The tension in the room rippled like an earthquake. Finally, Renzo pushed off his chair and limped away. Stopping at the door, he spoke without turning around: “You’re not the only one who has nothing, Phaira.”

  “I know,” Phaira murmured, surprising Sydel. “And you know I’m sorry for it.”

  Renzo ducked out of sight. Cohen covered his face with his hand. Phaira sighed and nudged his leg with her foot. “It’s okay, Co. Really.”

  “You know it’s not,” Cohen muttered through his palm as he left the common room. Sydel heard his footsteps in the hallway, slow and dragging. She wondered if she should follow him. Did anyone ever follow him?

  “I need to speak with you.”

  Phaira’s tone made Sydel shudder. She let her hand rest against the wall, bracing her will.

  “You have questions.”

  “Do I?”

  “Don’t play coy,” Phaira warned. “I know what you’ve been up to.”

  Sydel lifted her chin. “I’m not up to anything.”

  “When you search for sensitive information in public, you put all of us in jeopardy.” Phaira’s tone was cold, every word exacting. “You cannot do that and expect to remain here with us.”

  “How could you know that?” Sydel retorted. “Were you spying on me?”

  “If you want to snoop around, we’ll get you a Lissome of your own,” Phaira said, ignoring Sydel’s outburst. “There’s a million vending machines, and after we encrypt it, you can pull up any kind of information: photos, video, whatever you want to know about us, or Nican Macatia.”

  Sydel recoiled. Then Phaira’s voice grew quieter. “Ren may not want to listen, Sydel, but there are people out to hurt me. I’m not looking for you to get caught in the crossfire too. Understand?”

  Phaira is concerned for my safety? The notion stunned Sydel. But she had to ask, regardless of the consequence. “You were involved in Nican Macatia’s death?”

  Phaira flinched. Her grey-green eyes zeroed in on Sydel’s, but they weren’t fearful. They were full of hatred.

  Murderer. Serial killer.

  Her hand was on fire.

  Gasping, Sydel jerked her fingers away from the wall. She stared at the center of her palm; the flesh was bright red and stinging. Waves of heat reverberated off the wall. What just happened? Had Phaira noticed? No, Phaira was looking at Sydel, not her hands, with a strange expression on her face. Almost like hurt?

  As Sydel cradled her hand, a memory floated up to the surface, something Cohen had said days earlier in response to Phaira’s skepticism: “She might understand what we are going through.”

  There was a beeping sound. Phaira turned back to the table, waving her fingers over the black square. The Lissome clicked open and projected a new screen, smaller this time and full of names. Phaira’s hand waved slowly up and down, the blue light scrolling over her face.

  Her eyebrows lifted. Then she rose to her feet and swept past Sydel.

  Sydel slumped against the wall, lifting her raw, pulsing hands to her eyes. Blisters were already rising. Her blood quivered through her veins. She flexed her fingers, trying to block out the pain, trying to keep breathing.

  VIII.

  Cohen wasn’t in his massive bed, but slumped in a chair wedged beside it. Standing in the doorframe, Sydel hesitated, a fresh pack of gauze in her bound hand.

  Then his eyes opened. “Hi.”

  “Is it okay to come in?”

  Cohen nodded, shifting his position. He looked wan and exhausted as he shrugged out of his shirt. Sydel sat on the edge of his bed as she ripped open the bandages.

  “What happened to your hand?” Cohen asked suddenly, his brow furrowed. “Did you cut yourself?”

  “I’m fine,” Sydel deferred. “It’s nothing.”

  But Cohen’s forehead remained in a bunch. His concern made her feel lighter, somehow, as she peeled the gauze from his chest.

  “How?” came Renzo’s voice, startling them both.

  He limped into the room, staring at Cohen’s chest.

  Then he turned to Sydel. “How did you do that?”

  “Ren!” Cohen protested, one hand lifting as if to push his brother back. “What are you doing?”

  But Renzo shook his head, pointing to Cohen’s chest: tiny, pale pink notches dotted his chest, hardly any trace of evidence that shrapnel was once removed.

  “That is impossible in a week’s time,” he announced. “That’s impossible.”

  He was right. Sydel stared at the scars, their smoothness, their light color. Not even the balm could heal that quickly. How could this be?

  Sydel balled her right hand into a fist, pressing the nails into her palm. Her left hand drifted towards Cohen. “Let me try to explain,” she began weakly.

  “No,” Renzo shot back. “Don’t touch him.”

  “Ren!” Cohen exclaimed. “Stop it!”

  “No, this is wrong - this is freakish - ”

  As the brothers argued, Sydel sank into the mattress. Did she do this, somehow? When she saw red, when her hands burned - was she capable of healing? Was this a part of Eko that Yann never told her about?

  A ripple struck her, like a sudden gust of wind.

  Sydel frowned, looking past the brothers. There was something strange in the air, some kind of anticipation.

  “Where is your sister?” Sydel interrupted the argument.

  “She’s flying the ship,” Renzo said shortly. “Why?”

  Then they all heard the screech of the landing gear.

  “We’re stopping again?” Cohen asked.

  Renzo limped over to the window. Sydel peered over his shoulder to see.

  They were descending into an industrial area: great swatches of flat concrete, with hundreds of metal warehouses lined up like pins. Dread formed in her stomach at the sight. But why? She let her mind wander, searching for the source.

  There was nothing.

  *

  Sydel longed to retreat into her little storage unit. Instead, she watched as Phaira and Cohen clomped down the rusty stairs, leaning against the exit doorframe. Her uneasy feeling wouldn’t go away. Something was going to happen, she could sense it, and the siblings had no idea.

  Before landing, when confronted by her brothers, Phaira would only say that she was meeting someone named Meroy.

  “Come with me, Co?” she’d asked. “To be safe,” she added, glancing at Renzo.

  “Do whatever you want,” Renzo muttered. He slumped into the pilot’s seat, flicking switches, shooting derisive looks at his sister, and at Sydel, who hovered at the edge of their conversation.

  “Who is this guy? Dangerous?” Cohen asked Phaira.

  “No,” she said. “Just someone I used to know.”

  Sydel strained to see in the twilight. A light from a lone transport swept past. In the brief seconds of illumination, Sydel saw the man, Meroy: bone-thin with grizzled features, pale, with sunken cheeks and grey hair pulled off his face. A man that could squeeze and sneak his way into any crevice, by the look of him. How does Phaira know him? Sydel wondered, repulsed.

  She felt Renzo shuffle next to her. He said nothing; he just stood and glowered over the tarmac. The silence stretched on and on.

  “What are they saying?”

  At his voice, she glanced at him. His eyes glowed in the dark behind his glasses.

  “I don’t know,” she finally said.

  “So find out.”

  Sydel balked. “I’m not going to go out there.”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  Her body went stiff. What did he know? What did he suspect?

  “Let’s be straight with each other,” Renzo continued, his gaze still fixed on his siblings. “Your commune saw you as a hazard because you can do some weird things. Accelerated healing for one thing. And some kind of telepathy.”

  “You’re mistaken,” Sydel said faintly.

  “Then explain what happened with Cohen’s injuries. And with Phaira in the clinic,” he added pointedly. “She told me what happened. You might as well confirm it.”

  Exhaustion surged over her like a wave. What was the point of lying about it? She was so tired of lying.

  “Are you going to kill me?” she muttered, her shoulders drooping.

  “What?” For the first time emotion registered on his face: surprise. “Why would you say something like that?”

  “Because – ” Yann’s warnings of destruction wove through her mind.

  “Phaira wouldn’t want me to read her mind,” she finally muttered.

  “Then go through Cohen.”

  Appalled, Sydel opened her mouth to argue, but thought again. Why not? She wouldn’t go into Cohen’s mind, though; even excommunicated, she still held true to Yann’s rules.

  So Sydel let her mind stretch across the tarmac, finding the blood that rushed through Cohen’s ears. Then she closed her eyes to listen.

  “…. the last person I expected to call and want to meet,” Meroy was saying. His voice was as slick as his appearance.

  “I just need some information,” Phaira said. “Your name came up during a search of mine. Bombing two weeks ago?”

  “As you can see, I’m fine. More of a nuisance than anything. Why?”

  “I just want to know what you saw that day. Anyone acting strangely, maybe someone with long black hair, very tall?”

  The tall man? Phaira suspected him of the bombings?

  Even from a distance, Sydel could see that wolfish look in Meroy’s eyes. “You look good, you know,” the man remarked. “It hasn’t been that long, we can get you back into the circuit, set something up.”

  “I’m retired, Meroy,” Phaira said, shifting in place.

  Then something changed in the air.

  Alerted, Sydel turned her head to the right. Storage crates stretched in every direction. Crickets chirped in the far distance. The Volante’s engines pinged as they cooled.

  But her senses continued to fire, striking her like tiny fists. Anticipation in the air.

  “Someone is here,” Sydel whispered.

  Renzo’s eyes bugged behind his glasses. He opened his mouth to yell out a warning, but Sydel held up her hand. “No, don’t.”

  “Then use your - whatever it’s called.” Renzo whispered, panic in his voice.

  “No, send them a message with your Lissome-thing,” she whispered back.

  As Renzo fumbled, Sydel’s heart thudded. She could hear the shadows holding their breath.

  Another explosion, she realized. It’s about to go off.

  Across the blacktop, she saw Cohen look down at his belt; it was flashing red.

  Read it, Sydel begged internally. Back away. Come back to the Vol.

  Then an alarm went off, shrieking through the metal warehouses. Meroy cowered like a scared rat; Phaira gestured at him angrily as she and Cohen broke into a run. Disoriented, Meroy turned in place, and finally started to move when the storage crate behind him exploded. The man caught the edge of the blast; his body slammed into a warehouse wall and crumbled to the ground, out of sight.

  Cohen reached the vessel first, pounding up the stairs. “Get inside!” he yelled to Sydel. “Go!”

  “Wait! Phaira!” Sydel cried, pointing past Cohen.

  But she was already gone.

  “Phaira!” Cohen yelled into the crackling night. Sydel stared at the wall of fire, spreading fast across wires and walkways. The searing heat crashed into her again and again, followed by the stench of chemicals.

  A gunshot rang out.

  Cohen froze next to Sydel.

  Then a shriek of pain echoed over the tarmac.

  Cohen prepared to jump down the stairs again when Phaira emerged from the smoke. Someone was being dragged behind her: a woman with long blonde hair wound through Phaira’s fist. Phaira never slowed her stride, her features highlighted by the flames. In her free hand, she held a firearm, rimmed with fading orange.

  Cohen and Sydel backed over the threshold as Phaira shoved the blonde woman up the stairs. The woman’s sobs punctuated each step and stumble, her hand to her bleeding thigh.

  Sydel pressed her back to the corridor wall as Phaira and the blonde woman passed. The woman’s cries echoed down the hallway. Then came the dull, scraping sound of the door, pulled inward and sealed.

  “Syd? Are you okay?”

  She didn’t want to look at him. But Cohen was touching her shoulder, trying to see her face through her tangled hair.

  She opened her eyes, just a little. Through the strands, she could see his face lined with soot. “It’s okay, Syd, we’re safe now,” he soothed.

  Tears welled up. She swiped the back of her hand over her eyes. Then she turned away from him, and pressed her forehead into the metal wall.

  “Okay, okay. I get it.”

  His heavy footsteps clomped down the hallway. Following Phaira, no doubt. And that hysterical blonde woman.

  The wall vibrated under Sydel’s fingertips as the ship’s engines roared to life. Her stomach dropped, lifted, and finally settled.

  She pushed off of the wall. Her trembling hands moved over her face and smoothed back her hair. Then Sydel began to make her way to the cockpit. Every step was a mistake, she knew it. She should lock herself away until she could escape. She should threaten to expose the family if they didn’t drop her at the nearest safe location. Renzo wanted to throw her overboard; Phaira had already threatened the same. They would leave her behind, happily.

  But her desire to comprehend this world, this odd family; it overwhelmed any logic she could muster. Every turn, every fright seemed to trigger the same reaction: she had to know what would happen next.

  Inside the cockpit, the strangers huddled together: Renzo by the flight controls, Phaira and Cohen on either side. There was no sign of the blonde woman.

  “There,” Sydel heard Renzo murmur.

  Confused, she went to respond, but realized he was speaking to the console. On one of the archaic screens, two shadowy figures ran into what looked like a freighter transport, a greyish-white box, like a million others that Sydel had seen in the cities. The camera zoomed into the ship’s rear paneling; a series of numbers flashed before the video cut out.

  Renzo punched in some numbers and clutched the flight controls. Phaira and Cohen remained close, talking under their breath.

  How odd, Sydel thought. They are so hostile with each other, yet now they come together.

  “Hey, Syd.”

  Sydel snapped out of her thoughts. The three strangers were looking at her.

  “Thanks,” Cohen smiled. “Thanks for warning us.”

  “Yes,” Renzo added gruffly. “Thank you, Sydel. That was close.”

  Phaira regarded Sydel for several long moments. Finally, the sister gave the slightest nod.

  Relief flooded through Sydel, along with shame.

  Was she that desperate for Phaira’s acceptance?

  “Found it,” Renzo transcribed. “Registered six months ago to a cargo company, now defunct. My guess: stolen from a junkyard and rebuilt.”

  “What do we do now?” Cohen asked Phaira. “Should we get the law involved? I can call Nox.”

  The sound of a moan startled Sydel. Craning her neck around the siblings, she gasped.

  The blonde woman was squeezed underneath the flight console, bound to an exhaust pipe. Her pink-tinged skin was covered in sweat; her thigh was bandaged, but blood seeped through the gauze.

  “Not again,” Phaira muttered as she gave the woman’s backside a push with her boot.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Cohen scoffed.

  A wisp of sound moved through Sydel’s mind. Was she hearing things? No, there it was again: a whispering, wavering voice calling for help.

  Phaira’s cold hand clamped down on her arm. “What is it?”

  Sydel wondered if she should remain silent. But by the look on Phaira’s face, the sister already suspected the truth, so Sydel confessed: “She’s trying to contact someone for help.”

  “What?” Cohen exclaimed, but Phaira interrupted him. “How?”

  “She’s an - she’s an Eko, I think,” Sydel pushed out the words. “Skilled in telepathy, memory retrieval and manipulation, and other mental aptitudes.”

  She glanced at each of the siblings, long and hard, before screwing up her courage to confess: “Like Yann in the Communia. And like me.”

  The cockpit was silent. Her words hung in the air.

  The blonde woman moaned again. Desperate for distraction, Sydel knelt down to examine her: the damp smell of her skin, the red veins in her hazel eyes, the over-excited beating of her heart.

  A fragmented, dusty memory came to the surface; something Yann had mentioned while discussing the history of the commune. Sydel frowned, trying to remember his words. But again, a cry for help mewed through her mind, distracting her.

  Sydel lifted one finger. STOP, she commanded via Eko.

  The woman was instantly still. Then she opened her sunken eyes. Their glassy texture shifted to an adoring gaze.

  Sydel took the woman’s wrist and pushed up her sleeve. There, in the crook of the woman’s elbow: an injection site. And the veins were blue and bruised; this wasn’t the first time.

  What is it?” Phaira asked, crouching next to her.

  Sydel shook her head. “She’s a drug addict.”

  “Is that unusual in your kind?”

  “I don’t know about my kind,” Sydel said awkwardly. Her memories grew clearer as she recounted. “But Yann warned me once against using any kind of stimulant to artificially heighten my abilities. He knew someone, once, who did that. Someone outside of Jala Communia.”

  She looked back at the brothers. “With increased neural activity and increased heart rate, psychic ability is naturally increased,” she explained. “An accelerated evolution, instead of learning over years and training the brain to accommodate.” Her voice trailing off, she studied the blonde woman. How did this person know about that method? Why would they subject themselves?

  “So those bombings are, what? A group of Zephyr addicts going crazy?” Renzo asked, looking over his shoulder. “Doing this for fun? Why draw attention to themselves?”

 

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