by Loren Walker
“Wait,” Cohen said. “Wait a second. How long is she staying with us? I thought this was a temporary thing. And we’re set to disappear, you know.”
Sydel glanced at Renzo. He lifted his eyebrows back at her, questioning.
Please, she mouthed.
Renzo sighed. “It’s fine for now, I guess.”
“We don’t do a thing until she starts talking,” Cohen said darkly.
“I have nothing to say to you,” CaLarca shot back.
“Look, when I was in Kings,” Cohen began, glaring down at the green-haired woman, “Keller and Xanto and the rest of those people, they were organizing revenge for some mass murder from twenty-five years ago, by what they called the NINE. Some group of people with powers, who killed people and messed up the minds of kids. Were you a part of it?”
CaLarca said nothing. In the corner of his eye, Renzo saw his brother’s hand dip behind him; he was reaching for a concealed weapon, just in case.
“Well?” Renzo added. “You’d better say something before Cohen tosses you off the ship.”
Surprisingly, the woman’s shoulders dropped. Her head fell.
“Yes,” she admitted. “I’m one of the NINE.”
Sydel gasped. Cohen looked like he was about to knock CaLarca out. But Renzo felt nothing. Maybe because she was being honest? He didn’t know.
But he addressed CaLarca directly. “You keep talking. And I’ll build braces for you. Deal?”
CaLarca blinked. “You can do that? You would do that?”
Renzo lifted his right pant leg, revealing the sleek, silver prosthetic underneath, his own custom design. “I can do anything. As long as you hold up your end of the bargain. Sydel has a lot of questions.”
Cohen’s eyes darted between Sydel and Renzo, like he couldn’t believe what just transpired.
“Come on out,” Renzo told his younger brother. “She’s right, you don’t need to hear about it. We need to get ready to go.”
Blood rushed into Cohen’s round face. Then he stalked past Renzo, into the hallway and the adjoining room. A succession of loud bangs on metal followed.
Renzo rubbed the bridge of his nose. Nineteen, he reminded himself. He’s nineteen.
“Thank you.” CaLarca’s voice was naked with gratitude. It made him uncomfortable.
“I’ll draw up plans,” he said brusquely, and turned on his heel, heading for the door.
His private quarters never looked so good.
In the safety of solitude, Renzo sketched out ideas for the leg braces, to keep his hands busy as his mind wandered. Where would they go from here? Should they go to Liera, where Phaira, Emir and Anandi were headed? Or was that too obvious? He’d tried to send a message to them, warning them about the public broadcast, but the connections were fuzzy, and Renzo felt paranoid about saying anything more over the airwaves, not with so many new ears straining for secrets.
Sounds echoed through the wall of the cabin, coming from Cohen’s adjoining one. He thought about knocking on Cohen’s door, trying to talk to his little brother. But Cohen was so raw, particularly when it came to Sydel. It was better to keep away. In this situation, Renzo could be the impartial one, the mediator if need be. Sometimes there were advantages to missing an emotional chip, as he thought of it. He wasn’t caught up in sentiment or expectation.
He closed his eyes and visualized the braces in his mind: every dimension, numbers calculating and taking shape. The last time he’d visualized an invention, he had a partner to bounce off his ideas, Theron Sava, though he didn’t know who the man was at the time. Theron was one of the volunteer mechanics who worked on the Arazura. One day, they’d struck up a conversation, and Theron suggested working on a new prosthetic for Renzo’s leg. Who would have guessed that some mobster was good with delicate mechanics? But the man was quiet, sharp and just as exacting as Renzo. Working side by side over days, they laid out the schematics for the prosthetic, then they brainstormed on what turned out to be HALOs. It was a wholly new experience for Renzo; he didn’t work well with anyone, even before his assault and head trauma. Trying to synchronize minds was a lesson in impatience: in school, in life, even with his colleagues at the university. But he’d worked well with that man. Now Renzo was back to being frustrated with the world.
“So it was true, then?”
Renzo’s ears perked up at the sound of Sydel’s voice. Half of his Lissome sat at his side, he’d hidden the other half in Sydel’s room after the incident in Kings. Just in case he needed to listen. Now he could hear Sydel’s faint, nervous voice. “What they said about you, about your kind, attacking and killing those people years ago?”
“I don’t know,” came CaLarca’s eerie whisper. “I didn’t know about children being hurt. I knew Joran, and Tehmi, but -”
A long pause. The the green-haired woman spoke again. “I always wondered, though, did Marette raise you?”
Renzo could hear the hunger in Sydel’s voice. “I don’t know who that is. Was Marette - ?”
“You don’t know her.” The woman sounded surprised. “So, Yann took you? Interesting. Has he claimed to be your father? Because he isn’t.”
Renzo made a face, remembering the Jala Communia and the balding, watery-eyed man who was its leader. Yann healed Phaira’s wounds, sure, but then he cast Sydel out, and Renzo and his siblings had to deal with everything that followed. But this was different - Yann was part of that NINE group, too?
“No,” Sydel replied to the woman’s question. “He’s never claimed to be my father.”
“One point for Yann, then. And your mother?”
“You tell me.”
Silently, Renzo applauded Sydel for pushing.
“Tehmi,” Ca’Larca finally said. “Her name was Tehmi Shovann. And your father was Joran Asanto.”
“Are they both dead?”
“Yes.”
Using one hand, Renzo brought up an infoscreen, searching for records of those names. They came up immediately, their blurry pictures and sparse demographics. A suspected kidnapping. Joran Asanto, reclusive, wealthy businessman, presumed dead after disappearing into the West. And Tehmi Shovann, her burned body uncovered by hikers in the Kings Canyon. She looked a little like Sydel, in the one grainy photo available.
Then Sydel spoke again, much quieter this time:
“The term NINE - what does the second N stand for?”
CaLarca was silent.
But Sydel pressed on. “I was brought up as an Eko. I only learned about the Nadi trait from Huma. And Cohen says that the Savas spoke of something called Insynn: precognition of some kind, which I presume is the ‘I.’ But what about the second N in NINE? What else is there to learn?”
Renzo heard a sharp inhalation. Was the green-haired woman in pain? There were no voices, just the sound of shuffling, and fabric brushing.
Finally, a whisper echoed through the Lissome: “I’m sorry. It’s all too much. Rest now.”
A few minutes later, there was a knock on Renzo’s door.
“What,” Renzo said, just loud enough to carry.
The door slid open. Sydel stood outside his doorway.
The other half of his Lissome rolled between her thumb and forefinger. His eyes on his designwork, Renzo extended his right hand, beckoning.
Her fingers brushed his, burning hot.
“Hear everything you wanted?” came her low voice.
“It’s for everyone’s safety,” he retorted. “Don’t be so offended.”
Her voice trailed behind her as she left. “Too late for that, Renzo Byrne.”
V.
“May I come in?”
Cohen let his head flop back down on his pillow. He didn’t trust himself to speak. Instead, he focused on breathing evenlly, in and out, and watched as Sydel sat on his mattress, twisting a piece of hair between her fingers.
“You’re upset with me, too,” she sighed. “I haven’t done anything to warrant it, so can we please -”
“You haven’t done any
thing?” Cohen interrupted. “You’re keeping that woman here.”
Sydel looked stricken. “She has nowhere else to go.”
“Who cares?” Cohen burst out. “Syd, really, who cares? It doesn’t matter if she’s alone, she’s one of those NINE killers. Keller and Xanto and all of them were telling the truth. Their brains were scrambled, their parents were killed, and she was a part of it. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“I killed people too,” she whispered. “I’m no better.”
“You didn’t know what you were doing,” Cohen countered. Exasperated, he rolled onto his stomach. “You were getting beat up and - it’s not the same thing.”
“What makes you so sure?” Sydel’s voice was sharper now too, her face growing pink. “You just assume that it was a mistake? Or better yet, that it never happened? That seems to be a familiar response in this family. It’s just another life snuffed out, who cares, nothing to think about.”
“Hey, that’s not fair,” Cohen protested angrily. “Of course it means something. You think I don’t remember in the canyon, how it felt to pick off those mercenaries? How that felt to see them bleed out? I think about it; it means something to me. But we did it all for you, remember?”
“Well I don’t want it!” Sydel shouted. “I don’t want it from you, or anyone!” Then she ran out of the room.
Cohen pounded his fists on the bed. Why did everything have to be so complicated? Why couldn’t Sydel see the danger in all of this?
It was CaLarca’s fault.
Cohen slid his hand under the mattress, feeling for the piece of paper stowed beneath. It was crumpled, the pencil marks smudged, but still legible. The name of Aeden Nox’s friends from Daro. He hadn’t spoken to them much, but he remembered their introductions, when Nox dragged Cohen into bars post-training. In between teasing him for being so quiet, they suggested he call them if he ever wanted to get into law enforcement. After Kings, he’d written the names down and hidden the paper, just in case. Now he stared at the letters. He could put in an anonymous call and describe the green-haired woman. Her involvement in unsolved murders. Her possible involvement in the Kings Canyon massacre. He was convinced that she had something to do with all those mercenaries turning on each other; it was all too weird, too convenient. It was too dangerous to keep her on the Arazura. He should arrange a drop-off. Give Sydel a chance to breathe and see the world for what it was.
Wouldn’t it be helping them all?
* * *
There was no way around it. Renzo needed fuel, and he needed measurements for CaLarca's legs. He hated the idea of breaking from his thought process. But the Arazura’s fuel gauge was flashing red, warning of low levels. He had no choice.
Renzo eased the Arazura into the closest Vendor Mill and ordered the fuel cell exchange. The mill was mostly empty, thanks to the late hour. The attendant was barely awake as he went through the motions, sliding under the Arazura with his trolley. It wouldn’t take long to get back in the air.
Back inside, she was waiting for him, propped up on Sydel’s bed, her legs before her, freshly bandaged. She wore one of Phaira’s long-sleeved grey tunics with the hood up. Curly tendrils framed her face, brown and green. He hadn’t noticed before, but she had freckles across her nose, like a child. How old was she, anyways?
“Older than you think,” was her quiet response. “One of the benefits of Nadi is our ability to slow aging. Something to do with the constant regeneration of cells.”
“I’ve told Sydel and I tell you now - don’t nose into my mind,” Renzo said curtly. “Isn’t that against your kind’s rules?”
“There are no rules,” CaLarca said.
Renzo waited for more, but the woman said nothing.
“I need measurements,” Renzo said, pulling out his tape measure. “For the braces. Just takes a minute.”
“Fine,” she muttered, turning her head from him.
“So you were one of the original NINE. You were, what? A kid? A teenager?” Renzo asked, briskly measuring the length of CaLarca’s bandaged legs. “I don’t have emotional attachment to the question,” he added. “I guess I’m just curious if you were of age when you chose to kill people. And what you’ll do when you can get out of this bed. You’re not staying here, you know. One passenger with superpowers is plenty.”
“You’re funny.” It was said flatly, with no indication that she saw any humor at all.
“You’re probably the only one ever to think so,” he replied, mimicking her tone of voice.
She was studying him. For the first time, he looked directly into her eyes. They weren’t all black, like he thought, but a deep, deep brown. The irises were enlarged, but not as much as he initially thought.
As he peered at her, she batted her eyelashes slowly.
Renzo grimaced. “Don’t bother,” he told her, the measuring tape snapping back into its tiny case. “I’m not interested.”
“I’m not available,” she replied, in a lofty tone.
“Lucky you. And yet you don’t call him, or her,” Renzo pointed out. “They the ones who left you for dead?”
CaLarca’s jawline tightened.
“You know, I meant what I said about our agreement,” Renzo said. “If you talk, you walk.”
“I talk to Sydel, not to you.”
“It’s my ship,” he reminded her, ticking off with his fingers. “My bed, in fact. My bandages, my tools, my medication -”
“Fine, fine,” she retorted, huffing. Renzo waited.
“I don’t know,” CaLarca finally said. “I don’t know how I ended up on that cliff. Or how I came to Towns. I have no memory of what I’ve done since Kings.” As she spoke, she seemed to deflate. Her voice grew quieter. “I am alone. That is the truth.”
“Congratulations,” Renzo said, slipping the tape into his pocket. “You’ve unlocked the next level of leg brace construction.”
The woman said nothing.
Trapped. Immobile. He’d been in that exact same position. He remembered how surreal it was, to have the maddening urge to stand, and no ability to do so.
“You’ll go upright again,” he told her. “You’ll walk. I can make it work.”
“You have no reason to.”
Some true emotion coming out? Renzo studied her bent head for a moment.
“True,” he finally replied. “I don’t. So, consider it a rare kindness. We are capable of that, you know, as much as you hate us.”
CaLarca glanced up, like she was ready to argue. Then her expression hardened. “You hate me too.”
“I hate everyone,” he corrected. “Don’t think yourself special.”
Heading for the cockpit, unpacking his thoughts from the encounter, a call came in. Renzo recognized the cc immediately: Lander. The connection was audio-only, not that unusual in previous interactions, but the sound of heavy breathing put Renzo on edge. “Lander?”
A voice came through. “Lander?”
“What?” Renzo asked, confused. Was there an echo?
“I can’t see you.” It was Lander, but his speech was garbled. “I can’t see you. Why can’t I see you?”
“Because it’s audio-only,” Renzo said sharply. “You’re not supposed to - what’s wrong with you?”
Words tumbled out, strung together in a breath, very unlike the pseudo-deep, cryptic voice that Renzo was used to. “Disappearing. Gone and gone, far away.”
Was the man high? Renzo didn’t have time for this.
“I cut a deal and she let me go. The Grey Lady. She already knew everything...”
He confessed to that police officer Ozias.
Everything in Renzo's vision went white.
Lander knows everything, Renzo’s mind screamed. He knew that Cohen was in Kings, he knew Phaira was the one who got them out, he knew that Emir was involved, dammit, I should have known better, I should have known…
He swore under his breath, again and again, and smashed his fist on the console. It was over. They were done. T
hey were going to jail. He didn’t know what to do. Was the attendant done yet? Could they fly yet?
“You have to tell the truth,” Lander kept mumbling. “The whole truth. Especially when they make threats, offer this or that. What else could I do? Can you tell Emir that I’m sorry? I like him, I really do.”
“Wait, what? You gave up Emir?” Renzo gasped. “You sacrificed an old man to save yourself?”
“Couldn’t argue,” Lander muttered. “Why bother?”
“Did you mention others?” Renzo demanded. “What else did you say?”
A sharp burst of static made Renzo wince. The security measures began to fluctuate, dipping below secure standards.
Then the call disconnected, and there was nothing but dead air.
VI.
“Have you heard from Phaira?” Renzo said as he yanked open the door. He caught a flash of white, being tucked under Cohen’s pillow, before his younger brother rolled to his feet. Renzo didn’t have time to be curious. “Well? Have you?”
“No. I didn’t think we‘d talk until she got back,” Cohen said. “Why, what’s going on?”
“She’s not responding to her Lissome,” Renzo said, already turning to run. “And neither is Anandi.”
Outside, the attendant was installing the last of the fuel cells. Inside the cockpit, Renzo conducted a rapid search of police bulletins in the East. There, buried under notices of burglaries and embezzling. A freshly-issued warrant for the arrest of Anandi and Emir Ajyo in Honorwell: charged with illegal acquisition of confidential information, wanted for questioning in the Kings massacre. No mention of Phaira, but she could be caught in the middle of it. Renzo switched servers, delving into any recent arrests or bookings in the area. There were none that matched any of their descriptions.
A call was coming in. He didn’t recognize the cc. Renzo shut down every open infoscreen and threw up firewalls on anything still processing through the server. Then, shooting a warning look at Cohen to stay quiet, he connected. “Yes?”
