by J. S. Fields
You look like you’re about to get into trouble, Emn commented as she leaned against Atalant’s shoulder and wrapped an arm around Atalant’s waist. And you’re proud of it, too.
Atalant nodded and ran her fingers over the frame. I didn’t want to join the Guard, not at first. But the entrance exam had a flight portion, as you might imagine. This was taken right after I stepped off a settee for the placement exam. I’d never been happier.
They continued through the house. Atalant pointed out aspects Emn might otherwise have missed: the extra-wide gap between the floorboards near the oven where her brother had spilled boiling water and the two siblings had attempted to replace the warped slat with one of their own making; the handmade bandsaw blades in her mother’s woodworking shop; the cedar closet in the back room where Atalant’s first real flight suit still hung.
Atalant progressed them through the house room by room, elaborating when shared emotion was not enough. Each memory and keepsake had the edge of belonging, but Atalant couldn’t seem to collect it all together into the comfort she wanted. Everything felt distant and off, as if she were viewing her life through a filter.
Emn remarked on the carved banister as they climbed the spiral staircase to the second floor, but the words fell from Atalant’s ears. On the upper landing, she paused, searching for Emn’s hand. The doors to her parents’ and brother’s rooms were open, clothing strewn across the beds. A thin layer of ash coated her brother’s room, and Atalant reminded herself to close his open window before departing. Of the three closed doors, two led to uninteresting rooms, the bathroom and a linen closet. The third, the door at the far corner of the hall—the one carved by an unsteady, childish hand—was hers.
She crossed the hall, fingers tightly gripping Emn’s hand, and gave her door a hard push.
She couldn’t go in more than two steps. Storage bins lined the walls and coated the floor. Her sleeping pad was rolled up against the wall, her dresser disassembled near the closet. The sketches and pictures she’d placed on the wall—photos of settees and Heaven Guard pilots, signed autographs, childhood drawings—remained, although some were tilted on their hanging nails. The containers were dusty—the entire room was dusty—but even with the thick coating, Atalant could clearly make out the labels on the boxes.
Exile.
Not Daughter. Not Neek. Not even Atalant.
Atalant could only stare at the writing. She couldn’t move, neither forward nor backward. She couldn’t respond to Emn’s words or mental nudges. She’d left that clarifier behind, she’d thought, drowned it with Emn’s mouth, buried it with Emn’s hands. Her home should have been an oasis from the name, and yet, here again, it stretched into a choking vine, cutting off her identity.
Her family had moved on. Of course they had. She knew they had. Her father was the brother of the High Priest of Neek. Her family could not afford to have such a blemish on their name. Accepting the name “Exile” had meant her family’s survival, meant that her brother could finish school, that her mother could continue to receive excellent medical assistance. It had meant her talther would not be taken, broken apart from a family that did not meet Neek ideals. She was an idiot for having expected anything else. Of course her family had to prioritize their future.
The room was cold. Colder than it should have been. “We should go,” Atalant said sharply. She dropped Emn’s hand and bolted to the stairs, concerned that she would vomit if she stayed in this place any longer. Her boots slammed against the old wood as she descended, images of her brother chasing her in childish play nipping at her back, feelings of warmth and belonging dogging at her heels. She was out the front door a moment later and then in the grass and sedge and ash, surrounded and consumed by a planet whose familiarity burned.
She felt Emn hesitate at the front door.
I need you, Atalant cried into her mind. Moisture welled up in her eyes as her thinned stuk collected pollen from the air. Emn was there a moment later as Atalant fell to her knees.
Neither of them spoke as Atalant let ten years of childish hope fall to the ground in her tears, smearing pollen-coated stuk across her face as she tried to clean it. When the tightness in her throat relaxed enough that she could talk, Atalant met Emn’s eyes. There was a depth of understanding there that she’d not expected to see, and it was comforting.
“I can’t get back on that settee,” Atalant said as she attempted to rub stuk from her face with her sleeve.
“I’ll fix it and fly it back to the capital,” Emn offered. “You take the Lucidity.” She leaned forward and kissed Atalant. “That’s the ship that matters.”
Atalant shifted and leaned her head on Emn’s shoulder. The younger woman’s arms wrapped around her shoulders, pressing Atalant into warmth. I should have expected this. I should have known better.
Perhaps. Emn stroked her hair. But, you always would have yearned to return. Our paths are always the same, Atalant, haven’t you noticed that yet? Some sort of joke of Ardulum’s, or of gods more mystic than you.
That sort of thinking is what led both our planets to make us outcasts, Atalant retorted. There are no gods. The Neek and the Ardulans need to accept that.
Emn didn’t respond, so Atalant stayed in her own thoughts. She stayed in them as the sun touched the flowering grasses and a chill came into the air. It was Emn’s shivering that finally moved them back to the ships and, finally, to the capital, where two civilizations waited for Atalant to lead them.
Chapter 16: Ardulan Temple, Neek
Coastal waters degrade the beach
sifting sand to rockier shores.
In the andal of my parent’s forest I kneel
Listening
Waiting
for the moment when I shall become real.
A living being,
my emotions a strength, my ideas a cornerstone.
But the water cares not for me
and the trillium turns to incense at my feet.
I no longer know this place, and it no longer knows me.
I let go of the beach
and I drift away.
—Excerpt from Atalant’s Awakening
JANUARY 26TH, 2061 CE
As the ramp to the Lucidity lowered, the emotions of the crowd pushed across Atalant’s mind, straining her distant connection to Arik. White ash coated everything she could see, from the wooden footpaths to the shoulders and heads of the crowd. A thick haze of smoke lingered in the air. Just under the smell of charcoal and campfire, however, were the more complex scents she remembered.
Atalant inhaled deeply as she disembarked, the odors curling through her head and trailing fragments of her childhood along with them: sap syrup on coarse bread, forest flowers in a vase on her talther’s table, her mother’s floral perfume…
Atalant descended the ramp, her flight suit wrinkled and stained with ash and pollen. Fragments of grass and sedge clung to her boots. She was supposed to have met Emn here, alone, on the landing pad near the Ardulan Temple that had become the temporary residence of the Ardulans, but her uncle had suggested a change in plan. Her people needed stability. They needed reassurance. They needed her.
The setting sun was bright in Atalant’s eyes and washed out the crowd. The Neek were held back on either side of the path by a braided vine rope, and while they did not press against the barrier, they did not stray far from it, either. The path ahead of her was covered in trillium flowers, which was likely where the perfume was coming from. Atalant thought she might vomit.
The persistent smoke burned Atalant’s throat more than it should have at this distance and further distorted her vision. The ash and flowers made her boots slippery. The blurred edges around her gave the moment a dreamlike feel. She sought Emn, who was somewhere in the crowd with Nicholas. Atalant wanted Emn closer. Wanted both of them here, and Yorden, too. She shouldn’t have had to do this alone.
I’m right behind you, Emn sent, with an image of Atalant’s back. She must have just broken through the cr
owd. The sweat stains down the back of Atalant’s flight suit were covered as Emn lowered Atalant’s Eld robes over her head. The hem brushed the trillium petals as Emn wound the purple sash through the wooden clasp. Emn circled to Atalant’s front and straightened the robes.
Nicholas is just behind. We’ll go at your pace. Take your time.
Emn fell back, but her presence in Atalant’s mind stayed close, supportive. Atalant began to move forward. The crowds were silent as she walked. Men, women, gatoi, children…they all stared at her with gaping mouths, heads shaking from side to side. They clutched at their clothes and studied her as if she were a mirage. A few of the nearer faces looked angry or disbelieving, yet no one yelled or taunted.
The silence only further unnerved her. Atalant tried not to look at the people to her sides, and she couldn’t make out clearly what was ahead. Instead, she focused on the ground, on the feel of the petals slipping under her boots and the smell of the wood underneath. On the joy that should have bubbled up from being welcomed back to her homeworld.
Bright-purple andal leaves, the color of autumn, blew across the path. Atalant hesitated, but looked up. Somehow, she’d passed most of the gawkers. On either side of her now were the Heaven Guard. They stood at attention, backs straight, mouths closed. Their robes were stained just like hers, and their faces were covered in soot and ash. Unlike the crowd, the guards’ eyes were warm. She’d just flown with them. Helped save what was left of their forests. She’d mangled a settee, but it had been hers to destroy. She was one of them.
The breeze tossed the guards’ golden robes into one another, wrinkling their fabric and obscuring the green trim. Atalant’s own robes stilled around her legs, as if the wind did not touch her. Even as the dry leaves blew across her boots and scattered across the Guard, Atalant felt apart.
She shouldn’t have. This was her moment, wasn’t it? She was standing amongst the Heaven Guard in gold. She was as qualified as them, as capable, and now, as accepted. A part of her wanted to walk off the path and steady Tabit’s trembling hands. That part of her walked towards the row of gleaming crimson settees on her right, their noses pointed towards the heavens. She got in hers, ignoring its damage, and sent it into the sky. The Guard followed, got in their own ships, and left the surface.
Atalant?
Atalant watched that dream leave orbit, let it fade from her mind. She was not here to see these Neek, nor to be a part of their world. The world of the Heaven Guard was no longer hers. There was no point in continuing the charade.
She let her boots continue the walk. Thick andal trees now lined her path, offering some shade. The air was still gray with smoke, but she could see clearly enough to the ones waiting for her at the end of the path. There was the missing eld, Ekimet, who somehow looked less imposing in person than over a screen. Zie wore traditional Ardulan robes Atalant recognized from a collection of paintings that used to hang in her uncle’s main service hall. Next to zir stood another Ardulan, Miketh, in the same outdated garb. Just behind the two Ardulans and a bit to the left was her uncle, the High Priest of Neek, resplendent in his own ceremonial robes. The three stood in a semicircle of andal. The patchy sun that filtered through the leaves highlighted the different gold hues and refracted them through the thin smoke, casting color in odd directions.
Atalant stopped just past the last guard, several meters from the Ardulans. A thin shiver ran through her, chased by a thought that this moment was false, a dream, a joke. The pilot reached her hand back, hoping. Emn was by her side a breath later. Another hand brushed her other arm, and there was Nicholas, grinning, at her other side.
“Thank you,” she mouthed, face forward, eyes darting to each in turn.
“Eld Atalant.” Ekimet inclined zir head, as did Miketh. “Welcome. Thank you for responding to our call, and thank you for your help with the fires. Neek is indebted to you.” Remember, to the Neek, I am just another Ardulan. Watch the honorifics.
Atalant offered only a quick smile. “My companions, Nicholas St. John of Earth and Emn of Ardulum.”
Emn’s grip tightened at her mention.
“You are most welcome.” Miketh smiled at Nicholas and then stepped towards Emn. She offered her left hand, palm up. “I am delighted to meet you, Emn. I hope we might be able to spend some time chatting, you and I, once the immediate business is resolved.”
Emn’s hesitation was evident even without telepathy. Miketh’s cheeks reddened, and she stammered out an explanation. “I only wish to hear about your life and, if you would share, your abilities. I’m no Science Talent. I’ll not dissect you. I would, however, like to understand the mechanics of unrestricted cellulosic microkinesis, in as much as you understand it.” Miketh met Atalant’s gaze. “Assuming it would also be all right with you, Eld Atalant.”
“The choice is Emn’s,” Atalant replied, although she could already feel a sort of strained hopefulness coming from the younger woman.
“Once things have settled,” Emn confirmed. “I would enjoy the chance to chat with you as well, especially about your experiences here on Neek.”
Miketh brightened. The two touched palms, and then Miketh stepped back beside Ekimet. The high priest came forward next. He met Atalant’s eyes but couldn’t seem to stay focused there, his gaze instead flitting to her robes, her sash, and her hand that held Emn’s. Ekimet’s truth still bothered him, or perhaps it was Atalant herself. It was hard not to feel smug and vindicated, despite her uncle’s sadness. She’d have much preferred this moment with the late president himself.
“You honor me, Eld.” Her uncle dropped to his knees, his forehead grazing the ground.
Atalant took a step back. She should have expected reverence—she could hear halting hymns being sung by the crowd behind her now—but coming from her uncle, the entire scene was comical. He was trying to maintain some level of the Neek faith. Ekimet had briefly explained it to her, but here, now, to have a crushed man at her feet…
Play the part, Arik reminded her. She hadn’t realized how firm her connection to Arik had become. Of course he’d be curious, but the moment was bitingly personal. Atalant wasn’t certain she wanted to share it.
They’re fragile, Atalant, Ekimet said. You know that better than anyone. They’re in crisis, and you could be the one to give them stability.
She grumbled back at zir unintelligibly.
“Rise,” she said, her voice clear and strong. Her uncle slowly returned to his feet, the ash swirling from his forehead. Atalant met his eyes.
“I was right,” Atalant said. There was no smugness in her tone, but she pushed the affirmation anyway. For herself? For the people watching? She wasn’t sure.
A smile broke across her uncle’s face as he caught the joke. “So it would seem,” he returned as he clasped his hands behind his back. “Ardulum is…is so much more than I ever imagined. It is so much more than our memories and poetry.” His smile waned. “I’m sorry, Atalant.”
He’d dropped her honorific, but that didn’t matter. It felt warm to be called by her child-name. Warm to have her uncle willingly engage in conversation with her, and in front of so many. But, Ekimet and her uncle both had asked things of her. She had to deliver.
Atalant pulled back from Emn and Nicholas, pivoted, and faced the crowd. She pulled up the fabric of the robes and the leg of the flight suit underneath, exposing her calf. Then, she pulled down the other side of the robes and opened the side vent of her flight suit to expose the marked skin there. She turned each time, making sure her uncle, the Guard, and the crowd could all see.
Gasps accompanied each display. The Talent markings were dark against her bronze skin, hopefully easily seen even at a distance. She tried to put herself in her people’s place. Was it enough? They could be tattoos, or just paint. She could be lying to them all. They had no reason to trust her, not with her past. Not after what the president did to her.
“I think you should blow their minds,” Nicholas whispered. Cool metal pressed into Atala
nt’s hand. She tightened her fingers around it reflexively, knowing its purpose without looking. How Nicholas had a small pistol on him, she did not know, but it didn’t matter. She could feel the intent of the weapon as she rubbed her thumb over its thick cellulose weave. Except…she had no idea how to do what she wanted to do, and that was more terrifying than the crowd itself.
Emn? Atalant asked hesitantly.
Warmth flooded through her mind, although Emn stayed well behind her. It’s intuitive, Atalant. You don’t have to find cellulose or anything—that’s a flare Talent. Just think about the gun and give it a command. The andal cellulose is… It’s a little bit alive, I think. It listens.
That was a disturbing thought, but they could discuss ethics later. If I fuck this up, would you finish it for me? she asked Emn hesitantly. I never tried. I know I promised I would, but time is just—
You’ll owe me later, Emn returned, with an image of herself smiling.
I promise. Thoughts of being backed up against another wall surfaced and made Atalant’s stuk change consistency.
Focus, Emn gently reminded her.
Atalant snorted good-naturedly and then brought the gun forward, flat on her palm. She was either going to fuck up and bring her people crashing into the modern age, or she would do it right and maybe manage to keep them all from being roasted alive by the Mmnnuggls. Both options had their advantages.
“I am of Aggression and Mind,” Atalant said loudly to the crowd. “When I was young, you spoke of my piloting skills, of my reflexes. My instructor had me take flying tests first, before everyone else, and then doubled my time for the rest of the class. My roommate bragged to her boyfriend that she knew me.” A few aborted chuckles came from the Heaven Guard. Her friends.
“I assume, then, that I don’t need to reinforce my Mind Talent. As for Aggression…”