by K. Makansi
With the radio on, Eli and Zoe fuss over their antiquated video feed to see if they can set up a visual while cranking up the volume as loud as it will go. We crane our heads forward. I find myself pushed up against my father and Soren, whose body seems to hollow out a space for me, as we all wait.
“Citizens of Okaria! Farmers, workers, scientists, all.” It’s Philip Orleán, Vale’s father. His voice sounds like warm honey through the speakers. It quavers with both confidence and fear. It’s the kind of voice that could lead you off the edge of a cliff and make you glad you jumped.
I wonder if Vale is somewhere listening.
“I speak to you today not only as the chancellor of the Okarian Sector, but as a father. Today, I am saddened to be the bearer of grim news, both for my family and for the Sector at large. Valerian Augustus Orleán, the Director of the Seed Bank Protection Project, valedictorian graduate of the Academy, our state’s most prestigious institution of learning, better known to many of you as Vale—my own son—” his voice shakes with unabated emotion “—has been taken hostage.”
Just then, the tiny plasma screen—not even three dimensional, it’s so old-fashioned—flares up, and Philip’s face, lined with worry and sadness, appears in front of us.
The first thing I feel is rage.
Philip Orleán, the man who promised me a bowl of fresh figs if I betrayed my friends, my family, and everything I believe in. Who electrocuted me when I refused. Who pleaded innocent to the charge of my sister’s death.
Philip Orleán, the liar.
At his side, a little behind him, sits Corine, his wife, the woman who gave the orders that claimed my sister’s life. And my mother’s. The woman who ordered Chan-Yu to kill me and Soren. The Orleáns’ death toll continues to grow, I think, closing my eyes for a moment. How many more will die at their hands?
“Vale has been missing for just over four weeks. Terrorists have penetrated our deepest levels of security to take one of our most valuable citizens hostage, to hold us as a society hostage as we desperately negotiate for his safe return. These rebels, these guerilla fanatics, seek to dismantle the institutions we’ve built and to plunge us back into a time of starvation and chaos. We will never allow it.
“In the last few weeks, we’ve done everything possible to find answers, to discover Vale’s whereabouts, to find out how and why he was taken. It is with the deepest sadness and regret that I inform you that we have all been betrayed—that my son has been betrayed—by someone we once considered one of our own, a friend—both of the Sector and of our family. Jeremiah Sayyid, an engineer from the fourth quadrant of Okaria.”
Miah gasps. His face is ashen, and he looks like he might throw up. The room buzzes for a moment, before we all go silent again, straining to hear more.
“His father, Ezekiel Sayyid, is a known member of the increasingly well-organized terrorist network actively working to destroy the Sector. Jeremiah and Valerian both disappeared on the same day. Our intelligence now shows conclusively, though we don’t want to believe it, that Jeremiah is complicit in and central to the hostage-capture of our beloved son.” Here Philip’s voice cracks. He stares up at the elegant, arching interior of the Sector’s gorgeous Capital building, and blinks for a moment. Elsewhere in the room, someone conjures up a wad of saliva and spits it on the floor, summing up my feelings. I remember doing the same thing across the desk from Philip, not so long ago, before he slapped a few capacitors on me and turned up the charge.
“Jeremiah Sayyid was a friend of ours. He was welcomed into our home on too many occasions to count. He dined with us, celebrated with us, and seemed by all accounts to be a talented young man with great promise. How wrong we were only proves how deeply this terrorist group can corrupt…..
The sound goes dead and Zoe smacks the side of the audio unit with her hand.
“…lurk in the shadows of our society, growing in strength and number as vulnerable citizens are attracted to their empty promises. They don’t offer freedom or safety or protection, but a fast track to destruction and disease, a return to famine, to bloodshed, to a time of want and war.”
I clutch my father’s hand, close my eyes, and imagine watching Philip at the podium, in person. If I had stayed, would I believe him? Would his words strike fear in me?
“Citizens,” his voice crackles through the speakers. “This is a dark time for my family, and if we do not address this threat, it could prove to be a dark time for the Sector as well. But rest assured, we are hot on the terrorists’ heels. We will track Jeremiah and Ezekiel Sayyid down and hold them accountable for their crimes against the Sector—for their crimes against you, our people. We will find Vale and bring him home. Together, we the citizens of the Okarian Sector will not let these deluded fanatics return us to the dark ages of the past. Together, we will work for a brighter, more secure and prosperous future. As always ‘May we gain strength from the sowing, resilience from the reaping, and hope from the harvest.’ Good night.”
“Bastard.” A voice breaks the stillness. It’s my dad, who never curses. He hates it when Phillip quotes his poem, the poem that earned him his post as the Sector’s poet laureate.
The sounds dim for a moment, as Philip retreats from the podium and takes Corine’s hand. Wrapped in their long fur coats and warm leather gloves, they hold their hands high, together, a sign of resilience and strength.
After a long moment of fraught silence in the comm room, the vidscreen dies.
“Damn it,” Eli says, loudly. “I knew that piece of junk wouldn’t last long.”
Then I hear Linnea Heilmann’s perky voice through the radio, gilded with newsworthy suspense: “I am Linnea Heilmann, and that was Philip Orleán, Chancellor of the Okarian Sector, announcing the kidnapping of his own son and Sector Board Member, Valerian Orleán, by anti-Sector terrorists living in our midst.” She pauses, one of those calculated breaks to make everyone lean in a little closer. “Over the past few years, Sector intelligence agents have been conducting undercover investigations into the disappearances of several noted Sector citizens. Now we know the truth. This terrorist group—the Resistance, as they call themselves—is kidnapping them. But why? What does a ragtag group of resistance fighters hope to accomplish by holding our citizens hostage for months, sometimes years at a time? What are their demands? Why do they hide in the shadows? Those are just a few of the questions Sector Defense Forces and OAC Security personnel seek to answer. Until we get answers, we urge you to keep your eyes and ears open, your doors locked, and your hearts with those who have disappeared. Now, let’s welcome the young woman whose former boyfriend has betrayed the Sector, Miss Moriana Nair.”
Miah, his face like the color of flour, takes a step back from the radio, almost falling against the wall.
“Moriana attended the prestigious Okarian Academy as well as the Sector Research Institute with both Jeremiah Sayyid and Valerian. Hello, Moriana.”
“Linnea,” comes Moriana’s voice through the radio. I haven’t heard her voice in years. My thoughts fly out to Jahnu, Moriana’s cousin, wherever he is. I spare a moment and a silent hope that he’s all right.
“She hates Linnea,” Miah says, his voice somewhere between panicked and hyperventilating. “Why is she doing this?”
“You think she has a choice?” Soren asks sharply.
Sweat beads on Miah’s brow and Zoe, still sitting at the controls, looks up at him with pity. She stands, scoots her chair toward him, and he plops onto it.
“Why do you think Jeremiah turned against the Sector? What do you believe drove him to kidnap his best friend?” Linnea begins.
“There must be a misunderstanding. Miah couldn’t hurt anyone if he wanted to. He’s the sweetest person I’ve ever met in my life, and he loves Vale. I just can’t believe it. It’s not possible.” At Moriana’s words, Miah releases a long, relieved breath, grateful, I’m sure, that she, at least, doesn’t believe Philip Orleán.
“So how do you explain his disappearance? D
id he give you any hint he was leaving? Were there any clues? Do you think he was jealous of Vale?”
“No, of course not!”
“Jealousy can be a powerful motivator. Is it possible Jeremiah was tired of living in Vale’s shadow? Could that be what motivated him to turn against the Sector?”
“Linnea, he wouldn’t have—” There’s desperation and confusion in her voice. I wish for everything the plasma screen hadn’t gone out when it did. I wish I could see her face. Miah’s staring into the distance as though he’s trying to murder Linnea just by thinking really hard.
“What gives you so much faith in this man, who Sector intelligence teams have concluded is guilty?”
“If he did it, he must have been forced into it. Maybe the terrorists tortured him or threatened his father or something. But Miah would never willingly hurt or betray Vale.”
“But would he betray the Sector? After all, his father is a known terrorist.”
“No, he—”
“My understanding is that you’ve been one of Vale’s closest friends for many years as well. If Jeremiah Sayyid didn’t kidnap him, how do you explain Vale’s disappearance?”
“I don’t know. They were there one night—at the Solstice Ball—and then they weren’t.” Her voice breaks. “Something else must have happened. It’s just not possible that Miah—”
“I know this is painful for you, but there’s one more thing I need to bring up. Soren Skaarsgard.” In our crowded little comm center, two dozen faces turn immediately to Soren. His blue eyes crystallize in that instant, his entire body tenses as he focuses his frozen gaze on me. “Soren, the only son of former Chancellor Cara Skaarsguard, was once a rising star within the Sector Research Institute. Many speculated he might follow in his mother’s footsteps into the College of the Deans. Jeremiah and Soren were close friends before Soren went missing. Don’t you think it’s just a little too coincidental that both of Jeremiah’s best friends—both from politically connected families—suddenly disappeared?”
“I don’t have any idea why Soren disappeared, but that was a long time ago! That has nothing to do with—”
“I’m sorry, Moriana, but that’s all the time we have. Thank you for agreeing to talk with us. I know this must be difficult for you.”
“Lin—”
“Fellow citizens, that was Moriana Nair, former girlfriend of Sector traitor Jeremiah Sayyid. Stay tuned for the latest news of Valerian Orleán’s abduction. This is Linnea Heilmann. Goodnight for now.”
5 - VALE
Winter 32, Sector Annum 106, 05h11
Gregorian Calendar: January 21
Blue, glittering twilight settles on us like a pall. Every shifting shadow unnerves me, a potential threat, an enemy waiting for the kill. Earlier, we were the predators—now we’re prey. We’ve been on the move for an hour, stopping only once for a quick drink. Firestone’s holding up fairly well, though I can hear him cursing under his breath—words I’ve never even heard from Sector soldiers—so I know he’s in a lot of pain. We’re all getting tired. But we have to press on. As far as we can before we collapse—as far away from the soldiers responsible for destroying Waterloo as possible.
I glance at the sky, barely visible through the trees. We’ve got insulated, camouflaged tents, and the canopy is dense enough that I don’t think we’ll need to worry about drones tonight. But soldiers are another matter. I don’t think they’ll be following us this far into the Wilds—Sector soldiers aren’t as good in the Wilds as they like to think they are—but I don’t want to take chances.
I run alongside Kenzie and Jahnu, as Firestone huffs his way through the trees, until finally he collapses and falls into a heap by the roots of a towering tree.
Kenzie and Jahnu are at his side before I can even call to them. Firestone looks dazed. His eyes are glazed over and distant.
“Dehydration,” I say immediately, watching his eyes. “Side effect of severe burns.”
“And exhaustion,” Kenzie says, impatient. She pulls out her water canteen and hands it to Firestone. “Drink,” she says curtly. “We’ve been running nonstop for over an hour, after a hard day’s walk and the heat of that fight back there. We all need to rest.”
“Goddamn,” Firestone swears, no longer under his breath.
“Good time to stop,” I say.
“About time,” Kenzie responds, as though I had been the one prodding them on for the last few miles. “It’s past dark, and we can’t keep moving like this.”
“Why the fuck didn’t you say so before,” Firestone says loudly, his eyes still unfocused.
Kenzie and Jahnu look at each other.
“We need to make camp,” she says. “Get some salt and clean water in him. He needs electrolytes.” She looks up at Jahnu. “You guys find us a spot to camp. I’ll stay with Firestone.”
Firestone waves a hand in Kenzie’s face, laughing wearily. “I’m not at death’s door. Quit talking about me like I’m not here.”
“You better not be at death’s door,” Kenzie says. “You’d never live it down, dying because you hadn’t had a drink all day.”
“Ha ha. I’ll take a drink. A stiff one, please.”
Jahnu and I split up, taking care not to go too far, looking for a flat area big enough for us to pitch our tents, but small enough for us to remain hidden in the underbrush. It’s not long before I hear Jahnu’s whistle.
While Kenzie tends Firestone, Jahnu and I unpack and set up camp. The spot Jahnu’s picked is under an enormous old tree trunk that fell into the arms of another tree. It’ll be a tight squeeze, with both tents tucked under the old canopy, but it’ll give us an additional screen from anyone who might be tracking us.
The four of us squeeze into one tent to tend to Firestone and share what little provisions we have left. Firestone looks much better now that he’s not moving anymore. He’s laughing again, and swearing a lot, which tells me he’s mostly back to normal. Once Kenzie realizes that he’s not in danger of fainting, she pulls an aloe ointment out of her pack and starts slathering it over the burn on his shoulder.
“Fuck!” he swears. “That shit hurts like hell.” Jahnu and I look at each other and smile. As long as Firestone is cursing, we know he’ll be okay.
“It’s antibacterial,” she says, looking at him apologetically. “We have to clean and dress the burn.”
“Hey, Firestone. What was it you were chewing and rubbing on your shoulder earlier?” I ask.
“Plaintain leaves. Common weed, grows all over. Just like dreamweed. It’s antibacterial, too, but it soothes the burn. Doesn’t bite like whatever evil concoction Dr. Kenzie Oban’s got here. But you gotta macerate it to release the juices and oils. That’s why I was chewing it. Works well enough, though.”
“Human saliva can help, too, which probably makes the plantain leaves more effective,” Kenzie adds.
“You gonna start spitting at me now?” Firestone pulls back in mock terror.
“If you don’t sit still, I might,” Kenzie says.
Firestone stills and turns to me. “So V, you’re our resident Sector expert,” Firestone says, using the abbreviation he’s become fond of. I can’t tell yet if it’s a term of endearment or ridicule. I’m hoping it’s the former, but Firestone’s easy attitude never gives much away. “What the hell happened back there?”
“I’d guess roughly the same thing as happened at Thermopylae. As an above-ground structure, Waterloo would have been a lot easier to find than Thermopylae. Even disguised as a run-down old shed. They probably sent some drones to take photos, do surveillance, and then sent in a few squads of soldiers once they figured it out.”
There’s a long silence as Kenzie dresses Firestone’s burn. The pressure in the little tent seems to be building. I’m sweating and clammy. Remembering the devastation at Thermopylae always brings up tension, and I can’t help but feel responsible.
“We need more water,” Jahnu says, breaking the silence.
“There’s a littl
e stream not far,” I respond. “I found it when I was looking for a spot. I’ll go fill our canteens.”
I duck out before anyone can object. I flip on the tiny biolight in my pocket, which is just bright enough to illuminate the path at my feet. As I walk, I allow myself a space to breathe, finally, and to think. My thoughts bleed together as I walk through the darkness. A directionless apathy gnaws at me. It occurs to me that from here, we have at least a two-day journey ahead of us to make it to Normandy. And that’s if we make it without any further mishaps. I kneel to fill our canteens, wondering how we’ll make it through the woods with so little food left and Firestone hurt to boot.
Lost in the woods. Something jogs in my memory.
If you should ever find yourself lost in the woods, this may help. Chan-Yu’s last words to me when I confronted him in the Sector capital building. I drop our full canteens and pull out the acorn pendant he gave me then. It’s been hanging around my neck, largely forgotten, until now. I hold it up in front of me, turn it over in my hands, press the metal between my fingertips, examine it closely. In the dim biolight, I look at it closely for the first time. Green and gold enamel decorate the surface. The acorn’s ‘hat’ is lightly indented, just like a real nut would be.
I hold it up above me and look at it from the bottom. This time I notice something I hadn’t seen before. A tiny lever, or a switch, almost invisible in the darkness. Using my fingernail, I pry it from right to left, holding my breath. Will it light up? Explode? Turn into something else—a compass, maybe? At this point, I’d give anything for a magical genie to appear and grant me three wishes. But nothing happens. I turn it over in my hand again, but the miniscule switch is, again, the only thing I notice. I sigh, wondering if it’s broken, or maybe just a design flaw. I tuck it back into my shirt and head back to camp.
