by Loren Walker
The copper stink of blood. Theron's body, collapsed on the floor. The Red hunched over him, a strange whine coming from its mask.
Somehow, she was on its back, and she had another knife in her hand, and she was stabbing. The Red roared and flailed, swinging her from left to right, finally gaining the momentum to grab hold of Phaira and flip her off. The knife was gone, and the Red was on top of her, straddling her, banging her skull into the floor again and again, and there was blood, and spittle, and what sounded like yelling inside of Phaira’s head.
Gunfire. The shadow of the Red fell away. Through Phaira’s blurry vision, she saw Jetsun with a Sentry gun, firing with one shaky arm outstretched, gripping the back of Theron’s suit jacket and trying to pull him through the broken door. A flash of Renzo’s blond hair and his glasses, his hands grabbing hold of Theron as well. Desperate, Phaira tried to find a foothold, tried to summon the strength to put her hand to the floor and push up, to push away. The Red was upright again. There were holes in its skin, ragged edges of what might have been skin.
Someone stood in front of her. Black boots, black leggings that shimmered in the light.
Then a cold hand wrapped around Phaira’s arm, and yanked her backwards, through her own blood, through Theron’s blood. Dazed, she peered up at CaLarca’s sharp features, hovering above her, and saw how the woman’s brow was wrinkled, how she breathed in short spurts; and how in the distance, the Red was writhing, eyes rolling and furious.
Somehow, CaLarca was holding the Red back.
Then the cold hand around her arm was gone. Phaira rolled down the last half of the stairs, landing with a gasp of pain. Pushing unsteadily to her hands and knees, Phaira felt the floor shake under her palms. A heavy path of blood led behind the training mats, where the emergency escape pod was hidden away.
The sound of a roar from upstairs.
“Go,” CaLarca hissed over her shoulder, braced on the stairs, her green braids swinging.
Then Renzo’s familiar face appeared, through the spots dancing in front of her eyes. Her feet kept hitting things, the air suddenly full of panic and pressure and sweat. The accent in CaLarca’s voice, telling Renzo to launch. The ripple of fists, pounding from far away, mixed with scraping sounds, and a mighty push forward, so strong that Phaira lost her balance and hit the carpeted floor of the pod, just as the darkness enveloped her.
PART THREE
I.
Under the Queline Bridge, Sydel snapped on a fresh pair of gloves, and did her best to take in a breath without actually smelling anything. Emir Ajyo glanced at her, a silent question in his eyes: are you okay? She gave the slightest nod before turning to her final patient, relieved that they were almost done with this scheduled stop.
“How can I help you?” she asked the man sitting in front of her.
He held up his left hand; two of his fingers were purple, wrapped in dirty gauze. Sydel placed a metal tray on her lap, drew the man’s hand onto it, and ignored his yelps of pain as she straightened the broken bones.
In a way, this wasn’t so different from the Jala Communia, from the ailments she treated at the clinic there: blisters, rashes, minor infections, bruises. She was secretly bored, then, and, in this moment, she was twitchy again. Though I shouldn't be, she reasoned as she worked. This is for a charitable cause. These men and women were grateful for her attention, when the world ignored them the rest of the time. Routine boredom was sometimes part of giving back to the community; they couldn’t all be incredible feats. She wouldn’t want ongoing stress, anyways, not if she were to maintain her control. Not if she were to keep her affairs private, and continue to mature as a medical professional.
Under Emir’s mentorship, her knowledge had certainly grown. They had become quiet companions over the past months; sharing meals, reviewing the details of the day and the schedule to come, distributing tickets and itineraries. He introduced her to colleagues; she did her best to remember their names, but there was so many faces that the names flew out of her head as soon as they came in. After all, there was only room for so much in her brain, and she studied every night in whatever room she was staying in, poring through diagrams and diagnostic studies, cramming her head to its capacity. Emir always kept a separate room, and retired early every night. He’d made enough of a recovery from the dangerous treatment for his blood disorder to function, and to help people, but his strength still wavered. Lately, he tended to sit back and let Sydel take the lead with patients, only stepping in if she made an error, and correcting gently. It was very different from her apprenticeship in Jala, where she felt so shamed, and desperate for approval.
Sometimes, she was tempted to know what Emir was thinking, what everyone was thinking, when they stared at her. But she always pushed it down. She hadn’t used Eko, felt the dangerous burn of Nadi deep in her core, or felt even a hint of an Insynn rush since the day she left the Byrne family behind in Toomba. It had been weeks since she’d felt out of control of her body. Still, every day, Sydel wore gloves to prevent any accidental skin-to-skin contact, and at night, she stuffed her ears with wax, and buried herself with quilts, to blot out any possible stimulation. Just in case.
Sydel taped the man's fingers together with a splint, and gave strict instructions to keep it elevated. She could only hope that the patients would actually follow through what she asked of them; she would never see them again. That was the work she and Emir were doing, moving through the Northwest, helping where they could, and continuing on.
When the man left, Sydel gazed up at the rusty rafters of the Queline bridge, and smiled. Here she was, right where Phaira told her not to be. Would Phaira laugh, or be furious?
“Time to go,” came Emir's voice from behind.
Click, snap, sweep away and dispose. Pack up the equipment and seal it away, into the storage cases they rolled into every new town. The awning was taken down, the tiny indoor space folded down and its wheels jutted out to follow behind. As usual, Emir insisted on taking the trolley, Sydel the supplies. They made their way down the street, away from the fetid stink, and Sydel was grateful for the movement, to stretch her back and legs after being hunched over for the past three hours.
In front of the doors of their Queline hostel, the shape of a small woman paced back and forth, smaller than Sydel, with copper skin and short black hair. Sydel recognized her immediately as the leader of the Hitodama hacking community, Anandi Ajyo.
“Anandi!” Emir exclaimed. His face lit up at the sight of his daughter. It was sweet.
But as they drew closer, Anandi’s face wasn’t joyous. It was pinched with rage.
Emir’s smile dropped. “What is it?” he asked, putting down his equipment.
Anandi could only shake her head in tight little bursts, as if her anger was so intense that it could barely be contained.
“My god, Anandi, what’s wrong?”
“I don’t want to tell you,” Anandi finally said through clenched teeth. “Because I know what you’ll do.”
“Now you have to tell me,” Emir pointed out.
Anandi’s gaze flicked to Sydel, an accusation in her blue-green eyes.
Sydel's chest grew heavy. “Phaira.”
“That’s part of it.”
“Renzo, too?”
“And Theron Sava.”
As the girl relayed the events of the past few days, Sydel tried to take in all the details. Had all of these events, murders, and injuries really taken place in the last 72 hours? (Apparently, yes.) Did Cohen know? (Anandi couldn’t say, but she didn’t think so.) Was Anandi able to land the Arazura without crashing the ship? (Yes, and the damaged transport had already been picked up and hidden away.) As Sydel listened, questions burned. Why hadn’t Phaira called Sydel in to help? Sydel had long since mastered how to use the Lissome. Plus, they were friends. Isn’t that what friends did?
“Do you know where they are now?” Emir queried.
“West Lea Hospital,” Anandi said. “Theron was in bad shape, but he’s
been upgraded to stable.
“He's in a public hospital?” Emir blinked.
Anandi shook her head. “I don't think there was time for other options.”
“Oh my,” Sydel could only say. At the same time, she felt a flurry of excitement in her chest, instant curiosity to see what was wrong with that man. But it would be rude to inquire at this point.
“So what now?" Emir asked. "What else are they asking you to do?”
“Actually, Papa… Jetsun wants you.”
“Who is Jetsun?” Sydel interrupted.
“Theron’s lawyer cousin,” Anandi said. “Your standard nightmare.” She glanced back at her father. “She’s asking me to bury the records of Theron's admission, so no one knows he got hurt. And she wants a medical professional to be there when she moves him into hiding, so she's insisting that you come to Lea.”
“What about Phaira and Renzo?” Emir pressed. "Were they injured?”
“They’re shaken,” Anandi concluded. “But they’re - ”
The words burst out of Sydel. “I need to go to them.”
Neither father nor daughter reacted.
“Papa, if you go,” Anandi murmured, worry in her voice, “if you help him, what does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” Emir said. “I can’t say until we get there. It’s a different family now. He might be reasonable, when given kindness.”
“I already said that I will go,” Sydel interrupted. “I will nurse Theron Sava to health. Neither of you need to be involved.”
Anandi’s round face twisted. “You don't know what you’re getting into.”
But there was no question in Sydel’s mind. “I owe him.”
Anandi exhaled hard. “That’s how it starts with the Savas.”
“Anandi,” Emir warned. “It’s her decision.”
His gaze softened as he turned at Sydel. “You know what he’s a part of,” he told her. “And you know an assassin has targeted him. That puts you in the line of fire. Are you certain that now is the time to repay your debt?”
“Yes,” Sydel said. Strangely, she wasn’t afraid, not at all. The idea of restoring the man to health, to protecting him from harm, it felt true, and right. “It’s what I’m supposed to do.”
Emir extended his hand. Grateful for his response, Sydel took it without thinking.
The world blasted white.
In the center of the light, Emir fell to his knees, grabbing at his left arm.
Then Sydel's vision sharpened, and her senses came back: the tight clasp of her fingers, the sweat on her upper lip, the fast beating of her heart.
“It’s been a pleasure,” Emir was saying. “Take care of yourself.”
Sydel could only nod. When he released her hand, she curled it into a fist and covered it with her other fingers, as if to contain what it had just extracted.
* * *
Before she left for the southeast coast of Osha, Sydel memorized the train route, the transfer station mid-way, the route to the hospital, and Theron’s room number and exact location. The journey took sixteen hours. She slept, she read about infectious disease, she meditated, she stared out of the window and ate little. It was the first time in a very long while that she had been alone. So strange, and a little frightening.
In the washroom, she stared at her reflection, and ran her hand over her short hair. It still jarred her sometimes to not feel the old heavy braids, but it was even more copper in regrowth, she noted. Her eyes were clear, her skin darker. She looked tired, but older. Closer to her own age, maybe. Maybe more formidable.
She kept her gloves on, even when they burned, even when she slept. She couldn’t stop thinking about the Insynn rush with Emir. Before, when it happened with CaLarca, she had seen into the woman’s past. But this felt like the future. In the hazy vision of Emir’s fall, the man’s beard was whiter, his body more frail. She hadn’t encountered anything like it since leaving the family behind; why was it returning now?
Finally, West Lea Hospital. Her reflection in every corner of the mirrored elevator. When the doors opened to the sixth floor, the first thing she saw was green braids: CaLarca, standing guard in front of a hospital suite, her head turning in Sydel’s direction.
Sydel was shocked. CaLarca was involved with this? Emotions twisted in her chest: anger, confusion, sadness.
“Sydel,” CaLarca said with surprise. “You're here.”
“Yes."
Then Sydel didn’t know what to say.
Thankfully, the door behind CaLarca opened. Phaira emerged, running a hand through her blue hair, noting CaLarca's confused expression, and turning with wide eyes to catch sight of Sydel.
For a moment, Sydel thought the woman was going to cry. There were bruises along her neck, under her eye, and scratches across her forearms and throat. Stunned, Sydel had the sudden impulse to connect via Eko and ask Phaira what was wrong. It took effort to hold herself back, to greet Phaira out loud. “Hello again.”
“I didn’t - I wasn’t expecting you to come,” Phaira stammered.
Sydel smiled. “Of course I came.”
“Wait, where’s Emir?” A blonde woman emerged behind Phaira; her arms crossed, her hair coiled in a messy bun.
“I'm Emir's apprentice. I’m - I'm Sydel Shovann Asanto.” It was strange to say the surnames of her mother and father. She was known as just Sydel for most of her life. But now things were different.
"I'm very capable of caring for Theron Sava in place of Emir," she continued. "He was unable to come."
“You came here by yourself?” CaLarca chimed in.
“Is that a problem?” Sydel said, a little more sharply than she intended.
No one spoke. Finally the blonde woman pushed a Lissome into Sydel’s hand. The medical charts, in projected, pixelated form. Relieved at the acceptance, Sydel skimmed the contents. A stab wound to the back had punctured Theron’s left lung. He’d gone into hypovolemic shock from low blood pressure, oxygen drop, and blood loss. A tube had been implanted to drain the blood from his lung and expand it, intravenous fluids to treat the shock. Laceration wounds on his arms were treated, trimmed, sealed over with antibiotics. Even more interesting was his medical history: severe brain trauma as a child, resulting in seizures, migraines, disorientation, and nerve pain….
“Are you his cousin, Jetsun?” Sydel asked the woman.
The woman hesitated. "Yes. What was your name, again?"
Sydel ignored the question. “I want to speak to Theron privately.”
“No,” Jetsun said. “No one can be alone with him. It’s dangerous.”
“We’re in a hospital,” Sydel said. “People are everywhere.”
She glanced at Phaira, looking for support, and was surprised at the yellow, agitated energy around the woman. Even CaLarca was simmering with apprehension, worry lines on her pale forehead.
They were afraid? Them?
“There’s no window in there,” Phaira finally spoke up, as if to reassure herself. “Ventilation units have been blocked off. This is the only way in. I won't close the door all the way, so I can hear if something… I’ll be right outside. Okay?” She directed the last word at the cousin.
Jetsun deflated, muttering something under her breath, and stepped aside.
Gathering her courage, Sydel slid past CaLarca and Phaira, and walked inside the room.
Inside, the sounds of gentle beeping. The man was so tall that an expansion had been added to the bed to accommodate his length. As she came to his bedside, she saw his long black hair had been pulled back into a braid. His skin was sallow, and his cheekbones were even more pronounced. A purplish haze surrounded him, not just from the injury. Sydel looked back - the door was ajar an inch. She wet her lips and straightened her shoulders.
“Theron Sava,” she whispered. “Can you hear me?”
The giant man took in a long, shaky breath, and his eyes pinched together, though they remained closed. “I know your voice.” His voice was a scratchy, breathless d
rawl.
“Yes, we’ve spoken before,” Sydel confirmed. “This is our first meeting in person.”
Finally, his eyes opened: gold irises, red-veins in the white. “Why are you here?”
“To help you.”
“How?”
“To aid in your recovery, and ensure - "
“And why would you do that?”
“Mr. Sava,” Sydel said. “I know you don’t like me, or want me here.”
“You’re wrong.” Theron took in a pained, sharp breath. “You’re the only one who can help right now.”
“Of course, Mr. Sava, whatever I can provide.”
“I want you to heal me with Nadi.”
Her mouth dropped open. She quickly shut it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I need to leave,” he interrupted, wheezing. “Can’t wait for natural healing. I know you’ve done it on Phaira. Do it for me now.”
“No,” Sydel said, stricken. “I don’t do that anymore.”
“You’ll do… as I ask,” Theron commanded.
“Or what?”
Suddenly, his hot, dry hand was around her wrist. But just as quickly, his fingers went stiff. She wrestled away from his grip, too aware of the pulsing sensation in the center of her palms. Control. She tightened every nerve in her body, clenched her abdominal muscles, all the means of control that she learned from CaLarca.
Slowly, the fire faded.
“I said no,” Sydel said through her teeth. “I’ll sign you out, I’ll supervise your recovery, but don’t ask me again or you’ll regret it.”
Theron didn't respond. His arms lay by his sides again, hands clenched into fists. A vein protruded in his forehead.
“Syd?”
It was Phaira, peering through the doorway. Her eyes flickered to land on Theron's prone form, and then back to Sydel. “You okay?"
“It's fine,” Sydel said. “We're fine.”
* * *
Outside, in the hallway, everyone huddled in a circle, the conversation hushed but heated.