by Loren Walker
“No.” There was no further explanation. “And Phaira?”
“I’m here,” Phaira said, though she remained in the corner, out of sight.
“You’re Sydel.” The statement made everyone stiffen. “The little stowaway. Back in the fold, I see. Are you the one looking for me?”
Sydel’s cheeks flushed deep pink as she stared into the void.
You don’t have to do this. Renzo tried to push his words into her mind. I can shut this off in a moment, make some excuse.
“Please, Mr. Sava, may I see you?” Sydel finally asked. “I want to ensure that you hear me.”
“I can hear you. What do you want?”
Sydel took in a deep, shaky breath. Then she blurted out:
“I am responsible for the death of your cousins.”
Phaira bit her thumbnail, trading looks with Cohen. CaLarca stared at the back of Sydel’s head. Yann looked surprisingly calm, his hands in his sleeves, waiting.
“Tell me how.” Theron’s voice was quiet, but sharp.
“I have the ability to generate energy,” Sydel began, visibly trembling. “I was under duress, strangled by your cousin Keller, and I lost control of the energy. It killed your cousin Keller, and damaged the foundation of the underground base, causing it to collapse. Which your other cousin was caught in.” There were tears in her voice. “I’m so sorry. And I’m so sorry for what happened to you when you were a child. You and your family.”
The tension in the room heightened by a thousand degrees, as everyone held their breath.
But Theron said nothing.
“I know this is sudden,” Sydel continued. “And I know you’re distraught, and confused, I can sense it -”
“Sydel,” Phaira warned from the corner.
“But I hope you have the capacity to forgive,” Sydel concluded. “And not just me.”
She looked over her shoulder at CaLarca and Yann.
“You with the green hair,” came Theron’s quiet voice. “You’re one of the originals, aren’t you?”
Renzo saw real fear on CaLarca’s face as she took a step forward. “Which - which one were you?” she asked the black screen.
“Black hair. Eight years old. Red shirt.” He listed off the facts without emotion.
“I was fourteen,” CaLarca said haltingly. “And very scared, and trying to understand what I was involved with. I only saw your family from a distance, but I didn’t actually -”
Then she corrected herself. “No, that’s not right.” She took in a long, steadying breath. “I should have stopped the others, or at least tried to,” she confessed. “I should have told someone what happened. It’s just as cowardly to keep it a secret all these years, and… I’m sorry.”
Sydel nodded, relief on her face.
“But this man next to me has no remorse.”
Yann started. But CaLarca plowed on, drawing so close to the screen that Renzo thought she might tumble through. “He wears another face, but Kuri Nimat was one of your attackers, and he deserves all your wrath. He can take on appearances, but I’m sure you have the resources, Mr. Sava, to track him down. I encourage the use of every single one.”
Yann darted forward, grabbed the Lissome and threw it at the opposite wall. The Lissome ricocheted, just inches from Phaira’s head. The screens dissolved with a burst of static. Phaira had her hidden knife drawn and flipped in reverse. Renzo backed into the corner, his hands up. Sydel’s hands were fixed to her mouth.
Braced in the doorway, Yann’s face shimmered. The jowls tightened, hair spread over his head, and his body thinned. Within seconds, it was a new man, tall and lean, mid-thirties, black-haired, bronzed and handsome, looking at them with pity.
“You have to understand,” Kuri said. “I wanted no violence. But he wasn’t willing to listen to me.”
“No,” Sydel choked through her fingers. “No, you didn’t.”
Kuri stretched out a hand to her. “What I said outside was true, Sydel: every word, every apology, every thought of wrongdoing, they were all his. I wish he had the courage to tell you himself. But unfortunately -”
His whole body jolted. His eyes bulged, and a strangled sound came out of his mouth.
Then CaLarca stepped away from him. The knife she bore dissipated into a puff of smoke, red droplets hitting the wooden floor. Kuri keeled over, gripping his ribs, blood spilling through his fingers.
Sydel caught his arm and helped him to his knees. Phaira went to pull her away, but she pushed off their hands.
“What are you doing?” Renzo yelped. “What are you doing?”
“I’m healing him,” Sydel said resolutely, drawing Kuri down on his back.
“Syd,” Phaira started.
But Sydel’s voice was sharp. “No. Not like this.”
Standing in the corner, CaLarca didn’t react or move as Sydel passed her hands over Kuri’s heaving torso. No one spoke. The temperature in the room rose. Kuri’s face contorted, and, for a moment, shimmered, before settling back into the lines. Sydel’s fingers held steady over the red.
Then she sat back on her heels. Kuri drew up on his elbows, breathing hard. But there was no more wet blood, only dried brown.
Kuri wobbled to his feet, and darted out the door. They heard his footsteps on the staircase, the creak of the door outside. Phaira, CaLarca, Sydel and Renzo stared at each other.
“We have to stop him, right?” Renzo asked the group.
Phaira shook her head. “Wait.” She strode across the room and snapped up the fallen Lissome, activating it again. She punched in a series of numbers.
“Who are you -” Renzo mouthed, but stopped when she spoke in a brusque voice: “Ozias, it’s Phaira.”
Wait, Renzo thought, his panic rising. Wait. Ozias. The detective? Wasn’t that her name? The one who was looking for Cohen?
“Is the shapeshifter there?” came a woman’s voice.
“Yes. Kuri Nimat,” Phaira said, glancing at CaLarca for confirmation. “He’s taken the form of a young man, dark hair, six feet, early-to-mid-thirties. But he has officers with him, or at least four who look like law.”
“I can’t get a handle on your location.”
“Toomba,” Phaira said. “In the Cyan Mountains, south of -”
“Toomba?” Ozias repeated, her voice sharp. “Those men aren’t officers.”
“How do you know that?”
“Don’t you know anything about where you are? A patrol officer would be shot on sight if they tried to broach the border. In fact, no stranger is ever allowed up the mountain.”
“But,” Phaira sputtered. “I came here, I wasn’t assaulted.”
“Because you are family.”
Everyone turned at the old, cracked voice. Vyoma stood in the doorway, her hands behind her back, surveying the room like a drill sergeant.
“Close it down, dear,” she told Phaira.
With a click, Phaira snapped the Lissome into its dormant form.
“Now,” Vyoma said quietly. “Let’s have a talk with our visitors.”
V.
Outside, one hundred residents of Toomba had emerged and formed into rows, each with a firearm primed against their shoulder. Some were rusty, some were ancient models, and even a few newer versions glimmered here and there, but no barrel wavered, no eye blinked. One of those eyes were Cohen’s, Phaira realized with a start; she recognized his Vaccaro rifle. While they were making the call to Theron, he was rallying the troops. The Toomba militia. And he was part of it.
Fifty feet away, near the edge of the mounttain, Kuri’s arm was still clasped around his ribs, as he peered from behind the four officers.
“You realize this is all for show, correct?” Kuri called out. “Should we chose to do so, every rifle will be turned back on its owner.”
We, Phaira thought. He’s not the only NINE present.
“What do you want?” Sydel’s shrill voice carried through the mountains. She stalked in Kuri’s direction, leading with her forehead like
a ram. “When does this stop? What do I -”
“Sydel,” one of the female officers suddenly spoke.
Sydel stopped ten feet away. “Marette?” she whispered.
The officer’s face shimmered, and grew pale, her dark hair shifting to white-blonde dreadlocks.
“I’m sorry,” Marette began. “I’m sorry for deceiving you. We were going to tell you the truth as soon as we got off Toomba.”
“How could you?” Sydel hissed. “Yann sheltered me, when you couldn’t be bothered!” Her gaze shifted to the other officers. “And who are these, then? Is your sister in there?”
“No, these are my bodyguards,” Marette said. “On contract to serve me and my interests, as always. And they won’t hesistate to hurt anyone who approaches without warning.” She looked at Sydel beseechingly. “Understand, Sydel, that I agreed to this for Shantou’s sake. When I learned about her condition… I need this surgery to save her, and I’m -” Her voice broke. “I don’t have the rana to make it happen.”
“So you need mine, is that right?” Sydel snapped. “And you’re willing to kill Yann to get it?”
“This isn’t working,” Phaira heard Kuri mutter.
Marette stepped back into the ranks. Something was about to happen. Long seconds passed. Fingers tensed around triggers. Energy crackled through the mountain.
“We’re running out of time here,” Kuri finally broke the silence. “I don’t want to cause any more harm, Sydel, but -” He gestured to the Toomba residents, the hundred gun barrels aimed at his head. “Foolish for gathering in one location,” he remarked. “It would be simple: just move a rock and let it fall.”
A few of the Toomba men looked away, scanning the mountainside.
“You won’t do that,” CaLarca chimed in, finally joining them outside, panting from the exertion. “You’d have to divert Nadi from generating your appearance. And you’re too vain for that.”
“There’s no deal,” Cohen’s voice rang out, so loud that it made Phaira wince. “Leave now, while you have a -”
“Cohen Byrne?” Kuri interrupted.
Cohen inched ahead of the group of Toomba militia, his Vacarro still against his shoulder.
Kuri nodded. “Nox was so disappointed in you.”
Cohen’s mouth dropped open.
“You were so weak, passive, embarrassing,” Kuri continued, drawing out each word. “No mind of your own. He never had confidence in you, not in training, and not in Kings Canyon.”
Furious, Phaira glanced between Kuri and Cohen, wanting nothing more than to reopen that stab wound in the man’s ribs. Kuri's right hand was moving, she realized, fingers undulating along his thigh, in a rolling pattern, again and again.
And Cohen was staring at Kuri, as if transfixed. What was he seeing? What was he thinking?
Kuri’s voice grew quiet. “Last chance, Sydel,” he addressed the girl.
“Or what?” she snapped back.
Cohen’s eyes bugged out. The Vacaaro clattered to the rock floor.
Then her brother broke into a sudden, frenzied run.
Phaira’s body exploded with adrenaline, but before she could scream his name, before she could stop him, Cohen was past her.
He was leaping over the brink.
He was swallowed by the clouds.
Screams echoed through the mountains. One of them was Phaira’s, trailing behind her like smoke as she ran to the edge.
Somehow, Sydel and CaLarca were already there, their upper bodies hidden from view. Phaira dropped onto her knees, every muscle like stone, horrified of what she would see.
But Sydel’s hands were outstretched, her fingers rigid claws. And Cohen’s silhouette was one hundred feet below, his waist bound in rope, the length taut, running all the way into CaLarca’s white-knuckled hands. Both the woman were radiating heat. But Cohen wasn’t falling. He was floating. He was flying. They were pulling him back.
Astonished, Phaira grabbed hold of the rope (where had it come from? Why was it so hot?). As Sydel drew her hands in, again and again, as if beckoning Cohen to come, CaLarca and Phaira pulled him closer and closer. Incredibly, he was almost weightless; it was like pulling on the string of a heavy balloon. His head was flopped back, but Phaira could see his chest rising and falling. How was this possible? Was this a hallucination?
When close enough, Phaira snatched Cohen’s leg, then his belt, hauling him over the edge. Finally, finally, he was slumped on the sandy floor, as Phaira threw her arms around his neck. “Are you okay?” she couldn’t stop whispering. “Are you okay?”
When she felt the slightest pat on her back, Phaira forced herself to release her little brother, and push down the tears crawling up her throat.
Next to her, CaLarca was slumped into herself, the white rope coiled around her legs, next to her fallen cane. Suddenly, the rope dissipated into puffs of smoke. Phaira jumped, but CaLarca didn’t seem to notice; she was staring at her reddened hands.
A roar of pain, and the crash of bodies on the ground. Phaira sprang to her feet. Renzo had tackled Kuri. The dull smack of knuckles of flesh echoed through the mountain. Marette leapt on Renzo’s back, yanking on him, pulling his hair. Her bodyguards swarmed around Renzo. The residents of Toomba charged, a wave of metal and wool.
“Stop where you are!” The voice boomed through the mountains.
The wave stopped. The bodyguards froze, looking in all directions.
What now? Who was here now? Phaira bemoaned, searching frantically for signs of satellites or drones.
“Troublemakers.”
Phaira recognized the voice immediately. But it was coming from the fourth canyon.
From the Arazura.
“Stand down, Kuri Nimat, Marette Lyung, and all minions,” Anandi announced. “These people are under the protection of the Hitodama.”
“What?” Renzo cried, pushing off the bodyguards’ hands and rolling away.
“Shush, Ren!” The sharp feedback made everyone wince. “Get behind the militia already. And if you make a move, Kuri, I’ll take you down, both you and your girdfriend there.”
What was she talking about? Hitodama? How could she take Kuri down? Reeling, Phaira helped the still-woozy Cohen to his feet. CaLarca and Sydel huddled together, backing away in the direction of Vyoma and the Toomba militia, all retreating into the safety of the caverns.
Kuri stumbled to his feet, visibly crackling with anger. “This isn’t over!” he yelled into the mountains. “I don’t care who you think you are -”
“Enough!” Vyoma’s voice crackled. “I want them dead or contained!”
The Toomba men and women surged forward. Simultaneously, Kuri and Marette lifted their hands, while the bodyguards drew arms.
“Don’t!” Sydel pleaded to the militia as they rushed past. “They’ll hurt you! They’ll -”
A line of men dropped, clutching their heads and screaming. Shots were fired, booming, backfire. Chaos and flashing blue lights. Vyoma was suddenly in Phaira’s face. “Fall back!” she commanded. “Take the other two into the tunnel.”
“Are you kidding me?” Phaira exclaimed, drawing her blade and moving to push past the woman.
“Don’t argue!” Grabbing Phaira around the arm, Vyoma hauled her under the overhang of the cavern. Shocked, Phaira stumbled over her feet, only gaining her balance when she faced a dark opening in the rock wall, with an open iron door. Sydel and CaLarca were already huddled inside.
“What is -?”
With surprising strength, Vyoma shoved Phaira into the tunnel, cutting off her question.
“Take them deep inside,” Vyoma told Phaira. “Don’t come back until you get the all-clear.”
“What?” Phaira yelped.
But the door spiraled shut, cutting off her cry and the light.
All Phaira could hear was the sound of her loud, quickened breathing, and the shivering exhales of the other two women. Slowly, her eyes adjusted. The tunnel was lit every ten feet by a luminescent, graying lightpod,
and stretched on and on. She couldn’t see the end.
Phaira grit her teeth. Why wasn’t she out there, fighting with the others? Who did Vyoma think she was, putting her hands on Phaira, telling her what to do? What good would it do to go deeper inside the mountain? This whole situation was an insult.
“Come on,” she told the other two. “Walk.”
The tunnel was so narrow and low that they had to hunch over to walk. They stumbled over old rails, their hips and arms scraped by rocks, searching for more open space. Water dripped on their heads.
“This is ridiculous,” CaLarca’s surly voice bounced off the walls. “I can’t run from this. I’m the one who has to resolve -”
“Don’t be stupid,” Phaira shot back, scraping her leg and wincing. “You can barely walk.”
“No, I’m the one,” Sydel bemoaned. “He’s done all of this to get to me, all these horrible things.”
“Both of you, be quiet!” Phaira commanded.
The tunnel shuddered under their hands. Rubble fell on Phaira’s shoulder. An explosion? Would the cave collapse on them? They were old mining tunnels, they were reinforced to some degree, but were they using bombs out there? What if they were now trapped in the mountains?
Then a humming noise grew: a wave of sound, coming closer and closer.
CaLarca and Sydel heard it too, by the way they craned their necks, their eyes wide with fear.
Phaira turned in place, searching, until the feedback hit, screeching through her brain like a malfunctioning radio. Memories and voices swarmed through her head. Her body was alight with electricity. She couldn’t see, she couldn’t speak.
Then it was gone, and she was panting for air, fingernails digging into the wall to hold herself. Ahead of her, CaLarca and Sydel were on their knees, clawing at the air, whimpering. But they were alive.
“Syd! Phair!” Cohen’s voice echoed through the tunnel.
“Co!” Phaira yelled back, shaking her head to clear it, scrambling back to the entrance. She glanced back at the other two; they were breathing hard, red-faced and smeared with dirt, but pulling themselves along, following her to the outside.
