by D. P. Oberon
“Mama, what’s happened to Papa?” Novalie asked.
Wattana fell to her knees. Her hands reached the sides of her face and a keening cry erupted from her lips.
Saradi held Novalie’s hand tightly. She knelt, and turned Novalie so that they faced each other.
“Papa’s dead,” Saradi said. She wouldn’t hide the reality of life from her daughter. Other parents did. Not Saradi. “Papa killed himself.”
Saradi held Novalie as she cried into her shoulder. Even when the ambulance came, Novalie was too scared to touch Claas’s body.
The nurse-bot and doctor-bot downloaded the house’s AI after Saradi switched it back on. They checked to ensure there wasn’t any foul play, confirmed he’d died by asphyxia, cleaned up the area, and took his body away. There was no need to perform an autopsy. His body would go into storage until she selected burial or cremation.
Novalie kept crying and crying. Saradi didn’t know why she herself couldn’t cry.
#
Saradi’s house filled with their family’s friends and relatives that night. Claas’ mother, Tonneli Alfsson, and father, Gjord Alfsson, traveled from the Britannic Europan Empire to be with them. Tonneli cried softly as Gjord held her close. Even now there was something calm about the Alfsson’s that reminded Saradi of Claas. They didn’t wail hysterically like Saradi’s mother.
The living room space arranged itself around the coffin, which floated waist high in the middle of the room. A hologram showed Claas’s running shoes at the end of the coffin. The front was propped open to show his face.
Novalie lay against her best friend, Tulissa, as she tried to walk toward the coffin. She’d been too scared to see her father’s face.
Saradi watched, rooted to her spot on the threshold of the balcony.
Novalie bent forward, her face squinched with tears and grief, and her lips trembled as she placed a kiss on her father’s cold forehead. The corpse looked deflated somehow. She jerked back and laid her head against Tulissa’s shoulder. Her friend led her back to the couch.
Saradi had told Novalie only moments earlier, “Remember our promise?” Novalie had looked up, confused. “Whatever happens do not tell grandma about Uncle Bheem, okay?” Novalie swallowed and nodded her head. Saradi hadn’t told her mother about Bheemasena’s dog tag and the visit from Trisdale. Bheemasena had listed Saradi as next of kin because they both knew news of his death would crush their mother. Saradi couldn’t have Novalie telling their mother Bheemasena was also dead.
Saradi scanned the room. Prethi De’Silva bustled about playing the good hostess on her behalf. She handed a mug of cocoa to Gjord Alfsson, who nodded thanks. Wattana’s best friend, Hathai Songkhla, stayed by her side as Wattana stared at the coffin.
Saradi stepped out into the balcony and the cold wind cut through her clothes. She still hadn’t changed out of her office attire.
The garden stretched out on the level below her. The whispery leaves rubbed against one another in the gusting wind. The animal-shaped hedges that Claas loved to prune because it made him feel happy seemed to mock her. Who would tend them now?
How come everything in life goes away so quickly? she asked herself. Why are things so fleeting? She lay against her balcony’s railing. If she fell she would land on the grass. Beyond the grass stood the foundations of her house, and beyond that a ten-thousand foot drop into Mid Melbourne.
She pushed away from the railing and hugged herself. She closed her eyes. The tears came slowly, and she cried by herself. Alone.
The ultra-priority call came through right there. The dark coalesced into an Austra-Asian Empire Defense Force logo with the words ‘In Our Mateship We Trust’ encircling it. A man’s face emerged from behind as the logo dimmed.
“Saradi, I’m sorry to hear about your loss,” Warrant Officer Trisdale said. He spoke clearly, in the same manner as when he’d told her about Bheemasena’s disappearance. She suddenly hated him.
“What the heck do you want?” she asked. Her left hand formed a fist. “I didn’t put you on my ultra-priority list.”
Trisdale’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Ma’am do you have Bheemasena’s dog tag?”
“I— no, of course I don’t.” Only she did, her handbag strap flung itself around her neck like a noose and she hadn’t even noticed. She fumbled behind her back and pushed the handbag forward.
Trisdale looked down at the handbag. “Ma’am, if you don’t mind. Please take it out.”
“This is not a good time,” Saradi bit out.
“Ma’am I need you to take out the dog tag.” His commanding voice made her move before she realized it.
Saradi’s fingers fumbled against the handbag and opened it; she fished for the smooth, crystalline, cone-shaped glass and withdrew it.
Saradi dropped the dog tag.
It glowed a brilliant, retina-searing green.
“What trickery is this?” She bent down and picked it up and held it out to him.
Warrant Officer said, “Ma’am you’ll remember red is dead, yellow is alive but injured, green is alive and well.”
“What—”
Trisdale’s smile stretched to show his gums against large teeth. “It’s a miracle. Corporal Bheemasena Anantadevi is alive.”
“What? Bheem’s alive? But you said—”
“I can’t reveal more, Ma’am. Classified. I’m also going to have ask for the dog tag back.”
“Bheem’s alive?” she whispered caressing the dog tag, pressing its cool surface against her face. The green light filled her entire vision.
“Ma’am, did you hear what I said? I’m going to need the dog tag back.”
“No!” she said, disconnecting the call with a vicious slash. She told her AI to stop accepting all calls, ultra-priority or not.
Bheem’s alive, she thought. She wanted to rush back into the house and scream it out loud.
Saradi helped Prethi in the kitchen. Her friend began to configure the micromix to prepare the dinners each guest preferred.
“Oh that’s not good, we’re out of potatoes and corn,” Prethi said, staring at the error message on the micromix.
“I’ll go and get the vegetables,” Saradi said, quickly volunteering.
“Sara, are you sure? You’re grieving and I don’t want you walking about alone.” Prethi wrapped her arm around Saradi.
“No, I’m fine. Promise. They need you here and I need some fresh air. Please?” Saradi gave her friend a pleading look.
“Okay, if you say so.”
Saradi couldn’t wait to get outside. She rushed into the hallway, straight through the antechamber, and into the sopping rain. Thunder rumbled and the occasional flash of lightning lit the entire porch. Saradi didn’t see the huge figure silhouetted by the flash of lightning.
She fumbled in her handbag and held out her hand into the air, thrusting the talisman high. The dog tag glowed green. It wasn’t a dream. It was green!
A blackness swam before Saradi and the dog tag disappeared in its hands. Another flash of lightning revealed Warrant Officer Trisdale, standing there in the rain as if he lived next door. An octocopter, boxy and gargantuan hovered in the air. Saradi hadn’t even noticed it. It wasn’t even quiet, making a rumbling sound.
“Hey, that’s mine,” Saradi said to Trisdale. Two tall hulking super-marines appeared by Trisdale’s side. Saradi stopped advancing to him.
Trisdale stared right into Saradi’s eyes. “With the uncertainty of his status AAEDEF has the legal right to requisition his military belongings.”
“That’s bull—”
“Saradi, you’re a level ten upgrade right?” Trisdale asked.
The question came out of left field and made her dizzy. She shook her head, still staring at the glowing green dog tag. He pocketed it.
She met his eyes. “Of course I am.” She had half a mind to try tackling the two super-marines by his side.
The super-marines stepped closer. Saradi stepped back.
Trisdale
said, “Special Operations Human Intelligence Command. That’s the division that your brother was in. This is classified information so keep it to yourself, I’m only telling you because of your brother’s stellar service record. We suspect Bheem and members of his squad are still alive. We are going to rescue him. This dog tag might show us where he is.”
“You’re going to rescue him?” asked Saradi, hope in her voice.
“Yes ma’am. We don’t leave anyone behind.”
Relief began to loosen the tension in her chest. “You’re going to rescue Bheem.”
Trisdale licked his lips and his eyes surveyed the area as if searching for eavesdroppers. At that moment he reminded Saradi of Alyona Pavlenko, when she’d promised her all the iordite in the world.
He said, “You will obviously know that the world is in an unstable state. Your brother was sent on a mission to help humanity — a mission sponsored by somebody very important.”
Saradi leaned forward.
“Ma’am, AAEDEF is short on quality recruits. We only have one level ten upgrade, and that’s the general herself, who’s not even on active duty anymore. We have a handful of level seven upgrades. Most of the upgrades on our soldiers are done in specific areas, such as eyes, feet … maybe the heart. But not full upgrades. We just can’t afford it.”
Saradi waited. Why did he tell her this?
“Ma’am, join AAEDEF and help save your brother’s life. You could be on the mission to rescue Bheem,” Trisdale said.
She couldn’t process the words. She shook her head.
He said, “With your level ten upgrades you could easily pass Selection. I know about your recent circumstances. The loss of your job, your home, and now your husband. I can give you a reason to live.” He held up a finger. “Not only that. You won’t have any money to service your level ten upgrade. AAEDEF will pay for that if you join.”
“I can’t,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ve got a daughter. My situation isn’t …” How did he know all that?
Warrant Officer Trisdale gave her a crisp salute. “If you want a reason to live. You know who to call.” He turned sharply on his heel and headed toward the middle of the road where a light beamed him into the belly of the octocopter.
Chapter 14 – Running Away
A week later, Saradi looked at her childhood home as she made her way across the small path from the pavement to the front door. Memories of Bheemasena fluttered through her mind, interspersed with memories of Claas.
Today she’d done what she’d cautioned Bheemasena not to do all those years ago. She’d joined the military.
The house’s AI sensed her presence and opened the first door, allowing her access to the antechamber.
“Saradi?” her mother said, as the inner door irised open. Wattana’s slim body bowed as if under an immense pressure. Her bangles looked like bones and clicked as she clasped her face, as if it would fall without the support of her hands.
“I’ve stopped drinking,” Saradi said, stepping into the house.
“Don’t. Just don’t.” Her mother’s soft voice carried itself clearer than any shout. “She’s in the kitchen.”
Saradi passed her mother’s scarecrow stance and headed for the kitchen. The house brought such a thick nostalgia with it that she almost stopped. Her mother had renovated it but it was still the same somehow. She remembered kicking Bheemasena through the walls in the bedroom to the right of the entrance. Memories of her father, Ghana, as he sat in the study going over compute work for the small laundrette he ran with his wife.
The smell of crushed garlic and chilis greeted her as she entered the kitchen. Novalie sat on a high stool, scooping oats from a clay bowl. The tilted shade blades against the windows allowed orange beams of sunlight to stream through. The room was bathed in stripes of warm light. A few dust motes glittered around Novalie like fairy dust.
A small holo-vid in front of Novalie displayed the scrolling credits for a Stardock Twins episode along a starry background.
“Nova?” Saradi said.
Novalie turned and looked up at her. The sound of lasers firing and the start-up musical sequence of the next Stardock Twins episode trumpeted in the small kitchen, too loudly.
Novalie looked gaunt. Her arms and legs stretched out of a dress that sunk against her thin frame. She jumped from the stool and ran to her mother. Saradi embraced her trembling body and held her close.
Saradi grabbed her daughter up and clutched her like a doll. She carried her to the lounge and collapsed against the comforting plushness of the sofa. Tears shook them both. It felt like the entire world rattled. Saradi pressed Novalie closer. She wanted to submerge her daughter’s spirit inside of her own so they could never part. She began to wonder how she could ever have taken all those business trips and worked all those late nights.
“I love you, Nova,” Saradi said. She tasted salt as she kissed her daughter’s tear-drenched cheeks. She cupped Novalie’s face in her hands and stared into her eyes.
“Go away! You killed Papa!” Novalie shouted, throwing her mother’s hands away. She ran from the living room, to the jump-pad that bounced to her to level above.
Saradi made to go after her but Wattana’s voice stopped her cold.
“Leave her.”
“What if she injures herself?”
“I’ve got securi-bots patrolling the upper floor. The house’s AI is on high alert. If she even thinks of hurting herself I will know it.” Wattana nodded towards the kitchen. “Come and have some tea.”
As her mother prepared tea the old-fashioned way, Saradi let out a long held breath. “How’s Nova doing with her counseling?”
“Not well. But Anne Bishop is a treat. I’m thankful for people like her.”
The kitchen lay in dark as rain pattered against the windows. The scent of overripe bananas filled the air with their thick sweetness, making Saradi gag on her tea. Fruit was expensive. Most people couldn’t afford it. But her parents had done well with their small business.
Wattana pushed Saradi a plate of cut fruit. She ate the mangoes and left the bananas untouched. Novalie loved overripe bananas, but Saradi didn’t tolerate the smell in her own kitchen, so she’d never really eaten them. Grandmothers indulged their grandchildren a lot more than their own parents, Saradi thought.
Saradi savored the caffeine in the hot mug. Her mother liked to make it strong and it helped clear the pounding in her head.
“Ma, I’ve sold the house. I’ve managed to keep the health insurance. Prethi helped with that. So, if Novalie gets sick or anything—”
“She’ll be fine. I’ve got my eye on her,” Wattana said.
“Also, I’ve joined the military. I leave tomorrow morning for the High Melbourne Spaceport. They said Bheem’s mission is in trouble. And if I do right by them I stand a chance getting on a following mission to help his squad.”
Wattana put her mug down. Her hand trembled where she laid it over Saradi’s.
“You can’t keep running away from what’s in front of you, Sara. Nova needs her mother, now. This isn’t the time to go.”
“But Bheem’s—”
“I knew Bheem was in trouble when you stopped asking about him,” Wattana said.
“I’m going,” Saradi said.
“No, you’re not. Your daughter needs you.”
The tension was like two snakes sizing one another up, preparing to strike. They regarded one another for a moment, mother and daughter. Saradi had never wanted her relationship with Novalie to end up like this, but a voice inside told her it was too late.
“You know what Novalie wished for?” Wattana asked.
Saradi shook her head.
“On her tenth birthday, remember? You asked her to make a wish; she told me her what it was.”
Saradi didn’t want to know what Novalie had wished for, but she found her voice saying, “What was it?”
“Your daughter wished to spend a single entire day with her mother. That’s all.”
> She wanted to answer that they had spent days together, but found she couldn’t think of one that completely sufficed. She’d always been drinking, or too busy with work.
The next words sent electricity down Saradi’s spine.
“Who is Novalie’s father?”
Saradi licked at the top of her hands, tasting the sweetness of the tea, then she very casually reached for the white roller of kitchen tissues and wiped at her hands. Her hands shook, betraying her, and she twined her fingers like laces to keep them from shaking.
“Will you look after my daughter while I’m in the military?” Saradi asked.
“Novalie has Bheem’s temperament,” her mother said. “Go on then. My children have always done what they’ve wanted to do. Just make sure you come back. With Bheem.”
Chapter 15 – Funeral
10 Years Ago
A sombre mood fell like a thick cloak over the Anantadevi’s residence. Outside, the temporary elastoplast shelters stretched wide like an orange tent to cater to the burgeoning wailing crowd. Indian and Thai women screamed in agony and cried. They wrapped their colorful saris against their hands and pounded their heads. Their crying affecting the others who sat close by, and they joined in with their own crying. A bare-chested Hindu priest played the mridangam, a horizontal Indian drum. Another devotee behind him sang a Sanskrit dirge.
Saradi cut through this all like the dorsal fin of a shark. She glanced at the women in contempt. Had mother paid for these professional mourners?
Claas trailed her, but she paid him no heed as she entered the house. Everybody turned to stare at the strikingly tall woman with the exotic Thai and Indian heritage, whose hair was at once neat and messy, and who strode like a lioness through the throng of relatives. She didn’t deign to acknowledge anyone else; she only had eyes for her family.
The living room had been emptied of furniture and the only thing that lay in the center, on the floor, was an age old futon. Her father, Ghana Anantadevi, lay on the futon with a sarong wrapped around his lower body and a simple white singlet across his upper body. His hands lay clasped over his small belly. There was still breath in him yet.
