by Loren Walker
"Go challenge someone," Sydel said, nodding at the scene before them. “Go get that black sword, and challenge that guy with the wooden one, maybe.”
Phaira let out a short laugh. "I’m not doing that."
"Of course you can.”
“I meant, I’m not using the katana,” Phaira corrected, a new, sullen tone to her voice. “It doesn’t belong to me.”
“Does that matter? You’re skilled with it.” Sydel caught Phaira’s eye. “Go fight. It’ll be good for you."
Phaira grimaced. “You’re so bossy. I thought you were a pacifist.”
“Stop arguing. You know you want to.”
When Phaira descended to the dirt path, the pairings ceased to move.
Silence fell across the valley.
Quickly, a makeshift circle formed around Phaira and her opponent, a slim black-haired man with dark skin, shirtless and bare-footed, his abdominal muscles prominent. No one cheered or hooted as they took position as observers; they all watched with the same interested look on their faces. This was a serious society, Sydel realized. They were there to learn, not to hurt each other.
Phaira rolled the sleeves of the tunic up each arm. Then she removed her shoes. When she stood upright, the man opposite put fist to hand, and bowed. Phaira mirrored the movement. Then each combatant settled into stances.
Sydel was fascinated. She'd only seen glimpses of Phaira in battle, or the aftermath of her injuries. This man with no shirt, they were roughly the same height, and size; that must be why they were pitted against each other. But what would happen?
The man was quick and in constant motion, bobbing and retreating, lashing with quick punches and flicking kicks. Phaira was different, her shoulders rolled and settled, and Sydel could see that her breathing rate slowed, her motions stilled, watching the man. There was a different energy around Phaira, not that muckish green-brown, but something orange, and building. Then the orange burst, and the two were on the ground. Phaira was on top of the man, rotating and wrenching his arm, hyperextending the elbow, as he frantically patted the dirt with his other hand.
It was over? Just like that?
What would the reaction be?
A loud bark of laughter. Sydel jumped at the sound, but it came from Phaira, who was smiling, helping her opponent to his feet. The man was nodding, and also laughing, brushing the dirt from her back.
The sound of three hard claps echoed through the valley.
Sydel started. The noise came from the surrounding circle, the watching residents.
The Jala ritual: when accepting a new member, the unified group gave three sharp handclaps in unison. The one time she participated in a welcoming ceremony, back in Midland, she was instructed to clap so hard, to create the sharp, staccato sound, that her hands burned for the rest of the day. But that was after days of demonstration and deliberation, weighing on the seriousness of bringing in another body to the fold. There had been so many meetings, and arguments, she remembered. These Soares Valley residents had decided to welcome Phaira into their fold without even a conversation. Why would they do that? Why were they so quick to accept Phaira?
Her confusion eased at the sight before her. As the last clap faded, Sydel watched from above as the circle moved in to embrace Phaira and shake her hand. Phaira, in the center of it all, couldn’t stop the grin from spreading across her face. There was such joy, and respect, and warmth in the moment; it wasn’t somber and serious, like the initiation Sydel remembered in Midland, with little words and no celebration.
Maybe this was how Jala was supposed to be. Maybe the fact that her time in Midland felt like a dream, a story about someone else, maybe that was a blessing. Maybe both she and Phaira were meant to find Soares, for Phaira to find acceptance, and for Sydel to find truth.
So many paths, she thought, that I never thought I would take. So many more that I want to follow. There was a strange, sinking sensation in her chest at the thought. She wondered why, watching as Phaira took on another opponent, a tall, muscular woman this time, and everyone else paired off, and Phaira was lost in the sea of rainbow tunics, one of many students, practicing under the sun.
III.
“Where’s Phaira?” Cohen asked. "Why are you walking on your own?"
The brothers were also dressed in the local attire, tunic and trousers, and both itched at their right arms as they approached. Their faces were still drawn, with circles under their eyes, but they had eaten and gotten some rest, at least. Sydel, on the other hand, was more exhausted with every step on the dirt path that traced the circumference of the valley, past rows and rows of red huts, and the curious, empty temple in its center. The brothers had seen her, shouted out to her, and bounded out the door when she passed. They were situated so far from her and Phaira, she realized, nearly the length of the valley. Why so far?
“She’s fine,” Sydel said, with a touch of irritation. “But she needs time to herself.”
“Why?” Renzo pressed.
“Because she does,” Sydel said, feeling like a mother scolding her children.
Renzo and Cohen frowned, showing their blood relation in the way their chins grew sharper as their mouths turned down.
Sydel changed the subject. “Have you found a way to communicate with the outside?”
“Not yet,” Renzo huffed. “No one has Lissomes here. There’s barely even any electricity. But they have to have something, somewhere.”
“They may not,” Sydel said. “They seem self-contained. Perhaps there’s never been a need.”
“Come on, there’s one Lissome, somewhere around here,” Renzo scoffed. “There's no such thing as being self-contained. They have to leave sometime for supplies. Or order them. They've probably got a Lissome hidden in that main temple. I just have to get inside and find it.”
“So what, then?” Cohen asked. “We break in? Or Syd, you were a Jala, maybe they will let you in and you can scope the place.”
“I don’t want to be deceitful,” Sydel said. “They took us in and gave us shelter. I want to be respectful.”
“It’s not a terrible thing to want to contact someone,” Renzo snapped. “We’re not talking about killing someone or stealing things. If we get kicked out, so what, we’ll have a ride incoming anyways. It doesn’t matter if the people here are offended. We’ll never see them again.”
Sydel bristled with anger. Did he have no morals, or any sense of what other people might need, or want?
“Who are we gonna call?” Cohen asked Renzo, ignoring Sydel. “Anandi?”
“I don’t think so," Renzo muttered. "She’s pretty mad at me. At us.”
“The detective, then,” Cohen said. “Oz, whatever her name was.”
“Actually,” Renzo said, “I was thinking of calling Theron.”
Sydel froze, half from surprise, half from the sudden anger in her.
“Man, I don’t know,” Cohen was saying. “Things got so crazy there, he’s probably wanting to keep his distance, now that the Red’s dead, and things are safe - never did get a thank-you or anything.”
“It’s different with him and me,” Renzo said gruffly. “There’s more to our relationship, beyond the Red.”
Cohen frowned. “What, like you’re involved or something?”
To Sydel’s surprise, Renzo’s face flushed. “No,” he sputtered. “I just – we have some business to figure out...”
“What is it with this guy and everyone being in love with him?” Cohen nudged Sydel, making a face. “Do you like Theron Sava, too? Should I be worried?”
Sydel shook her head at him with wide eyes.
Cohen frowned. “What? Why are you doing that?”
“Wait, who else?” Renzo interrupted. “Not that I am – doesn’t matter – who else?”
Cohen opened and closed his mouth a few times. Then he rubbed the back of his head, lifted one shoulder, and with a sheepish look on his face, said: “CaLarca said something about Theron and Phair. Like, doing stuff.”
&nbs
p; Sydel couldn’t read the look on Renzo’s face. She didn’t dare to reach out and measure the emotions around him, so she could only guess at the thoughts in his head; some mix of jealousy, anger, revulsion, betrayal.
“That rat,” she heard Renzo mutter. “This whole time? And you two knew about it? And you didn’t tell me?”
Cohen lifted his hands. “I didn’t even know if it was true!”
“You knew,” Renzo addressed Sydel, bitterness in his voice. “I bet you knew.”
Sydel lifted her chin. “It wasn’t my place to say. It’s not our business.”
“Oh, it’s my business,” Renzo snapped. “This makes things complicated, and I don’t need complications screwing up our plans, not when I’m investing my - ”
“‘Our plans,’ meaning what?” Cohen shot back.
“Since everyone is so adept at keeping secrets from me,” Renzo said snidely, “I think I’ve earned keeping one of my own.”
He jabbed a thumb at the Soares temple. “I’m going in there, and I’m demanding a way to make a call, or I start causing problems. Are you coming, or not, Co?”
Cohen looked from Sydel to Renzo.
“I know,” Sydel said quietly. “Go ahead.”
Cohen shot her an apologetic look as he shuffled behind Renzo, making their way down the winding path.
* * *
When Sydel returned to her designated hut, Phaira was inside, in the center of the floor, kneeling on a cushion, her eyes closed, her head dropped, her index and thumb touching. Meditating. That was something that Sydel never thought she would see; Phaira calm, and quiet, and still. Watching from the doorway, Sydel wondered if she should leave. But fatigue dropped over her like a bucket of water. She needed to rest, and for that, she needed to interrupt.
“Phaira,” she said softly.
“It’s okay.” Phaira looked over her shoulder. “Just trying to remember old habits.” She shifted, winding her arms around her bent knees. “What’s up?”
Another wave of fatigue came over Sydel, and for a moment, she felt on the edge of passing out. "I need to lie down," she announced.
“Go ahead.”
With relief, Sydel went to the bed and collapsed on the mattress. Her heart was beating fast, and there was sweat on her upper lip. She closed her eyes and tried to speak evenly. "You seem better.”
"I’m fine,” she heard Phaira reply. “Having a break from everything, from reality, finally being able to talk to someone, it’s been a relief. And I'm always better when I have a purpose. I think that fight woke something up in me. Time to get back into a routine, you know?”
"Maybe you’re more of a Jala than you think," Sydel said. "Stronger with regimen and respect.”
“Very poetic,” Phaira said with a smile. “And probably true.” She dug the ball of one bare foot into the floor. “That’s something I miss about the military. I would have stayed there until retirement, if they’d let me.”
A thought struck Sydel, and she turned her head to look at Phaira. “Did you ever think to join Osha patrol?”
“Who, me?” Phaira laughed. “Be serious.”
“I wonder why you haven't thought of it before," Sydel said, with a growing curiosity. "You have a desire to do the right thing and protect the less fortunate. You have the physical means, certainly. You could be a real benefit to the community.”
“I don’t follow rules that well, Syd, remember?” Phaira reminded her. “Plus, I'm an addict, and a criminal. I’ve had bounty hunters after me. I've done illegal things.”
“But you could teach the patrol so many things." Another idea struck. "As could I."
“What are you plotting at now?” Phaira groaned.
“I’ve thought this for a while now, Phaira. I want to show the world the good parts of NINE," Sydel said, lifting her head from the pillow. "Not just the parts to hurt people, or manipulate, or torture. The goodness of being NINE. People need to understand, it's not just horrible."
“No one is going to care about the good parts of being a NINE,” Phaira told her. “It’s only fear that resonates. Even if a few people accept you, more will want you dead."
Sydel sighed with frustration. Phaira was right, but Sydel didn't want it to be true. She wanted to believe in the acceptance of people. But the world wasn't as Sydel wished it would be.
“It's just a thought,” she told Phaira. But it sounded funny to her ears. She couldn’t make her lips form the shapes; it felt like they were being dragged down with hooks. She repeated herself. A slur of vowels.
Phaira was scrambling to her feet. Sydel tried to lift a hand, to tell her to stop, but her arm wouldn’t stay aloft. It flopped back down to the bed. Weak. Numb.
"Syd!"
The mattress shifted; Phaira was shaking her shoulder, her gray-green eyes huge and terrified. Sydel looked into them, and caught the pattern of her own heart, so fast and skittering.
Finally, sensation began to return to her arm. With all her strength, Sydel scrambled to grab Phaira's sleeve. "Don't - tell - Cohen," she pushed out the words, finally intelligible.
"Don't tell him what?" Phaira demanded. "What just happened?"
"Need to breathe," Sydel said, shutting her eyes. "Need to rest."
But even with eyes closed, Sydel could feel Phaira's pulsing, anxious energy.
"Syd, why don't you want Cohen to know?"
Sydel took in several slow breaths, choosing her words carefully. "Because he will worry and take it too far, and I'm sure I just have a virus of some kind. I will go to the community healer for testing."
"What, here? What if they don't have one?"
"All Jala Communias have one," Sydel reassured. "As soon as I get my strength back, I'll go. I promise."
She opened her eyes. Above her, Phaira’s dark mouth was tight, her brow deeply furrowed.
“Phaira. I promise.”
Phaira dropped her gaze to the quilt.
In the moments that followed, Sydel wondered if Phaira might be picking up on Sydel’s secret, racing thoughts.
This is no virus. This is no virus.
* * *
Inquiring down the path, Sydel learned that the Soares community healer was named Tomo, and after morning training, he could be found in the large temple in the center of the valley. To Sydel’s great surprise, Tomo was the same man that Phaira had battled that morning. He still had dust in his hair, and some fresh bruises on his arms, but he nodded when Sydel explained that she’d had an episode of weakness and a nighttime nosebleed, and asked for him to assess her health. She barely felt the pinch of the syringe when he drew blood; they did have some technology here, she noted, for immediate blood analysis, and portable ultrasounds. That was encouraging.
Finally, after testing her from head to toe, Tomo surmised that Sydel had experienced a transient ischemic attack, a temporary drop in the blood supply to the brain, and the nosebleed was a release for her heightened blood pressure. He also had concerns about blood clots. Tomo recommended more testing and medication, and help outside of Jala Communia through a neurologist.
"But," Tomo added, looking worried. "The nearest specialist center is hundreds of kilometers away. I'm not sure what options are available - perhaps an airlift, but it would be at your cost... "
"Can we consult remotely?" Sydel asked, already exhausted from the visit. "I have a connection to a physician that I trust."
Tomo balked. "You'll have to secure transportation to meet with anyone on the outside."
Sydel glared at the man. "You are telling me," she said slowly, "that in times of medical crisis you still adhere to your no-contact rule?"
"It's the Jala rule."
"It's arbitrary," Sydel snapped. "And I challenge it. I want a Lissome, or its equivalent, for private consultation."
"I'm afraid that's not possible."
"Do you know who I am?” Sydel thundered, feeling a new rush of power. “If you did, you wouldn't want me dying on your watch, unless you relish the idea of widespr
ead attention." As she spoke, she felt a tiny click of cold fear in her heart, so chilling that she put her hands to her breast, as if to warm her ribs from the outside.
She was going to die.
She could sense it.
It was coming, and she couldn't stop it.
The doctor's words broke through. "You cannot let anyone know that I have this."
"I won’t," Sydel promised, without a pause. How easy the lies came to her now. She could remember a time when she was appalled at any form of deception. “Please leave.”
Tomo shuffled out the space. Then Sydel entered a complex series of numbers and letters from memory, Anandi Ayjo's personalized cc that came with built-in encryption and firewall protection when it connected, something that Anandi had set up, long ago.
It took some time, but finally the callback came.
"You've got some nerve," came the angry girl's voice through the tinny speaker.
"Let me speak to your father, please."
"He's not available."
"Don't argue with me," Sydel said sharply. "This is between me and him. Do what I say."
There was silence on the line. Then, a succession of clicks.
"Sydel. Is everything alright?"
Sydel softened at the sound of her mentor's voice. "Emir. I need a consultation to confirm my findings. Though I'm not sure how to send you the information…."
Emir talked her through the transfer of information via Lissome, and Sydel did her best to follow.
There followed a long silence, and muttered exhales.
"Whose bloodwork is this?" was his first question.
"That's private."
"Sydel, please."
"I just need someone to confirm my findings, Emir."
A sigh floated through the Lissome speaker. "Well, blood pressure is dangerously high, for one thing. Circulation isn't great, heart rhythm is uneven. Evidence of damaged cells. How old is the person you’re treating?"
"Fairly young," Sydel said.
"Well, if I had to go by these results, I'd say you're treating an eighty-year-old woman with some version of an autoimmune disease."