by Fuad Baloch
“Uh-huh,” Ruma replied. “And when might that be?”
“Oh, not that long.” He raised his chin, started counting on his fingers. “Another… three or four weeks.”
Ruma glared at him. “Weeks?”
“If the Vanico armies do not end up restraining them, that is.”
“I see.”
Ruma turned around, her shoulders slumping. With the blacksmithy still closed, maybe she did have to mine the blasted minerals and elements herself. Constructing something as basic as even a radio assumed a certain standard of supply chain already in place, making even the simplest of things a mission and a half. All that meant she had lots to work on.
And assuming she got there—when she got there, she reminded herself—there were more challenges up front. Who would she reach out to? What would she say if she did hear back?
A problem for another day.
Warriors yelled at each other across the square from her. Ten men with red Scythes on their tabards hurled insults at a dozen wearing the white Scythes. The Traditionalist following Bubraza’s calls for a return to the simplicity of faith, the Blessed shouting back on the need to follow the prophet’s wife.
Ruma groaned, shuffled her weight. The prophecy nonsense hadn’t really helped much in her estimation. The words, as she had expected, were suitably vague to fit practically any damned interpretation, and both parties had taken it upon themselves to ensure they ended up looking like the intended recipient. Trouble was that while the effect had largely worn off her, its effect still lingered in the hearts of others.
And now, like cockerels put in the ring, these men of faith strutted, preening, shouting the case of themselves. The truce that had stayed their hands wouldn’t hold, she knew. Sooner or later, the grievances would boil over, the anger would spill, someone would raise their weapon, and a righteous bloodbath would not just resume but go up a notch. All while, the Vanico armies continued to roam the peninsula without check.
When that happened, she needed to be as far away as possible.
Back in her world.
This world was welcome to its prophecies and share of holy men. Nothing had changed for her.
A little seed of doubt that had somehow taken root swayed in her heart. One that took her by surprise and shock. What does the prophecy mean? Does it have any ramifications for my world?
No! She shook her head, determined to not get side-tracked.
“Are you going to buy or what?” asked the trader.
Ruma ignored him, her eyes falling on another stall being set up to the east. A tall, lanky man accompanied by a full-figured young woman.
The Kapuri siblings. Yenita and Sivan.
Ruma licked her lips, watching them both. Sivan moved gingerly, favouring his right arm, but looked good otherwise. So he was alive, then. Brother Hadyan hadn’t lied. Beside him, Yenita said something, then giggled, the soft sounds drifting over to Ruma.
Ruma turned away before either of the two could see her. Relief flooded through her veins at the sight of Sivan doing alright, though, a heavy knot unfurling in her stomach she hadn’t even realised had been tightening for some time. A part of her had blamed herself for what had happened to him. Notwithstanding the fact that the foolish trader had practically invited trouble on himself by not listening to her when she’d asked him at the tent, maybe she’d had a part in forcing his hand when that wasn’t appropriate.
Regardless, he was fine now and by all accounts returning to his normal life without too great of a loss. And her sister—
“Hey, Mzi!” came a shout from her left.
Ruma whipped her head. A stout warrior was marching towards her, shoving through the thick of people crowding the central square. She looked around as if to confirm it was her the soldier was after.
“You, the red-haired one, laal, halt!”
Dammit! Ruma clicked her teeth. The man wore the white Scythe. A Traditionalist, then. Without pausing to think things through, Ruma turned around, began moving in the opposite direction.
“Hold on—”
She broke into a trot, eliciting complaints from the passers-by. Pressing her nose to stem the stench of sweaty bodies, she pressed on, heading straight, away from the Traditionalist. Whatever it was she had done, she was in no mood to stay and find out.
The locals and pilgrims who had flocked to the oasis town had turned into a moving, breathing mass of rumours and fervent prayers, their lips recalling the prophecy which had already begun morphing into different versions, coloured by unique interpretations. The ambiguous nature of the words hadn’t helped the cause for accuracy just as she had thought, lending themselves to versions more amenable and understandable dependent on the audience.
None of her business.
“Out of my way!” she snarled. “Let me through.”
Words of the prophecy raced through her mind even as she tried to shrug them away. Water and Fire. Apt metaphors for life in the deserts. Doonya and the Sun. The only heavenly bodies apart from the two moons these folks knew. She shook her head. Whatever did these people expect from a man dead for centuries anyway? What had her people expected from Gulatu, a fallible man emerging into a world removed eight hundred years from his? What was wrong with the Zrivisi for turning to a human as their messiah?
More shouts came from behind her. She redoubled her pace. Shouts rose from the left, followed by coordinated responses from the right. Damn. They were surrounding her.
She did a quick mental calculation. Turn back and try to blast her way through the perimeter still too wide or continue ahead, hoping she could outrun their net?
She chose the latter. The crowds didn’t yield despite her hollering, making their displeasure suitably known when she elbowed her way through them. The past Doonya might have been sparsely populated, but in the moment, these streets felt more like a small Egania alleyway crammed to the rafters with humans, Hengoli, Zrivisi, and the Yeth all piled on top of each other.
“Halt!”
Ruma ran and ran, her lungs burning with the effort, her feet never slowing down.
“Change the course of the world!”
“Oh, for frack’s sake, shut up!”
“And you will—”
“You’ve told me a million times already!”
Anger bubbled though her, giving her renewed strength. Here she was, trying her best to get out of this damned dust ball, and the entire fracking world seemed to be conspiring against her. Wasn’t it enough she had run into trouble with Yasmeen’s men, still hadn’t found a way to get the minerals and parts to start building a basic radio, a single step towards a much more ambitious project, was still plagued by a latent Pithrean somehow resident in her mind, and had a young girl expose herself to her? She now had to contend with the fracking Traditionalists as well!
Religion. That was what was chasing her, it seemed like. What good had it ever brought to humanity, the wider cosmos, anyway? Ruma shook her head, ducking to dodge a flabby arm a woman waved carelessly. Considering how much the Zrivisi always talked about their so-called messiah and the purity of his message, they were more than welcome to swap places with her.
She ran into a pillar of flesh she couldn’t dispel. Ruma stepped to the side. Hands reached for her. Cursing, she leapt to her right, eyes desperately scanning for a way through.
Men and women yelped as more warriors took up positions around her, forming a tight circle. Ruma screamed, a bestial, unrestrained cry of frustration and rage.
The circle began to tighten.
“Mzi, calm down!” said one of the Traditionalists, a young man with a boil on his neck.
“I will do as I fracking please!”
Someone gasped but Ruma couldn’t care less. She was the tigress surrounded by poachers, and for the moment, she was helplessly outnumbered. She dropped into a low crouch, thrusting her hands forwards for the first man that would dare lay a hand over her. Not the best way out of this likely, but the only real way for her to respond.
“Step away, men!” came a female’s voice.
Ruma blinked. A female voice?
“Now!” the voice commanded. The burly warriors blocking her way stepped back. A short, squat woman, her curly brown hair spilling out over broad shoulders, came into view. She smiled at Ruma through crooked teeth, a large nose hanging over thin lips like an eagle’s beak.
Ruma inhaled sharply, narrowed her eyes. The newcomer took a step forwards, spreading her arms to the side, revealing the white Scythe carved on her chest armour. Long as it was, Ruma realised her nose wasn’t straight. Someone who wasn’t averse to brawls, then. The young woman might have been a she-bull in appearance, but she approached Ruma with the grace of a panther.
“I’ve heard a lot about you, foreigner,” she said, coming to a stop six paces from Ruma.
“Reputations have a thing for preceding truth,” replied Ruma.
The woman chuckled. “Something the both of us share.”
Ruma licked her lips, looked around. A sea of white Scythes surrounded them. The men scowled, ignored the complaints of the passers-by and the few insults floating up from far away. But they stood still, at attention, their faces watching the woman with a strange reverence. One Ruma had seen before in the eyes of those who had followed Gulatu.
Bubraza?
“I am in a bit of a hurry, Mzi,” said Ruma, placing a hand over her hip. “And I do not like being harassed in public.”
“Once we’re finished conversing,” said the woman who had to be Bubraza, Blessed Turbaza’s niece, leader of the Traditionalists, “you may leave, should you so desire. My men wouldn’t call on you again.”
“You should have started with an apology for the manner with which your men chased me,” noted Ruma, all caution thrown to the wind by a wave of red-hot anger. The smaller rational part of her noted that slight crease that formed on the younger woman’s forehead.
“The righteous do no such thing when guided by the divine spark.”
Ruma scoffed. The two women might look different, claim to have different ideologies, but in the moment, there was very little separating them.
Bubraza was glaring at her, an eyebrow arched.
Ruma drew in a long breath. For the moment, she was cornered. A small frigate held up by a capital ship’s tractor beam, held captive by a person who would have made a commander in any species’ special forces. She had to be careful here, do nothing that might jeopardise her plans. “What do you want?”
“Believers…” said Bubraza, taking a step forwards, “are an immensely useful resource to have when facing a misguided enemy.” She raised a hand, cutting off Ruma’s objections. “But pragmatic people are an even more valuable asset to possess.” Another step and the woman’s eyes twinkled. “Do you know what I’m saying?”
Ruma nodded, not quite sure she followed the young woman. Cornered as she was, it was strange to see a woman of this world so confident of her place within it. More useless thoughts flittered through her mind. How come there were no women priests in either of the two worlds? What had come off the war between the two women that had so wrecked the cause for women over eight centuries?
“What do you need?” asked Ruma.
“By the grace of Alf,” said Bubraza, raising her voice as if for the benefit of all those leaning in to catch their words, “our cause has been proven correct by the prophecy. We are both the Fire of Alf meant for all those polluting His words and the Water that would quench this ugly civil war raging between our people.” She scowled. When she spoke again, her voice was barely audible. “The Vanico Empire is marching towards the holy cities, hoping to benefit from my war with my aunt.” She hesitated for a beat, then continued. “It would look good to have one of their people in my army.”
Ruma blinked. No, the two women weren’t the same. Underneath the public persona, here was a woman who understood the value of propaganda, of deploying assets to maximise combat efficiency. All the markings of a good leader. Ruma forced a chuckle. “I am not sure I even believe in—”
“Not necessary.” Bubraza cut her off with the wave of an arm. “Alf knows what lies in the hearts of men and women. Not for me to judge or measure.”
“Change the course of—”
“I don’t think so,” said Ruma, raising a hand, fearing what the Pithrean wanted her to do here. “I’ve got plenty to do at the moment. Your affairs… are none of my concern.”
Bubraza bristled, colour rising in her face. “I do not expect an answer just yet. Think it through. You may not be from our lands, but judging by the colour of your hair, I don’t think you have much love for the Vanico Empire, either. Serving me, you would be serving your own people and helping the innocent from my aunt who would do anything—anything—to further her cause. “
Ruma slapped her hip with the right palm, a sudden anger rising within her. Why the heck did everyone in this fracking world want to control her life? Had she left the prophet behind in order to have a life of her own only to start bowing to his family? “I’ve heard enough…” she hissed, then belatedly added, “Mzi.”
Bubraza pursed her lips. For a moment, Ruma feared she’d gone too far.
“Am I free to walk away now?”
Bubraza narrowed her eyes. Then, without replying, she turned away and stomped off.
Eighteen
Realisations
Waves of despair crashed over Ruma as she watched the Traditionalists marching out of Fanima. True to her word, Bubraza hadn’t chased her again since their meeting two days ago. And true to her word, Ruma hadn’t gone begging the young commander as she would have wanted Ruma to do so.
She was stuck, though, going nowhere any time soon. As the world continued to shift and turn and move, she was relegated to the role of a mere spectator, desperate not to taint it with her touch yet unable to keep events from affecting her in turn.
There were no iron or other precious metals to be found here. The blacksmithy was still shut, the only merchant she had found still without stock. No vein of ore nearby she could mine or even the mining equipment, had that been the case.
Worst was the crushing fear that even if she did forge the radio, her shout into empty space would go unanswered for tens of light years.
She was here by herself. All alone. A cold fact. Much like Gulatu had been flung into her world without a single soul to accompany him, the same fate had befallen her.
Three governor’s soldiers marched past her spot beside the road leading out of town. “—got to keep an eye out on the Blessed once they leave town after the Traditionalists.”
“Surely, they’re not going to destroy the holy tablet!”
“The scouts say otherwise.”
“May Alf protect us.”
Shaking her head, Ruma cleared her mind, unable to keep her anger down. “You fracking Pithrean,” she muttered, jabbing a finger at her temple. “Why have you brought me here? What do you want from me? Am I really all alone here?”
The First didn’t respond. A wise call, for she might very well have followed through with her earlier threat of stabbing herself to smash him out.
Her eyes fell on two women standing to her left, only their eyes peeking out of the full-face veils that they wore as mandated by some strain of Alfi faith that had thankfully not survived into her time. One of them raised a hand towards the retreating figures.
“The prophecy spoke of her…” she sobbed. “Why is she leaving us?”
“Sister, the Traditionalists will bring back the glory days of the faith,” replied the other, nodding, dabbing at her own eyes.
Ruma groaned, shifted her weight. The sun was sinking beneath the horizon, the last of its rays beginning to retract for one more day. Tarani had already risen in the east. Cian would be following soon if Ruma had calculated their cycles correctly.
She knew more numbers, of course. More depressing ones.
Three and a half trillion miles out, sixty-five degrees west of Tarani right now, was where she
’d find the Yeol Shard.
A fact none other in this world would believe or comprehend.
Ruma exhaled, rubbed her hands together as her stomach growled. In another hour or so, she’d have to find another temple that handed out both coins and food to the unfortunate members of society. Whether it was a new practise that had crept into the pure teachings of the faith or not, she was glad it existed.
The priests there had never questioned her, hadn’t belittled her for turning up day after day, but she was fast approaching a breaking point now.
She had to get out; that much was true. But all this despondence had given birth to another damned question. What in the seven hells was she doing?
What was her path?
Even if she got to her world, what was she to do? And why?
When Yaman had left her, she had a clear purpose: seek her father, demand answers from him. When she had ended up joining hands with Gulatu Koza, the man had ended up giving her another purpose: seek out why he was in her world. And in between all this, something had started to blossom between the two of them. She remembered their kiss aboard ARK Aroha as the ship was being pounded by Yeth missiles, the feel of his hand over her lower back, her flesh breaking out with goosebumps everywhere.
She had a purpose… things to look forward to.
What had gone wrong?
Reality came crashing back with a vengeance.
All that was a lifetime ago. She was here now.
“Why the heck—” she started muttering to the First, then checked herself. She didn’t really want to hear another depressing reply.
Ruma turned around. The locals were lighting up the street lamps now. To the right, far in the distance, loomed the dark hills of Mithi. Strange to think an hour there a few days ago had set this world upon a terrible precipice.
To the west, she could see cook pots and silhouettes of the Blessed army. Men who had sworn their allegiances to the wife of the prophet, one who remained hidden from the eyes of the public, commanding from the shadows.
