Song of a Dead Star

by Zamil Akhtar

  Nesmith nodded as if he believed her every lie.

  “Look, for your own good, just let me go. My husband gets very jealous and has a terrible temper. I’d rather you didn’t endure it.”

  Bayer grinned, then whispered something to Nesmith.

  I can’t stay here another minute, not the way these people look at me.

  “Bayer here says you washed up on the shore of the Deep Blue. That’s on the other side of the island. If you were heading to Necia, you wouldn’t go through Deep Blue waters, nor would you be allowed to enter.”

  “Look — we’re royalty. Part of our honeymoon plan was to sail through the Deep Blue on our way to Necia — to take in all the beauty and wonder and whatnot. Who’s going to stop us? I mean really, who could? No one.”

  Her captors looked bewildered. Had she out-argued them?

  “Fierce girl, reminds me of my daughter,” Nesmith said. “Right now, you just relax, princess.”

  It’s working! I’ve never lied so convincingly before.

  They left. Saina continued to work her story, refining it with more substance and detail. She knew the history of the royal family, the locations of their palaces, and other particulars from hearsay and books. She crafted a colorful fantasy.

  To deliver her story convincingly, she let the fantasy become realer. She saw the world as a princess would and even dreamt new memories. Remember that time I got lost in the undercroft in the palace of Bukhair? It was such a dark world, and I was alone, and I couldn’t find my way back. I cried until father found me — my first memory.

  And then she thought of her actual first memory.

  There was a story around the memory, though the pictures were tattered. At the center of that story was an emotion — one she never stopped feeling.

  The first picture was a hot day. So hot, her skin blistered. It became pink and mushy, and she cried to get out of the sun. They gave her a little shade. And they said things to her, yelled at her, and when that didn’t work, they pinched her arms.

  The next picture was a man with a dirty turban loosely wrapped and a mustache thick and curled. He was drenched in sweat, with tangerines in his breath, and he grabbed her and took her somewhere.

  He gave her relief from the sun. But he was strange. She could still taste the food he gave her — flaky bread with ginger curry. There were others in that room, not unlike the room she was in now, and all of it was strange and all of it scared her.

  She didn’t feel so afraid today. Here, they gave her decent food and a mattress, and she shared this room with four girls. But they wouldn’t let her leave. Where am I gonna go anyway? Wherever, I need to get out before they sell me.

  “Princess,” Nesmith said, standing at the doorway, “it’s your turn to bathe.”

  The bath water was warm, and they gave her fresh clothes. Is this how they treat all their captives? There was a window, but a wall blocked the view and barely let the sky in.

  Saina lay in the bath and stared up. The ceiling was an off-color eggshell — so unfamiliar. So I’m in Hyseria, a city of Keldan. How did I even end up here?

  Her memory answered — the black walls stained with human blood, and the milky steam of that garden, and a four-headed snake eating her alive.

  Abba...did you save me and bring me here?

  She washed the hole in her wrist, empty without the grain of twicrys. Abba...you won’t let anything happen to me, right?

  Someone knocked on the door. Her ten minutes were up.

  “Gimme a second!” Saina quickly used the bucket to wash her hair, then rubbed off, dressed, and opened the door. “Sorry about that.”

  The girl standing there had no hair. Her skin was pale, like snow falling on ice. She said nothing and went in.

  Brushing her shoulder, Saina felt the bluest aura of conduction. She turned to look at the girl, but caught her undressing. There was something silvery and circular on her back. The alien sheen and the way it pressed into her snow-white skin made Saina shiver. The girl noticed Saina watching.

  “Sorry!” Saina said.

  Back in her room, Nesmith and Bayer were conversing.

  “I couldn’t understand a word,” Bayer said. “The guys who sent her here don’t know where she came from.”

  Nesmith grimaced. “Put her in here for now, until we valuate her — oh! Princess! I hope our humble amenities were sufficient for you.”

  “Honestly,” Saina said, “you can’t expect me to live like this for much longer.”

  “Of course not. We’re investigating for any leads on missing Almarian royalty. So as soon we confirm your claims, we’ll arrange your release.”

  “Look, for your own sake, it’s better you release me before the world catches wind of this, because by then, you’ll have become an enemy of the Kingdom of Almaria for keeping one of their daughters locked up and that can’t bode well for you.”

  Am I trying too hard? That was a stretch.

  Bayer let off another creepy smile.

  “We have no problems with the Kingdom of Almaria,” Nesmith said. “We’re both suffering under Shirma rule, so we consider Almarians our friends. And there are so many similarities between our peoples. We’ll look into releasing you soon.”

  A few minutes later, that hairless girl walked in, her dress moist and smelling of flowers. Saina, still embarrassed from earlier, avoided eye contact. The girl plonked on her mattress, curled in her blanket, and lay limp.

  UHR already?

  Everyone was getting ready for bed, so Saina did too. She pulled the blanket’s warmth over her and retreated to her fantasy. As the princess and daughter of Emir Sufyan, she grew up with a mastery of taming and riding waterbirds. She bred them too and had a favorite baby waterbird named...Kav. No that’s a dumb name for a waterbird. What would I name it? Argh.

  Was Kav okay? Saina hoped he survived. Hoped she would see him again.

  “Hey! Don’t go in there! Girls are sleepin’!” The door cried open; someone walked in.

  Saina gasped at the sight of him. A mangled collection of charred and twisted metal, coiling into thousands of broken strands, stuck out of this man’s arm. He walked around the room.

  He looked into Saina’s eyes. “Do I scare you, Almarian?”

  Nesmith ran over. “Let’s do this after UHR.”

  “They sent me to maximize the return on our assets, not to sleep.”

  “Beauty sleep is part of that maximization. So let’s let them rest. Uhh, what was your name?”

  “You don’t know my name, and yet you proudly call yourself a Son?”

  Saina noted that Nesmith may have been twice his age, but this man showed him no respect. Clearly, he was in charge.

  “Even the fish in the ocean know my name. How is it that you don’t?”

  He dragged his mangled arm out the room. So Saina returned to her made-up world.

  “Sorry girls, get some rest.” Nesmith squeaked the door shut.

  Riding waterbirds, you could feel the crispest air in your face while the wind threaded your hair. The Diejel River was her favorite course because of the downstream and the deep water that allowed fast riding. And that’s how she met her prince; it was fate that the two would meet beneath the falling river, amid perfect evergreens.

  But this was not her memory, no matter how much she wished. The man with the dirty turban was no prince, but he was rich and owned several factories in Qindsmar that produced aperture slots and semiconductors for industrial equipment. And he liked to keep costs down, by hiring cheap and efficient labor.

  The factory was a sweaty place; a furnace would constantly roar as it chomped out metal fragments that needed silicon threading to nest crystals. Saina had small hands, as did the hundreds of other children who spent their waking hours threading silicon into metal.

  Every day after she woke, she would stand in a line of workers and thread units on the conveyer belt, one per minute. Next to her was a little man — his name was Divu — and he would talk in th
e old language and smile and joke. But when the units came, sweat dripped from her neck, and her little fingers went to work. She would thread the fibers through the teeth of the apertures as if performing surgery on a gerbil.

  Sometimes she wasn’t fast enough. Sometimes she messed up, and the fibers broke, and her hands were full of blisters and her neck ached from hours of stooping over. And sometimes that dirty man would see her, and he would grab his leather belt, which made a popping scream when falling on flesh, and he would come for her, and she would shake as he approached, and her whole body would cringe, and she would thread to show she was trying, but he would stand behind her, his leather belt ready, and when he was truly angry, he would whip her with it.

  Almost a dream now, the memories streamed into unreal images and feelings. A dragon snake ate the dirty man, and the midget threw a party, and she was in the clouds, and someone called for help in the old language.

  “Help...water. I can’t feel anything. Help — help — help.”

  Saina peered out her blanket as the child called and cried — except it was no child, it was that strange girl gasping as if asphyxiated.

  But no one was suffocating her. She lay limp, dryness chaffing her eyes and lips.

  “Just a second,” Saina said. “I’ll get help!”

  “Water...please.”

  Saina ran out the room to Nesmith and that mangled-arm man.

  “That girl — she’s crying and calling for help — she needs water!”

  Nesmith took out a jug of water and poured some in a cup. Back in the room, he fed it to the girl.

  “Without twicrys, I can’t breathe,” the girl said. “Please, put my twicrys back.”

  “Don’t know what you’ve been saying,” Nesmith said. “Speak Shirmian.”

  Why is she speaking Kalamic? Hmm, she does look somewhat Almarian. “She wants you to put her twicrys back. She says not having one is killing her.”

  The girl rocked her neck; her eyelids moved up and down and her pupils crossed.

  Nesmith held her wrist. “She doesn’t even have an aperture slot on her wrist.”

  “Is this a joke? No twicrys for the captives.” Mangled-arm man appeared behind them.

  Isn’t this what happened to Kav at that base? “If you conduct light into her body, it may help.”

  “Oh, I know,” mangled-arm man said. “I’ve dealt with these before.”

  With his good hand, mangled-arm man grasped the girl’s shoulder. He closed his eyes, and the girl seemed to calm. Her breathing normalized; her face flushed a soothing red. Is she asleep?

  Mangled-arm man examined her, then brushed her hairless head. “Another one like this.”

  “Like what?” Nesmith asked.

  “Blue-haired girl, suffering from A’ab disorder. They need sunlight the way we need air or water. Second I’ve seen this week. Wish I had this kind of luck with cards.”

  Blue-hair? Hmm...

  Once the drama ended, Saina tried to go back to sleep. But the blue-haired Kalamic speaking girl kept her wondering. You’d have to be really backwater not to understand Shirmian. She’s probably some illiterate peasant girl from the mountains who was kidnapped and traded and sold off...not unlike...

  The girl coughed, then downed her cup of water. Saina seized the opportunity.

  “Are you feeling better?”

  Her blue eyes glistened like wet diamonds. “I don’t feel anything.”

  “What’s your name? I’m Saina.”

  “They call me Zauri.”

  “Beautiful name.”

  “It’s the devil’s name.” Zauri’s voice was soft and monotone.

  “Where are you from?”

  “I was born in Yasna.”

  “I’m from Qindsmar,” Saina said. “So, Yasna, where’s that exactly?”

  The girl was silent, as if she hadn’t heard the question. How awkward can someone be...

  And then she moved. She crawled a little closer to Saina and tried to see into the glare of her eyes — blue on red. “Qindsmar...such a beautiful city. I wish my home was so alive.”

  “So, you’ve been there?”

  “I loved it. All the tiny but alive things.” For the first time, the girl smiled. The smile of someone who didn’t know how to smile. Her eyes wet. “It felt like I belonged there. So peaceful.”

  It was peaceful...but now it must be...

  Saina still didn’t understand. That Qindsmar had been bombed by a Haemian or Elkarian vessel — her family with it. She didn’t see it happen, so it couldn’t be real. She didn’t see them go, so they couldn’t be gone. But then why wasn’t she with them? Why weren’t they here? Why couldn’t she see Nizan Uncle scribbling in his accounts book — his reading glasses about to fall off — and hear Fahmi Uncle reciting verses, and see Aliya in her white apron cooking sweet bread?

  Saina covered herself in her blanket.

  But Zauri continued talking. “The way the river wrapped around the gardens of the city...and the way the mud houses reflected the color of the sun — so beautiful.”

  Saina pretended she was asleep. Zauri was talking to herself.

  And then she did fall asleep — almost dreamless. Time elapsed like running water. She felt threading in her hair, as if wind sifted it into locks of golden brown. A waterfall fell on rocks of fire; the heat was on her face and in her body. And then she felt her mattress and blanket and the weariness in her joints and the waking world.

  And there was Bayer, kneeling over her and grinning. “Rise and perk up, princess.”

  The creepiness made her scurry to the wall; her blanket became a shield between them.

  “Easy there. I came to give you a dress fit for a princess.”

  It was white like doves fluttering and silky through her hands. Wow, this is so nice...

  “Now, go take a bath.”

  Why would they give me something so expensive?

  The shopkeeper opened a box of firebulb parts. He put a set of gain-medium crystals on an oiled hot plate, then clenched the handle. The plate started steaming. The process would make the crystals finer and able to conduct more energy, but also reduce the lifespan.

  Kav watched. He didn’t leave because it smelled so right, just the way he remembered. Oil when burned gave off quite a buzz. Just being able to sit on this sooty floor, lie back against the wall, and smell the city was enough of a drug.

  Cicadas chirped in that familiar way. They were everywhere to the ears, but nowhere to the eyes.

  The shopkeeper finally noticed him. “You! I told you to leave!”

  That was nostalgic too. The accent, the way he cut off the vowels, the angry Keldanese face.

  “I’m gone.” Kav cloaked his being.

  Freight twisted the man’s face. “Demon!” He ran out of the shop and left the plate boiling.

  Kav stared at it.

  Keldan hasn’t aged a day. Though that’s not a good thing.

  You are a demon.

  That wasn’t his own thought.

  He didn’t want to face it. He walked back onto the streets, hoping the clamor of the crowd would deafen the words.

  You’re just going to waste this gift I’ve given you?

  No. He refused to listen. Kav needed something to do, to keep him here, in the present, in the moment, without having to listen to those words.

  What I give, I can take.

  He turned into an alleyway. A glass panel leaning against a building stopped him. In it, his reflection stared back — the soul of another being wrapped around the shell of his body. It was a doll on strings, mimicking his thoughts, masked in white. It wasn’t him, but it was controlled by him. But it was him because he felt its pain, and underneath that exterior his soft body throbbed to the beat of his heart.

  Are you going to stop now, when you’re almost there? Almost in Layla’s arms?

  Enough of your flowery crap. You’ve tricked my spectrum, tricked my senses, made me see the dead. I’ve been tricked enough, and now I�
�m done.

  In the mirror, the white over his face rippled like a river. He touched it, but felt only skin — dry and brittle. It was as if the mask wasn’t there, and his face was numb and dead.

  He called me a Magus. Is it true? Why do I look like a Magus?

  Don’t confuse what you are with them. You are not a Magus. What you see in the mirror is the Key, manifested over your crumbling form. It’s the only way you can pilot the eight-sided ship and fly to the Garden — where you and Layla shall live forever.

  Enough. I’m sick of your fairytale about some garden in the sky, and some ship, and some key. It’s all nonsense!

  Of course, to the ant crawling on the carpet, the wondrous pattern seems like nonsense. But the whole pattern is known to me. You are being directed under my eyes, to the Garden of Promise.

  Something appeared on spectrum. A cold fire, drawing him to observe. He felt her frequency.

  Layla?

  Ever since he woke up, spectrum had been information overload. He could scarcely grip and navigate its vision. After all, he was never good with spectrum mapping.

  It hurts, doesn’t it? Seeing someone who resembled Layla so much must have broken your heart. But you did something good, didn’t you? Two lovers are living happily ever after because of the power I gave you.

  Shut your nonexistent mouth. How many times have you said Layla was alive, and that you’d take me to her? All you’ve done is lie!

  Layla burned on his map. She wasn’t far. The fire was alive.

  It’s your choice, I never forced you to do anything. But you will end up listening to me. Know why? Even if you choose not to believe in my promise, all the parts in your body that ached when Layla disappeared have nothing but the shred of hope I offer. Go Kav, find Layla.

  That fire. He needed it to scald him, to make him feel alive. Just enough pain to know it was real.

  There’s one Magus left, and you’re gonna ask me to kill him, aren’t you?

  No, Kav. That’s not it this time. I promise.

  Saina took her bath, feeling morning in the water, rinsing UHR out of her hair and skin. She slipped on the dress and checked herself out in the mirror. It was pure — the feathery white lace clashed with the blood red of her pupils, and for a moment she thought herself a ghost. She shuddered and thought of the hairless girl and the blue specks of hair and her blue eyes, and then wondered: What is she? What am I?