Nadi

by Loren Walker

  Then she dove into Sydel’s mind.

  Blackness. Then the picture grew clearer: a dome of shadows, and scorch marks, gossamer threads of memory, flickering with light.

  One hard cluster stood, rigid and thickened, memories that had been worked over too many times, CaLarca realized, abused and severed. Serious damage has been done, very methodical damage. Was Yann really capable of that kind of manipulation?

  Sydel’s voice floated across the landscape. “What did you see?”

  CaLarca withdrew, back to the darkness, finally returning to the pale white of the twin moons outside the attic window. Her heart fluttered. She put a hand to her chest, willing it to calm.

  “Who has done this to you before?” she demanded. “Who has gone into your mind?”

  “No one.” Sydel said nervously. “Why? What did you see?”

  “Damage,” CaLarca said. “Significant damage. Erasure. Memory manipulation.”

  Sydel grew even paler. “That can’t be true,” she sputtered. “Who would - why would anyone do that to me?”

  “You know who did it, Sydel. Don’t be so naïve.”

  “But he would never -”

  “How old are you?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “You know that’s not true,” CaLarca told her. “I knew you as a babe, twenty-five years ago.”

  “I know, but -”

  “Yann wanted you to regress,” CaLarca concluded, leaning back into her pillow, disgusted. “To forget every step of your natural evolvement. And he damaged your brain to do so, instead of seeking out a proper teacher to help you to control your gifts.”

  Tears dropped onto the girl’s thin fingers. CaLarca watched them fall, a strange twist in her stomach. Not sympathy, exactly. Pity. And a little irritation. She didn’t have patience for silly sentiment, not anymore. But she did know the mannerisms of motherhood, and now was the time to use them to her advantage.

  “It’s okay. I’m here now,” she soothed. “I will teach you. I can help you grow stronger and more confident of your gifts.”

  She took hold of Sydel’s chin, forcing the girl to look up. “But you must begin to separate yourself from this family. For their own protection. We both must.”

  Sydel’s brown eyes shone. “It will break his heart,” she whispered.

  She’s talking about Cohen, CaLarca realized. That’s disappointing.

  “Yes, it might,” CaLarca whispered back. “But we must sacrifice for those we love. To keep them safe.”

  CaLarca caught the silhouette of the girl’s head, nodding.

  And when Sydel hugged her, hope sparked, somewhere deep within CaLarca’s burning core.

  II.

  On Sydel’s urging, CaLarca eased her broken body into a rolling chair, and allowed herself to be brought outside for some non-circulated air. The sun was setting. CaLarca shivered, even with her legs covered by a heavy quilt. Sydel took a seat next to her on a rock, glancing at CaLarca like an anxious child. A hood covered her head, though CaLarca could see short tufts of hair by her hairline.

  The great overhang of the mountain loomed over them. Toomba residents lived inside its shelter, protected from the harsh elements by the great rocky walls, with a river running past every door, and gushing over a waterfall, dropping into nothing but fog. To some, perhaps it was beautiful. To CaLarca, it looked bleak and destitute.

  Twenty feet before them, the brothers sat around a bonfire. They wore the clothes of the townspeople here: heavy wools and knits, patched together, animal furs over their shoulders. Better to blend in, Renzo suggested, and the grandmother, Vyoma, had responded, taking donations from the townspeople to clothe them all. It all smelled of sweat and mothballs.

  Now Vyoma was telling a story. As she spoke, the brothers leaned forward. CaLarca watched the grandmother. Steel-gray hair cut in a chin-length bob, the woman was square and sturdy, like she had been in existence for centuries, unmoving from her house in the mountains. Her mind was also stone, her thoughts impossible for CaLarca to catch onto.

  “I ran away when I was eighteen to join the armed forces. Served twice now.” She spoke pleasantly enough, with a marked edge to her voice. “I’d hoped my daughter might continue the tradition, but it was not to be.”

  “So that’s where Phaira gets it from,” Cohen murmured to Renzo, just loud enough for CaLarca to hear. She resisted the urge to snort, huddling deeper into her chair.

  “When did you stop speaking to her?” Renzo asked the grandmother.

  Vyoma let out a steady stream of breath through pursed lips. “Your father was a good man, but deeply troubled. And they were so young. I disapproved, and they disappeared. So, I let it be.”

  “And you never tried to find us?” Cohen asked, looking crestfallen.

  “I didn’t know you existed,” Vyoma said. “I only learned of the three of you when I learned of Lora’s death. From the moment of Renzo’s birth, there was a no-contact order against me.”

  “You can’t just get those kind of orders,” Renzo said warily. “There has to be a justifiable reason for one.”

  “They cited religious persecution.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” Renzo exclaimed. “Neither of them were the least bit religious.”

  “Agreed. But the order was enforced.”

  The fire crackled. Bored, CaLarca turned her head. The edge of the Arazura peeked out of a cavern. The means to her way home, so close, so untouchable.

  When she returned her attention to the fire, something was different. A haze of anger, billowing from the older brother. When Renzo finally spoke, his words were clipped. “You know how many years we spent in poverty, trying to avoid eviction? Trying to keep Cohen out of government custody? I was left alone, with nothing. With no one. If I’d known you were around…”

  “Your father was alive until recently, Renzo, and your legal guardian until Cohen turned nineteen,” Vyoma reminded him. “It didn’t matter if he abandoned you. The order was still in place.”

  “We could have gone to the courts. We could have come here, lived with you. Or at least Cohen and Phaira could have.” Renzo’s voice grew sharper. “If I’d known there was someone, anyone out there -”

  “It was not an option,” Vyoma interrupted. “There is no use in arguing with me about it. Besides, poverty builds character. Toughens you up.”

  Both Renzo and CaLarca let out a bark of scorn.

  Renzo swiveled to stare at her. But CaLarca only met the sharp eyes of Vyoma. A thousand retorts coursed through her head. There is no greatness in poverty, you delusional, disrespectful woman. That is a dream to cling to, when caught up in a hopeless situation. A parent would never wish a day of struggle on a child.

  But it doesn’t matter what the old woman thinks, she reminded herself.

  So CaLarca conceded, lowering her head and breaking eye contact.

  It seemed to work. When she glanced up again, Vyoma appeared satisfied, her attention back to her grandsons. Renzo still looked at her, though. CaLarca let the faintest smile show on her face.

  Yes, I stood up for you, she confirmed silently. We are connected. I am the willing scapegoat, so you can remain in good graces. I am the eternal listener and conceder.

  Listen, collect, and stay silent. It was a technique she’d perfected since she was a child, and realized that people were eager to confess to a waiting ear. She could gather a hundred secrets if she showed attentiveness and made all the right noises. In doing so, she earned affection, and more importantly, loyalty. And no one ever seemed to realize that they knew nothing about CaLarca. It suited her fine. She wanted her privacy, and she liked truths, big and little.

  CaLarca felt Sydel’s gaze on her. Purposefully, CaLarca let a hard shudder go through her body. Sydel stood up quickly. The conversation stopped by the fire. The wind rushed through the canyons, creating a thousand whispery echoes. Cohen rose from his seat and drew closer. Impatient to get back inside, CaLarca hunched into herself, made her appearance weak a
nd pathetic, adding in a few small coughs.

  Cohen ignored her. “Can I talk to you?” Cohen asked Sydel, over CaLarca’s shoulder. “Please?”

  “I need to see to her,” came the girl’s nervous response. “I’ve kept her outside for too long. I’m sorry.”

  The rolling chair jolted, and Cohen swept out of sight. With Sydel pushing, CaLarca passed the fire, Vyoma watching, Renzo looking at the rock floor, a deep furrow on his brow. Soon, Vyoma’s house, with its drafty attic peaks, loomed before them. CaLarca exhaled, thinking about her warm bed, and ignoring the sound of sniffles from behind.

  * * *

  Another week passed.

  Renzo ducked into the attic. He held a crate, covered with a flannel blanket, a pair of crutches under his arm. CaLarca pushed her body into a seated position, watching as he set all his items on the table by the window. Underneath the dirty cloth, she caught a glimpse of metal, intricate and twisted, and some kind of black and gray, rubbery fabric. Goosebumps rose on her skin. She crossed her arms over her chest.

  Sydel appeared at the doorway. “Ren,” she breathed. “How wonderful. You did it.”

  “Of course I did,” Renzo said dryly. “Everyone asked so nicely.”

  “I’m not ready,” CaLarca burst out.

  Renzo and Sydel turned to stare at her. CaLarca dropped her gaze to the quilt.

  “It’s the next step,” Sydel soothed. “It’ll be okay.”

  Renzo was blunt. “You’ll never be ready. But it’s time.”

  Her throat dry, CaLarca glanced at Renzo’s right leg, where she knew his prosthetic stood. “Does it ever stop hurting?”

  “It hasn’t yet,” Renzo said. “But it becomes manageable. Then it becomes a part of the background. But you’ll do better than I ever will.”

  “Trust him,” Sydel smiled at her. “Believe in him. He’s brilliant.”

  Renzo waved his hand dismissively. “You don’t have to trust me,” he countered. “Just trust the science.”

  Renzo’s first component was a backbrace, black tentacles to be wrapped around her lower back and sacrum. CaLarca struggled to the edge of the bed, painfully swinging her legs over the edge. Sydel sat behind her, and clicked the device into place. During the process, Renzo averted his gaze, even though CaLarca was fully clothed. An odd sense of decorum. They were all so odd.

  When the last fastener held, the whole brace came alive, lifting and compressing her lower back. It felt strange, but something opened up in her chest, her lungs were better able to expand. She felt steadier, stronger.

  “Is this all?” Sydel asked over CaLarca’s shoulder.

  Still looking away, Renzo held out a set of black leggings, made of thick, ribbed material. Confused, CaLarca craned her neck to look inside the crate. It was empty.

  “They’re leggings,” CaLarca said flatly. “You said you would make me braces. What am I supposed to do with these?”

  “Yes, I made you leggings in my spare time,” Renzo said impatiently, shaking the clothing with his extended hand. “It’s a legitimate SCKAFO: stance control knee-ankle-foot orthosis.”

  CaLarca reached out to take it, but Renzo jerked the material just out of her reach. “Remember the deal,” he told her.

  CaLarca’s mouth dropped. From the gasp behind her, Sydel was also mortified.

  “We made a deal,” Renzo reminded them both. “Her heroics don’t negate the agreement. Appreciated as they were.”

  This brother was more ruthless than she imagined. In a way, CaLarca felt more respect for him. “What do you want to know?” she asked him demurely.

  “What haven’t you asked her, yet?” Renzo addressed Sydel.

  Silence. The SCKAFO shimmered in the light, tempting CaLarca with every turn.

  “You spoke of my parents,” came Sydel’s voice, lower and more forceful than usual. “Who were the others in the NINE?”

  CaLarca thought fast. Names. She could give them names. There was nothing out there for them to find.

  “Tehmi and Joran were there, yes,” she began, gathering each word and checking over them before she spoke. “Your father figure, Yann Qin. He was slotted into the Eko group. Me, of course.”

  CaLarca looked at her fingers, four extended. Then she counted: “Shantou and Marette Lyung. Twins, young girls, close to my age. One designated as Nadi, the other as Eko.”

  CaLarca licked her lips, remembering. “Marette disappeared after Kings. I think Shantou is alive, though I don’t know for certain.”

  “Ganasan Reed. He was categorized as Insynn. That’s a precognitive gift,” she added. “But I don’t know where he is right now.” That was an honest answer.

  “And two men, Kuri Nimat and Zarek Voss,” she finished in a rush. “That was the NINE. May I have the braces now?”

  “Those last two the ones who hurt you?” The brother was relentless.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted.

  “What does that mean?”

  CaLarca ignored Renzo, and twisted at the waist to look at Sydel. “Kuri found me, and asked me to accompany him to Kings, to see to the Sava threat and to your safety. He remained in the shadows when I came to meet you there. But after that, I have no memory. Until you found me.”

  She made her shoulders tremble. It wasn’t difficult to show fear. Sometimes, the feelings seemed real. Maybe since she bore her son, it was easier to tap into vulnerability.

  Renzo sighed. “Fine.” He extended his arm with the SCKAFO. “Just put them on already.”

  Sydel took the material and ran her fingers over it. “There’s wires in here,” she said with wonder.

  “I was inspired by the stealthsuit I picked up, when I was building the Arazura,” Renzo explaining, quickly turning his back again as Sydel helped CaLarca into the leggings. “How the electrical charge stiffens the material. Why not use that technology to provide all-encompassing support, in addition to the bracing aspects?”

  “The actual braces are along the seams and around the knees, though you shouldn’t feel them,” he added over his shoulder. “When you stand on your feet, the mesh activates. Don’t worry, you won’t be electrocuted, I know you’re thinking that. It’ll help to control your motion and stabilize your gait. And around the joints, I installed micro-flexors. They’ll activate when the footplate senses weight or movement, and lock and unlock the knee at the proper time. Allows for free swing and full-range of motion, eventually.”

  CaLarca looked down at her legs, now clothed in the grey and black material. They felt tight, but flexible. Was it possible that they would hold her weight? A vision rushed over her - when she tried to stand, her legs would splinter under her.

  She gritted her teeth, pushing down her fear. “Will you help?” she asked the other two.

  Sydel shifted to CaLarca’s side. Her hood fell from her head. When Renzo came to CaLarca’s other side, his eyes took in the girl’s short, sloppy haircut. Still, he said nothing, and offered his arm to CaLarca.

  It took several breaths for her to work up the nerve. Then CaLarca rocked onto her feet for the first time in weeks.

  Every inch of her body prepared to collapse. Her knuckles were white, gripping Sydel and Renzo’s hands. But though her legs trembled, they held. Her head lifted, higher and higher, and she became taller than Sydel, and only a few inches shorter than Renzo. The room began to spin, delirious, exhilarating.

  “Do you need to sit down?” Sydel asked, worry in her voice.

  “No,” CaLarca said in a rush. Through the window, the sun streaked into the room, lighting up her face, warm for the first time in days. “No. Not yet.”

  III.

  “Go slow,” Renzo instructed. “Heel to toe. Good.”

  CaLarca made her way across the rock platform, gripping her metal crutches, Renzo next to her in case she fell. Her body whined at her to stop. It was embarrassing. She had grown soft in her weeks of immobility, her shoulders slumped in, her abdomen slack. No wonder she was burning up with Nadi.

&
nbsp; After a few more minutes, she gritted her teeth and asked to rest. Renzo conceded. She leaned hard on the crutches to take the weight off her feet, sighing with relief. Renzo moved to the mountain’s edge, his hands in his pockets, looking over the landscape. She did the same. Admittedly, now that she was outside every day, in the daylight, and could actually move, CaLarca admired the view. The mountains that surrounded them, awash in gold and orange, snow peaks barely visible through fog, forests of white birch trees.

  There was movement on the adjacent hill, a number of men and women, trekking through the wilderness. She recognized one of their faces, heavily bearded now. The younger brother. He was always roaming with the hunters, gone from dawn until dusk. She heard he was good with a sniper rifle, very good in fact. Surprising, given his size, she wouldn’t have assumed he had a delicate touch.

  Still, all the better for it, CaLarca thought, watching the man follow the crowd, a rifle slung across his back. Cohen just complicated things. She needed Sydel to focus. She could practically taste freedom, and ground-level air.

  “You’re not ready to pass out, are you?” she heard Renzo quip. “It’s a long drop.”

  “I’m fine,” she replied. “Better and better, thanks to your help.”

  “And Sydel?” The man’s voice was sharper now. “Hacking off her hair like that. Sure she’s of her right mind?”

  Had he heard of Sydel’s odd behavior? Last night, CaLarca discovered her in the back of the attic’s closet, behind rows of old fur coats, rocking back and forth. It took nearly an hour to coax the girl to go back to her bed. As an afterthought, CaLarca removed everything sharp from the room, a pair of scissors, and a sewing needle stuck into the hem of a donated dress.

  “She’s young,” CaLarca stated, defensive, though she wasn’t quite sure why. “And she’s been through a lot.”

  Her mind turned back in time to memories of herself at fourteen. “It’s a difficult gift, being a Nadi. She was never trained to contain and control the energy she generates, like I was.”