As always, it is a risk worth taking.
Tonight, the risk pays off. Slowly her memories are buried under a flood of chemicals and the night no longer passes by heartbeats, but by hours.
When the scratching starts, Anaiya passes it off as rats. An industrial hub this close to the Edges is prime real estate for vermin. But, with the final delivery still an hour away and nothing else to do, she goes to investigate.
The sound stops almost as soon as it begins, but she is up now and the warehouse exit is only a few steps away. Opening the door, she is greeted with the same metallic scent that pricked her nose back in the Edges a lifetime ago. Her head whips from side to side, searching for the intruder, but the streets are quiet. Seth’s face appears in her mind’s eye, but she shakes it away. This is not his work.
Slowly she turns to view the warehouse wall. Her fingers reach up to touch the paint still glistening in the fluorescent street lights. She pulls them away, fingertips sticky with red pigment. The stencilled image is the same as it has been the last three times – a female Peacekeeper shackled to the Execution pillar, her solar plexus a blackened flame crumbling to ash.
And always the word. The one that haunts her for all sorts of reasons and robs her, still, of sleep. Resistance.
She stares at it. Consumes it.
It is a message – a threat, a condemnation, a promise. An invitation.
She assumes it is Kaide’s work, although she’s not really sure. There are worse alternatives, ones that she shuts down before her mind can fully explore them.
Wiping her hand on the inside of her jacket sleeve, she walks back into the warehouse. Picking up her flask she takes a long swallow of the decimate, the alcohol burning her throat and causing her to gag. Ignoring the pain, she takes another. There is no point patching a call to the Warehouse Manager or to Peacekeepers. It won’t change anything. The Heterodoxy will still be there in the morning.
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WHEN THE PEACEKEEPERS arrive at dawnbreak, Anaiya is surprised to see a familiar face among them. Lumen offers her a small smile, before excusing herself from the Forensics who are taking paint samples and snapping pictures with their wristplates.
“Hey, Anaiya.”
“Lumen.”
The pause is small but noticeable. It has been the same with all the other Peacekeepers she has dealt with over the last week. Anaiya is an anomaly – a hero brought low, a broken Peacekeeper – a warning of what could happen to them if they miss a free-running obstacle, if a restraint tussle goes wrong, if they fall.
“When did you first notice the Heterodoxy?” Lumen asks, all business now.
“I didn’t,” Anaiya replies, the lie skipping across her tongue without a second thought.
“You didn’t hear or see anything unusual during your shift?”
“No.”
Lumen records all the details on her wristplate. With her head down, Anaiya can’t read her face – can’t tell whether she believes what Anaiya is telling her.
Why would she lie?
It is unlikely that Lumen would be suspicious. Lying is a highly Unorthodox behaviour – rare among Fire and Water Elementals, who have no need for it; easy to spot in Earth Elementals, who don’t have the necessary imagination.
“It wasn’t there when you escorted the last delivery of your shift?”
“If it was, I didn’t notice it.”
Lumen finishes tapping on her wristplate and looks up. Again, there is the pause. She looks around the warehouse and Anaiya’s embarrassment threatens to turn her cheeks red.
“So…” Lumen begins, her feet shuffling with the need to do anything other than just stand there.
Anaiya permits herself a faint smile. Fire Elementals are so bad in awkward situations.
“This is the fourth one this week?”
“Yeah.”
“And you never noticed anything?”
“No.”
Anaiya isn’t worried about Lumen’s line of questioning. The look on Lumen’s face is not one of suspicion, but distaste. Anaiya can almost hear her thoughts – What sort of ex-Peacekeeper remains unaware of four Heterodox incidents right under her nose?
“The hypoxia…” She offers.
Lumen nods hurriedly, glancing over her shoulder to where the Forensics are finishing up. The word has had the desired effect. “Well, that’s it from me,” she says, relief evident on her face. “Take care, Anaiya. Control the fire.”
Ah, but there is no fire to control.
“You too,” she replies.
Lumen stops briefly to talk with the Forensics before she and her patrol partner launch into a free-run.
That used to be me.
The thought is accompanied by no emotion – no jealousy, or bitterness, or sadness. A simple observation. A statement of fact.
It had been her, once. But, no longer. Seth was right when he uttered those words in the Trocadero Gardens.
She had died that night.
THIRTY-FOUR
THOUGHTS OF LUMEN, and the mural and an irate warehouse manager, begin to fade as Anaiya draws closer to the Edges. The barren space that once bored her to distraction has become a safe haven since her demotion.
She doesn’t free-run. Hasn’t since…since…the memory escapes her.
A lifetime ago.
She finds the air recycler she is looking for – blanketed in the shadow of the Border Wall, its surface is pitted with footholds that she has worn deeper on recent trips. Her hands scrape against the rough concrete, finding comfort in the jagged edges and crumbly grooves.
She pauses momentarily at the collar, letting the rush of air swirl her hair around her, whipping her cheeks, stinging her eyes. And then she finishes the climb, cresting the edge to the final platform.
The brown haze obliterates any view that might exist more than ten metres from the recycler. It doesn’t matter. She’s not interested in looking out over Otpor’s dilapidated infrastructure. Lying down on the unforgiving concrete, Anaiya closes her eyes and lets the chill leech into her skin.
Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
The first note that escapes her lips is shaky – an off-key A. She holds it, letting it wobble before her vocal chords relax enough to properly support it. The note finally strengthens, ringing out sharp and clear. She repeats it, again and again. Rolling her tongue over it, feeling it tremble on her lips. And then she shifts it, running it into new notes, layering them together.
Minutes pass this way. Hours.
Finally, her mind is empty of music and her lips fall silent. She lies there, letting the rumbling of the recycler erase the memory of her earlier music. Just before the cold and the noise reach a saturation point in her mind, she takes her leave, descending the pitted surface of the recycler.
Back on the ground, she picks her way to her new apartment in the southern quarter of Precinct 13. With the chill of the recycler still clinging to her skin, she tugs the hood of her jacket over her head. The muffled clattering of stones interrupts the silence and she spins around to confront the source.
A small pup, emaciated and patchy, stares at her with round eyes – too weak and broken to flee from her. A soft, haggard rasp of a bark tumbles from a crusty jaw. It is only days’ old, the blood and mucus from its delivery still clinging to tattered fur. Long gashes down its hind leg suggest a run-in with rats or perhaps another dog. Anaiya is amazed the pup has managed to survive this long.
She drops to her haunches, gently tapping on the gravel-laid ground with her palms. The pup pricks its ears up at the sound, but it doesn’t move – wary eyes regarding Anaiya as heavy breaths expand and rattle its prominent rib cage.
She taps again on the ground, ducking her head and closing her eyes.
C’mon, pup.
Again and again, she repeats the motion, ignoring the strain in her thighs, maintaining her submissive position. A plaintive mewl rings out, followed shortly by the sound of scattering gravel. Soft, matted fur falls on Anaiya’s hands an
d she pulls the pup up into her arms, cradling the skeletal body against her chest.
Zipping up her light, polyester jacket, she cocoons the pup’s frame against her own. “It’s OK, little one. I’ve got you now.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MIKHAEYLA KOPIEVSKY is an independent speculative fiction author who loves writing about complex and flawed characters in stories that explore philosophy, sociology and politics. She holds degrees in International Relations, Journalism and Environmental Science. A former counter-terrorism advisor, she has travelled to and worked in Asia, the Middle East and Africa.
Mikhaeyla lives in the Hunter Valley, Australia, with her husband and son. Divided Elements | Resistance is her debut offering.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It is a surreal thing to come to this point at the end of writing a novel. Resistance has had a long gestation period, starting way back in September 2013. Since then, I have changed from being a city mouse to a country mouse, completed a degree in Environmental Science, purchased the most amazing 100 acre property in Australia’s beautiful Hunter Valley, and embarked upon an even greater adventure than writing a novel – becoming a parent.
There are lots of people who have come along for the (often bumpy) ride – some I knew beforehand, some I met along the way. So please indulge me while I skip all the way back and thank them in the order they shaped me and the words you have just read.
To God – Praise to you for all the blessings in this life you have gifted me and for a world that continues to challenge and inspire me.
To my parents – Thank you, Mum, for imbuing me with your passion for reading, for requesting those extra ‘ITA’ books when I was in kindergarten and for letting me drag you from one second-hand bookstore to the next on our holidays – I wish you were still around to share this moment with me. Thank you, Dad, for making me believe I could do anything and be anything and for encouraging me to be, and do, just that – it made me fearless.
To my husband – You are the real reason this book is finished and published. Thank you for pushing me to make this bucket list item a reality. Thank you for putting up with the long, silent, distracted nights and for reading the first three chapters a hundred times. Yes, you have created a monster – but hopefully you see her as a loveable monster with some wicked words.
To my critique partners – my Cocoanuts and Fantasy Faction peeps – You guys rock! Thank you for letting me know when my characters were flat, my writing purple, my plot messy, and my descriptions obtuse. You’ve seen the worst of this book; I’m excited that you’ll now see the best.
To my editor, Kate O’Donnell of Line Creative, and proofreader, Mark Swift – Thank you for your professional and sensitive edits, which took this book from something I loved to something I am immensely proud of.
And finally, to my son Elijah – This is my legacy to you, little one. Just as my father told me, now I am telling you – do anything, be anything, be true to yourself, and never stop believing that you are unique, you are invincible, and you are loved.
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Mikhaeyla Kopievsky
September 2016
Table of Contents
Title Page
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Resistance: Divided Elements (Book 1) Page 29
