by Shanna Miles
Laughter rolls in waves on the back of perfumed smoke, and a twinge of familiarity unnerves me. I hover closer to the door but stay out of sight.
“You must excuse my nephew. He spends all his days at the local madrassa. Since we arrived, I have not laid eyes on him for more than a few minutes.”
The man’s rich tenor booms out over the few guests in attendance. It commands attention to his clipped Arabic, betraying that the language is his second or maybe even third. Although the accent is one I have heard before.
“Fayid, I admire your dedication to the faith. If Iyin had been born a boy, she would have surely followed the same path, maybe even to the famed Sankore Mosque to study. It is such a blessing to have a future mullah in our presence,” Sayid Mustafah says, his voice effusive. He is used to giving praise in a way that seduces men from their money.
“Inshallah! Inshallah! Have you ever traveled to Timbuktu to visit the mosque? It is magnificent,” the amir says.
“Sadly, no, but my daughter has had premonitions of marrying into a traveling family, so there is an incentive. Her grandmother was also gifted in this way, so we shall see,” Sayid Mustafa says.
They all laugh.
“I guess that is my cue,” Iyin whispers. I nearly jump out of my skin. I didn’t hear her walk up behind me. “Play me to my cushion?” she says quickly, and busies herself with straightening nonexistent wrinkles and ridding herself of invisible dust.
I nod and walk stiffly to a stool that has been placed in the center of the room. My eyes stay downcast as I begin to pluck the strings of the kora. Its long wooden neck reaches far past my shoulders, but I have slender fingers, and the wide body of the gourd that makes up the instrument fits perfectly between my legs. The men fall silent as I play, and I close my eyes as I let the notes create a cloud for Iyin to float on. I float too, allowing myself to be buoyed up beyond this place to an oasis where I am bound by nothing. The music settles my nerves. My heart beats to its rhythm, letting the melody erupt from deep within me, root me to the spot where I can tell the world who I am without opening my mouth. I feel their eyes, but I don’t care. I am my truest self right now, and for the fleetest of moments, I wish there were someone else here to witness it—someone I actually want to bare this side of myself to—but it is a silly desire.
When I am done, the small audience explodes in applause. I open my eyes and offer them a rare smile, a smile that I root firmly in place to hide my shock. I make certain to lock it there and back slowly out of the room.
He stands front and center, his confusion plain, in finery that eclipses anything Sayid Mustafah owns.
Fayid, the amir’s nephew and honored guest, is my soldier.
33 TAMAR
THE NEXT MORNING HE IS there, more beautiful in the full light of day than he has ever been in the cover of the darkened market stalls. He is dressed in a jewel-toned djellaba; the loose-fitting robe flows down to his ankles like the river on a calm day and mimics the inky blue of a cloudless sky turning into night. When I knew him as a soldier, I believed that his confidence was born from practiced invincibility, or an assumption that he could defend me against any attacker. But there was always a kernel of doubt: his smooth, callus-free hands, his love for poetry. It hinted at something more. Now I see it for what it truly is: the sickly-sweet stench of extreme wealth and the power that comes with it.
Beauty is deceiving anyway. They say I am beautiful, and what has it gotten me?
Binta leads the betrothed into the main room and presses herself into the corner as chaperone and spy. She pretends to shell peanuts as she listens. I sit opposite Fayid, too outraged for pretense.
“As-salaam ’alaykum,” he says as I enter the room.
“Wa’alaykum salaam,” I say, chafing at the formality. Is this the same carefree boy who fed me dates in an abandoned river stall? Which one is real, this prince or the kind pauper I grew to care for?
“Sayid Mustafa sent word that he has discussed my proposal with you.”
I nod. “I would like the opportunity to speak truthfully,” I say, unable to hold my feelings in any longer.
“Now you would like to speak truthfully? It seems quite late in the day to start there,” he replies. He looks a bit taken aback but then relaxes in his chair, letting his long legs fall out a bit wider. A small curve of his lip hints at an irritated smile. Here is my soldier, not the nobleman courting Iyin at the door. “You let me think you were a merchant’s daughter,” he says.
“I told you, plainly, I was a slave,” I reply, knowing full well I wasn’t believed.
“How could I have known? You—”
“You saw what you wanted to see, and then you lied in turn,” I finish, tired of this game of deception.
His fist clenches but he doesn’t deny it.
I swallow deep, trying my best to hold back my indignation and replace the tide with something that feels more like courage. “Sayid Mustafah has informed me that I am to be a concubine, serving my master as a servant as she serves you as your wife. Congratulations on finding such a wife. You have reached high. You are blessed indeed,” I say, void of any emotion.
I stare defiantly at him, waiting for him to deny how advantageous his choice of wife is to a man of his standing. This is a strategic step for him, a noble name to add to his military connection. A lineage to attach himself to in this region. Maybe if we’d talked more than felt, I would have guessed at how adept he was at politics.
“Marriage is not so simple,” he says, a hint of annoyance lacing his words.
I grip my arms tighter, willing myself to stay calm. Bile rises in my throat, and I swallow the acid back, grateful for the reminder that fate is not my friend.
“Tamar, you cannot be so stubborn. I have done what I can,” he says, his voice breaking. “I asked for your hand. It will always be known that you were first in my heart.” He leans closer, his voice dropping in pitch for my benefit. “You will always be first in my home.”
“But not in name,” I croak.
He leans even closer, but with less softness. His other side shines now, the man with a title, the kind of person who is used to getting what he wants without interference. But I will not make my own subjugation easy for him or anyone else.
“Do you remember the first time you touched my hand? I had been following you again, waiting for a moment where we could talk without being seen. You purchased a fish from a stall and plunged your hands into a pot of cool water to rinse them. I found some reason to rinse my hands as well, and your fingers slid across mine. I lost my ability to speak after you touched me.”
He laughs at his own story, and I hate myself for thinking how beautiful he is when he is laughing. “You pluck a string in my chest that I can’t stop from vibrating. Every night I dream of you. Nonsensical dreams that say that I am meant to be with you,” he whispers. He settles back onto his stool and winces as he rubs the leg he favors when he walks. If I’d paid more attention, I would have known he wasn’t a soldier by that fact alone.
“Dreams are not reality. You know nothing of what it is to be a woman or to serve.” My voice strains under the weight of his betrayal.
“It is your service that makes you strong. Very few women enter the market alone, bold in their pursuit of the things they need. They allow expectations and fear to cow them, but not you. It is your strength that I admire most.”
I don’t always want to be strong. It is a mask I hide behind. But I put on the mask now, and for a moment I imagine again what this new life might be like. Fayid takes this opportunity to make his plea.
“Tamar, I may not be able to lay the moon at your feet, but please allow me to give you the stars.”
34 Alpha 9, Lunar Base, 2260
TAMAR
STARS. TWISTING, BURNING SWIRLS OF comets. Galaxies, supernovas, moons behind my eyes. It’s peaceful here. I want to stay here in the quiet. Floating.
Someone’s shaking me, but I can’t tell who; my eyes feel like they�
��re sewn shut. Thick and impossibly strong fingers grip my jaw and shove something long and spindly down my throat. I thrash. I can’t breathe. Oh God! I can’t breathe. My arms are like lead, but I will them to move and try to pull the thing from my throat. The hands are too strong. I struggle to yell, but I don’t have air. I’m using everything I have to shift the weight off, but I don’t have enough to get going. Awareness gives way to blackness.
“Vital signs. Stable. Private Tamar Blanchard. Age eighteen. Weight: seventy-five kilograms. Height: one-point-seven meters. Blood type…”
I draw in a deep breath and jerk upright. The stars are laid out above me, and up ahead I see nothing but endless fields of dimly lit kinograss, cerulean and glowing, no higher than my elbow if I stick my arm straight up. It’s been harvested recently. The same twin moons I’ve seen every night for the last twelve weeks greet me from the sky. We’re still here. Fully exposed. Not on base, or in the rescue pod, but still on the class IV planet where a sinkhole just… A tiny jolt of panic squeezes my heart. How long have I been out?
“It’s okay,” a male voice says.
I run my fingers across my face, or at least I try to. I’m in a biosuit. When did I put on a biosuit? I take a deep breath, letting myself get used to the feeling of the oxygen tube down my throat.
“It’s okay,” the voice says again, but I don’t hear it; it’s in my head. I jump backward as if I’ve been stung.
A guy squats in front of me. 712. “Fayard.”
Fay. Call me Fay. I’m sorry. I had to set up a telelink. You weren’t breathing well, and I wouldn’t be able to hear you, so I thought this would be better, he says without moving his lips, though I can hear him just fine.
“But my chip blocks teleware,” I say.
I don’t like people in my head. I’ve heard horror stories. Sometimes people forget who they are or start to believe that God is talking to them when it’s just the enemy hacking into their feed. I slide my hands over my body, taking an irrational account to make sure everything is still there. I glide my hand across my hips and groan. He would have had to take off my pants to get me into the suit.
I was training in counterintelligence. There are few things I can’t get around, he says.
“You’re a spy,” I say accusingly.
I didn’t say that. I’m a linguist, but we are military. Every person has a gift that can be a curse to someone else, he adds.
We sit in silence as the wind moves the grass in that eerie way that it does on this rock.
“Our pod crashed?” I ask, surprised. It takes a strong force for these pods to falter.
He nods.
Must have happened right after the cryosleep kicked in. I woke up just in time to see a thousand escape pods fall to the ground like some kind of hellish hailstorm. Some burned up in the atmosphere; others cracked open like eggs as soon as they hit land. I was able to switch the autopilot to manual and get us down before we met the same fate.
My “thanks” die in my throat. “How long have I been out?”
A few hours. I tried to wake you, but the disorientation had you. You fought like a demon when I tried to get you in the biosuit. I thought you might not make it, he says, his eyes filled with worry.
I dip my head, a poor excuse for gratitude, but it will have to do. I swallow, and the tube grates against my esophagus. I slide my finger across my wrist to access my controls and disable the breathing mechanism. The ropelike straw retracts and forces me to hack spit and phlegm into my suit for a full minute before I feel normal again.
Sorry about that. I couldn’t hear your vitals breakdown with the damage to your chip, and I didn’t want to take any chances. It’s hard to tell if someone is breathing through the suit.
“It’s fine. I’ll be fine. Where’s the pod?” I ask, looking around.
The pod is gone, he says.
“What?” Instinctively, I duck lower and peer into the distance, wondering if we’ve been seen.
We’re in rebel territory. I mixed up a dissolving agent as soon as we were both in the suits, he says, trying to reassure me.
I can see my eyes reflected in his, and I jump to my feet with awkward and frantic speed. It takes considerable effort to take even a few steps. The gravity on this planet is hard to acclimate to, now that we’re no longer in a biodome, and we’ve both still got the effects of cryosleep to shake off.
Slow down. It’s right here, he says, already knowing what I’m looking for.
Fay points to two small bags at his feet: one I’ve never seen before, and the other, mine. I rush over, as much as I can, and peer inside. The doll is intact. My body is whole. I realize that I owe Fayard everything, but there’s something that keeps me from the shower of gratitude my mama’s manners are begging me to give him.
“Can you hear my internal thoughts?” I ask, fully aware of his eyes on me.
Only if you would like me to. I didn’t install that kind of programming.
“But you could if you wanted to,” I reply, not sure if I entirely believe him.
I stand and throw one bag over my shoulder and hand him the other. Where are you going? he asks.
“To find somewhere to bed down. We can’t stay out here. Storm’s coming.”
He looks up at the sky as if he’s searching for something.
I’ve never seen a sky so clear, he observes.
“That’s how you know it’s about to hit,” I say. “Haven’t you ever been out in the field?”
Of course, he says, all defensive. But intelligence training is not the same as what they teach in combat units. Our agents don’t go out into the field unless they are fully prepared for all scenarios. It takes years.
I roll my eyes. This guy saved my life, that’s true, but damn it if I feel like babysitting a newb in enemy territory. Although he did dissolve the pod, so maybe he’s not completely useless.
I turn to face him and walk backward. It’s important to always keep your eyes on your team in the field, especially when your senses are muted in the suit.
“Beta-Sueron is notorious for its storms, so we’re going to need to find some shelter. If that’s the field bag from the pod, there should be a transmitter in there, but once the storm gets going, it won’t matter if it works or not. Nothing will be able to get in or out, and that’s if the rebels don’t use it to track us and kill us before we can be rescued,” I say, feeling like I’m back to my old self.
He smiles and my stomach flutters. I thought he was flirting before, but this smile is different. This one has intention in it or maybe even a promise. It makes me uneasy. I turn around and start to move a bit faster.
“How long have you been on base?” I ask.
I was late. My transfer didn’t go through properly, so I got in a few days before our fight.
“That was a week ago. Field training takes a month. You don’t… you don’t know anything about Suerone do you?” I say.
I read the in-flight magazine, if that’s what you’re asking, he says smugly.
“Do people think you’re funny?” I ask.
Some do, but I take it that this is not the time for funny, he says, and tries to put on a more serious face.
This guy annoys me. “If the storm doesn’t kill us, or the rebels don’t kill us, we still have to survive the night chill,” I reply.
He doesn’t say anything, but I can hear his next question in the silence.
“They wouldn’t put that in the manual. When the Sueronese think that colonists—that’s you and me—have touched down in their territory, they like to cue a weather bomb. It’s small-scale environmental terrorism. Basically, it triggers a drop in temperature that can freeze anything with a pulse right where it stands,” I add.
That’s a myth. It’s based on one of their old folktales about a woman with icy breath, who kills her lover after he leaves her for another, he says.
“I don’t know anything about folktales. I know war, and we are trying to win it and so are they,” I say
. This life is as far from a folktale as any I’ve heard of.
There are no winners in war, just one side that suffers more than the other, Fay says.
“Or decides to end their suffering early. I guess it depends on who you’re asking. It’s not like any of us volunteered for this. We were born into it,” I say bitterly. Whose side is this guy on?
I wasn’t, he replies.
I’m surprised, but I don’t show it. I let the sound of our boots crunching through the low grass fill my aching ears. Everything aches, but I pretend that I’m feeling okay, for his benefit and mine. I notice just how low the grass has been cut where we’ve crashed. It’s not a good sign. There could be rebel camps where we can’t see them. In fact, I’m almost certain there are.
“Hmm? What?” I ask.
I said, why do you call them rebels?
I shrug. “I don’t know. It’s what my commanding officer calls them. It’s what the manuals call them. It’s what we use in training.”
Okay.
“Just okay? No, lecture on the state of the displaced Sueronese and their need for agency in the New Republic?” I reply, already anticipating his response.
He laughs. I take it you’ve heard that already..
“I have. It’s an old song. People love it, especially officers in units that don’t see combat,” I say with irritation.
I wouldn’t know. My service is mostly academic. My interaction with the enemy, as you call them, is in a hospital, in a prison, or through a monitor.
I think I see something out of the corner of my eye, but it’s just the wind bending the taller grass at the edge of the mowed field. From far away it looks like rows of long-haired men being blown backward. Nana would say it’s an omen, but I don’t see signs like she did. I don’t believe in signs.
“What do you think are the chances of us being found on this planet by an ally ship or rescue bot?” I ask. It’s a leading question. I know he doesn’t know the answer.
He shrugs, the nonchalance just dripping from his shoulders. Who can know?