by Ann Denton
"Ges, does anyone write about being Kreis?"
"Oh yeah, I've got maybe fifteen different accounts here. Supposedly the Ancients have even more journals, but those are restricted."
"And what makes someone Kreis? Are you born with it?”
“No one knows for sure. There are theories about genetic manipulation, about radiation—like poisoning of the blood. But that’s the thing … Kreis didn’t really develop immediately after the bomb. Or at least we don’t have accounts of them. You’d think we would if they were survivors, right? Or that if it were genetic, maybe we’d be able to tell when someone was younger if they’d get it. Or that parents would pass it down to their kids. It’s really controversial. Especially here. Everyone subscribes to a particular theory; bomb relic exposure is currently the most popular among Typicals, genetics among the Kreis. And are these theories plausible? Maybe. Possible? Of course. But there’s another theory out there …” Ges stretched precariously and swiped a green cover with his fingertips. “This book here says that there’s a blood rite involving relics. It says a sacrifice has to be made—”
“What?” Mala’s sharp tone cut him off. Her mind spun. She stared at Ges but didn’t see him. She was back in the forest, slicing her hand open like a letter, the hour hand a dull knife she’d had to press hard into her skin. She saw the red drops beading on her palm in the darkness. She smelled the crisp scent of dead leaves mixed with the salty tang of her blood. She started to tremble. “Do you think it’s true?” Did I do this to myself?
Ges tilted his head to evaluate her reaction. “I think it’s possible. But clearly you think it’s true. What happened, Mala?”
“I—” She never finished her sentence.
"MALA! GET OUT HERE RIGHT NOW!" Alba's screech echoed throughout the seven floors of the archive.
“Sludge!” Ges cursed and pulled Mala out of the alcove through a twisting maze of shelves. He led her past a room filled with a series of paintings, and into a room where forty Typicals sat at tables, dutifully staring at screens and then turning to their pages, making quick black strokes with their pens.
Ges stepped a friendly distance away and assumed a bored narrator voice. "This is the transcription room. After the bomb, some Senebals thought to save box-book devices, known as computers. We've been able to transcribe the contents of over—"
"YOU LEFT ME!" The shriek Mala had heard earlier now reverberated painfully in her ears.
She turned to see Alba, one eyelid crusted in purple makeup and the other bare, shaking a veiny fist in fury.
"Um ..." What do I say? "I just really wanted to see these—" What the hell are they called? She gesticulated wildly at the boxes on the tables.
"Computers," Ges said. "Mala was fascinated by the idea of keyboards."
"Keyboards. Yes. Alba, it's amazing. Tons of keys. You can unlock any lock you can think of!"
Alba arched an eyebrow and glanced at the scribes skeptically. "I don't see any keys."
"Figuratively. She meant figuratively," Ges interjected.
I hope I don't look as lost as Alba, because I don't have a mucking clue what he just said.
Alba shrugged him off. She turned to Mala, her quivering jowls undermining the serious and strained tone of her voice. “Mala, when I have orders to give you a tour, you go on my tour. You do not just leave. You cannot just leave." She took a step closer, so only Mala could hear the fear under the anger. "They’ll think I just let you leave. You cannot do that to me. Those were my orders; I have to follow my orders.”
Mala immediately felt guilty. She could see the desperation in Alba’s eyes. “Okay. Sorry—I didn't realize it was such a big deal. I didn't know they were orders. It won't happen again, I promise. Are you okay?”
“What?” Alba plastered a smile across her face. “I'm fine. We need to get out of here. It's creepy. Now we need to eat. I'll show you the cafeteria.”
“Um, okay.” Mala followed dutifully in Alba's wake, giving Ges a sad little shrug and a half wave good-bye.
Chapter Fourteen
The cafeteria was yet another big space with a giant window out to the lake. It must have been relatively close to the surface, because the water was laced with sunbeams. Alba filled Mala’s plate with bread and fish then led the way to seats far from the window. Mala followed reluctantly. She would rather have stared out at the water and watched the fish than sit down at a table full of Kreis, but she wasn't about to push Alba again. Eighty-year-olds can have heart attacks.
So, Mala sat down and ate, at a table surrounded by people, in a hall full of people. After hours of constant interaction, she was exhausted. She was used to the quiet solitude of the river, the gentle thrum of the boat's motor, the whisper of the water. She wanted nothing more than for Alba to take her back to the surface so she could throw herself into the lake and swim until the quiet soaked back into her eardrums.
But no such luck awaited her. Instead of peace, her heart jumped into her throat every time the blue cafeteria door swung open and someone with black hair walked in. Even though Alba had said she wouldn’t see him, part of Mala longed for Lowe. In all this newness, she wanted the comfort of something known.
Known. Ha. You’ve known him for less than forty-eight hours. And you don’t even know if he really likes you. You don’t even know if he’s telling people you can’t melt. Or that you believe— But her heart petulantly plugged its ears and refused to listen, stubbornly staying on watch.
After the fourth or fifth time Mala merely grunted in response to her questions, Alba placed a hand on Mala’s shoulder. “He’s not coming, you know. It’s protocol to stay away. And Lowe’s like the perfect soldier, honey. It’s how he rose so high in the ranks so fast. He is by-the-books all the way.”
Mala nodded and gave a disappointed sigh.
Alba laughed and patted her hand. “You’ll see him tomorrow. It’s not forever. But I get that feels like it. Ok—distraction challenge. I’m supposed to teach you things about being Kreis. First thing. Every Kreis melts to different ages. Some ages are harder than others. Like this old. Lots of people can’t melt this old.”
“That’s right, crone-face,” a greasy-haired teenage Kreis sitting a few seats down from them laughed and threw a balled-up napkin at Alba.
“Real mature, Witz,” Alba tossed the napkin back at him and rolled her eyes for Mala’s amusement.
“I’m glad I’m not as mature as you, Grandma,” the guy shot back.
Mala saw Alba’s face shiver for just a second before the girl sighed, turned her back on the rest of the table, and continued explaining in a voice that was sure to carry back to the nitwit and his friends, “So, there are some theories out there that people can melt ONLY to the age they’ll actually live to linearly… meaning I, UNLIKE SOME PEOPLE, am good enough at being Kries that I’ll actually survive to be eighty. Questions?”
Mala saw the guys down the table lose interest and turn back to their food. They didn’t seem too worried by this theory. Alba watched her expectantly.
“Is that why the highest rank is Ancient?”
“Yup. They run the show because, no matter what they look like, they’ve survived at least forty missions and made it past the linear age of thirty.”
“And they’re the ones I have to do this test in front of tomorrow?”
“Yes—and I wish I could give you details about it but I can’t, it’s VERBODEN … other than the outfit you have to wear—it’s hideous. Grey, with black leather armor that’s so stiff you can hardly move. And the clasps? It’s like they’re buckling you into a bronze straitjacket.” That comment launched Alba into a fifteen-minute description of all the uniforms she’d ever worn and her evaluation of each. Mala struggled to keep her eyes open and a smile plastered on her face.
Mala tried to interrupt Alba with questions about schedules, training, and expectations, but Alba always seemed to drift back to something shoe-related. “My last mission was in Prahlen, and I think they’re only like
twelve kilometers from Wilde—that group you said came after your guard. Anyway, when I was in Prahlen, I had to wear this nasty bearskin boot contraption—”
“What do you know about Wilde? I mean, do you know what kind of place it is?”
Alba gave her a look. “Boring research questions are why you have a research assistant, Mala. I know Wilde’s small. I think it’s in the freeze zone, so boats can’t get through in winter. Other than that, you’ll have to tell Ges to look it up if you want more info.”
The freeze zone. Something about that fact scratched at Mala’s skull like a dull itch. It doesn’t make sense. She didn’t know much more than rumors about the different Erlender bands, but she felt certain the Wildes were not typically prone to slaughter. So why did they do it?
Mala tuned Alba out. If Wilde was in the freeze zone, it would make sense that Wildes were raiders like I thought… how else would they get through winter? But why would they have taken out the entire guard? Why wouldn’t they have taken prisoners to trade or slaves to sell? Why would they have killed everyone?
Mala wiped a stray tear with her napkin. Alba didn’t notice, but Witz gave her a confused look. Embarrassed, she turned toward Alba and used her giant mane of curls as a curtain. Was it just because Blut said so? Why would Blut have chosen us? We were a nothing guard—a small outpost. We manned the border. But that’s it. Not like it was a great crossing or even a tributary that was really strategic. Bara was never given the option of bigger missions or more prestige. She wasn’t a threat. We weren’t a threat … were we?
A gong interrupted her thoughts. Mala grabbed the table. The last time she’d heard a bell was when the Erlender alarm had sounded. It’s just the lunch bell, idiot. It took her a moment to recover, releasing her fingers one by one. It took another minute before she was ready to follow Alba’s bouncy grey ponytail out the door.
Alba shepherded Mala to another elevator, and to Mala’s surprise, remained silent. The ride was almost serene. The doors opened into a hall that was pitch dark, save for a line of lanterns on a side table next to the elevator. Alba took one and silently gestured for Mala to take another.
They walked down a black corridor lined with closed doors. When they came to two open doors, Alba stopped and turned to Mala. "Last stop for today since Ges already took you by combat. These are memorial rooms. You can come down here whenever you have free time. Pick an open room. Inside, you can mourn your ancestors. You can mourn your fate. Hell, you can cry over a guy who dumped you. These rooms are your key to release. But when you leave these rooms, you leave grief inside. You cannot carry grief with you on your missions. You can carry vengeance. Justice. Hate. But grief will drown you.”
Mala marveled at the poetics of the girl she’d deemed a ditz.
Alba continued, “Just understand this … in a memorial room, meltdowns are permitted. Outside, you will be punished for any unintentional melting. Severely punished.”
With that, Alba stepped into one of the rooms and closed the door.
Tentatively, Mala stepped into her own room. She wasn't sure she wanted an hour to mourn. Or a minute to mourn. She felt as if she might shred into a million tiny pieces and never be made whole again if she let herself feel the full extent of the pain she was keeping at bay. I’d rather meltdown and take the punishment.
But then she thought of the way Alba’s lantern had shaken on the words ‘severely punished’ and wondered what had happened to the girl when she’d accidentally become an eighty-year-old during combat practice. Pondering that, Mala took the few steps into the room, shut the door, and turned around.
The room was a perfect dome, with walls of beaten steel. The floor was covered in a thin layer of ashes that suffused the space with a faint campfire scent. Mala saw a symbol half traced into the dust. A bird. It must have been the symbol for someone else's guard.
Mala carefully stepped over it as she made her way to the center of the room. She set her lantern on a spindly table there. As she did, blinding light filled the room: the angle of the lantern and the polished surface on the walls made for the perfect reflection. Mala was suddenly standing in the middle of a ball of light, of fire. A chill ran through her stomach, and the hair stood up on her arms. It was exactly the way she’d always felt when she thought of magic. The light felt like magic, filling her, strengthening her.
Mala focused on the light. Mentally she pulled it into herself, pictured herself the tiny blue flicker in a bright ball of flame. She let it seep into her consciousness. Let it fill her. She stared at the lantern glow, letting it burn her retinas, smolder in her brain until all thoughts burned away but one. Fire for fire. Blood for blood.
Eyes still on the lantern, Mala reached up and unhooked her necklace. She took one of her more vicious looking hooks off the line. She traced the half-healed scar from the sacrifice she'd made the other night. She wasn’t sure how she felt about the scar just yet, or how she felt about being Kreis. But this moment wasn’t about her, and she wiped selfish thoughts away.
This time, when Mala let metal bite into her flesh, she pictured her mother. She pictured Bara. She pictured Sari and the other foolish teenage girls who'd perished. She pictured Verrat and Sorgen and all the warriors in their motley little band. She even spared a moment for Garon. And instead of asking the spirits for anything, she made a promise.
It was an old promise, a poem her father had recited to her as a child. It was a promise she had never made before, because she could still imagine her father crouching beside her, shaking her for singing it as she cleaned the deck of their boat.
“Mala,” he’d said, “Never say those words unless you mean them. Never.” He’d grabbed her shoulders hard, his voice deep and gruff. She’d been scared and run to Erinne for comfort.
Her mother had scooped her up and held her close. “Darling, he’s just trying to protect you.”
“But why?” Mala had asked.
“Because once you make an oath, you cannot take it back. It’s a promise, to the death. We always promise to the death.”
That memory was one of Mala’s last memories of her mother’s voice. One of her last memories of her father. The Erlenders had burned their ship just days later. And she and Erinne had been set adrift, wandering guard to guard, leaving whenever Mala had an ‘episode.’ They'd stayed longest with Bara's group, partially because Mala had learned to keep a low profile, and partially because the massive woman had had a massive heart.
The piercing sound of Bara's final scream ripped through Mala, and she closed her eyes. But her lids betrayed her. She saw her mother, holding up her hand in a victorious V as her shirt bloomed red. Mala blinked, but the ghosts of the guard appeared before her, lining the room just as their bodies had lined the beach. A whirlpool started in her stomach. It grew to her chest, and she could feel herself being sucked in, sucked under. With her last bit of strength, Mala smacked her bleeding hand against the flaming wall and traced Bara’s sign—the fish—in blood; the brackish paint became a black shadow swimming in the pulsing light. She gave her oath, “Revenge promised. Justice sworn. Death be my life. ‘Til blood soak my knife."
And then pain opened its roaring jaws and she was swallowed whole.
Chapter Fifteen
She stood right next to him as the tailors in the Costume Shop pulled and pinned and chattered. But she didn't know what to say. Yesterday, he’d been an undercurrent in her thoughts, a worry swirling beneath the surface as she’d floated from one introduction to the next. Part of her had wished he'd show up and explain himself. Explain away the whole living-trophy business and tell her he actually liked her. But the other part of her didn’t want to see him. The other part of her had hidden behind Alba every time a black-haired man turned the corner. That part of her, the misanthrope, thought Alba might be right.
Now he was here, looking like some dark god in a skintight steel-grey suit padded with body armor. Alba's despised bronze buckles lined the left side of his chest, his forearms, and th
e outsides of his boots. Her mouth went dry even as she looked at his reflection in the large mirror they both faced. She couldn't find the words she needed.
Lowe was all formality and courtesy, thanking the old man who brought him a tricorner hat. He stood stiff and rigid as his grey military uniform. He gave Mala instructions through the corner of his mouth as the tailors did their work; he wouldn't even look at her.
It made her want to scream. He was telling her about their entrance, about what she needed to say, about the test ... but all she wanted him to do was face her and answer the gut-wrenching questions that had kept her up all night. Why am I here? Did you tell them I believe? And what the hell is wrong with me? Why are you telling people I can't melt? Why can't I tell people about my melting? What is going on? And the worst question of all ... Am I just some stupid recruiter high to you? She wondered, trying to find an answer in his eyes. But his face was stoically reflected in the mirror, staring deftly at the brass buttons on his jacket, no trace of emotion visible.
When the tailors had finished buttoning up her stiff lace collar Mala turned to them and asked, “Can we have a minute, please?” She thought she might have even been able to toss a smile in there, though her insides were wriggling like snakes on the water, ripples of panic flowing out to her limbs. If he answered, she'd know. But what if I don't like his answer?
