“Hold on!” I bellow, my voice lost in the cascading water as I struggle to catch her harness with my broken arm. “Just a couple of centimeters!”
When I reach for her, she tries to swing toward me, but the line goes slack and her harness clip fails. She flails for the rope, but misses.
With a gasp, she falls toward the water. I scream and dive after her. My body hits just after hers. The shock of the cold water and the force knock the wind out of me.
I swim deeper and deeper, losing her in the white bubbled wash, my mind going back to another dive—into a sewer—and another girl, a time when my body wasn’t hobbled. The water here is much deeper, the river infinitely wider. If I don’t reach her now, I never will.
The rope!
I feel it slither past my leg, and I grab it between my knees. Then I hook it over my shoulders and swim for the surface. A few seconds later I break free, and sucking in air, spot a service ladder bolted to the wall of the dam. I swim to it, drape the rope over a rung, and using my body weight, pull Riki-Tiki to safety.
As I pull her close, my cast wedged in the rungs, she gasps for breath. Her skin is pale, her pupils dilated with surprise. I lift her out of the water, which is turning pink from her blood.
“Hang on,” I tell her. “You’re going to be okay.”
Riki-Tiki shakes her head, shivering from the effort. “No,” she gasps. “Not okay.”
“Where’s that optimist everybody loves so much?” I try to climb higher, but the weight on her body makes her scream. “Mimi?” I ask.
“I’m sorry, cowboy.”
My throat closes, and I slip into the water with her, untying the ropes, and letting the churning water pull them away.
Riki-Tiki looks past me, her eyes drawn to the thick clouds. “I see the sun. It’s rising.” Then moving the veil aside, she slips into her imagined sunshine, and is gone.
For what seems like hours, I float on my back, clutching Riki-Tiki’s limp body to my chest, kicking and resting, kicking and resting until my toes finally touch solid ground. Exhausted to the point of delirium, I stagger to my feet, carrying Riki-Tiki in my arms.
I fall to my knees in the grass. An untold number of minutes pass as I catch my breath and regain an iota of strength.
“This is not your fault,” Mimi says.
“We both know that’s a lie.”
Then, when I’m finally ready to go, I spot Stain on the opposite side of the wide river, wet and angry, staring at me. I try to return the stare, the acid anger, but it isn’t in me anymore.
Instead, I turn away, ashamed, the wide gap of the river separating us. When I look up again, he has vanished, a wisp of smoke that mixes with the rising mists and dissipates.
“Mimi,” I say. “Find a way out of here.”
“There is an access tunnel ten meters ahead,” she says. “What about Stain?”
“I’m done with him,” I say, heading for the access tunnel that would lead eventually to my motorbike and the path that Ghannouj prophesied I would have to take.
Chapter 25
Hawera Hydroelectric Complex
Zealand Prefecture
ANNOS MARTIS 238. 7. 27. 20:25
“Now you’re going to get it,” Duke says as a stolen CorpCom Hellbender crisscrosses the landing pad on the dam’s observation deck. Zealand’s corporate logo has been painted over, a scorpion stenciled above it.
“Shut up, Duke,” Archibald says, the rotor chop buffeting his cape. “If I had realized earlier that you were Lyme’s mole, I would’ve had you executed.”
The copter lands. The pilot cuts the engines, and the rotors begin to slow. Duke grabs Archibald by the arm and hauls him forward to the velocicopter.
“Tell me to shut up again, Archie,” he says, “and that execution’s going to be yours.”
At the rear of the copter, a cargo bay opens, and two Sturmnacht step down a ramp.
“He’s all yours,” Duke tells them, then heads back to the observation deck.
“What’s going on here?” Archibald demands as the soldiers begin frisking him. “I will not be treated like street vermin!”
“Shut up,” the ranking soldier says. He searches Archibald and his coat, finding nothing but his lighter. “Up the ramp. Mr. Lyme’s waiting.”
Archibald swallows hard and hesitates. The soldier seems to sense his panic and raises his weapon as a warning. Archibald walks slowly up the ramp into the cargo bay.
Inside, the light is low, and it stinks like fuel and moldy cloth. Lyme is relaxing in a jump seat, wearing a pilot’s helmet, his face masked in shadow.
“Where is my prisoner?” Lyme asks.
The words stick in Archibald’s mouth.
“Answer me.”
Licking his lips with a dry tongue, Archibald says, “He escaped, Mr. Lyme.”
“So Duke tells me,” Lyme says. “He has told me other things, Archibald, disappointing things. You swore to serve me well.”
“But I did!” His voice rises an octave. “I burned a swath from Tharsis Two to here!”
“And yet, you are incapable of capturing one human being?” Lyme sighs. He rubs his chin with the backs of his fingers. “So my prisoner is gone. The question becomes, What have you done to recover him?”
“Recover him?” Archibald’s voice squeaks. “Sir, he jumped from the dam and landed in the river wash. When the body surfaces, we—”
“Idiot! He is a Regulator. A little fall into a river is not going to kill him.” Lyme pauses to compose himself. “What you fail to understand, Archibald, is the predicament you find yourself in. You disobeyed me.”
“No, sir, I—”
“Lied to me. Failed me. Put this operation in jeopardy by deceiving me about this female Regulator of yours. What were you thinking?”
“I—”
“You weren’t thinking at all!” Lyme leaps from the jump seat, grabs Archibald by the throat, and slams him against the ceiling. Lights dance in his eyes, and he tugs on Lyme’s hands, trying to pry his fingers loose. “If you had been, you would realize that your every move has been monitored and scrutinized! My eye has never left you!”
Archibald claws at the armor covering Lyme’s arm, kicking his feet to gain any purchase, then abruptly, Lyme drops him like a bag of trash. Gagging, he scoots away, realizing that this madman is going to kill him.
“Fortunately for you,” Lyme says, his voice now calm, “I believe in redemption. Do you understand what I mean?”
Archie tries to speak, but it feels like choking on ash. He shakes his head no, because he has no idea what Lyme means or what he wants. It only matters that he not order the Sturmnacht to open fire.
“Even though you have failed me,” Lyme says, “there is a job that only you can do well. Accept it, and you will earn your way back into my good graces. Decline, and—well, let’s say that you will follow the same path that the Regulator took. Are you a good swimmer?”
Archibald crawls to his knees, head down. “No, Mr. Lyme.”
“As long as we understand each other.” He signals the pilot to start the engine. “Now about the female: You have no time for such distractions. Get rid of her and await further orders.”
“But she has nothing to do with—”
“No buts, Archibald. Greatness requires sacrifice.” The rotors reach full speed and the pilot signals that he’s ready to take off. Lyme opens his jacket and removes a thin packet of needles. “Neurotoxin darts. My own recipe adapted from shock trooper needle cannons. These will accomplish the task quickly and painlessly, which is what a dedicated public servant deserves.”
Archibald accepts the packet. He starts to open it, when Lyme clears his throat.
“Be careful. One prick, and we won’t have to bother with the river.” Lyme waves his hand. “You’re dismissed.”
His feet heavy, his throat raw, and his head stinging from cracking against the roof, Archibald shuffles down to the end of the ramp. The Sturmnacht bump him as they walk b
ack inside.
As the ramp begins to rise, Lyme calls out. “One more thing—the demolition crews have begun working on a little fireworks show to end the Spirit Festival. By this time tomorrow, the Hawera Dam will cease to exist. Make sure that your work is done by then.”
The Hellbender rises into the clouds. A peel of thunder shakes the sky, and as the rain comes, the Sturmnacht hustle for cover. Rain soaks Archibald’s hair and cloak as he strides away.
No, Mr. Lyme, I will not disappoint you, he thinks as he slides the packet of needles into his pocket, but I’ll not be doing away with my angel, and I will not be taking any more orders from you.
Chapter 26
Tengu Monastery, Noctis Labyrinthus
Zealand Prefecture
ANNOS MARTIS 238. 7. 28. 11:03
Like the clash of a gong, thunder rolls across the sky as I help Shoei, Yadokai, and Ghannouj—all of them dressed in white linen robes with red sashes—carry a funeral bier draped with a red shroud down the path from the temple. As the others chant prayers, we walk the bier across the monastery grounds, through the rows of beehives, to the final terrace, where a set of stairs is carved out of the side of the mountain.
Lightning splits the sky, and mist covers the stairs, water trickling down the stone steps, soaking the monks’ bare feet. My boots are loud in comparison, and I’m ashamed when my heavy soles slap against the thin puddles.
When we reach the top of the stairs, the monks fall silent. I can’t tell what they’re thinking or how they feel because from the moment I returned to this place, Shoei and Yadokai have shunned me. Not that I blame them.
They carry on as though this were any funeral. In their place, I would be attacking me.
“That’s why you’re a soldier,” Mimi says.
She’s right. For good or for bad, that’s what I am, and that’s why I see the world so differently than they do.
The mists are thick and swirling as we walk through a forest of tall, narrow stone buildings, most under seven stories, each adorned with a lightning rod. There are hundreds. Some are crumbling from exposure to the elements. Others are comparatively new. All of them are marked with the year and the name of the interred, and they are carved with incantations and prayer words meant to guide the dead past the veil.
“What is this place?” I ask Mimi.
But it’s Ghannouj who breaks the silence. “They are called pagodas. Tombs for former abbots and distinguished monks. Here you will find the remains of those who have given their lives in service of the Tengu. Warriors, scholars, healers. Even the great Rinpoche and his consort Nyingmamo are entombed here.”
We reach a steeper, more narrow set of stairs. At the top is a newly built pagoda, its pedestal painted bright pink. The pigment is fresh, and in places, the swirling mists wash it away, forming rivulets of pink water that run along the cobblestones surrounding the pagoda.
I think about returning Riki-Tiki’s body to the monks. About the questions they asked, and the evasive answers I gave. When they asked how she died, I said one of the Sturmnacht killed her. I didn’t say that Vienne had fired the shot. They didn’t need to know that Vienne had betrayed them.
“You should tell the truth,” Mimi says. “Vienne would not want you to lie to protect her.”
“Vienne shot someone she loved.” I shift the weight of the bier on my shoulder. “I’m not going to defile her memory.”
“Vienne isn’t dead.”
“If she had any inkling what she’d done,” I say, “she would want to be.”
“Are you talking about her? Or yourself?”
“Stow it, Mimi. Or so help me, I’ll shut you down.”
She has enough sense not to reply.
The pagoda stands seven stories high, with a ring-shaped lightning rod capped by an ornate finial in the shape of a flower.
I spot a small arched door. It is open. Riki-Tiki’s name is written above it.
“You had a tomb ready for her?” I ask Ghannouj. “The tea leaves foretold her death?”
“This was to be my tomb.” His eyes stay straight ahead. “It is a great honor to give it to Riki-Tiki.”
“If you give away your tomb, then—”
“Where will I be entombed?” He looks at me, eyebrows raised. “Perhaps I will live long enough to make a new tomb. Perhaps I will take my final slumber with the bees. It is not an unpleasant thought.”
On his signal, they slide the bier into the tomb, and Ghannouj closes the door. He uses a wooden handle to fasten the lock, then breaks the handle off.
The monks sit on the ground, legs folded in lotus position, arms held shoulder high, palms facing out. Shoei and Yadokai face Ghannouj, who begins a chant, and they follow him. I back away and stand to the side, arms folded, near a scraggly pine tree, its limbs twisted and malformed from growing in imperfect conditions.
The soupy mists swirl around, veiling the tomb, and covering the monks in a shroud. In a few minutes, the mist becomes a thick fog. I begin to lose sight of the monks all together.
“How long, Mimi?” I say, growing antsy.
“Their prayers are guiding Riki-Tiki to the spirit world,” she says. “Be patient. You act as if her soul has a GPS.”
She’s right. “What kind of stupid, ignorant, bái mù, jiào nĭ shēng háizi zhāng zhì chuāng am I?”
“The redeemable kind.”
“I doubt it.”
“I know it,” she says. “And I have the data to prove it.”
Rain starts to fall, and the monks are standing before I realize it. The prayer is finished. They turn to go.
“Wait.” I grab Shoei’s wet sash. “I want you to know how sorry I am.”
Shoei and Yadokai trade a blank look. They are still shunning me, but they stand there in the mist as I explain how close we were to rescuing Vienne and how if it weren’t for my vertigo, we would’ve gotten her out, and Riki-Tiki wouldn’t have gotten shot. I explain that if I had been faster or smarter, Riki-Tiki would still be alive.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat.
“Riki-Tiki was the last of us,” Yadokai says. “Now what will become of the Tengu?”
The gray color in Shoei’s face deepens. She slaps me, the sound echoing through the mountainside. “Now I am sorry, too.”
She turns and runs down the stairs, pulling her robes up. Yadokai follows, calling her name.
My face is stinging. I don’t care.
Ghannouj closes his eyes and bows to me. “Forgive them.”
Shaking my head, I say, “There’s nothing to forgive. This was all my fault.”
“There is always fault, so there must always be forgiveness.” He peers into the fog. “Even for ourselves.” With that, Ghannouj bows again. Slowly, he walks down the stairs, which are turning pink from the runoff.
I wait until I can’t hear their feet on the stone before I turn back to the fog-covered tomb and make the sign of the Regulator. “Peace be with you.” It’s damn sure not going to be with me.
“They are not going to do it,” Mimi says.
I hobble down the steep stairs. “Do what?”
“Save you from your guilt.”
“Thank you, Madame Freud.” I bite the words out as I pass through the forest of the dead. “That’s not what I want.”
“Then what do you want?”
“You know the answer to that question. I want Riki-Tiki to be alive again. I want Vienne to be back, safe and whole again.” I pause to catch my breath, the bile rising in my throat. “But if I can’t have that, I want Lyme stopped. And Archie dead.”
A real hero would’ve done things differently. He would’ve found a quiet place deep in a meadow where the trees form a dense canopy and a stream runs wild nearby. He would’ve dug a grave with his own shovel and buried his friend himself, returning her body to the dirt it came from, saying a few words to celebrate her spirit. Or if she were a Regulator, the hero would build a pyre and set a torch to the remains, sending her essence to Valhalla, for acc
ording to the Tenets, in sacrificing herself for another, Riki-Tiki died the most Beautiful Death imaginable. Then, with her ashes still warm, he would’ve gotten on his motorbike, chased down the Sturmnacht, and saved Vienne from sure death.
I did nothing of the kind. Instead, I brought Riki-Tiki back to the monastery, back to the monks who had pinned their hopes and future on her. Even as a pall bearer I failed, my motorbike giving out a kilometer from the walls of the monastery, so that for the last of a trip that should be filled with glory and honor, I was forced to carry her not in my arms like she deserved, but slung over a shoulder, like a sack of rice.
For a long time, I wander through the pagodas, the rain coming down sideways, the wind whipping up, the stone path slick with mud. I’m lost. At first, I don’t care. Then when I try to find my way out, I find myself walking in circles.
“Mimi,” I say. “Got any hints?”
“Sorry, cowboy. These pagodas all have lightning rods, and it’s playing havoc with my limited telemetry.”
Splendid. Just. Splendid.
Exhausted and surrounded by the tombs of the dead, I sit on the cobblestones, put my head on my knees, and cry.
“Mimi,” I say after a few minutes. “Tell me what to do.”
“As I said, my telemetry functions are limited.”
“Not that,” I say, tucking a lock of water-logged hair behind my ear and wiping mist from my eyes. “Tell me what to do about how I feel.”
“Well,” she says, “when I actually had hands, I found that physical activity helped.”
“So you’re suggesting that I—”
“Hit something, cowboy. For a soldier, it’s the best therapy.”
“What?” I say. “Aren’t you supposed to tell me to focus to my chi or something?”
“Have you not been listening? The Tengu are the forebears of the Regulators, and they are called warrior monks for a reason,” she says. “Even they know that there are times when the best way to focus your chi is to whale away on something.”
Invisible Sun Page 22
