David: Savakerrva, Book 1

by L. Brown

  “Hello!” Garth boomed, a greeting nearly shot from a gun. “My name—”

  Go ahead, came the thought, make yourself new.

  “I’m David!” Garth declared, and experimenting with confidence, he extended his hand.

  But instead of impressed, the girl simply looked stunned. Trembling behind her cup, she gawked first at his outstretched hand, then at his face, then — glancing again to his left and right, she shrieked at their charge, at two slaggers lunging for Garth and stabbing his chest.

  Garth collapsed. Perfectly blindsided, he never saw their approach, and though the girl cried out, the herd maintained, continued to slurp. No one noticed and nobody came, none but the Woman in Black, and as she sauntered to the thief flat on the ice, she threw back her head with a raptor-like screech. Vengeance pouring, filling her glass, she just waited for the stain, the ice to go red.

  Then she waited some more. But when the ice stayed clean and the boy declined to gurgle and writhe, the woman eyed her assassins; had they hit their mark? They certainly hit something, but by the condition of their broken-slag blades, they’d attacked a boy with a chest of steel.

  “Johk toh!” snapped the Woman in Black, and at her command, the last three assassins rushed in.

  A flash-blinding crack scared them all back. X-blades sparking, arcing tip-to-tip, Garth just reacted, tried to straddle the divide between greeting a girl and getting stabbed in the chest. Nothing made sense, and though ignorant of their cause, he was sure of their intent, so rolling upright, he never let up, just threatened his assailants with the high-voltage arc.

  “Zahlen?” asked the girl, and that’s all it took. Feed interrupted, echoes of Zahlen lifted stained faces and jumped between troughs, and as Zahlen ricocheted and the assassins edged back, someone moved closer, a slagger from the side.

  Garth barely saw him, had too much to watch, but the slagger’s jacket nettled with bumps reminded of an alligator, some creature of ambush deep in the weeds. But when Gator’s dark gaze fixed on Garth’s X-blades, his eyes seemed to flash. Maybe just a reflection, maybe something else, but that’s where it ended, when the klaxon finally blew.

  Troughs rose, hoses spooled up, and as the assassins fell back, the Woman in Black retreated as well. Threats apparently gone, Garth released the triggers. But his fingers quivered, couldn’t relax, and neither could Garth. No longer unnoticed, his secret was out, and as whispers flew and glances shot back, the herd awakened, buzzed with new life.

  But Garth didn’t care. Checking the faces, any who remained and all who looked back, he never saw her, the girl had left.

  His second shift had crawled, was the longest one yet. Maybe not in hours, but certainly in thoughts, and with mind and body flogged, Garth scaled the sleep net, then crumpled into his niche.

  Laying there alone — his closest neighbors gone, they’d migrated, no doubt, to a safer weave — he reviewed it again, the assassins’ strike and the shriek of Woman in Black. Still no answers, no reason for their attack, yet that he could live with, because attempted murder was, by definition, just an attempt. But the girl?

  Now, that was failure, rejection clean through. But just like the assassins, her motive was muddled, completely unclear. Would she really feed him, sneak him the slabs, then just ignore him, just walk away?

  More alone than ever, Garth knew he couldn’t last. Others would come, next time maybe ten. Then again, just one assassin would work, life could end with a stab while he slept; and though the blades under his coat had deflected today’s assassins, such luck only came once.

  Garth begged for sleep. But vexed by miseries, by the threat of assassins and the loss of the girl and a stomach clawing for food, he found no relief, and though exhausted, he needed to move.

  Should I return to the Casbah, trade my vest for a bird? Then what, eat it raw?

  Then what about a slab, would she run when she saw me, would they all?

  Shutting his eyes — useless, why even try — Garth nonetheless found himself moving, leaving his nest. He crawled to the sleep net edge, then just like before, began his descent.

  But he wasn’t alone. A blur over the edge, someone shadowed his moves.

  Garth touched down in a steel-cleat scrape. Better than last night, his six-foot drop, but when he turned toward the Casbah, he found only ice. No curtain of coats, no buyers or sellers or mats with wares, the black market was dark.

  Were G’mach about, was he about to be caught?

  Not likely, he reasoned, he’d hear the platforms before they got close. Convincing, sound logic, and then a hand grabbed his throat.

  “Stahvya!” his attacker rasped from behind. “Stahvya vik, stahvya!”

  Choked by the grip, Garth had no reply. But he did have a thought, because by the sound of it, the sharp bite of the words, this language was new.

  “I—?” The hand relaxed, gave him some air. “Don’t understand, what—?!”

  His patience apparently gone, the attacker invaded Garth’s coat and unbuckled the X-blades. “Vesh teb!” he demanded “Teb esh, Dahkaa?”

  Garth wondered if he misheard. “Dahkaa?”

  Not the response he sought, the attacker slammed Garth to the ice. And though the impact blurred, he still could see, still recognized the alligator-like leather nettled with bumps.

  “Vesh teb, voko Dahkaa!” Gator persisted, now pressing an X-blade to Garth’s neck.

  “Dahkaa’s, yes!” Garth gasped. “His, they’re his, he—?”

  A deep snort rattled the nets, then a quick sneeze.

  The same G’mach warnings previously heard, they both ended the interrogation and began a transformation, a change utterly unforeseen. And as Garth peeked back, he watched Gator yank out a pair of fifteen-inch skate runners; which, by all appearance, were filed from ivory or bone. He next ripped off the cloths that muffled his cleats and then, every motion a well-practiced move, slapped on the runners and buckled on the blades.

  “Mo-tahh!” he whispered, and with that, he skated toward the starboard side of the Machine, a windbreak curtain of hanging steel plates. Then timing their sway, he slipped in between, and with a welcoming howl of sub-freezing wind, Gator was gone.

  Too flustered to move, Garth wondered what next. But he didn’t wonder long, and when a searchlight and a screech of bullets swept his way, he leapt onto the nets and scrambled back up.

  Winded breaths later and more famished than before, Garth clambered over the high perimeter, then tumbled into his niche.

  And nearly jumped. Not because of G’mach, the two platforms now clattering past, no — Garth bristled because of warmth, the hot breath on his neck.

  His niche hid an assassin, someone just beneath. Every reflex demanded he lunge back out, but he had to keep still until the G’mach turned to depart, and when they did, when the platforms clattered off, Garth flung himself up and cocked back his fist. Then realized, confounded, he’d been wrong once again.

  Sighing a bit, the girl with the painted cleats and odd little hat looked at her gift, three white-flecked slabs mashed, thanks to Garth, into one.

  “G’yohg?” she asked. And presenting the edible mess, she also offered a smile.

  Their chewing passed in a minute, but Garth listened for days. Or so it seemed, but seconds or hours, however long she spoke, her whispers were music, a melody, incredibly, under the Machine. And like most conversations with girls his age, he followed little, understood even less, yet by her swells of emotion and the well of her eyes, some unfathomed depth between ocean and sky, she kept him enthralled. Until, without warning, she tapped his chest.

  “Zahlen?” she asked.

  Electrified by her touch, Garth felt himself seize.

  “No, uh, not Zahlen, I—” Recalling the troughs, what he’d already said, he decided not to confuse things, just remain someone else. “I’m David.”

  A peculiar name, by the tilt of her squint. “Dah-veed?”

  Garth smiled. “David.”

 
“Dahveed — Zahlen?”

  “No, not Zahlen, I’m just ‘David,’ just— ‘Dahveed.’”

  She smiled at that.

  Feeling rational thought evaporate, decamp his mind, Garth looked away, pretended to ponder a rope. “And you?” Garth asked. “Your name is—?”

  Seeming to understand, she whispered, to Garth’s mind, the sound of waterfalling stars, some liquid radiance of ‘Eykehlah’ahn.’

  First mesmerized, then just lost, Garth quickly forgot. “Huh?”

  “Eykehlah — ahn,” she repeated.

  And though he tried to pronounce it — “Eykehl—?” — his Michigan mouth failed to work. So he continued, tried again, but regardless of effort — “Eykehl — uh?” — his mangling only got worse. Then she couldn’t help it, and hiding her face, she started to laugh.

  Thrilled by the sound, Garth hoped he’d never get it right. “Ey-kel-ahh—?”

  So it continued, up high in the nets, his lousy diction and her ambrosial laugh. But when she laughed so hard she lost her hat, when the gaffes of his tongue made her cover his mouth, that’s when it happened, when Garth knew whatever tomorrow would bring, it didn’t matter, there was nothing but this.

  Chapter 11

  Eykehlah’ahn

  “Bhog!” barked the Manager. Patrolling the trench per his G’mach-given right, he inspired his slaggers with both motivational cliché and a modified tool, a custom T-bar with superior punch.

  “Bhog!” the Manager repeated, striding for the next silhouette. “Bhogga oh, bho—?”

  The mist clearing, he stopped in his tracks. “Foila,” he mumbled. “Foila, Zahlen, foila.” And bowing his head to the boy in the vest, the Manager moved on.

  Marveling at the change, his newfound respect, Garth nonetheless knew it wouldn’t last. His X-blades were gone, and sooner or later, most likely too soon, the herd would learn. This should have concerned him, churned anxious thoughts, but as his mind wandered once more, he returned again to their time in the net. It really happened, did they actually talk?

  Not exactly, not quite. But as with any girl, an hour’s worth of whispers and laughs and awkward shrugs should count for something. And alien or not, unlike Ashley Allezahr, at least this girl knew his name. His other name. And though it felt odd not answering to ‘Garth,’ though he hated to deceive and it almost seemed a lie, when she said Dahveed?

  Sublime.

  Then again, he preferred one sound even more, and though he still couldn’t pronounce her entire name, he had mastered its abridgement, syllables easier on the tongue.

  “Eylahn,” he murmured again, and hefting his T-bar, he tried to explain it, understand why she’d sought him out. No reason came, her motive defied grasp, but at the end of it, he just didn’t care, all he wanted was every moment to fly.

  Swinging his T-bar and shattering the slag, he lived for the time he’d see her once more.

  Another tour in the trench survived, more calluses added and back spasms endured, the herd returned to the nets. And as five stories of rope sagged with flesh, snores whorled into a breeze, a wheezy ebb and flow. Nothing else heard, no sob or joy, the under-Machine world returned to the doldrums, a hopeless dead calm. Except, perhaps, for a spot near the top.

  “And this?” Curled into his sleepnet niche, Garth pointed to the flecks in a round, brown slab. “This white stuff, it’s called—?”

  “Ay-ees,” Eylahn answered, though not before she swallowed her chew.

  “Ay-eez?”

  “Kek,” she corrected, now tilting her face down and left. “Ke-kek!”

  “No? ‘Kek’ means no?”

  “Oove,” she confirmed, glancing up toward the right.

  “Ay-ees,” repeated Garth, pointing at the flecks. “Ay-ees, oove?”

  “Oove! Oo-oove!” she affirmed, now smiling up to the right.

  “Hah! Got it, so—” Garth took another bite. “’Oove’ — and when I look up to the right, that means ‘yes?’ And ‘kek,’ or looking down and left, that means ‘no.’ And what we’re eating is ‘yohg’ and the flecks are ‘ay-ees?’”

  “Oove!” she exclaimed. “Yes, oo-oove!”

  “Okay, yes, oove!” Garth enthused. “Are we actually talking, did we finally break through?”

  Lost at the last, Eylahn just grinned.

  “Okay, well — closer, Eylahn, we’re getting close.”

  “Close?”

  “Close to an actual, you know, conversation. Another couple weeks, a few more moons—”

  Reminded of something, Garth recalled some vague warning about time, just forty moons left. But he lived for these moments, so shaking it off, he just chewed more yohg flecked with ay-ees.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “we’ll be talking soon, and I really can’t wait, there’s so much I want to know. Like, why are you here? Were you kidnapped, was everyone taken at once? And what about leaving, getting out, could we escape the G’mach?”

  “G’mach?” she rasped, then ducking fast, Eylahn checked the ceiling for a platform’s approach.

  “No! No G’mach!” said Garth. “Kek G’mach, kek.”

  Exhaling relief, Eylahn flashed a hint of scowl.

  “Sorry,” Garth offered. “Guess I need to watch what I say, I—?” Recalling the Manager, his apologetic retreat, he tried a new word. “Foila, Eylahn. Foila.”

  Her scowl fading with her widening eyes, Eylahn regarded Garth with a look both moved and impressed. Maybe because he knew the word, maybe because she never thought someone with X-blades would apologize, but regardless of why, she offered her last bit of yohg.

  “Oh, thanks, but that’s yours, that—?”

  She fed it, gently, into his mouth. Which triggered, Garth sensed, a bio-chemical rush, some primordial cascade impairing his speech and cognitive thought and pushing, through every pore, a boatload of sweat.

  “Ungh,” he mumbled, forgetting how to chew. “Thanks, I—?” Not chewing enough, he swallowed too soon. “Good,” he nearly choked, but however wheezy it sounded, she didn’t seem to mind.

  “So,” Garth continued, pretending he choked every day, “so, how come you’re not like anyone else down here; I mean, how come you’re nice?”

  Her comprehension taxed, Eylahn tilted her head.

  “Well, you haven’t kicked me or tossed me, at least not yet, but really, if it weren’t for you? I’d be starving by now, maybe even dead. Understand?”

  Maybe she did, but she answered with a yawn. And then without warning, she laid her head on his chest. “Okay?” she asked.

  Amazed at the power of misunderstanding, thrilled by every misconstrued word, Garth wondered which shook more, the thump of the towers or his heart.

  “Okay,” he answered, his voice nearly cracked. But as she nestled in close, she seemed intrigued by his coat, a compartment within.

  “It’s a ‘pocket,’” he explained, feeling her finger fish down in. “And it’s empty, Eylahn, there’s nothing—?’”

  Wrong yet again, he watched her tug out a thin white cord spliced with tape, a wire connected to a rectangular device.

  Thrown by her find, a relic from some faraway past, Garth wondered how to explain an iPod using just yes, no, and the word for swill. “It’s — music.”

  A never-heard term for a never-seen thing, Garth’s explanation only confused. “Mooz—?”

  “You know, like songs.” He hummed a bit, but somehow, it sounded more like a test pattern, variations in drone. Yet perhaps catching on, Eylahn pressed her ear to its wafer-thin case.

  “No-no, kek, that’s not — here, see this?” Garth snugged an earphone into his ear. “We listen through this. Or we could if the battery were charged, but it died before I left, so it’s useless, I’m afraid. Just won’t work.”

  Unaware of his meaning, but imitating his move, Eylahn eased the second earphone into her ear.

  “Yep, that’s how we’d listen. But since we can’t, well—” Garth now pointed out the controls. “Anyway, to play
something, you’d just touch this arrow, then—?”

  Then Eylahn shrieked, yanked out her earphone and leapt away, a sleep-net disturbance met with grousing and hiss.

  “But—?” Unabashedly surprised, Garth eyed a glowing screen showing full charge.

  “But?” echoed Eylahn, now shielding her face from the J’kel-tinted glow.

  “No, it’s alright, it’s okay,” said Garth. “It just — I don’t know, but somehow it charged, something about this planet, my ride through the river? Who knows. But it’s safe, okay?”

  “Okay?”

  ‘Yes, oove, okay. Now here, you take this—” He picked up her earphone. “And we’ll try it again. Oove?”

  Eylahn hesitated. But after confirming Garth’s ear was still intact, had suffered no bite from the spliced wire snake, she took it from his hand, then eased it back in.

  “Great, alright. Then all we do—”

  She gripped his knee.

  “All we do,” Garth continued, skin suddenly flush, “is pick our song. So—” Unsure which earthly tune should first invade another world, Garth left it to chance. “Let’s just see what comes,” he said, and selecting ‘shuffle,’ he relaxed.

  But when the first note hit, Eylahn gasped, nearly yanked her earphone again. But biting her lip and gripping Garth’s hand, she stuck it out, absorbed the sounds never before imagined or heard. Then the vocals began, and when a deep, weathered voice sang a melody unknown, she slowly unwound. But as for Garth, he just wondered why — with gigabytes of possibilities, why fate had shuffled to this.

  “Huh,” he mumbled. “Haven’t heard this in a while, it—?”

  She covered his mouth. Beguiled by the sound, Eylahn wore the look of awakening, of eyes beholding their very first dawn. Captivated by her reaction — Had she never heard music, was this herd without song? — Garth pondered the odds, the improbable twists that brought a boy from Detroit to a girl from C’raggh through a song by Johnny Cash, some languid Hawaiian farewell.