by Loren Walker
*
There was no source of light in the alley: only moving shadows, and the sounds of panicked breathing. Whose breath? Phaira’s, or Acelin’s? Cohen squinted hard, his heart hammering.
Then Acelin’s face loomed into view. Cohen reacted, launching himself at Acelin. He pinned the man to the ground and took shot after shot at the man’s nose, his throat, whatever he could make contact with. The crunch of bone echoed off the brick walls.
“Cohen! Enough!”
At the sound of his sister’s order, Cohen snapped out of his trance and shoved Acelin away. He was boiling hot; he stripped off his gloves and unzipped his overcoat. The cold air hit him in the sternum.
Phaira was in front of him, her brown skin tinged pink from exertion. “A bit much, Cohen,” she said curtly, glancing at his bloody knuckles.
“You’ve done worse,” he retorted, doing his best not to pant. “What now?”
Phaira looked like she had more to say, but instead she shrugged one shoulder. “We call it in. Designate a pick-up point. Tell them to have the reward ready for transfer.” She glanced at Acelin; he had curled into a ball on the ground. Then she drew out her Lissome and punched in the cc to connect to the Arazura. “Ren? Where are you? We’re done.”
“Okay,” came Renzo’s voice. “Sure. Got it. But it’s going to be a while.”
Phaira frowned, catching Cohen’s eye. “Did something happen?”
“Not what you think.” Renzo hedged. “I can get back to Daro in five hours.”
“Tonight! What are you - ?”
“Just stay there. I’ll be there before midnight.”
“But -”
The line disconnected before Phaira could finish her sentence.
“It’s nothing,” Cohen said automatically. “Don’t read into it.”
Phaira didn’t respond. When the Lissome clicked back into its neat small square, she slipped it back into her pocket. Then Phaira turned slowly, surveying the alley, the rooftops, the skylines. Her edginess hung on Cohen like a heavy blanket. Phaira was paranoid, sure, but often right about it. And although she never talked about it, even with no active bounty on her name, Cohen knew his big sister never stopped looking for the next threat.
*
Renzo paced in a tight circle, waiting. Sydel had been down in the crevice for several minutes now, with no sign of coming back up. He’d already sent down a medical kit, a portable light, and a stability plank via the Arazura’s cable, which was still taut, and vibrated every few seconds. He had also taken the time to calculate the distance to the nearest medical facility. He had his argument fully prepared, should Sydel push back. There was still so much to finish regarding his father’s death and final preparations…
“Now, Renzo Byrne. Slowly.” Sydel’s voice bounced up the rocks and into the open air.
Renzo searched for any sign of her, or of anything, down at the bottom of the crevice. Then he activated the pulley on its slowest setting. Gradually, the cable coiled on itself, underneath the Arazura. The pressure grooved into the rocky edge, tiny mounds of shaved dust on either side. Then came the silhouette of a body, climbing up. Renzo touched his Compact pistol, still at the back of his waistband. But there was Sydel, one hand holding onto the cable as she stepped from ledge to ledge, the other hand on the stability plank and the patient.
Strapped to the board, secured with the harness, the woman’s body was clad in a brown sleeveless dress, with shades of red and rust splattered across it. Her skin was bluish and pale, head lolled to one side, her hair dark brown, with green streaks in messy braids. He had expected a much more alien-looking creature, from Sydel and Cohen’s accounts.
Renzo dropped to the ground, reaching down to grab Sydel’s wrist, helping her over the edge. Drenched in sweat, she almost slipped from his grip. Then he took hold of the plank’s handles on either side and heaved. The board slid onto the surface with a soft rush. The woman never moved.
Sydel remained on her hands and knees, catching her breath. Renzo ran his hands through his hair a few times, before he realized his hands, and now his hair, were caked with sand.
He turned to the green-haired woman. She was covered with bruises, mottled and purple, and her right leg was bent in an unnatural angle, with deep gouges in her skin. Her arms were badly scratched, one bicep wrapped in gauze and already showing red. Was she dead? It would make the transfer process easier if she were.
Renzo slowly removed his Compact and primed it, just in case. Then he reached out with his free hand, two fingers extended to check for a pulse in her neck.
Just before he touched her, though, her eyes snapped open. Inky black. Irises too large for a normal human. Bloodshot and consuming him.
“What’s wrong?” came Sydel’s hoarse voice.
When he looked back to the green-haired one, she was still unconscious. Just as before. Had he imagined it all?
*
Acelin was taken into custody, brought into the back of Daro Collections. Hands were shaken. Game over. Money transferred. Posting deactivated.
Now Phaira and Cohen were in a bar near the skerries, waiting out the night, drinks in hand, blues music playing in their individual booth. Running his finger around the edge of his glass, Cohen surveyed the bar, wondering how many mercenaries were in this place. Who was still on the clock, and who was merely looking for a good time. It wasn’t crowded, but there was a certain vibe in the atmosphere. Serious. Wary and watching.
His mind turned to their father. Renzo, the way he huffed and glared at them when they left. How Phaira insisted on going after the bounty to make some easy rana, leaving Renzo to take care of their father’s final arrangements. Cohen lifted his glass, filled to the brim with dark ale. “Maybe we should have gone to the funeral,” he said to his sister.
“We were busy,” Phaira mumbled over the rim of her SunFlare.
“Come on, Phair.”
“What? We needed the rana. Now we can buy some food and these drinks and fuel for the Arazura…”
“You’re not curious at all where he’s been all this time? If he ever thought about…?”
“Co, I’m not curious, and I don’t care,” Phaira interrupted. Her blue hair swung back over the leather seat as she swallowed the last of her SunFlare, a swirling orange cocktail rimmed with cayenne pepper. She coughed from the afterburn. “You’d do better to forget he ever existed,” she added with a slight wheeze. “Renzo’s dealing with it. Then we can move on.”
Cohen didn’t quite know what to say. The door to the pub swung open, and a blast of cold, damp air shot through the bar, mixed with a second smell, one that Cohen recognized immediately: mekaline. A street drug, and the hallucinogenic to which Phaira was once addicted to. Someone was smoking it, just outside. He glanced at her, wary, curious if she had caught the scent. But Phaira didn’t react; she was staring down at the table, one finger pushing through a droplet of liquor and streaking it outwards, like a fading star. He watched her design, and wondered if he should bring it up. But what if he just made things worse? She never listened to him anyways, and she was already so short with him over their father.
“I’ll buy you another drink,” he offered. “If you tell me a story about him. A good one,” he added.
With a quick sweep of her palm, the liquid design was eradicated, smeared into nothing.
“I’ll buy my own, if that’s the deal.”
II.
Renzo and Sydel managed to heave the stretcher onto the secured gurney in the medical lab, the left half of Sydel’s quarters. Sydel’s hands hovered over the prone body as Renzo waited anxiously, his eyes darting back and forth.
“Well?” he prodded. “What are you going to do?”
There were beads of sweat on her brow. Her fingers trembled.
“Don’t you have everything you need?” Renzo tried, gesturing at all the closed metal drawers, all the cabinets containing medicines, gauze, tools, everything that he’d bought to supply her with, so they would ne
ver have to worry about seeking outside medical attention.
“Yes,” Sydel admitted. Her voice shook. “I think so, anyways.”
“So, what, then?”
“I can’t do this alone.”
“You healed Cohen’s burns. And when Phaira was shot, you -”
“This is different,” Sydel interrupted. She balled her hands into fists and brought them to her chest. “Cohen’s wounds were superficial. And Phaira’s wounds were lucky, they never hit any major organs.”
She gestured helplessly at the body. “Her wounds are into the muscle, layers deep. Her legs are broken. Maybe her spine, too. I am no expert. I’m not a doctor. I have no confidence in my knowledge, it was never a focus in my studies, other than the basic. What if I make her worse?” Her voice grew more and more rushed with every excuse.
“Then she goes to a medlab,” Renzo said firmly. “We just say we found her and -”
Sydel shook her head.
“Someone will cover the cost, if they think she’s a transient.”
“No.”
“Why not?” he exploded. “You just said you can’t help her!”
“She’s terrified, and alone, and she begged me to keep her hidden,” Sydel interrupted.
“She was conscious down there?” Those black eyes flashed in his mind again. Maybe he hadn’t imagined it after all.
“What about Anandi?” Sydel ignored the question. “Could she suggest someone here who specializes in trauma, someone I can consult with? Who can be discrete?”
“Maybe,” Renzo muttered. He pulled out his Lissome, punched in his friend’s cc and waited for the connection. “If she dies in here,” he told Sydel, “that’s on you.”
Sydel nodded.
“Renzo.” Anandi’s musical voice rippled through the sound system. “What now?”
“Hello to you too, Ani.”
“Oh, come on, I know you’re calling because you need something.”
“Sorry,” Renzo said, embarrassed. “You’re right. Sorry. We have an emergency. I need a doctor, someone who can give advice on broken bones. Maybe a broken back,” he added, glancing over at Sydel for confirmation.
“What? Is Phaira okay?”
“No, no, it’s not Phaira or any of us. It’s some woman we found -”
“CaLarca.” Sydel’s voice rang across the room. “That’s the name she gave me. Her name is CaLarca.”
“CaLarca,” Renzo relayed. “And the damage is bad enough that Sydel doesn’t feel confident in her abilities. Do you know anyone in Towns who could help?”
The sounds of rustling and hushed conversation. Then a new voice came through. “Renzo?”
“Sir?” Renzo said automatically at Emir Ajyo’s voice. Then he chastised himself for acting like a nervous teenager around Anandi’s father.
“Go south to Plainfield. The public garage. I’ll be there with supplies. Tell Sydel to prepare a full evaluation in the meantime.”
“You’ll - wait, what?”
But Emir was already gone.
Then Anandi was back on the line. “Just make sure he gets back to me within forty-eight hours. He’s due.” Her voice went quiet. “It’s been a few years, but he was a pretty great doctor once upon a time, Ren. Don’t worry.”
The line disconnected. Renzo leaned against the wall, stunned. Emir was a doctor? They’d never told him that before. There was a strange irony in the fact that Emir was a medical professional, but chose to live as a hacktivist in the slums with his daughter. Part of that, Renzo knew, was due to his blood disorder, controlled only through transfusions from said daughter. But what about his practice?
“That was Anandi’s father?” Sydel was asking him. “Where is Plainfield? Is he coming on board?” She looked terrified at the idea. He wondered why.
“Towns and Plainfield are twin cities on the coast. It’s an hour south,” Renzo said, heading for the cockpit. “Do what he asked in the meantime. You can do that at least, right?”
*
When the Arazura descended into Plainfield and locked onto the great parking hanger, stretching twenty stories high, the man with the snow-white hair was waiting for them, weighed down with bags and equipment.
Renzo watched from afar as Sydel and Emir conversed. They conducted a number of tests, little flashes of metal, peering into screens, prodding of all the deep, flayed gouges, unwrapping the bandages to peer at the ripped-off chunk from the woman’s arm. Emir unearthed one of the handheld ultrasounds from the medical bay; placing it against his eye, he travelled the length of CaLarca’s legs, first the right and then the left. Renzo caught a glimpse of the negative image on the tiny screen: it was some kind of portable x-ray, showing the bones under the skin, how they were bowed and in some places, cracked. When completed, Emir asked Sydel to hold the device in place. Then with quick, practiced hands, he set CaLarca’s broken leg. It looked horribly painful to Renzo, each jerk and sickening snap, but CaLarca never stirred as Emir and Sydel tightly bound the limb.
After CaLarca’s lower back was braced and bound, and the unconscious woman returned to her prone position, Emir focused on the deep contusions in her arms. Using slim, silver surgical knives, his beard and mouth covered by a mask, Emir began to strip the dead, infected skin. Sydel assisted, keeping one hand on the woman’s head, presumably keeping her unconscious.
Then Emir removed a rectangular case from his pack of supplies and unlocked it. Renzo craned his neck to see. The case was full of translucent paper-thin sheets, three inches squared. There was also another instrument in there, something with a bent, flattened attachment.
“This is going to hurt her,” Emir warned. “The pain will be excruciating. And it may be difficult to watch.”
Renzo saw Sydel swallow. “I can manage.”
A tiny blue flame flickered at the edge of the attachment. Emir laid one strip of translucent film over the hole in Ca’Larca’s left bicep. Then, like a welder holding a blowtorch, he pushed the head of the burner along the film, again and again.
The smell of burning flesh filled the room. Renzo gagged and clapped his hand over his mouth.
Three beeps sounded through the room. Oh, his beautiful ship; he thanked the Arazura profusely for the distraction.
“That’s Phaira and Cohen,” he called through his fingers. “I have to get back to Daro by midnight.”
Neither Emir nor Sydel turned away, absorbed. Renzo retreated, walking quickly to the cockpit, hungry at the prospect of recirculated air and the distraction of flying. The beeps sounded again. Sliding into the pilot’s chair, Renzo flicked the connection.
“On my way,” he reported. “But there’s something you should know.”
*
“Why is she wearing my clothes?” Phaira’s indignant voice echoed through the Arazura.
Standing in the threshold of Sydel’s room, Renzo rolled his eyes. Instant drama, as soon as his sister was back onboard. He looked over at Cohen, wondering if he felt the same. But his brother stood in the corner, his arms crossed, his face unreadable.
“Please be calm,” Sydel was saying to Phaira. “You’ve got a cut on your arm, let me - ”
But Phaira brushed her aside, and stormed over to Renzo; she was only an inch taller, but she was lording that inch with all her might. “Why would you bring that woman onto my ship?” she snapped. “What are you thinking?”
“Our ship,” Renzo corrected hotly, consciously lifting onto the balls of his feet. “Actually, my ship. I’m the one who built it, paid for it….”
Oh. I shouldn’t have said that, he realized, snapping his mouth shut. Had she picked up on what he just said? He hadn’t quite figured out how to tell Phaira where the money came from to build the Arazura.
But his sister didn’t seem to register, continuing to talk: “This is the favor that kept us waiting until midnight? And you dragged Emir into all of this?”
“For me, yes,” Sydel interrupted. “I asked him to. For them both to help me.”
&nbs
p; “And I’m happy to do so, Phaira,” came Emir’s protest. “It wasn’t an imposition.”
“This is the one you met in Kings Canyon. You said she was an Eko. Powerful,” Phaira told Sydel, as if daring her to contradict it.
Sydel’s thin lips pressed together. “You don’t trust me.”
Phaira regarded the girl for a few moments. Then she spoke: “You know I don’t.”
“Phair!” Cohen exclaimed.
“No,” Phaira interrupted, lifting a finger to stop his outburst. “Don’t. I know what Sydel is capable of, and so do you.”
Renzo looked from his sister to his brother. He had his suspicions before, and the bristling tension was now confirmation: something happened in Kings. Irritation rose in him; they were always keeping secrets from him, even as children, it drove him crazy.
“She came to me in Kings,” Sydel said. “She sought me out. Now she has asked for my help. I can’t just leave her in the hands of strangers.”
“We’re strangers too, Sydel,” Phaira pointed out. “And we also need to stay hidden. Taking on some strange woman isn’t conducive to that.”
“Neither is going on a bounty hunt,” Renzo couldn’t help but point out.
He received one of his sister’s familiar glares in return.
“When the base collapsed,” Phaira continued. “All those mercenaries went crazy on each other. It must have been triggered by something. What if it was her?”
“That’s not possible,” Sydel said. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
Which means nothing, Renzo thought, with a queer twist in his stomach.
“I only want answers, Phaira,” Sydel continued. “So I can move on. I hope you can support me in this.”
“And if she is here to hurt us?” Phaira accused. “Does that mean anything to you?”
Sydel’s gaze wavered. “If she attempts to harm anyone, I will not stand in the way of retribution.”
Not words you expect to hear out of Sydel’s mouth. It made Renzo even more curious about what she was thinking. Still, no one said anything.
After several long seconds, Phaira turned her attention to Sydel’s bed, the beeping mechanics next to it, and the heavily bandaged woman on it. “Can she be woken?”
