by Loren Walker
She is a shield, he thought. If she is hurt or killed, there will be an uproar. Media attention will come with it. This person might not want that. They want to hurt me, not become a target.
The buzz of the doorbell jolted him from his thoughts. His face was itchy; he rubbed his palm over the growth on his jaw, noting how his long black hair had come loose.
The doorbell buzzed again. Whoever rang his doorbell? Usually it was a pounding at the door, or his Lissome vibrating on the table with impatience.
He forced himself to his feet. His impulse was to grab a weapon. But he didn’t care.
To the right of the doorframe, an info-screen flickered into view, displaying the faces of those waiting on his doorstep.
His heart almost jolted out of his chest.
PART TWO
I.
In the darkness of her hostel room, Phaira admitted the truth. She missed her brothers. She missed Sydel, and Anandi and Emir. She even missed CaLarca a little. And deep down, she was lonely for Theron Sava. Not just physically, though the yearning was so bad sometimes she thought she might crack open. No, it was more than that, and on the nights when her feelings broke through, she drank them away, trapping herself in the moment until everything went black. It was all too difficult at night, when everything was quiet, and every thought came to a head.
In the daylight, she had a purpose. She’d been travelling for weeks now, trekking through towns and countryside to uncover whatever she could about the NINE, stopping only for a quick meal, a pair of replacement boots, some shelter to catch some sleep, before moving on. Detective Daryn Ozias, her secret sponsor, wired a fresh stack of rana every week, along with any updates, records on persons of interest, suggestions for her next destination. But the travel allowance wasn’t much, and it was meant to stretch, so Phaira stuck with the cheapest, slowest forms of travel, all the way across the Midland prairies and into the South. It meant wearing the same clothes for days on end, wringing them in a sink and sleeping naked under worn sheets. It meant the cheapest way to get drunk on the nights she needed a release: liquor poured from cobwebbed bottles that broke when pulled away from the bar, its syrup caked in a raw circle on the shelf.
And really, Phaira didn’t care about the conditions. She was used to living on scraps. There was only so much that she really needed. And being so tight with rana meant that she didn’t have enough to buy mekaline, in those moments when she was so tired and muddled that she would have traded a week’s meals for one hit of the drug.
After she’d made the agreement with Ozias, set up an account for deposits, and received the temporary patrol badge that would protect her on the road, Phaira’s first stop was the Jala Communia, Sydel’s former commune, nestled deep in the Midlands. Phaira had been there twice before, first as a patient, second as a reluctant resident, trying to tease out NINE knowledge from the commune's master, Yann Qin.
This third time, she came in sympathy for their recent loss.
Inside the latticework gates, the commune looked the same: orange-pink stone walls, evergreens and farm fields, neat barracks, white stone medical clinic on the outskirts. Inside, everyone had the same dazed expression on their faces, their movements slow, as if through water.
Weeks ago, Yann had suffered a heart attack. Kuri Nimat had only arrived an hour prior, demanding entry, and the two men were in deep, private conversation in Yann’s cell when Kuri came running out of the barracks, yelling for help. Kuri even tried to revive him, the new Jala medic said soberly, but it was too late.
“Was it a natural death?” Phaira pressed. She didn't fully understand the NINE, but she felt certain that Kuri could have stopped Yann’s heart out of spite.
The medic frowned. “There’s nothing to suggest otherwise.
“I know what Yann was capable of,” Phaira warned him. “If there’s any suspicion, anything at all, tell me.”
The man faltered. “I don’t know what you mean. What are you suggesting?”
Phaira eyed the man hard, wondering if he was a smooth liar. But she couldn’t tell. Was she losing her edge?
Yann Qin was buried in the plains, just outside Jala’s walls. There was a stone marker in the dip of a valley, the mound of unturned dirt starting to grow grass again. Phaira stood over Yann’s gravesite. Satisfaction simmered next to any hint of sympathy she had for the man. He had never been kind to her, and, by his admission, he mind-wiped Sydel so many times that the girl's brain was permanently damaged. And Yann was one of the original NINE, too. Better that he was gone. It was easier to think that, to scratch out his name, and move on.
The second destination took her southwest, to the base of the Cyan Mountains, to Zangari's public gardens, where the entertainer Em Lee held her last public concert. Memorials spilled over the grounds, flowers and signs and blown-up photographs of the blonde dreadlocked superstar. Phaira had only seen the woman behind the Em Lee persona once: Marette Lyung, another NINE member, who was shot dead in Toomba. Funny how the community was still in mourning; even weeks later, the story of Em Lee's tragic death from mountain climbing remained a headline. She wasn’t that much of a celebrity, at least from what Phaira could see, and she hadn’t added much to the world in her lifetime.
It took some time to track down Em Lee's former security guards and concert technicians. But they all cited their confidentiality contracts as an excuse to remain silent, shaking their head at the fact that their former employer was dead and the contract was invalid, no matter what she threatened.
She was definitely losing her edge.
Phaira’s next task was to investigate the Joran Asanto Foundation and estate. It wasn’t on the list, exactly, and Ozias questioned her judgment in asking to do it in the first place, but it was for Sydel, the long-lost Asanto daughter, as she had only recently learned.
Learning about the Asanto estate was not as difficult as she feared; Joran Asanto's rana went far, even twenty years after his death. An anonymous beneficiary was in charge of the Foundation, which retained a stellar reputation over the past two decades: low overhead, high level of charitable contributions to the public, everything that was supposed to be. Yet there was something about it that made Phaira itch. Maybe because she knew the rightful heir to all that rana, and who should really be controlling its flow. Sydel had never known her parents, Joran and Tehmi Shovann, as they’d died when she was only days old, but their estate was hers, legally, should she want to take it. Whether that would ever happen, Phaira couldn’t imagine. But she could give the girl the information, and let Sydel decide her fate.
Now Phaira was in the South, as far south as she’d ever been. Her destination: CaLarca’s old farm. She studied the satellite map on her Lissome, dreading what she might find.
She could smell smoke from a kilometer away; the stench was soaked into the greenery. There were no sounds of wildlife as Phaira followed the dirt road, shaded by the overhang of great, looming trees. Then the site of the fire was before her: remnants of the farmhouse, piles of black rubble, glimmers of metal. She knelt down with a branch and sifted through the rubble, looking for clues, wondering if she might come across bones. There were supposed to be two people living here. CaLarca’s partner, Ganasan, was one of the original NINE, and designated as an Insynn, with precognitive abilities. They had a son, Bennet, two years old.
“He wouldn’t leave our home,” CaLarca insisted when Phaira pressed. “No matter the threat.”
If that's true, Phaira mused, turning over a blackened chunk of wall, then he’s dead.
But as she continued to search, there was no sign of human remains in the wreckage, just hints of a life: half-melted silverware; a charred stuffed animal, broken dishes scattered. CaLarca’s life,
A shimmer caught Phaira’s eye, under the white ash. She blew carefully, sending granules in the wind, clearing without touching.
There sat a bead, one-half inch in diameter, blue, and undamaged.
When she put on her reading glasses and peered in
to its center, Phaira could make out a swirl, like some pale hurricane in the middle. Was this CaLarca’s? Or Ganasan’s? No sign of any other beads or stones in the pile, no hole in the bead to indicate it was part of a necklace or bracelet.
It might be valuable. She could find a neutral eye in town to tell her what it was, and how much it was worth. Maybe she was just being paranoid when it came to CaLarca. The green-haired woman owed them all so much. This would serve as partial debt paid.
Phaira stood, pocketing the bead and wiping her hands on her pants. Then she searched the landscape for paths into the woods, tire marks, anything that might suggest that Ganasan and Bennet escaped the fire. They couldn’t have just been lifted into the air – could they? Could they levitate? She didn’t know what to think of what the NINE might be capable of.
Click. The unmistakable sound of a rifle being primed.
Her hand skirted to her thigh, where her Calis handgun would typically be holstered. If Anandi had ever given them back after Honorwell, she lamented, and wondered if she should go for the knife concealed in her boot.
She looked over her shoulder. Fifty feet away, at the property border, there was the shape of a farmer, grizzled and wrinkled, his rifle cocked against his shoulder.
“Stay there,” he ordered. He had the same accent as CaLarca, soft consonants.
He was alone. No signs of any backup. Just a scared local. It would be a risk, but the man’s hand was steady, and the buckshot would be devastating.
So she lifted her hands in the air. “I’m with patrol,” Phaira called out. “Not looking to make any trouble. Just investigating.”
“You’re either a liar, or a terrible investigator,” the farmer called back. “The fire happened weeks ago.”
“It took some time to get this far south,” Phaira said. “I’m here on behalf of Cyrah CaLarca.”
The barrel of his rifle lowered just a little.
“You their neighbor?” Phaira tried.
“Might be.” The rifle steadied. “But there’s been enough strangers wandering around, destroying things. Don’t think you can touch my farm and burn it to the ground, too.”
“Not interested in your farm,” Phaira said carefully. “Only this one. Did you see who set the fire?”
“No. And I told the real patrol that.”
Phaira ignored the dig. “I’m just trying to help a - a friend.”
“She was a strange one. CaLarca.”
“Yeah, I’ve learned that,” Phaira agreed.
“Ganasan was a good man, though. Good neighbor. Quiet, kept to themselves mostly. Their little boy was cute, too. They didn’t deserve this. No one does.” The man paused, thinking. “She’s alive?”
“Yes,” Phaira said. “Do you think Ganasan and Bennet are?”
“Can’t say,” the man said. “Didn’t see anyone coming or going. Just the fire in the night.”
Phaira withdrew the bead from her pocket, holding it between thumb and forefinger. “Have you seen this before? I found it in the ash, but it’s not attached to anything.”
The man squinted, and shook his head.
Disappointed, Phaira pocketed the bead again, scanning the landscape again. Ozias wouldn’t be pleased to know that the rana spent to travel this far south had uncovered no new information.
“Talk to my friend in town,” the man interrupted her thoughts. “Maybe he sold it to them. He knows all the transactions in the area. I can give you a ride. Got a few stops to make first, but you can go in the back of the truck.”
“If you’re finished with your investigation,” he added pointedly, the barrel of his rifle making a lazy circle in the air.
II.
Phaira spent the next hour surrounded by crates full of vegetables, and swinging security straps that the farmer didn’t seem to see the point of using. Trying to will off a growing headache, to distract herself, Phaira cupped the blue bead in her hand, enjoying the cool pressure against her palm. With her other hand, she activated her Lissome and sent messages: to Renzo, letting him know that she was on the road again; to Cohen, asking him to please get in touch with his older brother so he would stop worrying; to Ozias, informing the detective that her allowance for travel was almost gone.
Then she bit her lip, and punched in a new connection code, leaving only the audio intact.
“Phaira!"
“Hey, Sydel. You busy?"
“No, having a rest, actually. We’ve been busy all day.” There was satisfaction in the girl’s voice, mixed with fatigue. Phaira recalled their last video conversation from a week ago. Sydel's copper hair was growing out again. Her braids hacked off in Toomba during her breakdown, Sydel’s hair was smoother now, curling around her forehead and ears. She almost looked cute, and peaceful, a far cry from the scared, crumbling girl she was on the Arazura, not so long ago.
“Where are you now?” Phaira asked.
“Approaching Queline via train. Emir has some appointments set up. I’m in the back car, doing some homework he’s assigned. Reading up on infectious diseases.”
“Be careful over in Queline,” Phaira warned. “It’s got some bad areas. Keep away from the bridges, that’s where all the drug deals go down."
Noted.” There was a long pause. “How are you? Where are you now?"
“Still south. Checking leads. Nothing much to report, not yet, anyways."
“Well, something’s on your mind. What is it?"
“What makes you think you know what’s going on in my head?"
“Because I do. What’s the matter?”
Phaira’s fingers hovered over her encrypted Lissome, wondering whether to make some excuse and disconnect the line. These conversations felt almost like an invasion. Sydel was building her own life as a medical professional. Maybe these calls were an inconvenience. Maybe the girl was better off without her influence.
“Come on, Phaira.”
The girl’s impatience made Phaira smile, despite herself. “I’ve just had a lot of time on my own,” she admitted. “Time to think about things, and what I might want to do when I get back home.”
“Have you talked to Cohen lately?” she added, wondering if it was the wrong thing to ask. She was nervous to ask her little brother, who was so silent and brooding now, so unwilling to share what exactly he was doing up there in Toomba, living with their grandmother, enmeshed in that mountain militia.
“A while ago.” But Sydel went silent after that. So who knew if the two of them were speaking? Phaira hoped they were.
But the silence was growing awkward, and Phaira didn’t have the nerve to ask, nor the energy to get into a bigger discussion. This was just a check-in call, nothing more. “I should go.”
“As should I. I have a lot of preparations to make.”
“I’m glad things are going well for you, Sydel.”
“Be safe, Phaira. I hope you find what you are looking for.”
When she disconnected, Phaira glanced out the cargo window. Outside, the world was awash in pink and gold.
Sydel’s words lingered in her mind. What I’m looking for. What I’m looking for.
What was Phaira going to do when this was over? When this mission was finished, when the contract with Ozias was closed and her temporary badge returned? What then?
Her mind turned with possibilities as she watched the sun set.
She could ask for regular work detail from Detective Ozias. Maybe there were other areas that she could investigate independently, under the shadow of law patrol. Osha had a lot of dark corners, especially in the West, which Phaira was more and more curious to learn about, given her discoveries.
She could accompany Sydel and Emir on their travels, maybe help them navigate the rougher areas. She was useless as a medical aide, but maybe there was some use for her skills. She liked them both; they made her feel calmer, less anxious.
She could branch off on her own as a Locate-Retrieve-Protect specialist. After the Kings incident, ‘Phaira Lore’ had been exposed b
y an unknown source, who called her an LRP. Work might be available if she sought it out.
She could ask Theron Sava for a chance.
A chance at what, though?
Their interactions were nothing but sex and a few confessions. They had no basis in reality, and she preferred the dream.
Or so she thought, before she started travelling and seeking clues. Now she wasn’t sure. She’d seen so much over the past few months, and again and again, her first thought was the desire to tell Theron Sava about it. She couldn’t quite push aside that immediate reaction to know what he thought, to hear him sum up the truth of the conflict with a succinct comment, or those little truths that cut, for better or for worse.
Phaira stared at the edge of the sun until her eyes burned. Even if she were to take the leap, what did she want? To set up a regular time and place to sleep together? To establish some form of dating relationship? Every scenario made her cringe. Nothing made sense; nothing seemed to fit.
If it’s so impossible, then why doesn't this ache go away?
She had no answer for that.
* * *
The jeweler’s shop was dusty, cramped with the smells of different metal, and claustrophobic, with only one visible exit. Phaira remained still, however, and watchful, waiting for his verdict. In turn, his eye, magnified through the spyglass, often shifted to sweep over her again.
Finally he spoke: “Where did you get this?”
“I take it you’ve never seen it before? Or sold it to anyone nearby?”
“No.” He peered through the lens. “The bead is solid glass, but the center is moving independently.”
“It’s moving?” How had Phaira missed that detail? Sure enough, when she borrowed the eyeglass, the faded swirls inside the bead were rotating counterclockwise, so slowly that it took a few seconds to recognize the movement.
“What is this?” she asked out loud. “How do you make something like that? Does it symbolize something?”
“You’re not from here.”