Insynn

by Loren Walker

  The Red took up a scalpel in its clawed hands. Her eyes drifted over to Kuri’s corpse, the ragged stitching visible underneath his white hair. He’d been black-haired, young, and handsome in Toomba. She didn’t seem to care, running the back of her hand over his cheek. All of this death and destruction, over some idiot. And Jetsun was next. When word of her death got out, Theron would be blamed from coast to coast, with no one to defend him. The last step in destroying his reputation.

  Renzo had to get help. He had to make someone know that they were in there.

  What if I'm an Eko? he thought suddenly. What if I try? Maybe if you want it enough, if you push hard enough, anyone can be an Eko.

  The thought was preposterous, even in his desperation, but he fought to believe.

  SYDEL CALARCA PHAIRA ANYONE PLEASE GET HERE HELP US HELP US

  The Red was cutting. Jetsun was screaming. And no one was coming through the door.

  Frantic, Renzo wrestled with his chains, trying to angle his body to reach his prosthetic leg, to pull up the trouser. Jetsun’s shrieking made him dizzy. His back cracked, and his neck wrenched. The bones of his hand ground against the restraints so hard he felt the skin split. Pain shot up his arms, but he kept pulling, until he finally got the hem and yanked that his trouser leg ripped.

  The Red had noticed, the Red was turning, but he was already unclicking his prosthesis and reaching inside, withdrawing the slender tube within and shaking out the contents: a tiny explosive, sealed against any accidental trigger, and a silver coin with a dark center. He’d been working on it since Toomba. One single electromagnetic pulse. Enough to knock out a NINE.

  He pressed the coin.

  The Red jerked as if stabbed. It clawed at its head. Then it crumpled to the ground with a crash.

  Jetsun was sobbing, the back of her head bloody. Renzo pulled with all his might at the chains. “Jet!” he cried. “Key. The key’s on the tray!”

  Jetsun rolled herself to a seated position, untangling her bonds, slipping her feet from the belts that held them. She was a pale, broken ghost, blood coating her shoulders like a cape, her hands lifting and falling, lifting and falling, like she didn’t dare to touch, to feel what had happened at the back of her skull.

  There wasn’t time. The Red could wake up at any point. He tossed the capsule at Jetsun. “Put this on her,” he told her. “Then get the key, and we’ll get out before it’s triggered. Come on, Jet, we’re so close, please, wake up and move!”

  Jetsun stared at the Red’s back, its splayed arms. She scooped up the bomb with one trembling hand. Then she took the key from the tray, and slid it across the concrete floor.

  Renzo snatched it and unlocked the shackles. Quickly, he twisted his prosthetic back into his right limb, and swinging his leg around, he hoisted himself to his feet.

  “Come on,” he urged Jetsun, looking back at her, hand outstretched, as he began to stumble up the stairs.

  Their fingertips brushed.

  A flash of light on metal, and Jetsun jolted backwards with a cry. Jetsun’s ankle was caught in claws. The Red was rising behind her.

  But Jetsun still held the capsule.

  Like she had been training for this her whole life, she flipped it open.

  No, he pleaded with his eyes, frozen halfway up the stairs.

  Jetson gave one stiff nod.

  Then she turned and threw her arms around the Red’s neck.

  The blast blew him up the remainder of the stairs, the smoke rolling over him, choking him.

  Then light burst through, and two pairs of hands took hold of him, four sets of fingers pulling him into the street. The sun blinded him. He couldn’t stop coughing. The silhouettes were speaking to him, one low voice, one higher-pitched, but he couldn’t make out the words or the faces.

  “Shantou,” Renzo gasped between strangled breaths. “It’s Shantou! Shantou.” His vision cleared for a moment; his sister hovered over him, her blue hair framing her face. He fumbled to grab her arm, bringing her closer, then pushing her away. “Get out,” he wheezed.

  “Where’s Jetsun?” he heard over the roaring of his ears; the deeper voice, the black hair. Renzo’s eyes were flooding with water, or blood, he couldn’t tell, but he couldn’t see, and he couldn’t breathe.

  * * *

  The skerries were burning. Smoke, and fire, and rusted destruction, mud mixed with ash and mold. Holding onto Cohen's hand, still wincing from the echo of the blast, Sydel squinted through the wreckage, searching.

  Three silhouettes, moving in the distance; a flash of familiar blue hair. Her hands flew to her mouth. Yes, it was Renzo on the ground, covered in blood and soot, his hands limp against the ground; Theron and Phaira were dragging him backwards, away from the blast, as smoke billowed out the door of the abandoned house. Cohen had released her hand, and was already running towards them. She saw Theron rise, then Phaira caught him by the arm. His broad back was the only thing that Sydel could make out, her eyes tearing from smoke in the air.

  “Syd!” It was Cohen, yelling back for her.

  She lurched forward, every step a jolt to her senses, the world growing closer in shaky focus. When she was close enough, she dropped to her knees and took hold of Renzo. Her leg grazed the metal of his prosthesis, hot to the touch from the explosion. His ears were bleeding, his glasses were broken, but thankfully the shards hadn’t gone into his face. Abrasions. Quickened, but steady heartbeat. Her ear pressed to his chest; nothing in the lungs that she could hear. Head injury was likely, though, and they had to keep him steady, just in case…

  “Jet?!”

  Sydel lifted her head at Theron's exclamation. Yes, there was the outline of a body in the house's doorway, lurching through the smoke.

  Separately, there was a sickening shift in the air: the release of death, Sydel realized. Someone had just died.

  A bang! echoed through the skerries.

  The silhouette crumbled to its knees, one hand curled around the doorframe. Covering her head, Sydel twisted to look behind.

  CaLarca stood, Compact in hand, smoke from the barrel, energy glowing around her like sunlight. When she lowered the firearm, Sydel saw how pale CaLarca's skin was, how the Nadi dissipated, replaced with sickly yellow.

  The open grief on the woman's face as the shadow collapsed in a noisy heap.

  “Shantou," Sydel heard her murmur. "I'm so sorry.”

  Dropping the Compact, CaLarca ran past the group, pounding up the broken stairs to the porch.

  Then there was a flash of black, and CaLarca flew backwards, scraping along the ground.

  And Theron was on the porch, attacking, a flurry so fast that Sydel couldn’t make out the difference between him and the Red, whose breath was strangled and who was growling, or who the splashes of red belonged to, with the smoke still billowing out the open door.

  Sydel darted to CaLarca's side. "Come on," Sydel commanded, grabbing the woman by the arm, and forcing her to scurry backwards. CaLarca's hands covered her throat, as if to hold it together, as she stumbled over her feet, finally sitting in the mud.

  "Let me see," Sydel instructed, pulling away her hands. No severed throat, as she feared, just four bloody horizontal lines. Theron had yanked CaLarca away just in time, so the Red’s mad swipe with her metal claws only cut the skin, instead of severing jugular vein or esophagus.

  As CaLarca panted, her fingers bloody, her eyes unseeing, Sydel grew aware of the presence of eyes. There were people watching them in the skerries, watching this fight between Theron and the Red: Ozias, the patrol, the Sava representatives, maybe cameras or Lissomes, held up to record the mysterious Sava leader, doing battle.

  No one was coming to help. They all wanted to see what would happen next.

  “She put Nadi into the bullets,” Cohen was hissing at Phaira, as if he couldn’t believe what he was saying. “And that thing is still alive, and fighting? How?”

  “No matter,” Phaira cut him off. “Get ready. You too,” she turned to bark at
CaLarca, who was just starting to lower her hands from her neck. “Take either side and close in.”

  “The Lissome,” Sydel announced. “Get it on the Red’s chest, under its clothes. I can overheat it from a distance, and it will explode and damage its breathing mechanism.”

  “How do you know that?” Cohen asked, shocked.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Sydel said. “I will do it from afar when you give the signal.”

  Phaira was staring at her, but her words were in Sydel's mind: Are you sure?

  Sydel gave one nod.

  Phaira pulled her Lissome from her pocket. Wait for my signal. Be ready.

  Then she ran, through mud and ash, and disappeared into the smoke and ocean wind.

  * * *

  The Red's metal mask was askew. One shoulder was split open, the muscle exposed. Welts and burns on her head, blood dripping down its arms, blue and black and viscous. Clicks and hisses sounded from its body, from the bullet holes that had punctured through her armor. The Red had avoided the brunt of the explosion inside, it seemed.

  Give me the knife in your boot.

  Phaira froze. It wasn't Sydel, though; it was CaLarca's haughty, shaking voice in her head.

  She saw the woman's green braids in her peripheral vision, flanking her on the left.

  If you can get her pinned down, I can remove those claws.

  Phaira unsheathed and tossed it at the woman, who caught it by the hilt. Cohen's red beard showed through the smoke for a split second, he was headed in the opposite direction.

  Ahead, Phaira could make out Theron and the Red's silhouettes in the smoke. The Red had gotten Theron's face, though, and shredded through the cloth of his shirt, so it hung loose. His hair was unbound, and wild around his face. He moved so fast, and so aggressively, that it was almost frightening. He broke through the paneling with his fists, hissed when the claws caught him, bore down with his height and weight and wrestled the Red against the wall, into the porch, then, with a roar flipping her into the rail. It splintered around her and she scrambled away, slapping at her arm, as if to wake it up, and rolled backwards, into the mud, streaked and heaving.

  Phaira, Cohen and CaLarca surrounded the Red, stepping onto driftwood and fallen rocks to keep out of the mud. The Red shifted from foot to foot, undulating its shoulders, eying the group. It had nowhere to go but the wreckage of the Lea skerries, or the open sea. Cohen's hands were in fists, his stance wide. CaLarca bore the knife like she had a thousand times before. Behind her back, Phaira rolled the Lissome between her fingers. She dared to look for Theron, just for a moment, and he was there, to her right, his back hunched, his face hidden by his loose hair.

  As the Red turned in place, Cohen was the first to attack, leaping on the Red’s back; he bellowed with pain as the Red dragged her claws down his forearm in three quick successions, and flipped Cohen away. Cohen sprawled into the mud, though he rolled quickly, avoiding the Red's follow-up stab into the mud with its claws.

  Phaira was next, but before the Red could strike, she sidestepped, and let the Red go off-balance, then neatly crippling her knee, drove a back elbow into the back of the Red's neck, then joined her hands and smashed her fists into the side of the Red's face, just enough to push the metal mask askew. The Red howled, clawing at her face.

  Masks. So stupid, Phaira couldn’t help but sneer as she slid backwards in the mud, tasting salt in her mouth.

  CaLarca was there, swiping with the knife. Phaira felt sudden, blinding heat, and two of the Red’s clawed fingers fell into the mud, severed at the knuckle.

  Then everything became a blur again. CaLarca was punched across the face. Phaira was kicked in the chest, so hard that it felt like her back was collapsing, but Cohen appeared behind the Red, snatching the Red's forearms and yanking them, just for the split second that he could, as Phaira surged forward and shoved the Lissome down the neckline of the Red's tunic.

  Now, Syd! she yelled in her mind.

  A sudden rush of heat; then, a crackle, and a burst of white light.

  Phaira caught some of the current, flung backwards, all the air leaving her lungs.

  Through her blurred vision, she saw the Red clawing at its chest, its severed hand tucked under an arm, the other scrambling to grab something, anything, to fix the tubes, to restore the circuitry now shutting down.

  But there was a shadow over her now, as Theron rose, fixed his hands around the Red’s neck and head, and wrenched with all his strength.

  The crack! echoed through the skerries.

  Theron flung the body into the mud and stalked after it, as if daring it to rise again.

  The Red twitched, its eyes rolling, its mechanism still trying to work.

  Phaira wobbled to her feet, feeling the jolts in her veins. CaLarca and Cohen were still.

  Theron knelt down and stared into the Red’s face, his features like stone.

  The seconds dragged on. The sucking sounds carried across the Lea skerries.

  Soon, there was only the whistle of wind.

  It was over.

  * * *

  “I want the body,” Theron said.

  “Not an option,” Detective Ozias said. Fire and rescue crews were incoming, estimated time of arrival within minutes. Still, Ozias and Theron argued, and as Theron thundered against her, Ozias seemed rattled, the first time Phaira had seen such a thing.

  Renzo was awake, and Sydel was focused on dressing his wounds. Phaira’s gaze travelled down the length of Renzo’s body, the broken prosthetic, the burned and bloody trousers, the soot streaks across his face.

  “Are you sure we shouldn’t take him to a medlab?” she asked Sydel.

  “He’s stable,” Sydel said. “Our best option for both equipment and discretion is the Arazura. If my clinic is still stocked, I can heal him.”

  “Cohen will help you,” Phaira instructed. “CaLarca can fly you to the Arazura. Get you guys out of sight.” She kept glancing over at Theron, wondering what he was thinking. It looked like some kind of resolution had been found with Ozias. The two had stepped apart, Theron surveying the house as Ozias talked into her fist, her eyes darting around, checking for incoming traffic. CaLarca and Cohen were guarding the body. Cohen was dark and grim; CaLarca was pale and listless, looking like she was about to blow away. Like the dying smoke from inside the house; Jetsun inside, dead and smoldering.

  Phaira started to make her way into the fire, intent on bringing the woman to the outside, in whatever condition she was in.

  Phaira, Sydel’s soft voice came into her head. You can’t do anything for her.

  Phaira stopped and scowled at the ground. What about respect? she wanted to argue. What about seeing Jetsun Sava as a person to be respected, rather than just collateral damage? Memories swirled through Phaira’s brain, of staying on house arrest in Jetsun’s townhouse, the little insights, the surprisingly fierce way that she cared for Theron. Another one dead for a terrible reason.

  If you want to help, take him away. Sydel’s voice drifted through her head again. Give him the space he needs to grieve. He will fall, soon, I fear, and it may be terrible.

  Rattled, Phaira glanced at Sydel. “Who?” she mouthed, feigning ignorance.

  But the girl gave her a knowing look.

  Embarrassed, Phaira cleared her throat and turned to CaLarca and Cohen, as they drifted towards her.

  “How is he?” Cohen asked Sydel.

  “He’ll be better in the Arazura,” Sydel said out loud. “We should go.”

  Crouching down, Cohen lifted Renzo easily in his arms. His older brother stirred a little, a hand coming to his forehead. Phaira helped Sydel to her feet.

  “Stay hidden, just in case of backlash,” Phaira told the group. “I’ll stay and get him home safely, and close out our contract. I’ll call shortly.”

  Everyone turned to leave, save for CaLarca. Her eyes were black and hollow, red around the rims. Her shoulders were concave. There was no anger, or coldness or frustration anymore. She wa
s empty.

  But before Phaira could say a thing, CaLarca had turned away, to follow the rest of the group.

  * * *

  The Mazarine docked next to the Arazura in the tall parking garage, where Renzo had left the ship only hours earlier. Disembarking, Cohen carried Renzo in his arms, striding across the concrete without a look back. Sydel did the same. She was glad, somehow, to leave the Marazine behind.

  Inside the medical bay, Sydel did a thorough examination of Renzo’s body, searching for any signs of internal damage. Renzo was hooked up to machines to measure his vital signals, treated for his burns, given intravenous fluids and pain medication. His broken glasses were on the table next to the bed; he looked younger without them, the lines on his face less pronounced. He would have hated it, but Sydel couldn't help but gently sweep his blond bangs off his forehead. A trace of soot remained on her fingers. She registered the urge to wipe it, and moved through the curtain that separated the space.

  On the other side, in her cabin, Cohen had changed his clothes, and was now sitting on her small twin bed, looking through train schedules on his Lissome. Sydel's chest sank. It was only hours since the awful incident. Was he already planning to leave everything behind? She sat down beside him, her eyes on the floor.

  “When are you leaving?” she asked quietly.

  Cohen shook his head. “I'm not sure yet, but I'm not staying. And I don’t think you should, either.”

  Deep inside, Sydel felt a flash of anger. Everyone is always telling me what to do.

  “I’d ask you to come back with me,” Cohen added, shyness creeping into his voice, “but I doubt you want to live in Toomba.”

  “Are you asking me?”

  “Well, yeah,” Cohen said, a tired grin creeping onto his face. “Of course. You’re my girl. I always want you near.”

  A warm, pleasant wave coursed through Sydel, and she blushed, smiling at the floor.