by S. S. Segran
“What did you talk about?” Victor pressed.
“Before you ask,” Kenzo said, “no, I didn’t get much out of him. Figured it wouldn’t be smart to go plunging off the deep end immediately. He wanted to learn more about me and my past and whatever.”
“Not bad. Not bad at all.” Victor paused. “Do you know anything about a place called the Heart?”
“I’ve heard of it, but if you’re asking about a location, I got nothing. Sorry.”
Victor twisted the silver rings on his middle fingers. His Adam’s apple pulsed in his throat, and Aari suddenly realized the man was anxious. Worried, even.
“I’ll need you to get that information from Dr. Nate,” Victor said quietly.
There was dead air on the other end. Aari thought Kenzo had hung up out of pure fear at the request, but after what felt like an eon, the boy sighed. “Okay. But why him?”
“He’s probably the only other person besides the Boss who knows where the Heart is.”
“Alright, well—oh, wait! He might not be the only one, actually. There’s a chance that Arianna could know. She worked there before being transferred to this Sanctuary.”
Victor’s face relaxed into a mask of inscrutability once more. “Even better. And you’re close with her?”
“We’re pretty tight, yeah. I don’t think she’d look at me wrong if I asked some questions.”
“Good. Do it.”
“Give me a couple of days.”
“We’re flying out soon. You’ve got one.”
Kenzo sighed again. “Alright. But if my cover gets blown and I’m compromised because I had to rush this, it’s on you.”
“I can live with that,” Victor said.
Strangely, though, Aari was almost certain he could not.
Marshall sliced through the dense undergrowth, hacking a path for himself and Nadia through the lowland evergreen rainforest. The machete had grown cumbersome in his hand but he wasn’t tired enough to suggest they take a break. Besides, with the way Nadia forged along with her backpack full of distributable cure like it weighed nothing, the last thing he wanted was to show his depleting stamina.
The heady, post-rainfall scent filled his nose as he inhaled deeply. Water droplets sometimes fell from the tall canopy of teak and rattan trees, startling him whenever they landed on his hat. The bugs—good grief, the bugs—seemed to adore his foreign presence as they hovered around him eagerly.
“Nadi,” he complained, slashing through an incoming swarm, “why isn’t the bug spray working?”
Behind him, Nadia gave a short chuckle. “I guess even with all that on, you’re still irresistible.” Then, as if in hasty afterthought, she added, “To them.”
Marshall was about to crack a remark but ended up choking on a flying monstrosity that had decided to kamikaze into his open mouth. He hacked and coughed and spluttered until he was sure the bug was gone.
Nadia cackled. “Need a break?”
“I’m fine,” he grumbled. “Let’s just communicate through hand signals from now on.”
The forest occasionally thinned out enough for them to see swaths of plantations in the distance. Other times, they were surrounded by mountains wrapped in afternoon mist. Southeast Sulawesi was one of many Indonesian provinces to have been hit hard by the virus. Over a million casualties had been officially recorded, almost halving the population. Nadia suspected the total count was much higher, as accounting for everyone on the island was almost impossible.
The Sentries had already distributed the cure to the remnants of a few remote villages earlier in the day. Those had been accessible by roads, making the trek easier, especially since they had a car. Their luck ran out with the last couple of communities they needed to visit, which were only reachable on foot.
“How much further?” Marshall asked as he navigated through a grove of bamboo stalks, admiring their height.
The sound of paper unfolding preceded Nadia’s breezy voice. “Another two kilometers, by the Mekongga Mountains. Sorry, I mean about a mile.”
“Hey, just so you know, some Americans can work with the metric system. Will we make it back to the plane before the sun goes down?”
“Yes. Believe me, this is the last place I want to be at night.”
Somewhere out of sight, a group of excited macaques chattered in grunting calls and coos. Yet again, Marshall couldn’t help but draw parallels to Africa, and his thoughts inevitably returned to the friends.
Nadia lightly tugged on his short hair from behind. He threw an astonished glance over his shoulder. “You could tell?”
“That your mind went off on an unpleasant little walk?” she said. “Yes. Your shoulders usually start to rise and tighten when that happens.”
He realized she was right and immediately dropped the tension from his body, rolling his head to loosen the stiffness in his neck and jaw.
Out of nowhere, a large-tusked pig darted out of the brush and skittered past them, tail straight up in alarm. The Sentries exchanged uncertain looks.
“Any dangerous animals around here?” Marshall asked, lowering his voice and gripping his machete with both hands.
Nadia held onto the shoulder straps of her backpack and crept in the direction the hog had emerged from, pushing through the thick foliage. He trailed her closely, ready to pull her out of harm’s way.
She blew a raspberry and stepped through the leafy barrier. “That pig gave me a scare. Assalamualaikum!”
When Marshall joined her, she was greeting a sweaty local by a large tree. The man was deeply tanned, wore dirty beige trousers with a long-sleeved shirt, and had a tall, woven basket fastened to his back. Marshall noticed the latex gloves he sported, which he seemed to be trying to hide.
As Nadia chatted, the man kept up a polite tone but shifted his weight from foot to foot. When she removed her backpack and reached in, he waved his hand hastily and bowed his head, then turned and hurried off through the trees, his basket jostling as he disappeared from sight.
Marshall blinked. “What was that about?”
“It’s strange,” Nadia murmured. “I asked what he was doing. He said he was working but refused to go further. When I asked if he was from a village around here, he started talking nonsense. I tried to offer him the cure. He just told me not to worry about it and that he had to leave.”
“That’s definitely strange. Did you notice his gloves?”
Nadia didn’t seem to hear him. She closed in on where the man had been standing and bent down. With a gasp, she yanked a large leaf free from a nearby plant and used it to scoop something off the forest floor, holding it out to Marshall. In the center of the leaf was a black wasp the length of his index finger. It opened its wings and zipped into the air, vanishing into the greenery.
Nadia got up and dusted her hands. “That’s very interesting.”
“What is?”
“That,” she said, “was the Megalara. It’s a species that was discovered not long ago. Scientists call it the king of wasps. It can only be found in this part of the world. Literally, in this province, by the Mekongga Mountains.”
“That’s . . . neat?”
“Marshall, these wasps have never been seen alive.”
“Okay, now I actually do mean it when I say that’s neat.”
Nadia indicated where the man had disappeared. “That wasp fell out of his basket. Why would he be collecting these unbelievably rare bugs in the middle of nowhere? And why was he so quick to turn down the cure for a deadly virus?”
Marshall squinted. “Hold on. Where are you going with this?”
“Let’s find out where he’s heading.”
“Nadi . . .”
“With that heavy thing he has to carry, I don’t think his destination is too far. We should follow him.”
Marshall pulled a face. “I’m not sure that’s wise. Maybe he’s just got a buyer for these things. Lei Shao, one of the Sentries from China was once hunting down poachers in Asia who went after rare c
reatures for traditional medicine. Rarer the creature, higher the value. That could be the case here. Should we really start straying off course just to follow a—”
Nadia was already trotting away. He stuttered and raced after her. “Nadi! Okay, fine! But we need to get the cure to those villagers!”
She grinned as he caught up with her. “I know.”
They jogged through the forest, following the trail the man had left in his rush. The sound of waves lapping grew steadily closer until the sandy shore of an isolated beach came into view through the trees. They crouched low and peeked out at the scene twenty meters away.
The local they had met earlier stood thigh-deep in water, handing off his cargo to a blonde woman in semi-casual clothing on a speedboat. A straw hat shaded the top half of her face. She opened the basket, inspected its contents, then secured it before placing it inside the boat. Hoisting a thick wad of bills, she passed them to the man before shaking hands with him.
Nadia leaned in close and whispered. “What do you think now?”
Marshall sucked in his cheeks, watching the local walk around the curve of the beach and out of sight. “Too many questions. Any other time, I’d say this is a reach, but . . . a guy who won’t accept our cure, delivers what’s probably a basketful of rare bugs to a foreigner, gets paid handsomely for it—all in the midst of a global crisis?”
“Exactly. It’s too weird. We need to find out more. If there’s even the smallest chance . . .”
The roar of a motor signaled the speedboat’s departure. Nadia looked ready to leap from cover and run after it. “How do we follow them? There’s no other boat around here.”
Marshall scanned the shoreline. “Leave that to me. How’s your arm strength?”
“Um . . . good, I think? I’ve been using the same regimen since my Air Force service. Why?”
“Because you’re going to have to grab on tight. And I hope you can hold your breath for a while—we’ll be underwater quite a bit.”
Before she could protest, Marshall took her arm and ran out onto the beach.
Jag went limp as an overwhelming sense of drowsiness closed in around him. The silicone band around his head and neck loosened, and two pairs of hands lifted his leaden body into a wheelchair. He was rolled out of his room, down the bright hallway, and into a second chamber where he was placed on a narrow bed and strapped down.
Blurred faces above him murmured to one another as blood was drawn from his arm. Next, electrodes were attached to his head and chest. Even in his sluggish, anesthetized state, he still remembered the order in which he would be examined. After the initial around of tests, he would be put through a PET scan, and then returned to the CUBE where he’d be mercifully left alone.
How many times are they going to keep doing this? he wondered wearily. Not that finding out really mattered; in his state, he could do nothing except give in to the drugs they pumped him full of.
And that was exactly what he did.
When he came to, he was gazing out over an expansive golf course and a sea lit by the bright sun. A breeze ruffled his hair. He breathed in as deeply as he could, reveling in the fresh air and the warmth of the light. The blue sky—real blue sky, not the high-definition imitation shown on the flat screen in his room—was a sight for sore eyes. He would have cried if he had the energy.
His wrists and legs were bound to a wheelchair. He jiggled them, but his abilities remained dormant. Disappointed, he looked around and saw that he’d been parked beside a bench at the top of a hill. Seated on the bench was the old man, Reyor’s mentor. He regarded Jag calmly. “You’re awake.”
Jag grunted. “Why am I out here?”
“I thought you might like a change of scenery.”
“How nice of you.”
“Hm.” There was the barest hint of amusement in the man’s eyes. “I’m assuming you’re already working out a way to get free, so let me tell you this right now, just once: don’t even think about it.”
Jag gave him a foul look but resigned himself to the confines of the wheelchair. He wouldn’t have been brought out into the open if there weren’t at least two or three different plans in place to neutralize him if necessary. As he cast an eye over the scenery ahead, he noticed a structure to the left of the building he’d escaped to earlier—it was wide, round and sturdy, with a royal purple canvas roof that peaked at the top.
“Is that a circus tent?” he asked, befuddled.
“Indeed it is, though it’s closer to the ancient Greek and Roman sense of the word. It’s actually more of a permanent fixture than it looks.”
“But why?”
The man’s lips curled up. “The same reason we created this golf course and resort. No one will ever use it, but we needed a front to convince the local government to sell us this island. They liked the idea of tourism development, and we built it while simultaneously constructing the Heart.”
“That’s a lot of money to blow.”
“Only if wealth is all one cares about, which we do not. But enough about that. How do you like being out here?”
Jag considered answering sarcastically but opted not to. “It’s good. Helps me feel a little better.”
“I suspected you would appreciate it. I do regret putting you through all this, you know. But I need to find out everything I can about you and what makes you so special.”
“Sure. Though I doubt you brought me here out of the kindness of your heart. What do you want?”
“Astute. I wish to talk, and I prefer being where there is fresh air.”
“I’m so tired of talking. I don’t want to talk.”
“You don’t have to. I will. All you have to do is listen.”
“What, is this the part where the villain does his monologue?”
“You’ve watched too many films,” the man sighed. “I am not a villain, though I will admit that I have done some terrible things in my life.”
“Right.” Jag gave him a proper once-over. “You do realize that you know a lot about me but I know barely anything about you, yeah? You’ve never even told me your name and I’ve been stuck in this place for a while.”
“Let’s rectify that, then. I am one of the survivors who made the voyage to the shores of North America after our original island home was destroyed. In essence, you could say that I am one of the founders of Dema-Ki.”
“That means you’re . . . wait, no, that’s not right.” Jag leaned away. “That would make you over two thousand years old. That’s not possible.”
“I can assure you it is, but only because I have something inside me that has sustained me for this long. Now be quiet and listen.”
His mind blank in disbelief, Jag could only oblige.
The man withdrew a couple of small objects from the pocket of his pants. “The day it happened—the day the volcano erupted and took away my home—was my twin daughters’ birthday. They’d turned ten years old.” He held up two gold dragonfly pendants. “I was heading back to our abode to celebrate when the volcano woke. I stood there, watching the ash fall and the lava racing toward the city. Though I wanted to run to my family, the Custodian of the temple demanded I help him retrieve the crystals—the same ones you and your friends wear around your necks. He was elderly and didn’t have the ability to make it there in time. You are already aware how important those crystals are in helping to channel abilities. So I went, sprinting into the temple as it came crumbling down, and passed the goblet of crystals to him. He asked me to ensure that at least some of the Elders survived, but I needed to find my family.”
A pit grew in Jag’s stomach as the man’s tone changed.
“I ran home, calling out for them. I’d hoped they’d gotten away, but instead I found them in the cellar, dead. My wife and my little girls suffocated in the black smoke. If I hadn’t gone for the crystals, I might have been able to get them to safety.
“Fifty of the remaining Islanders and myself managed to escape on a shipping vessel that was already provision
ed to leave on a trading voyage the next day. Months later, we shored in a land we’d never been to and met people we’d never seen before. We got to know each other and our peoples became unified, moving farther inland and northward into the mountains, settling in a hidden valley. Those were . . . not good times for me. I was grieving, and though I had my sister, it hardly helped. I did end up taking another life-partner, a lovely native woman, but the void never went away. Quite the opposite. It grew, becoming darker—a black hole that I felt would consume me; that I wanted to consume me. I wanted it to take me, to put an end to my suffering. I would have done it myself but our customs hinge on the value of life, and I still had some respect left for those mores.”
The man stopped, covering his mouth with a hand as he stared out pensively at the surrounding vista. The pendants bounced in his other palm before he closed his fingers over them. “I acted as though everything was fine. I smiled, I laughed, I learned the ways of the new land and her people. Looking back now at the severity of the turbulence within me, I’m amazed at how I was able to hold myself together when I thought I’d explode at the seams at any given moment.” A shadow passed over his face. “Though I suppose it did happen eventually.”
Jag was afraid to ask, but curiosity won out. “What do you mean?”
“I had what you might call a . . . night of insanity, when complete darkness took hold.”
“Sounds real pleasant.”
“I slaughtered eleven of my people and threw their bodies into a ravine.”
Jag stared at him, not breathing. The man stared back before shifting his gaze away. “I was not fully aware of it as it happened. That night, in a mindless rage, I’d forced the resident inventor-magi to infuse me with liquified black crystal.”
“What . . . what’s that?”
“There are the individual crystals we all have, small and of different hues. But the larger black crystal acts as an amplifier that connects to them and to us and, if infused into the bloodstream, can lengthen one’s lifespan. The inventor-magi whose life I held at the tip of my sword had only managed to liquefy and administer a small piece of the crystal. But it was enough to extend my life until today. The injectant caused searing pain, from which I passed out. When I came to, the dark fog in my mind had cleared and I realized I was covered in the blood of my brethren, including the woman who’d administered the crystal. Sometime in between, I had awoken and committed heinous acts, then must have passed out again afterward. Overcome by guilt and shame that made me physically sick for centuries every time I thought about it, I got rid of their bodies so no one would know. Then I left Dema-Ki.”
