by Loren Walker
“You hold them,” Kuri hissed back. “I’ll wipe their minds. It’ll be fine.”
She couldn’t breathe. She was going to vomit. CaLarca’s knees collapsed.
Then a hand lay on top of her head as she retched, and Joran’s voice came from above:
“Run, Cyrah.”
CaLarca ran down the rocky incline, across the canyon floor, away from the pleas and screams, into the desert. She ran across plains and through oases, until her muscles collapsed under her body weight, sand pouring down her throat as she fell face-first. Then she crawled until she passed out under the blazing sun.
V.
“Enough!” CaLarca pushed Sydel out of her mind. Then she put her hands over her face.
Sydel was choked with tears, too, by the sound of her mottled voice. “CaLarca, I’m so sorry.”
CaLarca shook her head, unable to form words.
“When I first treated you, you said you were involved in the assault of the Sava family. You weren’t. You clearly weren’t.”
“Wasn’t I?” CaLarca said through her fingers.
“You were a child.”
“I was a coward,” CaLarca muttered. “I should have done something. I should have tried to stop them.”
“Oh, CaLarca. You saved me, nonetheless.” The girl’s voice was full of gratitude. “Who knows what might have happened if you hadn’t given me to Yann.”
“Perhaps.”
Sydel brushed her hand over her face and stood up. “Thank you. Thank you for showing me the truth. I’m ready now.”
CaLarca peered through her fingers. “You’re – ready?”
“I want to meet Marette,” Sydel said firmly. “I want to help you, however I can. We’ll leave in an hour, if you think you’re strong enough.”
Despite the pain in CaLarca’s chest, her heart still leapt with excitement.
“I am,” CaLarca confirmed. “It’s just memories.”
“And the implant?”
“I don’t know,” CaLarca admitted. “I’ve never had the courage to look.”
Sydel nodded. “Maybe on the way, you might tell me more about your connection with Ganasan. It seems a positive thing.”
CaLarca shot out a hand, palm first. “I need a moment,” she barked.
“I understand. I hope I didn’t hurt you, Cyrah.”
Hearing her first name made her cringe. Sydel noticed, and her tone dropped. “I’m sorry. I won’t call you that again.”
“Thank you,” was all CaLarca could manage. Because, in the wake of Sydel’s invasion, all CaLarca was able to do was curl into a ball on her bed and throw the quilt over her head, until there was nothing but suffocating darkness. She had been exposed, so many nerves exposed, like being turned inside out, and it made her murderous and fearful and full of rage.
She had to push it all away again. She had to stick to her plan.
* * *
There was nothing to take along, and very little to say in the hours that followed. The landscape changed every hour: from the ride down the Toomba mountain on a trolley, to the transfer that took them through the pass, and finally flat, grassy plains, on route to Zangari, the place where Marette set to meet them. Sydel pressed her forehead against the glass window, silent and staring at the landscape. She looked grim, and impenetrable.
CaLarca’s head cleared as the landscape flattened. But her body seemed heavier with every mile that passed, that took them from Toomba.
Just the atmospheric change, she told herself. Patience.
Zangari came up sooner than she expected. The train slowed. Sydel was already on her feet, heading for the exit. CaLarca panicked, trying to hurry her aching body. Through the windows, she caught sight of the swarms of people, pouring through the station, heading for the exits.
What was with the crowd? Was there a protest?
Finally on the ground, caught up the swell of motion, CaLarca could feel the excitement in the air: bodies young and old, both male and female, chattering and laughing, checking their personal Lissomes, comparing pictures.
“Where are we supposed to meet her?” Sydel called to CaLarca.
“In the National Park,” CaLarca relayed over the din of the crowds. “Down the street. By the white gazebo, in the center of the flower field, she said.”
They were not the only ones headed there. Hundreds of people poured into the park’s entrance, creating a grand circle of bodies. Craning her neck to look over shoulders, CaLarca realized what they were surrounding: a flower field, half-crushed by a huge platform, and a white gazebo surrounded by metal scaffolding, lights and sound machines.
A burst of static carried over their heads. The crowd roared in response. Through the spaces in the crowd, CaLarca saw a cluster of black move into the center of the circle. Then the black split off in perfect succession (bodyguards, CaLarca quickly realized) and the person within stepped onto the platform.
“Marette!” she gasped.
A few people looked back at her. CaLarca ignored their stares. “Come on,” she demanded, taking hold of Sydel’s hand and shoving through the crowds, using her cane as a divider. The teenagers protested, threw them dirty looks, some of them even pushed back, but when they saw CaLarca’s face, they backed off.
Finally, Sydel and CaLarca squeezed into the front row by the barricades, just as the music began. There were no visible musicians, but loud, thumping beats pumped through the garden space, making the ground vibrate. Then a woman’s voice rose through the soundsystem, raspy, sultry, wavering between a low growl and a long, piercing call. The audience was in a frenzy, waving their hands, jumping as flashes burst all around them. The metal scaffolding suddenly exploded, and letters burned over the performer’s head, raining down sparks as they spelled out EM LEE.
“Who is this?” Sydel yelled into CaLarca’s ear.
The singer appeared. Her white-blonde hair was twisted into a complicated heap of dreadlocks, some piled on her head, the others trailing over her shoulders. Her eyes were ringed with black, winged at the edges, her mouth a sharp scarlet. Em Lee wore layers of glitter and leather and organza, a pale pink, drawstring ruffled blouse, a leather jacket. She strutted, hunched over, flung her head back, stretched her hand to the sky, and everyone seemed to respond in unison, swaying and singing along.
CaLarca tore her eyes from the stage and looked from left to right. Behind the platform, the men and women in black talked into their Lissomes, surveying the raucous crowd. One of them took three long strides towards the singer, holding onto a hose. Then he yanked on the hinge. Water blasted out.
But in the moment before impact, Em Lee lifted her hand.
The water ricocheted off an invisible barrier, just inches from her palms, drops spraying in all directions as she continued to sing. The bodyguard never moved, nor did he stop the flow of water. But another man in black was already set up on the other side, with the same kind of hose, blasting water at the performer. She lifted her other hand, and the water was repelled again. She was encircled in water, as if encased in a glass egg. The spray created faint rainbows above her head, the sheen catching the rays of the sunlight, as her song pleaded for forgiveness.
“How are they doing that?” CaLarca heard the man crow next to her. “It’s incredible!”
“It’s Nadi.”
CaLarca turned at Sydel’s voice. The girl was staring at the stage. “That’s Marette?” she asked.
“Yes,” CaLarca confirmed. “But no more talk.”
The show was fifty minutes long, one song after another, more tricks employed with water, so Marette appeared as a delicate sprite, caught up in the loud, often inaudible rhythm. An eye-catching gimmick, CaLarca had to admit. And just as she said in Kings, when they were children, she used her Nadi to become a star.
Em Lee. Her initials. Of course.
After the second encore, when the last note floated from her lips, Em Lee’s eyes zeroed in on CaLarca, one hundred feet away. She lifted one finger and one white-blonde e
yebrow. Then she swept off her platform and into the folds of the bodyguards, who moved like a swarm of flies, carrying her off.
The applause followed like a fog, dissipating as the minutes passed. When she didn’t reappear, the sounds of adoration deflated into disappointment. People drifted away, talking and comparing pictures, heading back in the direction of town, or the train station.
“CaLarca.” The sound of her name made her jump. It was one of the bodyguards, appearing like a specter at her left. The man’s face was unreadable, but the subtle flick of his finger told her where to look. “Em Lee requests your company.”
The singer had reappeared in the shadows of the white gazebo, flagged by the remaining bodyguards. Some of the audience stragglers cheered at the sight, as CaLarca and Sydel were led past the barricade, through the field of blue flowers, past the platform and to the intricate white gazebo. Above then, Em Lee leaned against the railing, long legs extended. She turned her head so the setting sun highlighted her bone structure. CaLarca hovered at the base of the steps.
“Come up, please,” Em Lee instructed, her voice slightly hoarse. She pushed off the rail and opened her arms. Her bright smile was constant, and unnerving, as she bent over to embrace CaLarca. “I can’t believe you’re here!” she breathed. “What happened to your legs?”
CaLarca didn’t return the gesture, or answer the question. “We should go somewhere more private, Marette,” she said pointedly.
Marette shook her head, her long white-blond dreadlocks swaying. “No,” she breathed. “This is perfect.” In closer proximity, CaLarca could see the hairs that had come undone from the twisted strands, the dark eye circles concealed with make-up, the powdery finish on the woman’s skin. She wasn’t as young as she first appeared. A bit of a relief.
Behind CaLarca, Sydel’s hands were clasped together like a schoolgirl. Marette’s smile faded. Finally, her lips stretched again, scarlet-colored and winsome.
“You do look like Joran,” she said to Sydel. “Wow.”
“You’re Marette Lyung.” CaLarca could hear the strain in Sydel’s voice.
Marette nodded, casting a look at CaLarca. “I haven’t used that name in a while, but -”
“You were in Kings Canyon, right?” Sydel pressed. “With CaLarca?”
Another glance over at CaLarca. CaLarca frowned at Marette. Answer her, she mentally chided.
“No,” Marette said stiffly. “No, I wasn’t involved in that. But I heard the rumors that we were in danger –”
“If you knew you were being hunted down,” Sydel broke in. “Why would you dare to use your gifts for show?”
Marette let out a soft ha! and tossed her dreadlocks back. “I’ve been using it for years. To the public, it’s just excellent special effects. And those on my team who know otherwise? They sign confidentially agreements.”
“Someone must wonder how you do it,” Sydel said flatly. “Someone will ask questions eventually. You’re inviting death and destruction and fear, for the sake of entertainment.”
An uncomfortable silence. CaLarca couldn’t help but be mildly impressed by the girl’s drive.
“And what about your sister, Shantou?” Sydel pressed on.
Marette flinched. “You’ve been telling her all my secrets, I see,” she muttered to CaLarca.
“She’s an Eko,” CaLarca told her. “A Nadi, too,” she added carefully.
“She is?” Marette said, surprised. “But Tehmi was an Insynn, and Joran had no skills at all. How is that possible?”
She looked Sydel over with new interest. Sydel ducked her head.
Marette sighed. “I haven’t seen Shantou since Kings.”
Ahead, one of her bodyguards made a gesture at her. CaLarca caught the slight shake of her head in response.
“Can I ask you a question?” Sydel spoke up. “CaLarca says she gave me over to you, after my mother was killed. Why didn’t you take me into your care? Why Yann?”
Marette fidgeted. “Because - because I was fourteen,” she finally said. “What was I going to do with a baby? I was scared, with Tehmi dead. We made a pact, Sydel, when we found the secret exit and split off; me, Ganasan, and Yann, we made a pact to never see each other again, to never speak publicly on what happened. I kept my promise, and I’m sure they did, as well.”
“You never thought to see if I was okay?”
‘Why would I?” The answer sounded flippant, but it was tinged with fear.
“Maybe with you in my life, I would have learned how to control Nadi,” Sydel said. “Instead of killing people with it.”
Marette jerked her chin back. “Sydel,” she tried, casting a nervous look at CaLarca. “I understand if you’ve had a difficult time. But everything will be different, now that you’re finally here.”
That last comment made CaLarca pause.
“I don’t know,” Sydel was saying, her hand listlessly lifting and dropping. “I don’t know anymore - I feel like some kind of package, shuttled from hand to hand.”
“What do you mean, finally here?” CaLarca interrupted, looking in a wide arc. A circumference of staring faces, black, white and brown. Lights and flashing Lissomes. The men and women in black, surrounding the gazebo.
A sick feeling grew in her stomach, billowing, expanding.
“Kuri’s here, isn’t he,” she whispered.
“What’s going on?” Sydel asked, looking from woman to woman.
All six of the guards, having formed a perfect circle formation around the gazebo, suddenly turned on their heels, facing inward. Then they took three long steps in unison to stand just beneath the railing.
“Whose face is he using?” CaLarca demanded, hysteria rising in her throat. “Tell me!”
Then one of the bodyguards lifted his dark glasses: cleft chin, ebony skin, black eyes.
“It’s a nice face,” he called out. “Do you like it?”
CaLarca’s teeth started to chatter.
The man laid his arms on the railing, folded over each other, and rested his heavy chin on top. He stared at Sydel for a few moments. Then Kuri Nimat pushed off the railing, and headed for the stairs, taking them one at a time, slow and deliberate.
When he entered the gazebo, he dropped to his knee, and took Sydel’s left hand in his.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmured. “I’m so sorry for everything. Can you ever forgive me?”
Sydel’s mouth opened and closed. Her cheeks flushed a deep crimson, her right hand gripped the wooden rail behind her.
Kuri rose to his feet, his face pained. “You know, Sydel,” he started. “When we were brought into Kings Canyon, we all wanted to become better people. Our intentions were good, truly. We had no control over what was done to us by your parents.”
The faintest smell of smoke. Stupefied, CaLarca glanced at Sydel, and at her right hand. Under her fingers, the white wood was turning a pale, scorched grey. She was burning up with Nadi. CaLarca tried to establish an Eko connection, to tell Sydel to be calm, to tighten her core muscles, to breathe, but the girl’s mind was firmly shut.
“But that’s why CaLarca brought you here,” Kuri was still speaking, in that familiar, gravelly voice. “So we can all finally put this all behind us.”
“What?” CaLarca gasped. “What are you talking about?”
Sydel looked from Kuri to Marette to CaLarca. “You – you - ” she stuttered. “This was planned?”
“CaLarca, it’s okay,” Marette broke in. “You’ve done a wonderful job. I know it was a difficult process, but we’re together now, and with Sydel’s authorization, we can -”
“What is wrong with you?” CaLarca hissed. “I haven’t seen you in twenty-five years!”
Marette and Kuri looked at her with confusion and pity, like she was a lost child.
“No,” Kuri said. “No, CaLarca. After we saw Sydel at Kings, we tracked down Marette. And together, we arranged your injury, so Sydel would take you as her ward, and you could evaluate her surroundings, and the potential f
or her to help us. You don’t remember?”
Sydel gasped. Her hands balled into fists, pressed into her breast.
“You don’t,” Kuri concluded, shock on his face. “Is that why you kept me from coming onboard the Arazura? I wondered why you lashed out like that.”
“That was you?” CaLarca choked. “You took the form of the detective?”
“Of course I did. I’ve been trying to find you for weeks. Then you finally made contact with Marette.”
Her cane clattered to the floor. “I’m not -” CaLarca stuttered. “I would never choose to - this isn’t right -”
Then Kuri’s mouth was next to her ear. “I’ll prove it,” he whispered. “Your memory is there, CaLarca. If you let me inside, I’ll draw it out...”
A burst of light blinded her. The remnants of the concert crowd began to scatter, screaming, as a great shadow passed over them.
“Back off,” came a man’s voice through a loudspeaker. “All of you. Away from Sydel. Now.”
Squinting, CaLarca made out the shimmering blue shadow of the Arazura, hovering above the gazebo, downdrafts crushing the flowers. A gun barrel unfolded underneath the nose of the Arazura, trained on the gazebo.
“Sydel,” the voice boomed. “Now.”
What about me? CaLarca couldn’t help the thought.
Then the girl ran past her, past Kuri, down the stairs of the gazebo and into the wind. “Go away! I don’t want you here!” Sydel screamed. “Leave me alone!”
She waved her hand at the Arazura, as if to cut it in two. For a moment, CaLarca thought she saw the ship shudder, and list on its side, before it went even again.
Then the side exit door to the Arazura unfolded. A rope ladder dropped down, and a thick silhouette descended, hitting the ground with a thunk that carried over the sound of the engines. Then Cohen Byrne stalked towards the gazebo, his red beard lit by the sunlight.
Stumbling down the gazebo steps, CaLarca hobbled in front of Sydel, her hand raised, trying to warn him: “You don’t -”
His huge palm hit the top of her chest, and she flew backwards.
