by Loren Walker
NADI
by Loren Walker
Octopus & Elephant Books
PROVIDENCE, RHODE ISLAND
Copyright © 2017 by Loren Walker.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Octopus & Elephant Books
www.oandebooks.com
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Book Layout ©2015 BookDesignTemplates.com.
Cover by Deranged Doctor Designs.
NADI/ Loren Walker. -- 1st ed.
ISBN: 978-0-9973922-2-7
For the ones that I love.
PART ONE
I.
The body was identified as Dasean Renzo Byrne, fifty-seven years old. Hair: gray. Skin: brown. Eyes: gray-green. Death was attributed to a single stab wound to the heart, severing artery and ventricle: heart failure due to internal bleeding. Defensive wounds on the knuckles of both hands. As per policy, anti-rigor serum was administered at the death scene, but blood had still pooled in the corpse’s back, the spine framed in purple.
Wife: Lora Byrne, deceased.
Next of kin: Renzo Raeden Byrne, eldest son.
The funeral was small and private, with hardly any attendees, just a few older men who shuffled into view and then faded away. A second cousin here and there, waiting for permission to escape the overwhelming cloud of white and black flowers, strategically placed to conceal the emptiness.
Renzo Byrne slipped into the reflection room, adjacent to the viewing space. Locking the door behind him, he pushed his glasses to the top of his head, rubbing his face with a deep, long sigh. Then he shrugged off his stiff jacket and undid the collar flap.
Across the room, the parlor’s public Lissome was perched on a dusty pedestal, projecting a picture slideshow. Old photos, when Dasean still had brown in his hair. With a flick of his fingers, Renzo disabled it. Then he brought up a new screen and the B-Track database, moving through rows of mugshots.
There he was, Denn Acelin. Still framed in green. The retrieval bounty was still live.
Come on, Renzo groaned inwardly. You two aren’t finished yet?
There was a knock at the door. Renzo collapsed the screen, though he didn’t bother to reinstate the mourning display.
"Mr. Byrne? It’s time.”
Outside the home, the casket was being prepared for transport. Renzo stood by, watching the process. He still didn’t quite know how to feel about the death of his father. There was a weird, sickly feeling in the center of his chest, true. But he didn’t feel anything that resembled emotion. There should be sorrow. Or relief, if nothing else. But there was nothing but flat, frank observation.
The hatch to the carrier closed with a hiss. Propulsion engines ignited, and the tiny funeral procession stepped back as the hearse lifted into the air.
Next to Renzo, the woman held her blue jacket closed, the backdraft rippling at the hem. Sydel had insisted on accompanying him. His sister, Phaira, and younger brother, Cohen, were two districts over, completing a bounty retrieval, their first ever as a team. They knew about their father’s sudden death, but neither volunteered to come back. So it was left to Renzo to sign every form, arrange every detail, and sort out the remnants of Dasean Byrne’s dismal life. It was kind of Sydel to offer to come along, though he still felt mild uncertainty around the former resident of a cult-like commune, Cohen’s somewhat girlfriend, and the fourth person living in the Arazura.
The hearse disappeared behind a low-lying cloud. It was quiet now, save for the sounds of traffic in the far-distance.
“It’s done,” Renzo told Sydel. “We can leave.”
“There’s….” Her words trailed off as she turned, facing east, staring into the horizon with a puzzled look on her face. Her dark copper-brown braids, piled on top of her head, reflected the sunset. Then she nodded.
“What’s the matter?”
“Someone is calling for help.”
“You mean Cohen?” Renzo asked in a rush, panicking. “Or Phaira?”
“No, no,” Sydel said, waving her hand impatiently. “The woman from Kings.”
“Keep your voice down,” Renzo hissed, checking for eavesdroppers. Two weeks ago, he, Phaira, Cohen and Sydel had barely escaped from Kings Canyon in the West, where a bloodhunt was underway to root out and destroy what was known as the NINE, an organized group of powerful psychics from twenty-five years ago. Now, everyone in Kings was dead: members of the powerful Sava crime syndicate, the hired mercenaries, the woman who kidnapped Sydel and the youth she recruited to follow, and an old friend of the family’s, Aeden Nox. Most had been killed in a sudden, unexplainable shootout, while others, including Nox, had been crushed in the canyon’s collapse.
Thirty-two corpses was the last count that Renzo heard. Everywhere he went, the words Kings Canyon seemed to hover at the edge of every conversation: theories about alien attacks, mass suicide, gang warfare, government coverups. It was the biggest scandal to hit the country of Osha in years, but so far, no one seemed to know that Renzo and the other members of the Arazura were some of the only survivors. Not yet, anyways.
“The woman who came to see me,” Sydel said, more quietly. “She’s calling my name. She’s east, near the coast, in darkness. I think she’s hurt. We need to find her.”
“The one with the green hair?” Renzo recalled the girl’s hushed confession, days after the incident when they finally felt secure enough to land. When held in Kings, a mysterious woman had emerged at Sydel’s frantic call for help: she was an Eko, the same as Sydel, skilled in the art of mental projection and telepathy. She claimed to know Sydel’s parents. She was one of the original NINE.
But then everything descended into chaos. Remembering, Renzo’s stomach turned: Cohen taken hostage, Sydel bruised and battered by Keller Sava, Phaira shot in the abdomen and dropping off the nose of the Arazura…
“We’re not going,” Renzo stated. “No offense to your kind, but I want nothing more to do with those people. They’ve done enough damage.”
Sydel bit her lip. Then she reached over and took his arm. Surprised, Renzo stiffened at the touch, but she drew even closer.
“This is different, Renzo Byrne,” she said firmly. “The longer I have been away from Jala Communia, the more my mind has cleared. And I realize there are holes in my memory. Lost time. You know what that feels like.”
Renzo swallowed. She had him by the throat with that. Several months ago, he’d been viciously assaulted. In addition to losing his right leg, his long-term memory was still impacted, huge swathes of childhood now gone. He was fortunate to have regained his genius capacity for mathematics, though he hadn’t told anyone in his life just yet.
“What will this woman tell you?” he questioned.
“Everything, I hope.”
* * *
Cohen Byrne's right hand remained underneath his jacket as he surveyed the swarm of people in the Daro lab: talking to loved ones, making money transfers, working on travel permits, walking and talking and typing. He glanced at his sister, Phaira. As she retrieved her Lissome, Phaira expanded the screen with a small flick of her fingertip and studied the image, her nose an inch from the pixels.
“You need glasses,” Cohen told her.
“I do not.” Phaira made a face as she pocketed the Lissome
. Then she looked over the railing, searching the swaying crowd below. “You stay here.”
“But -”
“For now,” she corrected. “Just let me go first.”
Cohen harrumphed. The whole point of this is to learn how to work together, he wanted to point out to her, but the look in her eyes made him lose his nerve.
Phaira descended to the first floor, the platform letting out a steady hiss of air on the way down. Cohen focused on the top of her blue head as she wove through the hordes. Despite his protesting, sweat broke along his hairline when he saw Phaira slide her hand under her jacket. She was feeling the handle of her XK-765 Calis, he knew. Would she draw it in public? Should he draw his own? He hated her finicky pistols with the heavy recoil, but his sharpshooting skills made him a natural for the Vaccaro, a light, precise rifle that hung from a loop inside his heavy overcoat. He could assemble it in under ten seconds, if needed. He let his fingers graze the barrel as he stared at Phaira. She was slowing down. His gaze travelled further up, to where she was looking.
There he was, out in the open like an idiot, sitting in a corner, staring moodily into the crowd. Just like the photo: light hair, deep brown skin, visible scar across the side of his throat. Bounty issued for skipping bail and leaving jurisdiction. Their first-ever mark: Denn Acelin. Cohen’s heart leapt with anticipation.
Acelin’s face twisted. Suddenly, he shoved his chair back and grabbed the woman next to him, jerking his human shield in front. As screams echoed throughout the network center, Cohen was already assembling the Vaccaro. Phaira’s Calis was primed and aimed; her dark mouth was moving, but Cohen couldn’t hear what she was yelling over the chaos.
The last component clicked into place, and Cohen had the man centered through his scope. Acelin was walking backwards, the hostage clawing at his grip. Then the bounty caught sight of Cohen on the second floor.
His finger steady on the trigger, Cohen extended his other hand in greeting.
Acelin ducked back behind the hostage, yanking her along as he headed for the exit. Following, Phaira’s head turned to the side, in Cohen’s direction. He understood.
When Acelin suddenly threw the woman into Phaira, and crashed through the back exit, Cohen was already on his way outside, holstering the Vaccaro inside his jacket. Their rented Subito speeders were still outside, covered with a light layer of snow. Cohen swung his leg over his, starting the thrusters. The engines groaned, but they finally turned over and fired to life. Rounding the corner, he saw Acelin sliding onto his own Subito, the man racing off into the traffic.
Phaira appeared from the shadows. Cohen slid back on the hovering speeder. “Come on!” he yelled.
Phaira hopped onto the seat in front of Cohen and gunned the engine. Cohen grabbed the side rails as the Subito jolted forward.
As they trailed Acelin through the heavy traffic, Cohen shifted his weight and prayed for balance as he withdrew the assembled Vacarro, bracing it against his shoulder.
“Hit the ground underneath him!” Phaira yelled. In the distance, Acelin wove in and out of traffic, trying to lose his pursuers. “Don’t try for a direct hit!”
The Subito went over a bump, and Cohen’s finger slipped. A blast fired over Phaira’s shoulder. A marketstand on the sidestreet burst into flame, violent enough to almost knock them off the speeder.
“What are you doing?” Phaira hollered, her hand pressed to her ear, the other hand swerving the Subito to avoid retaliatory gunshots from pedestrians. “Hit just below his rider!!” She increased the speed and veered to the right, forming an angle with Acelin.
Flushed with embarrassment, Cohen braced the Vaccaro against his shoulder again, squinted through the cold wind, and took his time.
The underbelly of Acelin’s Subito burst into sparks. The speeder twisted, out of control.
Suddenly, their own Subito lurched, hit by an angry pedestrian’s bullet. Cohen launched off, hitting the ground and rolling into a parked transport, though not hard enough to hurt. Ahead of him, Phaira landed in a stack of boxes left by the curb. The Subito skidded across the pavement in a shower of flashes and snow, slamming into a lightpost with a loud clang.
Up ahead, Acelin had crashed too, the Subito rolling over his leg. His howl of pain echoed down the street. Limping, the man stumbled into an alleyway.
They splintered off. A dripping-wet Phaira pursued Acelin into the alleyway, while Cohen moved around the perimeter of the building to cut the man off.
He was almost at the alley’s exit when he heard the echo of a gunshot.
* * *
Flying over grasslands, Renzo was doing his best to remain calm. Still, manning the controls of the Arazura, he couldn’t help but glance nervously at the girl every five seconds, looking for some kind of signal.
Sydel sat in the co-pilot chair, her eyes closed. Every few minutes, she would open them and tell him that he was going in the right direction, to just keep going east. He wondered what she was picking up on, what it felt like to have someone else’s voice in your head. To Renzo, it sounded horrible. He wouldn’t wish it for anything.
To distract him from his thoughts, Renzo punched in a string of letters and numbers: a connection code, or cc, that he had called at least three times in the last two weeks.
“I need an update,” he said when the line crackled. “Any news on Kings?”
The voice on the other end was snide. “I have other work to do, Renzo. I can't keep accessing patrol data on your whims.”
“Did you forget about the deal that you made with my sister, Lander?” Renzo snapped. “You do as you’re told. Unless you want another visit.”
A huff of breath, but there was tension in it, Renzo could hear. No, the man didn’t want to deal with Phaira again, not after last time, when she threatened to sever all the nerves in his arm unless he provided protection for them. Lander was another witness in Kings, one of the hackers kidnapped to aid the cause. He was also a part of the Hitodama, a hacktivist group known for their gothic appearance and ability to find information. And he was an utter pain in Renzo’s side.
“What do you want to know?” Lander finally spoke.
“Any changes to the reports,” Renzo said. “Any new evidence submitted, new people assigned to the case, any travel or warrants -”
“Okay, okay,” Lander huffed.
Listening to the faint sounds of beeps and clicks, Renzo watched the landscape through the Arazura’s windshield turn to rock. They were nearing the coast, he realized, and the city of Towns. He glanced over at Sydel. She was fidgeting in her seat, but her eyes were still closed.
“New patrol case leader,” Lander read off. “Detective Daryn Ozias. No reports filed since three days ago, no submitted evidence. The clean-up crew signed off days ago, and haven’t been back to Kings, either.” His voice turned smug. “It’s as I told you, Renzo, no one cares. Kings was just a bunch of criminals, runaways and mafia men. Patrol has bigger problems to deal with. They're just going through the motions.”
Someone should care about Nox, Renzo thought, but he kept it to himself. “I’ll call you in two days,” he instructed. “Be ready with a report.”
As he signed off, Sydel slammed her hands on the Arazura’s console.
Renzo jumped, causing the Arazura to jerk to the left. “What are you doing!” he hollered.
“She’s here,” Sydel said. “She’s on the mountain. Can we land? Quickly?”
Renzo scanned the landscape. Yes, there was a mountain overlooking the city, though not much of one, outfitted with metal towers and wires, no trails or flat areas for landing. “Are you sure?”
Sydel didn’t say anything. But when Renzo finally found a landing site for the Arazura, she was already out of the cockpit and heading to the exit. Muttering to himself, Renzo tucked a Compact firearm into his waistband and made sure his prosthetic leg was clicked into place. Should he keep the engines running? Standby couldn’t hurt.
The sun was just starting to set. Cold, damp
air billowed into the Arazura. Bracing against the chill, Renzo leaned out of the hatch. The stairs had descended, and Sydel was already on the rocky ground, wandering as if in a dream.
“Will you wait for me, please?” Renzo called after her, stumbling down the stairs. He pushed his glasses closer to his eyes to try and protect them from the wind.
Sydel didn’t seem to hear him. She stood on the edge of a gaping crack in the earth, ten feet across, looking down into the depths. When he finally reached Sydel’s side, Renzo peered down into the crevice. Only a few feet of grey rock were visible; he couldn’t see the bottom.
But something moved in the dark. Renzo’s breath caught in his throat.
“She’s down there?” he managed.
Dammit, why hadn’t she warned him? If this person fell in there, she probably had broken bones. Maybe a fractured skull or back. What was he supposed to do about it? They should call for medical rescue.
“I’m going to go down to her,” Sydel said abruptly. “See how bad her injuries truly are. She is conscious, for now, but she needs our help.” Renzo couldn’t hear what she said after that; her voice dropped to a low mumble, self-talk as she tucked her braids into a knot and knelt down, looking for a foothold.
Renzo caught her arm. “Sydel,” he said firmly. “We need to call for medical transport. The city is right down there, it’ll be quick -”
“No, I can do this.”
“Are you thinking straight? I’m not qualified to help someone who’s fallen and cracked open their head, and I’m not sure you are either.”
A new, more frightening thought occurred to him. “And what if she tries to attack your mind or something?”
“She might,” she admitted. “But I can protect myself, if need be.”
“If you call the city for help, you’ve done your part,” he pushed back. "We don't -"
“Renzo.” Her voice was firm. “I need to see her. And you know you can’t stop me.”
