by Lea Daley
* * *
Time was heavy on my hands. I tried to immerse myself in plans for my new home. But that seemed trivial and self-indulgent in light of Bahji’s death. Needing distraction, heeding Serenghi’s words about honoring the fallen, I joined a band of Returnees who were keeping Taylor’s dream alive while she regrouped. Fifty of us tiptoeing around huge underground labs, wondering whether the Elders knew what we were up to, wondering if they’d try to stop us. I did whatever was asked of me there. Staking saplings. Taking measurements. Recording pH levels. But I preferred tending Taylor’s rainforest, where I felt closest to Bahji. Where I could pretend she and Belladonna might suddenly make an appearance.
To my great surprise, one of our outlaw crew was a native Jasharian—Tahm’Hzu, the petite, solemn woman who’d cared for me immediately after my revival. Not a nurse, as I’d assumed, but a neuromedico—some highly sophisticated specialty I’d never fully grasp. She was passionate about gardening, which forged an immediate bond between us. And early on, she informed me she’d enjoy speaking English as we worked. “When I communicate in your language, Leslie-ahn, I feel bigger.”
I laughed. Because Tahm’Hzu was easily a full head shorter than I.
“Perhaps I should say I feel more free—no longer fighting with myself.”
Gradually I extracted a sketchy life history from Tahm’Hzu. Who confided she’d always been more inquisitive than was seemly on Jashari. She found Returnees especially intriguing. From childhood, she’d searched out places where these misfits assembled, never more than a shadow at the edge of a crowd. Naturally she was observed. Naturally she was suspect. She’d learned several Terran languages the hard way—through eavesdropping on the outskirts of those gatherings. Because the Elders would be alarmed by a request for activation of alien language modules.
In adulthood, her decision to practice medicine exposed Tahm’Hzu to many Returnees. As a result, the Jasharian developed a heretical, if unvoiced, theory: my people had something beyond mere wealth to offer her world. By the time she was a full-fledged neuromedico, she’d begun to interact with a few Incurables. Ultimately, she met Bahji. Who introduced Tahm’Hzu to her mother, vouching for the Jasharian’s integrity.
When revival was scheduled for the Incurable who might be Li’shayla Mar-Né, many medicos panicked. But Tahm’Hzu volunteered for the Jashrine version of a surgical team—and the Elders accepted her application. Which was immensely reassuring to Taylor and her friends. Because apparently the High Council was completely ignorant of Tahm’Hzu’s ties to the Incurable community.
But my new friend was more than a member of the team charged with curing my tumor. Hemingway had recruited the young woman for a special mission—the clandestine implantation of a mental block that would shield certain categories of my experience from Aimée and the Elders.
“Quite a risk, Tahm’Hzu!”
Black eyes sparkled as she replied, “It was the most alive I have ever felt! Though if I had known Aimée-ahn would become a friend, I might have had second thoughts.”
With Bahji gone, I could hardly say all’s well that ends well. Instead I offered a conjecture. “Maybe Aimée needed time to get to know me without all the other complicating factors. Otherwise I’m not sure she would have become a friend.”
“Perhaps it is as you say.”
Though I was rocked by Tahm’Hzu’s revelations, I continued to work, monitoring growth rates, checking grafts, recording data. Because I’d noticed the best way to encourage further disclosure was to appear scarcely aware of her existence.
Over time, the neuromedico helped me understand how Taylor’s terraforming plan might succeed. She described the diversity of rainforest plants, their high levels of energy exchange. Discussed their capacity to harbor and promote animal life. Explained how genetic modifications could make them suitable for desert conditions. Taught me why these altered specimens were a good choice for rapid transformation of the planet—might, in fact, one day make Jashari’s climate far more temperate. And I marveled at her courage. Because participating in Hemingway’s project constituted something like high treason for a local.
As I pondered the chain of events that brought us together, I developed a new anxiety: perhaps Tahm’Hzu was another of my “fated meetings.” Perhaps I’d bring ruin raining down on her too. Sweet Aimée dismissed my fear, pointing out that the Jasharian had aligned herself with Returnees long before my revival was contemplated. Still, that didn’t totally alleviate all concern—if Tahm’Hzu and I were te’lal dzarling, then I was surely responsible for her welfare.
* * *
I was nearing the end of a shift in the rainforest when Aimée called me home abruptly. Rinsing my hands at Bahji’s waterfall, I palmed the rock wall as if saying farewell. Then I took off at top speed. Because only a matter of great urgency would have prompted that summons when I was due home so soon.
Aimée greeted me in the courtyard, but refused to speak until we were inside. “Please sit, Leslie-ahn.”
I dropped to the nearest surface, every muscle and sinew taut.
“Something unimaginable has happened. Peter Johansonn burst in here tonight looking for you.”
“He what? How dare he? He has no—”
But Aimée raised her hand. “There is more.”
“Perhaps you should speak into my mind?”
“Prepare yourself, Leslie-ahn.”
I saw the intrusion unfold with horrifying clarity. Johansonn appearing unannounced, demanding to speak with me. His manner devoid of all courtesy—even the Earthly type. Aimée explaining I wasn’t home. The prick searching my rooms anyway. Then—thwarted, infuriated—looming over her aggressively. Spitting out a mysterious message: “Leslie will wish to be present when Chastity addresses the High Council the day after tomorrow.”
I shot off the couch. “That’s not possible!”
But apparently it was. Because Aimée had been calculating. “Whitehall’s survival instinct is most powerful. She has deployed her best assets to extract herself from captivity.”
Best assets. That angelic face, that stunning body. Someone in authority on the Medical Reception Station had fallen prey to the Turnabout. Now she’d been revived—or maybe she’d never been iced at all.
“What will she do, Aimée? Your best guess.”
“There are many variables. But Chastity is in a position of great strength. She commands the only access to the Station, which has the capacity to become a weapon itself. She is willing to utilize violence. And Jashari is defenseless.”
“Completely defenseless?”
“What need for weapons when all are one?”
“Surely there’s some kind of contingency plan…?”
“None exists because this is simply unthinkable.”
“Was unthinkable.”
Aimée nodded a sour acknowledgment.
“Can’t the Elders constrain her? Exert some control over the situation?”
“Doubtful. Whitehall will feel only animosity toward them as they did not intervene when you consigned her to the Station. She will make significant demands, but I can only guess what those will be.”
That’s easy, I thought. Her demands will be the ones that always motivate the least of our race: Money. Power. Revenge. Imagining the damage Whitehall could do, I shuddered. How had I been dumb enough to think I’d outwitted a master strategist? While we were struggling to recover from Bahji’s murder, she was orbiting the planet, its towns and topography laid out for her lethal inspection.
“Who else knows about this?”
“Chastity will have communicated with the Council. But clearly she wants you to have the pleasure of informing our friends.”
I gritted my teeth. “So we’re already doing her bidding. Let’s go talk with Taylor. Maybe she has a miracle up her sleeve.”
* * *
Taylor had scarcely heard us out before she organized a syntheticon. As Returnees weighed in via the only mass communication method I’d o
bserved on Jashari, the dialogue was interminable. The best and worst of our culture were on full display that night. Collaboration and divisiveness. Planning and panic. Support and self-interest. When Shiante set a tea bowl at my elbow, I was startled to realize Na’Rahna was rising. Yet in all those dark hours we’d resolved nothing. Nor could we. Because Chastity was in charge.
Chapter Forty-Two
It wasn’t the first time I’d made my way to the High Council Hall with a palpitating heart. At least I walked beside Aimée now. The closer we drew, the more Jasharians we encountered, all headed for the same destination. To attend an assembly with no announced purpose. Which had been scheduled with unsettling haste. Though the mood was anxious, the crowd was orderly—on Jashari, crowds would always be orderly. During that journey, many speculative glances were cast my way. Were rumors already flying about our hellacious dilemma? Was I expected to have a solution? Maybe. After all, I’d caused this mess, however inadvertently.
In the Hall, every seat was taken, with hundreds more spectators lining the walls. Aimée and I were pressed forward until we stood before the dais where the Elders would soon appear. Suddenly I was hyperventilating, gruesome images surging through my mind. Bahji’s blood on these very tiles—the still crowd—my blade in Whitehall’s hand—the impossible lightness of the lifeless child… When I swayed, faint and unsteady, a pair of Jasharians motioned Aimée and me into their seats.
The hush was broken by a gong struck once, and cleanly. When the Elders entered, heads high, conveying calm, stability and normalcy, relief swept over the Hall. Addressing us in High Jashrine, N’yal Di’loth greeted all present as One, the Harmonious Whole. He announced that an Incurable had requested this assembly. Then he reminded us that Jashari was a sanctuary for those in need of healing. The Elders would hear this request, as was their sworn duty. The petitioner should come forward to present the appeal.
The crowd waited, vibrating with suspense, but no supplicant approached the dais. After a pause just protracted enough to demonstrate that N’yal Di’loth was no longer in control, Chastity Whitehall materialized beside the Council. Or rather a faxim of Chastity. Garbed in a gown so red it radiated danger, an ornate tiara crowning that fair head. The faxim stepped forward, her back to the Elders, pointedly dispensing with all courtesies. When she addressed the assembly, her first phrases were trivial, unmemorable. She’s giving us time to absorb that calculated insult, I thought. She doesn’t want us to miss whatever’s coming.
Khyz’lera—the Turnabout—was speaking once more. In Low Jashrine, the language of commerce and concession. But she wasn’t crafting a convoluted bargain in the marketplace. She was issuing ultimatums. Effective immediately, the High Council was dissolved. An edict she could enforce, because the crew of the Medical Reception Station was at her command.
Whitehall paused as all eyes glanced upward, considering their peril. The immense wheel of the Station now an ominous, immediate presence overhead. But her next statement shocked even me: without exception, the cryo-capsules had been opened, every Returnee revived. The Station’s life support system was insufficient to meet their needs. Even as she spoke, thousands of Incurables were being transported to the surface of Jashari. They’d be allowed free access to any amenity the asteroid offered and supported at public expense.
Stark terror raced through the crowd. Which was expressed as an intensified stillness in that packed chamber. Because almost all the newly released Returnees would have deformities too terrible to confront. Left unsaid—because articulating it would be unspeakably vulgar—these monsters would serve as Whitehall’s loyal henchmen. Her spies. Her enforcers.
Without warning, a faxim of Peter Johansonn appeared alongside Chastity. Tall and muscular, garbed in wheaten gold. Though Jashrine had no words for Empress, Prime Minister or prison, Whitehall managed to subvert the language to convey those concepts. Johansonn was her will made manifest. His orders, hers. From this day forward. Dissent, we inferred, would be answered swiftly, brutally. After bowing to the assembly with deep irony, the gorgeous, illusory couple faded away, leaving only dread and despair in their wake.
As one, the crowd rose and began to file out of the Hall. Quietly. Courteously. No guards arrived to lead the Elders away in shackles, but none were needed. On the dais, in plain view as we departed, N’yal Di’loth stripped himself of every emblem of authority. Reconfigured his clothing to suggest he was nothing but a very old, very weary member of the Whole. Then he joined the somber procession as it moved toward the exits.
* * *
Like the other Returnees in our circle, I made my way to Taylor’s house. But tea had barely been offered before a mob assembled in the street and a tidal wave of youthful voices washed through the neighborhood. First chanting, “Leslie-ahn! Les-lie-ahn!” Then shifting into the danger zone: “Li’shayla Mar-Né! Li’shayla Mar-Né! Li’shayla Mar-Né!”
Oh, god! I had to put a stop to that! Now! Because the instant word reached Whitehall, her wrath would focus on this small enclave. I couldn’t protect those people—and they were endangering everyone I loved. I had to flee the area instantly, then let it be known I’d left. Grabbing Aimée’s hand, I dashed toward the back of the house. By the time we exited through a rear courtyard, the VTO was a young Jashari male, indistinguishable from many in the crowd. The height she’d added diminished the difference between us. “Hurry, Leslie-ahn!”
Binding my hair, I imagined a nondescript turban. Crafted a robe so loose I might have weighed twenty pounds more. My skin glowed white under the twin suns, a worrisome telltale. But when we stepped through the wall, every Jasharian was intent on joining the throng at the front. We bowed our way past them without attracting attention.
There was only one possible destination. We struck out toward my cottage on the beach.
* * *
Aimée was herself again, curled beside me in my unfurnished living room. Looking out over an ocean that seemed entirely too untroubled. “Do you now see why Jasharians fear and despise individuation, Leslie-ahn? Chastity’s egocentrism has put an entire civilization at risk.”
I shook my head. “Whitehall’s despicable, Aimée. No argument there. But consider how poorly Jasharians respond to the unexpected! They react as one—and their very unity threatens the wholesale destruction of all they value! If there’s a way out of this trap, I’ll bet a Returnee finds it!”
“You know who that person must be, Leslie-ahn. You heard the crowd today. Only Li’shayla Mar-Né can lead them now. Only she can defeat the usurper.”
I’d been doing my best to avoid that conclusion. Yet how could an outcast be expected to rescue the citizenry of this alien place? And what did I have to offer these people, so different from me? Other than my fraudulent godhead…
“Oh, Leslie! How soon you forget your own history! Salvation was often associated with Earthly deities.”
“Often, not always. And was there ever an unlikelier candidate for divinity?”
“Absolutely! Whitehall aspires to that elevated role! Which would be disastrous!” Aimée flooded my mind with vivid probability. Passive Jasharians, perfect candidates for every form of enslavement. Whitehall, increasingly aggressive and decadent. Johansonn, unchained. Ironically, under their tyrannical rule, the natives would learn to think in Terran terms—devising best-case scenarios, calculating cost-benefit ratios. Along the way, they’d discover self-interest, invent self-determination.
So Whitehall had unintentionally sown the seeds of both rebellion and democracy. But countless people would be obliterated before those seeds bore fruit. Reluctantly, I accepted Aimée’s judgment: only the mythical Li’shayla Mar-Né could provide a timely counterforce. I had no choice but to take up that mantle. No option except to meet Chastity’s challenge head-on.
* * *
I was confined to quarters while Aimée assessed the situation. According to her reports, everything had gone quiet across Jashari. The children had all disappeared, sequestered inside. Sh
eltered from harm. Invisible. The rare adult on the streets, rushing to conduct urgent business, was subdued and watchful. Not a single Returnee to be seen anywhere. And only an occasional glimpse of a newly released Incurable.
But the longer the cities remained orderly, the more hazardous they’d become. Because soon—very soon—Whitehall would tire of tranquility. And when her boredom peaked, unimaginable mayhem was sure to erupt.
Chapter Forty-Three
No doubt Aimée’s computations were faultless. If I must act—which clearly I must—I’d need a plan. And fortunately, I’d learned more than radical botany from Tahm’Hzu—she taught me to manipulate the barrier she’d installed in my brain. Now I’d use this new skill to mislead the most important person in my life. Because I was unlikely to survive Whitehall’s governance. So I’d steeled myself to die at her hands with grace and dignity. If possible. For everything Bahji had been. For everything Jashari might yet become. But Aimée would never agree this was “in my best interests.” We’d waste precious time and energy arguing the point.
I didn’t feel good about withholding information, wouldn’t have chosen to deceive the woman I love under any other circumstances. And in the unlikely event that I lived through my next encounter with Chastity, I’d tear down that barricade once and for all. But just now, I had secrets to keep. Sweetheart, I telegraphed, I want to talk with you. Out loud. In English.
“I am listening, Leslie-ahn.”
“I think Li’shayla Mar-Né should make an appearance—give a speech—to as large an audience as possible.”
Aimée was calculating. “An excellent thought. Whitehall’s ‘minions’ are not yet capable of controlling a huge gathering. And since she requires an adoring public, she would prefer to forego violence so early in her reign. She might hold a crowd captive—”
“First things first, love. Will she permit me to address an audience?”
