Bella Roshaad’s loose, don’t-give-a-care demeanor is difficult to read, and none of Baradonna’s lessons pay off now. There’s not a hint of tension in her back, not a nervous twitch to be found anywhere on her face. But finally, a smirk winds its way onto her lips. “I’ll gather up some of my supporters and see what I can do.”
Seske
Of Lively Rescues and Deadly Queens
“Get up, Seske,” Adalla says, shaking my shoulder. “It’s nearly noon.”
I shake my head and bury myself deeper under the covers. “I’m too tired.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have stayed up all night.”
I grunt. I can’t sleep, because if I sleep, I dream, and if I dream, they turn into nightmares . . . Sisterkin calling me into the deep dark of space. Strangling me before I can die of suffocation and exposure. And yet, being in those dreams is better than being awake, dealing with the taint of this reality.
“Can I make you some tea, then?” Adalla offers. There is so much kindness in her voice, and I hate it.
I have to tell her.
“I fucked Doka,” I say, feeling the words fall out of my mouth like a brick of shit. It sits there between me and Adalla, fouling up all the air in the room.
Her lips go tight. Her body closes up to me in a million ways, though she’s barely even moved a muscle. She nods slowly. “When?”
“A few days ago. We were up all night preparing for our Senate presentation, and I don’t know. I guess I was tired. Wasn’t thinking right. Anyway, I regretted it the very instant it happened. Hurting you and Bakti was the last thing I ever wanted to do.”
“Does Bakti know?” Adalla asks, voice flat and perfectly neutral. I’ve seen Adalla work out problems in the heart, able to set aside emotions to do what was necessary, and oftentimes what was necessary involved a very sharp knife.
“No,” I mumble. “Just you and Kallum. He . . . walked in on us. But he promised not to tell.”
“Good. Don’t tell anyone else,” Adalla says. “I’ll talk to Kallum.”
I don’t know what else to say, but it doesn’t matter anyway, because Adalla gets up and leaves. I feel part of my guilt leave with her, which I know isn’t fair, because now that pain is sitting squarely on her shoulders. I don’t realize I’m crying until the whole front of my night gown is soaked with tears, cold against my skin. I take refuge under the dark of the covers.
I feel a hand upon my biceps. I am not under here alone.
“Bakti?” I speak into the silence. I know that it is not him. He left with Charrelle and Kallum to get Doka some new robes for his trip.
It can’t be Adalla, either—I could tell from the look in her eyes that it would be a long, long time before she would ever want to touch me again.
But I feel the body next to mine, pressing closer. Sharp prickly skin, like fish scales. Rotten breath runs down the ridge of my nose.
Come for me . . .
I throw the covers off, but there is no one lying in bed except me.
“Leave me be!” I yell out to my sister, wherever she is. My voice echoes off the bedroom walls as I listen closely for a response. There is nothing beyond the sound of my breath slipping in and out of my lungs. Sisterkin is quiet now, but I know that there’s only one way to silence her for good.
I head for the gall harbor and commandeer one of Doka’s boats, then I venture off into the bile ducts, with nothing but the ruined tatters of the map we used to search for Baradonna.
I keep my light low, my paddling minimal, and allow myself to get caught by the current. There is no room for mistakes when I’m out here all alone. The ducts fork several times, branching off into narrower passageways. This last one is so shallow I can touch the ceiling as I pass, but then the duct opens into a chamber. The walls look inflamed—red and pus-ridden, not like the slick, dark-green walls I’d followed here.
The place reeks of human manipulation. This is the place. I have arrived.
I paddle a little farther, then, through the foggy murk, I see a protrusion from the wall. As I get closer, I make out the shape of a body. The light from my lamp gleams against too many pairs of eyes though, maybe a dozen. The sound their mouths make as they pop away from feeding on flesh sends ripples through my gut. The bulbous eyes of throttle fish stare at me, considering whether to fight or flee, or simply return to feeding. They’re all small, though, the largest no longer than my arm, and they err on the side of caution and disappear into the murky water.
I stare at the figure, barely recognizable as human. Head and torso and limbs are all there, but there is so much more—tumorous growths stretching between her and the wall, and I can’t tell where she ends and it begins. It’s as if the wall had half devoured her, like some cruel and sinister version of the spirit wall our people use to honor our dead.
This is no honor.
The tumor on her head has extended over her forehead covering both eyes, but I can tell it is Sisterkin. She doesn’t move, not even a twitch.
“Help . . . ,” comes a raspy voice. At first I think it’s Sisterkin in my mind again, but then I see another figure, not too far away. Baradonna. I paddle right up next to her and shine the light in her face. This is a mistake. A group of throttle fish hatchlings are feeding from her cheeks, and one has nibbled a hole all the way through. It looks at me through the fleshy gash, hisses at me, then retreats back into the cavern that is Baradonna’s mouth.
The shock makes my fingers forget how to function, and I drop the lamp. Luckily, it falls into the boat and not the water.
“Baradonna,” I say to her. What’s left of her. I want to comfort her, to tell her that I’m here to rescue her from this nightmare, but I am at a loss for words, and—more so—for ideas on how to actually save her.
Her bulging, bloodshot eyes slowly trace their way toward mine. “Doka . . . ,” she mumbles, shaking her head from side to side. The throttle fish hiss at the movement, then decide to abandon their dinner for less animated fare.
“He’s . . .” I swallow hard and force a weak smile onto my face to keep my urge to vomit at bay. “He’s okay. He’s fine. Don’t worry about him. Here, let’s get you down from there.” I row closer, then grab my knife. I’ve seen Adalla cut at tumors several times, so it couldn’t be hard, right? Cut deep, cut confidently, she’d say. The tumors that hold Baradonna in place are few and small compared to Sisterkin’s. I start low, at the ones tangling her knees. I press my knife into the wall, a few centimeters from the base of the tumor, then slice in deep, as if I’m trying to scoop the pulp out of a bog melon. The base pops free without much resistance. I do the same for the other tumors around her thighs and the largest one near her abdomen. I get a little cocky at how easy I’m making it look, but then realize my mistake as soon as the large tumor pops free from the wall. It had been the main support keeping her anchored there. Baradonna’s weight drops, held now by the only the tumor surrounding her neck. She starts to choke, thrashing about. Her hands twitch, arms wanting to go to her neck, but her muscles have already started to atrophy, and she has no strength.
I try digging behind the tumor, but the flesh is hard there, very tough and it won’t give. Then I notice that it’s different from the other tumors. This one sinks right into her throat . . . like some kind of feeding tube? I don’t have time to think. I ditch my knife and grab onto the esophagus-like protrusion and wrestle at it until it starts to pull free from her throat. It keeps coming and coming, several feet of pus-covered tubing, as though I’d pulled out the whole of Baradonna’s intestines, but I know it’s not that. The length of rope flesh definitely doesn’t feel human.
Finally, Baradonna is free, and she falls into my outstretched arms. At one point, I wouldn’t have been able to handle her girth, but there’s so little of her left, she’s like a porous husk. I gently guide her into the boat and cover her body up in tarps to keep her safe and warm.
She’s gained enough strength that she’s able to paw at her mangled neck. The
wound doesn’t bleed though, just looks raw and angry, exactly like the hole in her cheek.
“Sorry about that,” I mutter, knowing I have nothing to give her to ease her pain. “Rest now. We’ll get you home soon.”
I row back past Sisterkin, and my fingers probe around for my knife. There’s no rescuing her. After four years, it’d be impossible to detach her without seriously wounding both her and the Zenzee. But I can put her out of her misery. No human deserves to be treated this way. Not even Sisterkin.
Knife in hand, I search for a vulnerable place to cut, but she’s so covered up in tumors, it’s like they’ve become an impenetrable shield. I consider cutting through the gristle of her feeding tube. Starvation would be a slow death, but anything has to be better than suffering like this.
The throttle fish are back, and they’ve brought their bigger, brawnier mates this time. I kick as they near, wave my knife at them threateningly. They back off into the shadows, but I still feel their beady eyes watching me. I step out of the boat. It’s shallow here, the water only up to my shins. I walk up to Sisterkin. Not Sisterkin, I remind myself. Just the husk they’ve left of her.
I place my knife against the feeding tube, rubbing the serrated edge against flesh as hard as metal. I work for a minute, but only the faintest notch has formed. It’s useless. The throttle fish won’t stay at bay forever, and I’ve got to get Baradonna to a doctor. If I can find one that I can trust.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Sisterkin, whispering close to her, where her ear would be if it weren’t covered over with a gray scab of throbbing pus. It’s then that I see it, a small section of exposed skin on her throat, close enough to the jugular vein. If I can get the right angle with my knife, she’ll quickly bleed out. I press the tip of my knife there. To my surprise, the droplet of blood that forms is red, pristine. Human. I’d expected some sort of neon green sludge. “Okay, I can do this . . . ,” I whisper to myself this time, my mind doing agile flips to justify why this won’t be murder.
Seske . . .
The voice comes. Her voice. But her lips haven’t moved. I’m so stunned, my knife flies out of my hand and falls into the water with a splash. I whip around, looking to see if the throttle fish are still backed away, but they’re all gone now. Somehow that makes me feel even worse. I stoop down, feeling the bottom of the submerged floor, searching for the knife. Thankfully, I feel the blade, but a ripple forms next to me, and before I can get a grip on the weapon, it’s snatched away from me, leaving me with a generous slice down the middle of my palm.
I jump up, holding my hand, blood gushing down into the black water, attracting who knows what. There’s a hand on my thigh now. A half-grown throttle fish. It grins at me, then sinks its teeth into my leg, like dozens of red-hot needles. I yell out in pain. There’s another hand on my shoulder, but it is not the hand of a fish. Swollen blue-black knuckles hold me firmly. Engorged, milky-white veins run all the way up the arm, disappearing into the giant mound of a tumor. Sisterkin has me. Draws me closer. Her mouth edges into a smile.
Come for me . . .
She opens her mouth, and out comes a long, thick tentacle. I beg myself to stop screaming. To close my mouth. To faint. To do anything, but it squirms inside me, slipping down my throat, coating it in pungent jelly.
My terror eases, as does the throbbing pain of the fish bite. My cut hand feels fine. I feel fine. Wonderful, even. It’s as if I’ve crossed a threshold, letting go of everything that never really mattered. There’s so much empty space between my thoughts, like all the space between stars. I see one of the stars. Flashing. Flashing. Flashing.
“Come to us,” Sisterkin says to me. She struts into one of those open spaces between thoughts, looking as regal as a queen ought to. Skin a smooth deep brown with an almost pearlescent shine. Her braids are done up in the way of our Line. Only when she nears do I notice they are not braids at all, but tentacles—thin and black for the most part, intertwined with purples and blues. She is so stunning, I feel I should bow to her. And maybe I would, if I hadn’t known the state of her body back in the real world.
“Why did you call me here?” I demand.
She looks me up and down. Even in the confines of my brain, I have managed to put together a poor ensemble for myself. Stained dress. Holey scarves. Robes that look as though they’ve been slept in for three days straight.
“I’m not calling you. I’m not calling anyone. They are.” She points at the strobing star. “I’m just the messenger.”
“Who are they?” I ask.
“The dead. Though, that term doesn’t translate well for human sensibilities. Think of it as a Zenzee graveyard . . . but that’s maybe a little haunted.”
I nod, unfazed by this news that ought to frighten me. I feel the same calm I’d had when I’d delivered the Zenzee egg . . . as if I’ve stepped outside myself and away from my emotions. “I saw a flash like that from the Klang’s Zenzee as it died. Is it like a beacon?”
“Yes, similar. When life ceases upon the Zenzee, there is a secondary life that occurs, several other organs spring to life, dedicated to helping the dead find their way to the graveyard. The light is them calling.”
“But why can I hear it?” I ask.
Sisterkin points at my dress. The stains grow, as thick streaks of blue-black sludge run down the front again, and my breasts suddenly feel so heavy and full, it’s as though they’re about to burst. “You are a part of them, and they are a part of you. You have bettered them. They have bettered you.”
I stand there in stunned silence. I’d lamented the changes carrying the Zenzee egg had brought upon my own body, but I’d never even considered that I’d contributed something of me to them by that same very act. Somewhere out there was a Zenzee still in the womb, one that would one day have children of her own, carrying bits of me across the eons. It should make me feel immortal, but instead, it makes me nauseated. My womb ripples. Phantom tentacles slap against my thighs. I vomit right there, further ruining my dress, the acidic sting tearing up my throat. I know that it is not actually vomit, but it sure tastes like the real thing.
“I am glad that you still think of me, though,” Sisterkin says, extending her hand to me. “I am glad you came.”
“For better and worse, you are hard to forget.” I feel so many conflicting thoughts right now, but I extend my arm as well. “Mostly worse,” I add with a huff and a grin.
“I am truly sorry for the pain I have caused you. And I forgive you for the pain you have caused me. Even if our aim was to do no harm, we would have set ourselves up for failure. We are entwined. Entangled. We always have been and always will be. I am hoping there is still a path for us. I have much to offer.” She touches my cheek, then my shoulder. A cool breeze rattles against my skin, and the very next moment, I’m wearing a pristine gown that matches hers. She then cups her hands together in front of me, and when she opens them, a lime tart sits in her palms, covered in whipped candy creme. It was our Matris’s favored dessert, one designed and prepared only for her. As small children, we had slobbered over them as we watched Matris pop one after another into her mouth, nearly reeling from delight. Sisterkin and I often conspired how we could get one of our own, each plan more outlandish than the last.
Though I can safely say that none of our plans ever came close to being this bizarre. This horrifying. But there’s something about the sugar-sweet smell of lime tarts that makes you forget you’re being held captive in a bile-filled swamp . . .
I take the tart in my hands and start to split it in half.
“No,” Sisterkin says. “It’s all for you.”
I take a bite. I don’t worry over it being poisoned. I am already at Sisterkin’s mercy. My eyes roll back as the smooth taste of tangy custard hits my tongue. My toes curl. And a warm tingling sensation rolls through me, from head to toe. “Wow” is all I can manage, catching the drool and jelly slipping out of my mouth when I do.
“Here you can eat what you want, do what you want,
fuck who you want, and no one will care. There is no pain. No fear. No regret. Stay with me, and we can rule them together.” She points at the Zenzee graveyard. “We can help call them home.”
I want so badly to forgive Sisterkin, if only to know that someone who has done something so awful is deserving of being forgiven. I consider it for half a moment, which is half a moment too long. Co-leader to mostly dead Zenzee with my banished sister who tried to kill me on at least two occasions?
“I can’t stay. I’ve got a life and family to get back to.”
Maybe.
She smiles. “I love how you think this was an invitation. You’re already mine. All that’s left is to do something with this hair . . .”
My head feels heavier all of a sudden, and when I reach up, the knots of my Line slither past one another, alive and writhing upon my scalp. I try to scream, but tentacles are falling out of my mouth now, too. I reach back to my real body to feel the pain in my thigh. My hand. My heart. But there’s nothing.
“Stop fussing,” she says in the way our heart-mother used to while braiding our hair. “Or I’ll get the Lines all wrong.”
“Let me go!” I scream.
“There’s nowhere to go but home,” she says. “Now sit straight, look forward, and stop fussing.”
I feel the pain now. In my throat.
Sisterkin stops. “No!” she screams. She’s not looking at me but staring off into one of the voids between thoughts.
The pain sharpens so much that I’d pass out if I were in my real body. And then suddenly, I am in my real body. My throat is on fire. My hand throbs, and a dozen throttle fish wounds dig into my skin. But I’m held tight in arms that have no right to be this strong after all they’ve been through.
“Baradonna, I—”
“Hush. You saved me. I saved you. We’re even.” Her voice sounds as though she swallowed a thousand knives, but it’s soothing to hear anyway. She lays me down in the boat next to the spines of several throttle fish, picked clean save for the meat at the head. The shriveled faces still bear Sisterkin’s dead stare.
Symbiosis Page 18
