by Justin Bell
At any rate, he's got me, more or less, locked up in my room with periodic visits from Adroxis security to see if they can pick my brain to find out what insidious terrors the Bragdons put me through.
And then, of course, there's Mom.
"Brie?"
For crying out loud, she can read my mind.
"Yeah, Mom," I reply. "I'm awake."
"I should think so," she says, gliding into my room in her long lace dress that floats around her feet as if she's a ghost. "It's late, Brie."
I swing my legs over the bed and stand, stretching my back and reaching for the ceiling. Underneath the thin layer of my sleeping clothes, the muscles strain and try to recover. There's a tight pinch in my lower back, and my leg still burns, but I show no indication.
"Your teacher will be arriving shortly, sweetheart. You need to wash and get dressed."
"This home schooling thing isn't really working for me," I say, walking past my mother and towards the washroom.
"You will adapt."
"I don't want to adapt."
"Brie, you know your father as well as I do."
"I'm not sure he knows me, Mom."
Jary Northstar, that's my mom, is First Lady to the President of the North Annex Union. In the grand scheme of things, my dad is a small cog in a very big wheel, but when you live on a planet of manual laborers, any kind of cog in any kind of wheel is believed to be important.
From the washroom mirror I can see her glance at her toes, not wanting to reply to my thinly veiled accusation. She knows it's true.
I turn the water on and start scrubbing my hands, splashing water over my face, trying to blink away the stinging. I'm not tired; I got a full night's sleep . . . no night time shenanigans for this teenager.
"Can I at least stop by Weeda's place after class?" I ask. Weeda Rukstag is a girl I've known since first grade. She's my age, but from a less prestigious family, family of perceived unimportance. While I was in a shuttle heading to generational school, she was preparing for her first day in the factories of Adroxis, either stitching fabric or dying wool. That would be her life, simply because of her parents' heritage.
It's always bothered me, for as long as I can remember, that your parents somehow dictate your future and you have no choice in the matter. This has always felt wrong.
Never one to shy away from my feelings, I've always shared these thoughts with my parents, too, and, well, that doesn't always go well either. After all, my father worked hard to get our family to its place of prominence, in order to give me a life of options and relative comfort, and here I am complaining about it.
Mother help me, I must drive him crazy.
"What time does she get out of the factory, Brie?" she replies.
"I think today is her early shift. I'm done with class about the same time she gets home."
"Maybe," Mom replies. "We'll see."
Yeah, that's a no. That's a 'let me check with your father' comment, which makes it a 'no'. It probably would have been a 'no' even two months ago, but now that I have come back from a strange lost weekend with a Bragdon in tow, it is absolutely, certainly, definitely a big, fat 'NO'.
"Your dad wants to bring the doctors back in," she continues. Her voice is faint as she looks away because she can never look me in the eye when she says stuff like this. After all, it was her hallucinations that caused all the medical drama to begin with.
But, were they hallucinations?
If they were, I saw them, too. I saw that flash of time in the mirror where I was no longer a strange two-armed Athelonian freak, but instead, something ... else. Something more ... Bragdon?
I keep trying to pass it off as stress induced imagination, considering my trials on Braxis for so long. No wonder I was seeing myself as one of them.
But what about Mom?
She walks over to the washroom, using her two right arms to rest against the wall while her two left reach in and touch my shoulder. There's a unique caress, squeezing and pressing down almost to the bone. There's something soothing about those four arms. Those four arms that everyone on this planet has but me.
A birth defect, Dad always called it. Part of me believes that's why they give me so much leeway. It's why they let me be a jerk about working and resist the core Athelonian belief system. Somewhere, deep inside, I suspect Dad thinks this birth defect goes deeper than a lack of arms to something more psychological.
Maybe it does.
As my mother relaxes her grasp on my shoulder, I turn towards her to ask, "When can I learn something about Luxen?" It's a question I ask pretty much every day, but I can never seem to get the answer.
Her face screws up as if I showed her something gross I chewed up but didn't swallow. "Brie, please," she whispers in reply.
"He and his mother saved my life," I repeat for at least the hundredth time in the past month. "His mother died to save my life."
"We are thankful for that," she says. "But he is a Bragdon. We cannot let them roam free on Athelon. We cannot trust them."
"The entire species? You know this how?" Brie protests.
"We are not rehashing this again. Your father will be here soon and if he hears us talking about this, there will be trouble, and it won't be for me."
Suddenly there's a steady, rapid thumping on the door to my bedroom. It resonates through the small square-shaped residence like thunder, causing my heart to jump. It's the persistent, steady rhythm of someone expecting the door to open immediately. Nobody I know knocks like that . . . only my father or . . .
"Adroxis Security, Ms. Northstar. Please open your door."
Yeah, . . . or them.
Mom looks at me with confusion carved on her soft features. I try to act surprised, but she's got this mom-mind-reading thing going on, and I'm pretty sure she sees right through me.
With a sigh, she turns towards the door and takes three strides across my bedroom floor, extending her hand.
"Come in, please," she says quietly. "What is this about?"
"Beg your pardon, ma'am," one of the guards says as he bows. He wears stark silver armor as all members of Adroxis Security do. It is sleek and mobile, almost like a second skin. Layered on top of the armor is a thicker, blue canvas vest. Matching elbow and knee pads complete his uniform. Both he and his partner have small, round, multi-barreled weapons strapped tightly to their backs. It's much better to see them that way than raised and pointed at me, I suppose.
"Could you answer my question?" Mom insists.
Go, Mom, go.
"I am Officer Thragdon, Ms. Northstar. This is my partner, Officer Huntsman." He gestures towards the second, a mirror image of the first. "We have a few questions for your daughter, if we may."
"Mom, please," I beg, turning towards her. "I didn't do anything. I'm not a criminal."
"Nobody said you were a criminal, ma'am," Officer Huntsman replies. "We just have a few questions."
I've seen the showcasts. I know how this plot works; good cop, bad cop, with me in the middle. Why did I go out last night? Why did I ever go out? . . . Me and this stupid brain of mine.
My eyes dart between them. Huntsman has all four arms crossed tight over his chest, the lights on the ceiling gleaming from his silver armor. Thragdon has his arms crossed behind his back, folded over the weapon against his back, his eyes narrow and prying.
Yeah, he's going to be the bad cop.
"Okay, so ask," I reply. "I've got no secrets."
Thragdon smiles and nods at me. "I'm sure you don't. But we prefer to do these at the station. I've got a hovercar right outside. We'll have you back here in an hour, just in time for your classes."
My mom looks a bit less open to helping me this time, like this might be something real.
My throat goes dry and I wrap my arms around myself, feeling that separation as always between me and everyone else on this planet. Think how well I could hide myself right now with four arms instead of two. There is no way for this to end, other than badly.
> "What is going on here?" That voice, my smile spreads wide hearing that voice.
"Dad?" I ask, my voice cracking. "Daddy?"
Redax Northstar, my dad, is head of the Annex Union, one of the biggest labor unions in Adroxis. Throughout my whole life, his authority has driven me crazy, but right here, right now, I couldn't be happier.
He steps into my room, pushing past the two security officers. He's taller than both of them by a full head, and his shoulders are broad underneath the rich, red cloak that seems to coast as he walks. Thick white hair covers his head and his face. His gray eyes are stern. Two of his hands hold the cloak back away from his body while his other two gesture towards the officers.
"What are you doing here, gentlemen?" he asks in his baritone.
"Good morning, Mr. Northstar," Thragdon replies, bowing his head. Next to him Huntsman repeats the motion. "We have some questions for your lovely daughter, that's all."
"Questions?" he asks. "What about?" His eyes shoot my way, narrowing even further. I realize he's looking at me even more intently than he was looking at them. That's not good.
"There have been incidents in recent weeks, sir," Thragdon replies. "Some daredevil out on the rooftops is being reckless and disturbing the peace."
"And what does that have to do with Brie?"
Thragdon looks over to his partner, then back at my father. "A few of our officers have gotten a look at this person. The person...well...has only two arms, Sir. And this pattern of behavior appears to be within a few blocks radius of this building."
Dad doesn't reply. He grasps his chin with his fingers and lowers his head as if deep in thought. Still clutching his jaw, he glances back at me, looking not at me, but through me as he always does.
The silence is thick and tangible, a web of cotton woven around everyone in the room, rendering us all immobile.
Finally, he nods, looking back at me with both of his stern, gray eyes. "Go with them, Brie. Answer their questions. We'll get this sorted out."
My eyes widen and I look over at my mother, pleading. She turns away from me.
My imagination supplies an announcer's voice to pronounce, “My parents, ladies and gentlemen.”
"Ms. Northstar?" Thragdon asks, extending his hand. The sting of tears pricks the corners of my eyes, a wet pinch forcing them to close. One lone tear breaks free and rolls down my cheek, but I keep my face firm and stoic, glaring back at my dear father.
I turn my head, joining the Adroxis Security officers as they lead me down the hall towards their car and my first ever interrogation. This should be fun.
Chapter Three
The interview is starting out to be about as much fun as I expected, which is no fun at all. Adroxis security stuff me in their tiny hover car, zip me through the busy city streets, and dump my butt here in a teeny tiny interrogation room before departing and leaving me alone to my thoughts.
My thoughts include, “I've been here for thirty minutes already,” and “There's no way we're getting done in time for me to go to my home school classes,” as well as, “Mom's going to be pissed.”
. . . Not pissed enough to stand up to dad, necessarily, but pissed just the same.
Up in the left corner of the room I see the telltale sign of a security camera, peering out through a one way mirrored square flush against the wall. It's glaring down at me, one wide, glass eye watching every move I make. My hands rest on the flat metal table in front of me, clamped in chains and fastened to the surface. If my dad were here, he'd never let them get away with this, but since he pretty much cast me out, they're taking liberties.
Good for them. Take them while you can, Officer Thragdon and Officer Huntsman.
Listen to me, acting all big shot. Truth is, my heart is racing. They're going to start hounding me about this strange person jumping from rooftop to rooftop and I don't have a good explanation for that. Especially when I think about the fact that this mysterious stranger has only two arms where the entirety of Athelon has four. Gee, who else only has two arms?
I should have thought that through better. But see, that's the problem when your head buzzes with all of these crazy new memories and skills. It confuses things and you forget stuff you used to know well.
Like, I don't know . . . basic common sense? Critical thinking skills, like maybe if you're the only person on the planet with just two arms, don't go committing thrill crimes because you're identifiable? Dumb move, Brie. Dumb, dumb move.
I can't help myself. The whole universe seems like a different place now. So much has changed in one month. My view on the world of Athelon was already skewed compared to everyone I know, but now it's totally warped.
Once this whole universe of new facts and abilities was opened up, the mere thought of restricting all of what I am to whatever manual labor I can perform sounds like . . . torture.
Exploration, investigation, and learning are necessary to me, like breathing. There's so much we don't know about the things we have seen, and even more that we're completely unaware of. There's this world beyond . . .
What am I talking about?
I open my eyes and glance down at my wrists, still clamped in metal brackets, still chained down to the metal table. For all my daydreaming and all my holier-than-thou superiority complex, I'm still the one with my wrists shackled sitting in a tiny interrogation room about to get obliterated by Adroxis Security.
With an ominous creak, the metal door pushes open and Officer Tragdon enters, his dark forearms exposed by the rolled up sleeves of the four-armed button-up dark blue shirt he's wearing. He's ditched the skintight silver armor, and is in much more casual dress, not even wearing the weapon strapped across his back. He does have a holster on his right thigh within easy reach of both right hands, but beyond that, he could be an office worker or accountant and not a security officer.
"Are you comfortable?" he asks as Huntsman slinks in the door behind him.
"Sure," I reply. "These shackles are especially roomy. Does my dad know you've got me tied up in here like some criminal?"
Huntsman eased the door shut behind him. "I don't know. Does your dad know you're a criminal?"
My eyes narrow at him, glaring, shifting back and forth between them. "What are you talking about?
All of this for rooftop jumping? This seems excessive.
Neither of them reply right away. Thragdon reaches over and scrapes a chair across the rough concrete floor, swings it around backwards, and straddles it with his elbows resting on the raised back.
Huntsman grabs a chair as well, pulling it along behind him before resting his bulk on it and leaning back.
"So, talk to us," Thragdon says. "About Braxis."
Okay, that was unexpected.
"What about it?" I ask.
"What happened while you were there?"
"I went over this with intelligence guys when I returned," I reply. "Dad was there."
"Just run through it again for us, okay?" Huntsman interjected. "Just for giggles."
As I draw in a frustrated breath, I shift in my chair, jingling the shackles to remind them I was being held against my will.
"I was a prisoner on one of their huge freighters," I reply. "I assume they were taking me to the surface, but they crossed into Reblox space, and Reblox shot them down."
"There were hundreds of Bragdon in that freighter," Thragdon replies. "Certainly you had the opportunity to speak with them before the Reblox attack?"
"Kinda too busy running for my life."
"So nobody said anything to you? Ever?" Huntsman leaned forward a bit.
"Can you tell me what this is about?" I ask. "Last time I checked I was the victim in that incident. I was the one they took, right?"
"But why did they take you?" Huntsman continued.
"How would I know that?"
Thragdon clamped his fingers around the top of his chair and his face hardened momentarily.
"I'm trying to help, Officer Thragdon," I reply, my voice sharp with a
nnoyance. "I have zero allegiance to the Bragdon."
"Is that so?" he asks. "What about that boy we're holding? Your father says you ask about him all the time."
"He and his mother saved my life. His mother died. I owe him a debt I will never be able to repay, and so far his reward for that sacrifice is to rot in one of our prison cells. What do you want me to do? Write him off?"
"What do you think he'd do if your positions were reversed?"
"They were reversed, or pretty near so. He drove a swamp skid into an airfield with four dozen highly trained Bragdon operatives in order to save me. He did this a few moments after his mother died in his arms."
"What else happened down on the surface?" Huntsman asks.
I close my eyes in utter frustration and clench my fists once again rattling the chains that bind me. "I almost died in a freighter crash. I barely escaped being eaten by slimy swamp dogs. Stole a jump ship. Came home. The end."
Thragdon nods and pushes himself upright, his chair squeaking underneath him. "Since you're taking this so seriously, maybe you can sit here for a few moments to see if it jogs your memory. We'll be back."
"Give me a break!" I shout. "I don't understand why I'm being blamed for this."
"It's not about blame," replies Huntsman. "It's about trying to uncover the Bragdon threat. So far you have not been cooperative, which leads us to think you've got something to hide."
I drop my head down against the table. "I'm not trying to be uncooperative," I say, under my breath. "I just don't remember."
"Well, let us know when you do," Thragdon replies and turns to leave.
Suddenly a vivid memory flashes in my mind. I'm alone, seated on a hard bed in the pitch blackness of a prison cell on the freighter.
"Wait!" I call out. "There was something strange."
Thragdon turns towards me, smirking. "Oh?"
I close my eyes, thinking back to that whirlwind of time where the tractor beam drew me into the Bragdon freighter, before Reblox interceptors knocked it out of space.
"I was in a prison cell for a little while, and a couple Bragdons approached me."
"Now we're getting somewhere," Huntsman said, placing a hand on the back of his chair.
