Eko (NINE Series, #1), page 9
“I heard things,” Cohen rasped. “In my head. When she looked at us.”
“I know,” Phaira confirmed, resisting the urge to shudder. “Me too.”
Cohen lifted his head, his eyes bulging. “Wait. Maybe we shouldn’t talk. Or think.”
“I don’t think it matters at this point, Co.” She resumed her search for an exit.
“Then why try to break out?” he bemoaned. “What’s the point?”
“Just because they can read our minds doesn’t mean we just sit around and wait to - ”
Phaira closed her mouth on the last word. She didn’t want to say it out loud. But she knew how much trouble they were in. Unarmed, no obvious means of exit, held captive by a powerful gang with untold abilities…
Suddenly, a crack broke through the wall. The room flooded with light. Three silhouettes stood in the threshold of the secret door. Cohen scrambled to his feet but they were fast; two of the men pushed him back into the cell. The other grabbed a hold of Phaira’s arm and yanked her out. The door slammed shut, reverberating from Cohen kicking at the door.
Phaira turned on her heel, grabbed hold of the guard’s arm and flipped him over her shoulder. Then her head exploded with pain. Her hands flew up by reflex, just long enough for the two remaining guards to restrain her.
Writhing, Phaira used everything from her teeth to her fingernails on them. The guards slammed her face-first against the wall, knocking the breath out of her, and bound her wrists beyond her back, followed by her ankles. Then one hoisted Phaira over his shoulder and carried her into a windowless cell that smelled of lilacs and sour body odor. Waves of fabric were tacked to three of the walls; bright sheaths of color drooped in places, exposing the dull, rusty decay underneath. Books were piled in every corner, along with crumpled papers, and pictures in organized stacks. The fourth wall held no decorations: just five metal strips, spaced two feet apart, running from floor to ceiling.
The guard set Phaira in front of one strip, while the other flicked a switch by the door. Phaira’s wrists jerked back, magnetized to the wall. Then her ankles followed. Surprised, Phaira leaned her body forward and wiggled. No give.
This was an old freighter, she remembered. Magnets were used to keep crates from sliding around.
I’m like a prow of a damn ship, Phaira thought suddenly, fighting the urge to laugh. Instead she just grinned, aware that her dark mouth, pale eyes and wild hair made her look like a maniac.
“Please leave, gentlemen.”
That gray-haired woman again. The guards bowed their heads at the command. The woman took a moment to touch each of them on the forehead before the two men shuffled out of sight.
All pretense, Phaira thought. Oh so magical and spiritual? You’re a stereotype, lady.
“I hear that, Phaira Byrne,” the leader said. “And rather than ‘lady,’ you may call me Huma.” There was a light gash across the woman’s cheekbone; Phaira’s Calis had made contact after all. She enjoyed a small twinge of satisfaction in that.
“So what now?” Phaira asked loudly. “You going to kill me, or take me back to the Macatias? I don’t think they care what condition I arrive in.”
Huma’s thin eyebrows knitted together.
“Well?” Phaira pressed.
Huma smirked. “We don’t want you at all. How arrogant you are.”
The truth struck Phaira like a slap across the face. They were after Sydel. She cursed herself for being so blind. Dammit. And she’d brought the girl right to the slaughter…
“No slaughtering, Phaira,” Huma corrected. “Nothing so barbaric.”
“You’re one to talk about barbarism, with all those people you blew up,” Phaira shot back.
“If you read the facts, Phaira, you would have seen that no one lost their lives,” Huma pointed out. “And true: not the noblest methods to use. But in the short-term, wonderfully effective in uncovering others like us. Like Sydel.”
She smiled then, flashing even white teeth. “Such an unexpected gift. I didn’t believe it when my students returned with the discovery. But tests proved they were correct, and all the pieces fit together.”
As she spoke, Huma’s jugular vein pulsed through her skin. Phaira fixated on that throbbing artery. It was taunting her: so exposed, so close. She moved her wrists, back and forth.
“Well, she’s a pacifist,” Phaira said, keeping her tone bored. “So good luck with convincing her to blow people up. I don’t envy you.”
“It’s so much more than that, Phaira,” Huma sighed in a way that made it clear she believed Phaira to be an idiot. “You have no idea what she is capable of, do you? For someone so young, she is - ”
“She’s not as young as she looks,” Phaira interrupted, echoing Yann’s words back at the Communia.
It did its trick; a tiny pin of uncertainty showed in Huma’s face.
“You don’t know what you speak of,” Huma said finally.
“Says you.” This was fun, finding ways to irritate this woman.
Huma studied Phaira for several moments. “You’re an Eko,” she determined, surprise in her voice. “Not much of one, but you can receive, at least. How curious. But given that, I will be generous. I will let you go, and your brother too, for a simple exchange. Your brother and your life, for Sydel.”
Phaira shifted her position. “She doesn’t belong to me.”
“Sydel is used to following orders,” Huma said. “If you tell her to, she will. And she will be the key to stopping a great tragedy, I promise you that.”
Phaira stopped fidgeting. “What tragedy?”
Huma ignored the question. “That is my offer.”
“The answer is no.” Phaira shifted her body again, trying to slip one hand under the other. It was so close; the bone of her right wrist ground against the restraint, the only barrier left….
Huma’s left palm pressed into the top of Phaira’s chest, hot and dry.
Startled, Phaira tried to jerk away, but Huma held firm. Then the edge of the woman’s right thumbnail streaked down Phaira’s forehead, as if to peel her open.
The world went cold. Phaira’s brain ran over with faces, emotions, sped-up memories. An icy hand dragged its talons over the surface, over and over again, digging into the crevices of her mind. Phaira tried to twist her body away, but her brain wasn’t listening to her pleas, releasing all her thoughts into Huma’s waiting hand. Over the din of her exploding consciousness, she heard Huma’s murmur: “Oh, Phaira. What a catalogue of experiences.”
A memory swam to the surface: nineteen-year-old Phaira, her first overseas mission, firing a Vacarro sniper rifle; dragging an injured comrade into shelter. Fixed defenses. Slopes and sand dunes. Platoon scattered. Heroics are the best way to get killed. Just like that, a man is dead: his intestines blown, his eyes bulging and sinking. The assault seems like hours, but it’s only twenty seconds.
A more recent memory: Phaira huddled under a bridge, counting the rana coins left in her pocket. The smell of garbage and filth. Her skin crusted with dirt. No one would hire. No one would help. Was her only option to offer her body? The humiliation, the burning temptation to press her knife into her wrist, to press down and stop pretending.
Then: bright lights and roaring crowds. Her hair in braids to keep it from being pulled; too-tight, borrowed gloves; the taste of bitter plastic in her mouth. Keep to the center of the ring, get out of the fence. Wait for an opening, then cut an elbow across the face. Double leg pick-up and drop: an explosion of punches. The pulse, the sweat and breath. Blood on the mat, blood on her hands, speckled over her face. The satisfaction when the muscle tore from the bone, when the ligament finally snapped, her arm raised in victory. Backstage, in celebration, one of the other fighters gave her a roll of mekaline, so readily available in the roster: then that first hit of blissful, blood-pumping, ecstatic shame…
“Stop,” Phaira gasped.
“Do you concede?”
Phaira wrenched away from Huma’s hand, desperate to escape, to release a limb, to hit this woman as hard as she could.
“No. Not yet,” Huma concluded. “Let’s go deeper, then.”
The icy claw plunged through Phaira’s brain. The pressure made her body spasm as a deeper memory was hauled out.
Renzo. Ren. Barely breathing. Hooked up to machines, doctors scurrying around him. His leg destroyed, his skull caved in on one side. Her brilliant brother, older by just one year; her stubborn, bossy, prickly brother who barely saw the sunlight with all the work he did: the victim of a brutal assault for no good reason. Wrong place, wrong time. His genius gone, his life ruined forever.
Another silhouette came into her mind’s eye. Phaira shook her head, trying to push him back down, but that icy hand drew his face into the light. Black hair cut short. Perfect, pale skin. Brown eyes that barely blinked. Handsome, sneering, arrogant. Young, untouchable heir to a fortune.
And she was back on the bridge. Midnight. His hands around her throat. Blood oozing through his perfect smile. The satisfying crack of his head snapping back. A stumble and trip. His hands gripped the edge, and then were gone before she could take a breath. His mouth a perfect black circle as he fell. The sickening smack echoed through the concrete ravine. Her hand still outstretched to catch him. The surge of relief. The sickening drop of her stomach.
Then it was over. The walls and the smell of the freighter returned. Phaira could breathe again, could hear Huma’s smug, breathless voice: “So she defends you, even though you are a killer. How curious.”
Phaira lunged at Huma with teeth bared. Huma shrieked, jumping out of reach. Glaring, unseeing, Phaira tried to form a strategy on how she would make this woman suffer. But she couldn’t stop shaking.
Her hand to her throat, Huma settled her features again. “They are outside now,” she said finally. “Come. Let us negotiate.”
She swept out of the room. The magnets released suddenly. Phaira dropped to the floor; her muscles had given up. The guards returned and loosened her ankle bonds. Her legs were trembling, but the guards grasped her on either side and marched on.
Filtered light through trees, and sharp wind. The rusty metal platform dug into Phaira’s bare feet. Sydel and Renzo stood in the grass below, aiming one of her old Compact pistols at Huma, who waited on the ground with one of her followers. Standing next to her brother, Sydel’s brown skin was ashen, her long reddish-brown braids lifted by the gale. No sign of Cohen.
When prodded, Phaira made her way down the stairs, willing her body to remain upright. Despite her determination, her muscles gave out when she reached the ground. Her knees sank into the cold, wet mud.
Then one of the boy followers was behind her, his knee in her spine, yanking on her hair to expose her neck. She thrashed, trying to get away. But her throat caught on fire, and everything turned red and breathless. Voices wove in and out, warped and garbled.
And when she woke up, she was in the old Volante, bed sheets twisted around her legs, like it was all a dream.
*
Renzo was sullen when questioned. Again and again, he explained the decision made to give Sydel over to Huma. No, not even give; Sydel had volunteered. A sour taste grew in Phaira’s mouth as he talked and talked.
The real shock was Cohen’s reaction, when he too woke from unconsciousness. The shouting match went on for several minutes, Cohen’s voice booming through the old ship as he berated Renzo for sacrificing Sydel. From the other side of the room, Phaira rubbed the injection site on the side of her throat. Sometimes she felt for her heartbeat.
They did everything they could think to find Sydel. But every search came up empty. The records on the carrier freight had been erased from the public network. No one from the Jala Communia would reply to their messages. Phaira even tried to mentally call out to Sydel, foolish as she felt in trying. No response, of course.
So, finally, they called Nox. First, he berated them on not calling him sooner. Then he did a search in the global patrol database. But no one named Huma existed in public record: no birth record, no fingerprints, no genetic record. They gave Nox a rundown of Sydel’s features: eighteen years old, just over five feet tall, bronze skin, dark eyes, copper hair. But there was nothing else to offer. They didn’t even know if she had a surname.
Frustrated, Cohen argued with Nox, demanding that the law intervene for what had been done to him and Phaira. Nox’s reprimand was sharp: they had been the aggressors, they had entered without consent, and therefore Huma and her followers had the right to defend themselves.
He was right; Phaira knew it before he said it. The guilt overwhelmed her, and she had to leave the common space.
An hour later, Phaira looked up from her perch at the sound of knocking. She’d taken a shower, put on warm clothes and bundled herself into the corner of her bed, but she was still freezing.
Cohen sat on the edge of the mattress. He looked as exhausted as she felt.
“Phair, we gotta find her.”
Phaira shook her head. When she ran a hand through her damp hair, she felt her fingertips tremble against her scalp. “There’s nothing we can do.”
“How can you say that?” Cohen exclaimed. “They’re terrorists! We have to get her out of there.”
“Even if we found them, those people, that woman, they have abilities that I can’t even explain,” Phaira said. “We’re lucky to be alive.”
“It doesn’t matter. We have to get her,” Cohen said firmly. “She doesn’t belong with those people.”
“Where does she belong, then, Co? With us?”
“Why not?”
Phaira shook her head again. “I can’t. I can’t do it.”
“Phaira, please - ”
Turning her head, so her chin brushed her shoulder, Phaira stared out of the window at her bedside as the night sky streaked past. Soon, she heard his angry footsteps, stomping down the hallway and into the next room.
I’m sorry, Sydel, she thought. I doubt you can hear me, but I am. I was reckless, and arrogant, and blind. But I don’t know, maybe it will all be okay. You’ll find a place where you belong, somewhere better than that creepy commune. You’ll change those people for the better….
The self-talk wasn’t helping. Guilt pulsed under Phaira’s skin, tiny stabs of shame. The girl would have seen past the speech, anyways, looked at her in that steady, discomforting way that made it clear she saw Phaira for who she really was.
Phaira got up and went to her door, locking it. Then she resumed her position on the bed, this time with the lights off. In the darkness she could focus on what was going on inside of her body: how the core of her being, that thin central cord, wouldn’t stop shivering. Her nerves were hypersensitive to every sensation. She couldn’t sleep, and when she did, her dreams were filled with dark water, of sinking into an endless pool, scrambling, panicking, her lungs on fire, coming so close to breaking the surface, but her vision turning black a few inches from life. That brief moment with Huma, nothing ever registered so strongly: no combat mission, no scenes of death and destruction. Even Nican’s plunge was now twisted around the memory of Huma.
And not only her mind, either. That woman had stripped Phaira of her most precious possessions: remnants of her brief other life.
The black nanotube bodysuit had been specially designed for Phaira’s body measurements when she turned eighteen, now eligible for special operations. It withstood most heavy firepower, applied automatic pressure to any wounds or bone breaks, adjusted for heat and cold. The circuitry within the suit pumped enzymes and nutrients into the body to combat fatigue, constricted around wounds to stop blood blow, and regulated temperature. The very latest in warfare.
And her two 765-Calis pistols: the first models after the experimental prototype, powerful, but heavy recoil. No one in her division would touch them. It had taken her days to master them. When Phaira was dishonorably discharged, she only managed to keep them both through Nox’s help. He still had influence, despite his early retirement. In her weeks of exile she had kept them close, as a reminder of when she was considered to be extraordinary.
So little of her was special anymore. Nican’s family had seen to that.
II.
Renzo finally docked in a tiny seaside town, Inna, a place renowned for its white beaches. With constant rainstorms over the past month, however, contamination had broken out in the beaches, so tourists were sparse. It was a good place to regroup, and figure out what to do next.
Phaira made her way through the wet streets, a thermal belt looped around her waist, the collar of her raincoat high. Now and again a Subito speeder flew by, spraying water onto her back. She didn’t care. The shoreline was rough and desolate, but she walked up and down the empty coastline for hours where the waves beat against the sand.
Cohen wouldn’t come with her. He’d barely spoken to her since the incident, and he was the first to leave when they landed. Phaira suspected he walked the town too, burning off his frustration.
Renzo’s mood alternated between angry outbursts and intense, impenetrable thought. All the same, he stayed busy, seeking local repair work, ordering supplies, working on the ship’s bad wiring and corroded power system, disappearing for hours on end.
On the rare occasions when she was alone in the Volante, Phaira paced its narrow corridors. It felt smaller every day. It suffocated more every day. She could barely look at the door to the little storage unit, where Sydel’s satchel still lay. When it got too overwhelming, she trained for hours in her locked quarters, using her body as resistance, trying to focus on her strength, stamina, and flexibility, trying to regain that cool blue focus.
One day, as she wandered into the common room, lost in thought, a call came on the public line. The console blinked at Phaira. It wasn’t Nox’s cc, or any other cc she recognized. She hesitated. Then she clicked the audio connect.
“Are you there?”
Him again. Unbelievable. She had changed the cc to the Volante twice now. How did he keep finding her?
“If you’re going to go out in public, Phaira, you should probably try and blend in a little more.”
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