Beyond the Red

by Ava Jae

  I expected him to punish me for my mouth, but he just turned and stalked away.

  It’s not difficult labor, which is surprising. Considering how much everyone seems to hate me, I thought for sure I’d be given the hardest, most back-breaking work they could manage. Instead I’ve been told to sit and press my thumb against a silver, fist-sized cube sitting on a large, crescent-shaped floating slab of white stone until the cube spits out enough purple water to fill each clear, fabric-y bottle. I’ve never seen clear fabric before; the bottles feel like they’re made of some kinduv canvas, but it’s hard as bone and the water doesn’t soak through—definitely not a material we had access to in the desert. I’d expected the water to run out quickly, but the mystery cube never seems to empty, so I guess it must be generated inside or something. All in all, it’s boring, mind-numbing work, but not exactly challenging.

  I’ve just filled up and stoppered the one hundred eighty-eighth bottle when a soldier comes over to the station and leers down at me. I ignore him and keep filling in silence as he drinks from the bottle, eyes focused on me.

  Warm water squirts at the side of my face and drips down my shoulder. The men laugh as I glance up at the soldier and wipe the slightly slimy water off my face. He just spit at me.

  There’s a small crowd of soldiers now, all watching to see what I’ll do. Or what he’ll do. They want me to react; there’s a hunger in their eyes I know all too well. They want a fight—no, they want a slaughter. They want an excuse to beat me to a whimpering mass of flesh and bone.

  My head throbs. I keep filling bottles.

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve to show your face here, half-blood,” the spitting soldier says.

  Yes, I want to say. How crazy of me, to walk in here, dress up as a slave, and serve you water. I don’t know what I was thinking.

  I plug the bottle with a black stopper and move on to the next one.

  “How have you even survived this long, hmm? In fact, why would anyone even conceive you?” He turns to his friends and laughs. “Can you imagine—sleeping with desert trash? He must’ve been very drunk to consent to such a thing.”

  The men snicker and I begin filling the one hundred and ninetieth bottle. It’s not the first time someone’s tried to get me angry by insulting my genetic parents—something that’d maybe have more effect on me if I knew who my genetic parents were. To be honest, I’m probably a product of rape, like most of my kind. A servant and a drunk or power-hungry master.

  I’m just not sure why I was kept alive.

  I reach for another stopper and the soldier slaps the bottle out of my hand. It clatters on the tile, spilling water over the textured white stone floor. This is supposed to set me off, I guess, but it’s not my water they’re throwing on the floor. I take the bottle and begin filling it again. Just as the water reaches the rim, the soldier kicks the bottle from my hand again. Water splashes and this time the bottle skids out of reach.

  “You should get that,” the soldier says.

  I ignore him and reach for another bottle instead, but he slaps that out of my hand, too.

  “Didn’t you hear me, half-blood? Go pick up your mess.”

  Something is building inside me, somewhere behind my eyes and in the pit of my stomach. I know what this is, what they’re doing, what they want. I’ve dealt with people like this before. I’ve ignored the jibes and avoided fights with silence. Nol used to tell me they just want a reaction, and if you ignore them long enough, they’ll get bored and find their entertainment elsewhere.

  I know that. And yet this energy building in my core and bubbling in my blood—it’s tired of taking abuse. It’s tired of keeping quiet and waiting for them to get bored. But now more than ever, I need to keep my temper in check. An outburst here could mean the end.

  I take another bottle. He kicks at it and I dodge his boot and start filling. I ignore the eyes on my back, the eyes on my ears, the eyes on my almost-not-really-markings, the chuckles and the whispers behind me. They’ll get bored. They always get bored. Eventually.

  The soldier grabs the edge of the table and heaves it onto its side, sending a cascade of bottles and stoppers scattered across the floor as the table spins and whirs, bobbing violently in the air. The cube hits the floor beside my foot with a thunk. I hope it isn’t broken. I’m dead if it’s broken.

  I guess I might be dead anyway.

  The soldier yanks the half-filled bottle out of my hand, dumps the water on my head, and throws the bottle at me. It bounces off the top of my head with a slight pang and lands somewhere in the mess of containers off to the side.

  I blink water from my eyelashes. Lick some off my lips. Glance up at the soldier.

  He crosses his arms. “Clean up this mess.” A thin smirk twists his lips and the pain behind my eyes pulses and morphs into a steady burn. I already know what’ll happen if I do as he says. I also know what’ll happen if I ignore him. He has me trapped, and he knows it.

  I stand and he shoves me to the floor. I was expecting it, though, so I don’t hit the ground too hard. Bottles roll and rattle around me.

  He steps toward me. “Get up.” I do as he says, but when he reaches out to shove me again, I duck under his arm and step around the table, putting it between us. It serves a double purpose—I need to steady it in order to put the bottles back anyway, but it also adds an extra obstacle between us. He glares and starts toward me, but then the door slams open behind us and the soldiers snap to attention in unison, their left fists held against their right shoulders.

  Someone important has just stepped in behind me. I grab the edge of the table until it stops spinning and tilting and try to clean up the bottles as quickly as I can.

  Not quickly enough, though.

  “What is this?” The voice cuts through me like a knife. This must be the one in charge. I keep my eyes low and start replacing the bottles on the table, but then he steps beside me and when I stand, his face is inches from mine. He’s several inches taller than me, so I have to look up at him. I hate it. “I asked you a question, half-blood.”

  I haven’t seen this guy before, but even though he doesn’t look any older than me, he holds himself like someone used to power and respect. There’s a Sephari word shaved into his short black hair, just above his right ear, and his uniform is nearly the same as the other soldiers, but has gold trim around the red decals. He also wears a red sash across his chest. I have no idea what any of it means. Not even Jarek—who stands beside him with a sharp glint in his eyes reflecting his earlier promise—has gold on his uniform or a red sash. Or a sash of any kind, for that matter.

  I glance at the spitting soldier. Back to the guy with the sash. I could tell the truth, but he’d never believe me. He’d ask his soldiers if it was true, and they’d all deny it, and I’d be in deeper trouble for supposedly lying—which the Sepharon take as a personal affront.

  “I slipped and knocked into the table,” I say.

  “You slipped.”

  I nod. “Sha.”

  “Sha, ve.”

  Sir. I have to call him “sir.” I bite the inside of my cheek. Take a deep breath. “Sha, ve.”

  Something sparks in his pale blue-to-nearly-black eyes. “Tell me, half-blood. How did you manage to slip while sitting?”

  Jarek smirks, but I ignore him. “I dropped a bottle and it spilled. When I stood to retrieve it, I slipped in the puddle.”

  “Are you normally that uncoordinated, half-blood?”

  My fingers tighten to fists. Relax. “Naï, ve.”

  “Then get yourself in order.” He slaps the side of my head and I stagger sideways. A slap doesn’t sound like much, but it sets my face stinging and my ear ringing. “Clean up this disaster before I decide you deserve further punishment.”

  My face is burning, but not from pain. I clench my teeth and continue cleaning up the bottles and stoppers as the commander and Jarek step toward the other men.

  “Well,” the commander says, “you may have already h
eard what’s happening beyond the gates. When I dismiss you, you’ll put on your armor, retrieve your weapons, and wait in the barracks for further instructions.”

  I allow myself a small smile. I have no idea what’s happening in the city, but if they need to gear up and go out there, it must be something bad.

  Good.

  “If I may, ve. Before we begin.”

  I glance back. The spitting solider is speaking.

  “You may.”

  The soldier steps forward. “The slave was lying, ve.”

  I freeze in mid-reach. Exhale and pick up a bottle. Place it on the table and force myself not to stare.

  “Oh?”

  “He didn’t slip, ve. He became angry and threw over the table on purpose. We tried to stop him, but he would not listen to reason, ve.”

  A long pause. I abandon the pretense of cleaning and make eye contact with the soldier. He keeps his face blank and his eyes flicker to mine for only a moment.

  “Is this true?” the commander asks his men.

  They nod in unison; not a single one of them hesitates. The commander turns back to me. “Come here, half-blood.”

  I place two bottles back onto the table, then step onto the mats. All eyes are on me now, and with the commander distracted, the spitting soldier shoots me a pleasant smile. It takes every ounce of my self-control not to step in front of him and knock his teeth out.

  “It would appear you have lied to me,” the commander says.

  I don’t answer. Neither denying nor confirming his accusation will help me.

  “Had you confessed your error in judgment, I would have been more inclined to be lenient with your punishment, but as it is, you leave me little choice. I do not tolerate disrespect, and deception is a great form of disrespect, as I’m sure you are well aware.”

  Eye contact. Air in. Air out.

  “To the center of the mat.”

  I obey and, as I do, the soldiers form a circle around the commander and me. Punishment, apparently, is a public spectacle.

  The commander comes toward me, then swings for my face. I should take it. I should close my eyes, block out the brainblaze, stand still, and wait for it to end. It’d be the easy, smart thing to do. But while I brace myself for the hit, when his fist nears my nose, instincts kick in and I duck out of the way. The following silence and the glare from the commander sends a cold chill through my veins.

  He nods to Jarek, who all too happily steps behind me and pulls my arms back, bracing me.

  “Looks like I won’t have to try very hard to keep my promise, half-blood,” Jarek whispers.

  I know three different ways to break out of this kinduv brace, and everything inside me screams that I use one of them. But escaping the blow will only make this worse. I have to take the punishment, whatever it may be, then go back to work and hope they leave me alone. All I have to do is stand still.

  But when the commander swings again, I can’t help it—I duck and twist hard, sending Jarek flying over me and into the commander. I’m in trouble. I should have stood still and let them beat me, but tell that to seven years of training. I turn on my heel, slam through the wall of shocked soldiers, and run. I don’t know where I’m going—I’ve been on the palace grounds for less than a day and I hardly know the way down the hall, let alone how to get back out into the desert, but if I stay in this room of infuriated soldiers, I’m dead. They’ll beat me into darkness and no amount of training will save me from an army.

  “Take him!” the commander roars behind me. I slam through the metal doors and race down the hall. My bare feet slap the cold stone tile and the thunder of boots rages behind me. I take a left, throw the door open, and race into—

  A dining hall. With six enormous floating glass screens hovering on either side of the doorway, showing some kinduv feed of people protesting at the gates and, I’m guessing, throughout the city; a floating crescent-shaped red and white stone table; and two occupied ridiculously elaborate cushions at the apex of the curve. The table is topped with enough polished red bowls of untouched steaming colorful broths, ripe fruits, and meats to feed a whole camp, and two women are kneeling on their pillows.

  The queen, rubbing her temples, and a young woman with long braided hair and rich dark skin, leaning toward her and speaking quietly.

  I skid to a stop. The queen stares at me with a shocked, wide gaze, her hands frozen on her temples and her painted bronze lips slightly parted. There’s a huge, furry red lump next to them. I step toward them and the door slams open behind me. Something hard and heavy crashes into my back, slamming me into the ground. My cheek smashes into the rough tile. My head throbs and someone grabs my shoulder and yanks me onto my back.

  Jarek is straddling me. I throw my arms up over my face just in time—his fist slams into my forearms, my stomach. I try to rock him off, but he’s too heavy. He grabs my left arm with his free hand—his fist connects with my jaw, my nose, my neck. My head is roaring. My neck is hot and sticky and someone might be screaming, but my blood is thundering so loudly in my ears that I can’t hear anything above the drumming of my pulse.

  Then there’s a pause in the onslaught of his fists, and I throw myself forward, crashing on top of Jarek. He shoves me off, but I manage to spit a good amount of blood onto his pristine uniform, and that’s enough for me. At least for now.

  I’m on the ground again, but no one pushed me. I’m not sure how I got here, but my head—the pins and needles behind my eyes have become hot agony. I squeeze my eyes shut. Press my palms against my face. Try to breathe. Red-hot pokers are stabbing the backs of my eyeballs and it’s too much to bear. Every pound of my pulse is a hammer on my skull.

  Someone is shouting the word for doctor. Then several people are yelling and I need to tell them to shut up, I need to tell them my eyes might be melting out of my skull. I need to tell them they can shoot me now if they’d like—in fact, I’d prefer it.

  A sound like a dying animal rips through the air and the shouting gets louder and the noise is horrific—it grates against my throat and sets my skull hotter. It needs to stop; it’s making it worse, that horrible, piercing noise.

  Is it me?

  I clamp my mouth shut and the noise becomes a muffled groan and somehow my knees got up by my chest and I’m on my side and my face is wet with blood and tears.

  Someone takes my shoulder and pulls me onto my back. Hands hold down my arms and the pressure off my eyes makes it worse—it’s like my hands were holding back the flood of flames. Without their pressure on my eyelids, the pain rushes forward, soaking my eyeballs in acid. I’m not sure if I’m screaming or crying or dying. I’m not sure if it’s blood on my lips or tears on my cheeks or saliva on my chin.

  Someone peels back the eyelid on my right eye and bright light pours into half my brain and the fire—it’s an explosion. I jerk my head away and someone mutters something and hands grip both sides of my skull, holding my head still.

  I can’t move and the white sun is igniting my eye and the explosion is going to consume me, the pain is going to kill me. I’m dying. I must be. I don’t know what I did to deserve this kinduv death, this kinduv agony, but it needs to end. It needs to stop because I can’t handle it much longer. I can’t hold on like this.

  Then someone says “phaser” and the sun shuts off and hands release my head, release my arms. It’ll be over soon. They’ll end the torture.

  Something hot slams my chest—races through my veins—reaches my skull and—

  There is blood on the textured white floor of the dining hall and the doctor just shot the half-blood in the chest.

  I whirl around and snatch the phaser out of her hand. “What in Kala’s name was that? I tell you to help him and you kill him?”

  Her eyes widen, stretching the black text marked beside her left eye. “N-Naï, el Avra! He’s not dead—I stunned him. Or, I should say, I stunned the nanites. He’s having a reaction to the tracking nanites we injected him with. I-it’s rare, but we can f
lush them from his system and—”

  “Just take care of him,” I say, and she nods and works with her apprentices to slide a floating board beneath him and rush him to the infirmary. Long after the doors slam shut behind them, the half-blood’s screams echo in the room. In my ears, compounded by the angry chorus flooding the hall from the guide coverage of the riot outside.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose and inhale deeply. Anja whispers something about bringing Iro to my room and finding someone to clean the mess. I nod. Her footsteps pad quietly across the cool stone, followed by the whoosh of a closing door.

  I open my eyes and grimace at the blood smeared on the floor. I hope he’ll be all right.

  I turn on Dima and his men. “Everyone out except for my brother.” For a breath, no one moves, and I step forward and clap at them. “Now!”

  Jarek pulls his bloody fists behind his back and grimaces at Dima. The two exchange a look I don’t understand—Jarek almost seems reluctant to leave—but before I can question it, he turns away and files out with the others.

  Dima turns to me with an unapologetic glare, with a simmering behind his eyes that makes me want to slap him and strip him of his title. If he wasn’t my brother, I would do just that.

  I break the silence first. “You have yet to explain to me what in Kala’s name happened.”

  He pauses, then tightly crosses his arms. “He showed me disrespect.”

  “Oh? And how is that?”

  “He made a mess in the training room, lied about it, then attacked one of my men.” There was more—I can see it in the way he glares at the puddle of red-tinted blood on the floor—and the blossoming bruise on his left cheek might have something to do with it.

  I almost hope the half-blood hit him. It’s about time someone stood up to my sko of a brother.

  “I assume all of this was unprovoked,” I say. “And he began tearing apart the training room and attacking your men without cause.”