Nadi

by Loren Walker

  At the first swish of movement by her head, she drove the needle into the officer’s calf muscle. The punctured officer cried out and stumbled down the last few so he crashed into the door, already weakened from the paralytic. The second officer hollered with surprise, his pistol over the railing, searching for her. His flashlight saw nothing but floating dust.

  She was already on the other side of the staircase, swinging up, rubber tubing in hand, snapping the officer in the eye. When his head ricocheted and his hands flew to his face, she drove a fist into his gut. When his hands lowered, she cracked an elbow across his jaw, sending the officer skidding down the steps.

  A crackle, a flash of blue, and a sudden hard pinch on her ribs. Phaira stared down at the shockround cables buried in her makeshift armor underneath her scrub top. The officer holding the shockround looked down and back up at Phaira. The crackling stopped, and Phaira yanked on the cables, sending the officer tumbling down the stairs.

  She sprinted up the stairs two at a time. This was a game. Could she make it back to Sabik’s office? Two flights left, then one. The eleventh floor again.

  She made it. She won.

  The door opened from the other side. Ducking into Sabik’s office, Phaira ripped off her medical mask. The air felt fresh against her mouth, cold in her nostrils.

  Then the officers tackled her from behind.

  VI.

  Clink, clink, clink. Phaira rapped her handcuffs on the edge of the table in a steady rhythm. She licked the edge of her split lip. Still some blood. Her eye was swelling up too.

  Detective Ozias settled into her seat. She was a broad, stern-looking woman, clad in expensive greys and blues. She had come all the way in from Daro, Phaira overheard the clerks whispering.

  “You’re in a lot of trouble, miss,” the detective began.

  Phaira made a face. “Don’t patronize me.”

  “I’ll do what I like,” Ozias shot back. “You assaulted officers of the law.”

  “If they were officers, they never identified themselves,” Phaira pointed out. “All I saw were a bunch of men attacking me in a stairwell. I can legally defend myself from mortal harm.”

  “Oh, is that so?” Ozias remarked. “You were well-prepared for your attack. Your get-up was interesting. Pretty creative, actually. And the man stated that they had a warrant -”

  “Anyone can say that,” Phaira countered. “I never heard the words ‘law’ or ‘patrol.’”

  Ozias gazed at her. The woman had a way of studying Phaira without blinking. She could practically see the gears in her head turning, notes written and stored in her brain.

  Then Ozias leaned back in his chair. “It’s a curious incident, this one. None of those officers received life-threatening injuries. Every move you made was calculated to disarm and subdue. I get the sense that you could kill your way out of this precinct if you wanted to.”

  Phaira kept up the clinking rhythm of her handcuffs.

  “Funny,” Ozias continued, tapping one finger on the table. “When Anandi and Emir Ajyo were first placed under arrest in Honorwell, there was some talk about a blue-haired woman who helped them to escape. I should say, there was, initially, before everyone involved had a sudden lapse in memory.”

  Theron wasn’t kidding, Phaira thought. He did buy those officers’ silence. That’s not helping me now, though.

  “And then we send agents to retrieve the Ajyos in another location, and lo, there’s another woman in their vicinity, shielding them from arrest.” Her eyes flicked up to Phaira’s hair, still chestnut-colored from the CHROMA application. “Wrong hair color, of course,” she added wryly.

  Phaira refused to blink.

  “Do you know what my main case is right now?” the woman continued. “Kings Canyons massacre. You’ve heard of what happened there. You might have seen my bulletin, asking for the public’s help.”

  “Everyone knows,” Phaira said. “And no, I missed that update.”

  “Well, more than anyone, I want to know what happened in there to all those people. That’s why I reached out to the public. And why I’m talking to you now.”

  Phaira forced herself to breathe normally. Cohen. Sydel. So many people who will be exposed if I’m not careful. I can’t give a thing away.

  “Within hours, there were rumors about some woman who waged some guerilla operation to extract hostages,” Ozias continued. “Considered highly dangerous. The same incident that Emir Ajyo was supposedly involved with -”

  “If I’m some professional mercenary, as you seem to think I am,” Phaira interrupted. “You know I’ll say nothing. You might as well take me back to holding.”

  “Even in exchange for immunity?” Ozias offered. “Even if it was self-defense, you still did some damage to those officers in Liera. Assault charges carry jail time.”

  Ozias splayed open her hands on the table. “But if you can provide some information about Kings, I’ll drop the charges. And really, a service was done in ridding the world of those Savas and mercenaries.”

  She sure talked a lot. And she sounded genuine, in a strange way. But it also sounded like she was weaving a very careful web to edge Phaira into compliance.

  There was a knock at the door. Ozias called out: “What?”

  “Lawyer’s here.”

  Ozias frowned. “Public defender?”

  “No, ma’am.” The voice was strained.

  Ozias shot a look at Phaira as the door opened.

  There was a woman on the other side of it: strikingly pretty, with wavy blonde hair and straight brown eyebrows. The scent of white peach and plum filled the room. She wore an expensive leather skirt and crisp purple jacket, and as she entered, she raised a hand that glittered with gold.

  “No more questions,” the woman announced. “I’m Jetsun, legal counsel. I hope you were smart and stayed quiet, Ms. Phaira.”

  “Phaira,” Ozias exclaimed, both annoyed and jubilant at the revelation. “You are Phaira Lore.”

  Phaira shot the blonde woman a look. Jetsun ignored it and laid a hand on Phaira’s shoulder. “This is a waste of time, and you know it, detective. So, let’s work this out so we can all go home.”

  “You’re not doing anything, lady,” Phaira retorted, shifting away from those manicured nails. “I don’t know you, and I didn’t hire you.”

  “No, a friend sent me,” Jetsun said, catching Phaira’s eyes with her own. They were the color of amber.

  Phaira was speechless. Ozias seemed to make the same connection, strangely enough. When she spoke, she sounded disappointed. “You’re one of them.”

  It wasn’t clear whom the comment was addressed to. But the meaning was clear to Phaira. Theron sent this woman to the precinct, another cousin in the line of Savas. And now Ozias believed that Phaira was part of the syndicate.

  “No.” Phaira slid her chair away from the blonde woman. “I don’t want her. I don’t want her here.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Jetsun said pleasantly. “Do you want to be sent to prison?”

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” Phaira cut her off. “Tell your boss that the concern is appreciated, but respectfully declined.”

  Ozias turned back to Jetsun, who was working to contain her indignation. “You heard her,” she ordered. “Get out.”

  “She’s traumatized. Not in her right mind,” Jetsun said with a tight smile. “I’m going to make a call, and then we’ll revisit this conversation. Please keep to pleasantries until I return.”

  The woman swept out of the room, her high-heeled boots clicking on the linoleum floor. Both Phaira and Ozias watched her go. When the door slammed shut, Phaira shifted towards Ozias, her handcuffed wrists clanging on the table.

  “I’m not part of the Savas,” she announced in a rush. It seemed crucial to say the words outloud.

  “They seem to think you are,” Ozias said. “They don’t send in lawyers to shield just anyone.”

  “It’s complicated. But I don’t work for them. Write that down,
” Phaira instructed, tapping her finger on the table.

  “Then you’d better figure out what to say to that woman when she gets back,” Ozias warned, like a friend advising another. “Those people don’t like to be told no. Or be embarrassed in public.”

  Like at Anandi’s party, Phaira thought, remembering the look on the grandfather’s face. They don’t forget.

  Another knock on the door. Phaira braced herself as Ozias leaned back to bark, “What?”

  As the door opened, the light highlighted the officer’s dark skin.

  The same skin, the same build, the same outfit and face as Detective Ozias.

  Phaira recoiled. Was she losing her mind from grief and guilt?

  Ozias leapt out of her seat with a shout. The other Ozias was quicker though, palming the detective’s face and shoving her into the wall. Ozias twitched, her hands slapping against the brick. Then the detective slumped to the floor.

  And an icy cold sensation started in the back of Phaira’s skull.

  No. No! Phaira stumbled back into the corner of the cell, fumbling with the handcuffs, desperately trying to wrench them off. Not again. Not again.

  But the icy spread cupped the back of her head, like a dead lover’s caress.

  Feel the fear, she reminded herself. Feel the fear.

  In response, her heart exploded in a scattered, dangerous rhythm. White spots danced in front of her vision. The adrenaline rush made her lightheaded. But the ice receded.

  Then the white spots changed to black. Her heart began to slow. Her lungs constricted. Suddenly, her foot lifted, and she was walking with her arms in front of her. She couldn’t stop, and she couldn’t lower her arms, as yanked by the wrists by a rope.

  “How funny,” the fake Ozias said as Phaira stumbled closer. Her voice was deep and raspy. “Look who we have here. The blue-haired girl. You’re Phaira. You were his friend, even his lover a couple of times. You were inside Kings Canyon with him. He even went back for you, before the collapse.”

  “What?” Phaira gasped. “Who are you?”

  Ozias’s face shimmered. The skin lightened, and the features twisted. The hair lightened to red. Freckles appeared.

  Phaira’s throat ballooned from holding all her screams.

  It was Nox’s face, Nox’s eyes looking into her. Horrified, Phaira fought the urge to vomit, though the control over her body was so acute, she didn’t even know if she could.

  The rough voice continued. “You should know, Phaira: he was well on his way to dying when I found him. He wasn’t afraid. Would you like to know his final thoughts?”

  Nox’s hands lay on her upper arms, his thumbs stroking the skin, as if to soothe. Then one hand lifted to touch her right temple. Phaira couldn’t move, or even blink. But she could protect herself, just like Sydel taught her. Feel the fear. Feel the fear. The adrenaline was the key. It had to work.

  The fake Nox frowned, tapping the center of her forehead. “She’s got a nice little Eko barrier,” he muttered, seemingly to himself. “How far do I push?”

  His grip tightened on her arms. “She knows where they are. Just a little extra effort to bypass, and -”

  Phaira made her body quake. She forced choking noises from her throat, like she was suffocating, throwing her head back.

  Nox stopped talking. Some of the black spots in Phaira’s vision cleared. Her muscles stopped spasming; they were still hardened, but working. Just enough to grant her some mobility.

  Her arms shot out to smash the fake Nox in the nose with the heel of her hands. Even using all her strength, she only managed a moderate blow. But it was enough to make Nox reel, drop his focus, and release her body from his control.

  Roaring, Phaira swung her bound arms in an arc, catching Nox across the cheekbone. When he stumbled, she smashed him again in the temple, and then again as he dropped to the ground, adding a stomp to his ribs for good measure. The replica’s eyes bugged out as he drew in a sharp, startled breath. She didn’t stay to hear the exhale, bolting for the door.

  An angry shout behind her. Ozias had woken up. The sounds of struggling followed Phaira down the corridor as she sprinted, searching for a door, a window, anything that might lead her to the outside. She could hardly run straight, knocking into the wall a few times in the process as she lost her balance. Someone tried to stop her, a blur of grey and blue, but the blur was on the floor in two seconds, and she was leaping over him.

  Another blur in front her: yellow and purple, hissing a stream of words: “What are you doing? Get back in there!”

  Phaira grabbed Jetsun Sava by the lapels of her plum jacket. “Get me out of here,” she begged, her teeth chattering. “Now. Please.”

  Jetsun glanced over Phaira’s shoulder. As every second passed, Phaira fought the urge to knock this woman over and sprint for any sign of a door.

  “I’m assuming there’s a mortal threat in there, which is why I had to take you into my legal custody,” Jetsun finally said. “Correct?”

  “Whatever you say,” Phaira shot back. It was the lesser of two evils. She could explain it later. Every cell in her body was on fire, waiting for that rope, that sickening pull. “Please. Take me out of here.”

  “Fine,” Jetsun finally muttered, taking hold of Phaira’s handcuffs. “Head down. No more talking. Just run.”

  PART THREE

  I.

  CaLarca lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Specks of dust fell from the rafters, highlighted by the two moons. Following her cardiac arrest on the Arazura, she couldn’t stay awake for more than an hour, her only view through the tiny attic window, slate-grey sky, and the rocks of Toomba.

  She was in the Cyan Mountain range, several hundred kilometers south from where she was first found by Sydel and Renzo. But Toomba was far above ground level, CaLarca could tell. The thin air made her woozy, and she dreamed constantly of her husband and son, screaming for her, running away, and the world engulfed in fire.

  When she first awoke on the Arazura, disoriented, terrified, and in violent pain, she managed to get her hands on a Lissome, and punched in the cc for home. But there was nothing. And when CaLarca punched in her farm’s coordinates, there were only rubble and scorch marks in the satellite images. An all-consuming fire. Her husband, Ganasan, reported dead. Her tiny, shining son, Bennet, swallowed into the abyss. They haunted her sleep, disappeared from every room she entered, hovered in the rafters of the attic.

  The Nadi was building in her again. The energy scorched her palms, twisted up her insides. For years, she’d relied on her physicality to keep it in check. Now, in the brief moments she was awake, everything was on fire. She spent every agonizing moment trying to manifest the rolling Nadi into something, anything. So many times, she was on the brink of just letting the Nadi consume her. It would be painful, but it would all be over. What reason did she have to stay alive?

  No. I have to get back there. I have to walk again. I have to find them. I have to know for certain.

  So, in the darkness of the attic, CaLarca made knives, over and over again: blackened, malformed switchblades, melted down one side.

  And every manifestation built another layer for revenge.

  * * *

  The stench of alcohol made her nose hurt. CaLarca opened her eyes, and swallowed her gasp.

  Sydel stood by the window. Her fingers trailed the exposed wooden frame of the wall. The hyperwhite moon lit her profile. Underneath her hood, the girl’s cheeks were bright pink.

  Blinking, CaLarca struggled to sit up on her elbows. When the thick quilt fell from her shoulders, she shivered. This place was so cold and damp, she never felt warm, even in the daytime. “Come over here,” she croaked.

  Sydel sat on the edge of the mattress, plucking at the fabric of the heavy wool jacket she wore, weaving back and forth. “We should just leave. Shouldn’t we.” It was a flat statement, mumbled in her soft, girlish voice. “It’s wrong of me to stay with them. Dangerous. And confusing. They can’t really understand.”

/>   Was she serious, or dead drunk? She had to be careful with her words. CaLarca always felt like someone was listening in this place; everything echoed here, surrounded by rocks and reverberations.

  Then she caught sight of the girl’s head. Sydel had taken a pair of scissors to her hair. Great, violent chunks had been taken out, her beautiful, looping braids, gone.

  CaLarca checked for any other exposed wounds. Nothing visible.

  But was the girl self-destructing?

  “If you leave, where will you go?” CaLarca tried.

  “Wherever I might belong. Back to Jala Communia, maybe, if Yann will take me back?”

  If he’s still there, CaLarca thought. Or alive. “You don’t wish to stay with this family?” she asked lightly. “I thought that you cared very much for them.”

  “I do. Of course, I do. And Cohen…”

  Does she love him? CaLarca wondered, not for the first time. He was certainly infatuated with Sydel. But whether that was love or just male posturing, she wasn’t sure.

  Sydel’s words came out in a fevered rush. “I killed people in Kings. That is why Phaira won’t speak to me. Renzo doesn’t even know, and Cohen doesn’t realize how dangerous I am. I almost killed everyone on the Arazura because I couldn’t control -”

  Her head dropped again. “I’m a monster.”

  Shame, CaLarca thought, staring at the top of Sydel’s head. I didn’t expect that.

  But between her constricted life and the trauma of Kings Canyon, she’s vulnerable and open to suggestion. She can help me.

  “You need to learn how to control your Nadi,” she told the girl. “I can teach you, but there’s something more to this.” She wet her lips before asking. “Would you allow me to look into your memory?”

  Sydel pulled the hood away. Her scraggly, half-shorn hair was exposed as she lowered her head.

  CaLarca listened for the sound of footsteps in the night.