by Loren Walker
Shaking so violently her teeth clacked together, Anandi crawled along the wall, following at a distance.
Bianco’s arm lifted, and he tossed something underhand into the research facility.
Anandi heard a tiny ping! of something hard hitting the linoleum floor, and a strange, quiet whine.
Then a small foom!
Suddenly, Theron was thrashing against his bonds, his hair coming loose. The men in white put their knees into his back and shoved Theron back into the floor. Theron kept fighting, his shoes squeaking against the linoleum, the sound of his jacket fabric ripping.
Then Bianco had a knife in his hand and came to stand over Theron. Anandi tried to scream at him to stop, but she couldn't get a breath in.
Bianco took hold of Theron’s long black hair and began to saw through it, where the red cord bound it together. Soon, great sheaths of hair were on the floor, the new ragged edges swinging around Theron’s sharp cheekbone.
“Finally,” Bianco said, tossing the hunk of black hair aside. “I’ve always hated that thing.”
“Why are you doing this?” Anandi burst out. Her voice sounded so weak and scared.
“Bind her,” was Bianco’s only reaction. “All of them. Then bring them in to watch.”
A man in white forced Anandi to her knees, wrenching her arms behind her back. She felt cold rubber cord around her wrists, tighter and tighter, and then he was dragging her down the hallway, tossing her in front of the double doors next to Theron. Bianco’s men had no sympathy for Renzo; he was bound as tight as she was, and dragged to the entrance of the research facility. Then CaLarca and Ganasan were hauled from their cells, similarly bound, both still reeling from the effects of the Disruptor Coin. The baby was still unconscious, and placed between CaLarca’s thighs, where she did her best to shield the boy with her body, as did Ganasan; a unit of protection, even with shuddering shoulders.
I’m sorry, Anandi tried to tell them all, with her eyes* or her mind. I’m so sorry.
The research room burned over the next hour. The embers crawled over the floor, up the walls and tables, and melted the metal, the wires, shorted out currents, leaving behind ash, and steadily thickening smoke.
The whole time, Bianco said nothing, only nodded for Theron to be restrained, keeping watchful eyes on the others, even as tears went down soot-streaked faces, even when the baby started to wail and cough.
Voss's leg was shaking, Anandi noticed, the man's nerves seemed at their edge, whoever he was, and whatever he was to Bianco. A fellow NINE.
Theron was right, Anandi realized. They were right to make those devices. NINE are evil. They can’t help it.
“You’re dead.”
Anandi turned her head at Theron’s choked, furious voice.
“You’re all dead.” He said the last word through clenched teeth.
Voss shrank back, but Bianco crouched down in front of Theron, his knees crackling, his heavy hands on his thighs. "I thought you would have died in Kings Canyon with your parents,” he said quietly. “And yet you lived."
Anandi saw the jugular vein pulsing in Theron's neck, but he didn’t move from his position.
“And here you are: the survivor, once again.” Bianco studied him intensely. “One by one, your cousins disappointed me. So predictable, and self-absorbed, and needy. I thought you might be different. I held out hope that after all my years of effort, it would have a worthy conclusion. A successor, a partner, even.”
Anandi caught the sharp glance from Voss at that. Those words seemed to strike a blow.
Bianco rose to his feet, his joints popping again as he straightened. “I had such hopes,” he continued. “I thought perhaps if you were just prodded the right way… your bodyguards being targeted had little impact. So I chose to include myself in the death tolls, thinking that might be the catalyst.”
Then Bianco made a face. “I didn’t think you’d run and hide behind that family. Didn’t you think about how bad that looked?”
Theron spat the name: “Jetsun.”
Bianco lifted a finger. “I did not authorize Jetsun’s death. I accept my role of blame.”
“You accept!” Theron exploded.
“I thought the enhancements would help Shantou,” Bianco sighed. “Stabilize her. But NINE aren’t ideal for physical experimentation, it seems. Every change made her more uncontrollable.”
Bianco folded his hands in front of his belly, bowing his head as if in prayer. His voice grew quieter. “Everything has been for science, for knowledge. To understand the core of what makes us NINE. Don’t think I’ve forgotten my goal in taking over the Savas; it’s with this leadership that I can protect my children.”
“Your children?” came CaLarca’s snarling voice. “You mutilated Shantou. You kept her and Kuri addicted to drugs. You burned down my farm and kidnapped my family. I should - I will -"
Then her face collapsed in pain, and her forehead touched the floor beside her son, moaning.
Ganasan wriggled to get close to her "Stop it!" he begged Bianco. "Whatever you're doing, stop it!"
"That's a warning," Bianco said, lifting a finger. "Keep fighting, and I'll activate the implant to shut her down."
"What - about - Sydel?" CaLarca managed to choke out.
For the first time, an emotion crossed Bianco’s face. Was it shame?
“Yes. I should have taken her.” He nodded, his eyes pinched close. “Watching the development of a NINE from infancy; a prime opportunity, wasted. One of my greatest errors. I could have done so much with her.”
His gaze settled on the little boy on the floor.
“And yet, another opportunity appears.”
Anandi didn’t know where the strength, or the courage, came from, but she was suddenly on her feet, ramming herself into the sour-smelling body of Bianco Sava. She scrambled, she kicked, she did whatever she could with her available limbs to hurt that man, to stop him from hurting anyone else.
His fist was a sledgehammer, hitting her in the chest.
A loud crack! echoed through the compound. Anandi’s chin bounced off the floor so hard that she tasted blood and felt a loose tooth in her mouth. She curled into a ball and sucked in air, pain in her chest tightening like a vice.
“You can see,” Anandi could barely hear Bianco, over the ringing in her ears, “I was careful with my own enhancements. Moderation, always, is the key, as I’ve learned.”
A sound was rising, over the fire: sirens. Patrol was incoming. Someone had called in the attack, or the fire. Someone was coming to save them.
Then someone grabbed Anandi by the foot, and she was dragged along the floor, past Theron and Bianco, into the burning research and development space, now a horrible blend of grey ash, red fire, and orange sparks. The smoke hit her lungs hard, making her cough. The embers hit her skin, and her clothes burst into flame, and Anandi was screaming, and rolling, but everything went burning, and black.
Part Four
I.
Daryn Ozias was a mess, the most unkempt that Phaira had ever seen. She was usually in uniform, crisp and clean, with dark brown skin and carefully pulled-back hair. Now she wore hiking clothes, and there were strands of frizzy hair at her temples. Her skin was ashy, and there were new lines across her forehead. But her eyes were still sharp, and familiar, assessing every angle of this village, and Phaira within it.
“Phaira, we need your help,” Ozias announced to the valley. “I want you to join the patrol, officially as an officer of the law. Train us in how to deal with NINE, and the Sava syndicate. Help us to stop the bloodshed once and for all.”
In response, Phaira turned on her heel and ran.
When the door closed behind her back, Phaira took in the deepest breath she could, and slid down so she sat on the dirt floor. Even the air seemed different when Detective Ozias showed up over the crest of the Soares Valley, with soldiers in tow; like the only sweet bit of coolness was sucked away, and there was nothing but hot, dry demands left for her to
inhale.
Again, she felt the old familiar pull for mekaline. There was something about the drug that stopped the past, and the future, but kept her in the present moment, unable to process anything but the immediate sensory input, and it served as a sweet relief, again and again.
A relief that she couldn’t have, ever again.
There were other options, of course. She could drink herself into oblivion. She could wander back into the wilderness. She could find the closest bridge and jump off. Phaira contemplated her options as she stared at the wall’s smeared paint strokes: peach and sandstone and red brick, sponged together for texture, and abandoned nail holes with nothing to fill them.
Her grief was sudden, and vibrant: Not yet.
She had felt something in this valley during those one-on-one sparring matches with the other villagers, in this strange community populated with fighters of every style and weapon. She was brought to her knees, she was bruised up and down her forearms, she was cut across the brow and the stomach, new scars to add to her hundred-plus. The world was an ongoing challenge, one after another, like a rotating dance down the sand path, to another opponent, and another, and she savored every moment, even when someone half her size and twice her age managed to best her. The beauty of combat, of the body and of what it was capable of doing, it was a kind of meditation. The physical movement made everything else fade away. And then there were the smiles that followed the defeat, the outstretched hands to help her back to her feet, the claps on her back when she succeeded in felling an opponent. Phaira didn’t know many names, and they never asked for hers, not the men, nor the women. But maybe that was the point of the Communia: to dissolve your labels and just exist; to push physically, to learn and absorb, to be thankful for sore muscles by the end of the day.
A religion I could actually get behind.
And yet, any semblance of happiness wasn’t hers to hold. That much she had learned.
A knock at the door. “Phaira, let us in.”
Phaira slid to the side, allowing the door to open.
Entering the hut, Sydel sat on the edge of the bed, eyes on the floor. When Cohen ducked under the doorframe, he caught sight of Phaira against the wall, and plopped down next to her, so close she could smell his sweat.
"How did she find us?" Phaira moaned, putting her head in her hands.
"Said she got a tip. Wouldn't say who." Then he nudged her side. "An officer, Phair.” His voice was full of wonder. “Wow.”
Phaira scoffed. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not? You’d be good at it. Probably teach them a lot.”
“Cohen,” she hissed. “She’s trying to get me to turn on Theron. Don’t you see that? It’s not a real offer. She wants the information I’ve got to take him down.”
“So what if she does?” Cohen pointed out. “If he’s going crazy and hurting people, then he should be stopped.”
Phaira ran her hands through her hair. “You say that like we didn’t just spend the last month protecting him.”
Cohen shrugged. “You really think she’d make you patrol and then take it away?”
Yes, was her mind’s immediate response. Because I am obsolete. I am wrong in every sense of the word. I am back where I belong, back in the cold, and the dirty poor, back in the obliterating sunlight, with no name, no rana, no reputation, no future. Phaira’s thoughts swirled, pushing down on her shoulders, pulling at her hands, so she had to arch her back to feel some kind of relief.
Cohen didn’t seem to notice. “I think she means it, Phair. Why else come all this way? You have the advantage here. You could probably ask for whatever you want, and she’ll do it.”
“I just feel like we should stay out of it,” Phaira muttered, rubbing the heel of her hand into her sternum. “We should stay here and keep out of it. Not until we know where Renzo is.”
“I don’t think Oz is leaving here without a yes.”
“So what?” she shot back. “She can’t force me.”
Actually, she can, came that infuriating inner voice. I could still go to jail for assaulting those patrolmen in Liera. Charges were never filed, but they could be. And what if she finds out about Kadise Sava, how I threw a knife into her chest? I didn’t think anyone knew, but then Theron brought it up in the garden, when he confessed who he really was…
His name in her head made her chest ache. She shook her head to cast it away. At least in prison she couldn’t make any more bad decisions.
“I’m willing.”
Phaira lifted her head, shocked.
At her reaction, Sydel lifted a hand. “I’ll teach them what I know, but I don’t think it will help much. Not unless any of the patrolmen are NINE in secret.”
Phaira broke in. “Sydel, you don’t want to - ”
“I know what I want,” Sydel said firmly. “I’m not hiding, and I’m not being cast as the bad guy. If people are going to know about NINE, they should see the good it can do, not just how it can harm. I need to see that it’s possible when….”
There was more that she was going to say, but she closed her mouth and looked down.
“Syd’s right,” Cohen said, pushing himself up to a standing position. “We've been saying the same thing for months now. We shouldn't get involved. Yeah, well, we are involved, and we always have been. Maybe it's for a reason."
“This isn’t some game about destiny,” Phaira shot back. “Look at everything we’ve lost. Look what resources we have.”
Cohen looked at her with a mixture of pity and disappointment. “You gotta stop running sometime, Phair.”
The way Cohen said it made her insides collapse.
Is that what I’m doing? she thought. Am I really a coward, pretending to be brave?
"We all gotta stop running," her little brother said grimly. "Not just you. All of us. I don't know - maybe we're not meant to stay in the background."
"Maybe we're the ones who are supposed to stop all of this, once and for all," Sydel added.
What was she thinking? Phaira couldn't imagine, and for once, wished that she had cultivated more of her Eko ability so she could read minds, instead of just receiving messages.
"Nothing we do is going to make this violence stop," Phaira told them, hearing the desperate strain in her voice. "You realize that, right? We’ll be on a bounty list for the rest of our lives. We’ll be dragged out when we least expect it and be punished for what we’ve done. Or not done.”
"Maybe so," Sydel said. "But I want to try. And I think you do too."
That girl knew her too well; it was unnerving.
"But you make your choice, Phaira," Sydel said, standing up. Phaira caught a hint of a sway in the girl, a wave of dizziness.
"It would be wise to hear the detective out,” Sydel continued. “But whatever you decide, we'll support you."
At that, Cohen shot Sydel a look. Sydel gave him an almost imperceptible shake of her head. Phaira narrowed her eyes. Those two were getting sneaky. She felt oddly lonely in that moment.
"I'll listen to what she wants," she finally told them. "But privately. Here, not out there in front of everyone."
"I'll bring her back," Sydel nodded. "Cohen, you shouldn’t be here."
"I don't care if I'm in the girl section," Cohen grumbled. "This is more important than - "
"Why don't you go and speak to the patrolmen," Sydel interrupted, a patient smile on her face. "And see if you can get any other information, while their superior is not present? Any clue that the detective isn't what she seems, or has another agenda?"
Cohen's mouth opened and closed. "I can do that," he finally said, albeit gruffly.
Then he gave Sydel a smirk, and she smiled back.
Phaira watched the exchange, and couldn’t place the feeling in her gut, whether it was jealousy, or shame, or deadness.
II.
Sydel soon returned with Detective Ozias in tow. The woman’s gaze flicked all around the tiny hut, taking in the details, her eyebrows arched in what lo
oked like disbelief.
Yes, I’m in a mud hut wearing strange clothes in the middle of nowhere, Phaira thought, sitting cross-legged on the ground. Not a likely place for some miracle worker who can turn the tide of war.
“You must be desperate, to track me down,” she told the woman.
“I admit it,” Ozias said. “We’ve lost ten agents in the past forty-eight hours, and countless more are injured. And not just the patrol - pedestrians are getting caught in the crossfire.”
“This is Theron, pushing all of this?” It still seemed hard to believe.
“Him, and Bianco Sava.”
Phaira frowned. “Bianco Sava?” Her mind turned back to when she and Theron had gone to Bianco Sava's apartment after his death; she was suspicious of its circumstances, but the possibility of his death being true was always there. The apartment had burned, a slow burn, ignited by one of those beads on the floor, the same bead she found at CaLarca’s burned-down farm in the South: some kind of strange, advanced disintegration, wiping out every trace in the slowest of burns. “He’s alive?”
“He’s divided the Sava syndicate, and declared himself to be the true leader. There have been breakouts of violence between the two sides, in all the capital cities. Plus, unexplainable events. People losing body and mind control.”
Ozias splayed her hands open. “I wouldn’t believe the stories if we hadn’t met, Phaira. And I wouldn’t be here if I weren’t desperate to understand how to stop it. We need to understand what this NINE phenomena is, and how to defend ourselves, if we are going to quell this war.”
Phaira’s mind was still turning. They have NINE on their side? How was that possible? Who would join them? Why would Theron ever want that? What is going on?
“I meant what I said,” Ozias said. “Join the force. Work with me, in the open.”
Would I be Officer Byrne, or Officer Lore?
No. She was always making the wrong decision, leaping before looking, acting on impulse. She wasn't doing it again.
