* * *
—
Night descends, but I cannot sleep. The city is awake as well. I sit on the Debby’s ramp & listen to the noise & bustle, at once annoyed & intrigued by it. Repulsed by the smell of piss & oil, yet salivating for the lace of savory that wafts alongside the refuse. I am miserable & I do not know why.
What is it that I am still holding on to, that prevents me from being here? What sense of myself am I afraid to discard? I wonder if I am truly that much of an Allied creature, & what it will take, & how long will it take, to let that world go.
DAY 36
It is morning. A smog had descended the night prior, & has remained. Sonja was due back two hours ago, but she has yet to return with the caravan. The captain has gone to the travelers’ bureau for any news, while the good doctor paces madly before me along the perimeter of the Debby, asking me—anyone—what could have gone wrong with the merc’s mission. Despite my assurances that nothing had happened to her, he remains tense & casts eyes toward the gates every other minute, in anticipation of her arrival. The boy sits beside me. I can tell he is worried too, by his constant smoothing of his clothes. & though I have not yet had the opportunity to truly know her, even I must admit to some worry that she is not safe, for without her, we have no guard.
* * *
—
Sonja has returned to us. We all sat in rapt attention, listening to her relay the comic horror of her story while the good doctor cared for the bullet hole in her right arm.
It was an overnight round-trip between Drannon port & the neighboring town up in the black mountains, where the caravan was delivering its stock of spice worms; & for two days, Sonja said she suffered. It wasn’t the bitter cold at the high altitude. Nor was it the corpses they discovered along the climbing road, with both throats & pockets opened. It wasn’t even the magnificently slow crawl of the eight-wheeler or its nauseous back & forth cradling as it navigated the damp & bulbous rocks. It was the company. The two high-pitched hyenas who hired her. Two men who did not know the meaning of silence as they commented on every rock & shrub & corpse they happened upon. But even this was fine—she could zone out through most irritations, she said. But not if one of the hyenas thought he saw an attacker emerge from behind a rock & shot his flechette from the hip without aiming, ripping a hole through her arm while the other hyena chuckled, & said no, it was not a brigand, only a three-legged mongrel.
She gave the one who shot her a broken nose.
The other one screamed.
It was all sorted in the end, the delivery made, the ride back blessedly silent. She was paid an extra rations crate for the gunshot, & docked a bushel for the broken nose. There had been worse jobs; there had been better.
There had been war, she said.
She did not know how to react when, at the end of her story, the boy took the hand of her wounded arm, & touched it to his forehead. None of us understood this strange blessing. But she grunted her thanks all the same, as she did to the captain when she told her she did good, & that she was sorry things went sour. Soon after, we left Sonja in the care of the doctor, who worked in solemn silence on her spilled blood. Walking away, I thought I heard her chuckle gently, in response to his warmly chiding voice. There was a strange air between the two of them when they later emerged from the ship; an electricity that we all let pass without comment. I did my best to avoid eye contact with her wound, for just the thought of it threatened in me a fainting spell. But I did gaze at her, our injured knight, impressed by how undaunted she was by the gash. There is a lesson here, Sartoris. It concerns our ability to accommodate.
As of this moment, we are watching the workers finish off the remains of the sea beast, while the captain completes her business at port. The skeletal remains have been dropped from the hook, the last of the fat scoured off the bones with wire scrubbers. In celebration of the hard job done, the workers produced shot glasses & dipped these glasses into the buckets of sac fluid. I watched them toast one another, & down the liquid in wince-inducing gulps. In jest they offered these drinks to passing travelers & laughed when the travelers would hurry away from the stench with faces blue & stomachs churned. They’ve been drinking the stuff for a while now, & continue to do so, daring one another to take yet another cup. One of them has fainted. Money is thrown, bets placed on who is next. In my periphery I notice Em shudder. So. Not even he is above his revulsions.
Interesting.
An idea strikes me—perhaps if I were to approach these workers, & accept one of their gruesome shots, this would endear me to the rest of the crew. Sonja’s injury & her triumphant return has only stoked my desire to live up to their standards. Up till now, I have proven only that I am at best a dead weight aboard this ship. A frail body unsuited to the life of travel. What better way to show them otherwise than to dive headfirst into that sour baptism squeezed from the pustule of that disgusting creature?
Upon re-read, no. That is a terrible idea.
* * *
—
I did it. I am in my room aboard the Debby, wondering where my instincts for self-preservation have fled to.
Flashback. I headed down the docks & approached the workers. There were six of them in all. They paid me little mind at first, one of them glancing my way before turning their back to me, as if that was all the time he needed to decide I was no one of interest. Swallowing my fear, I invaded their circle & through my translator unit asked if I could bother them for a shot of their…intriguing essence. This provoked a hearty laugh. “Wouldn’t recommend it, foreigner,” the tall one said. “This stuff, it’s not meant for drinking.” I pointed out that they had no issue with it. “Years of practice,” they said. More laughter. I asked them again for a drink, let them know I was serious & soon their laughter died. The game was on. The tall man nodded to the one with the shot glasses. He dipped the glass into the bucket & handed it to me. The cup was slick in my fingers. Could taste the bile in my throat. But found that hidden reservoir of strength within & held out. Told myself none of this was real. It was a performance. So in the spirit of play, I turned toward the Debby, from where the crew gawked in horror, held the glass up in toast to Em, & tossed the contents down my throat.
Hard to describe the drink, only its effects. Spasmed neck. Kick of the leg. Colors of new & beguiling shades shattering across my eyes. My stomach punched my chin. Coughed as I handed the glass back to the man, managing somehow to thank them as spittle quit my lips. Back at the Debby, the reactions to my stunt were varied. The boy Ahro understood neither the importance nor the grotesqueness of my actions. Sonja let loose a startling laugh. As for Royvan, he minced no words. He called me a “dumb bastard” & commanded me to the medica for immediate stomach expulsion.
Em said nothing.
Dutifully I went to the medica, where the good doctor insisted I throw up, & even attempted to jam his finger down my throat despite my protests. In the end my stubbornness won out. I crossed my arms like a child & after some argument the doctor relented & told me that whatever happened next was on my head.
He leaned against the counter & sighed, as he must’ve done with many difficult patients in the past. He told me it was no matter—that it would exit my stomach when we folded. But I have no intention of that.
When we fold, I will hold in every last drop.
THE VOLCANIC CURRENT
[UNMARKED DATE]
The drink was a mistake.
[UNMARKED DATE]
I do not know how long this moment of lucid thought will last so I will record what I can before I cannot bear to any longer with no guarantee that this entry will see its end. I am drowning in sweat. Sweat that reeks. Consciousness comes & goes without pageantry. I am visited by the crew. They rotate keeping watch on me & I suffer through bedside conversation & then, like that, I am alone, the ship hibernating during lights-off, just the hushed s
ound of the air recycler to keep me company as an invisible needle digs into the soft flesh behind my eyes. Royvan said there is little risk of my dying, but that the next few days will be worse than any I have lived through, & he said this with a bastard of a smile. This is what happens when you do not listen to your doctor, Sartoris. He says I will not die but my body is on fire & I cannot escape the fear that my heart might stop in this small room so far from home. Where is [UNDECIPHERABLE TEXT]
[UNMARKED DATE]
I miss my old apartment on Gracilius Wing. Cute place. Wish you could’ve seen it. Comfortable seating, spacious balcony overlooking Avenue Strip. Pots of everblooming brunias hung from the railing. My favorite flowers. They’re gone now, most likely. We have spent in total a month & a half in the Pocket since leaving Pelican, & because of the Volcanic Current’s differential, this means a year lost in real-time (for my clarification, not yours). There is no question that my home has been sold to new residents. New residents who have by now settled in, hosted parties, celebrated corporate holidays with good wine. I bet they called that place home without feeling strange about it & have had fights late into the night & made love in the living room, maybe even had children, if they were ambitious. I see them so clearly in my head as I die in bed. Overwhelmed by the silly fear that they have thrown out my flowers. Brunias are not fussy plants. Easy to care for. Damn it all, I should have left them instructions. Something handwritten & tied to the vine with nice string to show that it mattered. One hour of light & a toss of water, the note would’ve said. That was all they needed for their purple hues to keep, even in winter.
[UNMARKED DATE]
My old life is gone. My flowers are gone. All I have now are fifteen years on this fucking ship. I suppose I have you to thank. For all of this.
[UNMARKED DATE]
Memory is water through fingers. Sometimes able to grasp half a remembrance. The boy coming to show me his sentences, play his flute. That beautiful song, the inverse to his unconfident & raspy voice. Em visiting, telling me about his days in the substrata of Galena, his boxtown alley. Hangdog stories as he shuffled through old haunts, glaring up at the noble streets that blocked the sun above his head. Something about a cat. & then, Vaila’s shadow by my bed, the sole light in the room the soft glow of her ladeum beads while she whispers prayers I do not understand.
These strange rotations of faces. Trapped in my room, there is no way of knowing when it was lights-off, no markers of time, apart from when I would visit the lav, or when my hatch would groan open, signaling a new visitor. The crew, checking to make sure Sartoris was not a corpse. Their visits are pragmatic, this I know. But still. I cannot help but be moved by their presence, shepherding me through the dark.
[UNMARKED DATE]
The dregs of sickness still cling to my stomach lining. But something happened today—made me feel…unburdened. Vaila asked me why I had acted so stupid. Why did I imbibe that awful substance? The answer came to me upon a hallucinatory sunbeam. Drink, or go thirsty, I told her. Eat, or starve. For the journey is long, & cannot be survived on hope alone. She looked at me as though I had gone mad. & perhaps I have. So with madness I looked into her chestnut eyes & told her the truth she had been avoiding since departure: that we are not going back, & she will not see you again, not for a very long time. The words struck their target. Her fingers curled over her rosary of ladeum beads. & before she stood up, she wondered aloud when I had become so cruel. Left me to wonder the same thing, alone in this makeshift hospice, as I glimmer in & out of this nightmare.
PERADA
DAY 54
The hurricane is over. Open your cellar doors & emerge into light, for Sartoris’s illness has finally broken! Apologies for his brusque manner during his convalescence. Here he stands now, in the verdant wash of Perada, breathing deep the freshest air he has ever had the pleasure to experience.
What a relief it was when the loading ramp dropped & we were greeted by nothing less than a cool pine breeze. Royvan played doctor at the local medical facility while the rest of us were free to explore this forested region of the fringe. On the recommendation of one of the locals in the travelers’ bureau, the captain, Ahro, Sonja, & I went on a vigorous constitutional up the main hill to visit one of the largest trees on the continent. Vaila stayed behind to perform some maintenance work with Em. She surprised us all when she wished us a nice walk. First kind words from her since we had left. This did not go unnoticed by the captain. I’m glad Vaila is starting to come around, however slowly.
It was a beautiful path, the leaves around us a vibrancy of colors—every green you could imagine, then doubled. I was surprised by my own energy, keeping pace with captain, but not the boy, who jogged ahead with Sonja, matching the soldier’s technique. By the end of the hike we all were sweating. The day was hot, moist. On our way back, the captain & I smelled change in the air.
In him.
No, not the Jaunt. Sorry to say it was nothing more spectacular than body odor, though no less noteworthy. His scent was of an old, wet rag summoned from the drain of a gym shower. None of us made any mention of it to him until we were back in town & the captain procured from market a deodorant for him to use. She showed him how to use the spray, but I don’t think he quite understood the why of it, for the next morning, at breakfast, the adolescent smog had made its return.
Ah, the throes of puberty. I don’t envy him this time in his life. The time when the body undergoes its mutations & lights the mind on fire & makes a mess of one’s perceptions. The days too long in the living & too short in the retrospect.
I would warn him if I could of this phenomenon; tell him to do his best to enjoy & savor each second. But I know all too well that one has to actually experience the phenomenon for oneself to understand how quick it all goes—how like days spent in delirious illness, you turn your head, for but a moment, & realize that a whole period of your life has gone.
Like that.
YEAR 3, DAY 22
The black spires. Sounder’s Outpost Kai. Networked streets of Suda-Sulai. The icescapes of Gallahad. We’ve performed countless jobs in places both large & small. Delivered vaccinations across continents. Escorted three wealthy sisters as they pilgrimaged to the old temples of their religion. Diagnosed the mysterious ailment that plagued the son of a Primark Prince, an ailment that would go on to take his life. We’ve traveled circles & zigzags across all of fringe space, rambling behind us years of stories. We’ve journeyed as lions. & yet, after all of this, all of this moving, & waiting, the boy exhibits no signs of his ability. I no longer expect that he will. None of us do. Only Vaila, who misses you dearly, cares that the task has taken this long, & even she has calmed over the past few months, resigned to the fact that this was all but a lark.
& that is fine.
Outside of my tent, the embers of the fire dwindle. It is quiet & warm. I can hear the wind tousling the large leaves in the trees. The water lapping the sand. The soft play of Ahro’s flute.
Today is his sixteenth birthday. We spent the day lounging in the sun in this temperate region of Hodas. While the others bathed in the cold waters Vaila & I sat in the shade of a palm, where she shared with me the secret histories of certain ships she loved & would love to see; the Umbai warships she dreamed of as a young girl in her father’s study. We built a bonfire at dusk. We enjoyed our crew meal to a blood-red sun melting over a horizon of limitless water. Saw the lines that bound us. The easy friendship between Em & Royvan. Vaila’s bemused chuckle at Sonja’s blue jokes. & Nia, watching over all, with Ahro by her side.
As we fetched clean water from the ship, Nia observed that it was amazing how much the boy had grown. She was right. He is not a boy any longer but a young man. He is not very tall, about my own height, but moves with a grace usually not afforded ones his age, settling into the new developments of his body, his movements similar to that of the bending of willows. He keeps his hair in the style
of the youths of Suda-Sulai, the sides shaved, with a black road that runs down the center of his scalp. Filling the gallon container of water, Nia watched him laugh brightly with Royvan, & she said, unprompted, that her boy had become very handsome, a statement under which I detected a lace of something that smacked of fear. When I told her so, she laughed, & told me that she wondered how long it would be until the day would come when we arrived at a place & the boy became infatuated with another. “I won’t be able to let him stay,” she said sadly. “He’s going to hate me that day.” I told her that while that may be so, there would come a day in the future when they would not have to keep moving; that after the job’s time limit had run its course, she & Ahro would be free to do as they pleased. But this did little to settle her. There is no assuaging the fear that things end & people leave. The day when this will be true for Ahro, however far from now, still approaches.
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