II.

 

Docking magnets clicked into place. CaLarca took a few moments to gather her courage, to pull her grey hood over her head (Phaira’s hood, she dimly remembered, clothes borrowed so long ago) before heading to the exit.

Outside, the Vendor Mill was small, in disrepair, and desolate. There were only a few merchants in magenta robes, half-heartedly showing their wares. The air was hot and full of sand, so dry that CaLarca’s throat grew parched in seconds. She pulled her scarf over her nose, and her hood lower, and gestured for the attendant. “Replace the cells,” she ordered. “Make sure they aren't draining too fast.”

Would the ship be recognized? Would the siblings already have a bulletin out for her bounty? CaLarca worked to remain calm as she waited for the new fuel cells to be installed, resisting the urge to dart her gaze in all directions, for any sign of cameras, flashing knives, secret threats. She had no choice; this could be the last Vendor Mill for miles. She should get some water, some meal packs, maybe some ammunition for that handgun, if anyone was selling in secret…

“Can I get a ride?” A man swung into her view, his clothes dirty and ripped. "I'm safe," he added. "I just need to - "

“No,” CaLarca said.

“I’ll pay you. Please, I’m just going - ”

“I don’t want the rana, nor the company,” she shot back.

The man's eyes flashed. “Come on, why can’t you just - ”

The knife was in her hand before he had a chance to finish. She saw the pulse in his throat before he backed away, yelping and sputtering.

CaLarca caught sight of the attendant watching from the rear of the Arazura, eyebrow raised. She glared at him until he looked away.

Woman travelling alone, in a shiny new ship, heading into isolated territory, she lectured herself. She shouldn’t have stopped and made her presence known. What if pirates followed, ready to shoot her down?

Finally, finally, the cells were replaced, the attendant was paid, and the Arazura's engines were firing again. She was lifting into the air, she was safe and on her way through the West. No one followed, no matter how many times she checked the skies, and the land below. Nothing, nowhere. She tried to breathe, but she couldn’t stop searching.

Soon, CaLarca saw the outlines of Kings Canyon. How far away it all seemed, how insignificant her three months underground, twenty-five years ago, where all this NINE drama started. Now she was flying past it, in a stolen airship, on her way to recover her dead husband and son.

The coordinates drew closer. Desert turned into rock, a few settlements here and there, widely spread out. The lack of population made CaLarca feel uneasy. The air was growing thicker with sand, she realized, the Arazura rocking in the rising wind. There was a light, far in the distance, that beckoned to her. She switched off the autopilot, and braced her hands on the throttle, easing it down as she released the landing gear. It would be good to be on the ground again. Peering into the horizon, she saw nothing but sand, and that single light, drawing closer, and highlighting the outline of a small, isolated building. Her heart thumped.

Finally on the ground, the Arazura hissed into silence, the engines pinging as they cooled. CaLarca packed her few items into one of Phaira's satchels, plus the handgun, and the supplies from the clinic. If needed, she could abandon the Arazura and travel on foot. She could sell the medical equipment and medicine if she needed any rana; if there were remote settlements, they were probably lacking in basic supplies, and could use what she had to offer. Whatever was out there, she could manage.

CaLarca pulled her hood over her head, checked her leg braces, and made her way to the exit. She didn't look into any of the cabins as she passed them. She didn't look back at any part of the Arazura, not until her feet hit the ground. Then she couldn't help but glance at it, looking for any signs of scratches or damage. It was still perfect. Just like Renzo would have wanted.

Through the rising winds of sand (how had it risen so fast?) a shadow was approaching.

Squinting, CaLarca ground her feet down, and let the heat pool into her free hand, the other gripping the satchel over her shoulder.

A man, she soon realized, a man with a flapping tunic and trousers, head and face wrapped with a scarf.

"Sandstorm," the man was yelling at her, gesturing at her to follow. "Take shelter."

“Who are you?” she hollered back. Her mouth was full of sand, and she coughed, covering her own nose with the collar of her shirt.

"No time!” she heard his reply, over the roar of the wind.

“No! I'll go back to my ship!" Though now, with the rising storm, she could hardly see in front of her.

Suddenly, a hard hand grabbed her wrist. She gasped, inhaling more sand, and doubled over coughing. The hand pulled. She bent her head into the wind, and let herself be dragged forward, past the light, into a swallowing darkness.

The sudden drop of wind and pressure. The metal clang of a door. Her core was burning. Danger. She was a woman, alone in a strange place. Nadi was only too eager to pool into her hand. That pearl-handled knife manifested behind her back.

A flicker of light. She was in an empty room.

"Cyrah."

CaLarca lunged.

Then she was stumbling backwards, her feet tripping over each other. Her back hit the wall.

Then her arm lifted, as if pulled by a rope, and she couldn't control it, nor the speed of which the knife turned and plunged into her chest.

She couldn't breathe. She couldn't see.

Finally, the black spots in her vision cleared.

The hilt of the knife was wedged under her armpit, the blade lodged in the wall, cold metal against the inside of her bicep. Her body shook as she lifted her arms (she could move them again!) and slid down to her knees.

Across the room, the man unwrapped the scarf from his face. It was a man in his sixties, with brown, lined skin, and grey-streaked hair pulled back from his face. "I don't want to do that again," he told her. "But I will if you can't control yourself."

"Who-who are you?" she demanded, trying not to pant.

The man gave a faint smile. "You don't recognize me. I suppose you wouldn't. I lost the beard some time ago."

Beard?

Voss. VOSS. Zarek Voss.

Her mind raced with panic. The one who looked like a professor. The one who rallied us to break free. The one who stabbed Joran to death, who made me run across the desert until I passed out.

It all made sense. First Kuri, then Shantou; Voss was the last one left of the original NINE, so of course he was the final villain to overcome. The one behind it all; sending Kuri and Shantou after Sydel; burning her farm to the ground; tricking her into thinking her family was alive - her family - her family, it was all a lie...

"No, Cyrah."

She stiffened at the sound of his voice, and glanced up.

Voss was watching her with a weary sadness. "That's not it at all."

She could barely get the words out. "Which - what parts?"

"All of it."

His hand swung. Something glimmered, heading in her direction.

She caught it; a Lissome, a scratched, older model.

Above her fist, a video screen unzipped, startling her.

A recording started: black visual projection, she couldn’t make out anything.

Then she gasped as Ganasan came into the frame.

He was heavily bearded, and pacing a stone floor back and forth, holding a large bundle against his shoulder, patting it with one hand. Then Ganasan's other hand flipped to face the camera. Something was written on his palm.

Letters. G-B-A-S-C.

Their code, she realized, before the screen was sucked back into the Lissome.

"They're alive," she choked.

"Yes," Voss confirmed. "They're with Joran."

She must have misheard him. "They're - what?"

"Joran has them," he repeated.

"Joran Asanto is dead," she sputtered. "You stabbed him in Kings."

"It's a ruse," Voss said. "All of it."

"You're lying!"

But even as she shouted the words, CaLarca knew he wasn't lying. Not unless he was able to control the energy that radiated off him; he shimmered with pale yellow, and there wasn't a trace of grey, that telltale sign of deception that CaLarca could see.

But how could it be true? How was that possible?

Voss's voice broke through her racing thoughts. "Let me help you up. Take a drink. I know it's a lot to process."

She let herself be hauled to her feet and guided to a stone bench. A copper mug was in her hand. Water, clean and cold, shocked her throat.

"You sent me the coordinates," she finally said.

"I did."

"Why to this place?"

"Because no one knows about it," Voss said. "It's a border checkpoint established during the civil war, long since abandoned. I only discovered it by accident, years ago. Thought it would be a good place to disappear someday."

"But Ganasan gave you our code," CaLarca said. “Why would he do that? Did you… force him?"

"No, it was his idea. I think he knew that you wouldn’t come without it. Or believe me without video proof." He smiled then, a crooked, sad smile. "It's funny how you two are together after all this time. Can't say that I predicted that."

The wind howled outside. CaLarca tried to equate the man in front of her with the terrifying man from Kings Canyon. Her memories flashed in sequence: their introduction, his fascination with her Nadi abilities, his outburst to Joran, accusing him of ulterior motives, then Voss's persuasion to make CaLarca confess where the hidden door to the outside was, how his body was hunched over Joran's, in the sandy canyon, the hand on her head as she retched, his voice telling her to run.

She should run now. Even with the sandstorm, she should find her way back to the Arazura. But what then?

A shadow passed over her.

The top of Voss's head was in front of her, as he knelt on one knee, as if she were a queen.

"Go ahead," he prodded. "Search my memory. Whatever, and wherever you choose to look. Learn the truth."

CaLarca stared at the crown of his head. She could generate a knife and stab him through the throat; she could still feel the haze of Nadi in her palm. How easy it would be to make another. She could bash him over the neck; she had gained much strength over the last few months. She could torture out the truth. What if she dove into his memories via Eko and he trapped her there?

Slowly, she peered into the edges of his mind, piercing the veil, and seeing the first glimmers of memory, how they danced along the curves of his brain, waving as though in water. There were no burnt areas, no charred memories.

It was all there, begging to be accessed.

She would remain on the outskirts, she determined.

And the truth. Finally, maybe, the truth.