I.

 

Renzo's head hit the floor with a crack. Cohen stumbled over his feet, his back slamming against the wall before his body slid down. Phaira clawed at something invisible, before letting out a pained sigh and collapsing. Sydel’s fall was graceful, though, like a dancer at the end of a performance, CaLarca couldn't help but notice, even as she used every ounce of her Eko to render the girl unconscious.

It wouldn’t last long, CaLarca reminded herself, a headache pounding through her skull, her lungs breathless from the effort. You must move.

It took the rest of CaLarca's strength, and her SCKAFO leg braces cranked up to maximum support, to drag the four bodies through the Arazura. First, Renzo: her arms looped around his chest; the sound of his feet, one metal, one flesh, quietly banging down the stairs, as she took one careful step at a time. She could see the pink burns on his arms, on the back of his neck; remnants from the battle a week ago. She gave a silent apology and laid him in the grass.

Cohen was so huge and heavy that any way to push him forward was acceptable. With a final heave, he tumbled through the exit and landed in a heap. She didn't care. He’d always been cruel to her; if he woke bruised, so be it. She had the same bitter impulse with Phaira, but wariness overtook her disdain, so instead she set the woman down carefully next to her brothers. Sydel was the lightest of the four, the easiest to hoist over her shoulder. Being so physically close to all of them made her uncomfortable: the smell of them, their skin already puckering from the cold wind.

When it was done, CaLarca studied the four silhouettes. Then, kneeling down in the mud, she placed Phaira’s katana blade, sheathed in its black case, on the ground. Better than a handgun, to stay off patrol radar. And now they could defend themselves, if necessary. The Byrne siblings were resourceful. Sydel was morally strong. They would understand why she did this, eventually. They would likely come after her, but hopefully she had time to confirm what she longed to be true since the day she heard about the burned bodies.

Her husband and son were alive. And they were waiting for her.

Still, it was a relief to seal the entryway with a spin of the wheel, and make her way to the cockpit. The Arazura was eerily silent: no voices, no arguing, no other breath but CaLarca’s. It felt strange, and comforting.

CaLarca flicked the switches to power the engine. A glimmer of shame went through her chest, but she removed it, like a surgeon, and focused on the numbers, the levels, the sky opening up in front of her.

Since her first day on board the Arazura, so many weeks ago, CaLarca had written a letter every day to Ganasan and Bennet. Sometimes it was just a few words; sometimes she told them what she’d learned, what she’d seen that day, and how sorry she was to have left them. Then, when she was finished writing the entry in her Lissome, she would read it over, absorb the words, and then delete the entire thing. She loathed the thought of anyone gaining insight into her vulnerability. But she needed the routine; she needed to maintain some contact to her former life, however much of a dream it was. She needed to believe that as she came up with the words, Ganasan and Bennet would hear them, somehow.

Inside the cockpit, CaLarca set a course for the west border checkpoint, several hundred kilometers away. It would take hours to cross the continent. But the coordinates were specific, as was the code included with them: GBASC.

Two days ago, the crew of the Arazura had been recovering from recent violent events; CaLarca was piloting the ship alone. The five letters flashed on the console. At the sight of it, CaLarca's blood shot through with fire, and she had to bar the door to the cockpit so no one would discover her hyperventilating.

GBASC: a code that she and Ganasan had set up long ago, an acronym to use, in case they were separated, to indicate they were living, in danger, or if it was safe to reunite.

Ganasan - Bennet - Alive - Safe - Come.

Her legs ached; she ran her hand over her thigh muscle, feeling the wires in the leggings, how they supported her limbs. Renzo had created a custom-built Stance-Control-Knee-Ankle-Foot-Orthosis for her weeks ago, when her wounds were healing and she couldn’t walk. Guilt panged in her chest. When she explained it to Renzo, when she returned the Arazura, he would understand, more than any of them. They had always shared a guarded, but respectful friendship.

CaLarca stood up, stretching out her back, adjusting the accompanying SCKAFO brace around her lower back. She ran one hand over her braids, over and over again; the texture and the weight of them were comforting, somehow, as she stared out into the clouds. Her stomach burned. She turned her hand upwards, and focused. Her palm grew hot, then searing. She bit her lip and kept going, until she smelled metal, felt smoothness in her fingers, felt the heat start to dissipate.

She opened her eyes and looked down. A knife: four-inch blade, pearl-handled, twisting silver and gold design on the hilt. The same knife she’d made since she was a girl. She could create it with hardly a thought, now, after so many times. Why a knife? she wondered, and not for the first time. She didn't dream of knives, but that image was buried deep within her, it seemed. A reflection of her propensity for violence, perhaps. Or maybe some kind of glimpse into the future. Either way, the manifestation did its trick; the Nadi energy that was smoldering at her core was gone.

Now she could focus. Checking the dashboard, CaLarca noted that the Arazura had four hours of fuel left. Where would replacement cells be stored? And what else was onboard that she could use?

The door slid open, yet CaLarca hesitated on the threshold of Phaira's cabin. There were strange vibrations in that space, warnings, a shadow of a voice, pricking at her skin. In their two months on the Arazura, CaLarca and Phaira managed to co-exist, even work together a few times for the greater good. Phaira had even travelled south, walked the scorched vineyards with her own two feet, searching for signs of Ganasan and Bennet. They fought as a team against the Red menace on the skerries.

Don’t be stupid, she told herself. Phaira would kill you if she had the opportunity. When they first met, the blue-haired woman had voted to cast the severely injured CaLarca off the ship, but luckily, the others on the Arazura disagreed. Phaira had thrown insults like arrows at CaLarca, again and again, questioning her integrity, and she refused to even consider CaLarca’s opinion on so many matters.

They weren’t friends. They weren’t even colleagues.

She wasted no time in riffling through the drawers and piles of clothing, swiping her hands under the mattress, checking the wall panels for secret latches. No sign of those ash-gray cigarettes, to her surprise. Phaira didn’t have a stash of mekaline somewhere? CaLarca did find a handgun hidden under her mattress; firearms were still illegal in Osha, and she didn’t need patrol tracking her down or the attention of the black market, but she still tucked it into the waistband of our SCKAFO.

There would be nothing in Cohen’s room worth anything, she was certain.

Renzo… she would go into his space only if necessary.

That left Sydel’s quarters, and the medical clinic within, filled with supplies that she could sell.

As CaLarca rummaged through the clinic drawers, a burning shame settled over her shoulders like a shawl. Sydel didn’t deserve this; she didn’t deserve anything that had happened over the past weeks. All because of who she came from, and what she potentially could mean to the future.

I will return these supplies, she promised to the silent clinic, taking the portable ultrasound and vials of medicine, and tucking them into a satchel.

Back in the cockpit, CaLarca checked the console; the autopilot was still engaged, still headed west, to the nearest Vendor Mill. Three hours. Settling into the pilot seat, she popped open a compartment to her left: inside was a sleek syringe. One charge left. She had never used a REM injector before, and she hesitated at that syringe point at the crook of her elbow, but it was easy to click the trigger, and so quickly, she was waking again, one hour later, groggy and unbalanced, but the overwhelming fatigue far less. She hoped she would never have to use one again.

For the remaining two hours, CaLarca remained in the lower level of the Arazura. She had memorized a number of training modules, offensive and defensive measures, and she went through the motions, imaging various heads at the other end of her conjured knife. Kuri. The Red.

And whoever was waiting at those coordinates.

Yes, she was likely walking into a trap. Maybe Ganasan had been tortured into revealing their code. He and Bennet could still be dead, as reported. The memory of that moment, when she first heard of their bodies found in the alley, made it feel like her chest was cleaved open. So many nights, she’d lain awake, imagining the terror that her son must have felt; how he might have cried out for her, asked why she wasn’t there to protect him. It didn’t matter how much CaLarca argued with the ghost of her son, how many times she tried to explain that her return to Kings Canyon, her battered legs, the alliance with the crew of the Arazura, it was all to protect their family.

Sudden beeping, coming from upstairs. She ran to the cockpit. The console was flashing a series of letters and numbers. Connection code. Someone was trying to connect to the Arazura. Her heart squeezed until she thought she might collapse. She still had at least two hours to fly. She had to cover, she had to stay calm.

Her fingers shook as she made the connection. “Hello?”

“Is that CaLarca?”

Anandi Ajyo. The hacker girl. What if she figured out that CaLarca had stolen the Arazura? Anandi could shut down the engines from afar, or put out a bulletin for her arrest.

“Can you hear me? Are you still piloting?”

“I am,” said CaLarca, steadying her voice. “I volunteered, so the others could rest.”

“Renzo’s not picking up his Lissome, I got worried that - ”

“Because he is exhausted,” CaLarca interrupted. “They asked me to keep to the sky. Things are still so unsettled.”

“You seem reasonable, CaLarca, can’t you convince them to stop getting involved in stupid situations?”

“You forget that I was equally involved in the Red situation,” CaLarca couldn’t help her retort. “I need to focus on flying. I’m still new to all this, and I want to ensure - ” she stumbled a little on the words. “I want to keep the Arazura in perfect condition.”

“That’s probably the nicest thing I’ve heard you say." Anandi sighed. "Fine. Just let Renzo know I have to talk to him.”

“I will. Take care.” Then CaLarca cursed herself for being so polite. That was completely against her nature; it would only draw suspicion from the girl as to why CaLarca would even say such a thing. But it was too late to do anything about it now.

She ran her hand over the Arazura’s controls, its smooth, cool surface. Her memories clicked back to the lessons in the cockpit with Renzo, and his confidence in her ability, even as she faltered.

“You have to feel the ship,” he told her. “It’s not just about buttons and levers. When I’m flying her, I’m part of her. She moves when I move, she reacts when I react. It’s the way she’s made. She’s my girl, but you can be just as close.”

It was a weirdly intimate moment: his view of CaLarca as a friend worthy of taking possession of something he cared for, maybe the thing he cared about the most in the world.

I meant what I said, CaLarca thought, staring over the horizon. Perfect condition, as perfect as I can keep it. I promise.

Within the hour, the Arazura crossed over Midland, where Sydel was from. Soon, she would hit the west border. Nerves bubbled up in her stomach. Like most people in Osha, CaLarca knew little about the territory. Infrastructure crumbled in the heat. Nothing would grow in the soil, and there were scores of dangerous, poisonous animals in the West, so said rumors. The only part she had ever seen was Kings Canyon, twenty-five years ago, and then only weeks ago, but that was near the Midland border, not out in the savage wastelands. Most maps left the left side of the continent blank, save for some ridges for mountains, there were so few people actually living in the area, and no established cities or towns. Historically, the only entry on the West was the civil war: two desert factions laying claim to a patch of land, causing some rumblings. The military got involved, that much she remembered. But the struggle only lasted a few weeks, and then nothing. There were so many other events happening in Osha, murders, political races, waves of crime in the East, all of which drew more focus. She wondered, now, about those factions: who they were, what they were fighting over, and if she would encounter them upon landing. She didn’t know if there were other Vendor Mills in the West, or places to buy fuel cells, or even if there were any M-purification tablets to create safe water to drink. She was flying into a black hole, where anyone could be on the other side. They could be separatists. They could shoot her down from the sky for invading their space.

Stop being dramatic, CaLarca lectured herself. What could be worse than what she had already gone through? She had already faced down Kuri Nimat, and gotten sweet, though brief revenge, when she stabbed him through the ribs. She had taken part in the takedown of the Red, formerly Shantou Lyung, that genetically modified monster. Her legs were fully healed. Her Nadi and Eko skills had grown stronger. And the Arazura was outfitted with several security measures: even if there was some kind of attack, she could cloak the ship, and fly away, even lock herself inside.

She repeated all of those facts to herself, again and again, as the ship flew on.