barrier, their trainers wrapping gloves around fists. Morning edges closer and asks the nearest Imago what’s going on.

  “Gravs,” he explains. “Three rounds.”

  The word echoes from our dinner with Gavelrond. He used that term too.

  Morning tilts her head. “How does it work?”

  “One of them is the lead. The other is the chase. Both enter the arena. The lead can change the gravity whenever he wants. Heavier or lighter with a thought. They’ll trade off for the second round. Watch.”

  The shorter of the two boxers enters the arena first. There’s a snatch of static, and then our vision of him briefly blurs. He cracks his neck inside the translucent cube, sets his feet, and invites the other fighter in. Like Speaker, the man circles the arena, looking for an entry point. I admire their footwork, the movement of their eyes.

  After a few seconds of probing, the second fighter ducks inside the cube.

  Gravity slams down on his shoulders. The first fighter pounces. He lands a jab but misses the second swing. When he dances back, I gasp. Both fighters are floating upward through the air. The nearby Imago nods at Morning. “See? Changed the gravity.”
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br />   They exchange blows, pushing down from the ceiling, launching up from the ground. Right before they tangle near the center of the arena, the lead switches the gravity again. He lands first and catches the other one’s quick descent. Another flick to no-grav gives him the chance to toss his opponent out the side of the arena.

  “Point goes to the lead!”

  Cheers follow as both trainers dance around their fighters, giving instructions. My eyes drift over the faces of the crowd. I want to take all of it in.

  Before the second round begins, I see a familiar face. Not familiar because I’ve seen the person before, but because I’ve seen the features. It’s a narrow face, and though the figure is stooping, this particular Imago still looks taller than the others. A lock of hair has escaped the protective hood and hangs down over slanting eyebrows.

  It’s a woman.

  I start that way, squinting, but the crowds are roaring and shouting again. I duck under arms and catch a few glances as I go. The shifting of the crowd blurs the faces, though. I weave back toward Morning and find the spot where the woman was standing. She’s gone.

  “What’s up?” Morning asks.

  “I thought I saw a woman over there.”

  She makes a thoughtful noise. “Speaker said there weren’t any on the Sixth.”

  The moment slips through my fingers. It keeps nagging at me for a few minutes, but there’s too much fun swirling in the air to not enjoy it. We spend the rest of the afternoon with the Sixth. To the surprise of our escorts, every single one of us falls in love with the place.

  It could be the welcome they’ve given us, or the skill of their entertainers, or the bright delight written on every face in the crowd. But I think it’s more than all of that. It was Roathy who said Babel picked us because we’re poor, and it was Kaya who said Babel picked us because we’re broken.

  We fall in love with the Sixth Ring because they’re our people, and we’re theirs. Outcasts, we dance in the streets and sing songs and laugh loudly. Looking around the vibrant square, I know we’ve found the first true bridge that crosses from our culture to theirs. Even if it’s paved in poverty and brokenness, it’s the path we’ve all been looking for since we left home.

  It’s a way to go back, a way to remember.

  I’m not surprised that the festivities and the fun can’t last. Since I first boarded Genesis 11, everything’s had a dark twist to it. Why would life be any different in Sevenset?

  I walk back through the crowd and get a solid dose of déjà vu.

  The same man who Thesis dismissed so coldly before has circled back around. He stands before Thesis, hands out and begging. It’s a sight I’ve seen before. There are beggars on every other corner in Detroit, so I know the look. We were never that poor, but there’s no point in comparing it. Hungry is hungry. Sick is sick. Broke is broke.

  There’s something about a beggar that either pushes you away or pulls you forward. I’m ashamed to admit the truth, but most of the time I can’t stand the sight. It’s a creeping feeling that rushes in and tells you to go, be anywhere but here, see anything but the hand reaching out for help. It’s a part of me that I don’t like and never will.

  So as I watch the beggar reach out to Thesis, all these billions of kilometers from Earth, the opposite feeling takes over for once. I start walking forward.

  Thesis lifts his chin. The other escorts laugh as the man drops to his knees. A shuffle brings him to the feet of our assigned emissary. He reaches out and pulls at the hem of Thesis’s shirt. Time slows to nothing as I cross the distance. One foot after another.

  Halfway there, black blossoms. Thesis shoves the beggar away with a burst of nyxia. I’m still walking when the beggar staggers to a stop, falls to one knee, and looks up.

  Thesis looks down. I can see pride fill every feature. His face contorts, his arms flex, and he pulls the nyxia from his hip like a sword. His arm arches back and the black snickers out, forming a thin sort of whip. There’s nothing I can do but keep my feet moving.

  They are the bravest twenty steps I’ve ever walked.

  As Thesis’s hand comes slashing forward, the whip scores a dark arch through the air. I’m fast, though, faster than I’ve ever been. The beggar flinches, but it’s on my shoulder that the whip lands. Shards of glass bite through my suit and skin before ripping their way back to Thesis. I cry out into the silence. Blood spurts up, runs down. The whip falls limp in Thesis’s hand. The pain of the blow takes me to a knee. Every eye turns to us, hungry for spectacle.

  I rise. “You won’t hurt him.”

  Alex is closest. He pushes through the crowd, blond curls tossing. I stand defiant as he manipulates nyxia and works to bandage my wound. Morning and the others are making their way to us now too. Thesis stares, horrified by what he’s done. Before hundreds of his own people, he’s attacked a beloved guest. He struggles to find the words.

  “Emmett,” he says. “I did not—”

  “Mean to hurt me? I know you didn’t,” I say. I nod to the beggar. “But you meant to hurt him, didn’t you?”

  The emissary’s face twists. “But he’s just—”

  “Poor?” I finish, voice raised and dark and double-edged. “From the Sixth Ring? A beggar? Go ahead, Thesis, what can you call him that gives you the right? ’Cause whatever you think he deserves, I deserve it too. We come from the Sixth Ring of our world.”

  Speaker and the rest of our escorts look lost, confused. But it doesn’t matter if they understand or not. That’s not the point. Alex finishes the bandage on my shoulder and I turn to the beggar. He takes my extended hand and I nearly buckle. Holly’s there, though. The redhead helps me get him to his feet and doesn’t say a word. When the Imago starts to apologize, I cut him off. It pisses me off that he thinks he should be sorry for anything.

  “It’s not your fault,” I say, firm and loud. “What’s your name?”

  He smiles a broken smile. “Axis.”

  I nod. What a great name. It sounds like something old, strong. A name that shouldn’t be begging on the streets. “How long have you lived here on the Sixth?”

  Axis swallows, his eyes darting to the escorts, but I shake my head.

  “No, not over there,” I say. “Here, with me. How long?”

  “For the last seventeen years,” he says. He pulls up a pant leg and we get a glimpse of metalwork in the place of flesh and bone. “Fell from the Third to the Sixth when it happened.”

  I don’t want to ask him why he’s poor or why he’s reduced to begging, because it’s bad enough that a person has to do it, without explaining the why and the how and the hurt.

  As the crowd watches, I offer my forearm and Axis clasps it. Shock snakes through the crowd. I turn back to Thesis. “I’ll have Axis as my guest tonight.”

  The escorts look horrified. Thesis even more than the rest.

  “But we’ve already made plans….”

  “Then give Axis my place at dinner. And he can sleep in my room and use my shower. I’ll find somewhere else while I’m on the Sixth.”

  The emissary’s jaw tightens. “We can’t allow you to sleep in the streets. We’ll make arrangements for Axis, but only for tonight.”

  I nod, but I’m not done yet. Not even close.

  “And all of my friends. They want to choose guests as well.”

  Another shock ripples through the gathered crowd. Murmurs struggle their way to us. The escorts are all too easy to read. Thesis has narrowed his eyes. Bally smiles, like he finds what I’m doing amusing. Speaker and Beckway are throwing dark looks in Thesis’s direction. I glance over at the rest of the crew, hoping they’ll back me.

  It’s uncomfortably quiet until Alex steps forward.

  “Who will join me for dinner?” he asks, eyes searching the crowd.

  After that, the floodgates open. Longwei picks the
man on the ladder. Morning asks the poor shopkeeper. Everyone chooses a guest. Whatever honors the Imago intended to give us, they’ll give the least of theirs now too. It’s small—a part of me knows this might change nothing in the end—but it’s better than doing nothing.

  I walk with Axis once everything’s been settled. The others, even Morning, follow my lead as we make our way back. Thesis strides on ahead of us, giving the command for the servants to prepare more empty rooms.

  “It will be nice,” Axis says, “to have a proper bath, to eat a proper meal.”

  “Thanks for coming with us,” I reply.

  I’m not foolish enough to miss the look Thesis gives me as I pass through the archway. Confusion has bled into anger. I didn’t mean to humiliate him in front of his people, but there are some things that a person should never stand by and watch. What he wanted to do to Axis is one of them. Pops taught me that much. The others nod at me before they head to their rooms. Morning actually sweeps forward and kisses me on the cheek.

  “You’re an easy person to love,” she whispers.

  That word catches me by surprise. She sweeps past, though, like she didn’t just cast a spell on me. Once I’m certain that Axis is being looked after, Longwei and I return to our room to get dressed. I’m showered and toweling off when Longwei’s voice drifts through the cracked bathroom doorway. “Why did you do that?”

  I stare at myself through the steam on the mirror. Why did I do that?

  “Because it was the right thing to do.”

  He’s quiet for a few seconds.

  “Teach me.”

  “Teach you what?”

  “The right things,” he says. “I want to know.”

  I laugh, because I’ve never really thought of myself that way. Far from it. But it starts a conversation, at least. Longwei and I trade details about our lives back home. Nearly a year in space and he told us nothing. The details he shares feel like missing puzzle pieces. He makes so much more sense. He explains he is the second son of a poor Chinese family. He tells me that his birth was unexpected, and that it cost his family precious government stipends.