Master of None

by N Lee Wood

  It slid open to reveal an empty elevator larger than his own room in the men’s section. He flinched when one of the Dhikar laid her hand on his shoulder. Her fingers pressed into his skin, firm but not unkind, there simply to prompt him into the elevator and hold him in place.

  His mouth was dry, his chest constricted, and he had to force himself to take deeper breaths. The doors slid shut behind him. After a moment, he felt the elevator begin its descent with only the faint sensation in his stomach as evidence of motion. He had no idea how far into the earth it sank, but knew it was deep under the House. It opened to a large, busy room filled with white-clad security and the noise of many voices speaking at once. Several people stopped to stare at him, their expressions inscrutable. He noticed he was the only man.

  The Dhikar’s hand on his shoulder prodded him forward to follow Bidaelah at a quick pace to the far end of the vaulted space. It was cool, a tang of damp ozone in his nostrils, and he tried not to imagine how much rock lay above his head.

  The corridors here were plain, smaller and far more utilitarian than the luxury of the House above. He was admitted past another set of doors, these made of heavy reinforced steel. They closed behind him on silent oiled tracks before another identical set rolled open. Behind these, he found himself inside a circular room, many arched doorways around its circumference, and in the center, pacing agitatedly, was Yronae. She held one finger to keep the bead in her ear in place, muttering softly to the black transmitter looped around her neck. One eye was concealed behind an odd contact lens, green and red light flicking across her iris, bright enough to reflect against the bridge of her brow and nose.

  She glanced up at him as he entered. The lens continued to blink its data, unheeded. Her other eye was bloodshot, tired, and she stopped speaking to whomever was on the other end of the transmission. The guard’s hand released him as they neared her. His arms still clenched the book and reader against his chest, but he bowed to her respectfully.

  She didn’t return his gesture, staring at him for several moments. Then, in two quick strides, she stood in front of him, glaring up at him, her lips thinned into a tight, angry line, fists curled in anger. She was close enough for him to hear the tinny sound of a voice whispering in the soundpearl. He braced himself, thinking she was about to strike him, waiting with as much dignity as he could under the circumstances.

  When she spoke, it was in the private Nga’esha women’s dialect he didn’t understand, her words addressed to her daughter. Bidaelah nodded, grasped his forearm, and tugged him to one side of the room. He glanced over his shoulder, surprised to see his guards were no longer behind him, and allowed himself to be led to a small semi-circular alcove behind an arched, open doorway. The only furnishings were a pile of floor cushions.

  “You will stay here, out of the way,” Bidaelah said.

  He nodded, trying to be cooperative. “What is happening?” “Shut up,” she snapped. Startled by her rudeness, he gaped at her. “You are to do as you are told and say nothing, do you understand?”

  Stunned, he bowed slightly before he sank down to the floor cushions, still holding the book and reader tightly. Biting her upper lip, she turned away, taking only two steps before she stopped. “It is necessary,” she said to him over her shoulder without looking at him. The color was high on her cheeks, and he knew Bidaelah was not used to being discourteous.

  He took that for an apology. Left alone, he drew his knees up toward his chest and watched Yronae pace the circular room. No one spoke to him, no one even acknowledged his presence, as they listened to the beads speaking in their ears and murmured in the women’s language he couldn’t understand. He kept his attention on the pratha h’máy.

  Her concentration had focused back on whatever messages were being transmitted to her lens, her expression distant, listening and responding to a world beyond the enclosed room. Other women wore similar lenses. He spotted Mahdupi standing hunch-shouldered, her weight shifting from foot to foot as she read the information being projected against her retina, her eyepiece a larger monocular lens held in place over one eye, anchored to the earbead she touched occasionally. She looked up sharply, snapped her fingers, and pointed toward an archway. Four of the Dhikar security left briskly, already settling their rifles into place around their shoulders. As she turned, he caught her attention for a moment. She stared at him for several seconds, not hostile, but impersonal.

  Nathan felt the fear rise along his spine, an ache settling between his shoulder blades. He shuddered, and forced his fingers to unlock from around the book and reader to set them gently on the floor beside him. It was several seconds before he noticed someone standing beside the archway and looked up sharply.

  Dhenuh leaned one shoulder against the arch, a hand placed delicately over her swollen belly, eight months pregnant. She wore no bead in her ear, no black transmitter clamped to her throat. Her eyes were indifferent. “I have been sent to see if you are hungry, Cousin,” she said. “We may be here for some time.”

  He shook his head. “What’s happening, please?” He kept his voice carefully flat, unassertive.

  She smiled fleetingly, without warmth. “We are resisting an extremely hostile industrial takeover.”

  That she had not told him to be silent was a positive sign. He decided to push his luck. “Changriti?”

  She grimaced, rubbing one hand against the child in her womb. “Of course. With the help of your people, it seems. They were conspicuously quick to take advantage of the problem.”

  “Problem.” He repeated the word, careful not to make it a question.

  She wasn’t fooled. “You, little brother. You are the problem.”

  He glanced past her toward Yronae, the pratha h’máy still locked into her remote trance. She seemed either unaware or unconcerned that her kinswoman was standing talking to him. “How am I the problem, Cousin?”

  She laughed, low and humorless. “You breathe. It’s enough.”

  He went still. “That’s easily changed,” he said, his voice colorless. “Easily,” she agreed. “But it wouldn’t solve anything. Not now.” He felt rather than heard the rumble through the earth, feeling the vibration in the pit of his stomach. Others felt it as well, multiple voices pausing. He knew what that sound meant, he remembered it well from Westcastle. He wondered if they knew as well. Dhenuh glanced up at nothing, staring vacantly, and grunted in her throat, her face blank with fear. Her head swiveled to glance at Yronae, as did several others’. Only the white-clad Dhikar security continued, unconcerned, their passionless murmuring oddly comforting in the muted room. Yronae had her head tilted back, staring at the vaulted ceiling, waiting. Whatever reports there were came in transmitted to each bead. Then with a collective shudder of relief, the hum of multiple voices resumed.

  “Oh, dear Lady, protect us,” Dhenuh whispered in disbelief. “Where are the children?” Nathan asked sharply.

  “Safe.” She glanced down at her belly. “And the men, all safe enough.” When she looked at him, he could see the fear in her eyes behind the brave smile. “As we are here, for now.” She flinched again, her whimper of pain nearly inaudible in her throat.

  He reached a hand toward her. “Your baby is hurting you, Cousin. Please, sit with me.”

  “It is normal,” she said stiffly.

  He nearly laughed. “Nothing is normal at the moment.”

  She remained standing. “I don’t like you, Nathan Crewe Nga’esha,” she snapped, her words uncharacteristically brusque for the normal Vanar manners. Rudeness seemed epidemic. “I never have, I never will.”

  He kept his hand extended. “Many people don’t, Dhenuh dva Arjusana Nga’esha. I’m used to it. Please, for your child’s sake sit down.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, she lowered herself gingerly to the cushions, leaning on his arm and shoulder to lever her awkward weight. They sat without speaking, side by side, watching the activity resume. Yronae paced in a circle, reminding Nathan of a caged leopard, stopping
only once to stare at them. Her expression was unfocused, like a dreamer caught up in a trance. He was unsure if she really saw them or not.

  Dhenuh’s breathing was ragged. She winced as her unborn baby kicked, and he could see the movement of the child in her womb, even under the silk sati. Wordless, he shifted position to sit behind her cross-legged. She made no protest as he placed one hand on her shoulder to hold her still and the other against the small of her back, massaging slowly, his fingers probing the strained muscles. She held herself rigidly erect, reluctant under his touch.

  He said nothing, shutting his eyes as he let his hands work. Following the bones of her spine, he kneaded the tight muscles on either side, climbing the vertebrae one by one methodically. By the time he had reached her shoulders and neck, her tenseness had subsided, but he could feel the baby still moving, still agitated. He uncrossed his legs, stretching them one to either side of her. “Lean back against me, bahd’hyin,” he said quietly.

  She stiffened, trying to pull away. He held her by one shoulder, but not hard. “I don’t like you,” she repeated, her voice thick.

  He chuckled. “And I don’t like you,” he said, pleased by her surprise. “But your baby doesn’t know me well enough yet to hate me.

  Perhaps you can teach her later. For now, put your legs out and lean back against me, my stubborn, cranky second cousin.”

  Unwillingly, she complied, and he adjusted her against his chest to let the heat of his body warm her back. Placing his hands firmly against her side, he spread his fingers and rubbed his palms in slow circles, feeling the outline of the child underneath his touch. “I learned how to do this for my wife when she was pregnant with my own child,” he said, his head bent over her shoulder, mouth close to her ear. Her hair tickled his cheek, smelling of jasmine.

  She started slightly, and he wondered why before she said, “Your daughter. She’s Changriti.”

  “And part Hengeli, like me. A dangerous enemy.” He meant it to be ironic.

  Dhenuh snorted. “You might be the enemy. The Changriti are merely... competitors.” She hesitated and added more kindly, “But I hope your daughter is safe.”

  His hands stopped their soothing movement. “Thank you. So do

  I.” The baby kicked, as if annoyed he had interrupted his therapy. He resumed, feeling the child’s agitation yielding under his touch. Even after the baby had subsided, he continued to massage Dhenuh’s belly. She sighed, closed her eyes, and leaned her head back against him, nestling her check against the curve of his neck. He kept his own eyes open, alert. He was doing this as much for himself as for her, he knew, using her like a shield between him and the relentless activity he didn’t understand going on around them outside the tiny alcove.

  “I’m frightened,” she whispered suddenly, barely audible.

  “I know.”

  Yronae gestured as she spoke to someone who was not in the room with her: angry, jerking motions of her hand.

  “They say you’ve been in war before,” Dhenuh said, her voice kept low.

  He stared at the pratha h’máy’s profile, at the sharp, fine chin and nose, dark skin, trying to see Yaenida in the woman’s face. “Yes,” he said inattentively.

  “What is war like?”

  He glanced at Dhenuh. Her eyes were open, watching the muted commotion around them. He didn’t know what to say. “It’s bad.” He didn’t want to talk about it.

  She sat up, pulling away from him without looking at him, and got to her feet. “Thank you,” she said stiffly, and walked away. When he looked back at Yronae, she was staring directly at him, hostile. He froze, then forced himself to bow his head toward her, very humble and very correct. Her mouth twitched, and she spoke, her words directed into the transmitter at her throat.

  As if on command, a Dhikar turned from the far end of the room and walked to stand guard outside the arch of the alcove, legs apart, hands clasped loosely behind her back. Yronae had already looked away, again focused on the world outside channeled into her ear and eye. He wondered if Dhenuh was in trouble. No one spoke to him again for several hours.

  He settled his back against the wall and dozed off, the drone of voices monotonous. When he woke, his bladder was full.

  “Excuse me,” he finally said to the Dhikar standing outside the alcove. She turned her head to him indifferently. “I have a need...?”

  She nodded, touched one finger to the transmitter anchored to her throat, and spoke quietly. Within seconds, another Dhikar had joined her to escort him between them across the room. He passed Yronae by less than an arm’s length, but the woman didn’t appear to notice him, oblivious to his existence. The guards marched him down a short hall to a large bathing room, various fixtures obviously designed for the benefit of female anatomy rather than male. Behind him, the water in the long, shallow bathing pool was mirror smooth, reflecting the pinpoints of lights arranged in patterns of constellations above.

  There was no possibility for privacy. He turned his back to his guards, reaching between the folds of his sati, and lifted the hem of the mati. It took several awkward moments before he could ignore the eyes behind him and relax his sphincter enough to piss. He shook himself and rearranged his clothing before he turned. The women watched him steadily, no expression on their flattened faces. He looked toward the pool, then back. “May I bathe?”

  He was not so interested in hygiene as he was in the answer. The two women exchanged a glance. One shrugged, speaking quietly to someone far outside the room. Yronae? She listened, then nodded to him. His heart sank. It meant it would be some time before he saw the surface again. Things had to be very bad above them.

  Without enthusiasm, he unwrapped his sati and drew the mati off over his head, folding them sloppily and dropping them onto the shelf. He stepped into the water, the reflected lights shivering in the circles radiating across the surface. As the first ripple reached the other end of the pool, he heard a hum as the recycler activated. Bubbles erupted from the far end. He ignored the two Dhikar, lowered himself into the warmth, and swam toward the other end.

  It was hotter at the foaming end of the pool. Steam began to rise from the pool’s surface. He swam aimlessly for a long time, back and forth across the length of the pool, having nothing better to do than allow his muscles to take over, letting his mind drift. Ducking his head underwater, he drew his knees in to sink to the shallow bottom. He listened to the muffled sound of the machinery in his ears, blotting out the world above him for as long as he had oxygen in his lungs. His chest burned, and he shot up again, gasping in a breath as he broke the surface. His eyes stung as he blinked, rubbed at them, and squinted through the steam at the stout shape of a woman sitting on a bathing stool at the other end, waiting for him.

  Mahdupi.

  Glancing behind him, he saw the two Dhikar still stood watch back-to-back, one facing him, the other out. Reluctantly, he swam to the other side and held on to the edge, wordless. The old woman smiled.

  “When you are finished, you will need someone to braid your hair,” she said calmly, and held up a comb. “As there are no other men here to help you, allow me the pleasure. I should like to satisfy my curiosity about how such fine, golden hair might feel.”

  She handed him a towel as he pulled himself out of the water, and didn’t avert her eyes as he dried himself. He wrapped the towel around his waist and sat down on another of the bathing stools. Her fingers unraveled the braid and picked the banded string of beads from his hair before she toweled it until it was mostly dry, saying nothing. It hung to the middle of his back, thick reddish gold, curling even when wet, as she began to comb it out from the bottom.

  “Why am I the only man here?” he risked asking. She paused for a beat, the comb through his hair pulling his head back on his neck. When she didn’t answer, he added, “It’s me, isn’t it? They want me.”

  “Mm.” He couldn’t tell if the grunt was an assent or denial.

  “The Changriti?”

  He twisted to
look at her. Her face pinched in distaste, but she didn’t answer. She pushed his head back around and continued worrying the tangle of hair.

  “Why? What have I done?”

  “You needn’t take it personally,” she said thinly. “At least not this time. They are worried about what you know.”

  “What I know? What do I know?” He knew he shouldn’t have persisted, but the mystery was more ominous than the possible consequences.

  She exhaled in irritation. “Nothing. Only they haven’t realized it yet. But they’re frightened.”

  “Not of me.”

  “Of course, of you.”

  He said nothing for a long moment, letting her strong fingers divide his hair into thick strands. “Are you also afraid of me, l’amae Mahdupi?”

  She chuckled. “I haven’t decided yet, child. It has been most educational watching you over the years, like a fox set loose amongst the pigeons, but not always agreeable. Would you like me to work the beads back into your hair?”

  “I don’t care.”

  She left them out, the hair pulling his scalp as she wove the plait. When she had finished, he swiveled on the stool to face her. “Pratha Yaenida always respected your opinions greatly, maetaemahi Mahdupi.”

  She grimaced. “Please, don’t call me a grandmother. It makes me feel ancient. And it gives you no advantage to exaggerate your relation to me. I know full well my kinship with you.”

  “I need to know what is happening.”

  She smiled, and he could see in the fine bones of her face how she must have once been quite attractive. “I wish someone would explain it to me, bah’chae.”

  He continued to gaze at her until she tilted her head questioningly. “Please don’t call me a small boy. I am not.”

  Her chin lifted, and her smile widened. “Ah. Now I am afraid of you.”