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Book III :

Crisis

Martin Brisebois

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Prologue

Trangâar Hospital—Stockman District

Rêga, Fûsha Province, Hôc

Moonday, 22 Tempest 2079

14:15

lâria Gerdâm was trying to piece it all together. But only when she had

time. Right now, time was a luxury she could ill afford. Fûshocks were

streaming into the hospital as if medicine had been stockpiled.

Most of them were carriers, tall felocks and melocks in shabby hâfas, blood-

stained from their haul of corpses or semiconscious bodies. Nurses stood like

pickets in a current, yelling orders and trying to create order from the chaos.

Clâria stood on her tiptoes.

How will I ever find him?

She couldn’t see twenty paces ahead.

Then, as if the Five had but for a brief instant given her mission precedence

over the army crackdown, she spotted him.

“Mansâl!” she yelled.

Her technician turned from an urgent dialogue with a Fûshock patient. His

eyes flitted madly before they found hers.

“He’s here! I need help!”

The burly Human nodded and raised a finger. He bobbed his head wildly

at the patient (Clâria heard nothing over the rabble), then strode deftly to her.

His black mane bristled. His copper eyes burned holes through his glasses.

“Where?” he asked. Clâria pointed.

Together, they marched to him, dodging a Fûshock with a rag for a sling,

jumping out of the way of a doctor pushing a cot like a casket on wheels, of

Human size, so that striped calves and talons dangled lifelessly from its edge.

Something tugged at her lab coat. She turned to see a felock, face overturned

like a jug. “I’m not a doctor,” Clâria said in Fûshock. She snaked through the

crowd, Mansâl at her heels. They reached their mark.

Another one, she thought.

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The boy was no older than seven, skinny and frail, in a chevroned tabard.

His head was pressed against the bosom of his mother, tousled hair soaking

up her grief. Clâria immediately identified the symptoms: eyes a milky white,

rolled back into his skull; eyelids fluttering like the clipped wings of a bird;

lips squirming like worms, uttering gibberish.

She moved swiftly. “Mâa’na, she said in Karûmian. “I’m a psychiatrist.”

The woman looked up with swollen eyes. “It’s my son! My son, he’s sick.

I don’t know what it is!”

Clâria lay a nimble hand on his temple and tilted his head, then shone a

pencil flashlight into his eyes, first his left, then his right. His irises were non-

existent, tucked away beneath the eyelids. “Mansâl.” Her assistant looked up

like a startled cervid. “Help me bring him.” The muscular Human bent down,

wrapped one arm around the boy’s shoulders and nape, the other around his

knee pits, and scooped him up effortlessly as one would a puppy.

Clâria shoved her way through a throng of towering Fûshocks. “Dâar!” she

shouted. “Move!” Only when they had put the Emergency ward behind them

did she address the mother. “When did it happen?”

The rotund woman barely kept apace, her blue tabard making busy waves

over her white harem pants as they scurried by the chrysalis nursery. “He—

he came back this morning,” she managed between sobs. “He was, ahh, out

playing with his friend, and—I—”

“Was he at the rally?”

“No, he was at the waterside outside the walls. We live—we don’t live near

Peace Square. We live on Grapadân Street—we—we are not close—”

She’s hyperventilating. “Calm down, Mâa’na. Breathe.” Clâria stroked her

forearm half-mindedly as she opened the double door to the psychiatric ward

with her free hand. Mansâl hauled the boy’s limp body through. The women

followed, shoes smacking on the pale linoleum.

“He was not at the rally?” Clâria pressed. “You’re sure?”

“Yes,” the little woman concurred.

This has naught to do with the army. Twelve patients with like symptoms had

she examined since the State had relocated her to Stockman District. They all

bickered unintelligibly. Sometimes their speech was scattered, sometimes it

was urgent, other times languid. Sometimes it was as if they responded to ex-

ternal stimuli—sound, particularly. But there was one thing that united them

all in their sickness—one word, which they uttered at some point or another.

As if on cue, the boy said it.

“Hippo . . . campus.”

Clâria looked on in horror. He’s too young to have Lazarus syndrome. Perhaps

she was unqualified for this task. But their neuronal scans are so similar . . .

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“What’s wrong with my son?” the woman beseeched.

“I don’t know.” I’ve never seen anything like it in twenty years. Clâria picked

up the pace, trying to put distance between herself and the hapless mother;

it was all too painful to be reminded of her powerlessness.

“Where do we put him?” Mansâl called over his shoulder.

“The operating room.” There’s nowhere else we can put him right now . . . ever.

The cells were all occupied, some—exceptionally—by two patients (those less

prone to violence). Bringing the boy to the operating room was the only way

to assuage the fears of his mother. Clâria caught herself gritting her teeth. This

is all happening at the worst time. Could they be related—the strange condition

and the violence against protesters? No, she thought. There was no conceiv-

able link. Still, she’d been sent here a day after the quarantine . . .

The company strode by the padded cells of the patients whose presence in

the Trangâar psychiatric ward predated her arrival: Stelêndros, the teenager

who could telekinetically disperse traffic; Ghêndre, the man who dwelled in

an underground tunnel in Nordland; Dêla, the woman whose deceased lover

was imminently coming back for her. All were afflicted with the Blackness;

all had diagnoses: overuse of Lazarus. In no instance had their condition just

sprouted from nothing.

“Clâria!”

Selmâya, her student assistant, darted from the reception room, her brown

eyes twinkling with apprehension. “Sêmos is on his way,” she blurted, “but

he’s stuck in traffic. Um—I don’t know when—I don’t know when he’ll get

here. I don’t—”

“Selmâya.” Clâria bit the name. “It’s alright. Help us with him.”

Hurried footfalls filled the corridor as Philândos, the senior psychiatrist,

bounded into view. His hands were smeared with blood, his lab coat stained

crimson. “We’re at full capacity, Clâria.”

I know. She pushed open the door to the operating room.

The boy babbled as Mansâl laid him down on the operating table at the

center of the room. His mother stooped over him and whispered unheeded

prayers.

“Mansâl, give him the shots,” Clâria ordered. The drugs had done virtually

nothing to help the other patients, except temporarily alleviate their neuronal

surcharge, but there was nothing else she could do. She took Selmâya aside

and spoke calmly but firmly. “You’ll have to take care of him. I must go back

to the hospital with Philândos and Mansâl. They need our help.”

Selmâya’s eyes went wide as globes. Her head shook briskly. She was too

shocked to speak.

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“Listen to me. You can do this.” The girl’s eyes wandered. Clâria grabbed

her by the arm. “You can do this. Do exactly as we did with the others. You

know the procedure.”

There was a long, stunned silence, but finally the student got a grip on her-

self. “What should I do?” she squeaked.

“Run the same tests as we did on the other patients. Talk to his mother.”

Improvise. She glanced at the woman sobbing over her scatterbrained child.

“Also, talk to him. See if he reacts.” See if anything about this one is different, she

might have said, but feared the answer; they all exhibited identical symptoms

and neuronal scans—a thunderstorm of electrical activity centered around

the frontal lobe and the—

“Hippocampus,” the boy muttered.

His writhing was almost peaceful, like a baby in its sleep.

Clâria stepped toward him. It’s like they’re diagnosing themselves. Whatever

it was the patients were afflicted with, it was like they were aware that their

hippocampus had released an overflow of hippolytes, and that their levels of

neuronal activity were sky high. It’s impossible.

“I don’t know w-what to tell her,” Selmâya stammered, bringing her back

down to earth.

“Selmâya, listen to me. You can do this. You’ve been doing great. Tell her

what she needs to hear.” She looked into the young woman’s syrupy eyes

and shot her a pining smile. The girl managed a small nod. Clâria had started

to walk away when the boy blurted something. She spun. “What did he say?”

Mansâl’s hand was on his chest, as if to restrain him. Her assistant looked at

her, shaking his head; he hadn’t caught it. The boy’s mother had a bewildered

but wishful expression as she looked at the psychiatrists.

“What did he say?” Clâria demanded, approaching.

Mansâl was opening his mouth to speak, but the boy spoke again. “Suîma.”

His cloudy eyes twitched as if from a nightmare . . . or a seizure. “Suîma,” he

repeated. Then more gabble.

“Suîma?” Mansâl thought aloud.

Suîma? Forest? “Is he recalling a memory?” she asked the mother. “Was he

in or around a forest before this happened?” There are no forests around Rêga.

“Anything about a forest?”

The small woman stared back, clueless. She started to stammer something

when a sharp, distant sound made them veer altogether.

Selmâya yelped. “What was that?”

“Suîma,” said the sick boy.

Mansâl spoke in a hushed tone. “It sounded like a gunshot.”

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The team exchanged glances. The boy’s mother sniffled. Clâria gulped. “I‘ll

go look.”

“Don’t go!” Selmâya pleaded. “What if it was a gunshot?”

“I forgot to lock the door to the ward,” Clâria confessed. Giving them no

chance to protest, she set off at a brisk march, out of the operating room and

into the reception room.

Philândos intercepted her outside, startling her. “Did you hear that?” His

bushy eyebrows were arched, his face creased. “What was that?”

“I don’t know, but I forgot to lock the door.” She scuttled past the reception

desk, past the cells of Dêla, Stelêndros, and Ghêndre, and into the corridor.

Before her was the double door to the emergency ward of the hospital. Small

square windows let in on the hallway beyond, which hooked right, around

the nursery, where chrysalises on the other side of a pass-through window

were arrayed in neat rows under incubator lights. Clâria picked up the pace.

Almost there. The closer she got, the more the doors seemed to recede, as if

sliding away from her.

Then she heard the second gunshot.

Clâria froze. There was brusque motion through the windows. Fûshocks.

Hordes of them, bolting down the hallway shoulder to shoulder like mad

bulls on a rampage. They moved in the only direction permissible—toward

her. She panicked. Her first instinct was to bolt the other way, but then she

dithered. Can I reach the doors before they do? It was too late. The horde—visibly

bruised felocks and melocks—crashed through like the living dead, filling the

psychiatric ward with agonized moans and the thump of talons.

The gunfire followed.

Clâria spun around and dashed down the corridor. Over her shoulder, the

masses tripped and trampled and swelled like a tidal wave of pale, bloodied

flesh.

Philândos and Mansâl stood outside the operating room, beckoning to her.

“Come on!” Mansâl shouted. It sounded like the horde was right on top of her,

consuming her. Twenty yards away, Philândos held the door with one hand,

waving wildly with the other. She sprinted with everything she had.

Miraculously, she was able to hurl herself into the operating room before

the mob swallowed her. She landed flat on her stomach, winding herself in

course. The door slammed behind her. When she recovered, Philândos and

Mansâl were packing their weight against it, clenching the handle with a

deadly grip. “Help!” Mansâl cried. The veins in his neck looked on the verge

of bursting.

Clâria heaved herself against the door. Through the small square window,

she saw a Stockman pounding both fists against the door. His screams were

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muffled. His eyes—beseeching eyes—found her. Clâria could only stare back

as more bodies slammed into him, pinning him.

They’ll break in.

Before they did, gunfire burst. Clâria’s muscles tensed like wire. It’s close.

Possibly as close as the reception room. One by one, the Fûshocks turned and

scattered, except for the man in the window, who fell to the floor, leaving a

trickle of blood in the window. And suddenly, as if a switch had been turned

off, the banging and screaming and gunfire stopped, leaving a deathly calm.

“Grab the kid!” Philândos urged. Mansâl stole him from the arms of his

whimpering mother, dragged him to the corner of the room. There, the com-

pany squatted in silence . . . waiting.

Sporadic hollering resonated from without. Clâria couldn’t make out what

was being said, but she recognized the language: Dhôrman. It’s the army. She

was sure. Beside her, the boy was snug in his mother’s embrace, moaning his

gibberish.

“Hush him!” hissed Philândos.

His mother pressed a hand over his mouth.

The door handle shook violently for a tense five seconds. Clâria curled into

a ball. Then it stopped, and there was silence . . .

CRACK!

The bolt gave out. Splinters flew in the air as the door crashed open. Clâria

screamed, huddling against someone—whether it was Philândos or Mansâl

or Selmâya, she could not tell. An armed soldier in a heavy black helmet and

bulletproof vest rushed in. His fatigues were tan, his padding black, the same

colour as the bulky rifle in his hands. When he spotted the company crouched

in the corner, he turned and yelled, “Colonel!” Looking back at them, he said,

“There are people here!”

They’re going to kill us.

An identical soldier marched in. After him came a small man, though this

one was different. He’s higher-ranked. He wore a prim grey uniform, a large

black belt, and polished black shoes. His skin was light brown with a tint of

grey, hinting at Turânian descent, and he had a pencil mustache with neatly

parted hair.

He addressed them in Karûmian, in a formal tone that, given the circum-

stances, was utterly deranging. “Good afternoon! I am Colonel Mensûla, and,

like yourselves, I am a doctor.” He flashed rows of pointy white teeth. A shell

exploded from without, making him wince and the rest of them jump. The

colonel grimaced. “I am . . . truly sorry for all this, but as you know, a host of

rebels infiltrated your facilities, and, well, there was no easy way to get them

out.” He stretched a hand out. “Come. Please. Stand.”

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No one budged. Someone was trembling behind Clâria, sending tremors

through her own body. Beside her, the sick boy was staring blankly at the

ceiling, silent for once. His mother shook fiercely, holding him firmly against

her chest.

“Come now,” the military doctor prompted. “Get up.”

Clâria was the first to rise, however unwillingly. Behind her, Selmâya and

Mansâl and Philândos followed suit. Mother and child remained entwined

on the floor.

The doctor’s arms were folded behind him. “Who, if I may ask, is in charge

of this ward?”

Clâria looked around. She could hear grunting and groaning and suffering

coming from outside the operating room. Gathering every ounce of strength,

she raised a hand. “I—I am.”

The doctor smiled. “Very well.” He gestured to her. “You can help me. The

rest of you can stay here.” As she stepped forward, he placed a careful hand

on the small of her back. “I need to know how many patients you have in

your ward, Miss . . .”

“Gerdâm.”

“Ah! Gerdâm. I once dated a girl with that very name! Though she was not

as lovely as you!” He flashed his sharp smile. “Now, you were saying . . .”

He guided her past two armed soldiers to the smashed door, hanging from

busted hinges.

Clâria peeked at her assistants. “T-twenty-four,” she stammered.

“Twenty-four? Hmm.” He rubbed his chin. “I’m afraid that’s more than we

can carry.”

What? Before she could make sense of it, she was led through the threshold

of the operating room.

The floor and whitewashed walls of the reception room were splattered

with blood. A dying Stockman sat slumped against the reception desk, a trail

of blood smearing the counter behind him. Another melock lay face-down

beside him, eyes gazing emptily at Clâria, blood pooling around his face.

Bruised and bloodied Stockmen grunted painfully as soldiers manhandled

them, rounding them up in a corner. The anguished wailing of melocks and

felocks could be heard around the bend.

“Tsk. I apologize for the mess,” the doctor said. “You must understand, we

had little choice. These Stockmen are criminals, and they were a threat to your

lives. Brutal and unfortunate is the nature of war, and I wish it would never

have befallen you.”

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Clâria could not find it in her to speak. She was half expecting to be thrown

into the heap of dead and dying when the doctor’s voice penetrated her mus-

ings. “Now, where do you keep these patients?”

Clâria pointed with a shaky finger. “There.”

“Where?”

“In that hallway, b-behind the reception . . .”

“Good. And that little boy sitting in the room with your friends? He is sick,

is he not?”

She nodded.

“Hm. When did he arrive here?”

“T-this morning.”

The doctor nodded. “Sergeant,” he called.

A man in tan fatigues and black breastplate trotted over. “Colonel.”

“Miss, um, Gerdâm will accompany you. Round up all the patients within

this ward. Grab the boy. We are overcapacity by four.”

“What will we do with the excess?”

“Kill them.”

What?! Clâria acted on impulse. “What are you doing?!” she yelled. “The

patients must stay here! You cannot kill them!”

“I apologize, Miss Gerdâm, but I have stately obligations to fulfill. These

patients belong to the State.”

“No! Why?! You cannot do this—”

“Denêvar! Mêlion!” The sergeant waved. “Grab the boy.”

Clâria’s world was spinning. What’s happening? Two soldiers rushed past

her into the operating room. It was stronger than her; she broke from the

doctor and scampered after them. “What are you doing?!”

A soldier came out of nowhere, wrapping powerful arms around her while

two others moved in for the boy, seizing him by the wrists. His mother threw

herself around him, wailing, “Get off him! Get OOOFFFFF!”

“Hey!” Philândos objected. “Hey! What’s going on? What are you doing?”

“Back off, old man!” a soldier spat, brandishing his rifle.

The mother held on to her son with desperate strength. For a second, Clâria

thought the boy would be cleaved at the waist, but a third soldier stepped in

to restrain the woman while his partners pulled him free.

The child was talking. “Suîma,” he said. “Suîma.” A supplication. A clue.

Clâria could only stare as the troops pried him from his mother. The lady

let go a blood-curdling screech, turned, and clawed the soldier’s face, leaving

four bloody marks on his cheek.

“Bitch!” The soldier pushed her down and aimed his rifle.

BANG!

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The little woman was sent sprawling against the tiled floor, her last look

dedicated to her son, who—even before she could gasp her last breath—had

been pulled outside the room.

Clâria screamed. A strong hand squeezed her upper arm. “Come!” ordered

the sergeant as he hustled her out. Philândos and Mansâl choked on their

own protests when rifles were drawn to their faces.

They’re going to kill them. Then they’re going to kill me.

The sergeant dragged her back into the blood-drenched reception room.

“Where are the other patients?” he demanded.

“They—they . . .”

The military doctor was gone. Clâria could only stare as a group of soldiers

stamped toward the doors on the left—the cells of Ghêndre, Stelêndros, and

Dêla. When they found the doors locked, they stepped back, aimed, and fired.

The doorknobs shattered to pieces. Clâria covered her ears and shut her eyes.

When she opened them again, the wolves were kicking down the three cell

doors and moving swiftly inside.

Clâria didn’t see what happened next.

She only heard the gunshots.

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Chapter 39 Sewel

Metropolitan Hall

Lower Gallinton, Nordland

Moonday, 22 Tempest 2079

20:15

t was exactly like he’d imagined it. Only better.

Hundreds of yellow, white and blue flags flapped buoyantly over name-

less and countless faces—felocks too pretty to ignore, children too young to

understand. There was even the odd cluster of Swinemen, poking their heads

from behind the shoulders of their betters. The whole moved like a great sea

swept by winds of change and destiny. The collective exuberance rattled the

foundations of Metropolitan Hall, testing its world-class renown as a concert

hall for classical.

The final tally wasn’t in yet—the ballots were still being counted—but the

preliminary results did not lie. Fifty-five greatchairs to forty-four. The Aphelian

Party would be virtually unopposed in the Merchants Council; Sewel Lyon’s

ability to legislate all but unfettered.

I will strike them down before the Reckoning hits.

On the projector screen onstage, the Aphelian flag—a blue crescent moon

on a silver sky—guarded the polls. Below it, the numbers ebbed and flowed

like the tide, as if the flag itself exerted a gravitational pull; 55 would bounce

up to 56, then 57, before dropping back to 54 and repeating. Sewel coveted

those two chairs—Lagondawn and Temple—suburbs of Lornevecton both.

The very fact that the Aphelian party was making grounds in those districts,

with their significant Human populations, was a feat in itself, a testament to

Perihelian incompetence.

Chancellor-elect Sewel Lyon wore an unmitigated grin as he strode center

stage enwreathed in silk robes the colour of the flag. A futuristic microphone

stand, iron ingrained with jade (for express irony) with the party logo on its

shaft, awaited. Behind it, the projector screen flashed the Nordlander flag.

I

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The lights dimmed. The applause cracked like thunder. A spotlight blinked

to life, found him, followed him. The drums rolled.

Sewel rested his hands on the microphone stand, absorbing its cool touch.

He scanned the roiling crowd, his children, faces muddled and anonymous,

made hazier by the glaring light in his eyes. The drums vibrated inside him,

as intimate as the Calibrate’s touch. His speech appeared on projector screens

around the auditorium. When finally the noise and drum beats died down,

he spoke. “Citizens of Nordland.” His voice was that of a pipe organ on the

loudspeakers. A tidal wave of cheers and applause arose to meet it, washing

away the echo. Sewel allowed it, then tried again.

“Citizens of Nordland.” The walls trembled. “Today is a day of reckoning.

Today”—he paused for dramatic effect—“you have looked into the eyes of

the world, and you have said no more.” A fresh wave swept the room. Sewel

kept a straight face, a leader’s temperance. “Today, you have embraced and—

more importantly—fulfilled the Nordlander tradition, the Localist tradition,

of working together for the common good. Today, our great nation witnesses

a return to its roots, a remembrance of what it is that makes us great.” More

cheers. “Today we stand united against the forces of corruption, both fiscal

and moral,”—Nahrû Bentâm—“and against the vain bullying of those who

would see us weak and prostrate.

“My friends.” He paused. “These are times of ill omens, but of promising

grandeur.” He looked around. “Though there is light at the end of the tunnel,

our will shall be tested before we succeed. Together, and by the Scales of the

Calibrate, we will persevere, and we will make it through. The obstacles are

many and the perils great, but we will show resolve.”

Sewel studied his notes while people clapped and shouted. It was time for

a flourish of humility for the skeptics and non-believers. “I do not pretend to

be your saviour, your redeemer, nor do I claim to be the bringer of all good

things. And I cannot indulge the wants, ambitions, and needs of each one

gathered here tonight. But I can promise you one thing: In the next five years,

by the Scales of the Calibrate, Nordland will come first.”

The cheers and applause were deafening. Sewel swept the crowd with a

stolid air, his head moving measuredly. Then a young man caught his eye—

a melock, standing behind the barricade at the foot of the stage, wearing a

green tunic and a long headscarf. He wasn’t cheering. In fact, he wasn’t even

looking at Sewel, but rather at an electronic device in his hand. Nahrû’s bird.

Sewel did his best to ignore him. “For too long,” he continued, realizing

his punchline was drawing nearer, “we have diverted our gaze to the horizon

when the answers lie right here in our backyards. For too long we have pro-

moted the interests of the few, neglecting the needs of the many. For too long

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we have acquiesced to the demands of our neighbours, been docile in the face

of belligerence. And for too long we have stomached the notion that more

bread for the rich means more crumbs for the masses, when, in fact, the only

thing more bread makes is more feces!” He grinned mischievously. The aud-

ience laughed and hooted. He noted the shocked face of his vice chancellor,

Duck Pelmaren, on the side stage. Didn’t see that one coming, did you? It wasn’t

on the script; the Calibrate was his only script.

“But there are more pressing matters at hand, my fellow Nordlanders.”

He paused. “Spring is upon us and, yes, there is an ominous Shower ahead.

But let us not pretend that the meteors are our enemies!” It was a not so subtle

jab at Sky Shield; he let the audience laugh for a second, then spoke soberly.

“As much as I would like to rejoice on this victorious day, there is work to be

done. This afternoon we witnessed a momentous event, one that threatens to

rattle affairs with our Hôcan neighbours . . .”

Hôcan neighbours, he sneered. He’d wanted to say Humans, plain and sim-

ple, but his speechwriter had insisted otherwise, and his public relations team

had supported her. Sewel had relented, but he longed for the day when folk

wouldn’t be scared to speak their mind.

“Hôc has committed unprovoked manslaughter on our brothers across the

Channel. These are unspeakable crimes, a nameless tragedy. Let us unite and

condemn the tyrants. Let us be idle no more.” He raised a fist in the air, show-

casing the leather bracer on his forearm, as the masses rocked.

Now for the pledge. Sewel looked at the crowd squarely. “As the thirty-third

chancellor of the Republic of Nordland, I, Sewel Lyon, vow to be idle no more

and to restore our kind to its rightful place in the universe.”

After the speech, his inner circle was invited to share the stage. Maleeba

came as well. It was impossible to miss her; her robes, emerald and gold, with

their maze of overhanging flaps and folds, outdid even the chancellor-elect’s.

Her noggin was hedged by a headpiece like a garnished scaffold. This isn’t a

fashion show, he scorned. Anything more and we’ll be accused of being Venturists.

Several prominent party members made curt speeches, bestowing praise

upon Sewel, who stood patiently, applauding and grinning when deemed fit-

ting. When he remembered the Perihelian spy in the crowd, the man was all

but gone.

The ballots closed half an hour before midnight: Fifty-six to forty-three.

Lagondawn had opted for the Perihelians with a mere margin of a thousand

votes. Keep it, he thought coolly. With fifty-seven percent of the seats in the

Merchants Council, he would be unstoppable like a bulldozer in a flowerbed.

The celebratory banquet was held in the reception hall of the Moonstone,

the Aphelian headquarters. The ornate red-and-gold room was festooned

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with congratulatory banners. Vast tables offered food and drink. Sewel spent

the night suffering the blessings and felicitations of family and coworkers,

well-wishers and flatterers. There was Rael Justburden and Jonquil Santairis,

as well as Orfin Doolard, the Aphelian leader in the Merchants Council and

one of the most powerful persons in the party. Sewel eyed her with suspicion

as she caroused with other dignified party members. Can I count on her when

the time comes . . . ?

Sewel ended up drinking more than he would have liked. The alcohol only

vexed him. The battle has yet to begin. These trivial celebrations were a waste

of time and money, the very embodiment of Perihelian extravagance.

By the time he and Maleeba settled into the backseat of their private coach,

it was well past four in the morning. The city was asleep and only the lamp-

posts were operative, intermittently spraying the leather interior with creamy

orange light. The ride back to Terrance Springs was short and silent. Sewel

sat pensively amidst the humming engine, gazing at the dark wet world that

whirred by. The world is watching you, he thought. And just then, Maleeba laid

a gentle hand on his. Sewel made no effort to retract his, but he paid her no

mind.

On Lumber Road, the trees and cedar hedges cast elegant black shadows

on cobalt lawns. The main light source came from Cinder and Sentinel, both

perfect semicircles, perfect mates.

The driver pulled into the driveway and halted the car beside the footpath,

where the couple got out. The last sounds were of the car driving off and the

front door creaking shut. Inside, everything was dead silent. Pale moonlight

washed over the lacquered floorboards, zigzagging up the staircase to the

second storey, where a chandelier hung from the ceiling, blinking like the

starry sky.

Sewel tugged at his collar, loosing his robes. Maleeba appeared at his side.

Her headpiece and earrings, studded with silver, twinkled in the moonlight,

momentarily veiling her wrinkles. Still, her eyes were ethereal and her voice

was worn and weary. “Are you going to see him?”

Sewel rolled back his cuffs, diverting his gaze. “Yes.”

He felt her eyes on the back of his head when she spoke next. “You should

let him rest . . .” She had trouble finishing her sentence. “You know . . .” Then

she seemed to have a change of heart. “I’m proud of you, Sewel.” There was

a pause, and she said no more.

Sewel listened to her hang her headpiece on its support, then stride off,

talons thudding on the floor. He turned to see her round a corner and disap-

pear into the kitchen. Then he made his way to the study. Pale, shifting light

emanated from the crack beneath the door.

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He’s not sleeping. He didn’t sleep much anymore.

Sewel stretched out a hand. The door swayed open at his fingertips, hinges

sighing in the night. He closed it behind him.

The old television set was on, casting its ghastly light on the little room and

the frail man sitting in its midst. “So, you made it, son.” His eyes fixated the

electoral results on the screen, arms resting on the supports of his wheelchair.

“I won,” Sewel said.

“Not yet,” Mikel returned bitingly. The loose skin under his chin jiggled

as he turned, painfully slow.

“Fifty-six chairs,” Sewel boasted.

“And I had fifty-two,” Mikel replied with an air of nonchalance. “Numbers

don’t count. Times have changed, son. Our enemies are no longer inside the

Merchants Council.” Thunder rumbled in the distance outside. Between the

twin bookshelves against the far wall, the arched window was bespeckled by

droplets, flickering with the wavering television light. “It’s not by building a

seawall that you’ll keep them out.”

“I won’t have to build one, Da. War’s going to break out soon. The border

will close. The only activity going out will be our troops invading Fûsha and

reclaiming it for Nordland.”

“Then you should strike soon. Shower’s coming.”

Sewel groaned. “War’ll be done before the Shower.”

Mikel studied him, red pockets around his dying eyes. Purple veins ran up

his neck, bringing the last of the life nectar to his brain. “You’re not Imperator,

son. You can’t take Nordland to war with a snap of the fingers. Orfin Doolard

will see that you don’t. She’s rallying troops against you.”

She won’t stand in the way of Nohim.

Mikel seemed to hear. A fragile smile split his face as he took a laborious

breath. “Did you see him tonight?”

Sewel scanned his father. “Who?” He knew.

“Nahrû’s pet . . . he was there.”

Sewel nodded. “Nahrû’s done. She won’t be coming back.” Thanks to my

anonymous friend with the photo camera.

“Don’t be so sure,” Mikel croaked. “She’s a . . . resourceful Human.”

Sewel seethed. “What can I do?”

Mikel lifted a finger. “Don’t mind her. Her time will come. Right now, you

have more important things to take care of. Rally your troops. Have you con-

sidered who you want to lead the offensive?”

The chancellor-elect nodded. “Stiv Claren.”

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346

Mikel eyed him silently. “A noble Stockman . . . You will need him. But do

you trust him? He is . . . not your friend . . . but neither is he your enemy. You

know who we are fighting.”

Sewel Lyon found himself looking at the gnarled chest at the foot of the

cot. The light from the television seemed to dance on the blackened wood.

“Hôc,” he said. “Humans.”

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Chapter 40 Jarêk

Sunpier Palace

Karûm Province, Hôc

Truceday, 23 Tempest 2079

14:07

arêk had forgotten what happiness felt like.

It felt like soaring.

Amidst the clouds, he rediscovered memories from ages past. It was like

he’d left them here last time he was up. There was one for every mile, and he

found them all—the good and the bad.

The white stucco house in Diâmador. The butlers, Palmâya and Segôn. She

used to scold her husband when he didn’t do something to her expectations.

Jarêk had never had cause to complain, nor had his parents, yet Palmâya was

always on Segôn’s case. But they were a splendid couple, wondrously in love.

His mother, Kleodâffia, and her sweet kisses before she left for work in the

morning. Jarêk would accompany her sometimes when he had days off from

Military School. But he’d never quite understood what the queen did at the

Fûshan High Council, nor did he to this day . . .

The day she died, the bluest day of his life. He remembered the intolerable

silence and the impossibly long ride to the Great Shrine of Nurâlde. When he

closed his eyes, he could still feel the hollowness in Salêm’s eyes—dead eyes.

The man had never been the same afterwards.

His flying lessons, his salvation. He remembered his first solo flight like it

was yesterday. His first plane had been an old Petâl, a flying tin can with high

wings, virtually his for two years.

He’d forgotten what it was like to be behind the yoke of an airplane. Now

that he remembered, he knew his life would never be whole without it.

It was Jarêk’s third outing since he’d flown the King’s Jet from Diâmador,

but he was already getting the feel of this plane—a small single-engine Vâlko,

painted white with a red stripe running the length of its body. Not the most

elegant craft, but a gift from Nurâlde nonetheless (maybe the goddess had

J

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heard his prayers after all). Conditions today weren’t optimal—the sky was

grim and windy—but the occasion was as good as any. Jarêk Daimôn had

been out for a little over one hour and was heading back to Sunpier. For the

first time in six years, the thought of the palace wasn’t so haunting. In fact, it

started to feel vaguely like home. Now that the world was his playground,

he no longer had to revel in it from the balcony.

His backyard was a bedrock of limestone. White outcrops rose around arid

grasses, coated with patches of trees and shrubs, crisscrossed by networks of

rivulets and country roads that occasionally traversed a village or lake. Jarêk

was surprised by the extent of Human life sharing these lands with him.

He got as much gratification from the places that were not settled (from up

here, he couldn’t mingle with anyone, anyways). During his last outing, he’d

located a secret waterfall four nautical miles inland. It was beautiful and ser-

ene, and happened to be at a good triangular point in his itinerary—he would

head south from the King’s Airfield, fly over Old Pier and skim twenty miles

of coastline, then swerve east to northeast, fly over the waterfall, and finally

climb back the coast to Sunpier. A perfect itinerary.

Except now he was running late.

Jarêk stole quick glances at his watch, fretting. Four thousand feet below,

deep blue waves buffeted the Golden Coast, but the dark fingers of Old Pier

were nowhere in sight. He set full throttle and went into a shallow dive.

Will they be mad if I’m late? His second thought, the recurrent one, was more

vexing. Am I allowed to fly? Salêm Daimôn had mulishly held that kings could

not be pilots. Did that mean kings were not allowed to be pilots, or simply that

they didn’t have time?

No one had griped—not yet, anyways. That’s why he’d gone out a second

time. And a third. And tomorrow he would be flying a fourth time, provided

the Council session did not drag on endlessly like it had a bad habit of doing.

Things were bound to become more hectic at Sunpier with yesterday’s blood-

shed.

Jarêk wondered if Nîmrod Nefârion had caught wind of his excursions.

Would he care? The last time he’d seen him was . . . a little over a week ago. The

Mulard had told him he would show him something that would change his

life . . .

But the Minister of Information was still missing. Maybe he’s tending to the

crisis. Jarêk knew that Khan Dormân was in Rêga—at the front, as the Council

members said. Maybe Nefârion was there with him. Surprisingly, he barely

noticed their double absence. At first, he was daunted (while Nefârion made

him feel uneasy, ruling a kingdom solo was scarier), but he’d quickly warmed

up to the reality: it wasn’t that hard to be a ruler. All he had to do was listen

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and ask the right questions. Being a ruler is easy, Salêm Daimôn’s voice echoed,

but ruling is not.

A strong gust made the plane rattle. Jarêk snapped out of his reverie and

spotted the black piers in the distance. He radioed the control tower, request-

ing permission to land.

It was 14:45 when he climbed down from the Vâlko, and it was past 15:00

when his chauffeur dropped him off at Sunpier. The Council session was un-

derway. He didn’t bother changing into his formal garb. Instead, he headed

directly to the Council Chamber.

He must have made quite the impression wearing slacks and a necked top.

If the shock didn’t show directly on the Ministers’ faces, it showed when half

of them hesitated before standing and saluting.

“I ap-p-ologize for my tardiness,” Jarêk said, waving them off. He tramped

to his seat at the end of the table and sat. The Ministers regained their seats,

eventually their aplomb.

It was a small council; three chairs were vacant—Dormân’s and Nefârion’s

on his immediate flanks, and Azirâm’s on his left, three chairs away. Those

present stared at him blankly. Are they waiting for me to speak? Jarêk was about

to when someone did in his stead.

“Highness.” At the right end of the table, Landed Field Marshall Mêlkion

dipped his head. As the Overseer’s second in command, he was the chairman.

Mêlkion looked like Dormân’s little brother minus the mustache and sheer

size. Even in the dimness of the chamber, his hazelnut eyes shone like flecks

of sap through his pine-green breastplate and high cap. “I would like to start

with Rêga. There is . . . an escalation of hostilities. The crackdown only seems

to have emboldened the resistance and strengthened their resolve to fight.”

“Curse them,” gibed Molidôri.

Mêlkion ignored the remark. “The protesters continue to defy the curfew.

They have made Peace Square their residence, and it is practically impossible

to tell who is FLF and who is not. This complicates the duty of our armed for-

ces in locating and extirpating the rebels.”

Legions Air Marshall Mikâri nodded emphatically. “The quarantine has

had adverse effects. Rather than obey the curfew, Stockmen have come out

on the streets in droves. We are losing more and more troops daily.”

Dukârion raised a finger. “How many troops have died at the hands of the

protesters?” he enquired in his monotonous voice.

“Five,” replied Mikâri, sensing a trap.

“And at the hands of the FLF?”

“Thirty-three. And mounting.”

“Hrmpf.” The fat admiral shuffled in his seat.

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“Then what is the danger of the protests,” resumed Dukârion, “if the threat

comes from the FLF and not Peace Square?”

Mikâri threw Dukârion a patronizing look. “They are diverting resources.

Our troops could better be employed conducting house-to-house searches to

dismantle the rebel network.”

“Let’s make the military casualties public,” suggested Dukârion, “so that

Nordland knows we’re not the only aggressors. And Thraania—”

“Only aggressors?!” Molidôri burst. “Pfft! Nordlanders are the ones knock-

ing on our front door! The Aphelians aren’t in power yet and already they’re

conducting military drills in the Channel. They’re planning for war. Now’s

not the time to look weak!” He looked about, seeking vindication. “Nordland

is waiting for an invitation to invade.” He shook his head; his chins wobbled.

“Thirty-five dead at the hands of the FLF! These numbers must be concealed.”

Thirty-three, thought the king.

Mikâri nodded deeply, and for a second Jarêk imagined himself in the blue

uniform of the Air Marshall. “We cannot hope to look credible in the eyes of

Nordland,” he said, “if we can’t take charge of our own internal affairs.”

“If we want Thraania on our side,” Dukârion retried, “we must at least try

to appear as the victim.”

Barely thinking, Jarêk spoke. “Why don’t we use t-the d-deaths to explain

the curfew?” He couldn’t find the right words. The Council looked at him as

if he were from Archis. “You said there was t-thirty-three soldiers killed by—

by the FLF,” he said. “W-why don’t we use those numbers t-to e-explain the

curfew?”

Something odd happened then: at the table’s left end, a thin line, barely

perceptible, formed on Bhen Dukârion’s lips. It was the first time the Minister

of the Interior’s face betrayed a hint of emotion. “I think His Highness makes

a valid point,” he said. If he’d been smiling, all traces had vanished. “If we’re

sending troops into the walled city, there needs to be a valid reason. What

Nordland wants is reassurance that we are not arbitrarily killing Stockmen.

If they see that violence is not unilateral, they might back down.”

Dubious looks were tossed around the room. It was Mêlkion who spoke.

“Highness, the issue at hand is not the number of dead troops. It is the troops

themselves. One way or another, Nordland will protest our presence in Rêga.

That being said, we might as well try and pull as much as we can from this,

and try to look strong . . . and hide our casualties.”

“That being said,” Dukârion echoed with a slight edge, “we might want to

play the victim, Highness, not the aggressor.” There was a moment’s silence

in which no one moved. Then Dukârion added, “Perhaps we should pass a

motion.”

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“We cannot vote,” Molidôri snapped. “Minister Nefârion and Overseer

Dormân are not here.”

“Article 75,” Dukârion stated. “In times of martial law, a motion can be

passed without full attendance of the Revolutionary Council.” His face was

crisp as a sheet. “We voted for the quarantine without Rhidâm. We can vote

now.”

Mikâri looked perplexed. “I don’t see what this would—”

Dukârion raised a stubby-fingered hand. “I vote for making the numbers

public.”

The generals exchanged puzzled looks. Molidôri shifted irritably in his

seat. “There’s no point in this, Dukârion,” he grumbled.

Dukârion fixated the king, his hand idly raised. “Who else votes in favour

of making the numbers public?” He was starting to have that sickly look he’d

had lately.

“Minister Dukârion—” Mikâri started, but he stopped short when he saw

the king.

Startled, Jarêk froze, his hand midway in the air.

Mêlkion, Mikâri, Molidôri, and Legûrion, the new wealth minister, looked

at each other. Slowly, Legûrion raised his hand, drawing the others’ scrutiny.

“Anyone else in favour?” Dukârion asked. No one moved.

“Any opposed?” Dukârion’s hand went down. Jarêk followed suit, as did

Legûrion.

“Any abstentions?”

Reluctantly, Mêlkion, Mikâri, and Molidôri raised their hands.

Dukârion turned to the king. “The motion does not pass, Highness.” There

was regret in his voice, but also something else . . . Satisfaction?

The rest of the session was tedious. The Ministers discussed financial mat-

ters; Jarêk understood little of the jargon. But his attentiveness was lured back

into being when his uncle was mentioned. Êrgo Dakâri had returned to the

Kingdom, they said, but his whereabouts were undisclosed, as was his health

status. He was temporarily detained somewhere in Karûm—that’s all Jarêk

got.

Jarêk was replaying in his head his impromptu encounter with his uncle

when the session was called to an end. He remained seated until the Ministers

had left, then stood and ambled toward the exit, remembering the first time

Êrgo had approached him outside these very doors. As he stepped out of the

chamber, the Revolutionary Guards thumped their chest. Jarêk stopped mid-

stride. A few feet away amidst the turquoise, white, and gold of the corridor,

Dukârion’s black silhouette leapt forward. “Highness,” he uttered, arms stiff

at his sides, “if I could have a word with you.”

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Jarêk did not speak; he took a few awkward steps toward the plain-looking

man.

“Highness,” Dukârion repeated as he led the king away from the sentries,

“there are matters which must be discussed.” He babbled on for half a minute

until they were out of earshot, then his words bit like a dagger.

“They will kill Minister Dakâri.”

Kill my uncle? Jarêk did not notice his pace had slowed; Dukârion urged

him on with a light pat on the back, his eyes levelled on the corridor ahead.

Jarêk eyed him quizzically. “They’ll do the same to me,” added the minister.

He tried to say it casually, but there was unmistakable fear in his voice, if not

strained solace. “When you spoke today, Highness, I saw something in you.

I thought Minister Dakâri was imagining it, but now I see it: there is greatness

in you, Jarêk.”

What? Frightened and confused yet insatiably curious, he waited.

They rounded a corner. In the distance, an archway spilled onto the mezza-

nine of the southern lobby. Servants and functionaries walked by, busy about

their tasks.

Is that—? It was too far to tell. She was already gone. Part of Jarêk wanted

to run after her to find out . . .

“Highness.” Dukârion anchored the king in place. “Did you see the sway

you held over them? When you voted, none of them dared oppose you. They

abstained, yes, but they did not risk confronting you.” The minister paused.

“Whatever happens, Highness, always do what feels right, not what they tell

you is right.”

Jarêk remembered his mother’s words as she touched his heart. From the

corner of his eye, he noticed the Minister of the Interior studying him as they

walked.

“You have some of your father in you,” said Dukârion. “There is no doubt.

But even your father was deceived. And now your uncle is suffering the same

fate.” The interior minister stopped walking, faced the king. “Remember one

thing, Highness: Whatever they tell you, it’s not the truth. Never the whole

truth.” Then it came back—the inkling of a smile. Saying not another word,

Dukârion bowed, saluted, and made an about-face. Like his uncle before him,

he disappeared.

That was the last Jarêk saw of him that day. He wondered if he would ever

see him again. Last time Êrgo Dakâri had talked to him, he’d fled. Was Duk-

ârion about to do the same? They will kill me, he’d said. Was he mad like his

uncle? Did Êrgo even really have the Blackness?

A million questions buzzed through his head that evening when he left his

chamber to fetch some tea from the kitchen. He no longer used room service;

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he preferred walking. The cooks were the only people in the palace who were

hospitable like Palmâya and Segôn in Diâmador.

He was rounding the corner of a hall on his way back from the kitchen

when he bumped into someone, almost spilling his cup. He looked up apolo-

getically, and froze.

There she was, standing no more than two feet from him, close enough for

him to touch her. Her big brown eyes sparkled even more brilliantly than her

silver stud earrings. Her long black hair was braided to the small of her back.

A smile touched her lips, but she immediately looked down.

“I’m sorry, Highness,” she said in Karûmian.

Jarêk was stunned. “I—I didn’t think I’d s-see you again.”

“Highness?” She looked halfway up, steadied her gaze.

Jarêk felt himself flush. Say something. “W-what’s your name?”

She looked taken aback like she was being scolded. “Alîza. Highness.”

Alîza. It was the most beautiful name he’d ever heard. He was relishing the

sight of the silky black gown on her smooth brown skin when he realized he

hadn’t introduced himself. “M-my name is Jarêk,” he stuttered. She respond-

ed with a demure peek at his face. “H-how long have you been here?”

“Only a few weeks, Highness.” Keeping her head bowed, she added, “Can

I get you something?”

Jarêk vacillated. “No.” He held his cup for her to see. “I got tea.” She smiled

timidly. “Are you, um . . . w-working tomorrow?”

“Um, no, Highness. I work Moonday, Gallday, and Foolsday.”

“Oh.” A serving lady appeared from behind, bowing as she scurried by.

Jarêk barely noticed her. “Then I’ll see you in . . . in . . .” He wasn’t sure what

day it was.

“Tomorrow, perhaps, Highness.”

“Oh.” Once more, he noted her rustic accent. “Where are you from?” he

enquired.

“Adâan. A village thirty minutes from here.”

“You were b-born there?”

“Yes, Highness.”

“Huh.” He wasn’t sure what else to say. All he knew was that he didn’t

want her to leave.

Alîza looked up. “Do you have Teth3rd, Highness?”

Teth3rd. Jarêk didn’t even own a computer. “No,” he confessed.

“Oh.” She looked disappointed.

“D-d-do you?”

“Yes, Highness.”

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Jarêk was contemplating how he could get access to the social network

when she squeaked, “I—I should get back to work, Highness.”

He stuttered incomprehensibly and stepped awkwardly aside. “I will see

you t-tomorrow,” he promised.

“Yes, Highness.” Alîza skirted him and scuttled away.

Jarêk revelled in her as she strode off, lithe as a dancer. Then he retired to

his chambers. But he took the long way, passing by the palace-keeper’s office.

Master Câundre was not there, nor had anyone seen him. It’s getting late, he

mused, half-defeated, he’s probably sleeping.

When he arrived at his chambers, he closed the door and got ready for bed.

He prayed to Nurâlde and promised himself one thing: first thing tomorrow

morning, he would find the palace-keeper and get a computer.

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Chapter 41 Jena

Peace Square—Stockman District

Rêga, Fûsha Province, Hôc

Gallday, 24 Tempest 2079

07:52

eace Square was like a gigantic fire pit, its patterned cobblestones charred

black. Yet each day drew more denizens—Humans, too. They coalesced

around the central pillar, where the gilded statue of an anonymous Stockman

stood gleaming in the occasional sunlight, offering fleeting if not tantalizing

glimpses of victory.

But no peace.

Jena Swimmer took in the vista. Eriker Wise took pictures. A peace that will

last a thousand years, she mused, recollecting the words of Îlioc the Great upon

ratifying the Great Peace, the tribute of which was this square.

She tried to laugh. A hundred and fifty years isn’t so bad.

There had been no gunfire today, but the day had just begun, and already

things were heating up. Overnight reports told of three Fûshocks falling to

their graves from the southern arch. Some said the soldiers were responsible,

others that the climbers had slipped, while others still spoke of things ranging

anywhere and everywhere in between. More telling was the blockade on the

southwestern flank, burning as fiercely as the rising sun. Tires, furniture, and

any odd scrap of wood fed the flames.

Yesterday had been a day of mourning. Today was a day of retribution.

Jena doubted how much justice the protesters would find. The blockades,

while they held the army at bay, would be useless in the critical hours. If the

army wanted in, it didn’t have to knock.

That’s why she and Eriker kept to the fringes of the square near Tent City,

as it was known. Coincidentally, it was nearest their hotel and farthest from

the black smoke and nauseating smell of burning rubber. Behind them, the

high sandstone facade of a hotel and shrine basked in the intermittent mor-

ning light. Eriker glued his camera to his face, squinting through both glass

P

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and camera lens. His forefinger twitched spasmodically as he zeroed in on a

group of Humans sitting around a brazier near their tent.

Don’t waste your time, she could have said. The Information Ministry’s never

going to approve those. Its pitch was stagnant as swamp water: Do not publish

propaganda to defame the Kingdom. She could imagine their reaction when pres-

ented with close-ups of Human activists; they would accuse her of framing

Stockman disobedience in terms of general disobedience, then preach to her

the virtues of impartial reporting.

Come and stand in Peace Square, she thought, then tell me about impartiality.

It wasn’t about racism or independence—not only. People were hungry,

Humans and Stockmen alike, a situation made worse by the army’s blockade.

One did not have to look very far to see these people were of modest means;

the strain in their faces, the clothes on their backs, the spelling errors on their

posters all testified to it. Yet in the eyes of the State, they were all Fûshan Lib-

eration Fighters.

“There’s another one,” Eriker said, waggling his head.

“Where?” Jena glanced past the group of Fûshocks standing nearest to her.

Farther away, she noticed a poster that read 1910, a reference to the year the

Daimôns took power, and Dormân out of Rêga, written in both Dhôrman and

Fûshock. She was about to ask Eriker what he’d seen when she spotted him—

a Fûshock, ragged and emaciated, sitting on the sidewalk, his back to a wall.

He was immobile as a corpse.

Jena composed herself. She shook the thoughts from her head. Just breathe,

she thought.

“Are you alright?” Eriker’s eyes twinkled from the depth of his skull-like

striations.

“I’m fine,” she lied. She tried to look at the braindead Fûshock, but had to

look away.

“Do you wanna go check the arch?”

Beside her, a Fûshock couple in hâfas jogged by. Where they were going,

she did not know.

“Jena?”

“Hm?”

“You wanna check the arch?”

The arch? The place where the protesters had fallen. Jena balked. “I don’t

know. Don’t think it’ll do us any good.” She knew which stories would pass,

which ones would be rebuffed. Besides, other Nordlander reporters are probably

already on site. Jena needed something fresh, something original. She needed

a new window onto the crisis, something that shed light without menacing

the State’s integrity.

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Inadvertently, her eyes were drawn to the sick man. Stop looking at him. But

before she could look away, he did something unexpected: he moved. Raising

his head ever slowly, he unfolded his arms and reached for an object . . . then

pulled something from his mantle.

A can? A cup?

Oh, Jena thought, feeling half a fool. He’s not sick; he’s a beggar. She said as

much to her coworker. Eriker looked back. “Oh, yeah.”

Oddly relieved, she glanced around, checked her watch. “Do you wanna

grab breakfast?” They usually carried a snack from the hotel and ate later,

but Jena had barely slept, and she was tired and hungry.

Eriker seemed stunned, like he was being asked on a date. “Um . . . yeah,

if you want.”

On their way to a niche-in-the-wall restaurant tucked away safely in a side

street of Peace Square, they passed an imposing stone building. The words

STOCKMAN FINANCIAL HALL were etched in Fûshock. It was untouched by the

protests, but Jena wondered for how long. The occupation of Town Hall two

days ago had provoked the bloody crackdown. She could only foresee more

occupations in upcoming days.

Jena and Eriker turned onto a small hard-packed dirt street with colourful

awnings. They would come in handy; the skies were bleak, promising rain.

Despite the turmoil, the alley was notably busy, badgered by food carts. At

least they were safe here. Jena kept an eye out for the small pastry shop that

was all the rage here. She spotted a yellow sign that looked like it could be it,

but something distracted her before she could validate.

A middle-aged female Human with thatchy black hair was curled on the

ground, lips convulsing queerly, eyes rolled back into her skull, only a sliver

of iris showing. She was unmistakeably sick.

Jena moved closer . . .

. . . but a hand seized her upper arm, immobilizing her. She spun around,

expecting to find Eriker, but instead came face to face with a male Human,

middle-aged and barrel-chested, with a horseshoe mustache and a delicate

beige tabard that made him look both silly and scary. “Get not too close,” he

warned in broken Fûshock. “He is contagious.”

Contagious? She’d heard the illness was a severe bout of the Blackness, even

that the army was testing chemical weapons. But she’d never heard anything

about a contagion. The afflicted looked like they were having seizures . . . not

like they’d caught a bug. “Do you know what happened to him?” she asked.

The man shook his head, throwing Eriker a cursory look, who’d appeared

at her side. “This sickness is not from here. It is spreading quickly.” His eyes

were grave. “More people get sick all days.”

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“Huh.” That was hardly disputable. Jena kept her eyes on the sick woman.

“Is it the Blackness?”

“No,” the man replied matter-of-factly. “Drugs do not do this to a person.”

She nodded musingly, hinted a thank you, and turned back to Eriker, eager

to get away from both the sick woman and the informant.

Her photographer looked at her ruefully. “Still hungry?”

They found the pastry shop barely fifty feet away. The interior was narrow

with a small counter against the far wall and a series of baskets filled with

various grains lining the lateral wall. They chose a tiny table near the front,

where natural light filtered through a screened window. They were served

promptly. Jena savoured a warm pistachio pastry with a bottle of water (she

dared not drink water from the tap, and milk was always out of the question).

She ate silently and sullenly, avoiding Eriker’s prying stare.

“What’s our next move?” he finally asked.

She shrugged, her stare distant, her mind even more so. “Are you for euth-

anasia?” She kept her eyes on the world whirring by through the screened

window.

Eriker expressed caution. “Huh?”

“Euthanasia. Are you for or against it?” Jena knew how reticent, if not out-

right indifferent, her coworker was, especially on questions of morality. But

she needed to know his stance.

Eriker made an awkward shrug like he was brushing away a fly that had

landed on his shoulder. “Don’t know . . . depends on the circumstances, I

guess.”

Jena pushed her plate. “What if I was completely incapable of looking after

myself? And you had to look after me?” She almost winced. Why did you make

it so intimate? Eriker had always had a soft spot for her; she could see it in the

way he looked at her. “Wouldn’t you say”—she tried to find the right word—

“wouldn’t you say it’s a gracious act to kill me?” Too dramatic, she knew.

Eriker’s eyes wandered. “Well, no . . .”

“What if I was too sick to realize how sick I was . . . or how miserable I was

compared to everyone else. If I didn’t even know I was actually alive . . .”

Eriker’s eyes found hers. They were like camera eyes—all seeing. Jena had

never seen such intensity from him. “It wasn’t your fault,” he offered. “What

happened . . . it wasn’t you . . .”

Jena fought back tears. Then whose was it? Suddenly she had trouble speak-

ing; she was scared that more than words would pour out. She monitored her

breathing, studied the fine latticework of her khaki breeches. Then, when she

felt more composed, she spoke. “It’s ironic, don’t you think, that we have no

trouble taking the lives of fully conscious people, but that we hesitate to give

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the gift of mercy to those who don’t even know they exist?” The gift of mercy.

That’s the term she’d been looking for. “Four weeks ago,” she said, sniffling,

“I was opposed to euthanasia. It’s . . . funny how things change.” She forced

a smile, but there was no pretense of humour in her voice.

“A lot of things change,” Eriker offered banally.

A lot of things, she thought. But we don’t. She snivelled. “When my parents

ruptured,” she said, “I was twelve. I had just started Shadow School. I didn’t

accept it that they were breaking up. I felt like my da had never really given

my ma a chance . . . like he was always putting her down and—and denying

her the right to have an opinion . . . like he made things his own business but

never hers. But still I was so . . . mad when they ruptured. I remember I . . .

wrote a letter to the principal at my school, saying that my da hit me and I

couldn’t stay with him. It was a lie. My da never hit me. But I used it as lever-

age. I didn’t want the school to deal with him, only my ma. And I wanted to

use it as leverage in court so that I could stay with her more.” I also had more

freedom there, she could have added. “Looking back on it now, it was purely

selfish on my part. But back then it made sense. I felt I was in the right. But it

was selfish . . .” Just like it was selfish for me to jeopardize you and Jary’s safety at

the crash site. So you see? People don’t change.

Eriker remained quiet. He could have said a million things—that her par-

ents’ rupture had nothing to do with her; that she could have never foreseen

the horrible conclusion at the crash site; that their very job entailed significant

risks—but he chose silence. Sometimes silence was the best conveyer.

“Eriker,” she said. He looked up. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Yeah . . .”

“Did you tell OFFIN about the phone call?”

His eyes scattered, then came back. “Yes.”

Jena nodded. A part of her felt vaguely relieved, redeemed, even.

They sat in silence for several long minutes until finally Eriker stretched.

“What’s our next move?” he asked, and just as he did, rain started pelting the

hard-packed alleyway outside, darkening the earth.

Jena frowned. “Right now, we’ll stay put. This afternoon, we’ll watch the

protests like everyone else. And tomorrow . . .” She paused, as if to challenge

her own convictions. “Tomorrow we’ll make a round of the hospitals. I want

to find out more about this disease.” This would-be Blackness. She gave Jary a

repentant thought, then paid the bill.

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Chapter 42 Haidren

Longeye Naval Base

Longeye, Nordland

Runeday, 25 Tempest 2079

08:55

hirty Fûshocks dead and counting.

It was all over the media—headlining the papers, spoken on airwaves,

debated in talk shows, murmured in sleeping quarters, and, of course, gossip-

ed on Teth3rd.

It was unlike Haidren—in fact, it was below him—to add his voice to the

fray, but he’d felt compelled to act. Important header, he’d shared on the social

network yesterday evening, with more than an undertone of sarcasm. Attack

on Fûshocks misconstrued as affront on the Race. Affront on the Race misconstrued

as affront on the Homeland. Uncalibrated are the Scales! It was vexing to see how

overblown the story was—by the media, the army, by Average Stiv Dolittle

with his selfone. Could no one grasp the truth? At least Haidren’s contacts on

Teth3rd would benefit from his acumen.

There will be no war.

Still, the anxiousness in the air was palpable. Gossip and paranoia swelled

like a balloon. Not only did everyone expect it to burst, it seemed they wanted

it to burst, as if somehow it would alleviate the banality of everyday life.

Admittedly, a small part of him joined their ranks. Jena and Jarenold were

never far on his mind . . . plus the exuberance was all-sweeping; Longeye was

like a wingdisk stadium, its recruits spectators to the Nocturnals’ gold-medal

showdown. Racist slurs—Swinemen, Ghouls, froggers, bat-faces—were back in

vogue, and mention of war was as casual as breakfast talk.

But the bigger part of Haidren found it all very discomfiting. Recruits wore

their hormones on their sleeves, as it were, talking about war like they would

lead the vanguard, yet knowing full well they would never see live combat.

The instructors, for one, didn’t fail to capitalize on the moment. Overnight,

a bunch of recruits were interested in world military history, particularly the

T

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Nordlander Ascendancy, so today Captain Reed scrapped the program and

lectured on just that. From the front of the classroom, he flicked through a

slideshow of images and statistics on Nordland’s eighteenth- and nineteenth-

century naval victories, from the First Battle of Crater Bay to the Flower Wars.

The recruits gobbled it up.

Haidren was only half paying attention. He knew the history; he’d heard

it countless times as a boy sitting on his da’s lap at their fishing lodge on Lake

Gloom. It had been like listening to a fairy tale. Even today, eight years later,

he recalled the essentials: The Nordlander Ascendancy, which had coincided

with the affirmation of the Merchant Stock and the advent of democracy, had

been spearheaded by the buildup of the navy. Thus, Nordlander ships were

able to control Meteor Bay and, with it, the Lazarus trade which culminated

in the Flower Wars. He remembered the poignant words of one historian: The

Flower Wars accelerated the moral decay of Hôcan society and the downfall of the

Klovîz dynasty. It was ironic to think that, so many years later, Haidren was a

user of that same drug. But times had changed; Lazarus was no longer merely

a drug for the oppressed. It was a window into the order of things.

One need just harness the spell . . .

The captain paced the floor, explaining something about shipbuilding, but

Haidren’s mind wandered. Moral decay, he thought in a loop. He was begin-

ning to have doubts. You shouldn’t have smoked before meeting her. He’d phoned

her thrice in two days to let her know about the Grand Trek show next month.

But Lybella had not picked up. So he’d sent her a text message. But still there

was no reply.

She had been genuine with him all evening at BarFin. Had she suffered a

change of heart? Had she realized it was unfeasible to keep seeing him with

Kellanan in the background? Had she concluded that maybe Haidren wasn’t

the one for her?

Had Haidren jettisoned his chance with the petulant way he’d acted? Moral

decay. Wizard crop was accountable. It made him strong, but egotistical and

foolhardy. He didn’t need it. He could thrive without it—on love. After all,

he’d been sober during the best moments of the night, sharing a spiced nectar,

laughing . . .

Haidren didn’t hear Captain Reed dismiss the class. Had it not been for the

simultaneous paper-shuffling and chair-screeching of thirty recruits, he may

have sat right through to the next lecture.

Haidren, Fedric, and Jam found each other outside the old brick building

on the eastern side of the main esplanade. It was a cloudy day. They could

hear the waves battering the quay to the south, where the Ancestral, newly

commissioned to sea, had been docked a week ago. More or less consciously,

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362

the boys formed a triangle on the wet grass beside the gravel footpath. Rows

of recruits in blacks filed by, heading to their second and final class today.

Haidren glimpsed a pretty creature, but as he looked closer, she grew a beak

nose and a gullet chin.

“What the captain’s saying is pretty radical,” Jam said, shifting his weight.

“What if it comes to war?”

“It’s not gonna come to war,” Haidren shot back. He was saturated with

war talk and didn’t feel like reviving the argument.

Fedric wagged a finger. “You never know. Lawe did make that statement

about a line in the sand—”

“Before she lost elections,” Haidren fired back. “She can’t start a war with

two weeks left in power.”

“It’s not so much about the administration at this point,” Fedric asserted.

“It’s a question of national interest and security. Besides, wars take more than

two weeks to wind up. Drills are already underway in the Channel, and it’s

like Reed said: if things get worse between now and when Lyon takes office,

Lawe won’t have a choice but to mobilize, and once mobilization’s decreed,

it’s rare things wind down.”

Haidren had probably been daydreaming during that part of the lecture;

he didn’t remember hearing that . . .

“Shielder.”

The word was faint, bitten off at the end. Haidren thought he might have

imagined it. But then it came again, with an inflection on the second syllable.

“Shiel-der.” It could only be one person.

He turned to find Ianok Flirk, the felock who had made the lewd comment

on Nordland’s shape and who apparently made it her business to besmirch

Haidren’s name, leaning on the building twenty feet away, one talon pressed

against the brown brick. At her flanks were a lanky girl and a rhinoceros of a

felock, looking his way, mimicking their leader’s impish smirk.

Fedric and Jam were still chatting, unaware. Haidren locked eyes with the

hooligan, unwilling to yield first. He wore his best what-do-you-want look,

but finally relented out of boredom or inconclusiveness.

The next one came seconds later, louder this time. “Shiel-DER!”

Fedric and Jam both heard.

Haidren turned back around. “What’s your Scalebent purpose?” he called,

making sure to sound candid without appearing offended. A couple passing

recruits overheard and looked.

Flirk didn’t reply. She merely stood there, smirking. The lanky one grinned

like a dumb hyena, as if to please her overlord. The rhino, on the other hand,

had seemingly lost interest.

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Haidren waited, then bared his hands. “What?” When a reply wasn’t forth-

coming, he turned to a blank-faced Jam and an unimpressed Fedric. Both kept

their gazes levelled on Flirk, Jam out of curiosity, Fedric out of spite. “Fuck,”

Fred mused, shaking his head. He looked more upset than Haidren. “What a

glorious tool.”

When Flirk said it a fourth time, Haidren decided he’d had enough. Before

Fedric and Jam could react, he spun around and flounced toward her. Ten

steps later, he stood two feet away. She was a short felock, but thickset like

an old trunk, with striations like tree rings. Haidren glared at her and spoke

in staccato. “What’s. Your. Purpose.” He was pleased to find that his perfor-

mance had stolen the grin from her face. Flirk stared back, sneering through

her bull nose. Haidren felt confident he could take her down if push came to

shove. Of course, the rhino and the other tool might be a hazard, but Fedric

and Jam were approaching from the rear; he could hear their footsteps. Three

versus three.

Finally, Flirk spoke. “What’s your purpose?” she shot back dully. There

was malice in her voice, like she genuinely and passionately reviled Haidren.

Haidren feigned bewilderment. “You’re really as stupid as you look, eh?”

“You’re as much a gidder as you look.” Flirk grabbed her lanky friend by

the shoulders and half-ducked behind her, pretending she was a flesh shield.

“Don’t shoot!” she squealed.

“We won the game,” Haidren reminded.

“Yeah, and now you’re gonna be a virgin all your life ‘cause the girls know

you’re a gidder.”

She has no way of knowing I’m a virgin . . .

Fedric stepped in. “What’s your problem, raa? Worst case, you can fuck off

and not talk to us again. That would suit us just fine.”

“Yeah, you’re a tool,” Haidren added.

“You’re a gidder,” Flirk bit back. She cocked her head at Fedric, then spoke

to Haidren. “You get your friends to do the fighting for you. I’m surprised

you’re not hiding behind your da right now.”

Oh, so that’s what this is about? Haidren’s next move happened despite him;

he shot his chin at the big girl. “I’m surprised you’re not hiding behind your

fat friend.” He immediately regretted it; in a matter of seconds, the big girl’s

face had gone from placid to livid, her temples pulsating, her face darkening.

Haidren thought of the fabled words spoken by the king when Hôc provoked

Nordland into the First Battle of Crater Bay. I just woke a sleeping monster.

The big felock stood no more than two inches above Haidren, but she was

almost twice his girth. She shot her chin at him, returning the gesture. “Say it

again.”

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364

Ahh, fuck. “You heard me the first time,” Haidren said, saving face.

“Say it again.”

Haidren made his best nonchalant face. “You heard me.”

“Say it again.” The beast took a step forward.

Jam laid his hand on Haidren’s shoulder in a gesture that suggested they

leave. Haidren should have relented, but something inside him was stronger,

more feral. He scarcely looked at the girl, but muttered the word clearly and

distastefully. “You’re fat.”

And the rhino was on him.

The first punch was a right hook that missed him by a few inches. Haidren

had just enough time to duck and raise his arms defensively. The second blow

scraped awkwardly against his right arm and shoulder, but it still stung; this

was a strong felock. He could hear her snorting and groaning as she threw

punches like a windmill.

Haidren curled up underneath her. Over him, the felock balled a double

fist and rammed it into his back and head like a pile driver. He’d been in one

or two brawls before, and his instincts were always the same: he locked onto

her hocks and tugged with all his might. The wet, muddy grass was his ally.

Before the rhino noticed what was happening, she was falling backward like

a felled tree. The impact must have shaken the earth, but Haidren was too

busy to notice.

The beast’s advantage in size neutralized, Haidren moved over her. The

punches were still flying, desperately strong. Haidren found himself pinning

her with one knee while protecting his own face. One of the felock’s punches

plowed through his defenses and hit him awkwardly on the forehead. Then

a second one struck him too close to the temple. You’ve got to punch her back.

Haidren threw his fists. He never found out if he hit her in the face, but he

did land a few good blows on her torso.

He wasn’t conscious of how many punches he threw.

The rest was a blur. It lasted no more than ten seconds. Haidren was back

on his feet and the felock was struggling to stand, her blacks soaked and

muddied, her face speckled with mud, her great chest heaving as she panted.

To Haidren’s surprise, she didn’t charge.

Breathless, he turned away. For some reason, pride overcame him again.

“Fat-ass,” he cursed under his breath.

And the rhino came lunging back. Haidren braced himself for impact, but

the felock never made it to him. She slipped on the wet grass and crashed

down flat on her stomach. For a second, she looked like a sow rolling around

in a pigpen.

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Fred and Jam leapt to form a protective wall around Haidren. Flirk and the

spindly felock were holding back the assailant as she got up again. Just like

that, as quickly as it had begun, the fight was over.

That’s when Haidren noticed the crowd of recruits—melocks and felocks

alike—stalled on the gravel path, forming an arc around him, studying him

like a specimen. Some sensitive recruits were turned vexingly to their friends,

lips curled in displeasure and dismay.

And there was Fawn, looking at him, her face plain.

“HEY!”

Haidren turned to see two instructors in combat gear running toward him

from the south. Ahh, fuck. He wiped mud from his cheek.

Within seconds, Lieutenant Welhanol, his instructor for Amphibious and

Underwater Training, was on site, an intense frown splayed on her bracket-

like face. “Can someone tell me what in the Scales is going on here?!” No one

dared to answer. “You find this amusing?”

She’s talking to me, Haidren realized. That’s when he noticed he was grin-

ning, whether out of spite or something else, he knew not. “No, Lieutenant.”

“You’re coming with me, recruits.”

Haidren and the rhino were escorted all the way to the entry gates of the

naval base into Colonel Hillbarrow’s office on the second floor of Lybenn

Hall. The room was modest, save for the luxurious window overlooking Tate

Square, where recruits spent hours at attention during Drill Practice. Long-

eye’s top-ranking officer was rummaging through a stack of papers when the

two filthy recruits stepped into her office. She looked up, brows arched, like

she knew nothing of the incident or the purpose of their visit. Casually setting

papers on the edge of her jade-plated mahogany desk, she gestured her chief

of staff to close the door behind her.

“I would tell you to have a seat,” she started, “but you’d dirty my chairs.”

Haidren was relatively clean, but Recruit Perus, as the rhino was called, had

quite literally bathed in muck. “That, and you don’t deserve to sit, anyways.”

She sat down, leaned forward, steepled strong fingers. “Well . . . explain your-

selves.”

Haidren was short for words. Apparently, so was Perus. So Haidren made

the first move. “It was a misunderstanding, Colonel,” he conceded.

Colonel Hillbarrow eyed him, then Perus, who nodded sombrely.

“Recon has a course called Radio Systems,” the colonel pointed out. “It

teaches you the rudiments of communication. Maybe I should send you two

clowns there.” The recruits remained silent—a wise decision. Haidren’s eyes

were locked onto the colonel’s, an attempt at both resilience and repentance.

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He found himself studying the oval of her face, the long forehead . . . anything

to keep his mind busy and his eyes from wandering.

Colonel Hillbarrow sighed. “Frankly, I don’t wanna know what happened,

because I know it’s not worth my time.” She paused. “The enemy’s out there,

recruits. Not in here. Does that make sense to you?”

“Yes, Colonel,” they chanted in unison.

“Good. Now . . . when I give the cue, you will shake hands and apologize

to each other. Then you will never again engage in a similar kind of behaviour

. . . toward each other or anyone else on base. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“Good.” Colonel Hillbarrow made a gesture, almost dismissive. Haidren

turned on cue and grabbed Perus’s wide arm, looking her square in the eyes.

The felock’s face was muddied, her lip snarled at the edge, but at least the fire

in her eyes had snuffed out. Good, thought Haidren. He didn’t want to make

enemies, least of all enemies that large.

Colonel Hillbarrow studied them, then nodded. “Off you go.” Together,

the recruits raised their left hand, then started for the door, but the leader of

Longeye Naval Base called out from behind. “Recruit Claren, you can stay.”

A knot tightened in Haidren’s gut. He was a Claren. This episode must not

leak and reach Stiv. He didn’t want to tarnish the family name. So he faced

his superior like his father would . . . if he had superiors.

Hillbarrow sighed. “You are the son of Stiv Cla—”

“I’m sorry,” Haidren blurted. “It wasn’t me who threw the first punch, it

was—”

Colonel Hillbarrow raised a hand to silence him. “We’ve talked about that.

I told you, I don’t know what happened and I don’t care . . . and I don’t want

to hear any more of it.”

Haidren felt his cheeks flush.

“As I was saying, you are the son of Stiv Claren, so I don’t need to tell you

what’s going on across the Channel and what it means for our country and

our national defense.” She leaned back in her chair. “I imagine you are aware

of the Reserve Act.” Haidren was not, but he felt like he should, so he kept

quiet. “They’re recruiting for the Recruit Reserve in case things heat up faster

than expected. I gave them your name, Recruit Claren. I want to know if that’s

okay with you, if it’s something that might interest you.”

Now Haidren understood. He was being asked to join the Recruit Reserve,

a prestigious program for elite recruits who planned on joining the army after

MSP. He would train with the best recruits from across the country, even be

paid for it. “I’m accepted at Gal-U,” he said.

“We can override that,” replied the colonel. After a pause: “Interested?”

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“Yes,” Haidren stammered, still not sure.

Colonel Hillbarrow nodded martially. “I thought you’d be interested.”

“Thank you, Colonel.”

The hint of a smile touched her lips. “For what, Recruit?”

When Haidren rejoined his friends at the lunch table in Winter Hall, the

first thing he did was tell them the exciting news. It was on his mind for the

rest of the day—in the afternoon at the shooting range, after supper on Tate

Square; in the evening during compass training (normally, his sense of direct-

ion was hopeless as a mouse in a maze, but somehow it was easier to navigate

tonight).

When he got back to his barracks, the sun was setting over the Channel.

Haidren sent his da an e-mail to apprise him of the news, then debated rolling

a wand. You have to stop smoking on base, he thought. You’ll get caught.

Hours later, as he lay in bed, a million thoughts zipping through his head,

he regretted smoking, partly because it prevented him from falling asleep (he

had a big day tomorrow), but mostly because he’d felt good without it. I don’t

need it, he repeated to himself. Last year, he had told his ma and da he’d quit,

yet he still smoked behind their backs. It wasn’t honest. You must quit. Maybe

he could throw out the rest of the wizard crop he’d bought from Sweetcheeks;

it would be a symbolic act. Even better: he could burn it in front of his parents.

What a sight that would be. He pictured his ma with tears of joy, his da with

a stolid countenance, a glimmer of pride in his eyes.

He didn’t need wizard crop. It made him act weirdly around Lybella. She

liked him—she wanted to like him—but he wasn’t letting her in. She had been

genuine last weekend. He hadn’t. He’d been defensive. Closed. Unforgiving.

Did he expect her to leave Kellanan overnight on a whim? Besides, Haidren

was her friend.

So why had she not returned his calls or messages?

She’s scared to like me. She needed to be reassured. She needed him to be

honest and humble. Vulnerable. As she was.

Sleep was not forthcoming, so Haidren sat up and pulled his selfone. He

logged onto Teth3rd, wrote a message, reread it, tweaked it to perfection, and

sent it.

Hey Lybella, I know there’s a little tension between us. It’s my

fault. I’m not always myself. I find we get along wonderfully,

and I hope to keep you as a friend.

Haidren

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368

Honest, he thought, and simple. That’s what girls wanted, especially Hum-

an girls. She’ll be happy to wake up to that.

Haidren Claren logged off.

Slowly but surely, he drifted to sleep, never worrying about the trials that

tomorrow would bring.

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Chapter 43 Nahrû

SECOM Headquarters

Upper Gallinton, Nordland

Foolsday, 26 Tempest 2079

11:33

uck this world, thought Nahrû Bentâm, surrendering her face to her open

palms. I gave up everything—my nation, my race, the pronunciation of my last

name. And this is how I’m repaid. It was not enough, never enough, and it was

all being thrown back at her like dirty laundry.

Stop whining, said another part of her. You deserve this. It was not her that

was betrayed. It was Brevon. He was the victim. You lied to him. Worse. You

hid from him. Their relationship had foundered. But what was a relationship

if not a collection of memories? The bits and pieces could be salvaged. All he

needed was some time away from her, and she away from him. Nahrû had

felt it herself, how the tension lifted during her trip to the Compass Islands.

Time heals all wounds, she reassured herself. Time and distance. That’s why she

decided to rent a hotel room. Brevon, a gentleman in his darkest hour, had

offered to move out. He wasn’t the one who deserved ostracizing.

You’re a traitor. A fraud. Like Dakâri.

Drey halted the car in front of SECOM headquarters near the top officials’

entrance. For the first time in as long as she could remember, Nahrû made no

attempt to pull the overhead mirror to adjust her hair. Instead, she peered

morosely through the tinted window at the massive cubic structure that was

the SECOM head office. She’d never been expressly fond of its concrete colu-

mns and steel beams and grey-blue curtainwall windows and white curtains,

which all made her think of an outdated hospital. But nostalgia was already

settling in.

When Drey appeared to open the door, she wasn’t ready to go. The driver

nodded politely as she stepped out, and wished her a ritualistic “Have a good

day, Miss Bentâm,” which had the comfort of familiarity, but was powerless

to lighten her mood.

F

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She kept her head low and her profile lower as she made her way to her

office on the tenth floor, the highest floor. It was all too symbolic, she thought.

You reached your zenith, and this is your downfall. She considered locking herself

in, never to reemerge. Stop whining.

There was work to do and no time to waste.

It took her little under an hour to clear her office. The documents that were

no longer needed were shredded. The bulk of the paraphernalia was thrown

out. The framed photograph of Brevon, which deflected her attention for a

minute, was stowed in her briefcase. Nahrû sighed, glanced around, said her

goodbyes, and headed out the door. Her heels pierced the staleness of air like

nails beating into a coffin.

The descent to the sixth floor was quiet, her mood pensive. As soon as the

elevator doors beeped open, she donned her most convincing game face and

hustled past cubicles and work stations, enduring the knowing stares of emp-

loyees, and dignifying the greetings of officials with a taut half-smile. Before

she knew it, she stood before a heavy steel door at the other end of the space.

The Hole.

To her near-surprise, her identification and password were accepted. You

are not done yet. There was a buzzing sound not unlike that of a bloodfly, and

she yanked on the handle. Taking a deep breath, she entered.

As usual, the Hole was dim, shady as the operations it harboured. Few of

the numerous computer screens were active, and, owing to the fact that it was

lunchtime, only a fraction of the staff was present. The square-shouldered

Stockman with the square-topped cap, peering at a computer screen through

square spectacles, could only be her deputy director. Halbecker Dimes was

accompanied by two young technicians, who turned around at the sound of

footfalls. Hal spun in his pivot chair.

“Hi, Nahrû.” His face was stiff with regret.

“Hi.” Nahrû descended three stairs into the pit and halted some feet away.

“Mels, is it possible to have a moment alone with Hal? Please.” The two mel-

ocks nodded and acquiesced. There was a moment’s silence as Hal sat facing

her. Thankfully, he was decent enough not to speak of her predicament.

Setting her briefcase down beside a computer monitor on the nearest desk,

Nahrû broke the silence. “So,” she sighed, “how’s it coming along?”

Hal steepled his fingers and nodded equivocally as he gyrated in his chair.

“We’re ready to send her back to the Wood Age,” he said. “Backup files have

all been cleared. Everything we have is on the mainframe. All we’re waiting

for is your go-ahead.”

It was odd to think she was still in charge of something.

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Halbecker Dimes examined her through his lenses as if she were some a

museum exhibition. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

She shook her head. “Do we have a choice?”

Hal shuffled in his seat. “Blackwatch could change the entire course of

Nordlander politics . . . of history. You could change the world with this stuff.”

“Yeah . . . but who’s to say it would be for the best? We’ve already got an

impending crisis with Hôc. We don’t need another internal one. Lyon’s blab-

bering will surface at one point, and when it does, SECOM won’t be tarnished

for extralegal spying.”

“Bringing Blackwatch to light might help us avert a crisis.” Hal stood up, a

full two heads taller than her. “The Aphelians are warmongers. Hôc knows

that. Everyone knows that. If we topple the Aphelian machine, sure SECOM

will be tarnished, sure there will be public enquiries into the legitimacy of our

operations. But at least we could avert war.”

I’ve considered that all too often. “You and I both know this conflict’s larger

than mere party politics. It’s a question of nationhood. Of race.” Inadvertent-

ly, Mikka’s dungeon flashed in her head. “Pride.” She looked away, unsure

what she was avoiding. “The Nordlander army started drills on the southern

coast and in the Channel. This conflict’s not winding down, not with the Peri-

helians, not with the Aphelians. The timing would be wrong . . .”

Hal was silent, dismayed, almost. “Well . . . Genesis is always here, in case

you ever want to come back.”

Nahrû managed a laugh. No situation was ever too dire for Hal. “I doubt

my ID will get me in,” she said with a wan smile. It was good to know that at

least one of her brainchildren—Case Genesis—would survive the transition.

Whether the new administration would pay it any mind was another matter.

“Are you going to be okay?”

Nahrû hadn’t noticed her eyes had fallen to the carpeted floor, the vestiges

of a smile imprinted on her face. I must look as transparent as a window. “Yeah,”

she lied, “I’ll be fine . . .” She could feel her deputy watching her, awkwardly

silent. For a half second, his hand twitched as if he’d thought to touch her but

decided it was best not to; as if he was ashamed to do so. Suddenly, she felt

completely naked—naked as in her cell at Mikka’s and just as powerless. Her

breathing became laboured, audible.

“Are you okay?” Hal tried again.

No, she thought. No. She reached over, half-blind, pulling herself toward a

vacated chair. She sat and buried her face in her hands. And she wept. For

her job. Her country. For Brevon.

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“Hey.” Hal’s immense hand found her shoulder, bestowed gentle caresses.

“It’s okay.” She wept harder, louder. Hal knelt before her. “You want some-

thing to drink? Water? Coffee?”

She peered at him through wet swollen eyes and nodded. “Coffee,” she

said, sniffling. Hal immediately stood up. Within seconds, he was gone.

And she was alone.

Nahrû Bentâm wasted no time.

She opened her briefcase, retrieved the digital information keys she had

stowed in a shallow side pocket, and hurried over to a computer linked to the

mainframe. There, she plugged in the first key and accessed Case Blackwatch.

A window with the joint seals of Nordland and SECOM popped up. She

entered her password and navigated the files, face glued to the screen. Audio,

she read. Recordings . . . Recordings, Tempest. She clicked on the folder. Transfer

to DIK. The transfer took approximately one minute. The next folder, she put

on her second key, the one after on her third.

A sound startled her. The door was buzzing. Shit! Was Hal back already?

The coffee machine was at the other end of the floor . . .

When she saw who it was, she was somewhat relieved. “Hi, Jai. Um . . .”

What, what, what? “Delalus wants to speak to you, I think.” She heard herself

utter the words as if from a third person.

“Delalus?” The technician looked puzzled. “Where is he?”

“At the cafeteria, I think.” The cafeteria was one floor lower—far enough

to keep him busy long enough, she hoped.

“Okay . . .” Hesitating, he made an about-face and headed back out.

The folder finished copying moments later. Case Genesis was a bit sparser,

owing to the paucity of video and audio content. When it was done, Nahrû

pulled the information key from the computer and stowed it in her briefcase

alongside its brothers in arms. Then she quickly climbed out of the Hole. Now

it’s personal, she thought, unable to suppress the smug face of Chancellor-elect

Sewel Lyon.

On her way through the workspace of the sixth floor, she spotted her dep-

uty taking gingerly strides, two coffee mugs in hand.

“Hey!” he called when he saw her. “Nahrû!”

Nahrû Bentâm pretended not to hear. He’ll understand, she thought. After

all, she’d just lost her husband, her job, and her reputation. No, she decided

as the elevator doors closed behind her, my reputation precedes me.

She made it on time to the Treadcourt, the Perihelian joint on Mill Hill, for

a late lunch with Stiv. The sulfuric-eyed Stockman arrived with a soldier’s

punctuality, dressed in a sleeveless tunic without his greatcoat and faro, so as

to keep a lower profile. He looked almost a different man, she thought, but

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his integrity was never compromised. “Nahrû,” he said, connecting his fore-

head to hers. His embrace caused a host of emotions to well up inside her,

sincere this time.

They sat face to face at a white-clothed table beside a rain-spattered win-

dow overlooking the vacant terrace where, roughly four weeks ago, she had

seen Daniker Forge. In the dining room, several tables away, was the bulky

Kelren Mawes, Perihelian Councillor from Lagondawn, who’d won his chair

with a mere thousand-vote margin. Nahrû also noticed a couple high-ranking

officials from Jadexx Corporations. Two hundred and fifty years ago, she lament-

ed, I could’ve shared a table with Aphelians. Today the Treadcourt was anathema

to the other party.

“So, how are you doing?” Stiv asked, palms on his lap.

“Ahhh . . .” Nahrû exhaled. “Been better.”

Stiv concurred. “You know, Narwal and I are always here, if there’s any-

thing at all.”

She thanked him. As they waited for their plates, they discussed the elect-

ion, the crackdown in Rêga, the crisis with Hôc. It was all very bleak talk, but

being close to Stiv made her feel safer. By the time the couple sitting next to

them was served, the discussion had steered to the border exercises that had

commenced last week.

“Why mobilize when there’s less than two weeks till inauguration?” she

asked. Her absence from the Fishtank had kept her out of the loop. Although

she feared the answer, she wanted to hear it personally from her friend, the

military chief.

Stiv bared his hands obviously. “To save face.” He had that strange, rueful

grin, a compelling grin. Despite the heavy creases forming on and around his

jowls, he was curiously handsome at times. “I was firmly opposed to it. But

it wasn’t a military decision at that point.” He sighed, an exasperated look on

his face. “The people want games, the chancellor gives them games.” It was

a reference to King Klovîz X, notorious for staging shows in which captured

Fûshocks were slain or fought to the death. As Stiv was fond of reminding,

politics was a constant effort to placate the mobs, and, more often than not,

blood was what kept the mobs pliant.

“We all know the Aphelians support the drills,” Nahrû lamented.

Stiv nodded. “Right now, the Aphelians are Nordland.”

Nahrû shook her head. “Sewel Lyon is going to take the country down

with him.”

Stiv shrugged. “Only if he goes down.”

He will, she thought knowingly.

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The Supreme Armed Forces Commander took a sip of his nectar, set the

glass down gently. “He requested a meeting with me. This afternoon.”

Nahrû looked up. “What?”

“Chancellor-elect Lyon. He requested to meet with me.”

For a second, Nahrû was baffled. Then she understood. “He’s going to ask

you to stay.”

Stiv looked at her gravely, nodded.

There was a pause. “Are you going to take it?”

Stiv shook his head, his gaze distant. “I can’t. I don’t believe in his policies,

nor do I believe in his platform. And if there’s to be a full-blown assault on

the Kingdom, I don’t want to be the one who executes it.”

At first Nahrû was worried, concerned. This is what you do; it’s what you like,

the woman in her wanted to say. The opportunistic side prevailed. “Stiv,” she

said, “you have to take it.”

He eyed her quizzically.

“Stiv, I—” How do I say this without sounding crazy? “I know this is going to

sound . . . absolutely outrageous and irrational, but there’s something going

on in Hôc. And someone needs to counsel the next chancellor. At this point,

I can’t be the one to do it.”

Stiv’s expression betrayed confusion.

“I think this is a . . . I think this is a cover-up story, this whole quarantine

of Rêga and . . . the purge of the Fûshan Liberation Force. I think this whole

thing was fabricated to cover up an extraterrestrial landing—Before you say

anything, hear me out! The meteor, the probe—whatever—that landed on the

first of Tempest . . . listen, you saw the footage . . . I’ve been spending a lot of

time—too much time, to be honest—trying to figure it out. And all the clues

point in one direction. We saw something come out of the crash site, some

kind of . . .” She noticed she was probably looking frazzled, so she took things

down a notch. “I know this sounds crazy, but it would explain everything.

And—think about it—if an extraterrestrial can land unopposed and unnotic-

ed—or virtually unnoticed—and walk the globe freely, what does that mean?

Is it a, ah, miracle, or is it a threat? Will there be others?”

If Stiv thought she was mad, he didn’t show it, and that unnerved her even

more. She did pick up a pang of worry in his eyes. He must think I’m having a

nervous breakdown. “The Aphelians are going to shut down Sky Shield,” she

said. “What if it’s the very thing we need to survive?” The words lingered.

Stiv opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. He was clearly un-

comfortable. “Nahrû, I . . . I know this is a difficult time—”

“Stiv, listen to me, godsdammit!” Involuntarily, she pounded the table,

provoking glares from nearby clients. “Stiv,” she resumed, softly this time,

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“it’s me. Nahrû. You’ve trusted me this long. I’m just asking you to trust me

a little longer.” She stared into his pale yellow eyes. “Can you at least look

into it? Case Genesis is not up for termination. I can guide you through the

files, if you want.”

Stiv sighed. “This is not for me to present to the chancellor.”

“Who’s going to do it, if not you? I don’t think Mel Lyon is in the mood to

be advised by Miss Scandal, is he? My whole directorship is a blatant stain on

the SECOM’s dossier.” She paused. “He will listen to you, though. All I’m

asking is that you listen to me.”

“Nahrû . . . how do you expect me to sell this to the chancellor-elect? How

do you expect anyone to believe this, ah—regardless of how much evidence

you have? If he dismisses this as fantasy, what happens then?”

“Then we topple him.” She didn’t want her friend to get involved with the

dirty stuff, so she corrected herself. “I will topple him.”

Stiv looked concerned. “What?”

“I’ve got proof that he’s fomenting war with Hôc. That he’s been fomenting

war for a long time.”

“Why? How do you have proof?”

She could already picture the headlines when the story would be publish-

ed:

Disgraced SECOM Director Finds Proof of

Warmongering and Extraterrestrial Lifeform

A sly grin formed on her lips. It felt like she hadn’t smiled in years. “I was

Director of SECOM, remember?” She sipped her wine, oblivious of the fact

that Stiv’s true intentions would dash all her hopes.

Martin Brisebois

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Chapter 44 Sewel

EDEF Headquarters

Upper Gallinton, Nordland

Foolsday, 26 Tempest 2079

14:54

e was leafing through a tome on the Flower Wars entitled The Venturist

Wars when he heard footsteps approaching behind.

“You take interest in history, Chancellor-elect?”

Sewel shut the heavy volume with a resounding thud and turned slowly.

“Only the history where we win,” he grinned.

The soldier raised a left palm, then took measured strides toward him. His

black uniform was impeccably pressed. Three colourful medals decorated the

left breast, and a nametag spelled his name in bold black letters on the right

breast: CLAREN. Over it all, he wore the greatcoat of the navy with a white

faro jutting behind his head, sure as the stele of the People’s Law.

There’s a real Stockman, thought Sewel, with a less enthusiastic side thought

to his stepdaughter. Despite the dimness of the underground office, Claren’s

eyes shone like gold in a mine. He wasn’t exceptionally tall, and too old to be

a poster boy for the race, but there was stolidity and fortitude in him—Stock-

man virtues both.

“Have you read this one before?” the general enquired.

Sewel fingered the ridged spine and ran a hand over the silver inlayed text

on the cover. The Venturist Wars by Daniker Forge. “No.” He propped the book

back into its designated niche on the bookshelf. “Enlighten me.”

Claren shrugged, taking a few steps forward. “The thesis is simple: Most

wars between Nordland and Hôc in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries,

especially the Flower Wars, were led by the economic aspirations of a handful

of merchants with powerful ties in the Merchants Council.”

Sewel frowned. “I never knew there was a Localist inside you.”

“It’s always good to know both sides.” Claren extended his hand.

H

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“Does that mean we’re on opposing sides, General?” He clasped Claren’s

forearm. Good handshake for a man with slight hands.

The Supreme Armed Forces Commander looked him squarely in the eye.

“No, Mel Chancellor-elect.”

That’s what I thought. “You can call me Sewel.” He released his grip.

Claren gestured to the desk. “Would you like to have a seat?”

Sewel marched over and sank comfortably into a leather chair. Behind the

desk, twin bookshelves dominated the wall. Between them, a stuffed grand-

father owl was perched on a pedestal, staring back with flint eyes. Aside from

these ornaments, Claren’s office was startlingly modest. The evergreen walls

were arrayed with filing cabinets and various ceremonial pictures, with a

framed Mastership in Foreign Policy carefully centered on the lateral wall by

his desk.

“Can I get you something to drink? Water? Nectar?”

How ‘bout somethin’ a little harder? “I’m fine.”

As Claren settled into his office chair, Sewel spotted a family portrait on

his desk beside the computer. And you must be Haidren, he thought to himself

as he zeroed in on the handsome boy, barely eight. Pleased to meet you.

“So.” Claren rested both forearms on the desk and pocketing a fist. “What

can I do for you today?” The man was to-the-point; Sewel liked that.

“Well, I’ll make it short and clear, Stiv. As you know, all hell might break

loose with Hôc, and the Calibrate will need good soldiers.” The general was

still as a stone, as if he hadn’t picked up on the clue. “How would you like to

stay for another term?”

Claren stared at him mildly, then half-sighed. “I must respectfully decline,

Mel Lyon.”

“You . . . decline?”

“Last week,” the general started, “I sanctioned a decision that went against

my moral code, if ever I have one.” He bared his hands. “I know my place as

a soldier. My job is not to lead the banner of morality, nor should it be. But

there are times when one must question his own decisions and the repercus-

sions they may have on the destinies of others.”

“Stiv, the border exercises are the least we can do to show the Hôcans we

mean business. You know that. Besides, if you’re not serving directly under

me, you’ll be serving the person next in line—your current position, that is.”

“I’m thinking of leaving the forces.”

Sewel eyed him, waiting for him to concede the joke. But the general’s face

was carved in rock. “You’re serious.” It came out more statement than quest-

ion. “Have you told anyone?”

Claren hesitated as if trying to remember, then shook his head.

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378

“Hrmpf.” Sewel sat back and folded a leg. “And this is because you’re dis-

illusioned with the administration you serve?”

“No.” The general shook his head emphatically, raising a self-vindicating

hand. “It’s been a long time coming. It’s not only about the job,” he offered

vaguely.

Sewel cleared his throat. “You’ll be serving a new administration. We are

not the Perihelians.”

Stiv smiled politely. “With all due respect, Mel Lyon, your party’s track

record on, ahh, aggression, if you’ll allow me the discourtesy, is no less . . .

flagrant than the Perihelians’. As I said, the realm of politics is above me, and

it’s not my place to criticize an administration’s—any administration’s—pol-

icies on war, but I am opposed to unwarranted use of force.”

He’s a hard egg to crack. It was best to pry from a different angle.

“You seem like an avid reader,” Sewel said, gesturing to the bookshelves

behind him. “Have you ever read the story of the Little Stranded Girl?”

Stiv Claren’s face melted into a frown. “No, I don’t believe I have.”

Sewel raised his hand, folding the thumb. “There’s two little boys and a

little girl . . . and they’re stranded on an island. Their cargo’s lost at sea and

they’ve got no food. So what do they do? Well, they do what anyone else in

their position would do: they look for food. Plants, fruit, animals—anything.

After a day of foraging the forest, they come across a great big grove of wild

berries, enough to last them a lifetime.”

The Supreme Armed Forced Commander eyed him uncertainly.

“So they decide to pick the berries and bring them back to the beach where

they can store them. The little girl has an idea: What if they share a communal

basket to which each will contribute equally?” Sewel grinned. “I guess you

could say she was the first Localist.” He made a looping gesture with his fore-

finger. “The system works for the first day or two. But then . . . the little girl

notices that one of the boys isn’t filling his quota. While she and the other boy

are picking berries, he’s napping under a great oak or splashing in the river

or basking in the sun. Frustrated, the little girl demands that he works as hard

as them. And so he does . . . for a day or two. But then he starts to slack again.

“What’s more, a few days later, she notices the other boy’s slacking. So she

says, ‘You know what? It’s over.’ She decides to pick her own basket without

their help.

“All is well for a couple days until, one morning, the little girl wakes up to

find that a handful of berries is missing from her basket. She confronts the

boys, but they tell her it must’ve been a wild animal—a rabbit, a boar. So she

makes nothing more of it. And, sure enough, next morning, her basket is even

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emptier. This time, two handfuls of berries are missing. So she confronts the

boys again. Same old story: it was a wild animal.

“Every day, the little girl wakes up to find her basket emptier and emptier,

and every day she gets hungrier and hungrier. So one night, she pretends to

sleep, but keeps one eye open. She finally catches them in the act and decides

to leave them . . . to go live on her own. But before long, the boys track her

down and, after a brief squabble, they take her food and they kill her.” Sewel

showed his palms, letting the words linger. “And that is the story of the Little

Stranded Girl.”

The Supreme Armed Forces Commander eyed him suspiciously. “And the

moral of the story is . . . that people are greedy?”

“The moral of the story is . . . in this world, he who is unwilling to use force

to defeat his enemies will be trampled underfoot.”

Claren was still for a few seconds. “I am a firm believer in the necessity for

self-defense,” he reciprocated. “But I also know the difference between that

and belligerence.”

Sewel grinned ever so lightly. “I admire your virtue, General. But war has

already befalling us, and I am giving you a chance to do what’s right for your

country and your race.”

“And I thank you for your offer. It means a great deal to me, and I am hon-

oured . . . truly. But my answer remains the same.”

Grunting, Sewel sat back. They all have a weak spot. He pointed to the framed

photograph—the family sitting around a campfire, each child in the arms of

the matching-sex parent. “That’s a nice picture. That’s your son, correct? Hai-

dren?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Hrmpf. I hear he’s doing quite well for himself.” The general eyed him un-

flinchingly. “He was asked to join the Recruit Reserve, yes? Maybe he’ll be a

Stockman hero someday. It would be . . . a pity that his father isn’t there to

support him when that happens.”

Stiv Claren’s face turned ghastly pale. His eyes burned like liquid fire. “Are

you threatening me?” The decibels were clearly restrained.

There’s the Stockman in him. Sewel feigned indifference.

“You must be completely beside yourself,” Claren assailed, “to think that

you have the right to speak about my son like that.”

I have the right to speak about who I please. I am Nohim. But before Sewel had

time to respond, Claren spoke again.

“You want me to stay? Fine. Here are my conditions.”

Now we’re talking.

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380

“You will reinstate Nahrû Bentâm as Director of SECOM, and you will

give her an official pardon.”

Sewel almost burst in the general’s face, out of humour or disgust, he could

not say. “Not a chance. Bentâm got what was coming to her. There’s no room

for her in my Inner Circle, anyways.”

“I don’t think I’ve made myself clear,” Claren replied acridly. “You will

reinstate her, or else the world will find out about your warmongering with

Mel Justburden and the illegal campaign funds from the First Labourers.”

What? Sewel tried to conceal his bewilderment. Had he heard right? His

father’s words returned to haunt him. I am not the only one with enemies.

Nahrû Bentâm, he seethed. She was broken. How was she still biting back?

Who had eavesdropped on his chat with Rael at the Moonstone? Suddenly,

it dawned on him. My office is wiretapped.

“Who told you?” he demanded.

“Does it matter?” Claren said. There was a spark of vengeance in his eyes.

“You want to keep your job and apparently you want me to keep mine. So

let’s strike a deal from which we can both benefit. Reinstate Nahrû Bentâm.

Give her an official pardon. Then I’ll stay . . . and you will, too.”

Sewel felt fumes pouring out from the collar of his kilner. He wasn’t out-

maneuvered, he knew. He was betrayed. By Bentâm.

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Chapter 45 Toba

Millenarian High Chapel

Lower Gallinton, Nordland

Zidday, 27 Tempest 2079

08:00

he bells rang from the three towers of the Millenarian High Chapel—the

first low and lethargic, the second high and nimble, the third something

of a crossover. Together, they filled the sanctuary with a yawning warble, a

sound unlike anything he’d heard before, a sound like a fissure in the very

fabric of time.

Toba Stormwill’s eyes went chasing the music. He could almost see it, war-

ping the glass prisms high above his head; wriggling down the rune-riddled

steel columns, copper-coloured; slithering through the stony walls and floor;

climbing the trapezoid-shaped double stair to the first dais, then the triangle-

shaped stair to the second dais in the vertex of the sanctuary, high above the

congregation.

Everything was lighted red.

Is this what the End will look like?

Part of him preferred not knowing.

On the lower dais, a large felock beat the kobo drum with what looked like

a hefty bludgeon. DUM, DUM, DUM. The rhythm was the rallying call for

the choristers, twenty-four in all, dressed in stiff white robes that made them

look like statues. From the block staircases leading to the dais, they belched

a haunting tune, melocks to the left, felocks to the right. It’s Old Nordlandic,

Toba knew. He understood none of it.

But he understood the High Priestess.

From the loftier dais, at least half a hundred feet above the pews, Gabel’s

mother wore resplendent robes that seemed to change colours, even in the

still red of the heart of Millenarian High Chapel; now they were orange, now

red, now purple, now silver. Her face was concealed by a large prism mask—

a shape that didn’t exist. Her hands were upraised, and in her right she held

T

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the triple Scales of the Calibrate. Her voice, voluptuous and cataclysmic all at

once, was amplified to drown everything else.

“The clock struck eight,” she bellowed, “and in this hour ended Dawn, and

started Day. And in this hour was the first Scale drawn.” She waved the scales

above the audience like a marionette. “And who’ll step onto it to weigh their

mind, to judge the purity of their kind, to found the prophecy?” The singers

disgorged in staccato; the audience listened, enthralled. “Ulkan.” The name

resounded. “Ulkan, first appearance of your kind, step unto the Scale to bring

us poise. Hail! And thus was rendered the First Scale.”

The singers responded. “Maas Rajuura,” they chanted, not for the first time.

Gabel Santairis leaned in and spoke in Toba’s ear.

“That means ‘The Revenant Return to Us.’”

“Hm.” Toba bobbed his head.

The High Priestess raised her arms to the sky. As if at her will, the bells fell

silent one by one, their echo fading but, it seemed, never leaving the chapel.

“Who shall come next, to fill the rest? Fetoraa, to unite us. Nohim, to deliver

us. And thus will the Scales be graded, the Triangle integrated. Nohim, when

will you come? As male or female? Are you not here, walking among us? Was

it not you whom we witnessed on the first of Spring, by way of the Herald?”

The High Priestess paced the small platform high above the Adherents. “For

it is said that you will descend amidst the Shower and lead us through the

Reckoning at the final hour. Oh, Revenant, are you in Fûsha? For we have felt

the gathering of chaos across the Channel, much as a magnet draws counter

charges. And we have sensed the force of bedlam coalesce around you like a

Winter storm.”

“Maas Rajuura,” chanted the choristers. Then their hymn was reduced to a

trill, like birds from branches, and the kobo drum to a faint throb, more pulse

than noise. The High Priestess’s voice was low and dire.

“Revenant, are you among us? For we feel you. The Reckoning is nigh.”

After the proceedings, Toba and Gabel loitered in the last pew at the back

of the nave while the High Priestess exchanged friendly words with members

of her congregation. They should be called Admirers instead of Adherents, Toba

thought with a flourish. The Stockmen—ordinary people, by the looks of it—

had a propensity to bow and smile and grab Gabel’s ma’s hand as they spoke

to her like she was the Revenant in the flesh. The red lights had been turned

off and her prism mask removed. From a distance, Toba could tell she was a

tall felock. It was only later, as the nave had emptied and she came to them,

that he fully appreciated her grandeur.

It wasn’t so much her height that left an impression on him, but the way

she carried herself, like someone from a movie. Her robes were ever-shifting

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in colour, reflecting myriad hues. Between slanted eyes was a green stone on

a silver frontlet, and, at her nape, a peaked dome of cloth like on Haidren’s

da’s uniform, but in the design of a peacock feather. She was about fifty years

old, and handsome—much more so than her son—with perfect striations, a

reflection of the Calibrate. She’s someone great, Toba knew. In her presence, he

felt the same way he had with Haidren when they’d met, and more recently

with Gabel. Only now it was eminently more intense.

“You must be Toba.” The High Priestess beamed a sharp smile as she took

the last strides toward him.

“Yes.” Toba was suddenly giddy.

“I am Jonquil Santairis, but my friends call me Jaki.” She outstretched both

arms, exposing droopy sleeves like a wizard’s. For a second it looked like she

wanted to hug him. “Welcome to the Millenarian High Chapel!”

Toba grinned. “Do you write your own sermons?”

She smiled back. “Some. And some is scripture.”

Toba bobbed his head. “Pretty poetic, heh.”

“Well, thank you!”

An awkward silence ensued.

Fel Santairis looked at the boys alternately, an equitable smile on her face

that almost made Toba feel like he was her fourth son (the twins, Gabel’s eld-

est brothers, worked at chapels somewhere in Nordland).

“How was the trip?” Fel Santairis asked politely.

Which one? he almost asked; he’d lost himself in the maze of flaps that was

her robes—a flower with multi-coloured petals.

“It was good,” Gabel replied. “The train ride was a little over three hours.”

Toba nodded his affirmation.

“Good!” Jaki Santairis exuded as if it made her day to hear it. She clasped

her hands. “And you are going back today?”

“Yeah,” said Toba.

“Train’s at five,” added Gabel.

The High Priestess turned to Toba. “And you live with your da in Kinwood

Ridge, correct?”

Toba nodded. “Yes.”

“Well, if you want, next time you could stay at our place. You two would

be more than welcome, and Gelden and Daelin would be happy to meet you.”

Toba met her eyes and smiled timidly. “Thanks.”

Fel Santairis smiled back. “Well”—she gestured to the vacant dais behind

her—“let me show you around!”

As they ambled between the rows of pews, the boys on her heels, the High

Priestess spoke. “The chapel was built in 2005 as the Order’s seat in Gallinton.

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384

But with a stagnating population and a dwindling Adherent base, the Order

was somewhat strapped for cash and they needed to sell some assets. Enter:

me.” She smiled back. “I come from a rich family. The construction company

Builthing was founded by my great-grandfather and passed on to me—yes,

the same one that was caught bribing the Perihelians for Plan Infrastructure

during the last election five years ago!” She bared her hands. “In my defense,

I had already sold it four years prior to purchasing the chapel in 2067.”

“Why did you purchase it?” Toba chirruped.

The High Priestess sighed. “I come from a devout family. I always had the

idea of becoming an Enabler. Then, in the middle of the century, there started

to be something of a, um, feud between the Order and the Millenarians. We

believed in a more rigid adherence to scripture, and that we had to get up to

claim our destiny and not sit around waiting for the Reckoning to happen.”

Yes, Toba found himself thinking.

“That’s why we’re supporting Sewel Lyon and the Aphelians, as Gabel let

you know,” she added, throwing her son a cursory look. “The Calibrate is not

static. It’s a dynamic force, everchanging. We believe that, although there is

an underlying balance to the universe, that balance can shift if we allow it.”

Toba nodded, though he wasn’t sure he understood.

The company of three arrived at the foot of the left stair to the first dais.

Fel Santairis gestured. “After you.”

Gabel led the way up hefty block steps protruding from the wall, where,

earlier, the choristers had stood. The dais was covered in lush crimson carpet

with mystical triangle patterns. The kobo drum lay idle at the center, wider

than a cauldron. Toba admired its beige skin, often that of a cow or an ôro (he

did not know which in this case), but it was the view of the nave that really

stunned him.

“Come,” said Gabel, “let’s go up.”

They took the second stair to the upper platform, only a few dozen feet be-

low the window ceiling. Toba was immediately seized by vertigo. From here,

the pews were mere lines, like row crops, forming an ever-widening triangle

toward the colossal double door. Steel columns climbed the heights, fanning

out like branches overhead, delineating the glass prisms.

The High Priestess approached from behind and laid a hand on Toba’s

shoulder. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

Toba only found it in him to nod. He was thinking about what Gabel had

said about the peacock, that day in the wood trails. The peacock is a reminder of

all the beauty in the world created by the Calibrate. This was definitely beautiful.

“This chapel was criticized for its excess when it was built,” said Jonquil

Santairis, echoing his thoughts, “but I ask: Why should we strive for modesty

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when the Calibrate is great? Why shy away from its splendour when all can

rejoice in it?”

Beside him, Gabel chuckled. “Told you this place brought you closer to the

Arbiter.”

Toba Stormwill was speechless as the High Priestess led him through the

history. This was just about the nicest thing he’d ever seen. I have to bring Da

here, he thought. He was about to ask her, but was too slow.

Fel Santairis crooked a forefinger. “Come, follow me. I have something for

you.”

Toba trailed Gabel and his mother back down to ground level. They went

between the two stairs underneath the dais, where the vertex of the triangular

nave was blunted by a wall with a wooden door. Toba understood there was

a room beneath the dais. Jonquil Santairis held the door open for them, then

closed it behind them.

Beyond, the room was lamentably dull compared to the sanctuary. Instead

of polished stone and etched steel, the walls were cream plasterboard lined

with shelves containing boxes and various ornaments. It looked like storage

space, except for the desk against the far wall and the small television, turned

on, unattended, in the corner. Toba saw a news anchor, but the volume was

too low to grasp her words.

Suddenly, he felt uncomfortable. Why are we here?

Jonquil Santairis rolled back long sleeves, strode to the desk, fumbled in a

drawer, and pulled out something—from where he stood, Toba could not see

what. When Jaki Santairis turned around, she was holding a silver plastic bag

the size of a small duffle bag. “I wanted to personally thank you, Toba.” She

wore an ingratiating smile. “The picture you provided us . . . well, you did

the right thing. It pains me to say this,” she moped, “but there is a war going

on in this nation. Fifty years ago, the Order of the Calibrate was noble enough

to admit there was a, ah, moving away from the faith. But when it came to re-

versing the trend, the Order did nothing. Our society has many irremediable

vices, Toba. I’m sure you know that. And you have helped us fight them.”

Toba bobbed his head. Images of felocks flaunting fallujas and melocks in

gapped tunics flooded his mind. Then there was Haidren and Fedric and Jam,

boasting sexual conquests. And, of course, Nahrû Bentâm—the worst of them

all—cheating on her husband. There are irremediable vices in our society, he re-

peated to himself.

Fel Santairis extended the bag. “This is our way of thanking you.” She

looked at her son, who smiled back “It’s not much, but Gabel told me you’d

appreciate it.”

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Curiously, Toba reached out and grabbed the bag. The weight of it caught

him unprepared. He steadied the article and reached in, pulling out a rectan-

gular cardboard box, not wrapped. Just are the Scales, he thought, gaping at

the image on the box. How did she know? Then he remembered telling Gabel

and even showing him an image on his phone. He could hardly conceal his

delight. “A Dolphin SX,” he marvelled, too flabbergasted to say anything

smart, even to open the box.

“You can connect it to a DigiLens,” Gabel said, a familiar lopsided grin on

his face. Jaki rested a hand on her son’s shoulder, beaming a straight smile.

“Wow . . .” Toba spun the box in his hands and read the inscription on the

back. “Thanks . . .” It felt too precious a gift to accept. His father would never

have bought him anything even remotely close to that. He didn’t know how

to thank them.

“You don’t need to thank us, Toba,” said Jonquil Santairis as if reading his

mind. “Really, this is our way of thanking you.”

As Toba looked up, something caught his eye on the television. The person

on the screen was familiar—a Human with shoulder-length hair and red lips.

Nahrû Bentâm? Was it her? The title below the mugshot confirmed it: SECOM

Director Given Formal Apology. At that point, Gabel and his mother had tuned

in to the broadcast.

“Turn up the volume, will you, Gabel?” Jaki Santairis had reverted to the

compelling tone of the High Priestess.

Without hesitating, Gabel was on the television set, pressing and holding

the volume.

The anchor’s voice became audible as the screen showed a picture—Toba’s

picture—of Missus Bentâm. “. . . picture proven to be non-authentic. The outgoing

Director of the Security Commission has been granted a formal apology by both the

media agencies and the chancellor-elect, Sewel Lyon, who has not dismissed the idea

of reinstating her in her former functions as envoy to the Security Panel . . .” Toba

had already zoned out. He held his prize in nervous hands, his eyes darting

between Gabel, his mother, and the television set. The Santairises’ eyes never

left the screen. Gabel had a deep frown; his ma was frighteningly impassive,

like a serpent before it struck.

“It—” Toba squeaked, but his voice caught in his throat. It’s real! he wanted

to shout. I took the picture myself! Could it be he’d simply misheard the news

anchor?

Slowly, Fel Santairis turned her head and looked at him. There was some-

thing in her face, something he hadn’t seen before, written plainly on the arch

of her brow, the depth of her pupils, the swell of her slit nostrils. She’s angry.

Angry was as understatement. The High Priestess was fuming.

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Chapter 46 Jarêk

Sunpier Palace

Karûm Province, Hôc

Moonday, 29 Tempest 2079

18:24

he king of Hôc had never felt so connected to his people, or to the world.

It was a mere four days since Master Câundre had dug up the old lap-

top computer from the storage, but already he was tethered to twenty-three

people! Most were Hôcans, of course, but four were Thraanians and two were

from Nordland. Stockmen! The last time he’d interacted with a Nordlander

was . . . at the Fûshan High Council. The melock, dressed in odd robes with a

loincloth, and with a smile that looked like a line drawn across his weathered

face, had been talking to his mother. Whoever he was, Jarêk felt connected to

him, too.

Naturally, his first tether had been to Alîza. She had helped him set up his

account (though he could have managed by himself, even with his residual

knowledge of computers from Military School). The other twenty-two tethers

were either tethered to her or tethered to people tethered to her. Three of them

(two girls and a twenty-year-old Nordlander named Stiv) had even “tossed

the lasso,” which meant they—not him—had requested the tether. He was a

legend, he soon realized; there were already over twenty other Jarêk Daimôns

on the social network, with pictures of him in ceremonial garb, even one from

the balcony of the Justice Ministry on Revolution Day.

Jarêk had apprehended the interface quickly. It was simple: the vermillion

icons brought him to another window; the house icon back to the home page;

the speech bubble to message boxes; the hand lens to the search engine. The

lightbulb icon gave more information on a specific user, and the lasso was

used to request a tether. A profile picture dominated the left-hand corner of

the page over users’ basic information—age, sex, location—and while most

users exhibited pictures of themselves or landscapes or cars or animals (one

girl’s was creative: a picture of her taking a picture of herself in the mirror!),

T

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Jarêk could only think of one thing for his own picture: an FC-4 Ghost. The

Nordlander fighter craft looked like a rocket with devilish wings; one of the

finest pieces of technology in the world.

But the most exciting feature was the “customize profile” setting—the gear

icon. Jarêk replaced the default teal frame with an image of a cloudy blue sky,

so it looked like the Ghost was soaring through the clouds. Moreover, he

composed a short autobiography in Karûmian and Nordlander (he translated

it with help from a program on the Spectraboard) that was accessible when

people pressed the lightbulb icon.

The king was adding custom sounds to his profile page when he heard a

rap on the door.

His eyes shot to the door. He folded his laptop. His wrists tensed. He’d

completed his tasks—signed papers and documents, attended the Council

meeting, attended etiquette class—so technically this was his free time. None-

theless, his gut told him he should be doing something else. A king must be

above the people, Salêm had said, a model for the people. He cannot mingle with the

people and lead them at the same time.

“Highness,” a muted voice called from without the study. It was a Revolut-

ionary Guard. “Minister Nefârion is here to see you. Permission to send him

in.”

Nefârion. The Minister of Information had returned.

“Y-yes,” stuttered the king. For a second he worried he hadn’t spoken loud

enough, but then the right door creaked open and a diminutive Mulard in a

black suit and tippet slipped in, closing the door behind him. Standing still,

Nîmrod Nefârion thumped his chest in the Revolutionary salute. It was odd;

Jarêk wasn’t used to seeing him, a civilian, salute.

“Highness.” Nefârion staggered forward.

The king caught himself shuffling in the leather chair behind the rosewood

desk, like a boy trying to camouflage his guilt. He briefly thought to put away

the laptop, but doing so now would only draw attention to it . . . if Nefârion

had not already seen it.

He had.

“Ah,” he gasped, barely audibly. “You have a computer.”

“Y-yes, I g-got it from M-Master C-Câundre,” Jarêk admitted, stumbling

over more words than he would have liked.

“Hm. I did not know.” Nefârion folded his arms behind his back, eyeing

the king as if anticipating him to speak. He looked frail, Jarêk thought. Even

though the Minister of Information had never looked stalwart, today he was

exceptionally worn down, as if by some invisible force that compounded to

his paralysis.

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Just as Jarêk was opening his mouth to mutter a few improvised words,

Nefârion spoke. “I apologize for my delayed absence, Highness. I hope it was

not too much of an . . . inconvenience.”

Jarêk shook his head absently. He had an urge to ask him where he’d been

and what he’d done, but another part of him held back.

The Snake eyed him through beady eyes. The dimness of the room made

the recesses between his ridged brow and vaulted cheeks look like deep crev-

ices. Jarêk thought he saw the functional corner of his mouth curl in a tired

grin, but it was never easy to tell. “I’ve heard good words of your leadership

while I was away, Highness.”

Jarêk smiled prudently. He still didn’t know whether Nefârion knew about

his aerial excursions. Suddenly, he was thankful he hadn’t gone out today;

he’d decided at the last minute that the skies were too grim.

“Has everyone dutifully obeyed His Excellence?”

Jarêk reflected on it. He nodded. “Yes.”

“Good.” Nefârion licked a dry lip. “Minister Dukârion has apprised me of

the worsening crisis and the . . . damage it is causing to your noble efforts at

restoring peace.”

Dukârion. A pang of guilt shot through him. Having been preoccupied with

flying and flirting with Alîza and establishing his network on Teth3rd, he’d

given the Minister of the Interior far too little thought, especially since last

week’s warnings. In Jarêk’s defense, Dukârion had not vanished like he had

expected. In fact, he’d been present at every Council meeting. If he’d seemed

anxious last time, he no longer did. His face was placid as ever . . . and just as

plain, though he did seem to make eye contact with the king more regularly.

Nefârion was still eyeing him expectantly, shoulders slightly slumped, his

head in a half-loll. “Highness, would you like to accompany me on a trip?”

A trip? Jarêk started to speak, but choked on his words.

“There is something I think you will . . . very much care to see.”

His words came back. When I get back, there is something I must show you. It

will change your life.

“W-where are we g-going?”

The Snake grinned— undeniably, this time. “To the heart of the Kingdom,”

he replied. “To the old seat of power . . . of the first two dynasties.”

The Mêro and Klovîz dynasties. “Dhôrme.”

The Snake’s grin widened.

“W-what’s over there?”

“Ahh.” Nefârion unfolded his arms and raised a knowing finger. Suddenly

he was reinvigorated. “That . . . is a surprise, Highness.”

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Jarêk harboured a mixture of excitement and apprehension. Something that

will change my life . . . Could he even trust Nefârion? Dakâri and Dukârion had

both explicitly counselled against it. Then again, they spoke in ciphers . . .

Nefârion clasped his hands gently before him. “We leave on Foolsday,” he

announced. And after a brief pause, he saluted and made his weary way out

of the study.

Jarêk sat in silence for a moment, pondering the information minister’s

words . . . and waiting for him to be at a safe distance. That’s when he opened

his computer and resumed his chat.

There was a message for him—a vermillion speech bubble pulsating like a

beating heart at the top right-hand corner of the screen, a gift beckoning to be

unwrapped. Jarêk clicked it.

Stiv had replied. All Jarêk had to do was translate the text to Karûmian.

Wow! You’re really the king of Hoc? That’s crazy! You

write well in Nordlandic

Here the government is so corrupt that nobody trusts

it. You’re really lucky to be leading a country where

things are going well and people actually like you!

I wish you could be our king!

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Chapter 47 Jena

Gate 11—Stockman District

Rêga, Fûsha Province, Hôc

Truceday, 30 Tempest 2079

09:44

t was a cloudy morning. Jena was thankful for that; unlike the sun-beaten

skin of a Fûshock, hers was thin and pale, defenseless against the scorching

Fûshan sun, even in the middle of Spring.

Weather aside, everything was proceeding poorly. It wasn’t just the pall of

Jary’s death, following her like a fever, or the worsening crisis in Peace Square

(some degree of civil unrest was expected), but also the professional burden

of being incapacitated to do what she did best: journalism. If her stories were

not flat-out rejected by the Ministry of Information, they were distorted like

a malformed offspring, like a Mulard. She’d managed to write a relatively

unhindered story about Tent City, but it made for tasteless reading, especially

by her standards.

Steffen would regret his decision of sending her back if she didn’t deliver

something more substantial, and fast. And every failure brought her closer to

home, closer to Jary’s casket. Maybe I’ll think less about him if I’m back home. The

distance, ironically, did nothing to keep her mind off him. In fact, just the op-

posite; he was always on her mind.

Just stop thinking about him. Her best advice.

Her hardened soles scuffed the asphalt as she shrugged her satchel into

place and approached the dreadful steel columns of Gate 11. The structure

was eerily redolent of her cage in Sol Hâro. Stockman District is my cell now,

she thought. It’s better than Gallinton. She advanced with a misplaced sense of

redemption.

Gate 11 was the westernmost of three identical drawbridges across Lîzht

Canal. Built in 1895 during the previous dynasty’s dying breath, Lîzht Canal

ostensibly provided a waterway around the Lîzht Rapids and conveniently

favoured Fûshock segregation.

I

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The walk back to Stockman District was starting to resemble a routine walk

of shame; the Spectraboard was still cut in Rêga, so she must physically make

her way to the Ministry in Human District . . . to face the rebukes in person.

The Ministry of Information was worse than a prudish school mistress, she

and Eriker had agreed. Jena had sought to give an angular perspective to the

Rêgan crisis, focusing on health issues and hospitals’ efforts to treat the scores

of patients. But even that was, in their eyes, an effort to undermine Localism

and free health care (it wasn’t even completely free), and promote the virtues

of Nordlander Venturism.

Jena Swimmer was fuming.

If Eriker was disheartened, he didn’t show it. Then again, he rarely showed

much emotion. If he didn’t take this too personally, he could be forgiven; he

was a photographer and an assistant, not the one writing the articles. And he’s

not the one responsible for Jary.

The queue of people on the roadside in front of Gate 11 was short, which

was a relief but not a surprise, since people wanted out of Stockman District,

not in. Jena and Eriker lodged themselves behind two stocky Humans with

oily black hair, sandals, and pale capotes. Bored and tired, she eavesdropped

on their conversation, her eyes casually glazing the length of the canal’s three-

foot-high rampart and mounted fence.

The men gestured rashly as they spoke in a craggy, hasty Karûmian. Jena

had to concentrate to catch mere bits and pieces. “How many soldiers,” said

the first one, “did FLF kill, uh . . . before the crackdown?” He chewed on his

upper lip. “These bird-fuckers are causing chaos in Fûsha and bringing the

wrath of Âncion.”

The other man was more discreet. “They killed the minister of wealth.” He

wagged an admonishing finger. “Who’s to say they won’t kill someone else?

We can’t negotiate with Treemen.”

Jena gave up in her attempts to follow.

The queue moved forward relatively fast. A handful of Fûshocks were let

through together; Jena could only imagine why they wanted into Stockman

District. Several paces in front of her, a young Human was arguing in heated

Karûmian with a soldier at the gate. “I went to Gate 22!” he insisted. “She did

too. They—no, listen! They didn’t let her pass!” He waved a passport of some

sort; the soldier did not so much as blink. “This is proof of citizenship! I got

it yesterday.”

That’s not how you want to handle Hôcan soldiers. She would have told him to

reign in his nerves, but part of her decided she didn’t care what happened; it

didn’t help that this lad was graciously obnoxious, pretentiously dressed like

the briketers from Nordland, with a quilled haircut and a red bandana, a jersey

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and baggy shorts, with spotless white sneakers which he probably spit shined

daily.

A second soldier arrived on scene, drawn by the commotion.

“She’s still in Stockman District!” the boy protested. “Look—just look at

these! It says here: Human District. She lives with me. What more proof do

you want?!” A guard muttered something indistinct, to which he exploded.

“She tried! They’re not letting her pass!”

It took nearly another entire minute before the soldiers finally decided they

had had enough. Jena did not see what was said or done, but the boy flounced

away, kicking at the dirt to make a show of his displeasure.

Five minutes later, Jena and Eriker were standing face to face with the same

pair of guards, bracing themselves for an all-too-familiar round of presenting

their MEC cards and patiently waiting while they examined them, clueless as

kites, before requesting backup from their superior officer. Each time they

crossed, they dealt with a fresh deployment, always stupider than the last, so

the episode was frustratingly recurrent.

But they were let through. Their feet clanged lightly against the metal grate

of the footpath. It was barely wide enough for one, so Eriker led the way, a

dark sweat streak probing the blue-and-red fabric of his plaid vest where the

strap of his shoulder bag had been. Jena glimpsed a few Humans on the other

side of the bridge, moving in the opposite direction. They look haggard. She

wondered if they had been in Stockman District since the quarantine three

weeks ago . . .

A military jeep growled by, dashing her thoughts. A soldier with a helmet

and sunglasses eyeballed her behind his mounted gun. Following it were two

khaki cargo trucks, trailed by a jeep identical to the first. All made their noise-

polluting way across the bridge into Stockman District, leaving her wonder-

ing what they were carrying. Guns, she surmised.

“Are we going back to the hotel?” Eriker asked as they scuttled down three

steps and landed on the hard-packed dirt.

Jena eyed the long lineup of sorry individuals, at least a hundred of them,

waiting to cross. The rusty vehicles and shabby warehouses and tenements

lining the rocky roads were a rude welcome. Western Stockman District, with

Smiley City bordering the main artery, was nowhere near as hospitable as the

eastern side, if even the word hospitable was applicable. “Let’s try, ah”—she

winced, trying to recall the name—“Trangâar Hospital.”

Eriker hesitated. “You—I don’t think they’re gonna let you write about the

hospitals.”

“I know.” She took gritty strides across the broken pavement, navigating

the hoods and bumpers of stalled cars. “I still want to know what happened.”

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394

Rumours told of an unwarranted military assault the day of the crackdown.

Hôcan news reports claimed the FLF had stormed the hospital to steal med-

icine. When Jena and Eriker had gone to investigate last week, they’d found

the place closed to visitors. But today it was open; she’d phoned this morning.

“Do you know where it is?” Eriker bleated, falling into stride with her. The

way his striations were pursed made him look all the more like Skulltop, as

Jary had called him.

“Approximately.” The Spectraboard would have been handy right about now.

Instead, she had to rely on her memory and a hand map. “That way.”

Eriker sighed. “Let’s wrap ‘er up.”

They’d walked barely ten minutes when they heard gunshots.

Foolhardy residents were stepping out onto balconies and crowding the

streets, tentatively facing east to northeast. More gunfire followed, rattling

like distant thunder.

The chattering Fûshocks sounded like cows mooing. Warily, they moved

away from the sound while others were drawn to it like plants tilting toward

sunlight. The reporter inside Jena was pressed to chase the story, but her sub-

conscious writhed against it. That was the side that won. She grabbed Eriker

by the arm and led him into the first alleyway on the left. The narrow passage

was packed dirt, surrounded by the backsides of slum houses. It smelled first

like the depths of a garbage bin, then like the depths of a toilet. Jena ignored

the stench and pushed on doggedly.

More gunshots resonated far behind.

“Do you think that was the trucks?” Eriker asked between gasps.

She hadn’t considered it, but it made sense. “I don’t know.”

The smell became more putrid. Jena tried to make a mental map of their

whereabouts, picturing the hospital’s location. North to northwest, was her

guess.

Eriker echoed her doubts. “Do you know where you’re going?”

“Yes,” she replied, hoping she sounded as confident as she was trying to

sound.

The gunfire had all but ceased when they emerged in what looked like a

half-abandoned industrial zone. She’d never been here before. The buildings,

made of sooty brick or sheet metal, were decrepit. It was impossible to tell

whether they were still operational. Faded signs hung from faded doorways.

One of them read Dupediômar, a Karûmian play on the words ‘sanitation’ and

‘State’. If that company was responsible for sanitation in Stockman District,

it was doing a miserable job.

The reporters made their way around to the building’s flank along a gated

courtyard enclosing idle machinery and wooden crates. The smell of feces be-

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came intolerable. They rounded the corner of a fence. Jena halted. I guess that

explains it.

Before them was a vast open sewer—a veritable pool of shit—at least fifty

feet in diameter. Eriker pulled his vest over his nose. “I don’t think this is the

hospital,” he offered.

Jena shrivelled underneath her own clothes. “No . . . I don’t think so.” Her

attention was captured by a faint buzzing sound that permeated the air. She

glanced around, trying to find the power lines, until the truth dawned on her.

Bloodflies. She could see them now, hovering over the cesspool like visible

static.

“Come,” she urged.

Hurriedly, they circumvented the mucky pit (in this part of the world, one

could not be too precautious). When they were at a safe distance, she allowed

herself a breath of fresher air. “So much for state-sponsored sanitation,” she

sighed.

Eriker made no reply.

Was she sounding too much like an expedient critique of Localism? Did the

Information Ministry have the right of me? Am I actually promoting the virtues of

Venturism? For some reason, it mattered, and she found herself elaborating.

“If this was run by private business, it would be better than by State workers

who don’t give a shit about what they do . . . no pun intended.”

Eriker snickered evasively.

She pressed her point. “Half the Fûshans are starving when State jobs are

given to brothers and distant cousins. There’s too much patronage in Hôc and

too much corruption and not enough accountability, and the Fûshans are the

ones paying for it.”

Eriker bobbed his head as if shaking off a cramp in his nape. “There was a

lot of bribery involved in Sky Shield . . .”

Jena decided to drop the charge.

They found Trangâar Hospital twenty minutes and a few stops for direct-

ions later. It was a rectangular, three-storey building secluded on the western

fringe of Stockman District, north of Smiley City. The small parking lot was

full. Fûshocks walked in and out of the main entrance. It was strange to think

that, just a week ago, it had been the scene of bloodshed.

What if the army comes back? Images of a battered Jary flashed in her head.

She winced, driving them out. We didn’t hear any more gunfire, she reasoned,

though part of her wondered if they were simply too far to hear it.

They entered through the Emergency ward. The interior’s plasterboard

walls were lit mainly by natural light, rendering them a powdery blue. In the

far wall was carved a reception desk overlooking a narrow lobby furnished

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396

with a few tables and long chairs. The chairs were occupied by an aged felock

and her grandson—a middle-aged melock with his leg in a cast like a gigantic

fhatâwa chicken wrap. Humans and Stockmen lingered about, some in no ap-

parent need of treatment. Still, the place was eerily tranquil.

The reception desk was vacant. Jena peered over the counter, rang the tiny

bell. As she waited, she glimpsed a craterlike pockmark in the wall beside it.

She pointed. “Check. It looks like someone was—”

“Can I help you?” said a voice in Fûshock.

Jena turned to see a plump felock in teal garb with chicken lips and dark,

frowning eyes. “Hello,” Jena replied in sketchy Fûshock. “This is Eriker Wise,

I am Jena Swimmer—” She hesitated to say Claren; Jary had always teased

her for using her stepfather’s surname for business. “We are reporters for The

Cycle, and we would like to—”

“No, no.” The woman waved her off. “We don’t have time for interviews.

We’re very busy.”

“I just wanted—”

“We don’t have time. If you require medical attention, we will treat you,

otherwise we are all busy.”

Jena was more perplexed than offended. She looks rattled. “Is it possible to

speak to the manager or administrator?”

The woman shook her head obstinately. “No. Not if it is for reporting. He

will not take reporters.”

“Very well.” She chose her words carefully. “Can you please direct me to

the psychiatric ward?”

“It is being relegated elsewhere.”

“You mean there’s no one there now?”

“There is . . . but I told you, we do not have time for interviews.”

“Can you please just show me where it is? I have a few medical questions.”

The woman’s stare was rigid. She finally relented, making a perfunctory

gesture with her hand. “That way.” Her eyes did not meet Jena’s and she was

already busying herself with paperwork.

Jena set off at a brisk pace. Eriker followed. “The psychiatric ward?” he

asked out of earshot. “You wanna go through with this?”

“Yes. I wanna find out what’s happening to all those sick people on the

streets. Maybe they’ll let me write about them.” Common folk were saying it

was the Blackness—Lazarus syndrome. Jary was held artificially with Lazarus,

she thought, but he didn’t look like that . . .

“What do they have to do with the crisis?” Eriker probed.

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Jena had thought about that. “Nothing. Maybe something. Anyways, the

Ministry won’t let me report on the crisis, so we might as well find something

else.”

They rounded the corner. On the left wall was a pass-through window on

the chrysalis nursery. Halfway down the hall was a double door. . . or what

would have been a double door if the left door hadn’t been replaced by two

bands of yellow tape, crossed. Above the threshold were the Fûshock words

for PSYCHIATRIC WARD. This is the scene of a crime, she recalled. Approaching,

she noticed the door’s hinges were intact, though twisted as if the door had

been torn off. She pressed her palms against the remaining door, locked. Peer-

ing through the square window, she glimpsed a Human in a white lab coat

some fifteen yards away.

Jena ducked under the tape, swung her leg over the other piece, and slip-

ped through. Gingerly, Eriker followed.

They’d barely taken five steps when the Human looked up like a startled

calf. She was holding something in her right hand. A paint roller. Jena could

smell it now—fresh paint. She stared back, steadfast. “Hello,” she tried in the

Fûshock.

The doctor was middle-aged, bordering fifty—it was hard to tell with Hu-

mans. Even from here, Jena could tell she was pretty, with big carob eyes and

black hair streaked with blond, tied in a ball. The crow’s feet at the corner of

her eyes spelled distress. Her eyes darted to the paint bucket at her feet, then

to Jena. “We’re closed,” she replied. Her eyes moved to and fro, then over her

shoulder as if she was expecting company.

“I was wondering if I could have a word with you.”

The woman did not budge. As Jena approached, she noticed that a good

part of the hall had been repainted a fresh cream colour, while the rest was a

duller version of the same hue. The walls aren’t that dirty, she observed. She

had an inkling as to what was being covered up. She stalled a few feet away

from the doctor, read her nametag. GERDÂM.

“May I help you?” she asked with wide eyes and tremulous lips.

She’s seen hell. “I was, ahh, wondering if I can ask you a few questions . . .

about the sick people on the streets . . . you know, the ones with the eyes, ah,

rolled back? Have you seen them?”

Doctor Gerdâm’s eyes shot to Eriker, then back to her. “Yes.” It was almost

as a question.

“I was wondering if you can tell me anything about them, anything at all.

The illness . . . what caused it?”

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Doctor Gerdâm started to mutter something, then held back. Her eyes

glanced around at nothing in particular. “This is not the best time.” Suddenly,

she broke into a panicked cry. “Sir! No! Sir!”

Jena spun to see Eriker standing, guilty as a thief, his shoulder bag swung

around to the front, camera lodged in thick hands.

“No pictures,” the woman said. “This is—”

“Doctor Gerdâm,” Jena said, “we are reporters. We work for The Cycle, a

Nordlander newspaper—” She stopped midsentence, wondering if she had

said something she shouldn’t have; the doctor’s eyes were wide as the moons.

She was here on Tempest 22nd. “I know how this seems,” she continued, hoping

to assuage her. “We heard what happened here. It is terrible. We are, ah, not

going to ask you to tell us what you saw . . . but if you wish to help us . . .”

The doctor gaped like they were gods incarnate. “I—I—”

“You can tell us,” Jena assured, subconsciously taking her ma’s tone.

Tears twinkled in the corners of her eyes. She shook her head painfully.

“No,” she sobbed. “No, I cannot. Please, leave. Please . . .” The look she gave

them was filled with fear and despair.

They threatened her. It was written plainly across her face. They forced her to

keep her mouth shut. “Can I leave you my card?” she tried.

At first, the woman did not respond. Then her lips quivered.

She wants to say something.

A faint sound came to life—they all heard it. For a second Jena was utterly

confused. Aaarghh! It was her selfone . . . Just Breathe by Counting Steps—her

and Jary’s song. Why hadn’t she changed her ringtone already? She fumbled

around in her breeches, trying to remember where she’d left it. “Excuse me.”

She gave the bemused doctor her best apologetic look and set her satchel on

the floor, rummaging through it, reaching underneath her laptop. As the first

verse of Just Breathe came to a close, she found it tucked behind her DigiLens

in a side pocket. She glued it to her ear. “Jena Swimmer.” Sending the doctor

another look to make sure she hadn’t lost her, she turned . . . slowly enough

to glimpse something different in the doctor’s expression, though she could

not tell what.

“Jena,” said Steffen Gage’s fidgety voice on the other line. “I didn’t hear

back from you. How did it go at the Ministry?”

Jena winced. “Not well. Listen, Steffen. Now’s not the best time. Can I call

you back in, uh, ten, twenty minutes?”

“Is there something wrong?”

“No, nothing in particular. It’s just . . . I’m kind of in the middle of some-

thing. Can I call you back?”

“Alright. Yeah. Sure. Call me back.”

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“Okay. Bye.” She hung up, stowed her selfone in her pocket, and threw the

doctor a remorseful look, hoping to coax her back into cooperating.

Doctor Gerdâm was staring back at her like she was a circus freak. “Your

name is Swimmer?” She’d set down the paint roller, and for the first time was

facing her squarely.

Jena had trouble concealing her bemusement. “Yes . . .”

“Swimmer as in forest?” She said the last word in Karûmian.

Jena’s eyes caught the puzzlement on her coworker’s face. Then she under-

stood. “Oh, no, not suîma. Swimmer. Swimmer, as in the Nordlandic word for

swim. Legûno,” she said in Fûshock, making hand gestures to mimic a breast

stroke.

The doctor’s eyes spelled revelation. Her mouth gaped open. “Come.” She

stepped back, beckoning to the reporters. “Come with me. We must talk—

now.”

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400

Chapter 48 Nassâyna

Location Unknown

Time Unknown

he woke to the patter of rainfall, staring at a clay ceiling, not remembering

what she’d dreamed of or even if she’d dreamed at all. Her head pounded

like guns.

Nassâyna sat upright.

Before her, the door was open a crack. She tossed the sheets aside, exposing

nude legs and realizing she was sprawled on a mattress. Not a bed. This wasn’t

her mother’s apartment, nor was it her father’s . . . and it wasn’t her bedroom.

I live with Râkki, she remembered.

The room was small and dim and dank, the walls cracked and daubed. A

small opening near the ceiling allowed a breath of fresh air and an ounce of

natural light. That was when she noticed it was raining. She hadn’t discerned

the sound; somehow it was enmeshed in the walls’ very fabric. There was a

second noise—a low pulsating grumble like . . . the engine of Râkki’s pickup

truck. She spun around, half expecting to find him, but the room was empty.

Slowly, the sound morphed into something else: briketry music interlaced

with male voices. Râkki. No, not Râkki. They’re Stockman voices.

She found her shorts folded neatly on the floor at the foot of the mattress,

and her crop top. Whose shirt am I wearing, then? She fingered the thin cotton,

unable to remember. Nassâyna pounced to her feet, slipped into her shorts,

and pranced to the door. She pressed her ear to it before peering through the

crack.

Her room, or whoever’s room she was in, was at the end of a hallway. Two

wooden doors punctuated the other wall, and a third on her side of the hall.

The floor, like the walls, was clay, covered by a strip of worn grey-blue carpet.

Carefully, she breached the threshold and stepped barefoot onto the rug.

At the end, the hall opened onto adjacent rooms, from where drifted the

music. Clây’s living room? Was she in his apartment, where he and Tlâlla had

moved out after cheating on her?

S

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“. . . from the helicopter . . . the rooftop of the north building . . .”

Who was that? Clây? She didn’t recognize his voice, and he wasn’t alone.

“We can’t do it soon enough,” said someone else. Her voice was loud and

indiscriminate. She knew that voice.

Cautiously, Nassâyna passed the doors on the right. At the end of the hall

on the left, a kitchen opened up; she could see cupboards and the edge of a

counter. The voices were coming from around the other bend on the right.

She took a moment to herself, then took the final strides.

The living room was thick with the smoke of hâsha sticks and filled with

tall, pale Fûshocks in cargo vests and breeches and tabards and hâfas, locked

in heated conversation in pairs of threes, some standing, some loafing on pir-

ôhka couches. This isn’t Clây’s apartment. There was but a single Human, and

it wasn’t Tlâlla. She’s not here . . . Clây neither.

The Human, a short, clumsy-looking girl with a curbed nose and pouty

lips that did not at all fit in with her surroundings, yet looked all too familiar,

was the first to spot her. Her lips babbled as she tried to speak. “Say—” She

tugged blindly at the khaki sleeve of a muscular Fûshock. “Hey, guys!” she

cried in Fûshock, never taking her eyes from Nassâyna. “She’s awake! Sâyna

is awake!”

Nassâyna could do nothing but stare helplessly at the crew—seven or eight

Stockmen looking at her with yellow eyes set two feet above her . . . and the

Human girl, all too familiar . . .

Suddenly, the music died.

“Sâyna!”

The speaker darted from behind a large felock. He bounded toward her,

but halted when she reeled back.

Who—? Why did he look so familiar? His gold eyes, ribbed nose, triangle

tattoos on his face and arms . . .

A pang shot to her head as she remembered the vision from her dream of

him naked, body covered in ink, standing before her. There had been others,

but they were nameless faces.

“Sâyna?” The Fûshock looked perturbed.

Then she heard herself say his name. She didn’t know how she knew, but

she did. “Drêk.”

And just like that, a host of memories came back to her—her escapade to

Stockman District; the quarantine; the Nest. The Nest. That’s where she was.

And the Stockman standing in front of her was Drêk. The leader of the Desert

Hawks.

“Well, well,” someone said from somewhere behind him, the same blatant

voice from moments earlier, “look who decided to wake up.” Firôhte beamed

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402

a wicked smile. Nassâyna looked at the Human girl. Gîlren. The handsome

Fûshock with checkered tattoos all over his body was Rêm. She didn’t know

the others. She rubbed her temples, trying to remember.

“Are you alright, Sâyna?” Drêk asked, taking a vigilant step forward.

She looked into his yellow eyes, then at the rest of the Hawks. “I . . . don’t

know.” She groped at her shorts and felt the lump in her pocket—her selfone.

“What time is it?” she asked in their tongue.

“Just past eleven,” answered the brawny felock.

Nassâyna was dazed. “What time did I go to bed?” She tried to remember

yesterday’s events.

The crew exchanged uncertain looks. It was Drêk who spoke. “Sâyna.” His

voice was calm but guarded. “You’ve been sleeping for more than a week.”

“Ten days,” interjected a rather short, square-faced Stockman with circular

spectacles, whom she identified as Jêr.

She stared back at the probe technician, disbelieving. Are they pranking me?

She fumbled in her pocket and produced her selfone. She tried to turn it on.

The battery was dead.

“It’s 11:08,” said Jêr. “Tempest 30.”

Drêk took another step forward and spoke intimately. “Do you remember

falling?” When she didn’t answer, he added, “In the altar?” She remembered

the altar . . . she’d been there with him, but she had no idea what he meant.

“We were up in the Balagrâa tower,” he said. “You fainted while I was away

speaking on the phone. When I came back, you were on the floor. Do you re-

member any of it?”

Nassâyna searched his face, her headache intensifying. “I’ve been sleeping

for a week?”

“Ten days,” Jêr corrected sheepishly.

A fresh wave of pain shot through her head. For a second, she thought she

might faint. Drêk must have sensed something was amiss; four long fingers

flew out and grabbed her by the arm as if to steady her.

Nassâyna panicked. “I have to call Râkki, I have to . . . I was supposed to

call him. I have to tell him—”

“Hey,” Drêk cooed, “relax. I called him for you. I told him everything that

happened. He’s well.” He stroked her arms. “Here. Do you want to come and

sit?”

Nassâyna thrashed her head. “I have to call Râkki . . .”

She spent the next half-hour barricaded in her room, dismally seated on

the mattress with a borrowed selfone, explaining to Râkki that which she

could not explain. He’d been informed by Drêk, but was desperately happy

to hear from her. I have to go back to him, she knew. For a long moment, she sat

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there, staring at the walls, listening to the drumming of raindrops. She tried

to make sense of it all, to remember something, anything . . .

Her headache had moved down to her bowels, and she remembered she

hadn’t eaten in ten days. Still, she wasn’t hungry; she felt sick.

The Desert Hawks were still congregated in the living room; she could hear

their muffled speech and the faint briketry music. An hour later, when a few

of them had left, Nassâyna heard footsteps in the hall outside her room. There

was a rap on the door.

“Yes?”

“May I come in?” It was Drêk.

“Um, yes.”

She dropped the selfone as he came to stand beside her. He knelt on strong

inverted legs, hocks bowing like cranks. “I apologize for going through your

stuff while you were . . . asleep, but I had to, to tell Râkki.”

“No, no, it’s okay.” She was quiet for a moment, looking down at the mat-

tress on which she’d slept for so many days. “Whose shirt is this?” She tugged

at the loose grey fabric.

“Gîlren’s.” Drêk forced a smile. “We—she insisted you wear something

that would allow your skin to breathe. She changed you. Don’t worry, I did

not—”

“No, no,” she repeated. “It’s okay.”

Drêk gave her a steely look. “Are you alright?”

She wasn’t sure. “I think I should see a doctor . . .”

Drêk nodded pensively. “The hospitals aren’t safe right now. I’ll schedule

an appointment with a doctor. I know a man. We will see him as soon as we

can.” Drêk rested his elbows on his knees. “So . . . you still don’t remember

anything before you fainted?”

She shook her head, hoping the thoughts would spill out from the corners

of her mind.

There was an air of regret about the Fûshock. He sighed. “Do you want to

come outside, take a walk?”

Nassâyna followed Drêk out the room into the small room directly across

the hall, where another door led onto a small porch. She remembered taking

that outer staircase down to the alley between the houses, then into the main

streets, to bring laundry baskets or to haul back food. The rain had stopped

and the air was thick and damp. As they went down, she caught a glimpse of

the Carpetian Mountains, bulwarks against the eastern desert. There were

mountains in my dream, she recalled. She could see them. It was night, and they

were covered in trees . . .

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404

“Are you still planning on going to see Smiley for your citizen card?” Drêk

asked, chasing away her visions.

Nassâyna stared blankly at the pebbled sand, nodding. “Are you going to

strike a deal with him?”

“We’re still waiting to hear back from Mother.”

“What were you guys talking about in there?”

“Ahh . . . our next operation. The wolves are stepping up their attacks. We

need to bite back.”

“Oh. How?”

Drêk sighed. “This will be bigger than anything we’ve ever done before.”

As they stepped out onto the street in front of the Nest, he turned to face her

and lowered his tone accordingly. “We’re going to attack the army’s airfield

in Stockman District. The same one that was raided on the first of Tempest.”

There was something ominous in his tone, something forlorn. “At least, we’re

talking about it, for now. Skŷe is talking about defecting with some of our

troops.”

Skŷe. Then she remembered. Skŷe’s rebelling . . . I hope she doesn’t come back.

“I remember . . . our talk in the tower. You said Skŷe was leaving because you

were . . .” She couldn’t finish her sentence. Because you were responsible for Hef-

êstos’s death.

Drêk’s eyes were rekindled, his voice thick with anticipation. “You remem-

ber? What else do you remember? Do you remember what happened before

you fainted?”

“No.” Her head was throbbing.

“Do you remember right before I left?”

She rubbed her temples. We kissed. “No.”

Drêk looked disappointed, but he tried to hide it, straining a smile. “It will

come back . . . I’ll take you to the altar later. I’m going there to talk with Skŷe.

It will help you remember. It will come back.”

Nassâyna returned the smile. It won’t, she thought. It was a mistake for me to

come here. It was a mistake for us to meet.

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Chapter 49 Jena

Trangâar Hospital—Stockman District

Rêga, Fûsha Province, Hôc

Truceday, 30 Tempest 2079

14:32

octor Gerdâm stepped away from the screen, allowing the reporters full

view of the pop-up. “This is a neuronal scan of a brain,” she explained,

her voice imbued with spicy Karûmian flavours (they conversed in Fûshock,

since Eriker was slightly less hopeless than in that tongue).

The reporters stared at the contents on the computer monitor: an overhead

view of a foggy brain on a black background, red spots dabbling it like storm

marks on a radar.

“This is the brain of a Human,” the doctor continued. “The brain of a Stock-

man is very similar, only with a little more neuronal activity, yes?”

Neuronal potency, thought Jena. It was a term that was hammered into their

skulls from a very young age.

The doctor pointed to the brain, drawing invisible circles with a small fore-

finger. “You see those red marks, yes?” Jena found herself leaning in. Beside

her, Eriker imitated her as if tied to her by an invisible tether. “They illustrate

neuronal activity. When the brain sends a, ah, command to the body, like to

run or to study or even to do something as mindless as breathing, there is a,

ah, electrical and chemical exchange between neurons all throughout your

nervous system.”

Jena nodded. At an elemental level, thought is a physical process, she thought,

remembering Doctor North’s words at Gallinton General Hospital.

“Now”—the doctor tapped several keys, summoning another brain scan—

“this is the brain of a Human afflicted with Lazarus syndrome.”

Jena wasn’t a neuroscientist, nor did it take one to appreciate the variance.

The brain’s periphery had barely any red on it. Instead, the core had a cluster

of it, red as a plum.

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406

The doctor pressed another key, conjuring a side view of what appeared

to be the same brain, the red blotch concentrated near the base.

“What part of the brain is that?” Jena enquired.

Doctor Gerdâm looked at her gravely.

Jena knew. “The hippocampus.”

The doctor nodded.

Just then, the operating room—steel counters and tables, boxes and scales,

vials and jars, nameless electronic equipment with flashing bulbs—started to

spin dizzying circles around her, with the doctor’s fantastic story—the influx

of strange patients, the insoluble diagnosis and inexistent cure, the army—

acting as its axis. And the little Human boy.

Hippocampus, he’d said, as had the rest.

And her name. Swimmer.

Jena couldn’t help but imagine her own neuronal map, red swelling like a

pool of blood. “The patients you spoke of, the ones who all said hippocampus

. . . their brain scans were similar. Are they afflicted with Lazarus syndrome,

too?”

“Not exactly.” Doctor Gerdâm pressed a few keys; Jena saw the difference.

The blotch had become even larger. “There is more neuronal activity in these

patients,” the doctor stated.

“And it cannot be . . . a more pronounced form of the Blackness?”

Doctor Gerdâm made a face, her crow’s feet digging. “I cannot say for sure.

Some symptoms are similar, like the loss of connection with reality . . . Others

are inexplicable. For example, why do they say hippocampus . . . all of them?”

Her expression turned sour. “I do not know.”

The boy was saying your name, the doctor had insisted, Swimmer. There had

been fear in her eyes . . . It was still there. I thought he was saying suîma, the

Karûmian word for forest. But he was saying your name.

It doesn’t make sense, Jena repeated to herself. She’d voiced as much, but the

doctor was dogged as an Adherent, so much so that Jena began to wonder if

she wasn’t a victim of the Blackness. Maybe they all were and this was but a

hallucination, a dream that would expire when they burned themselves out

like double-ended candles. “What is the hippocampus?” she asked. “I mean,

what is it responsible for?”

“Many things—thought, memory, spatial recognition,” the doctor replied

lyrically. “Mainly, the hippocampus releases neurotransmitters called hippo-

lytes. Patients suffering from Lazarus syndrome . . . and this, ah, new disease,

have a surcharge of neuronal activity.”

Hippolytes. Doctor North had spoken about them.

Eriker nodded metrically like he’d grasped it all.

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Jena frowned. “I don’t understand. If there’s a surcharge of neuronal activ-

ity, as you say, why do the patients look like vegetables?”

Doctor Gerdâm sighed. “Too much is like not enough. That’s the simplest

way I can describe it. Truly, our research on Lazarus syndrome is very, um,

nascent.” For a moment it was like she considered how best to phrase it. “The

hippocampus releases hippolytes, yes? Hippolytes pass information between

neurons, like, um, information related to cognition—thought.” She paused.

“When a patient develops Lazarus syndrome, the brain produces too many

hippolytes. It can be just genetic, but most cases are caused by Lazarus. The

drug stimulates the release of these neurotransmitters.”

Jena remembered her rebellious phase as a teenager, following her parents’

rupture. She’d been a casual user, and at her nadir, as she now thought of it,

she had actually ascribed to conspiracy theories that Nordland was run by a

secret society with ties to the Kingdom. What she didn’t grasp, however, was

how enhanced neuronal activity led to such a disconnect with reality. “Lazar-

us . . . shouldn’t it help a person think, if there are more neuronal connections

being made?”

Doctor Gerdâm shook her head. “An overflow of hippolytes, um, amplifies

the cognitive processes, but the connections are not always fluid . . . or they

are too fluid. Think of it as a river. If a river is flooded, it creates pathways

where the water normally does not flow. And that can cause, ah, landslides,

yes?” She looked at the reporters intently, and Jena could tell she loved what

she did, circumstances notwithstanding. “Connections are made where they

should not. Water gets from point A to point B, but it passes over the usual

canals.”

Jena nodded thoughtfully. “Is that what causes hallucinations?”

“Yes,” the doctor replied. “Sometimes old pathways are used, ah, old path-

ways that are no longer used, so the brain projects things that do not exist or

do not exist anymore.”

You fell over the cliff, Jary had said. I saved you. The room was spinning again

as she leaned on the table as if hanging on for dear life.

“Why do they say hippocampus?” asked Eriker in Nordlandic (apparently,

he’d followed enough of the conversation). Jena translated.

Doctor Gerdâm shook her head. “It is almost like the same pathway is being

used, yes? But, um, why they say hippocampus . . .” Her voice trailed off. She

looked up at Jena with beseeching eyes, her face weathered as Fûshan sands.

“We were transferred here to study this, ah, disease that we do not know . . .

at first we thought it was a seizure and we found out—we ran neuronal scans

on them, and we found they all had very, ah, similar scans, like they were

having the same dream or almost the same. I, ah, relayed this information to

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the State, and I asked to, ah, connect them to the Neuron Projector, yes? But

I did not have—the State never gave me time to do it. The day of the military

crackdown on the protesters, we were told to, um, pack up and leave, yes?

Now our research is done . . .” She sighed, holding back tears. “That little boy

said your name, I am sure of it. It is . . .”

“Impossible.” Jena shuddered. She didn’t want to think about that. Instead

she found herself thinking about Jary, then trying to deflect. “Doctor Gerdâm,

why are Stockmen less likely to have Lazarus syndrome?”

The doctor shrugged. “Some say because there is more neuronal activity

in the brains of Stockmen, so they are more immune to the, ah, effects of Laz-

arus. But that does not explain why Mulards are more immune.”

“Mulards are more immune than Stockmen?”

The doctor nodded. “Yes.”

“Huh. I . . . know this is a silly question, but does neuronal activity correlate

with intelligence?”

Doctor Gerdâm analyzed her, doe-eyed, a forlorn smile appearing on red

lips. “More neurons do not make someone more intelligent unless the person

is able to channel the neurons the right way.” Again, her sad smile appeared.

“In my experience, the way a child is nurtured is what determines if he or she

will be intelligent, not the amount of neuronal activity.”

Jena smiled, but found herself holding back as if trying not to fall into her

hollow eyes. “Thank you, Doctor Gerdâm.” She spoke in Nordlandic so Erik-

er would get the cue. He bobbed his big head and muttered his appreciation.

Slowly, Doctor Gerdâm’s smile faded. “Gods protect you,” she said. Then

she leaned in and spoke intimately to Jena. “This meeting, you know, it was

not an accident.”

Troubling if not utterly puzzling thoughts were zipping through Jena’s

head as she and Eriker left Trangâar Hospital—a meteor shower of questions

and intrigues. Too exhausted to make the forty-five-minute walk back to their

hotel, they hailed a taxicab.

The chauffeur, a Fûshock with jaundiced skin and a balmy head with deep

cuts, looked back from the driver’s seat. “You’re not from here, are you?”

“No,” Jena responded distractedly. The last thing she wanted was to get

embroiled in a conversation with a cabdriver. Then she remembered some-

thing. “Do you know anything of the shooting that happened earlier?”

“Down near Gate 11?” he said, his Fûshock exceptionally smooth.

Yes, she thought, suddenly engrossed. “You know what happened?”

“Yes, Miss. From what I heard, the army opened fire on people that were

blocking the street.” The way he said it, it sounded like hearsay.

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“Huh.” Jena pried him for more information, inadvertently causing him to

launch into a tirade against the Hôcan State. For the rest of the ride, Jena and

Eriker cautiously avoided addressing him, talking instead to each other in a

discreet tone that suggested they sought no outer meddling. Naturally, their

discussion turned to brains.

“What do you think?” Eriker asked. “About her story . . . the boy, the brains

and the disease.”

“I don’t know.” Jena sighed. “What do you think the army wanted with

those sick patients?”

Eriker shrugged. “Cover their tracks of chemical weapons.”

That seemed to have made the consensus earlier. But something was amiss.

Testing chemicals would have happened in a controlled environment, in a laboratory

. . . not in outdoor Rêga.

“Whatever it is,” Eriker said absently, “reporting this is off the table.”

It was the plain, painful truth. She’d hoped to make the mysterious disease

her latest coverage, but the Ministry would never approve of it if the State

was behind it. What am I going to do? She could picture Steffen glaring at her,

pressing her for a story.

The taxicab slowed down almost to a halt. “Arrghh!” griped the driver as

he scanned the road ahead, packed bumper to bumper with no intersecting

street for another twenty yards.

It’ll take us half an hour to get through, Jena thought. The meter was ticking.

“You can let us off here,” she insisted. She recognized their whereabouts—

they were due north of Peace Square and south of Tâlmosen, the upscale part

of Stockman District; it was a ten-to-fifteen-minute walk back to the hotel.

Before the driver could object, Jena paid the fare. On their way back, she and

Eriker kept at a safe distance from Peace Square—close enough to spot make-

shift military outposts and roadblocks, but far enough to elude the violence

should it befall the area. It was almost 14:30 when they turned onto Madmôsa

Street, where the hotel was located half a mile away.

The street was crowded as if the quarantine had never occurred. Fûshocks,

Humans, even Mulards, sauntered about, seemingly oblivious to the honking

motorists and deft cyclists weaving through them. For the first time today,

the sky offered a glimpse of sunlight. People basked in the newfound heat,

savouring fhatâwa wraps or ogling shopkeepers’ wares.

Jena avoided the sunlight, choosing instead the cool comfort of shade. Ever

compliant, Eriker followed—unlike her, he didn’t particularly dislike the sun,

but shade provided him better lighting for his photos. He would occasionally

stall to snap pictures of residents and landmarks; though poorly maintained

and bordered by crumbling tenements, many buildings were historical—the

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410

patrimony of a forgotten time when the walled city was a meddling ground

for Stockmen and Humans alike, and also of a time when the First Men had

thrived in these lands. Eriker zeroed in on an altar like a stone silo, a group

of Fûshocks lounging on the landing by the front door. Eriker snapped a few

pictures.

“Not too superstitious?” Jena teased.

Eriker shrugged. “It’s not a temple.”

Jena chuckled. “I guess you’re right.” Many Adherents believed it was ill

luck to photograph a holy shrine, but this altar had been built by the Fûshocks

who dwelled here before the Crusades, so it didn’t belong to the Order of the

Calibrate. “It’s a wonder it’s still standing,” she said, recalling her lectures on

Hôcan history from her days at Gallinton University. “King Klovîz X ordered

most altars destroyed after the Crusades. Others he used as prisons or torture

pits. One particular altar, he filled up with water and threw in a cobra eel,

then the prisoners to feed it.” Cobra eels, so called because they sometimes

stood out of the surface before striking their prey, were one of the deadliest

freshwater predators in the Kingdom, reaching twenty feet long. “Klovîz did

it to mock the Fûshocks,” she went on. “The Fûshocks used to dedicate these

altars to the First Men, or rather to the god of the First Men, who they believed

had ended their reign on earth by a catastrophic flood that killed them all.”

Of course, science had long showed that a meteor had ended their reign. “So

Fûshocks built these altars to worship the god. Their priests would stand on

the balconies, depending on where the storms were coming from, and direct

the winds. And the altars themselves were used to measure rainfall and keep

freshwater supplies in times of drought.”

Eriker listened attentively; she knew he liked to hear about these things.

“How did they get to the top if the silo was filled with water?”

Jena eyed the pockmarked outer surface. “Most of them would have outer

stairs,” she said. “Maybe Klovîz or some other Human warlord had them

removed on this one . . .”

As they drew nearer, Jena noticed that the Fûshocks on the landing were

looking at them. You’re being paranoid, she thought. They’re probably looking at

something behind me . . . a shop or a person. But when she looked again, the crew

was still looking her way. FLF? she wondered. They can tell we’re Nordlanders.

Discreetly, she gave her partner a nudge. “Maybe you should stop taking pic-

tures.” He did.

As she turned away, she noticed a young Human girl with golden skin and

glossy hair standing amongst them. She was pointing . . . at me? Jena picked

up the pace. Less than five minutes to the hotel. She wished she could be there

now, to put an end to this surreal day. She fought the urge to glance over her

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shoulder as they put the altar behind them. Casually, she crossed over to the

sunnier and more crowded side of the street, clenching her satchel tightly as

she skirted pedestrians.

Not a minute later, she felt a tap on her shoulder.

Jena spun to face a tall wiry felock with an iron headband similar to hers,

and inverted triangle tattoos under mean eyes. She wore breeches and a cargo

vest over a cream bush jacket. She reeked of FLF. “Were you here on the first

of Spring?” she asked in jagged Fûshock without preamble.

Suddenly Jena was very ill at ease. I was in Gradjênport . . . Who was this

felock? Is she a câpso? A Stockman who’d crossed the line? Eriker stood behind

the stranger, a confused look on his face. Help me, she wanted to say, but only

managed to burble.

“Do you know this girl?” The felock pointed somewhere to her left, to the

Human girl she’d seen moments earlier.

She’s beautiful, Jena immediately noted. The girl had large black eyes like a

porcelain doll, and lustrous hair dyed the colour of wine. A tiny silver nose

ring flickered in the sun. She was smoking a hâsha stick, taking nervous slides.

Accompanying her were two melocks and a felock like a refrigerator.

Jena turned back to the wiry Fûshock. “No . . . I don’t know her.”

Eriker had finally circumvented the stranger and was standing beside her,

the colour drained from his face, his skull-like patterns looking like a negative

image. The Fûshock took no notice of him.

“You’ve never seen her?” she prodded.

Jena looked at the Human girl to make sure. “No.”

At that, the girl spoke. “It’s her!” she called. “I’m sure! It’s her!”

The felock glared at Jena. “Come with us.” It wasn’t an invitation.

The fear bit into her bowels. “Excuse me? Who are you?”

“We will answer questions later.” The felock tugged at her shirt, revealing

the grip of a glass dagger poking from her belt. If passersby had seen it, she

didn’t seem to mind.

We’ll die right here if we don’t go, Jena thought. She couldn’t be responsible

for the death of another coworker. “W-where are you going?” she stuttered.

The Fûshock cocked her head. “Not far. Come.”

Jena gave Eriker her best look of reassurance.

She complied.

Martin Brisebois

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Chapter 50 Haidren

The Lost Forest

Longeye, Nordland

Gallday, 31 Tempest 2079

22:03

t had rained virtually nonstop for the last couple days—Spring rain, most

often a stingy drizzle, other times a downpour; either way: uncooperative.

In all fairness, there were intermissions, but they were short-lived. Haidren

only hoped this one would last; it was his turn to fire-squat and he was tired

of being wet.

They’d left basecamp yesterday in the early hours—four platoons in total,

each shadowed by an instructor—skimming Totem Drive until they reached

the Lost Forest, as was dubbed the tract of woodland northeast of Longeye

Naval Base. It’s not the forest that’s lost; it’s us. Here it was close-knit trees and

prickly undergrowth. Cheeky but not without sense, Sweetcheeks had asked,

Why are we cruising in the forest if our enemy’s in the desert? Sergeant Millinar’s

reply had been as curt as it was true: If you can find your way through the trees,

you can find your way in the sand.

At least the desert won’t be as wet as this, he thought.

Then again, it wasn’t too late to back out of RR . . .

He had time enough to ponder it, but not the energy. Often was he on the

verge of sleep, when the snap of a branch or the brush of dead leaves would

pull him back to wakefulness. The wildlife swirled in the dark around him,

as if to play with his mind. He could only hear it. The only thing he saw were

the boles of trees like cavern walls around him, lighted by the campfire, and

overhead branches like a giant cobweb. Stockmen are one with nature, Sergeant

Millinar held. It’s not for nothing they call us Treemen. Haidren liked trees—he

had spent half his childhood surrounded by them at Lake Gloom—but there

was something he felt his species had long lost: that ability to find oneself in

the woods, to use the Arbiter for orientation.

At least he had a compass.

I

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His platoon’s task was to locate four stranded paratroopers (test dummies)

using nothing but maps and a compass. It was precision work; the smallest

miscalculation between grid north and magnetic north could lead them right

past them. Once, it had. The most trying thing, however, was the Sarge. Sleep

deprivation was his weapon of choice. After barely three hours’ sleep, they

had woken this morning to cries of Fire! Fire! There was no fire, nor had there

ever been. The Sarge just wanted them up and moving to gauge their reaction

time, which was never fast enough. If it’d been a real fire, he’d insisted, at least

two of you would be roast.

Everything was a test. No doubt Millinar was commissioned by the high

staff to pay special attention to Haidren. It flattered him, but it was stressful.

If there was one thing Haidren relished, it was a morning snooze.

It’ll be over tomorrow, he reminded himself.

Haidren Claren covered the sodden log with his greatcoat before sitting,

wondering what the point was, since his breeches were already damp. He

found a lean branch on the wet ground beside him and used it to poke at the

campfire. It burned voraciously, needing no nursing, so he sat back . . . and

listened.

Through the crackle of firewood, he heard the stillness of night, punctured

by brushing sounds in the trees and shrubs all around him. No doubt there

were squirrels, groundhogs, perhaps even deer or wildcats. The forest came

alive after periods of rainfall, like a heart with an influx of blood. Callaharr

had once claimed he’d rather spend the night in a haunted mansion. Haidren

could not conceive why so many were intimidated. Nature’s not a threat . . .

A loud brushing sound made him veer. A dark silhouette emerged from

the blackness beyond the firelight. As it closed in on him, two yellow specks

shone through its eyeglasses.

“Hey . . .” Haidren muttered.

Fedric waddled over. “Hey. Need company?”

“Ah, you don’t have to. Get some sleep. I’ll be alright.” If it had been Fedric

on the fire-squat, Haidren would probably have been in his tent, sleeping like

a log.

“Can’t sleep, anyways.” Fred squatted on the log two feet away.

“Use your coat not to wet your rump.”

“Bah . . . I’m already wet.”

“I know what Jam would say to that.”

Fedric chuckled, rolling his eyes. “Yeah. Jam’s not saying much these days

. . . but he’s snoring like a hog, though.” The log stirred as he leaned forward

to scoop up a dead branch. “I’m tired of this fucking weather.”

“Yeah . . . the sun’s really DITS.”

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414

“Eesh, the sun’s dismissed in real time.”

Haidren found the energy to chortle. “D-I-R-T. Dirt.”

Fred grinned. “Didn’t see it like that.” He poked at the campfire.

Haidren yawned and rubbed his eyes, trying to think of something smart

or interesting or funny to say. He was too tired, so he stayed quiet, observing

the flames as they licked the firewood.

“So.” Fred eyed him, his chiselled face looking like a cave painting in the

firelight. “You given it some thought?”

“Hm?

“R-R.”

“Bah . . . a bit.” His musings went around in circles. Pro: Open door into the

army. Con: Little prospects for a music career. Lybella was factored in there some-

where; if he joined the Recruit Reserve, he could be shipped off anywhere,

anytime. Then there was the unflattering revelation, which he’d learned two

days ago, that at least a dozen of his peers had also been asked to join. Maybe

the program’s not as prestigious as I thought . . . He looked up at a shroud of sky,

the Arbiter nowhere in sight.

“Think about it well,” Fedric counselled. “Things are going to shit between

us.”

“Who?”

“Us and Hôc.”

“Oh.” He yawned evidently. “Maybe war’s what we need.”

Fedric chose silence, possibly a deliberate ploy to leave Haidren with his

self-doubt; the little guy picked up feelings like a dog took a scent, and while

he could be terribly confrontational when he disagreed, he was more reticent

when it came to friends. Either way, he usually got his point across.

Fred patted his gut. “Ouff. Those rations were not choice.”

Haidren smiled, wondering if he was purposely changing the subject. “I

could have told you that before. I forged one earlier. It was a bit too liquidy,

you know?”

“Yeah . . . but I figured something that looks like shit going in would come

out pretty,” Fedric grumbled. “Ultimately, it still looks like shit.”

“Ha!” Haidren covered his mouth, hoping he hadn’t woken Millinar. In a

softer voice, he added, “Yeah, wasn’t a pleasurable experience.”

“Then again, taking a shit rarely is.”

“Unless you’re a gidder.”

Fred didn’t laugh. There was an awkward silence, then: “So you gonna do

something about Fawn? She’s got you in her scope, raa.”

Is he asking ‘cause he thinks I’m a gidder? “I don’t know,” he replied honestly.

She did seem interested, that was for sure, and she was pretty, but she wasn’t

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exactly his type. “She kinda has a manly voice,” he said, trying to lighten the

mood.

“Ah, come on! You can’t go looking for flaws in every girl you meet.”

He was sounding strangely like Lybella; Haidren didn’t like that. “I’m just

joking,” he tried. “Ultimately, it doesn’t matter what she sounds like when

she’s got yer dik in ‘er mouth!”

Fred didn’t react to that one, either. “There’s half the battalion who’d waste

no time debreeching her, but she’s got her eye on you.”

Haidren concealed a smile. Three days ago, during a patrol exercise, Fawn

had slipped and fallen as she’d forded a stream, drenching herself from the

waist down. Haidren had extended a helping hand while Fred had slumped

in the water beside her, for team spirit, he’d insisted. Fawn had later evoked

the episode, accusing Haidren of being “unbecoming.” But she’d said it with

that provocative, impish way of hers. Anyways, none of it mattered. He liked

Lybella. The woman of my life.

“I don’t know,” he mused. “If she likes me, she hasn’t made a move.”

“And what prevents you from making it?”

Haidren shrugged. “It’s usually the girl who makes the move.”

“The Imperator never decreed that girls must make the first move.”

“No . . . but still . . . it seems like it’s in our nature . . . kinda like for peacocks

. . . you know how the male makes the move—”

“Yeah, but it’s not like that,” Fred interrupted. “We’re not birds, and any-

ways, you said it yourself, we’re the ones with the colours, so, if anything, it

should be us who makes the move. But it’s not like that.”

Because felocks don’t have to invest in their offspring, he thought to say. But

Fred knew his discourse, and Haidren was beginning to see that it was shaky

at best.

Fred was on the offensive. “We live in the twenty-first century, raa. Times

are changing. Don’t think about it like that. You just need to go and get her

while you still have your cards. Girls get bored when they see that a guy’s

unresponsive. They like a guy that’s straightforward, as much as we like that

in girls.”

A guy who’s straightforward. That resonated in his head. I know there’s a little

tension between us, he’d written to Lybella. It’s my fault. I’m not always myself.

He winced. That won’t do. He needed to display strength and confidence. He

needed to be more honest; to tell her exactly what was on his mind instead of

spinning riddles. Suddenly, he wished he had his selfone so he could mend

the situation here and now. It would have to wait till tomorrow . . .

The two of them sat quietly for a moment. The smell of charred wood and

wet foliage found his nostrils, reminding him of something entirely different.

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416

“Hey, Sweetcheeks wants to smoke the Misty Spring—you know, the stuff I

bought weeks ago? He wants to do it next weekend. You in?”

His friend dithered. “Yeah . . . maybe.” He didn’t sound too enthused, but,

tired as he was, it was excusable. It wasn’t long before Fedric surrendered to

the relative comfort of his sleeping bag, leaving Haidren to ward off sleep on

his own. Surely enough, when Loper relieved him twenty minutes later, the

rain had violated its ceasefire.

Haidren crawled into his tent to the sound of raindrops on the canvas. It

was pitch black when he zipped up the flap. Accidently, he stepped on Jam’s

leg; the big guy grunted and stirred, refusing to wake up. Somehow, Haidren

managed to remove his soggy breeches and vest without kicking Sergeant

Millinar in the ribs; he was grateful for that. He slipped into his sleeping bag,

thinking of what to write to Lybella, and drifted out of consciousness.

He woke to brusque noises.

“Wake up, Claren.”

Tiny water droplets had percolated through the canvas. His right arm was

soaked.

Sergeant Millinar, Jam, Fedric, Sweetcheeks, and Loper were all rolling up

their sleeping bags, stuffing them into their rucksacks with practiced urgen-

cy. Haidren blinked, then the robotic part of him kicked in.

He was the last one out the tent. The morning was bleak—he judged it was

no later than 0600—but at least it wasn’t raining. Loper and Fred dismantled

the tent while the others cleaned the campsite. All was done with minimal

talking.

After wolfing down breakfast rations—canned beans stale as cardboard—

the platoon worked out the last coordinate. Fedric was the map-bearer, Loper

the compass-bearer. They located the last dummy in less than two hours and

were left with the final irritant of hauling it back to basecamp. The trek was

long and arduous, the pace slower than the march in. For the greater part,

Haidren bit his tongue and fought the urge to complain about the blisters on

his feet. Clarens don’t complain. Somehow, the pain blended with thoughts of

Lybella. He sought solace in the Thraanian mantras of Clairvoyance—dis-

carding pain and pleasure to find the true path to awareness. Pleasure was

the easy part—it was nowhere to be found—but, however much he tried, the

pain grew with the blisters.

They made it back to basecamp a few minutes after 1000 to find out they’d

won the exercise. Thankfully, they were dismissed for the afternoon, ordered

to report to Winter Hall for supper at six. Haidren planned to take a nap. But

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first, he had a relationship to mend.

He jumped into the communal showers in his barracks and got back to his

cubicle smelling fresh as a Spring flower. He pulled out his selfone and look-

ed for missed calls (he’d intentionally waited till after the shower, for express

reward), but there were none. He logged onto Teth3rd. In the top right corner

of the screen, an orange speech bubble beat like a heart. Haidren opened the

window.

Lybella had replied! Haidren kept his composure.

To his dismay, the message was short—noticeably so. His heart sank.

Hey! Sorry I missed your call. Yes! Keep me posted for

the Grand Trek show!

Haidren stared at the text, not sure what to make of it. The show was in a

few weeks. He must buy tickets and book a trip to Kinwood. He had expected

a bit more precision, if not enthusiasm, from her. What kind of games is she

playing? Every time he extended the line, she didn’t bite. Was such simply the

way of Humans? He was tired of charades. Now it’s me, not her, who’s honest.

He worked on a new message, and was so engrossed in it that the fatigue

dissipated for some time. When he was done, he reread it, making necessary

adjustments, feeling like a tinkerer of words. Maybe the line reader was right,

he thought conceitedly. Maybe I will be a writer.

The message started sincerely, then offered a pang of emotion, even a tinge

of humour, before drawing a romantic crescendo.

He read it again.

Listen,

Maybe I wasn’t clear in my last message, but I wish to

convey something that may have slipped by unnoticed.

I like you a lot, and that will never change (unless you

change drastically, which would surprise me). I tried to

avoid you last year, thinking it was for the best. I now

realize that being close to you rejuvenates me. I need

that, especially at this important juncture in my life.

I’m perfectly comfortable with the fact that it cannot

work between us.

Martin Brisebois

418

I wish for us to remain friends. If not, I completely

understand. (On the bright side, it would be a good

opportunity for you! You’re always going to attract

guys around you, and it’s important you know how to

deal with them!)

You have an enchanting personality and a laughter that

lights up even the darkest places.

Don’t ever forget that.

Sincerely,

Haidren

He could picture her, marble eyes twinkling, biting her upper lip ever so

delicately, silky black hair enwreathing her face. She would be moved. She

deserves to be happy, he thought. If not with him, then with someone else. But

not with Kellanan. She wasn’t happy with him, that was plain for all to see.

Haidren removed an exclamation mark, then both, just to see how the text

looked without them. They need to stay, he decided. He clicked send and wait-

ed a few seconds before stowing his phone. Lying on his bed, he didn’t bother

to undress or even to slide beneath the bedsheets. He was alert; sleep refused

to take him.

It wasn’t ten minutes before his phone beeped.

Heart beating, Haidren picked it up from the night table. When he saw that

it wasn’t Lybella, but rather his father, he wasn’t sure if he was relieved or

nervous.

Call me as soon as you get a chance, Stiv wrote.

Haidren sighed. He would take a nap first; the fatigue had finally caught

up with him. He turned off his selfone and placed it on his night table beside

the alarm clock.

It read 11:12.

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Chapter 51 Sewel

OFFIN Headquarters

Upper Gallinton, Nordland

Runeday, 32 Tempest 2079

08:37

orry, Sewel. There’s little I can do for ya.” The Director of the Office of

Intelligence eyed the chancellor-elect with unbending impassiveness.

And to think that my father counted you among his allies. In truth, you’re as much

a freebooter as Claren.

To assume a closet Perihelian the likes of Stiv Claren would help had been

foolish in retrospect, but this man was different. He’d served under his father;

he was an Aphelian down to the bone marrow, an Aphelian in all but current

employment. Sewel bristled. “Syd, I’m going to be Chancellor in ten days. At

least tell me if your organisation’s been spying on me.”

Sydren Hydren’s stone jaw ground like a secret door desisting from open-

ing. “Listen, Sewel,” he said coolly, “in ten days, I’ll be happy to give you all

the intel you want, but till then I serve a different boss, and my detail prevents

me from divulging such information.” He bared his hands, arched his brow.

And that was that.

Sewel was seething. The OFFIN director’s arrogance was almost palpable.

Do not patronize me, he could have said, your seniority doesn’t give you that right.

Sewel wasn’t the calf; he was the bull. Syd would find that out sooner or later.

He groaned. “Someone’s spying on me, in the Scales of the Calibrate! And I

can’t even get a confirmation it’s not you?”

The director did not budge.

There was nothing more he could do. Sewel knocked back the last of his

rye and stood. Surely, Syd mimicked him. This isn’t over. He threw the man a

promising look, made an about-face, and left.

By the time Sewel Lyon exited through OFFIN headquarters’ atrium, his

insides burned like sores. First Claren, now Hydren. At every turn, someone

was waiting to stick a knife in his back. Nohim’s enemies were gathering. Like

“S

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a magnet draws counter charges, the High Priestess had said. Apparently, I’ll have

to stop the Reckoning on my own.

His driver made slow time crossing Stockway Bridge. It was a disgraceful

return to Lower Gallinton, dampened not the slightest by the glittering waves

of the Lockwin. They mock you, he thought. In a lilac sky, Sentinel and Cinder

seemed to mourn their own partialness.

It was rush hour. Traffic on the bridge was sluggish. Sewel phoned his sec-

retary for an update. “Nahrû Bentâm called this morning,” said Jolena in her

tender voice, craggy with encroaching age. “She wants to schedule a meeting,

the sooner the better.”

Sewel winced at the very mention of her name, like she was the fountain

from which spewed all the chaos coming his way. He’d granted her a formal

pardon, entitled her to her job at the Security Panel. What more did she want?

He gave Jolena his grudging approval and hung up. Peering ahead, he lower-

ed the privacy window. “Kaal, what’s the holdup?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary, Mel. Just traffic.”

“Can you find a way around it? Can you—here, take this lane.”

“That’s the bus lane. I can’t.”

“Fair be the Scales, Kaal! I’ll pay the fine.”

They’d almost crossed the bridge when red-and-blue lights flashed behind

them. Sewel chafed. Casually, Kaal cleared the bridge and pulled over on a

service road by the old shipyards.

Two officers disembarked from their black coach, suffused with sun panels

and silent as night. Both wore the ink-black uniforms of troopers with loose-

hanging gorgets that were the tradition for hundreds of years. White stripes

raced along their flanks, passing underneath the holsters of their handguns.

Both were female. Great, thought Sewel. If felocks were second-rate to males

for external security, they excelled at keeping their own in check. The gorgets

dangled from thick necks as they took measured strides toward the car, each

step deft as a raptor’s.

Sewel watched through the tinted windows as the one on the driver’s side

greeted Kaal and made a gesture that could mean only one thing: Lower the

privacy window.

The electronic window sighed open.

Both troopers glimpsed the chancellor-elect at the same time; there was a

noticeable change in their countenance. “Good morning, Mel Lyon,” said the

one at the driver’s window.

Sewel frowned. “Morning, officers.”

The felock stared back, her lines like matrices, then turned to Kaal. “Don’t

suppose I have to tell you what I’m stopping you for.”

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Kaal started to reply, but Sewel cut him off. “It was my mistake, officer. I

am in quite a hurry. Meetings to attend, you know how it is.”

The trooper hesitated, then made a curt nod. “I understand, Mel, and I will

be quick about it.” She held out her hand to Kaal. “License and registration,

please.”

Kaal reached for the glove compartment and produced an identification

card. Sewel looked on in bewilderment, then vaulted forward, pinned by the

seatbelt. “Hey! Hold on now! You’re giving me a fine?”

The officer arched a brow. “No,” she responded lamely, “I’m giving”—she

took Kaal’s card and examined it—“Mel Lombus a fine.”

Sewel had to refrain from yelling. “I’m in a hurry, officer,” he tried. “Surely

you understand that.”

The officer was unmoved. “With all due respect, Mel Lyon, surely you can

understand that even the chancellor of Nordland is not above the law.”

Sewel clenched his teeth, bit his tongue. He could only scowl as the officer

made off with the driver’s cards, the presence of her partner at the passenger

window being the only deterrent to his eruption.

And so he waited.

Your days are numbered, he thought. All traitors’ are.

When finally he made it to the Moonstone, his temper had scarcely cooled.

He thundered to his fifteenth-storey office, avoiding and ignoring employees

and supplicants, stopping only at Jolena’s desk.

“The High Priestess called,” his secretary informed. “She would like you

to call her back.”

That pretender can wait, Sewel thought to himself. He knew what Santairis

sought: an explanation for the Nahrû situation. He was in no mood to deal

with that right now. He marched to his office and slammed the door behind

him. Exhaling, he loosened the collar of his kilner, defying his reflection in the

wavy mirror.

“Rough day?”

Startled, he spun. Between the black leather armchairs by the liquor cabin-

et sat Mikel Lyon, wedged in his wheelchair. “You look like hell,” he said, his

voice coarse as sandpaper, scarcely more than a whisper.

How did you get in? was Sewel’s first instinct. Maleeba must have wheeled him

in. But he hadn’t seen her on his way in . . . “Don’t mention it,” he said, once

he’d caught his breath. He lumbered over and slumped into a leather chair,

rubbing his armband like a talisman.

“So . . .” The old man leaned forward, frail and trembling, thin white robes

pressing on his thin white skin. “Did you get this place cleaned?”

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422

Sewel glanced over his office as if hundreds of eyes were peering through

the walls. His voice fell to a drone. “Found nothing.” He’d dismantled the

telephone himself, scoured the walls behind the picture frames and the liquor

cabinet. Nothing. His hired guys had had no more success.

Mikel groaned, his breathing more laboured. “She must’ve had the wires

removed.”

Sewel brooded in silence. It must have been done at night . . . no more than a

few days ago . . . five, maybe ten. He’d met with Rael Justburden two weeks past;

it must have been done right after . . .

Mikel uttered something that ended in a haggard cough. Recovering, he

added, “You’ll have to keep an eye on her.”

“Hrmpf. She wants to meet me in two days! Can you imagine? She thinks

we’re friends now that I pardoned—”

“I’m not talking about Nahrû Bentâm. I’m talking about the woman out-

side.”

Maleeba? Was his father accusing his wife of colluding with the enemy?

“Da,” he said, “I know the woman gets beside herself at times, but Maleeba’s

not a—”

“Not Maleeba.” The old man raised his quaky chin and eyed his son. “Your

secretary.”

It hit him. That’s how they got into my office. He kept the door double-bolted,

and the maintenance guys did their work in daytime. The wire tappers must

have gained access at night. Jolena was the last person to leave, the only other

soul with a spare set of keys. “Fair be the Scales,” he cursed under his breath.

He could feel his father watching him with grim satisfaction, as if the son’s

betrayal vindicated the father’s. Sewel felt like a calf, and, right now, that was

the worst possible feeling.

The old man cleared his throat. “Remember, son. Your enemies are closer

than you think.”

Mikel Lyon lingered for a while longer. And every passing moment, Sewel

grew more irritable. It wasn’t his father’s presence that annoyed him; it was

the fact that he was present, that he had to be. He couldn’t help but visualize

Syd’s condescension, like he was nothing more than Da’s boy, like he could

do nothing on his own. He must prove him wrong, but first he must prove

himself.

So he decided to leave his office. He needed fresh air. He wanted to move.

After a quick bite at the cafeteria, he went down to the ground floor using the

glass elevator. Back down to earth, he thought. He found his black car glued on

the sidewalk of Fulcrum Street. Coaches and scoots trundled by. Pedestrians

trod the sidewalks. It was a cool afternoon. Sewel stole a quick glance at the

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world he would inherit, then, coolly, descended the two front steps to the

sidewalk . . .

. . . and stopped.

He narrowed his eyes, using a hand to shield them from the fulgent sun.

That him? The man disappeared behind a parked van across the street. Sewel

craned his neck, trying to see around it in vain. Then he glimpsed him again,

walking briskly on Life Street, northbound, wearing the same green tunic and

headscarf with a long tail, as if it was his goal to be spotted.

Nahrû’s pet.

Sewel chased him.

Quickly, he skirted the hood of his black car. Kaal flinched and shot him a

surprised look from the driver’s seat. His lips had started to move, but Sewel

was already in the first lane, yielding to a passing car, then moving to the sec-

ond. Across the street, the man turned. He saw. His eyes grew wide; his pace

quickened. The chancellor-elect stalled on the center line, unable to move at

the risk of being hit.

The traitor kicked into a jog.

Oh no you don’t. Two incoming coaches passed, practically grazing him,

before the third slowed to let him pass. Sewel staggered across. The man was

putting more distance between them.

“Hey!” someone yelled from behind. “Mel Lyon!” Sewel ignored Kaal. He

lurched onto the opposite sidewalk. Folks jumped aside. He caught a glimpse

of the fugitive through the heads of pedestrians—running.

Sewel set off at a jog. His heart skipped in his chest. He grunted as his legs

started to move like rusty gears shaking off the stupor of countless years of

inactivity. He did his best to ignore the ache in his lower back as he picked

up the pace. He didn’t remember exerting this much physical effort since he’d

quit smoking twenty years ago.

The man was already at the next intersection. He shot the chancellor-elect

a nervous look, then disappeared around the corner of the First Labourers.

Sewel pressed the pursuit, hastening to a slow sprint. His robes hampered

his movement. He focused just enough attention on his breathing, the rest on

the chase, and made it to the street corner in surprising time. He scanned the

sidewalks, first the near side, then the far. He found his stalker in the middle

of the road, bounding across lanes and dodging cars at least fifty feet away,

drawing up to the next intersection. If this kept up, Sewel would lose him.

With no time to catch his breath, he pressed on. If I can cross now . . . The

far sidewalk was less crowded; he could make up for lost time.

Sewel lurched sideways, avoided a felock in an outfit like a fairy’s, edged

his way between two parked vehicles, took a step onto the pavement—

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424

A horn blared.

Sewel froze.

The incoming car swerved, barely missing the vehicle in the adjacent lane.

Sewel reeled back. The driver stuck out his fist and cursed. The chancellor-

elect’s eyes shot back to the opposite sidewalk.

His quarry was gone.

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Chapter 52 Nassâyna

The Nest

Rêga, Fûsha Province, Hôc

Runeday, 32 Tempest 2079

17:15

he Nest was teeming with Fûshocks—Freedom Liberation Fighters all.

The pallid living room scarcely accommodated them all, a good dozen,

plus the reporters. The pirôhka table had been removed. They sat on couches

and cushions on the floor, great arachnid limbs pressed in fists on the carpet,

like spider gorillas.

All Fûshocks, all but two.

The reporters sat facing them on chairs—not greatchairs like Nordlanders,

but high wooden contraptions held together by twine. The guests of honour.

Drêk and Skŷe sat at their sides. They were answerable to the council and to

Mother. Though the FLF leader wasn’t present—her identity was better kept

in the dark—her lieutenants were, along with her right-hand man. Mêloc-the-

Dark, they called him, or Mêloc for short, the namesake of the neighbourhood

on the canal from which he came, on the eastern fringe of Smiley City. Drêk

had offered Smiley that neighbourhood in exchange for guns. Nassâyna had

but to look at the warlord’s face, deep cuts at the edges of red eyes like dried

plums, to know that Drêk’s initiative had been a hiccup in the chain of com-

mand, a palliative that hadn’t gone down well.

Again, Nassâyna eyed the guns.

Please not tonight, she begged.

Âncion heard her. She felt him sneering from the mountains and sky, his

gaze on the Nest for this historical gathering. I’m not betraying you, she said to

him. You’re not a god for Humans; you’re a god for this world. In her actions, she

served the world. If the Faith and Calibrate would clash, they would also join,

like continents colliding, forever locked.

The traitors will fall. The Reckoning, they called it.

Nassâyna Ghodrimâra took a deep breath.

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426

The guns didn’t move. They leaned against the wall opposite from her, tall

and slender, the same make as the one used by Firôhte when she’d bounded

from the alleyway. The guns’ very presence seemed to bring back the pirôhka

table and with it the ghost of Hefêstos lying on it, mangled and bloodied . . .

the Stockmen standing around . . . naked . . .

She rubbed her temples.

The headache abated.

What’s wrong with me?

Âncion was gone. The other Four, too. She looked around at the company.

Introductions had been made, beverages and root tea served. A heavy calm

filled the room. It was clear who it belonged to. Mêloc-the-Dark sat hands on

knees, cargo vest holstering a supple frame like a dolly clasping a wardrobe.

Lean arms protruded from patchwork linen, skin rumpled like old money.

He was the senior Fûshan Liberation Fighter here. Drêk had told her that he’d

birthed the movement, having served first as a councillor in the Fûshan Liber-

ation Party, then as a cofounder of the militia alongside Mother’s precursor,

a name which she’d forgotten. “Hadrêku Samâra,” he breathed, using Drêk’s

full name. His finger twitched. “The floor is yours.”

Glancing around, Drêk rose, his legs pushing him up like an aerial device.

In his brown cargo vest and breeches, he looked as much the commander as

ever, though his tattoos seemed to totter as though the links would give out.

Nassâyna wondered if Mêloc was aware of the rift with Skŷe. Did the warlord

have the power to supplant Drêk?

Arm outstretched, palm flat, Drêk pointed to each delegate—a gesture of

goodwill, as she understood it, one of many Stockman idiosyncrasies. “Stone

Hand, Cyclopes, Mercators, Black Eels.” He chanted the names of each cell in

turn. “Honoured are we to have you here under this roof.” He beckoned to

the weapons, to the area where the crates had sat moments earlier. “We thank

you for your gifts. They will be put to good use. The Desert Hawks are young

to the fray, and we stay in the fight only with Mother’s benevolence.”

As Drêk praised his guests, her mind scattered. The airfield, she thought.

The Hawks’ next target. It was assaulted by another cell the night of the Herald.

Drêk wants to prove his valour to Mother. The first attempt had been ill-fated.

With visions of Hefêstos roaming her mind, Nassâyna had no cause to believe

Drêk would find more success.

The warlord cut him off. “Hadrêku,” he said, like a tutor scolding a pupil,

his voice raspy, his Fûshock broken like it was a second language. Nassâyna

did her best to follow. “With your actions, you have deliberately sidestepped

Mother’s authority, and sown the image of disunity within the ranks of our

force.” His face was crisp, his eyes red like branding irons. “We cannot have

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each cell negotiate different treaties with our enemies. It makes us look weak,

divided. It emboldens our enemies.” The warlord was eerily mild, palms flat

on his knees, but the huge felock sitting to his right—a Stockman even larger

than Firôhte, with a triangular face and fish eyes—sneered for him.

“Forgive me, Mêloc,” said Drêk, “but we have been endowed with unique

opportunities lately.” Though he did not look at Nassâyna, his hand pointed.

“With the Shower soon, I felt—I judged that we were pressed for a deal, but

I told Smiley that we would have to seek your approval first—”

“Do not think, Hadrêku, that we need your Human friend to get in touch

with him. If we did not reach out to him, it’s because we had no need to. It is

because he is our enemy, and the girl, as far as Mother is concerned, is, by her

affiliation with him, an enemy, too.”

Heads turned. Nassâyna felt more naked than her shorts and poncho could

possibly allow. She was back in the backroom of the nightclub, surrounded

by Stockmen . . . She averted her eyes, looked at the dappled floor. Her nature

was to reach for her selfone, but it sat in her room, battery dead. Âncion, she

thought. Why do you curse me?

Drêk came to her defense like a knight of her patron god, Dâanubar.

“The girl risked her life for the Hawks. She was assaulted by the wolves.

She saw the Herald. She knows of the lies, the crimes perpetrated by the State.

If you want to blame anyone, blame me.”

Mêloc looked slightly impressed, as if it was the sort of sacrifice he wanted

from his troops.

“I apologize if I upset the chain of command,” Drêk pressed on, “but I felt

I was handed an opportunity that would not present itself again, like the lines

of the Calibrate were closing and forming before me. I saw the—you should

have seen the Herald that night. It was . . .” His voice trailed off.

“The Desert Hawks meant no disrespect,” added Skŷe. “The Herald was

an omen. I saw it, too, burning like a torch. It will be a long Shower, or at least

I thought. We were pressed for time, but now we shall do whatever it takes

to mend the situation, at your command.” She dipped her head.

Nassâyna felt uneasy. Whose side is she on? Had she just defended Drêk? Or

was it a ploy? Mend the situation. Nassâyna had a feeling like it concerned her.

“Please,” prompted Mêloc in an almost congenial way, “lead us through

the modalities of your arrangement.”

As Drêk recounted the details of their negotiations with Smiley, Nassâyna

got lost in her own whirlwind of thoughts and uncertainties. What would be

her fate? Where did she belong—with the FLF or Smiley? Could Mother help

her get back home? Would the Five watch over her . . . or were they too busy

with their agelong quarrels? We are but peons to you, she thought. It occurred

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428

to her that perhaps it wasn’t about her or Drêk or Mother; that perhaps it was

about balance. The Calibrate. Had she not acted selfishly as the gods in coming

here; in leaving Râkki, damning Tlâlla and her parents; in seeking revenge

against the State? Had she not attached an overblown sense of relevance to

her mission, ratting out the reporters, contributing to their abduction? What

will happen to them? She eyed them with a misplaced sense of regret, wishing

she could cry and accept their forgiveness.

Jena turned to her, caught her eye. There was no trace of hate there, no will

to harm. Her eyes were stolid under an iron headband, her lips wormy and

taut, her face lean and pale. She looked a martyr, and in that instance Nassây-

na found her more beautiful than anything or anyone.

Drêk drew her back. “Sâyna has only been a help to us. It is because of her

that these reporters sit before you.”

Nassâyna tensed. Don’t, she wanted to say.

The reporter looked at her again. Nassâyna shied.

“I was wrong,” Drêk repented, “and I should not have negotiated without

your endowment. But the Calibrate . . . it manifests itself in subtle ways, and

it brought them to us.” He faced his audience, but his hand was level on the

reporters. Eriker’s visage was a whirl of striations, as devious a pattern as she

had ever seen on a melock, like a mask that fitted his big apple head perfectly.

“They are the missing link,” Drêk said, “the reason why you’re all here today.

I present you Eriker Wise and Jena Claren, daughter of the Supreme Armed

Forces Commander of Nordland.” His ink links seemed to tighten.

Nassâyna tried to decipher the silence, but it was a silence that was alien

to her—a Stockman silence. The Fûshan Liberation Fighters studied the jour-

nalists. It was as if they were all waiting for Mother’s man to speak, but it was

a lesser cell leader who broke the calm.

“They speak Fûshock?”

The reporters remained mute—wisely so.

“Ask them,” Drêk replied. With newfound confidence, he sat.

The melock, his neck and head crawling with tribal ink, repeated. “Do you

speak Fûshock?”

Jena Claren flinched, looked at her partner. “Yes.”

“What brings you here?” asked someone else.

Again, the reporter balked. “Not volition.”

The fighters were still as stones. Nassâyna chafed.

“Jena Claren shares our disdain for the State,” Drêk interceded. “She can

help us in our fight.”

“But will she?” asked the warlord. The blush around his eyes brightened.

“What brings you here . . . if not volition?”

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“Eriker and I are hostages,” Jena replied.

“Meaning you were taken?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

Mêloc-the-Dark bowed. “On Mother’s behalf, I apologize.” He eyed Drêk

coolly. “On Hadrêku’s behalf as well.”

Drêk jumped to his own defense. “Our paths are linked,” he proclaimed.

“I would not have known Jena Claren had Sâyna not been there with me. It—

the reporters . . . Sâyna . . . we are all part of the same design. She brought us

to them, them to us.”

Don’t, she thought. Don’t drag me in.

“Sâyna.” Nassâyna went stiff as cardboard as the warlord turned his gaze

on her. “How is it that you are acquainted with Fel Claren?”

“We are not,” Jena interjected. “I have never seen her in my life.”

“She’s lying!” Nassâyna blurted. She felt Âncion grinning at her, Dâanubar

fading. The Fûshan Liberation Fighters had puzzled looks. The warlord wat-

ched, nonintrusive, like a spectator to a theatrical piece. Nassâyna started to

panic. You must stick to the script. There was no turning back, there never had

been. Not with Râkki when they’d been stopped by the wolves on their treks

to Gradjênport. Certainly not now. “She was there at the crater—the Herald,”

Nassâyna said. “She was taken by the wolves. They said they were taking her

to Sol Hâro in the desert and—and—”

“Is this true?” Mêloc enquired.

Jena looked from Nassâyna to the warlord, confusion plain on her face. “I

. . . was taken, but—”

“Were you at the crater?”

“Yes . . . but I was—”

“Were you taken to Sol Hâro?”

“I—yes, but . . . I never saw this girl.”

No you didn’t, she thought, but I saw you. She remembered how the reporter

had been thrown into her cell kicking and screaming, how she’d curled up

on the floor and wept before being dragged away. You never saw me. And that

trump card was her lifeline. It was too late to admit that she herself had been

locked up at Sol Hâro; she hadn’t even told Drêk. How can I? They’ll suspect

me of being a snitch. The reporters were an accident. Nassâyna was still dazed

from her coma when she saw Jena at Balagrâa Altar. She knew she’d seen her

before, but couldn’t remember where; her memories and dreams were still a

scramble. But she knew the Stockman was a cornerstone to her visions, a vital

piece of the story, of her dreams of falling meteors and a great illuminated

quarry in the mountainside, dreams which faded with every passing day, like

drops of ink in water.

Martin Brisebois

430

Mêloc had grasped the underlying truth. He addressed Jena. “But she has

seen you, and now here you are.”

“Help us,” a fighter chimed in.

“Yes,” called another, “we need guns.”

The room became replete with the moans of Stockmen, as raucous a scene

as she’d ever witnessed of their kind. Mêloc sat, composed, a felock whisper-

ing in his right ear.

“How will she help?” groaned a cynic. “By writing articles?”

“Tell your father to send troops,” said a male with a tailed headscarf. “We

need weapons.”

Expectant yellow eyes fixated the Nordlander. Jena Claren rubbed her lap

gently, nervously. Then she rose from her chair, tall and slender, brown-and-

cream bush wear covering pale skin. “Fels and Mels,” she said in an accented

Fûshock, “I must tell you that I am not the daughter of Stiv Claren. I am his,

ah, stepdaughter. My name is Jena Swimmer.”

“But you are family,” the big felock insisted.

“He will listen to you,” agreed another.

Jena parried. “I love the Revolution no more than you . . . I, too, have lost

a loved one at their hands. But I am a reporter, bound to a compact with the

State—”

“Inform the General Claren of our conditions here!” blurted a melock near

the hallway, one of the younger, better-looking ones.

“Yes,” agreed another. “Let him see what the world looks like from Stock-

man District. Then he will understand.” Fighters nodded.

Jena bared her hands. “I am a reporter,” she repeated. “I cannot—I do not

have the power to speak for the Nordlander State.” Her eyes darted like she

had a moment of self-doubt. “I will tell him for you, but the Aphelian Party

is—it’s, ah, taking power on the first of Requiem, and my stepfather will be

out of office . . .”

“He still has connections in government.”

“We need weapons. Send us weapons.”

“What we need are troops. Lawe promised us troops. Her line in the sand

has been crossed many times!” Grunts of approval.

“Why are we not mentioned in your articles?”

Jena showed her palms like a magician professing to be clean. “My hands

are tied,” she said in a crisp voice, frayed at the edges. “The Hôcan State, ah,

it censures my articles. I cannot talk about—”

“Perhaps that’s what we should do—tie her hands! She might be better lev-

erage as a hostage.”

“Send her back, keep the other one.”

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Eriker did not so much as flinch; Nassâyna wondered if he’d understood.

“We should, if she cannot help.”

“Send us weapons!”

Then Mêloc-the-Dark stood, almost mechanically, like he was lifted by the

straps of his vest. Just as quickly, the rabble died down. “Kidnapping a Nord-

lander’s daughter,” he said in a voice as fiery as his eyes, “will not help our

cause. We have enough enemies without the Nordlander State.” He paused.

“If you would be so kind, friends, I would like to hear Fel Claren.”

Jena looked around, uncertain. “I—I will try to help,” she promised. “I will

do what I can. I will speak to Stiv . . . try to arrange a, ah, meeting with people

in the military and OFFIN, but I cannot . . . I cannot . . .”

The men eyed her longingly, hungrily.

The reporter stuttered some more.

Fûshocks groaned.

Then Jena Swimmer’s eyes became hard as stones, her stare straight as an

arrow. She switched to a voluptuous Nordlandic, and for a second it was like

she’d become an entirely new person. “Prove to us that you are a worthwhile

investment. Prove to us that you are able to organize and cooperate, and that

you can work together to build an autonomous Fûshan State, responsible and

tolerant to Humans. That is what the Chancellor and the People of Nordland

want to see.”

Nassâyna tried to keep up with the foreign pitch.

Jena gave them a sweeping look. “Nordland will avoid direct involvement

if it can. That is the truth. It will not intervene unless”—she gripped an index

finger—“it is dragged in”—she gripped a middle finger—“it sees that you can

defend yourselves on your own. Then perhaps you will get the weapons—

perhaps the soldiers—you desire and need. But before that, you must prove

self-sufficient.”

The fighters exchanged jumbled looks. Few had understood, Nassâyna in-

cluded. But the one person that mattered had.

Mêloc mirrored the Nordlander. “My fighters,” he said in a broken Nord-

landic, “have killed troves of Hôcans. They have risked their lives, sacrificed

family and friends. You ask us to do more with nothing.”

Jena studied him. “It will get worse before it gets better. The Shower is

coming. And the State . . . it might be developing new weapons, chemical

weapons, against you.”

Mêloc-the-Dark frowned. “What proof do you have of this?”

The reporter glared at him. “You have seen the sick people on the streets,

haven’t you? The ones with eyes rolled back in their skulls. They sit and are

unable to move—”

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“The Blackness,” someone interrupted.

“No.” Jena took a small step toward him. “My lover had the Blackness . . .

before he died. I have seen it. I know what it is. And this . . . this is not it. This

is something new, some kind of . . .” She paused, sighed. “These patients . . .

they all say the same word.”

Mêloc frowned. “What?”

“Hippocampus.”

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Chapter 53 Jena

The Nest

Rêga, Fûsha Province, Hôc

Runeday, 32 Tempest 2079

17:35

ippocampus.”

Jena Swimmer caught brusque motion from the corner of her eye.

Sâyna, childlike between her Stockman counterparts, was splayed against the

wall as if pinned, hands at her temples, eyes shut tight, lips knotted, canines

protruding like fractured bones. She uttered drawn-out moans, soft and low

at first, but intensifying as if casting pagan spells to ward off demons.

It wasn’t long before all Fûshan Liberation Fighters noticed.

“What’s wrong with the Human?” asked a bystander, reeling back like she

was contagious. Mêloc-the-Dark watched passively as if he had commanded

the performance telepathically.

Hadrêku bounded to his feet, took a few long strides toward her. “Sâyna?”

he pleaded. “Sâyna, are you alright?”

The girl moaned and groaned.

Was she poisoned? was Jena’s first thought. She and Eriker, along with most

of the fighters, had also drunk the root tea. They need you alive, she reassured

herself. As the girl writhed in her poncho, Jena had a second thought, one as

curious as it was distressing. Is she afflicted with the disease?

Hadrêku whispered vital incantations as fighters muttered and peered and

converged like they wanted to help but did not know where to start.

Then Sâyna shook her head wildly, yapped something—it could have been

speech—and jolted out of her inertia. Drêk reeled back just in time as her legs

kicked out and her knee caught the underside of his hock, sending him stag-

gering backward. Sâyna ran, purple hair waving savagely. Fighters cleared a

path for her; she pried her way through another couple, half conscious of the

effort, before disappearing down the corridor of the decrepit pad they called

the Nest.

“H

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Hadrêku, tossing unresolved glances between the hall and his overlord,

decided to reclaim his spot beside Jena. He looks beat, she mused, and then she

understood. He’s in love. She wondered if Mêloc had seen it. For Hadrêku’s

sake, she hoped not. She’s a liability. A Human amongst Stockmen. And what

was she—half his age?

In the living room, silence gave way to curious murmurs. Jena thought she

heard someone chuckle, or was it a cough? She was left with a bitter taste in

her mouth, and it wasn’t the root tea.

Hippocampus, she thought.

For the remainder of the talks, the word was never far in her head. It was

like an anchor, elusive in the depths of her mind, yet tethering her in place. It

was her mission and mystery, and she would get back to solving it as soon as

they released her.

But that moment never seemed to come. When the talks finally came to an

end, the pirôhka table was pushed back into place and supper was served. As

an honoured guest, Jena sat at the table beside Mêloc. Eriker sat crosswise

with Hadrêku and Skŷe, and the other cell leaders found spots on the floor

or squatted against the walls, plates in hand. There was scarcely enough beet

stew to go around (in Fûshock custom, hosting supper was an honour, but

underfeeding guests was frowned upon). Thankfully for the host, there were

more than enough plums and figs for dessert.

Mêloc-the-Dark stuffed his face with a fig, then pulled it back, leaving his

lips red as the area around his eyes. He chewed with an open mouth, showing

bloodied rows of blunted little teeth. Leaning close, he spoke in a dry voice.

“We do not show it, Jena Claren, but we are tired.” He cocked his head. “Look

around you.” She followed his cue, glancing from fighter to fighter, wearing

worn vests and threadbare breeches. As she looked, their striations became

wounds and wrinkles, creases and tears. Mêloc continued. “We cannot win

against the State, it’s a simple question of time and resources. The Herald . . .

my troops see it as an omen, but Mother knows better. The Hôcan State will

make its offensive during the Shower when we are committed to our bunkers

and caves. We will not survive it.”

Jena looked on. Don’t spill your emotions. Jary breached her thoughts, and

she kicked herself into speaking. “Your best bet,” she replied candidly in his

tongue, “is the Security Panel. You must join it. You cannot base your plans

on the hope that Nordland will intervene.”

“With respect, Jena Claren, you do not know the State. You do not know

what the Overseer is capable of. Peace to them is of no use. They are a military

machine. Without war, their purpose does not exist. I know. I worked in the

Fûshan High Council for six years. I served for the Fûshan Liberation Party.

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The closest we ever got to an arrangement was when Kleodâffia Dakâri was

an honorary member in the Great Shrine. There was a willingness to compro-

mise. I saw it in her eyes. True was she to the Calibrate. But she was murdered

by Khan Dormân. And he used her death to take power, to wipe us from the

Council, to put in place his military cronies. Peace”—Mêloc shook his head—

“does not work. Not with the Revolutionary State.”

Jena found herself feeling for the weathered man, but she did not show it.

You can’t commit. You’re a reporter, nothing more. Once more, Jary came back

uninvited.

Mêloc made a slight nod. “You and I . . . we are fighting the same enemy.”

As the evening drew to an end and the designated seats were abandoned

one by one, Eriker came to sit beside her. She had come to know him, and as

hard a read as he was, she could tell he was flummoxed and scared. His voice

was low and diffident, that of someone whose life had been gambled without

consent. “Will Nordland actually intervene?” he asked.

Jena muttered back, leaving nothing in the way of body language. “No . . .

I don’t think so. I had to take the attention off me—off us and my stepfather.”

“Do you actually think they’re chemical weapons?”

She looked through his lenses into deep dark eyes. “No.”

A handful of fighters lingered after the meal, some to seek audience with

Mêloc, others with Jena. When it was over, she felt like a broken record with

nothing new to offer. One by one, the Fûshan Liberation Fighters left the Nest

until it was only Hadrêku and Skŷe, Mêloc with two of his henchmen, along

with the reporters. Mêloc walked up to Jena, half a head shorter. She mimic-

ked his bow, touching her forehead to his. As they drew apart, Mêloc uttered

a parting phrase in Fûshock. “What is our chênamen in all of this?” he asked,

using a word that translated loosely to duty or moral obligation.

And by our you mean Nordland’s? she thought to herself. Alas, the truth was

stinging. A State has no moral obligations, only economic and political interests.

But as the question roiled in her head, that truth became fragile, as fragile as

Jary had been before snuffing out, and she wanted to believe otherwise.

The sky through the apertures was dark as wine when the warlord left the

Nest. It had briefly rained, so a thick humidity had settled in the stuffy room.

Hadrêku addressed the reporters in a tone that was half apology, half regret.

“I will drive you back to your hotel.”

“Can I talk to Sâyna first?” Jena asked.

Hadrêku eyed her dubiously, protectively. “Why?”

“I don’t want to hurt her. I . . . want to know what—why she reacted the

way she did. I might be able to help.”

“I tried talking to her. She wants none of it.”

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“I would like to try.”

The leader of the Desert Hawks made a curt nod and gestured for her to

follow, then led her down the corridor to Sâyna’s room, across from where

Eriker and she had awkwardly shared a mattress for two nights, both doors—

to the corridor and the outer staircase—bolted. Hadrêku rapped on the door

and stood by while Jena spoke through it. “Sâyna.” She spoke in Karûmian,

the girl’s native tongue. “It’s Jena. Can I speak to you before I leave?”

There was a moment’s silence, then a little voice chimed, “Okay.”

Beside her, Hadrêku frowned. That almost made her smile. There is comfort

a man cannot bring.

The door creaked as she opened and closed it on Hadrêku’s incredulous

face. Inside, the room was dark and dank, daubed clay walls like a Mulard’s

skin in the dim orange light from the lamp on the floor. It smelled of hay. It

was easy to see why—one of six wooden crates had been unlidded, exposing

a rocket launcher nestled on a bed of straw. Jena looked at it with a mixture

of dread and awe. A stained mattress was the only other furniture. Sâyna lay

curled atop it in the fetal position, hugging herself. She faced the lateral wall,

and from her vantage point, Jena could not tell if her eyes were open or shut.

She looked like a child, though she was approximately Haidren’s age. A pretty

face, she thought, wondering if the girl had anything else going for her.

She took a step forward. “You okay, Sâyna?”

For five long seconds, the girl was mute. When she finally spoke, her voice

was frail and cracked, a mere peep. “What are the chances we would see each

other again?”

Lots of that going around, she thought, remembering the doctor’s words: This

meeting was not an accident. “Not high,” she conceded.

“My mother used to tell me”—Sâyna sniffled—“that each of us was bound

to the gods, that the gods chose our fate.” She did not budge.

Jena smiled; it went unseen. She’s talking. That’s a good sign. “And what did

your father say?”

The Human girl shrugged. “We didn’t speak about that.”

“My mother always says that happiness is the only thing that truly matters,

that it’s the little things in life that make a whole picture, and that those little

things are entirely up to you.”

There was a curt pause before Sâyna asked, “And your father?”

It was Jena’s turn to shrug. “I haven’t seen my real father in a long time,

but my stepfather tells me to listen to my mother.”

Slowly, Sâyna pushed herself to a sitting position, legs folding beneath her.

Her eyes were red, her eyeliner running, her fangs sticking through the pout

of her lips, yet still she was prettier than Jena dared to admit. “I’m sorry,” she

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offered. “About everything . . . I didn’t mean to . . .” Her voice trailed off. “I

didn’t know they would take you, you and your friend.”

Jena took a step forward, her toes brushing the mattress. “Where did we

meet? Where did you see me?”

Sâyna looked down at the dappled floor. “I saw you at the crater . . . when

you were being taken away.”

Jena scoured her memories, but there were none of a Human girl. “Why

were you there?”

Sâyna hesitated. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Why did the army take you?”

Sâyna shrugged.

Jena changed her tact. She crouched down at her feet, eyes browsing the

stained mattress and crumpled bedsheets and the girl’s tanned legs. “Sâyna,

what happened back there . . . when you ran away? You looked like you were

hurt. Are you okay?”

The girl looked up fleetingly, large black eyes twinkling with trepidation.

“I don’t know,” she stammered. “It was like a headache and . . . it kept getting

worse and worse and . . . I just had to leave. I wanted to be alone.”

“Does it still hurt?”

“A bit.”

Feeling she was on the verge of a breakthrough, Jena kept her silence.

Her intuition was right; Sâyna spoke. “It got better after a while, but there

were, like, visions . . . in my head . . . from when I was in a coma for ten days.”

Jena felt herself being drawn in. “Why were you in a coma?”

“I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

“What kind of visions did you have?”

“I . . . don’t know. There was a mountain. It was at night. There was a, uh,

quarry in the mountain, and . . . Stockmen in it, like they were invading it or

something. And also a building . . . I can’t remember it clearly.”

“Were you in Rêga? Do you know where you were? This building, what

did it look like?”

Sâyna shrugged. “I don’t know. It was grey. It had a giant, ah, seahorse in

front . . . I think it was Diâg. I don’t really remember . . .”

A giant seahorse. Jena sighed. “Sâyna, before you came here . . . in this room,

I said a word. Do you remember what it was?”

She nodded, swallowing.

“Your visions, were they related—were they caused by that word?”

The girl stared back blankly. “I don’t know. It feels like . . . yes, but I cannot

say . . .”

Jena nodded. “Is there anything else you can tell me about these visions?”

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For a moment the Humanling looked pensive, then she shook her head.

“Hm.” Jena reached into her pocket, pulled out her wallet and extracted a

small card. “If you remember anything else you feel is important, if you need

someone to talk to or anything at all, call me. Please.” The girl took the card

and looked at it briefly, then smiled sweetly, her face brightening for a second

or two. Jena put a hand on her shoulder. “Thank you, Sâyna.”

As they trudged down the staircase to the garage, where Hadrêku’s truck

waited to take them away, Eriker leaned in from behind and spoke out of ear-

shot in Nordlandic. “What did you say to her?”

A building with a seahorse . . .

She turned. “Eriker, is there another word for seahorse?”

Her cameraman frowned. “Um . . . hippocampus?”

Jena Swimmer nodded to herself. Just as I thought. The question now was:

What’s our next move?

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Chapter 54 Jarêk

Dagger Lake

Dhôrme Province, Hôc

Foolsday, 33 Tempest 2079

10:48

hey’d set out from Sunpier at dawn, six passengers in all—Nefârion with

two aides, the king shadowed by two Revolutionary Guards, bulky men

in tan fatigues with KH-1s slung around their shoulders.

The trip took them northeast to Gradjênport, from where they climbed the

mighty Peyzîn River to the crystal-blue waters of Dagger Lake, glistening in

the morning sun like a million glass shards. The men kept to the front of the

cabin, giving the king ample privacy at the back.

He thanked the gods for that.

Jarêk Daimôn had brought along his laptop computer, hoping to spend as

much time as he could on Teth3rd. But two hours ago, as the Dry Plains yield-

ed to the grasslands, then the rolling green knolls of Dhôrme, Nefârion made

an appearance beside him. One question too many and the little Mulard took

the liberty of sitting directly across from him. Despondent, Jarêk had stowed

his laptop.

But he’d made a shocking discovery: Nîmrod Nefârion could be agreeable

company. The Mulard knew tons . . . about everything. They’d discussed geo-

graphy and history, biology and planetary science, with the occasional foray

into politics, and now they’d landed in the realm of insects.

Nefârion’s good eye gleamed. “Praying mantises abound in Dhôrme and

Turân.” He said it almost smugly, and Jarêk remembered that Turân was his

natal province. “They are fascinating creatures, truly. Do you know how it is

they reproduce?”

“T-they e-eat their mate after they, uh, have s-sex with them.” It felt weird

saying sex in front of the Minister of Information, but he was so eager to share

his knowledge that he barely noticed. “T-they, um, b-bite their h-heads off,”

he added.

T

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Nefârion licked his lower lip like he’d eaten something delicious and was

savouring the taste. “Yes,” he hissed, raising a tormented forefinger, “but it’s

the female that eats the male, and sometimes even during mating.”

“Yes,” Jarêk echoed, head nodding like a jackhammer. He knew; he’d just

not thought to mention it.

Nefârion chortled. “Can you imagine? Mating with someone you know

will bite your head off? How does one ever agree to it?”

“They d-don’t know,” Jarêk said matter-of-factly.

“Ah.” Nefârion leaned closer, knees almost grazing the king’s. “There are

different levels of knowing. A bee does not want to forfeit its life by stinging

a foe, yet it does so for the good of the hive. In the same vein, a woman suffers

immeasurably during childbirth, and, once the child is born, she sacrifices

enormous amounts of time and energy to wean it. So why does she do it?” It

sounded like a trap, so Jarêk deferred. “She does it because it is stronger than

her. The gene has a sole purpose, Jarêk: to multiply. To ensure the survival of

the species. The species is at the mercy of its genes.”

Jarêk found it unfair to compare insects to Bipedes, so he let the man know

as much. “But we’re too smart to, uh, let ourselves be e-eaten by our l-lover.

We w-would not h-have sex if we were eaten.”

Nefârion made a knowing smile. “It is a paradox, is it not?”

Jarêk was about to ask him what a paradox meant when one of Nefârion’s

officials appeared behind him. “We will be landing in fifteen minutes, sir.”

Nefârion turned laboriously, nodded. He still looks tired, Jarêk judged, though

not as tired as the day he’d returned from . . . wherever it was he’d been for

two weeks. The Minister of Information was a riddle. Jarêk still didn’t know

if he had a wife; he dared not ask. Regardless, he found himself feeling pity

for the little Mulard, unable to reproduce his genes on top of being paralysed.

No. Nefârion seems like a happy man. And he was entertaining—so much so that

Jarêk had forgotten about Teth3rd and flying like one forgets about hunger

during physical exercise. Anyways, this isn’t my plane. The King’s Jet was but

his taxicab. His real plane was sitting in a hangar at the King’s Airfield, await-

ing his return.

“The praying mantis was the sigil of the Larkens, the last ruling House of

Tûrocks defeated by Klovîz XI,” Nefârion said, pulling him out of his reverie.

“They even look like Stockmen, don’t you find? Though it should be said that

the mantis was better suited for the Dhôrmans. When the first Hôcan king,

Val Mêro, conquered peoples, it was not unusual for him to rape the women

and decapitate the men.”

“The seal of the M-Mêro dynasty was the s-stallion,” Jarêk blurted, hoping,

for once, to teach Nefârion something. A vain hope; he’d always been at the

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top of his history class in Military School, but the Minister of Information far

outlearned him.

“Yes . . . horses were best friends to the Dhôrmans. Did you know that they

are native to the Dhôrman Steppes?”

Jarêk nodded, lying.

“Dhôrmans were fierce warriors,” Nefârion went on, “and excellent horse-

back riders. They could ride a horse sideways and shoot a bow in full gallop

like acrobats, raining down terror on their foes before they even suspected of

being attacked.”

Jarêk listened closely. Never had he heard such detailed, personal accounts

of history. “D-did they conquer Stockmen, too?”

Nefârion shook his head. “Most Dhôrmans never even saw a Stockman; the

majority of them lived beyond the Carpetians.” He paused, as if to remember

something. “Val Mêro commanded a great many clans. The Dhôrmans did

not dwell in cities and castles; they were a largely nomadic people, following

the migrations of buffalos. The only way Mêro was able to unite the clans and

then keep them loyal was by promising plunder. And plunder they did.” He

chuckled. “Kêsrohm, the capital of the Kingdom for so long, was erected from

nothing . . . from spoils of war.

“First, Mêro conquered Môga in 1228. He swept down along the Henuk’tâa

River and defeated the three Tâs. Only then did he turn his eye west. But the

Karûmians were not so easily conquered. They lived in great stone fortresses

and fought with metal armor and crossbows, which the Dhôrmans did not

have. But the Karûmians had one major weakness.” He leaned forward, and

it was like Jarêk had known the answer all along. “They were not united. The

Dhôrmans built great siege towers to subdue them, and they were just about

to finish the siege when Val Mêro died in 1252 to the quarrel of a Karûmian

crossbow right . . .”—with two bent fingers, he stabbed the king in the liver—

“here.” He grinned. “His younger son, Vâsal, tried to usurp the throne from

his older brother, Clêmon, so as soon as Clêmon finished the Siege of Karûm,

he went back to Kêsrohm to defeat his brother.”

“And t-then they did the Crusades against the F-Fûshocks,” Jarêk blurted.

Nefârion nodded. “Yes, but the first Crusade wasn’t for another century.

By then, the Mêro dynasty had been replaced—”

“B-by the Klovîz dynasty,” Jarêk stuttered. “They were from Karûm.” He

made it half a question, realizing he didn’t quite understand how the Karûm-

ians had risen to power.

“Yes,” hissed the Snake. “Mêro IV died in 1337 without a legitimate heir,

so the throne passed to his Karûmian paramour’s son.”

“What’s a paramour?”

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442

“An illicit lover.”

“So t-they let her son b-become king?”

Nefârion chortled. “Well, it’s complicated. Let’s just say there was a lot of

politicking on the part of the Karûmian faction—”

“What’s politicking?”

“When one does something to gain a political advantage.”

“Huh.” Jarêk wasn’t sure he understood, but he knew what came next in

the saga. “After, they c-conquered Turân.”

“Hehe, yes. The Stockman citadels had withheld centuries of attacks from

both the Dhôrmans and the Turânian Humans, but it was a new invention—

gunpowder—that finally allowed Klovîz XI to bring them to heel in 1519.”

Something in the corner of his eye caught Jarêk’s attention. He craned his

neck, peering out the oval window. “I see Kêsrohm!” Miles away, on the edge

of the sparkling sea, was a wide expanse of brown like a vast carpet unfolded

over the greenery. Barely could he distinguish the contours of buildings, but

he was certain of one thing: it was a city.

“Ah, the City on the Lake.” Tiresomely, Nefârion rose. “I should get things

ready.” He half-bowed. “It was a pleasure chatting with you, Highness.”

Jarêk barely noticed him leave. Suddenly he coveted the pilot’s seat, feeling

the swift desire to maneuver the craft over the city and land it at the airfield.

It was no use dwelling on it, not with Nefârion around.

The King’s Jet landed ten minutes later. Jarêk glued his face to the window,

absorbing as much of the city as he could. It was his first time in the historic

capital, and he could already tell it was more similar to Karûm City than

Diâmador; there were few if any skyscrapers and most of the city looked like

it was carved out of rock, with square stone buildings and narrow streets and

alleys. Minutes before landing, Nefârion pointed to the royal palace, built by

Val Mêro, which had housed rulers of the first two dynasties. It was nestled

atop a faraway hill; Jarêk scarcely perceived it.

Their stay in Kêsrohm lasted all of a half hour, just long enough to refuel.

Then they were airborne again, heading north to Diâg. The world below was

an endless expanse of vivid green grass. Jarêk kept a lookout for horses. Spot-

ting none, he tried to imagine what a Dhôrman horde would have looked like

from the sky.

The second flight lasted just over an hour and a half. This time, Jarêk sat

alone, Nefârion being busy up front. The land underneath became turquoise

and bumpy, and purple massifs loomed on the horizon. They landed a little

after 1300 on an isolated airstrip surrounded by fields and forest and nearby

mountains. Jarêk was exhausted but alive like never before. Something that

will change my life, he repeated to himself.

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From Diâg, they rode in two black sedans. Jarêk sat with Nefârion in the

backseat of the trailing car, a Revolutionary Guard in the closed cockpit with

the driver. Civilization was scarce, the world scenic. They drove on paved

roads built by no one for no one, meandered through vales and hillsides sown

with fresh crops (parsley, Nefârion said), high purple peaks like elephant

humps always in the background. There was the occasional barn or house

agglomeration, cottage-like, but nothing remotely close to the cities Jarêk had

dwelled in all his life. He wondered what it would be like to live here—no

palace, no Council, no family . . .

A thought entered his head.

“Nef—” He stopped. His etiquette instructor had insisted a king should

address his officials by Minister Such-and-So, but it felt weird calling Nefârion

Minister. “What h-happened to my uncle?” he asked, deciding to circumvent

formalities.

Nîmrod Nefârion had been gazing out the window, contemplative-like. He

turned his head at Jarêk’s inquiry. “Hm?” Then he seemed to understand. “I

. . . am afraid your uncle is not well. His condition has worsened.”

“He has the B-Blackness?”

Nefârion nodded solemnly. “I am afraid so, Highness.” He placed a stony

hand on Jarêk’s shoulder, and for a moment Jarêk did not know what to make

of it. “I am sorry. If you want, we can visit him when we return.”

That was a relief. Êrgo was a traitor, and Dukârion had insisted they would

execute him. “W-where is he?

“At his home, Highness. Taking time off with his family.”

“Y-you will not k-kill him?”

Nefârion’s good eye opened a bit, his cheeks stiff as plastic. He let out what

could have been a laugh. “Of course not. Only the gods have the power of

life and death. Besides, do you think I would do that?”

“No.” There was a bitter taste in his mouth. “But . . . just—because he was

a t-traitor and . . . he—”

“Your uncle did things he is not proud of, Highness, and he will come to

repent in time. But he was not well. What he needs right now is rest and time

to recover from his illness.”

“Will he?”

“In time, perhaps.” Nefârion was still for a few seconds, then he arched his

head, looking at nothing in particular. “You know, Jarêk, I know this has been

hard for you . . . everything that has happened in the last few years . . . and I

know it is hard for you to trust me.” He sighed. “You have reason not to trust

me. I have not been fully honest with you. There are . . . things which had to

be kept a secret from you, for Overseer Dormân and I did not wish to burden

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you with them so early in your reign. I wish to make it up to you today. No

more secrets.”

It will change my life. Jarêk wasn’t sure if he should speak or what he should

say.

Then Nefârion threw him a hardball. “There was no Herald.” His onyx eye

pierced his as if to enter his soul. “The probe . . . it was a cover story.”

No Herald? Jarêk was confused.

Nefârion exhaled as if readying to confess sins. “We, ah, found something

on the first of Tempest . . . in the mountains . . . something the nation is not

ready to see, something I believed you were not ready to see . . . until today.”

He strained a smile.

They found a spacecraft with an alien. Suddenly Jarêk was filled with a strange

mix of curiosity and apprehension. It will change my life. Could it really be an

extraterrestrial? “W-what is it?” he ventured.

The Minister’s smile became almost genteel. “You will know soon enough,

Highness. Matter of fact, we’re almost there.”

“Is it an a-alien?”

Nefârion’s eye flitted. His smile widened. He said nothing.

The conversation ended as abruptly as it had started.

For some time, the cars followed a rivulet through the dales. To the right,

the lofty mountain peaks, ever closer, jutted out behind forested hills. The tail

of the Titan’s Belt, Nefârion called them. Jarêk knew that the world’s highest

peaks were to the south of here. When finally the cars whipped around a hill-

side, the mountains came into view in their full capacity. They had large dark

stains on their sides. He enquired about them.

“Quarries,” Nefârion responded. “These foothills are our greatest source

of jade outside Fûsha.”

The sedans dipped into a service road canopied by trees. The forest grew

thick around them. At one point, Jarêk thought he glimpsed a nuclear cooling

tower through an overhang. Then the cars turned onto another road that gave

way to sloping green fields on one side and trees and mountain peaks on the

other.

“Ah! Here we are!”

It wasn’t long before a large quarry opened in the mountainside like a titan

threatening to swallow them. The perimeter was fenced, a warning to anyone

who dared get close. Cleared at the boom gate, the cars maneuvered a long

winding driveway. Jarêk gawked at the great excavation project, the monster

buildings gobbling up the prized stone. They turned into a large parking lot

surrounding a wide three-storey building at the foot of the mountain, grey

with teal fascia boards.

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“W-what is this place?” Jarêk asked.

“A laboratory for testing jade.” Nefârion explained how rock samples were

transported here from the quarry for purity tests, drilling samples analyzed

to evaluate the rentability of future excavation.

Jarêk became strangely despondent. Maybe there was no alien after all.

The king’s retinue disembarked near the front entrance. The air was cool,

the space open, and for a few seconds Jarêk felt free as a bird, until his guards

coalesced around him. Nefârion led them to the front entrance, where a large

seahorse, teal, was centered above dusty glass doors. A body of Humans clad

in black suits identical to Nefârion’s waited on the semicircular landing. Jarêk

counted four men—taut, nameless faces.

Is that—?

He’d seen him before, the man at the front—a little Human, not much taller

than Nefârion, with a thin mustache and short-cropped hair parted down the

middle. Yes. Doctor Mensûla. It felt weird seeing him again, here of all places,

this man who reminded him of someone . . . but who?

His fingers were laced calmly at his waist, his eyes ever jovial, teeth a white

display. “Highness!” He crossed his fist over his heart, making Jarêk wonder

for a second why a doctor would salute him, before he remembered Mensûla

was actually a military doctor. “How good of you to visit!”

Jarêk greeted him with an upraised hand, like his etiquette instructor had

taught him.

The doctor’s smile broadened. “Minister Nefârion! It seems that every time

I see you, you are shadowing His Excellence . . . though if you keep losing

weight, you’ll no longer even qualify as a shadow!”

“Hehe, yes, yes,” Nefârion chuckled, taking his final steps to him. “Thank

you for attending to us, Doctor Mensûla.”

Once more, the pair reminded him of brothers reunited.

“It is an honor to serve the King.” Doctor Mensûla made a sharp grin that

fell somewhere between friendly and mocking. Jarêk thought he knew who

he reminded him of: an actor from a Karûmian movie about a man trying to

score a woman by pretending to be rich and famous. The doctor had the same

grin.

He and Nefârion exchanged brief formalities, the likes of which Jarêk had

heard all too often. Then their host led them through the dusty doors into a

decorative lobby with a teal ceramic floor and angular cream walls. The space

was empty, but in an adjacent room a half dozen clerks yapped away on tele-

phones behind their desks.

“Would you like a tour of the place?” Doctor Mensûla pivoted distractedly

on the balls of his feet, hands clasped.

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Nefârion answered. “No, thank you, Derîn. We have a long way to Sunpier

and”—he looked at Jarêk—“we would like to be back before nightfall.” Jarêk

nodded acquiescently. “If we could just skip to, ah . . . the main course.” He

smiled thinly.

“Very well.” The doctor guided them through the lobby into a bland hall

with cream-coloured plasterboard walls and old floorboards. The doctor’s

men had already vanished, but Jarêk’s guards and Nefârion’s aides lingered

behind.

The company halted at an elevator.

“The guards must stay here,” ordered the doctor. Reflexively, Jarêk peered

at Nefârion, who nodded his assent. Doctor Mensûla produced a card from

his suit pocket and flashed it over a sensor. The door slid open. Nefârion and

Jarêk accompanied him into a small elevator with wood-panelled walls; the

Minister’s aides stayed without, as did the guards. Doctor Mensûla inserted

a circular key into a keyhole of the same design, tapped a few buttons. The

door closed. The elevator moved. Buttons flashed. GL . . . B1 . . . B2. That was

the last one, but still the elevator moved . . . still it hummed . . .

Then it stopped.

The door slid open.

Jarêk winced. He’d seen a movie once where the main character stood on

a train track looking at an incoming locomotive. That was exactly how he felt.

He was staring at the whitest room he’d ever seen.

“Welcome to our little laboratory,” Doctor Mensûla chimed. He led them

out into a space devoid of furniture. Bare. White. The doctor was like a black

shadow. “This is a sterilized environment.” He and Nefârion exchanged a

curious look; Jarêk thought he perceived the hint of a smile forming on his

lips before the doctor reached into a hidden pocket and pulled out something

flat and square. “You’ll have to wear these.” He handed one to Jarêk, one to

Nefârion.

A hairnet, he realized as he fondled the envelope. And slippers. He imitated

the men—removed his shoes, stretched the thin translucent plastic over his

feet, and pulled the delicate mesh across his forehead. He briefly wondered

what to do with the empty packaging before Doctor Mensûla extended his

hand. “You can give me the scraps.” He stuffed them into his pockets. “Leave

your shoes at the door. Follow me.”

The floor was cool and perfectly flat. In front of him, the doctor walked as

nimbly as a dancer. Jarêk thought he looked a tad ridiculous in his slippers

and cobweb-looking net pulled over his black hair. But Jarêk probably looked

just as ludicrous.

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Doctor Mensûla stopped at a circular door on the right wall. As soon as he

flashed his identification card, it made a sound like evacuating pressure, and

Jarêk started to wonder if they weren’t already inside a spaceship.

The second room turned out to be a blunt corridor with a second door at

its end. The doctor’s card let them through to another empty room, though

this one had doors on all four walls, above which were the inscriptions C1,

C2, and C3.

Doctor Mensûla stopped at C3. “After you, Highness.”

Hesitantly, Jarêk walked up to the door. It swooshed open.

The laboratory was a space half the size of his father’s study. Facing a wide

window on the left wall were three technicians in white coats, sitting behind

control panels and lights of all colours, like the cockpit of a gigantic airplane.

On the far wall were what looked like astronaut suits beside a huge bulletin

board, and on the right wall was a network of computer monitors laced with

buttons and switches of all sorts. At a quick glance, the monitors displayed

charts and diagrams. Jarêk noticed a brain scan.

One of the technicians, a young man with a massive mandible and a scalp

shaved to the bone, noticed the intruders. He turned on his pivot chair and

bounced to his feet, eying Jarêk quizzically through square lenses. Then his

fist thumped his chest. “Um, Highness.” His partner, a woman half a decade

older than him, noticed and imitated him.

“Carôn.” Doctor Mensûla spoke softly, as if to a war victim. “Are we ready

for the next patient?”

The technician leaned over his console, pushed his lenses up with a finger,

and nodded jerkily. “Um, yes. Should I bring him in right now?”

The doctor nodded patiently. “Yes, we would like to show His Excellency

the workings of Omêka.”

Omêka? Jarêk wondered. God of gods?

The technician leaned forward in his chair and spoke into a microphone.

“Send him in.” He shot the king an uncertain look, then diverted his eyes to

his work.

Doctor Mensûla raised a beckoning hand. “Minister Nefârion?”

Nîmrod Nefârion hobbled a few steps to stand behind the technician. He

turned to Jarêk, waved. “Highness, come over here.” Obligingly, Jarêk stood

beside him. Together, they looked through the wide window at a bare white

room with a circular door against the left wall and a black sphere the size of

a medicine ball at its center, its matte surface etched with cryptic symbols.

Nefârion uttered two words: “She sleeps.”

She? Omêka’s a man. Jarêk scanned the empty room, thinking he might have

missed something . . . or someone. There was nothing, save for the black ball

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at the center, idle as a boulder. He noticed gill-like slits on the upper walls

and ceiling—vents, perhaps—but otherwise the walls were bare.

Doctor Mensûla had crept up to stand beside the king. “Your father, gods

spare his eternal soul, would have ceded you the world if he could have. In a

sense, he did.”

In the adjacent room, the round door twirled open. In walked a Stockman,

completely naked, its huge member sagging between its legs like a hung eel.

Powerful hocked legs took it a few steps toward the globe before the door

closed behind it. But there was a lack of vitality in the creature, visible in the

stoop of its shoulders, the loll of its head, the weight of its eyes, the faraway

spark in its irises, the melt of its striations. Its arms were bent mildly, its hands

held before it like hot rags. Like a mantis, he thought.

“A captured Fûshan Liberation Fighter,” said Nefârion.

Jarêk thought its skin, with green connotations, was more akin to that of a

Tûrock.

“Here we are,” sang the doctor.

The patient limped forward like a sleepwalker, stopping a few strides from

the black ball, seemingly unconscious of the effort. Before Jarêk had time to

ask what was happening, movement caught his eye—the sphere. Did it move?

Yes. Something seemed to coil around it like a serpent choking its prey. A

latch. A second latch slid off, vertically this time. The upper half rotated and

cracked. Black liquid oozed out, shiny as oil yet rugged as vines, and the ball

was lifted—actually lifted—off the floor . . . into the air, a black column form-

ing under it like a limb. Jarêk watched, awestruck, as the entity morphed into

an anthropoid shape . . . legs . . . arms . . . a head. It seemed to shift and change

before him like a kaleidoscope, its limbs swaying like seaweed stirred by the

current. But its core was unmoving, buried somewhere in its torso, a black

nucleus like a black hole, sucking him in.

“W-w-what is it?” he heard himself say.

There was an endless pause before Nefârion answered. “Meet Omêka.”

Jarêk felt his eyes widen. I knew it. He wanted to shout it. I knew it! An alien!

Yet speech did not come for several seconds. “An alien . . .” Jarêk gasped for

breath, but it turned into a coy laugh.

The doctor was on him, whispering in his ear. “She is beautiful, is she not?”

It’s a girl? He stared as the black shape mirrored the Stockman like silent

interlocutors. Then something happened. Tiny hatches opened on the part of

the entity that had once been the sphere. Black dust spewed out, hovering

away from it toward the Stockman, like pollen in a Spring breeze. It settled

on the Bipede’s sunken head like tiny landing pods. Jarêk watched closely,

but for a long moment nothing happened.

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Then the alien moved—only slightly, but it bore the weight of the world.

And there was a siren, very faint . . . growing louder.

The alien opened its eyes, but the king saw them not.

Suddenly there was a shrill stun in his head. Jarêk reeled back and bumped

into someone or something.

“Highness, are you alright?” Both men were on him, peering into his eyes.

Jarêk blinked, confused, disoriented, lost.

“Did it talk to you?” asked the doctor. “Did you hear something?”

“W-what—?” Jarêk blinked again. Once. Twice. “No,” he managed. Then

a second thought entered his head. “It . . . talks?”

Nefârion looked relieved as he pulled the king away from the window so

as to face the computer monitors. “Not . . . in the conventional way.”

Conventional? Jarêk did not know what that meant. He could barely think;

his mind was little more than a blank slate. When he gathered his senses, he

was sitting on a pivot chair, hand rubbing at his face as if to massage a cramp.

But he felt okay. There was no pain.

He looked at Nefârion. “You s-spoke to it?”

Nefârion’s good eye flickered. “Oh yes.”

“W-what d-did it say?”

The Minister of Information’s lips pursed into a smile. For the first time, it

looked like both sides of his face were equal.

He uttered one word.

“Everything.”

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Chapter 55 Nahrû

SunBloom Hotel—Passindon

Lower Gallinton, Nordland

Zidday, 34 Tempest 2079

06:48

t happened the second she laid her heel on the prickly mat outside her hotel

room, like it was meant for her eyes only.

The bolide was lean as a spear and it ripped through the atmosphere like

a white-hot knife shearing through paper. For three long seconds, it marked

the twilight, then it was gone, vanished behind the treeline.

Nahrû Bentâm pulled the door shut behind her, half-conscious of the act.

With her right hand, she fumbled through her purse for her car keys, glanced

back at the treeline, a bloating feeling in her gut.

The Herald.

Folk had been led to believe it had fallen four weeks ago; she was the only

person in Nordland who knew better. Nahrû took a deep breath. Calm down,

she scolded, you’re being superstitious. Today was a fateful day, meteor or not.

The meteor belt revolves around Archis, Brevon would say, not you.

She gazed at the rising western sun, fiery as the Herald fifteen seconds ago,

then back to where the meteor had streaked the sky. South to southeast, she

judged. Perhaps it had landed in a suburb. It would be mentioned in the news

reports later. Better than stories about sex-mongering, drug-trafficking SECOM

directors, she scoffed.

Nahrû dipped her sunglasses over her eyes, stifling the flicker of morning

light on car hoods. She moved briskly through the cloister, taking strides as

long as her woolen skirt permitted, and found the leased cart in the corner of

the parking lot (if she was going to part with Brevon and Hank, she was doing

likewise with Drey). A new start, she mused. And everything will change. She

opened the door, lobbed her handbag, hopped in after, and inserted the key

into the ignition. Today’s a fateful day. She turned the key; the car coughed.

Let’s hope in a good way.

I

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451

The world was drowsy and slow in waking—a typical Zidday. Gloomy

morning skies were already surrendering to stratus clouds like a grey pall, as

if in anticipation of the Shower’s carnage. She drove north, fleeing them. The

Herald caught us unawares, she thought, though it felt like someone else’s voice

inside her head.

Nahrû made good time around Horseshoe Bay. Downtown was deserted,

like the apocalypse had already happened, like she was too late to stop it. She

parked her car on Fourth Row in front of an elegant little coffee house where

they served heinously delicious pastries. From a small round table by the

window, she sipped a large coffee and browsed through The Cycle. Nothing

by Jena Swimmer—she always read what the girl wrote—but an article under

Hôc caught her attention.

FLF Occupies Jade Mine Near Rêga.

For a minute she forgot about her pastry; the article seemed to kill the taste,

turning the berry filling into a clot of blood. This will end in a bloody mess, she

swore. The Fûshan Liberation Fighters had stormed the mine late yesterday

evening, taking a handful of hostages and demanding the Hôcan forces’ with-

drawal from Rêga. The Hôcan High Command’s reputation, however, wasn’t

one for patience or lenience; its track record was one of kicking down doors

and cleaning house. Her research on the Turânian Rebellions with Daniker

Forge had taught her as much. Occupying jade mines was not taken lightly—

not by the Daimôns, not by Dormân. As Stiv had once preached in private:

Who’s to say their approach isn’t more efficient? They got the job done.

Nahrû sighed, checked her selfone. Still too early.

Taking a minute to digest, she went through her voicemail. There was a

message from Brevon. Her heart skipped. She paced her breath as she tuned

in to the low drone of her husband’s voice—he was still her husband, and in

her hour of need, habit had overcome pride and she’d sought out his advice

on her reinstatement to the Panel). But he didn’t offer anything particularly

provocative other than “do what you think is best and call me back when you

have time.” What did you expect? she thought. You’re not the victim. She forced

it aside. It was a step forward, if not a weight off her shoulder, and she would

have to take it for what it was for now.

She checked the hour. Time to go.

Her destination was a short drive west on the corner of Life and Fulcrum.

The Moonstone stood erect as a sail in a strong wind, its curtainwall windows

reflecting the incoming shroud of grey. Nahrû found parking a block away.

Party apparatchiks dressed in kilners cantered on the sidewalk, oblivious to

the homeless man squatting like a plucked chicken against the neighbouring

building. Nahrû smelled the putrid sweat from his broad striations, the same

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452

secretions that soiled his rags. She glanced at the Aphelian headquarters. Now

there’s Localism, she thought with wry irony, radiating its equality and kindness.

Nahrû tugged on the heavy Stockman door and passed under the metallic

crescent moons, the party logo. As her heels clicked on the marble, setting her

pace, she stole a quick glance at her phone.

Ten minutes early. As punctual as a Claren.

Trepidation set in when she was in the elevator on the way to the fifteenth

floor. The beeping door shook her from her daze. She straightened her skirt

and followed a plexiglass sign that directed her to an isolated compartment

with a labyrinth of frosted glass walls. A security guard examined her visitor

pass before allowing her through to a strikingly lush lobby. The walls were

cream-coloured stucco, the floor beige carpet all around. A few feet away, the

ground dropped two steps like a miniature hexagonal amphitheater with a

reception desk shaped like a hollow triangle at the center, its outer shell burn-

ished wood with the party logo in black overlay. On the other side of the desk

sat a secretary, a felock whose lines bore the weariness of age.

Nahrû shrugged her handbag into place and got her legs moving.

The secretary did not look up until she was standing over her.

“Hi. I’m Nahrû Bentâm. I have an appointment with the chancellor-elect.”

The ghost of a smile was imprinted on her dry lips. Almond eyes twinkled

knowingly. Nahrû couldn’t decide if she was amiable or arrogant, though she

had an idea. The felock glanced back down at her work. “Just a minute.” Her

voice was lazy and a tad hoarse. “You can sit while you wait.”

Nahrû did just that.

A couple officials in prim robes walked by as she waited, but none that she

recognized. Nahrû waited five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. She began to wonder if

he was holding up on purpose. Perhaps she deserved it . . . for eavesdropping

on him. But this was serious business; she wasn’t here for petty squabbling.

Finally, at 08:25, the chancellor-elect walked out of a room on the other side

of the depression—his office, presumably, though it looked more like a care-

taker’s closet, devoid of windows. She rose, patted down her woolens. Sewel

Lyon stood there at the threshold, playing with the cuffs of his robes, white

and brown and silver. He sneered, then sauntered over to his secretary, with

whom he exchanged a few hushed words.

Nahrû stood there, shrugging her handbag into place.

A minute passed before he came to see her, as if he suddenly remembered

of her existence. Despite her heels, Sewel Lyon stood a full two heads above

her, shoulders wide as a boar’s. Although his age was apparent in the sag of

his jowls, tucked into his collar, he was remarkably fit. Physically, she caution-

ed, not mentally.

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“Miss Bentâm,” he grunted.

Don’t rub it in, Sewel. When Brevon leaves me, you can call me Miss. She bowed.

“Chancellor-elect.”

He stretched out a hand wide as a paddle, grabbed hers a bit too strongly.

“I trust you had no problem finding the place.” The implied message was not

lost on her: You’ve been here before to wiretap my office.

Nahrû refused to rise to the bait. “My hotel room is just around the corner.”

You’re not the only one that’s a victim.

“Hrmpf.” Sewel made an about-face and ambled around the recession to

his office, Nahrû trailing at his heels like a dog. Not shorn of all his manners,

he held the door for her. She entered. Wow . . . being a party leader pays better

than SECOM director. The far wall was curtainwall glass with a breathtaking

view on Patron Hill and the adjoining Plateau. Not bad for one who proclaims to

be the Defender of Farmer Stock.

“Have a seat.” The man gestured to two black leather armchairs, carefully

positioned around a low-lying glass table. He lumbered to his liquor cabinet.

“Can I offer you a drink?”

“No, thank you.”

Sewel shrugged and joined her in the lounge, where he took a seat opposite

her, frowning. “Don’t be scared to say what’s on your mind, Miss Bentâm.”

He fixated her. “The walls are soundproof.”

Nahrû kept a straight face, remembering her conversation with Stiv. I acted

on a whim, he’d repeated. Nahrû could only imagine what Sewel had said or

done to push Stiv to spill it to him—that he knew about his meeting with Rael

Justburden of the First Labourers. What’s done is done, she thought. Anyways,

she was in no position to reproach anyone, least of all Stiv. And Sewel had

no leverage, no proof.

“Mel Lyon,” she started in a formal tone, “I did not come here to quarrel

over differences we may have had in the past—”

Sewel scoffed. “Time does fly! I had not noticed we were in the future.”

Nahrû ignored the jibe. “What Stiv said to you . . . on my behalf, I—I want

you to know I didn’t ask for it. Keeping my appointment at the Security Panel

is not what preoccupies me right now, as you may be aware . . . I have more

important things on my mind. Frankly, I don’t think I even deserve staying

in office.” Don’t show weakness, she scowled. It will only make him suspicious. “I

appreciate the pardon,” she added sincerely, searching his eyes for a grain of

compassion, which she did not find, “but I came here today—” She drew a

blank. “I came here today for a different purpose,” she said tentatively.

The chancellor-elect was slumped in his armchair like a stone monument,

fingers steepled to his lips, legs bent at the hock. His brow was furrowed in a

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steely frown. There was something about the intensity of his stare, the way

his eyes flickered sporadically, that made her utterly uneasy. His pupils were

barely perceptible like the reflection of sunlight at the bottom of a well. She

wondered what was going on behind those maniacal eyes, and remembered

she was alone with this racist misogynist and that there was no view on the

office from without . . .

Sewel grunted. “What do you want? You came here to tell me you’re going

public about my relations with the First Labourers, is that right?”

Nahrû shook her head. “With all due respect, that is not worth tainting

SECOM. Going public with that information would lead to inquiries into the

agency as well as myself, and frankly I have enough going on at the moment.”

She leaned forward. “No. There’s something you need to know . . .” She was

having an out-of-body experience as if hearing herself through a wiretap, all

too aware of how crazy this would all sound. When a crazy person thinks you’re

crazy . . . maybe you are.

Nahrû drew a long breath. “There’s something I must share with you . . .

something that’s going to sound unbelievable.” Taking another deep breath,

she launched into a story that not even the incumbent chancellor had heard,

a story of conspiracy and science fiction and things she did not understand.

When she was done, she added, “That’s why you need to keep Sky Shield on-

line.”

Sewel Lyon’s hands had been fidgety, his eyes evasive, but altogether he

was silent. Silence is good. It meant he was thinking, using his head. Maybe he’s

not as crazy as I thought, she convinced herself. Then his face melted away, and

she realized it had been a mask.

“What is this . . . Human superstition?” he spat. “What are you trying to

sell me, Bentâm? Is this another one of your tricks, your, ah, attempts to corner

me? There are no more wiretaps in this room. Don’t waste your time. But stop

wasting mine and tell me why you came here today!” His lines were pursed

in a feline growl, his eyes burning like pyres.

For the first time, Nahrû was genuinely frightened. She concealed it as best

she could. He’s an animal, and animals sense fear. “Mel Lyon, I know that this

all sounds—”

“Chancellor-elect Lyon!” he barked.

“Chancellor-elect Lyon, I know this sounds crazy. But you must heed my

warning. I’ll show you Case Genesis if you want—all of it. I don’t care about

my job at the Security Panel. You can keep it. But you must keep Sky Shield

operational. There’s a potential threat from above. You—” She chose her next

words carefully. “The eyes of the nation are looking south when we should

be looking up. Hôc is concealing something, there’s no mistaking it, but this

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moment calls for dialogue, not war. War might be the biggest mistake of our

lives. Your father would not have—”

Lyon bolted upright. “Do not pretend you know my father!” he bellowed.

“You’re just like the rest of them, thinking I’m just . . . another hatchling in the

Lyon pecking order, a chick waiting to be fed—”

“I’m sorry I—”

“Don’t interrupt me!”

Sewel Lyon stood all of seven feet, talons clawing like a bird poised to dive.

“I’ve got news for you, Bentâm. I am not my father, and I won’t simply”—he

threw an open palm—“go to war because it makes Da happy. Now, if you’ll

excuse me, I have better things—serious things—to attend to, and you’re pre-

venting me from doing them.”

“Mel Lyon—”

“Get out, Bentâm! And close the door behind you!”

She wasted not another second. Grabbing her handbag, she marched to the

door, never looking back, half-expecting him to lurch after her and tackle her

from behind. Thankfully, she made it to the door in one piece, and closed it—

hard.

The aging secretary looked up, then back down.

Nahrû did not say goodbye.

It felt like she hadn’t breathed the whole ride back. I have to get rid of him,

she knew, I have to. But she wasn’t thinking straight; she couldn’t. Calm down,

calm down, calm down . . .

When she closed the hotel door behind her, she leaned on it and drew a

long deep breath, almost expecting Hank to come greet her, tail wagging. But

he was not there. Nor was Brevon. Nor even the twin papier-mâché seahorses

given to her by her mother. She was alone. The air was dense, the room dark,

reminiscent of the Hole. Nahrû threw her handbag onto her bed and, never

bothering to remove her heels, marched to the plum wall opposite her bed.

Pictures and portraits that had decorated it a week ago sat idly on the carpet,

replaced by a plethora of newspaper clippings—her canvas, her map of the

world and of the future.

Her eyes scanned the articles left to right, from the death of Salêm Daimôn

to the quarantine of Rêga to the alleged probe crash to the election of Lyon—

a seemingly incomprehensible tangle of events, an outlandish hybrid of Case

Blackwatch and Genesis and Cyclops.

But every time she examined it, her eyes gravitated to the same article, the

one that would determine the fate of this nation, perhaps the world. The one

she eyed right now. The one that announced the passing of the last chancellor

three years ago.

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Chapter 56 Haidren

Longeye Naval Base

Longeye, Nordland

Zidday, 34 Tempest 2079

07:03 minutes

e was dreaming of Lake Gloom half a lifetime ago. For once, dream was

reality, memory.

Haidren found Toba and Danik near the pebbled wood trail that wound

halfway around the lake, both clad in army surplus gear from helm to shorts.

Back home in Kinwood Ridge, they wore their gear after sundown, scuttling

the length of select streets through backyards of denizens, but here, they wore

their gear from dawn till dusk, building treehouses, exploring the Nordland

Plateau, canoeing to the islet at the center of the lake and raising shelters there

from birch boughs and pine branches. Now, Toba and Danik were snapping

sticks and throwing the pieces into the woods to kill time.

“Let’s climb that tree,” Haidren proposed; that was another thing they did,

more often than not at his behest.

Danik looked up with a look of cool exasperation. “We’re not in the army.”

Toba’s eyes were levelled on the thin soil.

Haidren was stunned. It wasn’t like them to resist and desist. Plus, he’d

always thought of them as a miniature Trifin elite task force. “Well . . . kind

of,” he countered coyly.

Danik sneered. “See.”

That’s when he woke up.

Haidren Claren took a deep breath. It wasn’t exceptionally hot in his bar-

racks, but his sheets stuck to him like glue. He turned and peeked at the alarm

clock, then inhaled again as he rubbed his eyes. He’d planned to sleep longer.

After all, it was the weekend. Oddly enough, he felt roused.

Unbidden extracts from Lybella’s message flooded his mind. Sorry I didn’t

write back sooner, she’d replied yesterday after his brief follow-up text. Truth

is I found your message clumsy.

H

DAWN

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Clumsy. The word scalded him as if he’d been dipped in one of Val Mêro’s

boiling pits . . . but it also cleansed him. He’d been carried away by fantasy,

he now realized. It’s the wizard crop. He’d confessed as much when he thanked

her for her honesty—the one thing he could do to save face. At least she had

agreed—enthusiastically, even—to forget it all and start fresh. That made him

feel better. Slightly.

Still, Haidren couldn’t help but feel like he’d fallen back a step.

Today’s a fresh start, he thought, reciting one of his ma’s sayings. It did little

to comfort him.

He made the short trek to Winter Hall. Catching breakfast lifted his spirits

a tad—for once that he woke on time. The space was a quarter full, recruits

in colourful civilian wear spread unevenly amongst the tables. Haidren spied

Loper and Callaharr in a corner, but he wasn’t in the mood to talk to them,

so he carried his plate of boiled eggs, legumes and diced potatoes to an empty

table. He was halfway done his meal when someone crossed his bearings.

Fawn.

She stood before him, tray in hand, skin damp from the shower, a woolen

tunic enwreathing her body in a strangely erotic way, breeches emphasizing

the girth of full thighs. Beautiful in her modesty. He noticed a blue wingdisk

logo on her tunic. Odd, he thought. He’d dreamed about his old team a couple

nights ago, of the end-of-season feast in an unfamiliar joint. His coach, a short

pudgy man with a bowl head whom he and Toba had dubbed Baby, was

handing out awards. In real life, Haidren had received Most Improved Player—

a consolation prize—for two consecutive years. In his dream, the award did

not exist, and Fedric (who, for some reason, was on his team) received Best

Player. It was surreal, and so real . . .

“Hi!” Fawn’s face was perky, cheeks flush like green apples.

Haidren made himself smile as he forced down a mouthful of potatoes.

“Hey,” he cooed.

She pointed to his torso as she sat. “What’s Grand Trek?”

Haidren looked down at his grey-blue tunic with the impossible landscape

framed in red. “A band,” he muttered. “It’s glide.”

“Glide, eh? Is that like phase?”

“No.” Never in the Scales of the Calibrate. “It’s a type of music where . . .” He

didn’t know how best to describe it, and didn’t really feel like describing it.

“. . . where there are weird chord progressions and not necessarily any, um,

conventional song structure to the, uh, songs.”

“Kind of like, um . . . Kleerstreak?”

“You know Kleerstreak?” he asked, surprised and incapable of deciding if

that was attractive or not (it wasn’t felock music, after all).

Martin Brisebois

458

Fawn rolled her eyes. “Yeah . . . my da was—is—a big fan.” Of the music,

she made a face. “It’s kind of weird.”

Haidren was somewhat relieved. “Weird is good.” He flashed his best grin.

Fawn pointed with her fork and scratched a tooth with a brittle fingernail.

“You have something . . .”

“Oh.” Haidren slid his tongue across his teeth, felt a chunk of something,

dislodged it. “Better?” She nodded. Not knowing how best to relieve the awk-

wardness, he pointed to her top. “You play wingdisk?”

“Yeah!” she enthused.

“Nice. Me too—well, I used to.”

“Why did you stop?”

“Bah . . . kinda moved on to other things, like playing bassoon.” He readied

himself for enquiries, but, to his dismay, Fawn was silent, chewing on a fork-

ful of eggs. “I was never really good at it,” he added humbly.

“What? Bassoon?”

Is she mocking me? “Wingdisk.”

“Oh.” She scanned her plate, poked at her food. “What position did you

play?”

“Left wing.” Haidren opened a palm as if readying to catch a wingdisk. “I

was never really good at throwing . . .”

“You have big hands,” she observed.

Haidren has invertebrate fingers.

Reflexively, he averted his eyes and withdrew his hand. Is she mocking me?

he wondered again. “Not really . . .” he said candidly.

“It’s not an insult.” There was the barest hint of a grin, impish.

Haidren allowed himself to smile as he fought to change the subject.

She beat him to it. “So . . . you going through with R-R?”

That was one of the things he did not want to talk about. He knew exactly

what angle she was coming from—the same as everyone else. Recruit Reserve

is dangerous; they could ship you off anywhere. Even his da was adding his voice

to the fray . . . though his explanations were less than satisfying.

“Dunno,” he admitted, shrugging.

“They asked me to go,” Fawn said.

That sent his eyes darting. Really? he almost said, but it would have come

out as conceited. Did they ask the whole cohort? “You going?”

She shook her head. “Mm-mm, it’s too dangerous.” Haidren did his best to

keep a straight face. “It might come to war, with everything that’s going on

with Hôc, and I don’t want to be in the middle of it!” She grinned. “Besides,

I’ve got other plans.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

DAWN

459

“Hmm . . . thinking of becoming a vet.”

“Huh.” Haidren felt a smile tug at his upper lip as he bobbed his head

approvingly. He was genuinely impressed, but decided to crack a joke. “You

like killing animals?” She reached over and tried to swat him, but he dodged

it easily. “You should join R-R,” he pressed. “We’ll be killing Humans. Little

difference.”

Her eyes went wide as her mouth, but the vortex of her lips slowly curled

into a guilty grin. “You’re an oaf!” she cried.

Haidren smirked. “I’m a nobleman.”

“Pffft! Yeah right, Shielder!”

That impish smile again. You’re not that clumsy, he thought.

Fawn’s expression turned serious. “What are you going to do after MSP, if

not go into R-R?”

Haidren shrugged. “I got accepted into Music at Gal-U, but I’m not sure if

that’s what I wanna do. I’m thinking about R-R more and more seriously, to

be honest, with what happened to my half-sister, you know? She’s . . . back

in Rêga, and . . . I know it sounds dumb, but . . . being asked to join R-R just,

ah, it feels kinda right, right now.”

Fawn nodded. “Everything happens for a reason.”

Normally, he would have cringed at the adage, perpetuated by too many,

his ma included. Today was different. He argued only out of habit. “Bah . . .

I don’t know about that,” he said in his best offhand voice. “I’d say everything

that happens has repercussions, no matter how minute.” He’d prepared that

alternate adage a few weeks ago when bound; it was his first time employing

it in real time.

Fawn stared at him narrowly, chewing. “You think too much,” she offered.

Haidren felt his eyes scurry as he tried to fashion a response. When nothing

was forthcoming, he asked, “That a bad thing?”

“No.” She angled her head and squinted almond eyes as if analyzing some

kind of specimen. “I think it’s kinda sexy.” She picked up her tray and stood.

“See ya, Haidren.” Throwing him a sideways grin, she pranced away.

Haidren could only smile.

He’d planned to spend a quiet afternoon, perhaps loiter around the naval

base, perhaps make the thirty-minute walk to Old Longeye to purchase some

refreshments. Instead, he found himself leisurely throwing a wingdisk in the

grass fields north of Winter Hall with Callaharr and two other recruits named

Denson and Folk, who’d been lured into it by Fedric. Naturally, his mind was

scattered, his catches sloppy, his throws sloppier, and he was the first to with-

draw.

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460

It was a long time since his taut exchange with Toba, so Haidren decided

to try him again. But by the time he finished eating supper, Toba had still not

replied. Rather than spend the evening mingling with recruits in the Games

Room or on the fields, Haidren headed back to his cubicle in his barracks and

lay on his back. He did not pull out his selfone—the very thought of Teth3rd

made his stomach churn. Instead, he lay in the dimness of the windowless

cubicle, awaiting the call.

It was past 1930 hours when his selfone vibrated. Benigone totem, read the

message. Haidren jerked himself upright, grabbed his rucksack, and left the

barracks.

The sun was lingering over the treeline like a patio lantern. Days are getting

longer, he noted. The eastern sky was lavender, the western mulberry. A shelf

of puffy clouds glided over a backdrop of milky vapour streaks. Sentinel was

round as a chrysalis, Cinder a reptilian egg beside it. A bolide zipped through

the sky, leaving an ephemeral tail. You’re missing a fine night, Fred, he thought.

Fedric had opted to spend the evening at the movie screening in Helaat Hall,

no doubt hoping to find Fawn there; Haidren had noticed how he looked at

her. Whatever. He chased away the thoughts as he loped across Totem Drive

between scoots, under the scrutiny of the totems.

He was the first one at the Benigone pole.

Grim faces seemed to judge him, to spite him. Set in the midst of a flagstone

plaza on the shoulder of Totem Drive, the Benigone pole was tall as any he’d

ever seen, a commemoration to the great military dynasty whose legacy was

opening the Kingdom to Nordlander commerce during the Flower Wars. Oak

trees grew scrupulously on the rolling slopes around it. This was a meeting

place, nothing more. Their deed would have to be done clandestinely some-

where else.

His acolytes arrived ten minutes later.

The Mulard was dressed in a garish vermillion jerkin, no doubt a strategy

to deflect from his mottled face. He shuffled before his two Stockmen friends

like a wine cask rolled by the lean Bipedes in striped tunics, black and white,

noticeably alike.

“There a dress code?” Haidren joked as they neared.

“Yeah,” Jam grinned, “and you’re out.”

Haidren, who wore a mantle and drab clothes, shrugged. “I’m the one with

the goods. You guys are the ones who’s out.”

“So you got it?” Sweetcheeks squealed.

Haidren nodded. “Of course.”

Loper looked around. “Where we going?”

DAWN

461

They opted for the long stretch of cliff between the naval base and the old

town, an area cleared of trees and lined by a fence, easily breached (clearly,

they weren’t the first recruits to slip underneath its claws). The bluff dropped

more than a hundred feet, battered by blue waves below. The Channel spread

out before them, a lighthouse sitting on a lonesome rock in the water where,

weeks earlier, the trifin had feasted. But now the sea was empty, rocked by a

salty breeze that made Haidren’s mantle ripple.

Sweetcheeks lit a wand from his own stash. His face was bloated like a sea

urchin as he huffed on it. “Here you go, raa.” He passed it to Loper.

“Hey, man!” Haidren objected. “The wand goes clockwise.”

The Mulard ignored him, exhaling pungent smoke.

“Man doesn’t work on Sobo!” Jam said with a grin that would only become

sillier with the crop.

Haidren furrowed his brow. “Huh?”

“You called him man,” Jam said. “You don’t address Mulards as man, only

Humans and Stockmen.” Loper giggled, smoke seeping from fitted lips.

“Hey, fuck off, raa!” Sweetcheeks threw an arm at the big Stockman. “The

fuck you wanna call me, then?”

Jam grinned, eyes squinted. “Lard.”

Sweetcheeks retaliated in a loud incoherent squawk accompanied by too

many hand gestures. Loper, the antithesis of his springy sober self, giggled,

briefly regaining his natural fervour. “Mu-lard,” he cracked, passing the roll-

up to Haidren.

Toma Sobo rubbed his bulging stomach in a way that was as erotic as a fat

Mulard rubbing his stomach could be. “Felocks love my candy,” he insisted

with such blatant pretense that Haidren coughed a laugh.

“They love the pillow,” Jam japed.

Sweetcheeks ignored him. “So, you got the stuff, raa? Why am I here?”

Haidren noticed he was fixating his black eyes, fraught with greed. “Yeah,

man—I mean, lard.” Sensing he’d overplayed the jest, he averted eye contact,

remembering the roots in his rucksack. He crouched and rummaged through

the front pocket, pulled out a vial, stood, and held it up to his audience. “Raas,

I brought you a nice . . . juicy . . . caterpillar.” There was a faint ooh from the

crew as he uncorked the vial and extracted the pre-rolled wand.

At Jam’s insistence, they sat on sparse patches of grass on the rocky ledge

to light the rollup of Misty Spring, which they dubbed Miss Wand. She left a

spicy Thraanian fragrance in the air that floated into the Channel. For some

reason, Haidren thought of Fawn and, when his friends weren’t looking, he

smiled to himself.

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462

Miss Wand burned quickly—admittedly, Haidren had packed the roots a

bit too slackly—so he only got two or three slides. Loper was reading the label

on the vial, something about potential hallucinations, but Haidren didn’t feel

anything more than the bind from Lazarus.

“You guys feelin’ it?” he asked, worried.

For once, Sweetcheeks was docile, marvelling at the orb of molten iron that

was the setting sun, wide-eyed and puffy-faced like a newborn. “Ooh yeah,”

he drawled. If Loper had been bound before, Haidren didn’t know what he

was now. “Whoa . . .” he droned. “How is this shit even legal?”

Jam’s grin sliced his face like a dummy. He nodded at the sky like it was

his own reflection. “I don’t know . . . but I can live with it.”

Everyone was bound. Everyone but Haidren.

Maybe it’s because it’s my first time. He remembered his first time smoking

Lazarus at Lake Gloom; the bind had taken an hour to settle in. But this was

also Loper’s first time, and he was bound as a mummy . . .

Haidren’s eyes were jumping from wave to wave when he felt it.

It didn’t creep up on him like a cat on prey; it submerged him like a rock

under water. The world turned upside down, inside out. Haidren breathed a

lungful. It felt like he hadn’t breathed his whole life. Just breathe. He exhaled,

fixating the fiery eastern sky, watching dusk become dawn.

And he understood.

The cycle of life. The promise of day, the inevitability of night. The seasons.

The Shower. Life. The delicate balance. He understood it all, and it was all so

wondrous and tragic. Everything around him—the sea, the sky, the people—

were enmeshed with fine numbers, delicate equations, bound to their fate, to

the Calibrate.

Just breathe.

He could see it now—the pattern in the waves, a kaleidoscope of numbers.

And in the sea, he saw his da with rueful smile and melting eyes. You see,

Stiv said, proud yet grieving. He knew about the crop; he’d known all along.

You can’t give it up. But it wasn’t the drug.

It was the bassoon. Music.

His curse and salvation. Had Stiv not told him by picking Haidren’s new

computer password for him? Music. A test. A truth. You can’t give it up. Not

for Stiv, not for Lybella. Not for Recruit Reserve. Not for anyone.

His hands unfurled before him, lean and slender—big hands, perfect for

the bassoon. He saw Fawn in the sky and in the waves, swelling as one. She’s

got you in her scope, said Fedric. Her eyes were downcast; she was waiting, but

she would never know, never truly understand. He could not give her what

she wanted.

DAWN

463

Just breathe.

Toba had told him, too. Had he not shown Haidren the song, making it his

mood status on Teth3rd? Just breathe. A notice. Music. The sower of happiness

and harvester of sorrow. Wizard crop. The fuel in the engine and poison in the

blood. Flirk knew too. That’s why she spited him. It was jealousy, all jealousy,

a defense mechanism.

Haidren smiled.

Toma Sobo and Jam Forester stood before him, silent witnesses. They came

for answers. The truth was written plainly on their faces . . . but no . . . it was

written on his. They were merely basking in the radiance of Truth, deciphered

at last, witnessing their destinies unravel in real time. The faintest frown and

they coiled in despair. The slenderest smile and they lit like beacons. Both his

to command—Jam with small head and cauliflower ears, Sobo with marbled

cheeks and charcoal eyes. They would never understand, never grasp what

he grasped. But they could learn from him.

Haidren, they called. Haidren.

No matter which way they moved or how he responded, they formed a

Triangle. And he its crux. He anticipated each frown, each grimace and grin,

like it was written in the stars, weighed by the Scales.

Haidren smiled, a smile replete with joy and sorrow and all the colours of

the universe. He stared at them, promising everything, offering only Truth.

It’s all perfect, he thought.

Perfect.

Martin Brisebois

464

Chapter 57 Nassâyna

Stockman District

Rêga, Fûsha Province, Hôc

Septday, 35 Tempest 2079

19:14

assâyna Ghodrimâra took a protracted drag of her hâsha stick. It tasted

awful, like death and decay, yet somehow she’d craved it—badly. Such

is my life, she thought. I want what I can’t have, I have what I don’t. Tangy smoke

filled the cabin, mixing with the vapid smell of the metal dashboard. Through

the windshield the world spun a brownish haze. Nassâyna felt sick. From the

driver’s seat, Drêk would toss her sidelong looks, arm perched on the wheel,

but the silence reigned supreme.

I remember, she thought to say.

Her head throbbed, urging against it.

I remember. But if there had been passion, it was forgotten.

Nassâyna took a drag of the herbs, flicked the butt out of the window. The

wind caught it, yanked it away. Drêk looked at her. “You okay, Sâyna?”

She nodded. “Yeah.” A blatant lie.

“Bêselman will see you soon. He will make you feel better.”

I doubt that. Nothing would make her feel better. Nothing but home. It was

the only thing she truly craved—to be back home with Râkki and Yak in time

for the Shower. But it was a race against time. Every ten to fifteen minutes, a

bolide streaked the sky, seemingly more frequent the closer she got to Smiley

City in the western district, and inexorable.

Emaciated Stockmen, ragged and haggard, watched the pickup truck drive

by from sidewalks and archways as if it hauled food relief. On account of her

race, she no longer felt safe, not even with Drêk. Nor did she feel safer when

they crossed the invisible barrier into Smiley City and Fûshocks gave way to

Humans, brisk and stout, whisking headstrong about the streets, teeth bared

and noses puckered like mountain hounds guided by the scent of blood. They

are foraging before the Shower, she saw.

N

DAWN

465

Three Human children darted across the broken road, chasing a throwball

barefoot. As the truck slowed down, their stares were almost defiant, a latent

expression, neither learned nor culled but bequeathed by eons of mutual mis-

trust. So young and innocent, she thought, but already corrupted. They would be

raised like the rest, to hate each other in a life of torment and crime like hers.

The naturalness and cyclicality of it all was what killed her.

They entered a half-abandoned industrial zone where the outer city wall

had been dismantled centuries past to make way for shipping and now for

Smiley’s imports, which had slowed to a trickle. The sun was a fiery ball over

the opposite shoreline.

“We’re close,” said Drêk.

She yawned, a symptom of her stress.

The pickup truck was stalled at a sheet metal slide gate. For a moment they

sat amidst the purr of Drêk’s motor, then a side door opened and out stepped

a barrel-chested Human with sunglasses, a forked beard, and long hair in a

knotted braid. Despite the layers of his tabard and cloak, he made no attempt

to conceal the machine gun in his hands.

The guard marched to the driver’s window. “What’s your business here?”

he growled.

Drêk removed his hood, revealing the links on his wide forehead and nape.

“We’re meeting with Smiley,” he sputtered in Karûmian.

The guard craned his neck, perusing the backseat. “You FLF?”

The Stockman was placid. “We’re friends.”

The guard made no reply; he walked around to the bed for a better peek,

then pulled out a selfone from a pocket, into which he spoke hushed words.

A moment later, he was back at the driver’s window. “Gate 3,” he signalled.

The slide gate was opened. Drêk was shown into the compound. He drove

on packed earth under the scrutiny of guards. The outer perimeter was lined

with heaps of twisted metal—car hulls, wires, forklifts, containers. A factory

like a crematorium, slate-coloured metal, waited at the end of a lot not unlike

a dump. Drêk brought his truck to Gate 3, parked it beside a cluster of Human

carts, toasters on wheels. He killed the engine and faced her; she scanned his

eyes, dwindling flames. He nodded; she nodded. They stepped out.

His strides were long and mechanical, almost like he’d forgotten about her.

She had to scurry after him, sandals scuffing orange dirt. He walked with his

shoulders stooped, cloak swelling behind him, and stopped at a heavy plated

door, hoofing the earth as if to evade the eye of an overhead security camera,

red dot blinking. Nassâyna diverted her gaze, feigning nonchalance, as Drêk

pressed a long finger on the buzzer.

They waited.

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466

“Who’s there?” rasped a voice.

Drêk took a step toward the speakerphone. “Hadrêku Samâra.”

There was a moment’s hesitation. “First door on the left.”

A barely perceptible buzz was their cue to open.

Nassâyna braced herself as she followed the Fûshock in, expecting to come

face to face with gun muzzles. But the interior was empty. A narrow hall with

a dirty spotted ceramic floor stretched out before them. On the left wall, three

burgundy doors broke a span of dingy white paint. On their immediate right

was an ascending staircase, old and dusty. A second camera hung from the

upper wall like a raven on a butted limb, red eye blinking.

First door on the left, the voice had said. Drêk walked cautiously toward it.

Setting his hand on the knob, he turned.

The room beyond was dark and dank, devoid of windows. A single lamp

cast an orange glow like the inside of an oven. Against the right wall was a

gutted couch facing a television broadcasting a dated movie of a nondescript

city. Against the far wall was a stack of computer monitors depicting black-

and-white footage of the compound’s perimeter—the entrance to Gate 3, the

parked vehicles, the slide gate, the neighbouring streets.

A chunky Human in boots and cargo pants and vest sat on the couch, rifle

pressed like a tray table against his bulging chest. His scalp was covered by

a bandana, his eyes heavy-lidded. He looks docile, she judged. As did his bull-

nosed partner, propped on the table with the lamp, shuffling a deck of cards.

It was the third man who meant trouble. He walked toward them, rifle tight

in his grasp, in a black muscle shirt from which protruded brawny forearms.

From his lips hung a hâsha stick, through which he mumbled, “Step inside.”

Drêk stooped in. Nassâyna followed some steps behind.

The Human swaggered up to Drêk, undaunted by his size. He looked up,

chewing on his hâsha stick like a toothpick. “Frîmco,” he called, never taking

his eyes from Drêk, “frisk the Treeman.”

The bull-nosed man set his cards down and obeyed. He patted Drêk down

and unhitched something from his belt—his glass dagger—which he handed

to his comrade.

The armed man blew out a cloud of blue smoke, which drifted up to form

a cloud around Drêk’s face. “If you’re planning on coming in here and killing

Smiley with that toy knife of yours, you best rethink your game.” He slid the

blade against his thumb. “Can’t even cut a pomegranate with this. What does

it mean, anyways, this knife?”

“Those who use it know which blood is pure and which is not,” Drêk re-

plied. “Do you want to know what yours is?”

The man scoffed, deflecting the jibe. “The girl, too.”

DAWN

467

The fat man watched, scratching an itch on his crotch as his partner patted

her down, reaching underneath her poncho and taking too much liberty.

“Don’t fall in love,” leered the armed man.

The bull-nosed dupe sneered, drawing away.

“He’s upstairs,” said the speaker. “Follow me.”

He led them back out and upstairs, where another hall, parallel to the one

on ground level, offered onto several doors. The man halted at the third door

on the right, painted a failing burgundy with a peephole at its center. Raising

a fist, he knocked.

Moments later, bolts clanked. The acrid smell of burning Lazarus escaped

with a cloud of smoke as the door opened a crack. Through it appeared the

face of a dishevelled little Human. Smiley glared, dying hair falling over dead

eyes. The door chain sliced his face like a septum ring, and below it, a wand

hung from viscid lips. As usual, his lounge shirt was unbuttoned, his pot

belly protuberant.

“Well well,” he intoned in his ashtray voice. “Always a pleasant sight.” He

fingered his wand and passed his tongue over canines as sallow as his shirt.

“Ahem. I’m not talking about you, birdfucker.”

“I wish we could say the same about you,” Drêk returned. That seemed to

amuse the drug lord. “Can we come in?”

“Heh.” Smiley cocked his head at his goon. “Get out of here.” He stuck the

wand back in his mouth, closed the door, and reopened it without the chain.

Nassâyna saw that he was in socks and sandals, with shorts that could have

passed for underwear. He fixated her with dipped head, hungry eyes, and a

sinister smirk, then moved aside. “Welcome to the Lair,” he said to Drêk.

Nassâyna followed Drêk into a penthouse as dark as the room downstairs,

a space as suffocative and cancer-inducing as any chimney, bathed in a hazy

cloud of smoke—hâsha mixed with Lazarus mixed with things more foul. She

stifled a cough.

Blinds covered two windows on the far wall. The room was lit by pendant

lamps that left the untouched area black. Around a long metallic table stood

four skimpily-clad women packaging blue Lazarus tablets for redistribution.

They threw Nassâyna dirty looks (or maybe they were directed at the Stock-

man), then returned to their task. Filth, she thought. Mushrooms thriving in the

dark. In the immediate vicinity, a girl in a tank top and skirt was slumped on

a rotten brown couch, unconscious. Nassâyna didn’t have to be told what

had induced her sleep; the needles were scattered haphazardly on the table

at her knees. On a perpendicular couch, a goon watched with lurid eyes, evid-

ently not in full command of his faculties.

Martin Brisebois

468

Smiley beckoned to his shabby lounge. “Make yourselves at home.” Again

his eyes lingered.

Drêk and Nassâyna took a seat on a third couch across from the senseless

girl, whom Smiley pushed aside as he flopped beside her, her head sinking

to his shoulder. “So, still playing for the other team, Sâyna? You know, you

have your cousin worried cold.”

She chatted with Râkki every day; he was worried, true, but he trusted her.

You just want me to come stay with you. She kept her eyes on the table covered

in vice. “I want to go back to him.”

“Is that why you came back here again?” Smiley took a drag of his wand,

knocked his head back, exhaled. “Number of times I’ve seen you lately, I’m

beginning to think you like me.”

I would rather die. “I need fake ID.”

“Ahem. To what end?”

“They refused hers,” said Drêk.

“I wasn’t talking to you, birdfucker. You’ll get your turn.”

“They refused,” Nassâyna repeated. “I can’t go back across the canal. They

refused my citizen card. I went two weeks ago, and they turned me back, said

it was fake ID. It’s real, though . . .”

Smiley studied her from an angle, a wispy strand of greying hair dawdling

across his brow, cheeks made gaunt as he inhaled the crop. “You try giving

them a blowjob? That’ll work miracles.” He botched the wand in an ashtray

on the table. “For you, Sâyna, I can do that favour. But tell me, why is Queen

Triangle here with you?” Staring at Drêk, he added, “Last time we spoke, you

promised me a little land. I gave you guns and ammo. You better have shot

down some of those no-good toad-heads for me, or I can’t promise you won’t

leave here this time with the bullets in your body and not in casks.”

“What I do, I do for the Calibrate,” answered the Stockman, “none other.

If I leave here in a cask, it is not because—”

“No, no, you misunderstand me, birdfucker. The bullets go in the cask, not

the, ah—Sâyna, this guy for real?!” On a sudden whim, he produced a pistol

from his belt strap, the grip of which she had not glimpsed, and brandished

it sideways at Drêk. “Listen to me carefully, Stockman. You see those soldiers

parading the streets like a bunch of troupers? Yes? That’s because there is no

Calibrate. If your precious balance existed in the universe, I wouldn’t have to

send pretty Sâyna here to Gradjênport to get SOME FUCKING TABLETS!”

Spittle flew from his mouth; strands of hair blew over his face, staying there.

At the packaging table, the girls froze. The goon grinned. “And you, my ugly

Stockman friend who shines nowhere near as bright as the Arbiter, would

not be shooting those soldiers down if the Calibrate was a real fucking thing,

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unless you’re on the State’s side, which I’m starting to suspect. So don’t come

in here and act all noble with me and try to teach me about your righteous

way, you hear me? If I want a bedtime story, I’ll call Mother.” He leaned back,

providing Nassâyna a modicum of relief. “Now, what do you have for me?

And it better not be a fucking lesson.”

Drêk was silent for several seconds, weighing his words. “As you say,” he

said, “you should call Mother. I am but her messenger.”

Smiley looked incredulous. The gun dangled in his hand above his knee.

“A messenger without a message? You are as stupid as you look, you know?”

“Other things have come up.” Drêk suddenly looked like he’d bitten his

tongue, regretting his words.

Might not be a good idea to tell him about the angle with the reporters. A deal with

Nordland is not a deal with Smiley. Surely he wasn’t stupid enough to do that.

Smiley was silent, waiting for the freedom fighter to spill his words. Drêk

prevaricated. “Mother wishes to open dialogues with you, but I can no longer

represent her.”

Nor did you ever, Nassâyna thought. It was your initiative.

The gun still lolled above Smiley’s knee, as did his head over his chest, like

he’d passed out or was on the verge of doing so. His mouth was agape and

drool accumulated in glistening blobs in the receptacle of his lip. “Listening

to you talk is sooo . . . Sâyna, what’s that word when you want to put a bullet

through your head?”

At least it won’t be for us, she thought immediately, though she doubted he

would ever put a bullet in his head before putting several in someone else.

“Suicide?” she said.

“Yes—no, I mean something that causes you to shoot yourself.”

“Suicidal?”

Smiley waved it off. “Never mind.” He stowed his gun, an instant relief.

“Ahem. What I’m trying to say is that you Stockmen get things moving more

slowly than you speak.” He pointed to where the girls packaged the Lazarus

tablets. “Have a pill, man. It’s on me. It’ll do you good.”

Drêk ignored the taunts, though she could see the kindled flame in his gold

irises. “I came here for her, nothing more.”

Smiley sighed. “Didn’t we all?” He slapped the unconscious girl’s bare leg.

“Babe, you wanna help me with this?” She remained limp as a doll. “Have it

your way.” He stood, hands on haunches, tan potbelly protruding from his

open shirt, then slapped his hands before him. “Let’s get going.” He pointed

to Drêk. “No—you stay here. Bâlon, keep him company.” The goon glared.

“Sâyna, follow me.”

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She exchanged a parting glance with Drêk, rose, and followed the drug

lord out the room. He walked in front of her with lithe footsteps, mannerisms

reading almost like a homosexual’s. In the hallway, he took a right, passed a

door, then opened another.

The room was smaller than the previous, and pitch black . . . until Smiley

flicked on the light. She wished he hadn’t. A small bed with a soiled mattress

was positioned against a moldy wall, handcuffs still tied to the metal bedpost.

Beside the bed was an old futon and a bare canvas, and beside that a tripod-

mounted camera, pointed at the furniture. A discomfiting feeling settled in

her bowels. The headache came back.

Smiley’s next words were anything but heartening. “Clothing is optional.”

He went to stand at the tripod. “Stand over there, sweetheart.” He adjusted

the camera height.

Nassâyna sat on a stool in front of the canvas.

Smiley fiddled with the camera. A red light blinked to life. “There we are.”

He squinted through the lens, tapped it with an untrimmed fingernail, black

as soot. “Look here.” Grimacing, he snapped a picture, and another. The flash

illuminated the mildewed walls like bursts of lightning.

She was letting herself slip off the stool when Smiley leaned back. “No, no,

stay where you are, Sâyna. Those ones were for my, ahh, personal pleasure.

These ones are the real thing.” The camera flashed once, twice, thrice. “Ahem.

Here we are.”

“Will they be ready tomorrow?” she dared.

“Tomorrow? Gods, no, Sâyna! Do I look like a vending machine? Give me

a few days. I’ll let you know when they’re done.” He licked his lower lip.

“How much will it cost?”

“For you, darling, it’s on the house.” He plodded up to her, sandals smack-

ing on the cement, and stood inches from her, his bodily smell overbearing—

sweat and smoke and sin. She did her best not to flinch or gag or look away.

“Did he kidnap you, Sâyna? Tell me true. Did he take you? If he did, I’ll kill

him right now myself.”

“No,” she immediately said. “His enemy is yours also. He can help us.”

Smiley was obviously displeased, but perhaps he took a personal satisfact-

ion from hearing her use the word us. “You cannot trust Stockmen,” he said.

“He will let you down as soon as he gets what he’s after. You’re not safe with

them, Sâyna. And the Shower is coming.”

“That’s why I want to go back with Râkki,” she muttered.

“Râkki cannot keep you safe either.” He took a half step toward her. “Stay

here, Sâyna. I’ll give you all you need.” He laid a sweaty hand on her forearm,

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slid it up underneath her poncho. She repressed a shiver as he inched his way

closer . . . and brought his lips to hers . . .

Nassâyna bounced back. “I can’t,” she blurted. “I’m with Drêk.”

The look in his eyes turned to ice. His lips curled around his canines, like

ripples around icebergs. “What?!” he snarled. “Now you’re sleeping with the

other race? What do you want? A grotesque Mulard coming out of you? What

game are you playing, slut? I should have you shot right here! Get out of my

place. Take your birdfucker friend with you and go choke on his fat cock!”

As long as I get my card, she thought to say, but decided against it. I got what

a came for—a picture. The rest would come in time. She spun and left.

By the time Nassâyna and Drêk left the Lair, the sky was black as caviar,

stars blinking like a million fish eyes. Nassâyna had the impression of being

underwater. Her ears were clogged. The throb in her head was intensifying.

She winced, then spoke with barely a forethought. “Can you take me to Bala-

grâa?”

The look Drêk gave her was so drawn-out that, for a moment, she feared

he would crash into a building. “If you want,” he said searchingly.

The ride was quiet and dark, but not dark enough for her tastes; they were

well over two hours over curfew. The streets were deserted and, luckily, they

encountered no one. Before the car halted, she pulled her hair loose around

her face. Drêk turned. “You want to go alone?”

She returned the stare—solemn, serious. “You wanna come up?”

Together, they climbed the precipitous spiralling staircase. At the top, they

made for the western balcony where, at the heart of the city, the sea of fire

raged on in its funereal spectacle.

It was here that it happened . . .

Side by side, they stood like shadows in the night, old ghosts stranded in

a ritualistic pose of hermetic contemplation, him smoking a hâsha stick, giant

frame stooped on the balustrade, her fingering her selfone, fighting the tor-

ments of her demons.

“Will you be safe with him?”

Her eyes left the screen. “Huh? With Râkki? Yes. Why?”

Drêk was grave as he looked down at her, his lines carved in stone. He had

his mentor’s air about him. “It’s predicted to be a long Shower. Maybe you’re

safer with us.”

I’ve been getting a lot of that lately. “I don’t feel like I belong here,” she said

honestly. Her eyes went to the fire two miles away. “I don’t feel like I belong

anywhere.”

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472

“You are exactly where you should be,” Drêk replied. “It’s hard to know

where we stand, because the balance is always shifting like tectonic plates

under our feet. But we are all instruments of the Calibrate.”

That she was a tool, she didn’t argue. Whether a tool of the Calibrate or the

Five, she knew not. But with every passing moment, it was Âncion’s sneering

face she saw in her mind’s eye. “How do you know you’re fighting on the

right side?” she asked. “I feel like I’m cursed, like I’m supposed to do some-

thing but . . .”

“Remember the balance,” Drêk said. His hand pointed to her head, heart,

and soul.

She sighed, absorbing the cool night air. “I remember,” she said, “the night

we were up here . . . this is where I passed out. I remember now . . .” Though

she wasn’t looking at him, she felt his pupils dilate. “What . . . were we doing

. . . when it happened?” Even in the dark of night, she felt him flush. At that

moment, she turned to him, reading his striations, peeling them away.

“We were talking,” he said, his words slow and prudent. “We . . .”

“What?” she spoke above a whisper.

His eyed darted from the pulp of her lips to the blossom of her cheeks to

the depth of her eyes—her left eye, her right, then back. Finally, he found a

place he was comfortable in. His mouth opened a crack. “We kissed.”

She could feel him being drawn to her and her to him, an irrevocable bond.

She welcomed it, bathed in its moist serenity. Her lips moved. “I don’t want

to leave you.” Was it the truth? She could not say. But the silence was more

seductive than any truth she’d known.

Slowly, he leaned in, found her hand with his. Her lips collided with his,

rugged yet soft, as his hand moved underneath her poncho. When he pulled

away to look at her, he was calm as a lake. “You don’t have to.”

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Chapter 58 Toba

Millenarian High Chapel

Lower Gallinton, Nordland

Septday, 35 Tempest 2079

10:11

hat is your favourite colour, and what is it to the Calibrate?”

A hand shot up from the middle of the semicircle. It was the boy

with the bulging cheekbones and sweeping striations, felock-like but cute—

a face Toba would remember for days.

“Mikkenald?”

“Green,” proclaimed the boy. His turquoise tunic had an undulant collar,

flowerlike. If the keenness with which he participated didn’t show it, his garb

did: he was from a wealthy family, probably Merchant Stock.

The High Priestess shined a tender smile. Today she was but Jaki Santairis,

Septday educator. Her kaleidoscopic ropes had been substituted for a falluja,

simple and clean. Her voice swayed like the rolling waves, devoid of its apoc-

alyptic undercurrents. She lit up the tiny side chapel like the sun.

“Green! Very good! And what is green?”

“Trees,” said the boy, echoed by his peers.

“Yes.” Fel Santairis nodded. “And what do we need trees for?”

“To breathe!” they replied almost in unison.

“That’s right! Trees are a vital part of our environment. If we didn’t have

them, we wouldn’t breathe.” She nodded. “What else is green?

“Jade!” one of them cried.

“Yes, right!” She touched her necklace, gold with a jade bit the size of a

throwing stone lodged at its center. “Jade, like my necklace! And what about

the other colours? What other colours do you like?”

“Purple,” said a girl with a laurel crown.

“Purple,” smiled the woman. “Like my dress!” She pinched the right strap

of her violet-trimmed falluja. “And what is purple?”

“The sky,” said the girl.

“W

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“Yes, the sky. And we need air to breathe, don’t we?” The children concur-

red, bobbing their heads in exaggerated mimicry of her. Fel Santairis swept

over them. “Did I ever tell you the story of the Trolls and the Treelings?”

“No,” they hooted, greedy.

“I didn’t tell you?” Fel Santairis feigned surprise. “Well, I guess I should

tell you then, shouldn’t I?”

“Yes!” they chanted.

Fel Santairis cleared her throat. “There once was a race of people who lived

in a forest. They were called Treelings. They were a peaceful people and lived

in great big treehouses in a place called Treetown. They were farmers living

off the earth, and they troubled no one. But one day came the Trolls.

“The Trolls lived in barren lands where there was little water and no trees.

So one day, they come to Treetown. ‘We need a place to stay,’ they say. ‘We

have no trees and no air.’ Now, the Treelings have their homes, but they do

not have enough for everyone. They say, ‘We will move a few families so you

can have a place to stay.’ But the Trolls want more. They attack the Treelings.”

The children stared, mouths agape. “The Treelings fight back,” she went on,

“but the Trolls are too many. They push the Treelings out of Treetown and

take it for themselves. But the Trolls are not an organized people. Soon, they

cut down all the trees with their axes and pollute the air around them. And,

once again, they have nowhere to live, so they move.”

Fel Santairis looked at her audience apologetically. “So the same thing hap-

pens again. And the Trolls continue until there’s nothing left to take, and soon

there’s nothing left on the planet.” She nodded, contrite.

“What happened to the Trolls?” asked a child.

“They died . . . and took the planet with them.”

The child fixated her, concerned and perplexed.

“Next time, I’ll tell you a much happier story.” The kids seemed to liven at

that. “It’s called the Peacock and the Chameleon.”

Toba was jolted. The Calibrate manifests itself in subtle ways, they said. Other

times, in overt ways. I’ll have to come back for it, he immediately knew.

All but one kid had filed out of the side chapel to rejoin their parents, who

waved at Fel Santairis before leaving, when the High Priestess accosted him.

Toba stood at the inner threshold with Gable, from where they’d been silent

witnesses to the last ten minutes of Septday School. The wind blew through

the open door. Fel Santairis smiled. “I hope that wasn’t too bland for you!”

Toba shook his head, returning the smile. “It was good, heh.”

Fel Santairis grinned. “And what is your favourite colour?”

“All of them.” Toba smirked. I’m a chameleon. It was no use pretending to

be a peacock or a lion—he was too humble for that—but he’d thought about

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it and the chameleon suited him. A chameleon with all the colours of a peacock. “I

liked the story about the Trolls and the Treemen, heh.”

Fel Santairis laughed soundlessly, the same gesture that had enchanted the

pupils without erring. Beside him, Gabel Santairis chuckled. He wore a drab

woollen tunic like Toba’s and a half cloak for the unseasonably chill Spring

weather. “It’s a classic!” he said.

Fel Santairis turned. “Hurry, Kelvetir! Your parents are waiting!”

The boy strapped his schoolbag with the difficulty of a patient in a straight-

jacket and rose on shaky legs. He had a square face, even squarer lenses, and

a grey tunic with a crenelated collar. As he stumbled by, he halted beside the

High Priestess.

She stooped, resting delicate fingers on his shoulder. “You’re going home

now, Kelvetir?”

The boy didn’t answer. He looked at her cross-eyed, then diverted his stare

to Toba . . . and said nothing. Toba began to wonder if he should say or do

something. He heard himself chuckle. His eyes fled. The boy pointed a finger

at him, almost accusingly. “Nohim,” he said.

Nohim? As in the Revenant? He didn’t know how to react, so he beamed a

prudent smile.

Fel Santairis intervened. “You think Toba looks like Nohim?”

Cross-eyed, the little boy named Kalvetir observed him through telescopic

lenses, though he could just as well have been looking beside or through him.

He turned back to the speaker, saying nothing.

“But we do not know what Nohim looks like,” she cued, “do we?”

Still the boy didn’t answer, looking through the void, his mouth half agape.

He wasn’t normal; Toba was beginning to wonder what he had. Then, as if

suddenly bored, he passed between Toba and Fel Santairis, and out the door

he went, schoolbag joggling. That was weird, Toba thought.

It wasn’t long before Jaki Santairis explained. She’d just locked the door to

the side chapel, and the three of them were ambling down the footpath along

the outer nave’s fluted copper shell. It was a bleak day, almost more Winter

than Spring, and the wind blistered his cheeks.

“Kalvetir’s a special boy,” she said, voice swaying like her gait. Toba detec-

ted a touch of affection and an ounce of pity. “He has a light form of Stepper’s

syndrome. He is very smart, though he has trouble with social interaction.”

A faint tsk came out of her mouth. “He sees things others cannot . . . It is inter-

esting that he called you Nohim.” Her smile was back.

Gabel patted Toba on the back. “The Revenant! You can forget about that

photography course,” he said. “You’ll be getting a handful very shortly!” He

flashed his crooked grin, and again Toba wondered how he could possibly

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476

be the son of Jaki and Gelden Santairis, that handsome couple. “Not bad for

a new guy!” Gabel exclaimed, and Toba briefly wondered if, deep down, he

was jealous.

He giggled. “Don’t know if I’m up for it.”

“And why not?” prodded Jaki Santairis. “Fetoraa did not know she would

be the Revenant until she became Fetoraa the Unifier at thirty-three. Before

that, she was from a modest family, farmers in Turân who had not even heard

of Nordland.”

“The Second Revenant,” Toba heard himself say, before realizing it was an

expression of self-doubt. “I mean the—”

“The First Revenant,” Gabel finished for him.

Dead leaves from last fall crunched underfoot as Fel Santairis preached.

“First Fetoraa proclaimed herself Imperator, then she set off across the Chan-

nel to conquer Nordland, which she united in 1040. She created the modern

calendar. She was the reincarnation of the Calibrate, but only the second one.

Ulkan was the first. Fetoraa called herself the Revenant. That’s why Nohim

will be the Second Revenant.”

“Hm.” It made more sense now. “But how do we know Nohim is coming

this year?”

He had expected, perhaps even desired for, Fel Santairis to explain, but it

was Gabel who spoke. “Because of the calendar,” he stated obviously. “Ulkan

was in Year 1, Fetoraa was in 1040, so Nohim will be in 2080.” He made the

accompanying hand gestures and, for the first time today, an awkward sens-

ation spilled over Toba, like Gabel was trying to prove himself to his mother.

“This year the Shower coincides with the Lunar Shade,” he said, “so the stars

will be aligned.”

Cutting the corner of the Chapel, they started toward the parking lot. “And

Nohim will restore the balance?” Toba queried, unsated.

“More than that.” It was Gabel’s ma. “We rose from dust, and to dust we

shall return. The Triangle will close, but it will reopen somewhere else.” She

was speaking cryptically like the High Priestess. Nonetheless, it sucked him

in like a black hole. In another universe, Gabel had said. Toba found himself

gazing up the length of the colossal pilasters on the façade, rising from the

earth like metallic kinwoods, but he couldn’t glimpse the windowed prism,

only the glass ribbons running abreast the pilasters. In another world. Would

he remember the old? Would there be skyscrapers and selfones and Teth3rd?

He hoped not.

“Ulkan, the first Incarnation, united the Tûrocks,” Gabel lectured. “Fetoraa

united them with Nordland. Nohim will unite us with the Fûshocks. And the

Triangle will be complete.” He drew the shape in the air before him.

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Toba thought of Haidren’s half-sister and her lover. “So . . . we’re against

the Humans?”

“No.” Jaki Santairis extracted her keys from her satchel, and proceeded to

unlock the door of her gold Sentinel coach. “We’re not fighting. We’re watch-

ing . . . and getting ready.”

Toba didn’t know whether to be relieved or scared; he imagined a similar

feeling had gripped the pupils’ hearts earlier. “Will we survive?” he asked.

Gabel had even talked about rebirth.

“If we are true to the Calibrate,” said Fel Santairis.

Toba thought about Haidren, once a friend. He was against the Calibrate.

Would he perish? Would he only change his mind when it was too late?

“Don’t worry, Toba,” Gabel cooed, sensing his disquiet. “The Calibrate

selected you. What’s more, it also selected your da. Your path is true. All you

have to do is keep treading it.”

Toba nodded, feeling marginally better.

They hopped on the train to Greystone a few minutes after fifteen o’clock.

And it was off like a bullet through the countryside. Toba liked this part of

the journey—the Boulder Hills, green and rolling and almost tree-free. Every

odd mile, a big white boulder sat at the crest of a hillock, or a scatter of rocks

in a dell. The glaciers had moulded this, Gabel had told him, cutting through

the landscape and dropping off boulders in their wake. The townships that

had sprouted here like carriages on elephants’ backs were small and rustic,

houses built of wood and stone nestled around brooks and ponds. The town

where Gabel resided, Listhelm, was somewhere west of here; Toba had slept

there yesterday and immediately fallen in love. It wasn’t hard to understand

why Jaki Santairis endured the hour-long commute to work every day. Da

would like it here, he thought. More than once had Badic’s business ventures

and fondness for quaintness brought him to Loklong, south of the city. Short-

age of work had brought him back. Maybe he can retire here, Toba thought. He

would bring it up next time they spoke.

Gabel nudged him on the arm. “Toba, have you seen this?”

Toba abandoned the vista and turned to his friend, who held his selfone at

his thighs. The screen displayed the portrait of a felock, coy-looking. “Is that

BioMatch?” he asked, remembering Haidren and Fedric going through girls’

profiles.

“Better,” Gabel replied. “Millenarian Match.”

“Huh.” He ogled the stranger’s face.

“You never heard of it?”

“No.”

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“It’s like BioMatch, but better. You meet Millenarians. Their profiles are

built around their interests and values, not only the physical stuff.” He turned

promptly, a prying grin on his face.

Millenarian Match. His journey flashed before his eyes—what had occurred

and what had yet to occur—straight as the edge of a triangle. You’re ready, he

thought, seeing the ghost of Tama in his head. Then he saw meteors, and the

straight line that was his journey started to resemble more the serrated edge

of a knife. What’s the point if it all ends? Had he even liked Tama? Everything

that’s happened, happened for a reason. He bobbed his head. “Lay.”

Gabel studied him. For a second, Toba wondered if the doubt was visible

in his eyes and lines. “Check it out. You can see more pictures like this”—he

flipped through the album—“and where they live, what they like . . .”

“Lay,” Toba heard himself say. He scanned the smiling faces on the screen,

unable to suppress the ravenous beast that dwelled in his gut and fed off his

loneliness.

Gabel flipped through profiles.

“Are they all Stockmen?”

“Yeah, no froggers. Isn’t that great?”

Toba was startled. That’s the first time I hear him disparage anyone or anything.

He thought of Haidren.

Gabel stared back, grinning. Perhaps he’d been joking after all. He flipped

through the profiles. “They’re all followers of the Revenant.”

“There’s . . . a lot,” observed Toba.

“Ho-ho! Yes, my friend. Now more than ever! They all want to wed before

the Reckoning. You should give it a try, Nohim! You would be an instant hit!”

Toba Stormwill studied his friend, trying to decide if he was being mocked.

No, he thought, Gabel looked his usual affable self. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe

it’s getting to my head. It was, he decided. Gabel was nothing if not a good per-

son and friend. A friend who, one day, he would have to repay. But not today.

That day would come.

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Chapter 59 Jena

Peace Square—Stockman District

Rêga, Fûsha Province, Hôc

Moonday, 36 Tempest 2079

09:47

eace Square was like a smoker’s heart, thought Jena Swimmer. Its arteries

were clogged by bonfires and blockades, the main organ a blackened and

withered version of its former self, littered with loose tires and wood planks

and miscellaneous trash heaps, tracing an impossible evolution of the conflict

born but four weeks ago. If the square was an organ, the Fûshocks were white

blood cells, worn and tired from the quarrel, lines running like war paint, yet

animated with a fervour that would not die until the intruders were expelled.

On the square’s southern edge, a line of Fûshocks battered a wall of antiriot

shields in relentless waves, the result a bloodcurdling clangor that promised

overspill. Jena knew it was a matter of time before the Hôcan soldiers’ duress

melted away in the face of the tall Bipedes, provoking a backlash. Even from

this relative distance, the mob around the reporters was coagulating. Eriker,

his monstrous camera glued against his lenses, looked like a tornado chaser

vying to capture the storm.

Jena pressed the selfone to her lips. “I’ve gotta go, Steffen. Things are heat-

ing up here.”

“Get me that story, Jena,” he said as she cut the line.

Yes, Boss. Since the Ministry’s endorsement of her latest article, her hopes

were marginally higher. It was expected, however—she’d written about pro-

government militias, the armed citizen groups which had formed in response

to what was deemed Fûshock aggression. Usually formed of armed bands of

Humans, they were becoming increasingly vicious, terrorizing suspects and

innocents in dark alleys. Fêlia, the State-run newspaper, had (unsurprisingly)

praised the support on Ground Zero, which meant Jena was allowed to write

about them to her glut’s end.

P

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Something brushed against her bush jacket. She turned to see a felock in a

meager hâfa stagger by. Like most on the square, she was underdressed for

this abnormally cool Fûshan morning. As Jena watched her vanish into the

northern crowd, she spotted a high heap of rubble—wood and rubber and

metal—near the central statue. “Here!” she cried to Eriker. Pseudo-steps were

carved into the debris, manned by spectators seeking a better view of the

tumult. Jena led Eriker to it and stood guard as he climbed the wobbly steps,

plowing his way through bystanders.

That was when the first burst of gunfire ripped the air, slicing through the

clamour.

Shit, she thought. Likely they were warning shots. Either way, this was bad

news. Things will degenerate.

And they did.

It started with a loud CRACK. She turned to see a lanky Fûshock lose his

footing on the rubble behind Eriker. He teetered precariously on one talon

while the airborne foot searched blindly for a landing, arms weaving frantic

circles in the air. Then he toppled backward, landing on his rump and sliding

hard into Eriker. The photographer barely had time to fathom the situation.

Both hocks buckled underneath him. He was sent sprawling forward, hands

outstretched to break his fall. For a second, it looked like he would regain his

poise, but his foot jammed on a broken pipe or protruding piece of metal.

Jena held her breath.

Eriker’s shoulder hit the cobblestone first, then his arm and his hip. With

almost paternal instinct, he cradled his camera, but could do nothing to save

his eyeglasses, which flew off his face and slid across the stones. Reflexively,

he reached for them, but, as he did, he forfeited his grip on the camera. The

device rolled away with all the grace of a square piece of plastic, yanked back

sharply by the strap around his neck.

Jena bounded for the glasses.

She wasn’t fast enough. A heavy talon trampled the lenses with a heart-

wrenching crunch. Eriker neither heard nor saw. The glasses forsaken, Jena

staggered to help him up. Before she could do so much as touch him, she was

shoved brusquely. There was a sharp tug on her arm. A Fûshock was pulling

on her satchel. My laptop!

It was too late. The felock was already running with her loot. As Eriker

groped clumsily for his camera, a second Fûshock appeared out of nowhere,

ripping the tool from his hands. Eriker’s neck jerked back gruesomely as the

strap was snatched away. The thief disappeared into the mob just as a second

burst of gunfire ignited the air.

She threw herself onto her partner. “Eriker! You alright?”

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“Sssss,” he hissed, kneading the rugged skin of his arm. “My glasses . . .”

“They’re gone, they’re broken.” She helped her partner to his feet, peering

around. The thieves were nowhere in sight. Around them, the masses swirled

in a whirlwind of flesh and rags. “Come on,” she said. “We’ve gotta get outta

here.”

The third gun burst bit the air like a rabid dog.

She held onto Eriker’s arm as they pushed their way through the frenzy,

her partner looking like something made of clay, wide-eyed, his big head sag-

ging.

There was a strange swoosh from somewhere behind her. Glancing over her

shoulder, Jena saw an arc of smoke traced in the air above protesters’ heads.

“Gas!” someone cried. A metallic canister hit the stone somewhere to her left,

clinking distinctly. Another landed even closer to her right. A crazed Fûshock

picked it up and threw it back the way it had come.

Around them, smoke rose like a dense fog, almost serene . . .

The gunfire resumed in the distance, this time incessant, whole—a barrage

of fire. Not warning shots.

She nearly collided into a Fûshock, disoriented and scared. Rounding him,

she pressed on toward the northeastern corner of the square, clasping Eriker’s

shoulder, urging him on. Looking back once, she saw the central pillar with

the golden Stockman statue, Fûshocks clambering down like termites from a

mound. To the right, they passed Tent City, shelters toppled, dismantled and

torn. Braziers lay askew. Stockmen hurtled them as they scurried through the

forsaken settlement.

The sky was raining gas grenades. A canister hit the shoulder of a Fûshock

ten feet in front of her. The man went down under a pile of flesh and a cloud

of smoke. She pulled Eriker away from the geyser and found herself pulled

by a current, which, thankfully, flowed in the same direction as them.

“We’re almost there,” she shouted as an altar loomed above.

Eriker grumbled. “I can’t see shit.”

They finally made it to the altar, and for the first time in what felt like an

eternity, Jena breathed. Her heart pounded through her chest. Her laboured

breaths made her head throb. West, people ran in disarray; the army had cor-

doned off the streets. From there rained the tear gas like a premature Shower.

South, the gunfire became more sporadic. She let go of Eriker. They followed

the hurried crowd toward their hotel. Around her, shopkeepers packed their

wares; homeowners drew curtains across window-holes; parents dragged

children to safety. This is it, thought the reporter in her. Today’s a milestone in

the conflict, history in the making.

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They’d barely made it to the hotel when her selfone shook in her breeches.

Now’s not the time, Steffen! Necessity compelled her to pick up. On the display

screen, the number was alien. “Hello?”

“Jena?” It was a Human’s voice, a woman’s—musical and familiar.

“Yes? Who is it?” Eriker held the heavy door open for her. She stepped into

the hotel lobby, sandstone and marble, as of yet unmolested.

“It’s Nahrû. Nahrû Bentâm.”

Nahrû? “Hi . . .” Jena had scarcely talked to the politician since their collab-

oration on the War Commission. “What’s going on, Nahrû?” Why in the Scales

are you calling me?

“Jena, listen, I don’t have much time, and I don’t know how best to explain

this, but things are going to change . . .”

You think? she thought wryly.

“The Spectraboard is back up in Rêga. Is that right?”

“Yes. Since this morning.”

Nahrû breathed heavily into the microphone. “They’re going to attack.”

Jena’s eyes followed a passing Human in a black suit and briefcase. “They

already did. They’re using live rounds.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

Nahrû sighed. “Jena, listen, we don’t have much time. Lyon’s not going to

take power. I can’t tell you why or how right now. But Nordland’s going to

be rattled for a while.”

Jena listened, confused, curious. What was Nahrû getting at? Why was she

calling her?

There was a moment’s silence. The voice that resumed was flustered yet

resolute. “Jena, I’m sending you documents via Spectraboard. If in forty-eight

hours the chancellor-elect hasn’t been deposed, I need you to do something

for me: show them to the Ministry of Information. We might be able to avert

a war.”

Jena nodded, dumbstruck. “Okay . . .” she said, a million questions racing

through her head.

“Thanks, Jena. That’s all I can tell you right now. I’ll call you back soon, as

soon as I can. I’ve gotta go . . . take care of yourself.” And just like that, the

Director of the Security Commission hung up.

Jena turned to Eriker. Her partner was blinking, squinting, frowning, look-

ing more confused than her. “Are you alright?” he asked.

“I don’t know. . .” She mulled over Nahrû’s words, trying to make what-

ever sense she could of them, before remembering her coworker had just been

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mugged. “Are you alright?” She leaned over and touched his brow, bruised

and scraped. “Do you have a spare pair of glasses?”

He lowered his head, defeated. “My contacts are upstairs.”

“Okay, good, good.” She looked around to see a group of Fûshocks in hâfas

march in, panic written all over their faces. “We’ve gotta get outta here.”

Eriker was pained but on cue. “Yeah.”

Her next thought, however, brought her crashing back down to earth. The

Gates will be closed. She could see them—three bridges across Lîzht Canal—

drawn, pointed to the sky, armed men arrayed immaculately behind them.

We’ve gotta get outta here. But how? She asked her partner; if anyone could stay

cool during these nerve-wracking moments, it was Eriker.

The big Stockman merely shrugged. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m turtling

up here like it’s the Reckoning.”

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Chapter 60 Nahrû

OFFIN Headquarters

Upper Gallinton, Nordland

Moonday, 36 Tempest 2079

13:47

er angle with the reporter having been set up, she needed a private word

with the OFFIN director. Since her old office at SECOM Headquarters

was no longer an option, she met him in his.

The space was grey and drab as the man himself—hardly neutral grounds.

But with the speed at which things were unfolding, it was well past time for

fence-sitting; Syd would need to take a side—fast.

The old Aphelian had been solicited “for urgent matters” a little over an

hour ago. If he was troubled or curious, he showed it not; his face was sterile

as old cardboard, the creases around his brow digging deep lacerations in his

sallow skin.

Sydren Hydren leaned back in his pivot chair, fingers steepled at the waist,

his customary navy-blue robes smooth over the bulge of his stomach. Nahrû

looked at him with loathing, a sudden reminder of how hard it would be to

win him over. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks, she had often told herself.

She would have to try. Had Syd not opened up to her by letting her in on the

possible Hôcan plot to override Sky Shield? You never know when you’ll need

him as an ally, Brevon had once said.

They’d been talking for fifteen minutes, but there was still no consensus.

Sensing his reticence, she pressed her point.

“Syd, I’ve got enough evidence to lock him up in the psycho ward for two

lifetimes. How is that not enough?!” She thought her words blunt, but there

was no time for etiquette; national integrity and world peace were at stake.

The Director of the Office of Intelligence made an all-too-familiar frown—

the only facial expression he truly mastered. “We’re in the middle of a relay,”

he stated. “Lyon’s sworn in in a week. Going public with this would be politi-

cal suicide—not only for the Aphelians.”

H

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“He’s in-sane!” she blurted. “He has hallucinations of his father! He speaks

to him!” Do I have to draw you a picture?!

“Hallucinations or no, this is a question of national security.”

Yes! she wanted to scream. That’s the whole point! “Sewel Lyon and the First

Labourers are warmongers! There is no possible scenario where keeping him

in office is any good for national security.”

“Lyon won’t have to monger any war,” Syd countered stubbornly. “Hôc’ll

be pounding at our back door before he even knows what hit him. We’ve got

to consolidate, not divide.”

It was a gratuitous extrapolation of the morning’s tumult in Rêga. Nahrû

propped her forearms on the edge of his mahogany desk, leaning in defiantly.

“Do you hear yourself, Syd? What good can come of a madman running the

country . . . making military decisions? You’re asking me—you’re asking the

country—to put a rifle in the hands of a minor. Just what are we supposed to

do when he gets out of control, when his delusions take over completely? Are

you gonna send one of your spies to hit him and clean up the mess and avert

Nordland’s greatest conspiracy? What do you want, Syd? What’s going to

happen?”

At last, Syd unsteepled his fingers and sat upright. If she hadn’t convinced

him, at least she’d stirred him. “What proof do you have that he’s delusional?

Recordings? How do you know it’s not simply, aaahhh, a spiritual connection

with his father? What makes you so certain—?”

“I’ll show them to you,” she bit back. “Then you can tell me how spiritual

he is.” She reeled back an inch, adjusting her black skirt. Progress was slow,

but the conversation was swaying in a safer zone; it was time to relent. “We

cannot allow him to take office,” she repeated gravely.

Syd grunted as he rose from his chair. He folded his hands behind him and

paced absently toward the plain grey wall, looking at nothing in particular,

but showcasing his barracuda’s underbite. Looking back at Nahrû, he asked,

“Who else knows about this?”

“I told you. Hal and a couple others. Stiv, for one.”

“Have you spoken to your husband?”

“Of course not.” Was he using the word husband out of deference or simply

because he’d forgotten or disregarded what had happened between her and

Brevon?

“Hrmpf.” Syd nodded dramatically. “This information, this, uhh . . . Black-

watch, you have it at headquarters?”

Nahrû shook her head humbly. “I haven’t spent a lot of time there lately.”

Syd made the barest of nods. For an instant, Nahrû seemed to catch a glitter

of sympathy in his eyes. “So you have a private copy?”

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She nodded.

“Backups?”

“Of course.” Only two, and since this morning, Jena has one of them. But Nahrû

would never tell him that. The reporter was Nahrû’s Plan B. If she didn’t find

the support she needed in the Inner Council, of which Syd was guaranteed

to remain a part, she would go to the Hôcans.

Sydren Hydren’s eyes scanned the room, overlooking its bland details and

plain furniture. Then he guffawed. For a moment, Nahrû felt like she was

being mocked. But it was a genuine laugh—tamed and selfless.

He’s laughing, Nahrû noted almost ceremoniously. That meant progress.

Maybe I can teach an old dog new tricks, she thought, laundering her smugness

with relief.

“This is fucked up,” observed the old director. Nahrû could do nothing

but nod. Syd shook his head as if chasing a mosquito from his dotted scalp,

then sat back down. “I hope they make a fucking movie out of this.” He was

staring absently at his desk, glassy-eyed, the prickly sallow flesh around his

neck pouring over his tight collar.

It was comforting to see him act like a Bipede, she thought, and not the

automaton she was accustomed to. She found a guilty pleasure in witnessing

him in this moment of vulnerability. I like him today, she decided. Necessity

had made their paths converge . . . for the second time in her career.

“How do you plan on getting it out?” Syd questioned.

Nahrû sighed. “I’m thinking of going public myself,” she confessed. Only

now did she realize how pretentious that sounded. She elaborated. “If we’re

going to overthrow the next administration, better make sure the government

retains some degree of integrity. People must keep faith in the State. Handing

this thing to the sharks would undermine the State’s credibility and increase

the divide between us and the people.” She sighed. “Gods know it’s already

great enough.”

“Hrmpf.” Syd looked thoughtful, hands interlaced before his stone jaw.

“We’re in a lose-lose situation,” he conceded. “Especially you, Nahrû. Either

way this turns out, your establishment takes a hit—a big one.”

Maybe he was being observant—first husband, now your establishment.

“I know,” she acknowledged, “but if this thing means the end of SECOM,

it’s a risk I think must be taken.”

“It will be your job, too.”

“Yes, it will.”

“Hrmpf.”

Nahrû studied him impassively. She found herself wondering who his

parents were, what they looked like. She’d always pictured tasteless country

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folk, potato farmers like Lyon’s forebears; now she imagined them as quaint,

if not overly austere.

“This meteor business you mentioned,” Syd said, disrupting her musings,

“what about it?”

Nahrû sighed lengthily, then chuckled despite herself. “There’s something

the Kingdom’s hiding from us . . . about the Herald on Tempest one. Whether

there’s any connection to what’s happening in Rêga, I cannot say.” She really

didn’t want to venture too far down that road; she was tired of repeating her

preposterous story to judging ears. “Listen, you saw the footage. I know it’s

weird . . . I know I’m probably overblowing it, but . . .” She paused, weighing

her words. “Something came out of that meteor or vessel or whatever it was.

Was the Kingdom trying to land a man on Cinder? I don’t know. But some-

thing doesn’t add up.” She stopped before mentioning extraterrestrials. The

Sewel story was enough to digest for today.

Syd listened with steely eyes. “Well, that’s not our priority right now, is

it?” he sighed.

Nahrû shook her head in acquiescence. “Averting a war is.”

“And how do you plan on doing that?” he asked, not disrespectfully. “It’s

a civil war down there in Rêga. A racial war, some are calling it. Donna prom-

ised to intervene, not that she’ll be chancellor even if Lyon falls. Which brings

me to my second question: Who’s our next boss?”

Nahrû did her best not to smile. You’re on board.

“Are we to have a reelection? Will Duck take his place?” he asked, referring

to the vice-chancellor-elect.

Nahrû shook her head dismissively. Duck Pelmaren was not a charismatic

person; Nordlanders would not abide by him taking the helm. As absurd as

it now sounded, they had voted for Sewel Lyon. “I think there’s going to be

reelection,” she said. “We’ll need a transitory government composed of Peri-

helians and Aphelians.”

“Right, right.” Syd’s words were barely audible, his countenance grave.

“When do you want to convene the Inner Circle?”

“Today. Now. This very second, if it were possible. We have to move fast.

As soon as we can.”

Sydren Hydren nodded. “I’ll contact Donna . . . tell her we’re—”

“No, no, you don’t have to do that. I’ll take care of it.”

“Take a break, Nahrû.” He eyed her like a private counsellor. “You’re wor-

king yourself dead. Let me take care of it. Get your presentation together. You

have minds to stir.”

Nahrû smiled appreciatively. “Thank you, Syd. I’ll see you soon.” She rose

to leave, but the OFFIN director stopped her before she could turn.

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“Nahrû. Why did you come see me first?”

Nahrû opened her mouth to answer. There was a reason, she knew, only

now she couldn’t think of it. Her mind was a blank. She shrugged and smiled.

“We work together.”

Syd bobbed his head solemnly, saying nothing.

It was best that way, she thought. Silence is the Great Communicator, Brevon

always said. A commodity that was growing scarcer.

But none so much as time . . .

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Chapter 61 Nassâyna

Tâlmosen—Stockman District

Rêga, Fûsha Province, Hôc

Truceday, 37 Tempest 2079

10:03

id you hear that?”

Nassâyna writhed between the grated door and weapons crates.

She was of half a mind to pull out a gun and put it to her head—the pain was

so excruciating. In the front seats, Firôhte and Drêk exchanged sinister looks,

but she didn’t see. “Gunfire,” said Firôhte, but she didn’t hear. Other than the

pain, she felt nothing.

She groaned, but they did not hear.

“Drop us off at Bêselman’s. Regroup with Skŷe and the rest.”

Firôhte pressed pedal to metal. She felt that. The old pickup truck jerked in

and out of potholes like a mechanical ôro threatening to spill her breakfast of

fekmâro and line beans at every jump.

Bêselman will fix you, she repeated. Bêselman will fix you. She glimpsed a lone

meteor crashing through the bleak morning sky, catching fire as it fell half a

world away. Her head throbbed.

When the truck jolted to a stop and the twisted door swung open for her,

she did not know how much time had flown by. It could have been half an

hour like it could have been ten minutes. She had not noticed the crumbling

tenements give way to gated estates of brushed sandstone, replete with lawns

and bushes and côrnupo trees. Between them, she glimpsed the city wall and

knew she was in Tâlmosen, the only upper-end district on this side of Rêga—

the fortune of a handful of families who learned to adapt even before canal days, Drêk

had once said.

Nassâyna writhed as powerful Stockman hands yanked her out by the

knees and cradled her up into the air. She caught a glimpse of the underside

of Firôhte’s wide face, placid, as if she weighed nothing. Then she glimpsed

another man—a Stockman she did not know—standing at the elevated door-

“D

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step of a cream house, prim but neglected. He was yelling something at them,

but she did not hear. Close by, a door slammed shut, metal on metal, and she

heard Drêk. “Leave her to me! Go with Skŷe! Go!”

She was barely conscious of the transfer into Drêk’s arms or of the skid of

tires as the truck dashed off. There were footfalls, heavy, rapid like the patter

of rainfall. “This the girl?” asked an unfamiliar voice, flat and crisp.

Drêk again. “Help me with her!”

Again, she saw the stranger Bêselman. His face was crooked as if smashed

on one side. He wore a brown vest over a meager hâfa. For a second, his bony

hand lingered above her face as if he wanted to touch her then had a change

of mind. “Follow me.” He was off. The world rocked again.

Relief washed over her in ephemeral waves as she was taken inside the

house and down into a basement of stainless steel and linoleum, a space as

clean as anything she’d ever seen on the island. Bêselman will fix me.

White lights were turned on, and the nausea came back. Quick, she begged.

Quick. The two Fûshan Liberation Fighters rolled out phrases in an esoteric

Fûshock, too fast for her to understand. She was lowered onto an operating

chair, cool to the touch. The stranger hovered over her again. “What’s wrong

with her? What does she have?”

“I don’t know.”

For a second, the doctor stood back. The overhead light blinded her. Then

he was back. “Does she? Hello? Do you—does she understand Fûshock?”

“Yes,” Nassâyna groaned. She rubbed her stomach, touched her temple,

unable to decide where the pain was.

Bêselman paced beside her, in search of anesthetics, she hoped. He came

back wearing a grey-white coat.

“There’s gunfire out there,” she heard him mutter.

“I know,” Drêk returned in a tone that brooked no queries.

She felt a warm hand on her forehead, another on her stomach, exposed

by her crop top. “How do you feel?” he asked.

“Like shit,” she groaned.

Bêselman rolled his eyes, conceding the stupidity of his query. “What are

your symptoms? Headache? Stomach pain? Where are you hurting?”

“Everywhere . . . my stomach, my head, I . . . my body feels weak and . . .

weak . . .”

“Do you feel dizzy?”

An easy question. “Yes.”

“Okay.” The doctor fondled her with magic hands, easing the pain where

he touched her, however briefly. “You have been hurting for some days now,

that is correct? When did it start?”

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“A . . . week ago . . . a . . .”

“Was it always this painful?”

“No . . .”

“Open your mouth.”

She obeyed. The doctor pointed a pencil flashlight, looking around as if in

search of treasures. He laid a soft but commanding thumb on her lower eyelid

and pulled down. His touch was rubbery, and she noticed he was wearing

latex gloves. “Did you eat anything unusual recently?” he asked. “Anything

you don’t usually eat?”

Stockman food. Where to start? “Ah . . .”

“Do you have diarrhea?”

“N-no.”

The doctor marched to a nearby table and returned with a stethoscope, the

extremity of which he placed against her chest, seeking a pulse. “Were you

exposed to anything you think might have caused this?”

No . . . Then she remembered Jena Claren and Mother’s Stockmen talking

about a harmful gas the military was developing. “I don’t think so . . .” She

griped her stomach as a pang of pain seized her, and with it the imagery of

victims scattered around the city, ghastly men and women with cloudy eyes

and gaping mouths . . .

“Have you had sexual intercourse?”

The question caught her off-guard. In that moment, she found the energy

to look at Drêk at her left, though the motion was involuntary and regretted.

The doctor understood. “Any sexual illness?” he muttered, though she knew

the question wasn’t directed at her. There was a brief silence, then the doctor

leaned away. “Remove your pants and underwear, please.”

For just that second the pain was forgotten. Was he talking to her? Of course

he is. She caught Drêk’s face, the links taut on his face. She dithered. The pain

bit at her like flesh-eating vermin. Drêk’s frown was almost apologetic as he

turned away. Hurting and humiliated, she complied.

The doctor reappeared at her side, then walked away, stopping at the only

place she’d hoped he wouldn’t. “Spread your legs.” There was no more eye

contact; she was thankful for that much. The doctor leaned in more closely,

bringing the pencil flashlight back up to his face, shining it between her legs.

She thought she saw his eyes grow.

That moment stretched to an eternity. She watched as the doctor squinted,

leaned closer, then suddenly reeled back. Gone was the pain and the torment

and the embarrassment. There was only time—frozen.

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Bêselman brought a gloved hand to his face, scratching at the sunken cheek

like an itch. There was confusion in his eyes. “Are you—are you sure you did

not sleep with anyone recently . . . carrying a sexually-transmitted disease?”

Nassâyna’s world sank. A sexually-transmitted disease? Desperately, she ran

through her memories. “Y-yes.” It came out half a question.

“What—” The doctor cut short, seemingly more perturbed than her. Then

he mumbled something. Nassâyna thought she heard him say impossible, but

couldn’t tell for sure. His eyes darted to Drêk, then back at her. “What—what

is your name?” he enquired, too formal, too methodical.

“Sâyna . . . Ghodrimâra.”

The doctor took a deep breath. “Say—Sâyna.” He sighed but tried to hide

it. “This . . . will sound impossible, but I, um, well, I believe . . . you are . . .

pregnant.”

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Chapter 62 Nahrû

River Valley Parkway

Upper Gallinton, Nordland

Truceday, 37 Tempest 2079

04:38

t was a cool, wet mid-Spring morning. Daybreak emanated in violet hues

from the coniferous treeline. In the sky, meteors zipped by at every glance,

racing to the universe’s soft underbelly. The Herald had fallen. The Shower

had begun.

The Invasion, too. She frowned obtusely.

To her right stirred the shallow waters of the Lockwin, black as ink, spilling

around rocks that protruded like rows of teeth. She had trouble keeping her

eyes off them as she navigated the strand’s twisting road. Two hours later the

road would be pestered by commuters—politicians and bureaucrats on their

way to the upper city—but now it was peaceful and tranquil, and she relished

that calm like it was something she must hold on to while she still could. The

rain left tiny droplets on the windshield, swept away by the leisurely span of

wipers. The lack of streetlights left the pavement black as the Lockwin, and

it was as if she was travelling on a sister river beside the first.

A car passed in the oncoming lane, replacing her thoughts with the faces

of the Magistrates. I should be reciting my speech. Yet she had never needed to.

Spontaneity and passion had been good allies in these moments—The Human

in me, she thought—and besides, she was no longer a Councillor trying to win

over peers; she was a member of the Inner Circle, and if Syd Hydren was with

her, they all were.

She groped for her coffee mug, brought the warm liquid to her mouth. And

thank the gods for you, she thought. You’ve been the best of allies.

Ahead, the road bent left and up, away from the river and into one of many

coniferous thickets that lined the meadow. A pair of headlights emerged from

the woods as she set her mug down. The gnawing feeling of not being alone,

of being caught up in something much bigger than her, came back, and she

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got the jitters—an uncontrollable surge of energy shooting through her body

at high voltage. Nahrû kept both hands on the steering wheel (after countless

years of being delivered, as she called it, driving was no longer second nature).

She hugged the guardrail for the turn. The torque of the passing vehicle sent

tremors through her. For some reason, she thought of the scandal. It was more

humbling than anything at Mikka’s Dungeon . . . or with Dan.

She chased the thoughts, focusing her mind back on the serenity of dawn.

Ironically, it was of her quiet morning trips to Gallinton University that she

was reminded of, when the world was still slumbering. She had been young.

Attractive. Research assistant to Daniker Forger, eminent political scientist.

The sexual tension between them, initially tamed, had quickly exploded out

of proportion.

She remembered the danger, the thrill. Daniker had been married—it was

his first marriage, before Councillor Belhaven. Nahrû had been single. And

Daniker had given her her first intimate experience with a Stockman, her first

lesson in humility. She remembered the feeling distinctly, addictive as a drug.

Though she didn’t understand it—the power of submissiveness—she’d often

reflected on it, wondering if it was her gender’s lot. Or the key to cohabitation.

Were her and other people’s ambitions outside the bedroom a mere reaction

to their behaviour inside? No, she decided. She had been ambitious since the

day she was born.

Fuck it, she thought, shooing the thoughts. Her acts had been selfish and

cowardly, nothing more. Brevon had never deserved that, and she had never

needed it. What’s done is done. Maybe today was her day of redemption. Her

day of Reckoning. No. It wasn’t about that, either. Her blunder, grievous as it

was, would not be her last. Life is fucking up and making amends, an old friend

had once said.

The road dipped back down toward the river when she emerged from the

thicket, making a wide arc into a meadow of thatchy grass. In the distance, it

climbed again, cuddling the steep cliff overlooking the Lockwin. There was

no sign of life, not in the mile or two of road ahead. The landscape was rustic

and majestic, if not lonely and eerie. Is there no one else working this morning?

she began to wonder.

Suddenly, like the heavens had heard her question, Nahrû spotted a bright

light in her left-wing mirror. The vehicle—whether it was a coach or minivan

or truck, she could not say—was coming fast. She pulled the steering wheel

taut in her hands. Glancing intermittently through the rear-view mirror, she

watched with baseless anxiousness as the twin white headlights grew bigger,

more glaring.

A loud beep made her jump.

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“Shit.”

In her DigiLens, the incoming phone number was unidentified.

Behind her, the headlights were nearing, twenty yards. Haloes formed in

the mirrors. “Go!” she said. “Pass! There’s another lane!” In the center of the

road, the line was full, but surely the other driver wasn’t that much a stickler.

Her phone continued to beep. The stubborn car refused to pass, lodged firmly

at her tail, less than ten yards away.

“Aarrgh!” she cursed.

Gripping her steering wheel tight, she spoke to her selfone. “Clarence, take

call.” With a prudent eye on the road ahead, another on the rear-view mirror,

she spoke. “Yes?”

“Nahrû Bentâm?”

The tires skidded. She held tight. “Yes?”

“I’m calling on behalf of Commander Stiv Claren.” The voice was Stockman,

young, mellifluous if not slightly martial. She didn’t recognize it.

“There’s, ah . . . terrible news.”

She had been focused on the lights in the mirrors, but the last two words

made her forget everything. Stiv? Her first thought was distressing. Is he hurt?

She was overreacting. She had to be. Probably he can’t make it to the Fishtank.

That’s all. Yet the caller had used the word terrible . . . Who was he, anyways?

She’d communicated with Stiv’s secretary more times than she could possibly

recall; he sounded nothing like this guy. “What is it?” she ventured.

“Stiv Claren is dead. He was shot this morning.”

For a moment, time no longer existed. It was in that moment that the heavy

black SUV made its move. She never saw it coming. One second it was gone,

the next it was on her left flank, swooping toward her, ramming into the body

of the leased cart.

Her driver’s window shattered as the assailant’s mirror bit into it, sending

broken glass ricocheting on her cheek and lap. The DigiLens flew off her head

and hit the panel. She heard herself shriek, desperately trying to cling to the

steering wheel. She could not. The wheel made a half-turn clockwise, slipping

right out of her clutch. The tires jammed into place, rolling inexorably toward

the guard rail. No. The road sloped slightly upward, bending abruptly to the

left. And beyond . . .

Her toes slammed the brakes.

A futile effort.

Too late, the steering wheel moved, making a complete turn the other way.

The tires screeched like night owls in the morning gloom. The vehicle jerked

violently left, spinning madly out of control. The cart’s right flank crashed

fully into the guardrail. The brittle metal did not withstand the shock. Nahrû

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heard a terrifying CRACK as the car ripped through her only salvation. Her

head jerked. The pain lasted but a second.

The car was in freefall in a slow-motion barrel roll.

Nahrû’s last thought was of her life. It had not flashed before her eyes, like

the cliché ordained. It had flashed two minutes earlier.

She would have laughed had there been time.

The rocky ground came up to meet her.

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Chapter 63 Jarêk

Hippocampus Research Facility

Diâg, Dhôrme Province, Hôc

Gallday, 38 Tempest 2079

18:26

round the entity, whiteness faded to black. Light seemed to disappear

as if sucked into a void. Ritualistically, the dark pollen hovered over like

shavings to a magnet, forming a sparse film on the stunned Stockman’s bare

white scalp. The king peered through what he’d discovered wasn’t one-sided

mirror, but glass—normal everyday glass. It can see me, he thought, unsure

whether that was a bane or a blessing, but it has no eyes. Then he remembered

the information minister’s words.

It sees everything.

Nefârion spoke three more. “She is harvesting.”

“Harvesting?” It came out a whimper.

Jarêk’s enquiry was met with silence. In the next room, all was still. If any-

thing was harvested, Jarêk couldn’t say what.

The Snake spoke. “The chemical compounds Omêka releases stimulate the

production of hippolytes in the patient’s brain.” Purportedly, the extraterres-

trial had released a gas before pollination to increase the melock’s neuronal

activity. Again, he had seen nothing, but Nefârion claimed there was even a

change in the patient’s demeanor. To Jarêk, the patient had entered a zombie

and a zombie he remained.

“What she releases,” Nefârion explained, “are electrically-charged spores

to harvest the patient’s ions . . . then repatriate them to the host. Truly magni-

ficent, isn’t it?”

Jarêk would have agreed had he not been so busy trying to fit it together.

These are State offenders, Fûshan Liberation Fighters of all stripes, guilty of the most

heinous crimes against the Kingdom. In this sacrifice, Nefârion held, they would

serve Hôc in a way they would have never though possible—as martyrs for

the State.

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The Snake made a sound that could have been a laugh. “This way, Omêka

recharges herself like a battery. She is like a living nervous system. You see

the sinewy matter that spills from her?” Jarêk swept over the pillar-like entity

with the pseudo-arms and circular core—a mimicry, perhaps a mockery, of

Bipedes. “That matter is her biological self,” Nefârion continued. “It is subject

to the commands of her electrical core.”

The sphere. Its moving latches and opening traps were an enigma he could

not solve. “She n-needs Bipede neurons?” he asked.

“No.” Nefârion laced his hands before him. “But they’re cleaner. We think

she prefers the intensity, too. Imagine plugging a device that requires 10V in

a socket that discharges 50. She can then mould the brain by discharging her

gases . . . like a dimmer controls the discharge.” He craned his neck, tossing

a vigilant look at the technicians behind the control panels.

“There is another reason why we give her purer sources . . .”

Jarêk had zoned out. The last of the landing pods were settling on the pat-

ient’s roughhewn skin. “Is he c-conscious?” Jarêk asked.

“Not anymore than one who is dreaming. Then again . . . what he is seeing

is more real than any dream. Do you see those vents?” Nefârion pointed to

the hatches on the high walls, which Jarêk had seen on his first visit. “We are

able to capture and monitor the gas secretions which go through those vents

and into our decoders. Omêka can produce . . . complex chemical compounds

that rearrange a person’s visions . . . manipulate them.” His still eye caught

the king’s. “She can make you see things that no one else has seen.”

How? He remembered recovering from the inexplicable trauma. You spoke

to it? he’d asked Nefârion. Had Omêka not tried to speak to him? Could the

gas filter through the glass? He did not know, but he could still see Nefârion’s

wholesome smile as he told the king what he saw.

Everything. The question resurfaced.

“W-what does she m-make you see?”

A wet smile slipped across to his vaulted cheekbone. “Come. Let me show

you.” Then, sensing the king’s reluctance to part with the being, the visitor

that had landed not a month ago and was now part of their—of his—world,

Nefârion added, “We will come back, Highness.”

Jarêk Daimôn accompanied Nîmrod Nefârion through a maze of hallways

and rooms, each circular door responding obligingly to their aura. The king

did not see the subterranean world as they passed, nor the white-coated tech-

nicians and scientists, whose bowed heads masked nameless faces. Finally,

they entered a room unlike the others, spacious as a warehouse, busy as an

office. Black-clad Humans sat before computer screens in a grid of cubicles.

The air rang with the clatter of keyboards and the squeak of pivot chairs. Nef-

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ârion led the king down an aisle. Operators perused their screens, oblivious

to their presence. Jarêk glanced at the monitors in passing. He saw spread-

sheets and motion pictures—people and animals, landscapes and buildings.

The operators toggled between windows, entering letters and numbers in

tables and charts. What is this place? he asked.

Nefârion could have heard. “This is where we analyze their dreams.” He

was strangely serene, as if in a state of semiconscious bliss, and Jarêk found

himself questioning whether this was all indeed a dream. “The patients are

plugged into the Neuron Projector after their exposure to Omêka, and each

one is linked to a different interpreter. The visions you see on the screens are

what is contained in their minds.” He looked at Jarêk from the corner of his

eye.

The image of the Neuron Projector—that tortuous metallic contraption, as

alien as Omêka herself—impregnated his thoughts. “W-what do they see?”

“Here.” Nefârion beckoned to an interpreter. “Take a look.” The minister

merely stood behind the worker to make his presence felt. The man turned,

made a double-take upon seeing the king, then diverted his eyes to his screen,

feigning ignorance.

“Tell us what you’re working on,” Nefârion demanded.

The interpreter balked. “Ah . . .” His voice was coarse as burnt toast, that

of one who hadn’t slept or said much. “This neuronal projection came in this

morning.” He pointed with a stumpy index. The picture looked like it was

viewed through a sooty window, coated at the edges. The motion, jerky and

erratic, was impeccably reminiscent of the one he’d been shown at Sol Hâro.

It was night. The sky was red, fiery. There was movement on the horizon—

black silhouettes dipping and rising. At first, they looked like Stockmen, then

Jarêk recognized them as pumpjacks, drinking away at the oil underground.

Only some were aflame like phoenixes.

“Which patient?” Nefârion asked coldly.

“0-2-6-7-9,” replied the interpreter.

“First reading?”

“No, sir. Um”—he scanned the data bar beside the footage—“seventh one.

Been here since the eighth.”

“His consignee?”

“Me, sir.”

“What news?”

“Um . . . nothing sir.” The interpreter kept his eyes on his work. “This is a

recurring vision . . . with minor alterations each time.”

“Where is this?”

“Outside Pîrka, sir.”

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“Date?”

“Tempest forty. Two days hence, sir.”

Nefârion nodded solemnly, eyes locked on the screen . . . or perhaps the

interpreter. Jarêk found himself looking at his mentor and not the incredible

divination. “What does it m-mean?” As his eyes gravitated back to the screen,

he saw someone—a Stockman—in the foreground, dark and blurry, wearing

an even darker headband. A felock, he judged. She looked so familiar, her face

long and wistful . . . yet so out of place.

The Minister seemed to snap out of a daydream. “Hm? Highness?”

“The video. W-what is it?”

“Ah. A glimpse into the future. As to what it means . . . that’s why all these

people are working right now. What you are seeing was constructed from

the patient’s own memories and altered by Omêka so as to reflect what she

wants to show us—”

“She can p-predict the future?”

“Yes, Highness. She can. The greatest gift of all, and now a gift that belongs

to you.” His lip twitched; his eye flickered.

But why is she here? Why is she helping us?

“Each vision is grounded in the patient’s memory,” Nefârion continued.

“You see, we think Omêka has a way of seeing into our heads . . . of recreating

projections of our neuronal scans in her own brain, thereby seeing what we

see. The gas she releases just induces a dream state in the patient. It is then

that she alters the dream, using meticulously-crafted chemical compounds.

She cannot create visions from nothing, as far as we know. Foresight is rooted

in memory.”

Jarêk pondered it. “And she b-brings back the visions with the spores?”

“No, no. The spores are merely sent to harvest the energy of the dreaming

patient to recharge her core.”

“Oh.” Jarêk felt silly. He explained that before. He was getting carried away,

he realized. But then again, who wouldn’t? Already, his interest in the first

vision waned, and he found himself gravitating toward the next interpreter,

his screen displaying three—now four—Human children playing in a grassy

field, the sky a deep purple. Jarêk kept moving to the next cubicle, then the

next, like a spectator unable to choose a movie.

He stopped at the cubicle of a despondent little man with a bald head and

sagging eyelids. The picture on his screen was hectic, of a coastline rocked by

explosions, the watcher swinging his head to and fro as if to fathom the spec-

tacle. Jarêk saw warships—Hôcan warships, he noted—cannons firing back at

an unperceived target, tracer bullets whizzing like comets through a pastel

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sky, answered by cruise missiles crashing vertically into the hull of the ships.

What a nightmare, he thought. War. On the Hôcan coast.

Nîmrod Nefârion fell in beside him. His voice was like the serrated edge

of a knife. “Where is this?”

Just then, Jarêk picked up the interpreter’s body odours, a foul camouflage

of neglect and fear. He could almost see the sweat percolating on the shelf of

his brow, matching the moisture on his upper lip.

“I—d-don’t know, sir,” he stammered.

“Who is the patient?”

“0-2-7—”

“Who is he?”

“Uh . . . an ex-sailor in the Fourth.”

“What’s the time?” asked Nefârion.

“I don’t know. It—it just came in, sir. I didn’t have time to read it yet.”

The Minister of Information was calm, but Jarêk could sense the denseness

of his person, the spell he exuded, to rival Omêka’s. On the monitor, another

rocket pelted the warship sideways. The screen shook. The watcher scattered.

Frantic footage was of a warship’s deck, then a prune-coloured sky, then the

coast, ravaged by unseen forces.

“Stop.” It was the little Mulard.

The interpreter paused the neuronal projection, freezing with it.

“Rewind,” ordered Nefârion. As the interpreter ran the footage in reverse,

frame by frame, he watched closely, seemingly drawn by the screen. “Stop,”

he repeated. “Look.”

Jarêk saw it in the corner of the screen, blurry at the edges. The moon was

as full and yellow as a chrysalis. And what of it? he thought.

“What day is it?” Nefârion asked.

Jarêk understood. He can use the moons to determine the day. Not for the first

time, he was humbled by the Mulard’s resourcefulness.

“I—I’ll find out, sir, right away.”

Nefârion stepped back and grimaced as if suddenly aware of the worker’s

stench. “Find out where it is.” He turned to the king. “We should be on our

way, Highness. You have a historic meeting tomorrow. We need to get you

back to Sunpier.”

“C-can we go see Omêka?” he begged.

“You will see her again, Highness. I promise. But perhaps there will be a

better time.”

He saw something. Jarêk Daimôn knew better than to object. He’s the one who

showed you her in the first place. They left the interpretation room to the clatter

of keyboards, by now a familiar drone. His mind was bursting with questions

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as they moseyed through Hippocampus Research Facility’s white innards.

He could at least obtain some answers, if not see her again, he figured. “Why

i-is she here?” He was almost certain he’d asked that question, perhaps more

than once—time no longer made much sense—but he could not remember

the answer for the life of him.

Hands laced at his back, Nefârion hunched his shoulders in a purported

shrug, his pace unusually brisk. “Unfortunately I do not have all the answers,

Highness. All I can say is that she does not answer us directly, but from all

angles and all sides. Perhaps we are asking the wrong question. Perhaps pur-

pose is as meaningless to her as . . . the Calibrate to us.”

“But d-did the—are the visions real? Will they—d-do they all come true?”

So plenteous were the questions and so eager his quest for answers that the

words clogged his throat, barely making it past his lips. “That was us,” he as-

serted, “those b-burning ships. W-will we get attacked?”

“Those are questions for Omêka, Highness. Only she can answer them. But

I can tell you one thing: not all her prophecies are true. She shows us alternate

truths.” He looked at the king as they walked side by side, then said a name

Jarêk had not heard in weeks. “Minister Rhidâm.”

The man with my father’s name. The old Minister of Wealth.

“Omêka showed us his life . . . and his death,” Nefârion admitted ruefully.

“We tried to stop it, but we could not. We did not have the resources and the

know-how. Our operation was . . . not as big as it is today.”

Minister Rhidâm died just a few days after she landed, he recalled. “When did

you c-catch her?”

Nefârion tossed him a sidelong look. “Not a day after she fell from the hea-

vens.”

“And she’s h-helping us?”

“She shows us light, Jarêk, as she shows us night. What we make of it is

our own doing.” He was silent for a moment. “She showed us your uncle’s

defection. There are more in your circle who plot your demise.”

Who? he was about to ask, but a door swooshed behind them, and hurried

footfalls made him veer.

“Minister Nefârion!”

It was an officer, a man Jarêk had not seen before, wearing a light necked

tunic with slacks and a medal around his thick neck.

“We know where it is,” the soldier exclaimed between breaths. “In Karûm,

sir. It’s the Third Fleet. The Third Fleet is attacking. Tomorrow.”

Nîmrod Nefârion’s good eye lit. “When was he exposed, captain?”

“This morning, sir. Seven hundred.”

Nefârion nodded. “Send him again. Do another reading.”

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Chapter 64 Sewel

Crescent Bay Hotel

Diâmador, Fûsha Province, Hôc

Runeday, 39 Tempest 2079

16:26

he meeting between the chancellor-elect of Nordland and the king of Hôc

was hosted in the penthouse of Crescent Bay Hotel, a twenty-five-storey

skyscraper in downtown Diâmador by the sea. Scheduled a mere week ago

in light of the evolving Rêgan crisis, the conference was held up to unrealistic

expectations by both the press and the People, if indeed they could be treated

as separate entities.

I am the People, he thought. Chosen by the Calibrate.

Sewel Lyon, for one, could appreciate the futility of talks with the Humans.

Their bulbous heads are as hard as they’re empty. There would be no peace. Nor

ought there be. The Calibrate was about balance. Someone must lose.

At the far edge of the room, against a curtainwall window offering a panor-

amic view of the Diâmador coast and the northern sprawl of skyscrapers, was

a table of blood-red hickory. The Stockmen sat on greatchairs facing the void;

the king and his acolytes on high chairs against the lilac sky, meteor-streaked.

Their silhouettes looked like that of infants, Sewel thought.

He watched them with loathing and the constant angst of a Revolutionary

Guard crawling up behind him and slitting his throat. But when he turned

around, the wood and twine of his greatchair squeaking in forewarning, he

saw no threat. The six Revolutionary Guards were one with the ashen marble

pillars that punctured the cream stucco walls, the buts of their rifles jabbing

at the carpet between their boots, a black as matte as their helms. Briefly, he

wondered why, if they were trying to intimidate him, he’d not been made to

face them. But as the king’s spokesman babbled on endlessly in an accent as

grating as the burr of a sow, he understood: he was meant to feel a prisoner,

scrutinized from every blind spot.

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The Calibrate didn’t see me this far so I could falter, he reminded himself. There

was something symbolic about this location, and he surmised his being here

was born of the heavens, overlooked by the Ghouls. Inaugurated in the early

Daimôn reign, Crescent Bay Hotel was to the Hôcans a symbol of Stockman

colonization, a place where many a Stockman merchant had made his temp-

orary stay, its post-Revolution survival ensured by the very character of that

Revolution: the martial control, almost Stockman-like, that so often mitigated

nationalistic fervour. Thanks to that, Fûshock culture had lingered here in a

way unique to Fûsha—visible in the fhâtawa stands and street musicians, even

in the locals’ garb. Yet there’s not one Scalebent Stockman in a hundred miles. The

rich merchant families had packed up five years ago and fled with the capital.

The remaining Stockmen were wretched folks, fhâtawa makers and garbage

scrapers devoid of land or caste or dignity.

What was stolen will be reclaimed.

From his wheelchair in the corner of the room, Mikel Lyon seethed.

The Hôcan spokesman’s attempt at foreplay finally came to an end. “Jarêk

Daimôn, King of Hôc and Keeper of the Revolution, would like to make an

opening remark.”

Across the table, King Jarêk Diaper, as Sewel preferred to call him, stood.

He wore a prim black suit, closed at the neck, with a ceremonial tippet, gold-

flecked and wine-red. The hefty medallion around his neck was an homage

to the military, an institution he’d never been a part of, except as its nominal

leader. He was a pimply boy with exaggerated fangs and a wanting face, an

unripe teenager thrown into a role he did not want nor deserve. The one con-

cession Sewel made him was that he was taller than in pictures, a full head

taller than the Ghoul to his left, though nowhere as imposing as the brute to

his right—the Doorman. He’s the one I must watch out for. He sat like something

carved of wood, with not even a flicker in the onyx eye that wasn’t covered

by an eyepatch.

The king of Hôc spoke in Dhôrman, the dead language of his empire. His

interpreter translated. “Chancellor-elect Lyon. Noble Stockmen of Nordland.

The Kingdom of Hôc is pleased to receive you and bids you a fair welcome.”

With the intensity of the king’s stutter, Sewel wondered if he would ever

finish the preamble. He had a quirk to him; every ten seconds or so, his head

twitched like he was trying to shake something out of his hair and, for some

reason, had to blink. It was that kink which caught Sewel’s attention and his

ineptitude that lost it again.

To the Doorman’s left, the fat admiral in the snow-white uniform seemed

to stir from slumber, unfolding fat arms and pivoting upright in his chair. If

that man is one of your big cannons, thought Sewel, this is going to be easier than

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I thought. Sewel had even considered bringing his big guns as a show of force,

but the Supreme Armed Forces Commander was staying in Nordland for the

funeral of his deceased friend. Again, Sewel looked at Mikel, his white robes

substituted for a decorative kilner. You didn’t need to take it into your own hands

. . . I had the situation under control.

The Hôcan interpreter continued to translate. “It is through dialogue that

we will learn to bridge our differences and fulfill that which is in our mutual

interests. The Kingdom of Hôc more than any other nation wishes peace, both

domestic and international, and we hope that these dialogues will take us one

step closer in achieving it.”

Hasty words continued to gurgle from the boy-king’s mouth, like bubbles

from a tar pit. Stick to the script, kid, Sewel thought. It only makes my job easier.

He knew the real exchange was with the generals.

The boy continued to babble, and, beside him, his interpreter to translate.

Sewel half listened, until the last sentence piqued his interest.

“We must be wary,” warned the interpreter, “of what people say about

what is truly happening. The Kingdom of Hôc has no intention of fomenting

war with Fûshocks or the Republic of Nordland. The Kingdom wishes peace,

now and always.”

That’s it?! No apology. No claim of responsibility. Jarêk Daimôn sat down

with a confused look on his face, like he wasn’t sure why he was here or even

where he was. Sewel wondered if he’d understood a single word he’d said.

It was his turn to speak.

Shifting in his seat, Sewel Lyon groped at his armrests, recalling the Hôcan

etiquette, which he’d been reminded of so graciously before the proceedings:

When you address the king or his party, always open dialogues with a slight bow of

the head. Sewel scoffed inward. Bow like a puppet, he thought.

He eyed the king.

“Your Highness,” he grumbled. “Members of the Revolutionary Council.”

The interpreter translated hurriedly, discreetly. Sewel sighed. Fuck the script.

“If I may . . . I would like to cut through the chivalry we . . . so much excel at,

and get right to the heart of things. You speak of peace, yet wage a campaign

of brutal suppression against my kind.” To his left, Duck Pelmaren shifted

evidently in his chair. No more double talk, Sewel would have told him. Donna

Lawe excelled at it. Look where it got her. He pushed on.

“My predecessor talked of a line drawn in the sand.” His eyes went to the

Overseer, then to the bulbous admiral, almost Mulard-like. “The only reason

she has not yet acted on that promise,” he continued, “is because she’s in the

middle of a transition of power. You see, Donnivar Lawe is a fool. But a fool

with a conscience. She would not want to hand to us Aphelians a conflict she

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started last week, but I cannot promise such, ah . . . dithering on my end.” He

paused, giving the interpreter time. In the meantime, he locked eyes with the

king. “In the interest of future peace,” he said, catching himself before he

added between us, “your aggression in Rêga is to cease immediately. If you

cannot do that, we will ask you to give up Fûsha and make it an autonomous

region of the Kingdom. These are our demands. Aggression against Fûshocks

is aggression against the Republic of Nordland.”

His words returned only with blank stares, he went on. “If you withdraw

from Rêga, your commercial gains in the Rûktenbar and the Carpetians . . .

you can keep them. We will not meddle in those affairs. And we surely won’t

tell you how to crack down on mine hijackers. But we will not abide by the

repression of protesters whose only crime is dissatisfaction with the way their

government represents them.”

The interpreter raced to finish. The room fell deathly silent. No one on the

Nordlander side dared budge. The Hôcan delegation exchanged inquisitive

looks.

The one who finally responded was neither the king nor the Doorman, but

the fair-skinned field marshall in the forest-green uniform on Jarêk’s left—

Dâk Mêlkion. “With all due respect, Chancellor-elect Lyon,” he started in an

unexpectedly polished Nordlandic, “we have not come here today to discuss

military strategy.”

Oh, no? Is that why half the High Command is here?

“We are not authorized to negotiate anything of the sort with you at this

current time, seeing that our talks are still with the incumbent chancellor, Fel

Lawe. Our fight is not with Stockmen. It is with the Fûshan Liberation Force.

We thought this dialogue would pave the way to a constructive solution to

the rebel problem in Fûsha—”

Sewel scoffed. “Is this a joke?”

The interpreter hesitated, a cautious look on his face, then decided to keep

his mouth shut.

Duck Pelmaren tugged at Sewel’s sleeve. “Sew—Mel Lyon,” he urged in a

hushed voice.

Sewel brushed him off. “Is this a joke?” he repeated. It had to be—a charade,

a meticulously-orchestrated theatrical act. He knew what the Hôcans were doing.

He knew what this was: a prevarication, an attempt to bide time to kill more

Fûshocks. You want to wait till I become chancellor? Fine, but you’ll get more than

you bargained for. Military preparations were underway. If he didn’t earn the

respect owed him, he would take it. Then we’ll see who gets the last laugh. He

eyed the king, who looked back blinkingly, dark brown eyes wide and fretful,

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then turned back to the field marshall. “You want to talk hypotheticals? Have

you factored in the possibility of war?”

“Sewel!” Duck rasped. His voice was a whisper. “Are you insane?”

Sewel ignored him and addressed his interlocutors. “Let us not pretend we

don’t know what this meeting is about.” Still, no one on the Hôcan side spoke.

“If I have no bargaining power, then I am wasting my time here. Perhaps I

should come back in three days when—”

He did not finish. Khan Dormân, the Revolutionary Forces Overseer, leapt

from his seat, sending the chair toppling back like a felled tree onto the dense

carpet. He stood all of six and a half feet tall. Behind him, the sky seemed to

darken. His words were the bark of a mountain hound; Sewel understood

none of them. For twenty seconds, they flew out with specks of spit, his fists

locked at his sides. Whether he was staring at him, Sewel could not say, but

he distinguished pupils like hot embers from the crevices of his eyes.

The interpreter remained silent . . . until the Doorman spat the last word.

Then the thin man, practically startled out of his suit, translated. “Revolution-

ary Forces Overseer Khan Dormân says you have disrespected His Excellen-

cy the King, and that you are now dishonouring the terms of our meeting. He

demands an immediate apology and respect toward his Excellency the King.”

Sewel looked straight ahead at the Doorman, feeling the delegates’ eyes on

him, expectant. Across the table, the fat admiral half-coughed, half-choked,

breaking an uncomfortable silence.

This is about me not bowing, isn’t it? Is that what you want? The Humans

wanted fealty. They wanted him to bend the knee to a phony dynasty, to a

military dictatorship clad in the king’s breeches. The very thought of it made

him sick. He had but one choice. Hesitating, he stood, looked at king sternly.

Jarêk Daimôn twitched with apprehension. Then he looked at the Doorman,

a near head shorter than Sewel, but just as broad. He said not a word.

Sewel Lyon made an about-face and walked.

Behind him, Duck Pelmaren and his team called out to him, speaking in

injured Nordlandic and Dhôrman, trying to mend a situation beyond repair.

Adjusting his silver robes, Sewel marched past the guards.

Nohim does not bend the knee.

As he left, Mikel followed with his eyes, grinning.

The delegation left three hours before their planned departure. That suited

Sewel just fine; he had work to do—serious work. A war to plan. What suited

him less was the hopeless complaining of his assistants—all the way back to

Nordland. For most of the five hours, he let them have their way, choosing

instead to save his energy.

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A million phone calls came in from every camp—colleagues and lobbyists,

administrators and Councillors—and worse: Perihelians. Sewel was bracing

himself for another round of criticism when he received the fateful call.

“Mel Lyon,” gasped the frantic voice of his chief secretary.

“Yes.” He kept a stolid eye on the sparkling nightlights of Gallinton far

below, ever closer.

“It’s Tranquil, sir. It’s, ah, under attack.”

Tranquil? Troops from the Third Fleet stationed on the island of Hazpoor

had raped a local Human girl a few weeks back. Were the locals still rioting

because of that single nameless girl?

He enquired. “The locals still protesting?”

“No, sir. Not the locals. It’s the Hôcan Navy. It’s attacking Tranquil.”

Sewel felt his eyes widen. Tranquil. The Third Fleet. He was speechless, dis-

believing. Was it planned all along? He fumed.

But he knew.

It’s begun.

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Chapter 65 Jena

Rûktenbar Valley

Fûsha Province, Hôc

Foolsday, 40 Tempest 2079

06:31

awn rose on the western horizon, a festered bruise over obtundent hills.

The convoy drove toward it.

Yard by dry yard, the pebble-strewn dirt road appeared like ghosts in the

shadows. Some distance in front, the truck’s taillights shone like rubies in the

dark, ever out of reach.

To the left, the Rûktenbar’s slender beach gave life to shrubs and cacti and

côrnupo trees, a meager desert haven which stretched from Rêga to Diâmador.

Sallow moonlight, provided almost in full by Sentinel, reflected off the blade-

like leaves. Across the shallow river, the shoreline was black with foliage, the

barren hills ashen behind them.

To the right, the lands were flat and deserted, reminiscent of memories best

left unroused. Scarcely any more settlers here than around the Marching Road, she

observed, suppressing the memory of Jary’s face. On occasion, she glimpsed

agglomerations of mudbrick hovels, silhouettes against a blushing sky, more

frequent as the convoy neared the coast. And, once or twice, she spotted black

ruins protruding from the sands like the carcasses of great prehistoric beasts.

When she enquired about them, Corporal Levânt responded using only two

words. “First Men.”

Jena Swimmer pocketed her selfone. It was no use updating her blog. Her

laptop was stolen, her DigiLens with it. She had no facts, only questions. And

right now, people won’t care less what Fel Swimmer has to say about the war.

It was a war . . . since yesterday evening.

The saddest part was that she’d been completely oblivious to its coming,

and now in the dark about its unfolding. It was her job to keep in touch with

the trends in Hôc, and she’d failed miserably. It made her feel tiny, irrelevant.

Guilty. What had brought her back here, if not the will or capacity to keep up

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with current events? This is larger than you, she repeated to herself. No single

Bipede has the capacity to comprehend the world.

Yet some things were explainable. And she could find no answers.

The thought came unbidden. Nahrû’s death was not an accident.

Jena Swimmer was all too familiar with government censors. She grasped

the need for national security, seized the rationale behind public opaqueness

as opposed to unbridled transparency—she was, after all, the stepdaughter of

Nordland’s highest-ranking military officer. But this was different. It was too

. . . orchestrated. The Nahrû files, inaccessible without a password. Her death.

The attack on Tranquil. The war. The Kingdom of Hôc had no interest in wag-

ing war against the Republic of Nordland. Not economically. Not politically.

Not militarily.

So why had it attacked the Third Fleet?

Nahrû knew something. So she was murdered.

The SECOM director’s warning came back hauntingly. Lyon’s not going to

take power. If in forty-eight hours the chancellor-elect hasn’t been deposed, I need you

to do something for me: Show them to the Ministry of Information. We might be able

to avert a war. Was it too late? Had Nahrû known about the impending attack?

Had she colluded with the enemy? Was she a spy? Why had she gotten Jena

involved? Was her life now at risk?

Show the documents to the Ministry . . .

That was the last time they spoke. Nahrû had died before her ultimatum

had expired . . . driving a leased cart off a cliff. Slipped off the tracks, The Cycle

had reported—her very employer. Jena had tried calling her stepfather—Stiv

would undoubtedly have more facts—but to no avail. He’s got a war to wage.

She shook the puzzle out of her head. This was neither the time nor the place

to ponder Nahrû’s death. Jena must look after herself now. To return to Nord-

land or to stay here? She didn’t know which entailed less danger.

In the stiff foamy passenger seat of the cargo truck, Jena felt queasy. She’d

barely eaten in twenty-four hours. The last four days were a daze; she could

hardly reconstruct the sequence of events since the crackdown. Eriker and

she had taken refuge in the hotel for two full days. Only when the violence

abated did they reemerge. One thing she did remember was the rifles aimed

at their chests as they approached Gate 22. The reporters ended up bribing

their passage through. It had hurt her pride, but what mattered was that they

were still in one piece. Mere hours later, she’d read about Nahrû’s passing on

the Spectraboard. And two day later—yesterday—the war had erupted.

Like a chain reaction . . .

Jena had briefly considered staying in Human District to report on the tur-

moil from there, but her boss had been adamant in demanding her immediate

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return to Nordland; he wanted no more blood on anyone’s hands. The immo-

derate side of her felt she was being treated as a widow. But Steffen had the

right of it: their safety was paramount. If not mine, then Eriker’s. Besides, Rêga

was no longer the hot spot. The story had flown south.

The Nordlander embassy in Diâmador had planned for her impromptu

evacuation. A small Hôcan convoy, heading west with routine merchandise,

was commissioned to take the reporters to the army base in Pîrka, fifty miles

east of Diâmador. From there, they would find their way to the commercial

hub, where they would take a plane back home. This one’s a one-way ticket. She

wondered how much longer the Media Exchange Compact would survive. It

didn’t matter. There’s nothing here for you. Yet she couldn’t go back.

Too many questions unanswered.

Show the documents to the Ministry . . .

Jena buried a hand in her breeches in a tentative urge to extract her selfone,

to write something, anything. She yawned, ran a hand over her forehead and

the iron headband that never left its spot. She turned to check on her partner;

Eriker was crammed in the backseat, asleep, mouth gaping, head tottering to

the rhythm of the road.

For some reason, her thoughts drifted to Sâyna, to her purported visions

of a building with a seahorse. A hippocampus.

The Spectraboard having been restored, Jena had set Eriker to the task of

locating such a building. There were a few likely matches, but one that stood

out among them: Hippocampus Research Facilities, a laboratory for testing

jade in Diâg. Dhôrme. The cradle of the Kingdom. She had the strangest inkling

that Blackwatch was related to it. It wasn’t that she saw a link—she absolutely

did not—but there were too many oddities for it all to be unrelated. And just

like that, the floodgates reopened. Did Nahrû discover something about Hôc that

Nordland was trying to keep secret? Was she a Hôcan spy? Did she collaborate in

the creation of a chemical weapon to eradicate victims’ sanity? Too many questions.

No answers.

“We have a problem.”

Jena’s head spun. She stared at the driver dubiously, masking her anxiety,

searching for clues in the squareness of his jaw, the poutiness of his lips.

Corporal Levânt glanced at her before looking back at the road unravelling

before him. He cocked his chin. “There is a problem there,” he said in Karûm-

ian. “Fire.”

Huh? Jena turned to see. The first glimpse revealed a murky orange skyline

and dark rolling hills. She thought the sun was breaking on the horizon, but,

looking more closely, she reconsidered. Not the sun. The orange halo radiated

from behind a blunted hill, but it illuminated a loftier hill in the background.

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Fire.

The convoy, a good mile long, was a wide arc swooping toward it, red eyes

making a steady turn.

“What is it?” she wondered aloud. “A village?”

The corporal stared dead ahead. “I don’t know . . . Maybe.”

As the curve smoothened out and the military procession fell back into a

straight line, Jena lost sight of the painted hills. But they were close enough,

and she could see the atmosphere above them, awake with a fiery glow, as if

with a life of its own.

The twin lights in front burned red. The convoy slowed down.

In the back seat, Eriker stirred to wakefulness.

Jena turned to Corporal Levânt. “I’m stepping out to take a look.”

“No,” replied the soldier, as she’d expected. “You stay in the truck. We

stay here.” The truck ground to a halt.

Reluctantly, Jena obeyed.

“What’s happening?” Eriker asked from the backseat, stretching.

“Fire,” Jena replied laconically.

The company sat ponderously to the sound of the engine until Corporal

Levânt finally decided to kill the engine.

“What are we waiting for?” Jena asked.

“We wait for orders.”

Minutes later, an unarmed soldier in full combat gear appeared around the

left flank of the preceding truck. He walked toward them. Corporal Levânt

opened his door. Jena couldn’t see his interlocutor, but she heard his voice in

a colourful Karûmian.

“We’re blocked up ahead. We’re waiting for the road to be cleared.”

“What’s the problem?” asked the corporal.

“Half the village is on fire. The way is shut.”

Corporal Levânt was unsatisfied. “Fire? Why? What caused it?”

“Don’t know.” With that, he was off. The driver closed the door.

Jena strained her neck to peer around the preceding truck. It was no use;

all she saw was the faint glow in the sky, like magic dust. She sighed audibly.

“I’m going,” she insisted.

“No. Miss Swimmer—”

Jena was already yanking on the door handle and stepping out onto the

first grated step, three feet above the ground. “Jena!” Eriker gasped, but his

voice was killed by the thump of her boots on the rocky sand as she jumped

from the last step.

“Miss Swimmer!”

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She marched doggedly, ignoring the ache in her rump and knees from the

hours spent folded on herself in the Human truck. Behind, a door slammed,

then footfalls thudded after her briskly. After them came another set of foot-

falls. Jena didn’t have to outrun them; she was already frozen in place, staring

dead ahead.

Less than a quarter mile away, flames whipped the air, voraciously licking

the hillside, burning like a pyre. At first Jena tried to distinguish the buildings

consumed by them, until she realized what was truly afire. Pumpjacks. No less

than three. In the sky, a meteor shot by, then a second. It seemed to be raining

fire.

Eriker and Corporal Levânt stalled in the sand behind her. Her partner’s

exhalation was audible. He spoke in Nordlandic. “What . . . happened?” His

voice was prudent, bemused. “They were attacked?”

Jena had seen images of oil fields in Fûsha, sabotaged by the FLF, anything

to hurt the State. But this wasn’t that. Who? she tried to understand. The FLF?

Nordland? Then it dawned on her, that maybe she was asking the wrong ques-

tion. What?

Above, a meteor marked the sky.

Jena took a few cautious steps on the shrubby, uneven soil. Her feet blindly

scraped rocks and thirsting plants.

Several feet ahead, Humans scampered about, unloading equipment from

the cargo holds of trucks. A soldier passed some feet before her.

“Hey!” she called. “What happened?”

The short Human looked at her for what she was—a Nordlander Stockman

in the company of the army. After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “A meteor.”

“A meteor?” she repeated, disbelieving.

Eriker fell in beside her. “Maybe it hit the piping.”

The reporters stared at the flames like front-row spectators to a twisted

tragedy. In front of it all formed chain-links of Human soldiers, black shapes

against the light. They unloaded shovels and poles and tarps from the trucks.

She noticed two men carrying a heavy crate between them. Even from here,

she recognized the black symbol imprinted on it. Explosives?! she reeled. Two

trucks ahead of us?! It was a humbling sight, to know just how precious she

and Eriker’s lives were to the Hôcans.

“What are they doing with that?” asked Eriker.

“Probably moving it out to make sure we don’t explode.”

Corporal Levânt shuffled behind his Stockman consignment. “Private!” he

bellowed over their heads. “When do the engineers get here?”

The soldier looked up from underneath the bowl of his helmet. “Twenty,”

he shot back. “They left Pîrka ten minutes ago.” He turned, then glanced back

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their way. “There’s nothing to do with this,” he added. “Just let it burn, that’s

all we can do.” As he went back to his assignment, the reporters watched the

fire, beautiful in its destructiveness.

Beside her, Eriker shifted uneasily on his feet. “Crazy,” he offered banally.

Jena nodded sombrely. “If a meteor did this, imagine what the guns’ll do.”

Eriker sighed. “Gunfire and meteors . . . and I think we can say Sky Shield

is off the menu.”

“Yeah . . .” This would be Jena’s third Shower, her first in Fûsha, the Meteor

Belt. If I stay . . . Suddenly she remembered something. Corporal Levânt was

in her blind spot; it was safe to talk. “Eriker,” she said, turning her head side-

ways to face him. But the look he returned was one of adulating profundity.

Her eyes scattered. She got a handle on herself, looked back at him, spoke

seriously and dryly. “That building we found on the Spectraboard . . . this

morning.” She pictured the grey and teal structure with the teal seahorse logo

“It’s in Diâg, right?”

Eriker nodded warily. “Yeah . . . near.”

Jena nodded to herself. Something tingled inside—whether it was fear or

destiny or both, she could not say. “When we get to Diâmador, I don’t wanna

go back to Nordland.”

Eriker hesitated. “Okay . . . where . . . ?”

She but looked at him.

He knew.

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Chapter 66 Haidren

Heartsdale

Tente, Nordland

Foolsday, 40 Tempest 2079

17:30

econ was summoned alongside Trifin Corps at Heartsdale, a hamlet west

of Tente where the Treaty of Parity had been signed in the year 1040. The

recruits were herded on the amphitheater, white ruins on green slopes, which

had hosted pre-Nordlandic theater, and now Act One in the latest drama.

At the limestone altar where Fetoraa the Unifier had pierced the heart of

the King of Tente to seal a short-lived peace between the two other clans, was

Colonel Hillbarrow. Haidren remembered her wisdom from the episode with

Perus: Enemy’s out there, recruits, not in here. Seeing her stand there, however

. . . she didn’t look so tall. In fact, she was remarkably squat. The altar, which

stopped at her breast, had on it a digital tablet with her notes, not the mythical

heart. The microphone was fastened around her head, lost in the broad lines

of her neck, spilling into the black of her uniform. Haidren watched her from

the flank, opposite a sea of grey—Recon.

The loudspeakers crackled.

“Alom, Recruits,” boomed her voice.

On cue, the youths planted their fists, like great mantids. The sound was

of a cocking gun. For a moment, the pose was held.

“At ease,” said the colonel. The youths relaxed.

“Good evening Recon. Good evening Trifins.” Even with the amplification,

her vocals were sparse, with nothing of their intimate grandeur. “Thank you

for joining us in this occasion and lieu, this cornerstone of our modern nation.

“One thousand forty years ago, halfway through the present era, a meeting

took place here. A meeting that would spring the Old World into the new. A

meeting that had been inconceivable a year earlier. They spoke of stars align-

ed, of moons like coals, of a sky aflame with rocks. And of great destruction.

But from the ashes arose a new world order.

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“Recruits, you are that order.”

Haidren tried to find the falling rocks, but the sky was sheeted in grey.

Colonel Hillbarrow scanned her audience. “You know the story,” she said.

“Fetoraa swooped in from her eastern landing, on the back of an ôro, as swift

as a falling bolide. She made short work of the Tente Clan, and, witnessing

her speedy conquest, the Kapoe and Lonvekton lay down their arms, ceased

their agelong quarrel, and swore fealty to their new leader. It was on this very

altar”—she touched the white stone—“that the heart of the Daal of Tente paid

the bloody sacrifice.

“For sacrifice is not always a conscious gest. Sacrifice can be imposed from

without . . . and in this case, it was. Here at Heartsdale, we not only remember

the triumphs of one, but the sacrifices of another. Here we remember that our

squabbles are but a whirl in a whirlwind; that we must look not within but

without, at the greater manifestation that is the Calibrate . . .”

Haidren found himself scanning the curved rows of blacks. There was no

sign of her. Somewhere nearby, Sweetcheeks snorted. Haidren could still see

his globular face, inches from his own, with a grin that increasingly became

a sneer. My Lazarus days are over, he thought. He’d seen the truth, but at a cost;

a string had loosed in his head, a vial shattered. I’m predisposed to Lazarus syn-

drome. I crossed the threshold, visited the other side, lapsed into obscurity. He didn’t

want to go back.

His selfone became heavy in his knickers, drawing him farther from the

colonel’s voice, which was replaced by his own, repeating the last words he’d

sent Lybella, the ones to make up for his sacrifice:

I very much appreciate your honesty. You made me

think a lot, and you brought me back down to earth.

I’ve been smoking wizard crop, and it gives me weird

thoughts. My diagnosis is that I’m exhibiting signs of

Lazarus syndrome; I’m living in a world where failure

does not exist.

I’ve only one request: Is it possible to go back to Square

One?

Unbelievable, he thought. He’d actually diagnosed himself, then smoked the

Misty Spring and triggered the illness. Jam was his saviour; he’d squeezed

his arm—hard—to elicit a response. You were just sitting there, he said, not even

breathing. Haidren winced. Just breathe. The pain inflicted by Jam had brought

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him around, and he’d managed to break the bind, like a serf from a yoke. He

remembered first trying to accept the pain . . . to make it real . . . then giving

in to it.

“Hôc has attacked Tranquil,” the colonel continued. “As I speak, what is

left of the Third Fleet is limping back to Nordland. That is a reality we must

accept. The Merchants Council is holding an emergency session. A consensus

will be reached, and it will be a consensus we must live with. The likely result,

recruits, is war.” Silence fell like a deathly pall, and it was as though the ruins

were fielded by ghosts, troops and neutrals.

Haidren thought of Jena. Then of Sewel Lyon. As much as he disliked the

firebrand, there was something about the way he looked in his thoughts that

made him admirable.

“Trifins. Recon. Today marks the last day of your training, and the dawn-

ing of a new age. You are now soldiers of the Republic of Nordland. Whether

you will ever see live combat . . . whether you will ever find yourself behind

a V-helm or a DSM, you will be looking out for the Stockman and the Human

and the Mulard next to you. You will be bound to them, by nation and blood.

By sacrifice. For this great nation . . . this great People that is Nordland . . .

does not, and will never, exist without you.”

The air became almost electric, as if spirits, taunted, had stirred to wakeful-

ness.

“Recruits.” The inflection hinted at the beginning of a closing statement.

“You are here today because you have finished your Mandatory Service Pro-

gram. As a dear friend of mine, the late Teluman Bold, once said to me, ‘You

may hang your faro at the end of the day, but your service to the nation never

ceases.’ And so, wherever your paths may bring you, always remember that

the freedom which you live to enjoy today is born from the sacrifices we make

and others have made before us.

“Alom, recruits.” The recruits anchored their fists, and Colonel Hillbarrow

marched off through officers, leaving them—or at least Haidren—in a state

of awe and uneasiness and admiration.

Recruit Reserve, he thought. And he saw Sewel Lyon.

The speeches lasted the better part of an hour. An officer from Recon spoke

after Colonel Hillbarrow. Then a military bureaucrat from the Establishment

of Defense, a mild man who brought them up to date on the military situation

in Rêga like they were the first deployment. Haidren learned that the Spectra-

board, which had been cut, was reconnected, and the social networks, rekin-

dled, had leaked some intel—troops location, weapons stores. The downside,

the officer informed, was that the Hôcans tapped their satellites in real time,

and that their encrypted networks were thus far unhacked. He remembered

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what his father had said: Warfare is no longer about who has the most troops. It’s

about who holds the intel. And that intel was on the Spectraboard.

After the speeches, the military ceremony was held on a green field beside

the amphitheater ruins. The recruits were made to stand at attention, to salute

as officers were named and instructors thanked. The ritual lasted almost an

hour, and by the time it ended, the clouds were a murky purple-blue, like ink

blotches in water.

Haidren’s mind had darkened with the sky, and he was silent as a convict

as he filed out of the ceremonial ground between bleachers being vacated by

parents and relatives, his own not among them. Recon and Trifin Corps con-

verged at a chokepoint between the bleachers, forming two neat queues that

moved with mechanical precision. That’s when he spotted Toba, or the back

of his head. He snapped his head around. “Raa,” he called to Fedric, “Toba’s

here!” Fedric did not hear.

Beyond the bleachers, between the field and amphitheater, was erected a

bunch of makeshift pavilions, where food and drink were served, parents and

recruits invited to mingle. The costumed youths formed a disorganized mass

as they spilled out into the area, awash in the whiteness of floodlights. Haid-

ren squeezed his way through black-clad Stockmen. Creeping up behind To-

ba, he swatted him on the shoulder.

Haidren unbridled a grin, expecting likewise from Toba as he turned, but

his friend was diffident, perplexed, almost.

“Hey Tobe!”

“Hey.” Toba grinned. His grey tunic was cambered at the front, making

him look like a drill bit. His eyes, calm and cool, spoke to his attire.

“How you doing, Tobe?” Recruits grazed his arms as they passed around

him, but none of them were Fedric of Jam or Loper or Sweetcheeks.

“Good.” Toba grinned, regaining some of his person. Ever uneasy in social

situations, he was turning intermittently, his movements sporadic and bird-

like, whether to make sure he wasn’t being stomped on or to find someone,

Haidren did not know. Haidren locked eyes with a hideous lad with a scarred

cheek, his lips pinched in a smirk. He stood at an angle behind Toba, but the

way he gravitated toward him made it clear that they knew each other.

Suddenly self-conscious, Haidren pressed the conversation. “So, how was

Recon?”

Toba shuffled his head, ambivalent. “Okay.”

The recruits continued to pour into the area around them, coagulating into

small pockets to the directives of instructors. “Keep moving! Keep moving!”

We have to relocate. There was still no sign of the others; undoubtedly they

had skirted them on the fringes. As Haidren and Toba started to walk away,

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the scarred boy on their tail, Haidren saw Fawn. She was with Fedric, smiling,

chatting. Haidren caught Toba looking at him, and the scarred guy, grinning.

“Are you with Fred and them?” Toba asked.

“Uhhh . . . no”—Haidren looked the other way—“I mean, I lost them.”

They halted a dozen feet away from a white pavilion, underneath which a

black-clad soldier handed drinks to thirty recruits. The scarred guy followed

as Toba stood beside Haidren. Haidren looked at the intruder, smiled, cocked

his head. “Hey,” he said.

The guy vaguely resembled Toba, he thought—pale and thin, his face chis-

elled like a worn statue. But where Toba’s nose was straight, his was knotted

and bull-like. He leaned past Toba and extended a hand. “Gabel,” he offered

lightly.

“Haidren.” Haidren shook a stiff hand, doing his best to ignore the grisly

scar.

Toba grinned and bobbed his head, apparently unsure how to proceed.

It was Haidren who spoke. “So how was Recon?” he repeated

Toba made an ambiguous gesture of the head, a faded grin imprinted on

his face. “Made it, heh.” And after a pause, “You? Trifins?”

“It was lay . . . we were all together, me and the guys.” His eyes darted to

Gabel, who grinned back but remained still, almost comically so. “Going into

Recruit Reserve next week,” he added.

Toba only nodded. Haidren wondered if he knew what it was. Apparently,

he did. “You should be careful,” he asserted. “With what’s happening . . .”

“What? Tranquil?”

“Well, yeah . . . but also the, uh, Reckoning.”

A faint chorus of gasps rose around them. For a moment Haidren thought

the recruits had tuned in to their conversation, but then he caught sight of a

fleeting white streak, visible through the clouds, like a falling flare light.

“Was it a meteor?” Gabel enquired, searching the sky.

“Yeah,” Haidren replied absently. He looked back at Toba. “You actually

believe in that stuff now? The Reckoning?”

His eyes darted. “Well . . . yeah.”

Haidren chuckled. “C’mon, Tobe. Just ‘cause your da says it doesn’t mean

it’s true.”

It was Gabel who replied. “It was written in the book more than a thousand

years ago.”

Haidren shot him a tamed glare, turned back to his friend, then back at the

newcomer. “It’s not hard to predict a Shower when you know the movement

of the stars. Fetoraa built her prophecy around the calendar she made.”

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520

“The prophecy has been laid out by Ulkan, a thousand forty years before,”

Gabel bit back. “Fetoraa was the First Revenant. Nohim will be the second.

How can you deny the Reckoning?”

Haidren was dumbstruck. So he’s a Millenarian, too? How do you slap some

sense into these people? Did they not history in their chapels and temples? He

was almost primed for a rebuke. “Ulkan didn’t even unite Turân in year 1. It

was around year 50. And it wasn’t even during a Shower.” That was the most

recent scholarly assessment. “Fetoraa just made it up so it fit her scheme—

that every time the Lunar Shade coincided with the Shower, every 1040 years,

the Revenant would come back, and the prophecy would be fulfilled by 2080.

It gave people something to believe and live to, and it made her very rich and

powerful. She even stole her knowledge of astronomy from the Môgans. You

can’t possibly—”

“It doesn’t matter where you get the intel,” Gabel retorted, quoting the

officer from EDEF. “It’s that you have it that matters. The Calibrate has a way

of balancing itself out, and this is a Reckoning, as was predicted.” His silver

scar streaked his cheek like a crooked meteor tail. His look was coolly defiant.

This tool is corrupting Toba, Haidren realized. It took everything he had to

push the thought away. This was neither the time nor the place to get into an

argument. Maybe if he joined with Fedric . . . at least it would be two versus

two, and Fedric was a sensible guy.

“Anyways.” He tried to sound casual. “Are you coming for supper?” He

ignored the boy with the broken face.

Toba shook his head curtly. “Going back to Listhelm.”

Haidren nodded ponderously. “Alright . . . guess I’ll see you later, then.”

Toba was downcast, but when he looked up, Haidren saw in his eyes more

concern than hurt. “Okay,” he said. His eyes flitted. “See you, Haidren.”

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Chapter 67 Nassâyna

Stockman District

Rêga, Fûsha Province, Hôc

Zidday, 41 Tempest 2079

20:27

tockman District resounded with gunfire, as if the city itself was enclosed

in a vast dome. From the driver and passenger seats, Rêm and Nassâyna

were like stragglers to a Nordlander-style fireworks display. Volleys growled

and crackled in the north, most of them faraway, yet some so close she almost

dropped her selfone twice. The streets were not safe, yet they were the surest

way to Smiley’s.

My cards are ready . . .

The phone call had come in early this afternoon; Drêk had apprised her an

hour ago. She wondered why he hadn’t told her sooner, but with the Hawks’

impending attack on the airfield, she knew it was better not to ask trivialities.

Your cards are ready, Sâyna, he’d said, frantically cleaning the barrel of his rifle.

Rêm will take you there.

He’s upset, she knew, or hiding something . . .

The pickup truck shook brusquely as the front wheel sprang in and out of

an abysmal pothole. Something churned inside. Nassâyna Ghodrimâra ran a

hand over the woolen fabric of Gîlren’s poncho, caressing the flatness of her

abdomen. You’re paranoid, she assured herself. There’s nothing there, no Mulard.

Only pain. The doctor doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He’s not a real doctor.

Hers were empty reassurances. She’d been comatose for ten days, and she

didn’t know these guys—Drêk and Jêr and Rêm and the other nameless faces.

She peeked at the Stockman in the driver’s seat, face crisscrossed with tattoos,

trying to decide if he was capable of what she feared most . . .

“Drêk and the boys should be on site now.”

Rêm did not look at her. Instead, he glanced obsessively at the clock on the

grated dashboard, his digits wrapped around the faded metal steering wheel.

“At the airfield?” she peeped.

S

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“Yes.”

Nassâyna nodded, refraining from further enquiries. Drêk was striking the

Rêgan airfield in tandem with another cell, the White Hand. That’s all she

needed to know, all she wanted to know. The less I know, the better. Never had

she felt so vulnerable . . . since the impossible news.

The truck made an abrupt left swerve, skidding to a stop. Luckily, she was

wearing her seatbelt; it pinned her in midair as tires clawed the packed dirt

underneath. In the intersecting street, a vehicle skewed to a halt, just in time

to avert a collision.

Her heart skipped. If it was the wolves, it was all over . . .

Luckily, it wasn’t. The mystery vehicle’s headlights—like theirs—were off,

allowing them a view of the scraggy Fûshock behind the wheel of his grey-

and-red truck. The middle-aged melock looked more surprised than Rêm. In

the driver’s seat, the brawny Fûshock exhaled slowly, giving the stranger a

sparing look. Slowly, his foot fed gas to the engine. They moved on.

“Is it a problem?” Nassâyna asked tensely, glancing back.

“No. Not any more than we are to him.”

The streets of Smiley City were dark and forlorn. No lights came from the

tenements. Stray bolides marked the sky, like erring bomb shells. Only fools

and vigilantes ventured out. Nassâyna was both. Only for one more day, she

promised. Tomorrow she would be back home, to her old life with Râkki and

Yak. She missed them both. Especially Râkki. She longed to gaze upon his

face and hold him and tell him how happy she was to see him. No doubt he

would write a song about her escapade. If I survive . . .

“You sure it’s safe . . . ?” she asked, echoing her doubts.

Left hand on the wheel, right on the gearstick, Rêm tossed her a nonchalant

look. “I know my way around these streets better than any of these foreign

maggots,” he boasted. “Besides, you’re safer here than with Drêk and them.”

She could admit to that. The Desert Hawks had left base fifteen minutes

before them. Nassâyna had never seen them so heavily armed, cartridge belts

clinking from vests, rocket launchers flung over shoulders. When no one had

been looking, she’d taken Drêk aside, begged him to return, if only to gauge

his reaction, detached at best. “I promise,” his lips had spelled, yet his eyes

had betrayed something else—doubt? Lie?

Did he rape me? Does he know who did?

Muted gunfire echoed without, punctuating her misgivings.

“Smiley knows we’re coming?” she confirmed.

“Yes.”

“You called him?”

“Drêk did . . . at the Nest.”

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I wish he’d sent me a larger escort . . . or Firôhte at least. She didn’t want to deal

with Smiley. Not with last episode fresh in her mind. Did he really forge my

card? she wondered, not for the first time. Last encounter, she’d quite literally

been thrown out the door. If you touch me, I’ll find work for Drêk, she wished

she’d said, but no longer knew if he would defend her.

The pickup truck crept around the edge of a brick building, into a deserted

intersection, its pavement cracked. It took her a moment to realize where she

was. The Lair. Something roiled in her stomach, though it was probably her

supper, her last Stockman supper before a long time.

The rectangular complex was like a haunted house, sheet metal reflecting

cerulean moonlight. A dim yellow light shone through a crack in the curtains

of a second-storey window. The slide gate was open a crack. Like a stalker in

the night, Rêm edged the truck closer. No one came out to greet them. Above

the rumble of the engine, scattered gunfire was heard.

“Stay here,” Rêm ordered. He kicked open the rusty door and jumped out,

leaving the twisted plate pulling on old hinges. Plodding to the slide gate, he

snooped around, then disappeared through the crack . . . only to reemerge

seconds later. Leaning against the gate, he pushed it wide enough to allow a

passing truck, then tramped back, his pace notably quicker.

“No one there,” he sighed, clanging the door shut.

No one guarding the Lair? The thought was surreal. Had Smiley left the gate

open in anticipation of her?

The engine purred as Rêm put the truck into motion. It inched its way into

the drug lord’s complex, the wavy ground awash in moonlight. The Desert

Hawk parked the vehicle close to where Drêk had left it a week ago, and they

jumped out, sandals and talons whispering in the night as they whisked

through the parking lot to the entrance.

Rêm led the way, his hand never far from the handgun concealed under-

neath his tabard. His light-blue scarf looked like static in the dusk. He moved

like a shadow, then stopped moving. It didn’t take her long to see why.

The high wall of the recessed entrance was riddled with bullet holes. Nass-

âyna remembered a camera. In its place was a black wreck, tiny bits scattered

on the landing. Rêm unstrapped his handgun—a Stockman contraption large

as a plumbing pipe—and proceeded to move toward the door.

“Rêm,” she hissed. What if it was the wolves?

He did not hear her concerns, or chose not to. The Desert Hawk slipped

long fingers in the hole where the door handle had been. It opened. Glancing

back, he said, “Stay back.” She had no time to object. He brought his gun to

eye level, and slipped inside.

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Nassâyna glanced around—back at the gate, at the heaps of debris lining

the walls, at the warehouse’s second storey, where she tried to find the win-

dow with light, and finally back at the door, from where she expected to hear

gunfire any second. There was the inescapable feeling of being watched. She

found herself inching back into the packed dirt, one shaky baby step at a time.

Each step she took, the likelihood of gunfire grew. But the only firing tonight

was distant . . . on this side of the canal.

It was perhaps the fear of not moving (or not moving fast enough) that re-

solved her to follow Rêm, but before she knew it, she was at the door, pulling

it open with her left hand, peering in from around the edge.

The place was unchanged. The hallway. The staircase up. The dirty white

walls and spotted ceramic floor. As she peeked in, she noticed the camera on

the upper wall, still intact, red light blinking. But as she opened the door some

more, she saw the hall’s left wall—spotted like a mountain leopard. And the

blood . . .

Suddenly, the left door crashed opened.

Nassâyna barely had time to let go of the door. A figure bounded toward

her. A Stockman. Rêm. She was too shocked to breathe the relief. The Desert

Hawk grabbed her by the arm as he hurried away, strides long as an ôro’s.

“We have to go,” he insisted.

My cards, said a tiny voice inside.

The trip back to the Nest was dismal and never-ending. Rêm rebuffed all

her enquiries, retorting with grunts that came close to the sound of a Human.

Was it the wolves? she had asked. His grunt had been something in the affirm-

ative. She knew not to ask more. Her head flopped lifelessly at the end of her

neck. Her gaze was of a dead girl’s, fixating the black world around her. What

will I do? she thought. What will I do? She texted Râkki. The reply was almost

immediate: Is he dead? She didn’t know. Fuck, he wrote.

“He’s dead,” she mumbled to herself. The engine drowned her voice.

The firefights had become sporadic when the Nest’s garage door snuffed

them out. It was the barking of mountain hounds, those wrinkled beasts, that

replaced them. Fate and Chance leapt up to the Stockman as he opened the

door (she was thankful Drêk had trained them not to jump on her, for they

would crush her). Briskly, she moved to the doorway, and up the wooden

stair, wanting nothing more than to lock herself in the clay room that was her

default home, and cry.

Gîlren had heard the commotion. She waited at the stair crest.

“Did you get them? Your cards?”

Nassâyna wept. She didn’t know how it happened, but she ended up in

the Human girl’s embrace, pressed against this vain, helpless person who had

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lost so much yet received so little. In a way, thought Nassâyna, I’m exactly like

her. When finally she composed herself, she went to squat on the beige pirôhka

couch, time spinning by in a meaningless web.

“Do you want something to eat?” Gîlren offered.

Nassâyna shook her head. The dead do not eat.

In the kitchen, pots and pans clanked. Rêm had joined Jêr, who, having

lost his probe the night Drêk and Smiley met, had been consigned to guarding

the Nest, and now clearly found himself lacking in usefulness.

Nassâyna curled up on the low couch, tucked her legs underneath herself.

Gîlren’s poncho notwithstanding, she felt unseasonably cold.

“Is there news from Drêk?” Gîlren called to the kitchen.

It took a moment before Jêr answered. “No, not yet.”

Gîlren and Jêr exchanged more words, but Nassâyna did not hear them.

What in life is happening? Why am I here? Âncion was ever-present, his war-

mongering face crisped in a sneer. Am I pregnant? she asked him. But the god

who heard never replied.

Somehow, she slept. Perhaps it was the patter of gunfire that had become

her lullaby, perhaps the will to fade. But she awoke with a startle. There was

rapid movement—heavy footfalls on the floorboards, incoherent shouts and

banging on the walls, dogs barking. It seemed to come from all around.

“What happened?!” she heard Gîlren cry. And she remembered where she

was. Springing to her feet, she raced to the hallway. Gîlren was there, staring

down into the narrow staircase. Jêr was already at its base, wrapping around

his shoulders the arm of a hefty Stockman.

Nassâyna gasped. Firôhte.

The burly Fûshock looked unconscious, head lolling over her chest, bloody

at the brow. Her mismatched khakis were stained with soot and sweat and

blood, and for a moment Nassâyna thought of Râkki. She felt sick.

“Help him!” someone howled. Others were pouring through the corridor.

Rêm, Kemâal, Skŷe . . .

Drêk? She tried to peer above them, through them.

Another three or four Fighters walked through the threshold, clogging the

lower staircase, before she saw him. His forehead and jawline were speckled

with sweat, but he seemed unharmed. His sleeves were rolled back, his fore-

arms stiff, hands clenching the pistol grip of a large black rifle of Nordlander

design. He could have seen her. It was hard to tell. Nassâyna managed the

barest of smiles, oddly relieved.

“Watch out! Move!”

She stepped back as Gîlren led Firôhte’s handlers into the living room. The

Human girl froze beside the table, eyes glistening. Hefêstos, she remembered.

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We couldn’t save him. This time, at least, the Desert Hawks were prepared. The

pirôhka table was covered with a green cloth, serving as a makeshift operating

table. Surgical apparatus—blades, scissors, prongs—was laid out on a small

wooden bench at its side.

“Easy, easy.”

Firôhte’s stomach bulged outward, but her chest was not heaving. Bandied

legs hung wide, like a starfish. She’s not hit, Nassâyna noticed; there were no

bullet wounds, no blood, except for negligible bruises and scratches on the

face and hands. “W-what happened?” she asked as she was lowered, like her

friend before her. No one heard.

“Bring her a pillow!” someone bellowed. “Get me water!”

Something grazed her back. Nassâyna turned to see Drêk standing beside

her. She searched his meek gaze. “What happened?”

He did not make eye contact. “An explosion. A wall fell on her.”

A wall fell on her?!

“Take her shirt off!” someone shouted.

Finally, Drêk looked at her. His far-set eyes seemed to drift apart. “Do you

have it?”

She shook her head, averting tears.

“What happened?”

She opened her mouth to speak . . .

“DRÊK!”

They both spun. A throng of Fûshocks, felocks and melocks, were walking

in from the staircase. Some were strangers, some with war paint and scarves,

some limping and hurt. It took her a moment to see Skŷe at their head, blood

running down her cheek as if from her iron headband. A brown scarf dangled

at her throat. Her inverted triangle tattoos, at times like tears, were now battle

scars, accentuating her scowl.

“Drêk.” She took measured steps toward the leader of the Desert Hawks,

like a challenger. “Smiley’s dead. The wolves bit him.”

Nassâyna caught Drêk’s searching look.

“They killed Hefêstos. They killed Smiley. They killed Firôhte.” A twisted

digit pointed accusingly from a fingerless glove. Nassâyna couldn’t tell if she

was the target. “Do you think it’s all a coincidence? We were ambushed! They

knew we were coming! Someone alerted them.” Yellow eyes shifted to Nass-

âyna.

She stopped breathing. Drêk was eyeing his lieutenant awkwardly, as if he

hadn’t yet grasped the meaning.

“Your Human friend,” Skŷe accused, “she has other friends.”

Anger seized Nassâyna. “What do you know of me?!”

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Rêm stepped up to Skŷe, standing half a foot shorter. “You’re out of line,

Skŷe.”

“Horse shit!” exclaimed the sinewy felock. And for the first time, Nassâyna

noticed the heavy rifle in her hands. “She’s been talking to the wolves! How

else do you explain this? We were ambushed! This was not—”

“We were ambushed,” Drêk interrupted, voice rising, “but what makes

you think it was her? Do you have any proof?!”

Those not tending to the injured had turned to witness the confrontation.

Skŷe stood at the fore of her pack, belligerent. “The proof’s right there! It was

under your nose this whole time! She’s a collaborator! How can you be so

blind not to see it? Do you think she’s really attracted to your good looks and

dazzling leadership, Drêk? Do you think she’s really in love with one of us?”

Nassâyna had to say something. “Drêk, I didn’t—” she started, but her

voice was buried by Rêm’s.

“You’re out of line!” the Fûshock repeated, stepping even closer to the wiry

felock.

Skŷe neither shrunk nor balked. “Check her selfone,” she demanded.

Drêk was incredulous. “What?”

“Check her selfone. Look at her calls. See who she’s been talking to behind

your back.”

“You’re not well, Skŷe.” His voice was calm, but weighty as the moons.

Nassâyna heard enough. “You want it? Take it, you sick fuck!” She buried

her hand underneath her poncho and pulled out her selfone. “Look at it, you

ignorant piece of shit!” She took two defiant steps, her hand shooting out in

front of her, offering the device.

Skŷe masked surprise, then stepped forward and snatched the phone from

her hands. But the gesture was aggressive and clumsy, and she swatted it out

of her grip.

Nassâyna gasped, watching in helpless horror as the phone plummeted to

the floor, hitting the clay wall at the base. They all heard it crack. “Bitch!” she

screamed. “You stupid bitch!” She scampered to the floor to scoop it up, to

peruse the broken screen. Turning it in her hand, she froze. Part of the back-

side had broken off. Buried in the bowels of the device was a tiny red light—

a fingernail-sized chip.

Drêk had seen it, too. And Skŷe. The zealous felock wasted no time.

“She was wired! I fucking told you, Drêk! She was wired! They’ve been

listening to us from the day she set her sow’s feet in here! They know where

we are—where to find us!”

Drêk looked at Nassâyna, eyes sinking with treachery.

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“I—did—” Nassâyna stuttered. “I didn’t know, I didn’t know it was there!

Drêk, listen! I promise. I didn’t put it there, I don’t know what this is!” Could

it have been him, during her sleep? Or Skŷe, to frame her?

“Horse shit!” Skŷe yelled. “She’s lying, Drêk! She’s been playing you from

the start—from the fucking Herald!”

Nassâyna’s mind took flight. Sol Hâro, she remembered. They took my phone.

She opened her mouth to speak, but the words clogged her throat.

“The Human’s a spy!” yelled a felock; whether it was Skŷe or one of her

accomplices, she could not say. Her senses were a blur. The living room was

a boiling pit of noise and emotion. Stripe-skinned Bipedes collided into each

other, heaving like a forest in a storm. Nassâyna felt sick, dizzy.

Then they heard the bang.

The commotion went dead, like someone had pulled the plug. All froze. In

the garage, the mountain hounds barked—savagely.

“They found us!” someone hooted. And just like that, the Stockmen started

to stir in an incoherent frenzy. Through it all was the burst of a gun, and no

more barking. Loud footfalls resounded in the stairs before the Desert Hawks

could organize.

The gunfight broke out.

Nassâyna dropped like a sac of flour, hands shielding her ears and cradling

her face. The chaos was all-consuming, the crackle of gunfire ubiquitous. Out

the back door, pressed a voice.

She pushed herself to her feet, turned . . . and witnessed the explosion.

The corridor giving onto the stair caved in, jagged splinters penetrating the

outer shell like ribs through skin. Dust filled the air, like a heavy fog. No less

than three Fûshocks went down instantly, one thrown back violently against

the opposite wall and hitting the floor like a rag doll. Miraculously, Nassâyna

kept her feet. In front of her, Drêk was on one knee, bounding upright, surviv-

al instincts jumpstarting his reflex.

And dark shapes emerged from the threshold of the broken door—murky

Hôcans with armour like war pigs. A gun ignited. A Desert Hawk went down

before he did. And the light was everywhere, sharp films cutting through the

dense smoke.

More dark shapes emerged from the threshold. The beleaguered Fighters

fought hard—one of them, holding a gigantic Stockman gun, turned the walls

into sawdust, dismembering foes in the process. But the counterattack was

short-lived. A volley of bullets was returned from the staircase, through the

broken wall. Nassâyna saw Rêm lose his footing as a bullet found his ribcage.

Someone else went down beside him. And that’s when she remembered the

backdoor, the outer staircase.

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Gîlren appeared from nowhere, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her

to her feet. The first thing she saw was Firôhte, splayed lifelessly on the floor,

onto which she’d been knocked down. Gîlren and Nassâyna jumped over her

body. Together, they bolted for the hallway, ducking underneath the fire of a

Fûshan Liberation Fighter. They’d barely made it to the hallway when the

last door on the left—their way out—crashed inward. A Hôcan appeared. He

raised his weapon. Nassâyna skidded to a stop. The bullets found Gîlren in

the abdomen and chest; she danced as she fell. Nassâyna leaped left into the

living room, taking cover behind the wall. She hit the pirôhka’s armrest, and

toppled over, somehow managing to pick herself up and scrambling to the

other side of the couch, a temporary refuge. There was nowhere to go. It ends

here.

Skŷe was the next to fall, staggering back as a bullet pierced her calf, and

a second one her jugular. Then Drêk. A bullet hit him in the chest. His body

contorted grotesquely and impossibly as a second one hit his thigh, collaps-

ing him. Nassâyna closed her eyes. Play dead. The gunfire went on for count-

less seconds, though she doubted there was any more fodder. Shouts rose up

all around her—Human shouts. Commands. Orders. Anguish.

Play dead. Boots trampled the floorboards around her. She clenched her

eyes shut. Gruff voices communicated in the State tongue. She ignored them.

Then she heard a yelp. Close to her. Her eyes shot open.

Three soldiers were standing there, the closest one but a few feet away. All

of them were looking her way.

Nassâyna screamed at the top of her lungs. Someone will hear, she pleaded.

And she recognized the first man’s face. Âncion, his face a sneer. Then, as she

continued to scream, it transmuted into something else, something scared,

helpless, like the two soldiers behind him. All three were looking at her, stiff.

Not at me, she noticed. Over me. At what? Behind her was but a wall . . .

She heard something wet, moist. Feeling the wind drain out of her, she

turned.

Out of the window hole in the high ceiling oozed a giant black snail. Its

shell was matte, its mucus sleek. It slid down to the floor at the speed at which

a drop forms at the mouth of a faucet. And she noticed it wasn’t a snail at all.

On the floor, it rose, reconstituting itself into something otherworldly . . . into

a tall black being, the shell tucked away at its core. She had seen it before. In

her dream. It had stood there, before the mountains, before the fiery rain.

Nassâyna tried to scream. There was no sound. Only a ringing in her head

. . . intensifying.

Then everything faded to black.

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Chapter 68 Toba

Millenarian High Chapel

Lower Gallinton, Nordland

Septday, 42 Tempest 2079

11:52

eptday Preachers, are we ready?!”

From ground level, the High Priestess stood alongside her spouse

between the pews, looking up at the band on the lower dais. Both wore casual

weekend robes and easy smiles, cutting stripes.

“Let the Revenant hear you!”

Toba counted them in. One . . . two . . . three . . .

The band started to play.

Daelin hit the kobo drum with her mallet, a look of gratification on her face.

Toba filled the gaps with his conga drums, rediscovering the instrument in a

new and exciting way. Gabel hummed on the bassoon; he wasn’t as good as

Haidren or Fedric, but there was a symbiosis which Toba had never really

experienced with his old friends. Behind him, filling the pointed stage of the

lower dais, were three rows of students, children between the ages of six and

twelve—the choir. They belched the tune in Old Nordlandic, in flush synch-

ronicity, an odd but welcome contrast to their motley attire.

When the dawn ‘comes the day,

Rain will come t’wash away.

All sullies, and the stains,

Th’eternal Summer rains’.

In the glow of the Fall,

Heroes come t’win it all.

Heathens, the throne’ appall,

Nohim stands eight feet tall.

“S

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Daelin hit the kobo drum. They made eye contact and smiled. Invigorated,

Toba added weight to the second couplet, his palms digging in the ôro skin,

summoning arcane vibrations. The soft voices glided through, voices sweet

as honeydew, solemn yet sanguine.

When the day ‘comes the night,

Hours ‘way, falls the light.

Giving all righteous plight,

Winter comes, set’ it might.

In the glow of the Fall,

Heroes come t’win it all.

Heathens, the throne’ appall,

Nohim stands eight feet tall.

The Septday Preachers finished two more couplets, the melody filling the

nave with echo as if from the belly of a whale. Toba wrapped the song with

a flourish of taps, conclusive, braced by Daelin’s heavy blow. The last note

was from Gabel’s bassoon, drawn and lonely. Where usually it would have

aroused in Toba feelings of emptiness, he felt glut, or numbness perhaps.

Outside, meteors marked the sky in steady salvos; war had broken out with

Hôc. Yet from his drum stool, it didn’t matter. It was as if the Shower—indeed

the Reckoning—was one of Fel Santairis’s stories.

Applause rose to meet Gabel’s dying note. “H’rah!” cried Gelden Santairis,

inches short beside his spouse. Jowly and jaunty-mannered, he always had a

ready pun. “You keep playing this well, Nohim’s not gonna wanna wait to

come down!”

Toba and Gabel looked at each other, challenger’s looks in their eyes. Toba

nodded his approval, a smirk on his face. Gabel copied.

Jaki and Gelden Santairis were making their way down the aisle, where a

handful of parents had settled to watch the closing rehearsal, hands joined in

robotic applause. “Come down!” beckoned the High Priestess. “Your ma and

da are ready to take you home for lunch. That was fan-tas-tic! Keep practicing.

We’ll see each other when?”

“Next week!” cried the kids, delighted.

“Don’t forget to do your homework!”

The Santairises were there to assist them down the steep block-like stairs.

Toba helped, too, grabbing the children by the hand as they clambered down.

Jaki Santairis’s sunny voice filled the nave. “Careful! Watch your step!” Toba

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tried to emulate her benevolence, with less success. Someone smacked him

on the shoulder as he was lowering a kid by the hand to the next step, where

Daelin waited. “Good job, Nohim!” It was Gabel. He had taken to calling him

Nohim after the special boy Kelvetir had launched the trend. At first, Toba

had felt unworthy, but he’d grown into it, made it his own. Perhaps that was

what had lifted his spirits in recent days . . . perhaps it was simply completing

MSP.

Fel Santairis intercepted Gabel as he accompanied a twig-limbed girl to her

folks. “Gabel, can you grab the sacs and pack them in the car with your sister?

We’ll close up here and meet you outside.” Gabel concurred, clutched heavy

satchels, the straps of which he swung crosswise on his shoulders, and inched

his way down the aisle to the front doors. Daelin followed with two sacs—

books and supplies for Septday School.

As the last of the kids rejoined their parents, who exchanged parting words

with Mel Santairis, the High Priestess approached Toba. She smiled. “So, you

had a chance to use your camera, I hope?”

Toba grinned. “Yeah, heh. Thanks again. It’s really great.” In truth, he had

not used it much at all, save to catch the setting sun at the airfield. He felt like

he didn’t deserve it, like it was stained with the blood of the SECOM director,

whose fall and death he’d precipitated.

Fel Santairis nodded deeply. “Good, good!” Black eyeliner ran in inverted

peaks, accentuating the sparkle of her eyes. She escorted Toba down the aisle.

“You know, we’re very happy to have you around, Toba. Especially Gabel.

We’ve noticed he’s, well . . . well lately.” She sighed. “He was not always like

this, you know. When we adopted him, he was a very troubled boy.”

It felt like a splash of cold water. “Gabel’s adopted?”

“Yes.” Fel Santairis craned her neck. “Yes. He didn’t tell you?”

“No . . .” But Toba was already seeing the truth of it. That’s why they look so

different. Now that he thought of it, even his sister looked different, with apple

cheeks and slanted eyes. “Is Daelin adopted, too?”

“Yes, she is. The twins are not, though.”

“Oh.” Toba tried to remember the frame of Rael and Platonian in the San-

tairis abode. Why didn’t Gabel tell me? Then again, he figured it was irrelevant.

“Yes, we started to foster Gabel when he was nine.” She bolted the double

door, snapped the padlock. They made for the side door, the High Priestess

recounting Gabel’s story along the way. “He was not from a good family . . .

prone to violence and such. When we got him”—she sighed—“he was wood

to carve, let me put it that way. Gelden and I worked very hard to find a good

school for him, good friends . . . with time, the Calibrate worked its justice on

him. All is in the balance, you see.” She opened the door for Toba, but it was

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like it swayed on magic hinges. Locking it, there was a faint smile on her lips.

“All is in the family.” They made for the parking lot.

Toba Stormwill thought about her words as the coach went through Upper

Gallinton, across a suspended bridge into the Boulder Hills, where the undul-

ating knolls were rock-laden, like static waves bearing surfers. He realized he

never really had a family, not like the Santairises, anyways. Badic and Riella

had been together by expediency, and they’d made him for . . . what? Perhaps

they’d been in love once, but it hadn’t lasted, or Toba had never witnessed it.

Had it hastened her demise, that lack of affection, of touch? Whatever had

done it, it seemed to have changed Badic. His acceptance of the Calibrate had

been nothing if not swift. Still, Toba felt like it had been too late . . . like it was

always too late to make amends. Through the window, a heavy meteor raced

down through the purpling sky.

He spent the intervening time before supper in a gloomy state, one which

came unbidden and unforeseen, and brought back with it old ghosts which

he’d thought vanquished. Am I gay? What am I to do now that the MSP is over?

What’s the point of this if the Reckoning is here? Had Fel Santairis not answered

that last question? He couldn’t remember her words. Perhaps he hadn’t been

listening . . . or wasn’t letting the Calibrate draw the Scales, like his da before

him. Perhaps it was a family curse . . . his real family’s curse.

Let go, Tama whispered.

For some reason he could not explain, he spent time—too much time—in

Gabel’s bedroom, logged in Millenarian Match on his personal computer as

Gabel ran about the house, doing chores. There were no matches, there never

were. The Calibrate has a purpose for you, he knew. How else explain this total

noncompliance from the world? I must stay the line.

They were called down minutes after six. A dimmed chandelier hung over

the triangular table, creating a halo effect in the opulent room. The hardwood

table was swathed in a lush white tablecloth, and on it were plates of eggplant

with cheese, pasta with omelet and line beans, assortments of lentils—a feast

for kings. The masters of the house sat at the edge closest to the kitchen, with

Gabel and Daelin on angular chairs by them. Toba took a chair—one of the

twins’—beside his friend.

Cups and utensils clattered.

Mel Santairis served each a dollop of lentils in plates that were, like many

things around the house, triangular. He looked up at Toba as he scooped the

food. “So . . . Jaki tells me your father lives in Kinwood Ridge, is that right?”

Toba nodded. “Yeah.”

His wife craned her head. “How is he doing, your father?”

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Toba bobbed his head as Gelden Santairis handed him his plate. “Alright,”

he presumed. “I haven’t seen him in a couple weeks, he’s . . . working quite

a lot.”

“What does he do?” Daelin asked pointedly. She wore jade earrings, fixed

with gold flecks and tiny rubies that brought out the colour of her eyes and

strawberry dress.

“Um . . . he’s a contractor.”

“Like construction?”

Toba nodded. “Mm.”

“He builds, like, houses and stuff?”

Toba wasn’t sure if that’s what he was working on right now. “Yeah, like

renovation, mostly.”

“Hm.” Daelin glanced down at her fork, took a rabbit bite.

“And what are your plans now that MSP is over?” asked Gelden Santairis.

Perhaps he hadn’t been briefed.

Toba flushed, wishing Gabel or someone would broach another subject, or

take the spotlight from him at least. “Um . . . I’m still thinking about it,” he

admitted. It was best to give them all the same version. “I’m thinking about

photography.”

“Hm, well you could go the extra mile and do film, now that you have that

new device my wife got you!”

“Yes!” Fel Santairis drawled, looking at her plate and poking at her food.

“Toba has a knack for the artistic.” She looked up at him. “But don’t you go

too far! We might need you here with the Septday Preachers!” They laughed.

That was his opening to change the subject. “Do you see your sons a lot,

the, uh . . . ” Twins, he thought obviously. He looked at Fel and Mel Santairis

intermittently to let them know either one could respond.

It was the High Priestess who answered. “We see Rael and Platonian every

third moon, but they’re very busy with their internships. Running a chapel is

no easy job, you know.”

“Aw,” cooed her husband. He reached over and squeezed her shoulder.

“But you do a wonderful job!”

Fel Santairis looked deeply into his eyes, and for a moment it was like they

shared something unique, something Toba would never truly feel. “I’ve got

help,” she said.

“So do they.” Gabel grinned.

“Oh.” Toba frowned. “They don’t run it alone?”

Fel Santairis shook her head. “Rael and Platonian are working under the

Arch Priestesses in their respective districts—Lonvecton and Sailon. One day,

they’ll take over fully, so they need to learn. Both have a year left before they

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finish, and when they do, they will be Assistants until we feel they’re ready

to take on more.”

“With those two,” Daelin chimed in, “it might take a while.” She grinned

impishly as she chewed.

Across, the table, her adoptive brother chortled. “Yeah, the twins aren’t as

good a version as the younger brother!”

Toba found himself remembering Fel Santairis’s story.

“And the younger brother isn’t as good as the sister!” Daelin returned,

poking her tongue out. Slanting her head, she smiled wickedly, crossing eyes

with Toba, who, realizing he’d been staring blankly, turned away.

“Would that be something of interest to you, Toba?”

He looked up, like a deer in the headlights. “Hm?”

“Working at the Chapel?” Fel Santairis said.

“Um . . .” Don’t say no. It would be rude. In truth, he didn’t have an answer

to that question. “I think so . . .”

Fel Santairis eyed him ponderously. “Because, you know, if it is something

that interests you, it could be arranged.”

“Yeah, I . . .” He couldn’t finish his sentence. He saw only meteors, the

same ones which had felt so meaningless hours earlier.

It was like the High Priestess saw them, too. “Do not fear planning long

term, Toba. It is not because the Reckoning is here that we must stop living.”

There was a silence that was more felt than heard; everyone at the table was

anticipating his answer, like it was the moment they’d been waiting for, the

reason for his visit. Fel Santairis was the only one looking at him. “The Scales

will be drawn. And your heart is pure, Toba. You’ve nothing to worry about.

For you, this will be a liberation.”

It was homosexuality that dominated his thoughts just then. But they knew

nothing of that. For a moment, he said nothing. When it was clear that no one

would speak, he quibbled, “W-what about the war?”

“Sewel Lyon will win it,” Gabel said flatly.

His parents exchanged a glance, and Toba saw in it the solidarity they had

no doubt nurtured over the years to tame Gabel’s temerity.

“He’s the Calibrate’s instrument,” Gabel continued. “He’s a facilitator for

Nohim. He’ll clear the path for him to come down. It was written in scripture

a thousand years ago. There are facilitators. And Sewel Lyon is one of them.”

“We are all instruments of the Calibrate,” Daelin corrected.

“Yes, but some are more important than others,” her brother returned. “He

can bring about real change, and set the stage for the Revenant’s return. His

election was not an accident. It’s perfectly tuned with the Calibrate’s will.”

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Fel and Mel Santairis looked on, chewing, with what looked like a mixture

of pride and restraint. Perhaps, Toba thought, there was something their son

did not know. Finally, the High Priestess spoke. “Facilitator or not, Lyon will

not change everything on his own. There are some things we must take on

ourselves.” She looked at Toba. “Lyon, for example, does not have a legacy.

After his tenure, his role is over. Toba, do you have a lover?” It was like a train

hit him. “Do you plan on raising a family one day?”

“Um . . . yeah, I think, heh.”

She looked at Daelin, he noted. Was there a plan to match them? Perhaps it

was why Millenarian Match wasn’t working—his match was right here, with

the family.

A warm smile slipped Fel Santairis’s lips. “As I said, Toba, do not be scared

to plan long term. It is the Calibrate’s will that the world keeps on spinning.”

Across from him, Daelin’s perky cheeks were flush.

The five of them didn’t remain seated too long. Toba was grateful; as fond

as he was of Gabel’s family, he also liked his alone time. He went upstairs,

brushed his teeth, and sat behind his computer in the guestroom. Gabel came

to chat, first about the band, then MSP, then the Shower and the impending

Code Red, when cities would lock down. The conversation had steered to the

war when Gabel received a text message. He dug into his pocket and pulled

out the device. “I’ll be back,” he said, suddenly focused on something else

entirely. “I have to find a video game for Jaala.”

“Okay.” Toba didn’t know who Jaala was, but figured it was one of his

many friends who lived around here. Part of him felt happy to have real alone

time, but there was doubt. You don’t need that much time alone. It wasn’t good

to let his mind wander. Then again, he needed to reward himself sometimes

. . . to let go, but not to let the old him take over.

I’ve changed. He wished Tama were here to see him.

Bored and unsure what to do now that he had all the free time in the world,

Toba paced the guestroom, studying powder-blue walls and white framings.

He looked out the window at the dark, wet backyard, then wandered to the

cabinet. No less than twenty dolls decorated its three open shelves. Most had

belonged to Daelin, he’d heard, but a few had been Jaki’s and her mother’s

before her. Fel Santairis had placed them in neat rows, smaller ones in front,

larger ones in back, like a group of spectators with exaggeratedly large heads

and striations. Some were porcelain, others plastic or textile. It felt like they

were all looking at him through marble eyes. It’s creepy, he admitted, wonder-

ing how they would see the world if they could see. Suddenly self-conscious,

he started to analyze his woolen lapelled kilner and corduroy breeches. He

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wondered what they would see if he took them off. A Stockman with a reptilian

spine.

He marched to the door, closed it, turned the deadbolt, and marched back

to the window to close the blinds. He wandered to his double bed, rummaged

through his rucksack at the foot of the bed, and pulled out the Dolphin SX.

The contraption was smooth and black—pristine. He turned it in his hands,

admiring the state-of-the-art hardware . . . and flicked it on. Pointing the lens

at his torso, he flicked the digital screen around, and held it at arm’s length,

observing the darkened motifs of his grey kilner. It might do, he thought.

He set it down on the duvet and removed his kilner, throwing it on the bed.

He did the same with his breeches, standing in his underwear at the center of

the guestroom.

Toba grabbed his camera, pointed it at himself.

On the screen, his small pectorals were chiselled, his skin tight against his

stomach, outlining the pattern of his bowels. Maybe he looked different from

farther away, he thought. He walked to the doll cabinet, relocated a couple

dolls, and nestled his camera among them. He aimed it with care, and pressed

the record button.

Toba stepped back to the bed. He spun slowly, allowing the dolls to see his

torso, his flanks, his back. He thought about Haidren and Jam, their shapely

bodies and carved abdomens. Toba’s body was also chiselled, but in a skinny

way . . . an unfit way.

He tried a flexing position Jam had performed before, rounding his back

and drawing his arms taut in front of him. He made a slow turn . . .

That’s when he heard footsteps.

He jerked upright, groping for his clothes on the bed.

Someone was right outside the door. You locked the door, he remembered.

The relief was short-lived. The door handle turned. Toba almost gasped as

the door flew open. I locked it!

Eyes downcast, not yet aware of the spectacle, Gabel Santairis walked in,

and closed the door behind him. He took a step toward Toba . . . and froze.

Clad in nothing but his underwear, Toba stared back. “Uh . . .”

Startled, Gabel made a double-take.

“I was just—” What? Panicking, he opted for the easiest escape. “I was just,

uh, changing.”

Gabel was serious for a second. Then he smirked—only slightly. “I can see

that.” Inadvertently, his eyes wandered to Toba’s bare chest. “I . . . will come

back.”

The awkwardness was overbearing. Toba’s eyes darted to the doll cabinet.

You’re giving it away! Quickly, he looked back, locking eyes with his friend,

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538

forbidding him to turn around to the doll cabinet. Did he see me look? His stare

became more intense.

“Are you alright?” Gabel said after a moment.

No, he thought. No no no. But he couldn’t speak. His lower jaw was hanging

awkwardly from his mouth.

“Are you okay?” Gabel’s words were slow, prudent

Toba’s heart thumped through his chest, and he wondered if Gabel could

hear it. “Yes,” he squeaked, barely loud enough.

Gabel took a step toward him. Then another one. For a split-second, Toba’s

eyes fled to the camera. Gabel would not see it. He was right there in front of

him, invading his world, like a nightmare . . .

What does he—?

With the swiftness of a predator, Gabel leaned in . . . and kissed him square

on the lips.

Toba’s reflex was to freeze.

Gabel held him in place for a second, as if with a spell. Finally, Toba was

able to harness the spell and draw away, his talon hitting his rucksack, almost

sending him tumbling backward onto the guest bed. The dolls faced him, see-

ing everything.

Gabel’s cool composure gave way to doubt, then fear, and Toba glimpsed

the scared boy he had once been. He eyed Toba with a depth Toba had never

seen before, eyes wide as saucers and far as the moons. His twisted scar ran

alongside his ridged nose. Thin lips—lips he’d just used to kiss Toba—were

parted, as if readying to speak.

But no words came out.

Toba was dumbstruck.

“Sorry!” Gabel suddenly blurted. “Sorry, sorry!” He was twice as tense as

Toba. “Please just—forget about that. I don’t know why I did it, I’m sorry!

Please just—”

Toba’s eyes scattered, and never went back. He wanted to evaporate, to

leave the Santairis household, the suburban town, to return to Greystone if

no one else would take him. He wanted to travel back in time and join Trifin

Corps with Haidren and Fedric and Jam, and never meet Gabel.

It was no use.

Gabel was still apologizing as Toba’s head raced.

“Toba, I’m sorry. Please, just—” Tears formed at the corners of his eyes.

“Please don’t tell anyone. I’ll never do it again. I don’t even know what took

me, I don’t know, I—”

“It’s okay,” Toba heard himself mutter. It wasn’t. Nothing was.

Gabel didn’t hear him. “I’m sorry—I—” he continued to stutter.

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It felt like an out-of-body experience. Toba gazed upon the nakedness of

his shoulders and chest and legs, at the person standing before him, shifting

on his legs like a jester.

Gabel was no longer looking at Toba. He was still stammering away when

he spun and abandoned ship, marching out the door, heavy footfalls resoun-

ding in the hall outside.

And then there was silence, invasive and intolerable.

Toba Stormwill stood next to the bed, trying to gather his thoughts, failing

at every attempt. Suddenly he remembered the camera. He lunged over and

turned it off, practically throwing it in his bag.

He wasn’t aware of getting dressed, only of marching out the door toward

the washroom, with the intention of taking a long bath, one that would take

him directly to his bed, from which he would never wake up. As he pranced

out the guestroom, clean clothes bundled in his arms, he noticed something

he had never seen before. It sat on a semi-circular table underneath the mirror

in the hallway, beside a picture frame and a clay figurine—a venus flytrap.

Toba halted as he looked at it.

He hastened to the washroom.

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Chapter 69 Jarêk

Sunpier Gardens

Karûm Province, Hôc

Septday, 42 Tempest 2079

15:00

hen Dukârion’s execution took place on the seaside square nestled amidst

the serpentine footpaths and copses of Sunpier Gardens.

The rectangular depression was fringed by four steps and a limestone

colonnade in typically Karûmian fashion. Beyond the pillars, exotic plants

grew thick in a small dell, a verdant foreground to the royal palace, perched

on its clifftop four hundred paces south.

The day was grim and windy—suited for the killings.

A blanket of foggy clouds, ashen near the watery horizon, separated the

mortal world from the heavens, shielding them from Âncion’s justice, which

rained down in increasingly steady salvos. Facing the Merchant Sea, at the

rear of the square, were seven members of the Revolutionary Council, shoul-

dering the king, plus other decorated military leaders arrayed behind them.

Perpendicular rows of dignified civilian officials and Revolutionary Guards

closed the space, faces electric like the atmosphere. The butts of guards’ rifles

connected to the swept limestone, their impassive copper faces topped by

matching black helms.

Dukârion and his four accomplices were denied the view of the sea. Their

hands were bound to wooden stakes behind them, their heads kept erect by

the garrotes fastened around their necks. Their black suits were impeccably

pressed, as if for ceremony. The plain-looking Minister of the Interior looked

gracious as ever. Whether he was scared, resolute, or something else, Jarêk

Daimôn could not decide. There was something different in his eyes, but from

twenty yards away, it was hard to tell what.

The spokesman, stout and sturdy with greasy black hair combed sideways,

stood at the crest of the steps, directly before the accused. Facing the king, his

voice wanted no amplification.

B

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“His Excellency, King Jarêk Daimôn, heir to the Daimôn dynasty and ruler

of the Kingdom of Hôc, holds these five men standing before him to be guilty

of High Treason. They have collaborated with the State’s enemies, the Fûshan

Liberation Fighters, to overthrow his legitimate rule and establish a Nordlan-

der protectorate. Each has admitted to his crimes, and accepted the punish-

ment befitting the nature and gravity of his crimes—death by strangulation.”

A strong gust chafed Jarêk’s cheeks, and for some reason he thought of his

mother, of Diâmador. Strangulation. He shuddered. Capital punishment was

widespread during the Klovîz dynasty (particularly the Flower Wars, when

Hôcan merchants collaborated with Nordland for the prospect of wealth), but

the practice was revoked by his ancestors. Dormân brought it back, he thought.

No, I did. This would be the first time it was used in a hundred years. Strangul-

ation. The word squeezed his thoughts like a vice.

The spokesman’s voice persevered, but Jarêk’s mind meandered. Dukârion

must have plotted against Dormân, not me. The Minister of the Interior had been

nothing if not honest and humble . . . and scared for his life. If anything, he

seemed the victim. Nefârion insisted otherwise. Minister Dukârion has been sel-

ling the FLF intelligence of the highest clearance, he held. The type we discuss only

behind closed doors. When Jarêk had asked him why Dukârion had done it, the

Mulard had shrugged. For the same reason all men lie and deceive. For power.

Still, Jarêk couldn’t fathom it. As he stood there, twenty yards away from

the offenders, he concluded he didn’t really know the man who’d professed

his loyalty to his father. It was easier to process, that way. So, then, who were

Jarêk’s friends?

Nîmrod Nefârion, he judged. And Alîza. And all the others on Teth3rd.

His uncle’s demented voice returned. You cannot trust Nefârion.

You have the Blackness, Jarêk thought with a tinge of spite. Anyways, there

were some things Êrgo Dakâri did not know or understand. Like Omêka. Jarêk

wished his parents were here to see what he’d seen . . .

“In the name of our ruler, King Jarêk Daimôn, son of Salêm Daimôn,” the

speaker’s voice decreed, “I sentence you to die.” A long silence ensued. The

orator paced before the condemned, disappeared to the right amidst a cluster

of civilians. The man who took his place was clad in black robes with a large

cowl that washed his face in shadow. The garrotter. Grim and sluggish, the

shadowy man glided behind all five stakes, stopping at the leftmost. There

was a brief silence before he laid stony hands on the wooden pegs behind the

prisoner’s neck . . . and turned.

From a distance, Jarêk did not see the strap tighten around the man’s wind-

pipe, but he heard the croak of leather on wood . . . and the prisoner’s muted

chokes. Jarêk stared stolidly as the man’s face went from bronze to purple to

Martin Brisebois

542

black. It lasted all of twenty seconds—one half-turn. The garrotter slithered

to the next prisoner. Jarêk told himself it wasn’t too painful, or that, if it was,

it didn’t last too long. But by the time the executioner got to Bhen Dukârion,

he was anxiously chewing his upper lip. Don’t show you’re nervous, he com-

manded, and he felt the Overseer’s cold, methodical stare directly to his right.

It will be over soon.

It was. The king was escorted back to Sunpier Palace immediately after,

preceded by a handful of Revolutionary Guards, and trailed by a procession

of officers and officials. Nîmrod Nefârion fell in beside him as they sauntered

through winding flagstone paths bordered by curious plants twirling around

delicately-crafted limestone sculptures.

“How are you feeling, Highness?” he hissed.

“I—I’m okay,” Jarêk lied, gazing at a white statue of an unfamiliar Human,

vines stifling bare limbs.

“I am sorry you had to live that . . . being betrayed by those closest to you.

It hurts more than any flesh wound . . . But if we are to win this war, we must

defeat our foes within. The biggest struggles are always those fought within.”

War. It felt so surreal. As if to make matters worse, his Nordlander friends

on Teth3rd had ceased, at least partially, writing to him, almost overnight.

Are they my enemies now? He didn’t know what to do, what was required of

him. It was too much, too fast.

“D-did Omêka see it c-coming?” he asked as he ascended a step and grazed

a miniature tree with a twisted trunk and dark plastic-like leaves with small

red berries.

Nefârion eyed him with a significance that even his paralysis could not

downplay. Jarêk suddenly remembered his caveat: the extraterrestrial should

not be mentioned around anyone but himself or Overseer Dormân. It had

been an impossible request; Jarêk had spilled almost everything to Alîza that

very week, when he’d taken her out on a sunset airplane ride. It was hard to

gauge whether she believed him or thought him insane, but it felt like a lot

off his chest, regardless. Alîza hadn’t answered his messages on Teth3rd since

. . . nor had he seen her at the palace this week. He wondered if it was because

of him, and what he’d said to her.

“Saw what coming?” Nefârion resumed.

Jarêk glanced around. There were at least ten feet of space between him

and the men around him. “The war.”

The Minister of Information made a wet half-smile. “Yes, she did. That is

why we attacked first. We saw that the Third Fleet would strike Karûm, and

we prevented that . . . thanks to her.”

Jarêk considered it. “D-did she see if w-we’ll win?”

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“Hmm, no . . . not yet, Highness.”

Sunpier Palace loomed ahead, with ocher roof and intricate sandstone sub-

structures, for once looking like an ancestral abode, which it was not. “Many

are the paths, and not always are they straight,” Nefârion intoned. “There are

many different versions of reality”—he pointed ahead—“like there are many

ways of reaching our destination. It is not always clear which is the best way

to get there. We must move forward one step at a time . . . not look too far

into the future.”

Jarêk pictured the alien—black and lean, tangible yet everchanging, flesh

and machine. Looking around to make sure no one was eavesdropping, he

asked the question that had kept him up long hours. “Will I b-be able to look

at her and see?”

Nefârion did not answer right away. “As I said, Highness, you will be able

to look at her through the glass—”

“I want to talk to her!”

The second pause was longer than the first, and Jarêk realized he had over-

stepped his bounds. “It’s too dangerous,” Nefârion finally said.

“But you s-spoke to it,” he objected, reining in the pitch of his voice. Nefâr-

ion had confessed as much on the way back from Diâg last time. Is that why

he looked so tired coming back from his trip?

“I am older, Jarêk. And I am a Mulard?”

“B-but w-why are Mulards better for it?”

“As I said, I do not have all the answers. There is something about our

brains that make us less susceptible to . . . neuronal collapse.” As he walked

beside Jarêk, arms folded behind him in his customary pose, the good side of

his face seemed to frown. “It is too dangerous for you, Highness,” he repeat-

ed. “And you have a country to lead in this pivotal moment. We cannot have

you under her spell.”

Jarêk’s next words were subdued, like one who’d accepted his lot but still

dreamed of more. “W-when will I b-be able to . . . ?”

Nefârion turned to face him and gave him an almost paternal look, not un-

like the way Salêm had looked at him after a scolding. “There are . . . certain

things you do not understand, Jarêk . . . things you will only understand with

age. There is a certain, um . . . wisdom which you will pick up with time.” He

unfolded his arms, which drooped at his sides. “When a young person meets

someone attractive”—he eyed the king—“he will be willing to give up every-

thing to be with her. He will open himself completely, and by doing so, make

himself utterly vulnerable. When she decides she has had enough of him and

moves on, he will be left as empty as a shell.” He paused, a forlorn expression

consuming his face. “Allowing Omêka to peer into your mind is much the

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same. There is something inside you that needs to be tamed . . . lest you mis-

takenly offer yourself completely to her.”

Jarêk was thinking about Alîza. “I am i-intelligent,” he insisted. “I was at

the t-top of my class in M-Military School.”

Nefârion chortled. “I do not doubt your intelligence, Highness. You will

take this nation farther than your father ever could. But opening yourself to

Omêka requires more than just intelligence.”

“C-can you teach me?”

Nefârion eyed him impassively, small black shoes scuffing the stone and

making a sound like a whisper. “In time, Jarêk. First, give yourself a chance

to settle into your father’s functions. These will be trying times . . . with the

war coming. Leave the . . . hard work to me.” He half-smiled.

A pair of Revolutionary Guards ushered them into the lobby of Sunpier

Palace. Servants scampered around at the sight of the king’s retinue. That’s

when he remembered her, though she was never far in his thoughts.

“H-have you seen Alîza?” he asked.

The Minister of Information threw him a curious look. “I beg your pardon,

Highness?”

“Alîza Clemenâar. Sh-she, um, works here.”

Nefârion looked doubtful. “Hm . . . the young lady who works in the day?”

“Yes,” he replied eagerly.

Nefârion sighed, eyes downcast at the polished marble floor. His stiff legs

slowed to a stop. Jarêk followed suit. Around them, men in black uniforms

and suits filed through the great wooden doors, climbing the bowed stairs. “I

have some bad news, Highness,” the Mulard confessed.

A weight settled in his gut, like a stone sinking to the sea bottom.

“The young woman is . . . well, she passed away five days ago.” His face

was stark as a catacomb, beady black eyes looking at the king lifelessly. “Her

mother’s residence in Adâan was struck by a meteor . . . she did not survive,

I am afraid.” He studied Jarêk for a moment. “I am sorry to inform you of this

. . . tragic news, Highness. I did not know you knew the girl.”

Jarêk had trouble processing the news. He stood in muted terror, the world

frittering away around him. What should he say? What could he say? All he

managed was a meek nod.

Nefârion placed a gentle hand on his left shoulder. “I am sincerely sorry,

Jarêk.”

The young king barely noticed Nîmrod Nefârion as he walked away. The

remainder of the afternoon was a meaningless daze. The Council session was

a script of empty words. Supper tasted like bile. For the first time in twelve

days, Jarêk forgot about the extraterrestrial. He thought about his mother. He

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managed to hold back tears until the evening, when he stepped out onto the

great balcony.

The sky was dark and cloudy, leaving no trace of sunset. Jarêk leaned on

the heavy stone bannister and breathed in the cool evening air. The wind

made his watery eyes freeze. His casual necked suit was unfit for the biting

cold, but he barely noticed. Alîza. He repeated the name like it was a talisman.

Somehow it eased the pain, but only in short pangs.

Far away to the west, where the ocean and sky met, the clouds lit up with

intermittent bursts of light. Jarêk couldn’t tell if it was thunder or naval fire;

the Merchant Sea had turned into the first theater of war. He wondered what

they would name this conflict. After the Hôcan navy’s surprise attack on the

Nordlander fleet at Tranquil, international waters were crawling with enemy

ships. Incursions were being reported every hour, and it was only a matter of

time, Admiral Molidôri insisted, before Nordland launched a full-scale attack

on the mainland.

He wondered if the Kingdom would withstand it. With Storks and Ghosts

and Falcons and probes, Nordland’s military seemed invincible. Will Omêka

help? he wondered. Why was she even here?

Jarêk Daimôn inhaled lengthily. War, he thought, feeling more alien than

Omêka. And I’m the commander of the army. His deepest wish was for the fight

to end as quickly as it had begun. But he was a king, not a genie.

Perhaps Omêka can grant wishes . . .

If she sees everything, she can change things, he reasoned.

But it did nothing to console him. He thought to go out and fly, but the

airspaces weren’t safe. After a while, Jarêk Daimôn turned and trudged back

inside, feeling even more miserable than the day he became king.

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Epilogue

Felsom Meadows

The Republic of Nordland

Moonday, 01 Requiem 2079

05:45

ydren Hydren arrived at Felsom Meadows before daybreak. The sky was

black as the automobile that had spirited him away in the night, but it was

infinitely more lustrous, imbedded with a million stars, winking at him, like

jewels in velvet cape. Every ten seconds, a meteor zipped obliquely.

The Reckoning is upon us, he thought.

It was the first of Requiem—a full two months before the Summit—and it

didn’t augur a mild Shower.

“Mornin,’ Mel,” called his driver.

Syd waved absently over his shoulder, and turned his head just enough to

show respect. “See you, Kalov.” His voice was hoarse; he hadn’t slept in five

days, and would likely not sleep today.

There was too much to do. Too much.

Clutching his briefcase, the Director of the Office of Intelligence waddled

to the front door. He shivered. It’s cold out. Or was it the fatigue? Either way,

the arthritis gnawed at his knuckles like a flesh-eating virus. He remembered

the days of his youth, at the crossroads of a promising career on the university

wingdisk team and government service. In the tinted double-door ahead, he

glimpsed his wraithlike reflection lumbering at him. I’m getting too old for this.

His blue robes took a ghastly hue in the solid blackness of the glass door. Two

feet away, the black parted, unleashing a breath of warm air. He revelled in

it; the last two days had felt like Spring regressing into Winter.

Syd walked by sentries and clerks, agents and janitors. The establishment

buzzed as in daytime. He moved silently, stealthily, deigning with a curt nod

the greetings of agents. When he found the elevator, he flashed the plastic ID

clipped to his breast. The doors parted. Inside, his finger found B4—a gesture

born of recent habit. He stood quietly as the elevator hummed into being,

S

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eyes downcast, unseeing. Too old, he lamented. All-nighters were a thing of

the past, yet they were the only thing he’d known lately. His birthday was in

a week—the seventy-seventh of his life, the seventh without Madi.

He exhaled.

A good day for a new chancellor. Not a better one, with the severest crisis in two

hundred years. The director was used best-of-worst scenarios. But for the first

time in his career, indeed his life, the best-of-worst scenario was out of mind.

Overnight, the Old World had become the New, and he’d been thrown into

it, unsure if the old school could lead a successful transition.

It’s not up to you. The world’s in the Scales of the Calibrate. It’s up to Tropy . . .

He only hoped she would deliver. As the director of the most sophisticated

spy agency, Syd was used to game-changers—pivots, as they called sleeper

agents in the highest circles. Tropy was different; she provided intel like none

before, but even she had not seen Tranquil coming. Give her a chance. One thing

at a time, he thought. The Scales were shaken, but they would have tipped had she

not told you what she did. You were crippled, but you’re still standing. What you did

had to be done. He sighed. Too old for the Calibrate. There was no consolation in

the fact that he’d misread the balance of the universe all along. Who am I? he

wondered. Solom? The Great Betrayer, Fetoraa’s assassin? It had to be done, he

repeated. Solom was an agent of the Calibrate. The nation had been blind, the

OFFIN comatose, he now saw. Tranquil had eluded his most highly-prized

(not to mention most highly-priced) spies. Operation Spear, the wind stolen right

out from under its wings. Syd scoffed. He felt more a fool than Sewel Lyon. A

sane fool, at least.

The elevator doors parted.

Sydren Hydren walked into a high-ceilinged access room, a Grandfather

Owl emblazoned at the center of a brown marble floor reflecting the nauseat-

ing white lights above. The drone of the air circulation unit was the perpetual

companion to a sole sentry, guarding a solid metal door, the true access point

to the Cell. Bandy-legged, she maintained a defensive poise even as the direc-

tor approached, talons planted firmly, chin high with pride and veneration.

She looked at the Director—a liberty seldom taken by Stockmen in the navy

blue of Service Guard. “Good morning, sir.”

Sydren frowned. “Morning.”

Night, he thought as he walked to the retinal scan and brought his eyes two

inches from the screen, where a yellow ray appeared, moving down, then up.

A green light flashed. GOOD MORNING, DIRECTOR HYDREN, read the message

accompanying the female voice.

The metallic door slid upward. He stepped through, briefcase heavy in

hand. As it closed, a second one opened in front of him. He marched into the

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548

Center for World Espionage—the Cell—a compartment that never saw the

light of day, and made the interrogated and tortured crazy for it. They were

the only Humans here, confined to cubicles in the Far Wing. The Near Wing

was filled with Stockmen—OFFIN personnel and doctors and scientists, all

scurrying about their tasks, avoiding each other and the concrete pillars that

supported the high ceiling. The space had never been this hectic, not even du-

ring the Second Turânian Rebellion, when he had been a mere interrogator.

He crossed one of his higher-ranked operators on the way. “She said more?”

he asked.

The operator frowned ambivalently. “Same . . . for now,” he said, never

deviating from his course.

Sydren Hydren nodded and kept walking to the back of the room, where

he found his deputy director in the Executive Room, sitting upright in a pivot

chair at his desk, his pale kilner loose at the collar, a phone squeezed between

his cheek and shoulder. He eyed Syd perfunctorily as he belched into the mic-

rophone. “No . . . listen, the probes must be repatriated . . . I know . . . no, it’s

not going to be there . . . yes, send them right away . . .” Around a table strewn

with papers and electronic devices sat a few officials, faces pale as the walls.

“Morning, Director,” said one. “Still haven’t found her,” said another.

Syd nodded, went to his deputy, grabbed a chair, and sat.

Golemon Malcoven looked up gravely, a deep frown etched in his bulbous

head. Groaning parting words into the microphone, he hung up and set the

phone down on his desk. He sighed, rubbing the corners of his eyes.

“What’s the word?” Syd asked.

Golem shook his heavy head. He’d also been working overtime, but, being

twenty years Syd’s junior, he still had fuel in the tank.

Once you’re in this business, there’s no way out, Syd wanted to tell him. And

what will you get for it? Not a Scalebent ounce of recognition. Those had been his

father’s words, a lifetime ago. Recognition had never been a top priority for

Syd—perhaps that’s why he hadn’t pursued a wingdisk career—but regard-

less, he’d clearly overlooked the first part of his warning.

“Army’s not playing disk,” Golem said bitingly. “They’re worried about

Senôa. Think the Hôcans are going to try to hit the Second Fleet, not that that

would be possible, especially now.”

“Word from Thraania?”

His deputy shook his head. “Nothing. They’re keeping a solid silence.”

Syd nodded. “And Fel Swimmer?”

Golem looked half-apologetic, half melancholy. “No lead.”

“Hm.” This keeps up, he thought humourlessly we’re gonna have to call and

ask Da. No doubt Stiv would be the first person to know of his stepdaughter’s

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whereabouts, if he didn’t already know. Syd must have her before the Hôcans

did, with Nahrû’s brainchild in her hands.

“Did we do it for nothing?” Golem eyed the Director placidly, with an air

that said the question should not be overlooked.

Syd shook his head obstinately, picturing Nahrû’s fall, wondering if in real

life it had happened the same as in his dream. “No. Nahrû had to go.”

The deputy director looked dubious. “The whole reason we did it . . . was

for Lyon to take power—”

“And he is. Today.”

Golem eyed him tentatively. Thirty years in the business had brought him

as close to Syd as anyone. “Lyon was supposed to make the first move,” he

reminded. “This is all playing backwards. And Tropy isn’t playing disk either

. . . the Calibrate know what her game is.”

“Give her a chance,” Syd said.

Golem’s eyes were faraway. “Who are we really giving a chance?”

Syd kept his silence. Me, old friend.

Golem sighed. “The agents aren’t yielding much.”

Syd sat upright. “Is she saturated?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let’s go see.”

Almost exasperated, Golem stood and followed Syd out the door. Together

they marched through frenzied hallways, past cubicles and workstations and

coffee machines and interrogation rooms, until they found another door with

a retinal scan. Golem offered his eyes to the machine. The green light flashed.

The door slid upward.

The men walked into the laboratory, swimming in pale cerulean light. The

scientists in lab coats, walking to and from work stations with multi-coloured

lights, reminded Syd of exotic fishes nibbling on corals.

“What did your new boss have to say?” Golem asked conversationally as

they trod the pale rubber floor.

The Director sighed. “He’s vacillating . . . this one’s going to put his mettle

to the test.”

“You think he’s up for it?”

He’s insane. “Let’s hope so.”

“Reckoning be true . . . what a mess.”

“Yeah.” Full-scale, modern warfare. Nordland was already down one aircraft

carrier, eleven submarines and five battleships, not to mention five hundred

troops. The aerial attack had been as successful as it could have been, having

evaded Nordlander satellites until mere minutes before the carnage. It had

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been launched from the Revolution, Hôc’s sole, newly-commissioned carrier.

It was the timing, Syd realized, that was unpredictable.

The rules were changing.

And you’re barely keeping up, old man.

“Thraania’s not going to keep their neutrality for long,” said his deputy.

Syd coughed into his armpit, wondering if the cold weather and exhaust-

ion had gotten the best of him. “No, they’re not. They’ll side with Hôc. But

even they are limited to defensive action now. Tranquil was their only hope

for success, and now that that’s done . . .” What’s your next move, Jarêk Daimôn?

“They’re walking the tightrope,” Golem said as they passed the room with

the Neuron Projectors. A scientist nodded to them as they crossed paths.

“No,” Syd said. “We are. They have another card . . . only they’re waiting

for us to make a move before they use it.” Again, he thought of Sky Shield,

and what his spies had told him. That’s their only chance of winning, he thought,

blasting our eyes out of the sky.

Doctors and technicians scurried by wordlessly. They knew not to speak

to the Director unless they had something important to say, and their silence

was what killed Syd. Syd and Golem walked in silence until they reached the

large windowed lab, swimming in a deep blue light. At its center was a cylin-

drical compartment of reinforced concrete, a prison within a prison. Sydren

stared at it apocalyptically.

A door swooshed open somewhere to his left. He turned to see two felocks

in lab coats escorting—practically dragging—a limp Human to another door.

Syd sighed, then spoke. “Hey.” The technicians turned and eyed him face-

lessly. Syd waved dismissively. “Give her some rest.” The felocks wavered,

then nodded and turned with the patient, heading back the way they’d come.

Beside him, Golem looked tense. “You . . . sure we should—”

“If she’s not talking, she’s not talking,” Syd said bluntly. He took a few

heavy steps to the monitor on the desk behind him. It must be you, he mused.

seriously. She’s chosen you.

“We’re at war,” Golem reminded. “Time’s not a commodity we can afford

right now.”

Syd nodded, turning to face his old friend. “Never could,” he said. “We are

at war, but we might have to wage it the good old fashioned way.” He noticed

a tinge of regret in his own voice. Total war. If it came to that—it already had,

he asserted—Hôc would tremble before Nordland, the Doorman’s schemes

notwithstanding.

Sydren Hydren moved closer to the computer screens stacked on the wall

beside the window, and he peered at the one in the center. And you, Tropy,

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you best deliver. You best tell me who your friend is, and why she’s running around

in Rêga.

In center screen, the black sphere seemed to budge, as if hearing his words.

As he looked on, he swore it was moving, pulsating like an organ, a heart in

need of blood. And he realized it was calling to him. You’re in this business for-

ever, his father had said.

The Director sighed.

“I’m going in.”