FutureDyke

by Lea Daley

  Bahji. In Taylor’s arms at last. But there was blood. Blood everywhere. And Chastity Whitehall, much too close, something silver glinting in her hand. Taylor on her knees now, clasping the child to her breast. If she had benefit of voice, she’d be keening, keening endlessly, mourning her mutilated daughter. Belladonna lay nearby, savaged too. Scarlet streams rayed outward from her lifeless body.

  In the traumatized chamber, only I had the power of movement. Which I turned on Whitehall, closing the gap between us. She raised mad eyes to track my approach, then aimed a metallic flash at my heart. But uncommon speed and strength were mine. I caught her wrist, wrested the stiletto from her fingers. It felt familiar, as if I’d always known it, as if it belonged to me. I raised the thing. Saw the intricate chasings, the silver filigree.

  Bloody and defiled though it was, I knew it at once. Recalled Bahji lifting it from a drawer, studying her spectral reflection in its gleaming length. My letter opener. Now honed to molecular thinness. That blade had slit Bahji from throat to groin, as neatly as if she were an envelope bearing a message to be plucked out, unfolded, read to the assembly.

  Though she was still in my grip, still at my mercy, Whitehall taunted me. “Your own weapon! I did it with your own weapon!”

  I wanted to give way to rage, take visceral revenge in Bahji’s name. Plunge the blade into that perfect throat. Twist and slash. Instead, I ratcheted Whitehall’s arm backward. Bent her elbow cruelly. Jerked her hard against me, pressed the knife to her neck. Jabbing a knee from behind, I prodded her into a walk.

  Not a soul moved, not even the guards, as I forced the Turnabout past Taylor and Bahji, past pools and pools of blood. She laid a bright red track across the Hall, up to the door, into the grim corridor. Where she finally guessed my intent.

  Filled then with her own deadly terror, she struggled wildly, lunging and feinting. But I was wrathful, impervious to doubt. Moving like a god on judgment day, I shoved her forward. Up the long incline. Toward the shuttleport. At last the crew came into view. Closed in. Prepared to board the prisoner. There was no mistaking their unfortunate charge, who fought with the ferocity of the damned.

  It was painful to let her go—te’lal b’jahng, my fated enemy. The blade was still in my hand. Poised to slash and maim and tear. I wanted to mar her transcendent beauty, hear her tortured scream. With a great effort of will, I released her into custody.

  Every Jashrine expression had fled Whitehall. “Not me, you idiots—” she raged in our home language “—take her! She’s the prisoner! Summon N’yal Di’loth—fetch him now! You’re making a horrible mistake!”

  No doubt the crew was prepared for such a moment. Anyone might have a failure of courage at the end. Anyone might make irrational claims. Or perhaps they simply spoke no English. Ignoring her protestations, the two bowed deeply to me and spun her around. Staring forward, as if their eyes measured only the home stretch, they led Chastity Whitehall toward eternal rest.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  I retraced my steps. Slowly.Down the endless, sloping corridor, toward that tragic space. Averting my eyes from the bloody evidence of Whitehall’s passage. Just before I set foot in the High Council Hall, Aimée sent a cryptic message: Trust your instincts, Li’shayla Mar-Né!

  The scene inside was static. Taylor still held Bahji, rocking in silence. And every Jasharian—witness to a horror previously unknown—sat motionless, awaiting instruction. Even Earthlings were frozen in place.

  On the dais, the Elders slumped, limp and deflated. Outraged, I strode to N’yal Di’loth. With no hint of deference, I demanded, “Why such unseemly delay? Summon healers for this small member of the Whole!”

  He couldn’t meet my eyes and his voice broke pitiably. “No healing is possible, Leslie-ahn. Though the Harmonious Whole mourns this loss, the Universe is richer by far.”

  An empty condolence, a cultural cliché—not an answer. “What do you mean no healing is possible? Bring on those magicians who revive even the most debilitated Returnees!”

  N’yal Di’loth shook his head. “We restore health, not life. The loss of blood, the lack of oxygen, the damage to vital organs—even the distance from medical facilities…All were carefully calculated by Bahran’aji-ahn’s—” but there was no Jashrine for what came next

  “—murderer,” he finished in English.

  I had to confirm what everyone else knew. “There’s nothing you can do? Revival is impossible?”

  N’yal Di’loth bowed so deeply he nearly bent double. When he stood again with downcast eyes, I knew he’d spoken the truth. Bahji—beloved Bahji—was dead! Irretrievably dead! Black blotches swam before my eyes. Would I ever understand the stakes in this contest? Would I never grasp the consequences of my actions?

  Forcing myself to turn away, to face that assembly, I raised high the covenants I’d signed only moments before. Every eye was riveted on me. “Citizens of Jashari! Members of the Harmonious Whole! Hear now the words of Li’shayla Mar-Né! Jashari has failed to honor its sacred bond.” A shocking blasphemy. I ripped those worthless documents into jagged pieces and flung them down. “Mark my revocation! No longer will this Incurable be bound by any constraint! Full price and more was paid this wretched day!”

  I sought Aimée in the crowd, sending a message. Come here, my love. She stood beside me before reason said it was possible. Even she, indefatigable creature that she was, looked pale and dazed. I led her to Taylor, careful not to tread in Bahji’s blood. Kneeling, I said, “Aimée will help you.”

  Moving in a dream, I uncurled each of Taylor’s fingers from Bahji’s despoiled body. Then I lifted the dead child. Her wiry little frame, drained of its lively tension, was naked now, garbed in illusion no more. I rose to my full height on the dais. Held Bahji—so light, so empty—in outstretched arms, displaying her to the crowd. “Aji, Jashari! Behold the consequences of fear and intolerance! Complicity has struck down your fairest hope and all here are guilty of this crime!”

  I gathered Bahji close again, cradling her as if she but slept. “Let’s take her home,” I said softly. Aimée slipped an arm around Taylor, supporting her weight, following me through the silent hall. As we parted the ashen crowd, every Earthling fell into step behind us, a procession of outcasts.

  And so our mournful journey began. Winding through deserted streets. Returning Hemingway’s daughter to their barren house. Where we assembled in Bahji’s enchanted forest. Washed that pallid body. Decked her with flowers of Taylor’s devising. Settled Belladonna by her side. Her waterfall stilled its murmurings and high above us bright birds folded their wings. Then, as humans have done since time immemorial, we lamented the passing of a cherished companion.

  Only later—only to Aimée—would I acknowledge hearing Bahji’s voice in my mind as her last glimmer of life faded. Calm, confident: My work here is done, Li’shayla Mar-Né. Yours may now begin.

  * * *

  It was late, all the mourners gone. Shiante led Taylor into the depths of the house, hopefully to sleep. But I was far from slumber, in need of solitude. I kissed Aimée, then slipped outside. The nighttime world was black and desolate, my mood grim and despairing. Guilt weighed on me, heavy as a lead shield. Had I possessed half the powers attributed to Li’shayla Mar-Né—had I even exercised due diligence—Bahji would be alive.

  Because only I knew Chastity despised her. Only I knew she blamed Bahji for Taylor’s defection. I alone had disrupted plans for a rival pregnancy. And only I had guessed at Whitehall’s madness. A single cautionary word might have changed the Elders’ calculus or blocked that fatal blow. I scanned the vast sky, where my fated enemy was now imprisoned in the cryogenic capsule meant for me. Far below, I was warm, alive and free. Which of us was worse off?

  Hoping to outpace my crushing remorse, I began to walk. At first I picked my way carefully through the murk. Then, indifferent to safety, courting mindlessness, I loped across the dunes, relying on instinct to trace the network of branching paths.

 
I’d almost depleted my resources when I felt a powerful pull urging me forward. Puzzled, I wheeled around and struck out in the opposite direction. But I hadn’t imagined that drag—my body was a compass needle straining for due north. I stubbornly resisted, discomfort growing with each dogged step. Finally, defeated, I reversed course. Though the pressure instantly lessened, it never relinquished its hold. As surely as if I threaded a guideline through my fingers, some mysterious force led me toward an unknown destination.

  The desert was nothing but inky shadow, yet a shape still darker rose from it. Then rebellious compliance became obsession to draw near. At last I knew where I was. I stretched to touch the object that had beckoned me—a monolith. The immense shaft of granite I’d discovered the night Belladonna went missing. In a trance, I pressed a cheek to one rough facet, then spread my arms to encompass its girth.

  Seconds later—or perhaps hours—I blinked into alertness, wrenching myself free. But my need to rest there hadn’t waned. Perhaps I’d crossed a line into profound exhaustion. Because my body felt relaxed, softer, as if it were dissolving into the stone. Then the unfathomable happened: Something electric flowed from solid rock into my mortal being. Something fluid and full of life. A thrilling conviction of strength and energy. Of clairvoyance and invincibility. Of purpose, power and destiny.

  Dawn was imminent now. The horizon brightening, the landscape taking on form and substance. Soon I’d see the first pinks and golds of Na’Rahna rising. I separated from that mystical outcropping with real regret. But when I turned toward civilization, the rock no longer called me.

  * * *

  That morning, two reverent Jasharians in saffron robes claimed Bahji’s body. I didn’t inquire too closely about its disposition. Because there are no cemeteries, no mausoleums, no burials, no options on Jashari. The planetary ecology wasn’t designed for such hubris. I watched them carry Bahji away, watched along with more Returnees than I’d conceptualized. They lined the streets as far as the eye could see, standing apart from me. Out of animosity, I thought, for my role in the child’s death. Yet the nearest studied me with frank curiosity. Only my urge to honor Bahji kept me from fleeing in shame.

  Taylor was there, of course. Looking like she too had died. Friends queued to touch her hand, hug her, murmur condolences. And then, in the ancient way, they spoke of Bahji. Sharing tales of her short, memorable life. Laughing and crying, often both at once. Many had known her since infancy. All had loved her. The longer I listened, the worse I felt. Because my clumsiness—my cluelessness—had deprived them of more than Bahji’s presence.

  Someone edged me forward and an expectant hush fell over the mourners. I had no wish to address the crowd. But when Taylor’s eyes met mine, I spoke directly to her heart. “A wise man once observed that great harm may result from willful innocence. I stand before you culpable of just such an offense. Better than anyone, I know my naiveté cost Bahji her life. And I know my ignorance stole an enduring dream of freedom from each of you.

  “It is not in my power to restore Bahji, nor have I the capacity to spare you one second of pain. But we will not forget her. And we will not forgive the unjust system that stole her from us. And this I promise: I will devote all my energy to radical change in Bahji’s name.”

  Taylor’s eyes never left mine. But as my words died away, she shook her head minimally—no. Mere words were insufficient. Lofty pledges wouldn’t bring her daughter back. She might never receive me in her home again, might never resume our friendship.

  I bowed in resignation. Stepping into the crowd, I scarcely noticed a great chanting that swelled around me. Returnees. Howling my name. As if I were the hero of the hour, rather than the ruination of every hope. Turning blindly to Aimée, I let her guide me home. Let her lead me to bed. Let her pour the last of our wine, willing it to blunt my misery.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Maybe it was the alcohol. I awoke all at once, a scream in my throat, remembering everything. Spreading crimson pools—Bahji’s ravaged body—Whitehall’s demented laughter. Rising on shaky legs, I carried a tea bowl into the courtyard.

  As always, my midnight garden was still as a tomb. But dangerous emotions roiled my mind and sinister forces gathered, a whirlwind in my spirit. I remembered my pledge of radical change, relived revelation as it flooded me at that monolith. I held the seeds of war in my hands, could let them drift to ground made fertile by Bahji’s blood. Could lay waste to Jashari, calling on powers never imagined by the Harmonious Whole. I’d thrown down the gauntlet, hurled my warning. At my command, Earthlings everywhere would rise, following me into battle, fulfilling the prophecy. Avenging Bahji in the largest city, the smallest enclave.

  For we Returnees were not an altruistic people. We were risk takers, rule breakers, rebels, every one. We could rampage across this asteroid, conquering its passive population in the blink of an eye. No technology of theirs could withstand the onslaught of our sheer, barbaric egotism.

  And I wanted it. Wanted every mother on the planet to weep as Taylor wept. Wanted every child to suffer as Bahji had suffered. Wanted to rail and trample and wield a battle-ax till the felled bodies of my enemies lay in seried ranks all around me. Primal imperatives sang in my veins: Seek and destroy! Pillage and burn! I was Li’shayla Mar-Né. This was my mission, my destiny—liberation and destruction of a troubled planet—this was what Jashari had feared and earned from me! It was for this that Bahji died! I inhaled and felt the breath of each Incurable synchronize with mine. I clenched my fists, disrupting the sleep of every outcast comrade. “Revenge!” I muttered, and ten thousand ordinary dreams spun out of control. I leaped to my feet, eyes blazing.

  Instantly Aimée was beside me, her cool hand resting on my fevered one. “You are very tired, my love. Come to bed.”

  “No!” I answered and my voice was a roaring in the night. “You come with me.”

  I dragged Aimée across the courtyard and into the dunes, then ran full out till we came to the sea. “Aji!” I instructed her fiercely. Behold!

  I flung my arm at waves barely visible. “Rise!” I commanded and the surf leaped, crashing and booming as if hurricanes approached. “Divide!” I cried, and even in darkness we saw water part, a pale path opening to the horizon. I turned to the heavens and called for lightning, an alien thing on Jashari. The sky flared, shattering night into a million searing shards.

  Turning to Aimée, I hissed, “Do you see? I can do this! I can do anything!”

  “Yes, Leslie-ahn. You are the one who was foretold.”

  “I can destroy Jashari! I have just cause!”

  “You have the power and you have just cause. But have you the will?”

  I pulled my hands from hers, letting them fall limp. “What are you saying? What?”

  Aimée came into my arms, touched one temple to mine. Gasping, I released her. I’d tapped a million layers of emotion, the whispering strata of memories, the pulsing of possibility. In that moment, I knew all Jashari’s history, saw all its secrets, grasped its full potential.

  “It is not in you to misuse power, Leslie-ahn. It is not consonant with your nature. You will forswear base revenge.”

  I sank to my knees. Sobbing. Sifting sand through clenching fists. What use power, if not to enable passion? But at the sound of Aimée’s voice, my rage drained away. The surf hesitated, then healed itself. Lightning flickered, thunder faded. And my compatriots sank back into peaceful sleep. “Who am I if I forswear this force? What am I?”

  “Something subtler, finer. Something still in the making. Something that will transform this world even yet. Something Bahji would have willingly died for.”

  Bahji! This was about Bahji! Assuredly, she wouldn’t choose the brutal deaths of a thousand-thousand children, the wails of anguished mothers, the destruction of her only home. I reached a hand to Aimée. At her touch, my vagrant fantasies fled. She took me home, took me to bed, held me till the last vestiges of lunacy bled away.

  * * *

&n
bsp; My night terrors faded over time. All dreams of revenge died. I’d failed to rescue the planet—had very nearly despoiled it. And I’d failed to save Bahji. In the aftermath of her death, everyone lost faith that I was some prophesied champion. I, most of all.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  One day faded into the next, meaningless, unremarkable, wasted. Then, while pondering the perfection of my favorite tea bowl, I suddenly recalled I was once an artist. An artist with sufficient skill to pay tribute to Bahji. Electric purpose galvanized me and a plan appeared full-blown in my brain: I’d paint a commemorative mural on the outer wall of my courtyard. A piece so compelling that everyone who passed by—forever—would have to stop and reflect. Because I’d use buon fresco—an ancient medium with a unique chemistry. If damp plaster tinted with watery pigment could endure for millennia on Earth, it should survive all eternity in Jashari’s arid air. Long before I designed my memorial, I knew what I’d name it.

  I had time on my hands and money to burn. Aimée conjured another room for my apartment. A studio. Small and temporary, for one purpose only. And after the mural was finished, I’d leave to live in a house by the sea. I’d already commissioned its construction.

  I began to sketch and refine, then sketch again until the layout on the page seemed inevitable as death. Then I tried my hand at buon fresco. Which was a learning experience no adaptation module could provide. And even more challenging, more time-consuming, than I’d anticipated. At last I’d found a way to occupy my empty hours.

  In the beginning I worked in miniature. Crafting a tiny flower, a trailing fold of silk, the tapering fan of a bird’s wing. Over and over, I scraped plaster from my boards, dissatisfied, only to begin anew. Gradually my timing improved, my lines grew more fluid. Color became one with sand and lime. I’d found the sweet spot in the medium.