Kochin focused all his influence on the still heart of the chick in his palm. He could see it like a blown glass toy, its miniature vasculature almost like a human’s—the heart four chambered and the blood pushed through the lungs. But numerous differences prevented Kochin from immersing in it fully enough to heal it. Humans did not have those now-deflated air sacs, nor the strange positioning of the lungs to the heart, nor any of those other foreign organs that swam in the compartment of its body. So, how could he overlay himself when those organs had no corollary to his own?
Soothing the way he did, his mind one step apart, he could tell the chick’s mechanism of death. He could tell that its neck had been broken, snapped by the cruel beak of its mother for being a runt. He could tell the exact vertebra that needed to be mended.
But he could not discern how life had left its body—the precise way the electrical conduction had scattered from the brain, or the cadence of its final heartbeat. This runt chicken had not clutched Kochin on his deathbed, whispering declarations of love, so he could not bring it back. Kochin dropped it back onto the table.
When he’d first learned heartsoothing, his mother had taught him with animals before trusting him to heal his own brothers. Maybe that was why his gift had never fully realized itself—he hadn’t developed his skill enough with others to know what it was like to give. By the time he’d grown advanced enough to heal Bentri’s and Vinsen’s scrapes and bruises, all he’d ever done with his gift was take. Now, it would be easier to practice again on a human.
But Kochin was smarter than to tell Commissioner Nem that. Lest he wake up a corpse on his doorstep.
He stood, giving his muscles a moment to stretch after sitting for so long. The stateroom around him was a luxurious one, if not a little sparse. Burnished wood furniture gave him everything he needed—a workspace, a wardrobe, a bed—and the airship even had its own plumbing and hot water. It was not a military vessel but a recreational one, meant to ferry aristocrats above the silver heights of their city to wine and dine in the sky.
It was almost enough to make him forget he was a prisoner. But beyond those wide windows, curtains pulled open and glass curved to match the hull of the airship, were miles and miles of desolate, neutral waters. In every direction around this airship, there was only open ocean, and even if Kochin could escape his locked room there was nowhere to escape to, not unless he could operate, all by his lonesome, a one-hundred-foot aircraft meant to be piloted by fifty flight officers. Even then, he would not know which direction led back to Theumas and they would probably run out of gas and fall from the sky before he figured it out.
That was all by Commissioner Nem’s design, this gilded prison. Not so overt as the blackmail Santo kept him with, but binding nonetheless. Occasionally, he would see a ship or a plane arriving, either bringing new fuel or ferrying in Commissioner Nem. Kochin had caught sight of the commissioner’s plane against blue skies just earlier, so he knew he was due for a visit.
As though the thought of him had conjured him into existence, the twist of a lock sounded from Kochin’s door. It opened to reveal Commissioner Nem, flanked by guards, armed not with guns but batons.
“Any luck?” Commissioner Nem asked, as if they were on congenial terms. He took a seat at the table, eyed the dead chicken, and twisted his lip into a frown. “Not even a chick, Kochin?”
“It’s not so simple,” Kochin said, knowing better than to voice his true thoughts: that this was an impossible task and Commissioner Nem was stubborn to a dangerous level, unfit for the Commission.
“It’s a bird. And I’ve given you weeks—I thought we’d at least be up to monkeys by now.”
That was another one of Commissioner Nem’s mistakes—working his way up to a human. That’s what the Daltans had done, dogs then monkeys then people, and though that worked for medical research, it didn’t for heartsoothing. Humans were humans, monkeys were monkeys, and birds were birds. For a heartsooth, expected to know organs by influence and feel rather than name and equivalent function, such reasoning didn’t apply.
“It takes some heartsooths lifetimes to perfect their art.”
“Well, we’re at war. We don’t have lifetimes.” Commissioner Nem rested a hand on each knee, elbows square. “You wouldn’t be trying to stall for time, would you? Considering an escape? Might I remind you how vital this is?”
Kochin clenched his jaw. “Commissioner, I want to save lives as much as you do, but—”
“Clearly not,” Commissioner Nem snapped, and Kochin flinched on instinct.
As though noticing his unchecked temper, the commissioner smoothed away his anger with a pinch of his chin. “I don’t think I can understand you, Kochin. So, I’m trying to reason with you.”
Kochin didn’t speak, fearing he’d ignite something again.
The commissioner continued, “Your family is from Yarong, right? I assume they came here during the first Daltan onslaught of the island. In Yarong, I see Theumas. They prided themselves on a gift, as do we. Their people are staunch in their beliefs, as are ours. And war came to them too quickly, as it did for Theumas. I’m hoping that’s where the similarities end. You, of all people, should know to learn from the mistakes of your forebears—a weapon in the very palm of their hands, and they didn’t use it.
“History will repeat itself. First Yarong, then Simbal, but I will not have Theumas be next. If any part of you considers yourself Theuman, you’ll understand what’s at stake.”
Those words were moving and true, and Kochin saw how Commissioner Nem had secured himself a place in office with such galvanizing ideas, but he was asking for lightning to strike twice on command, and Kochin was only human. “I’ll try, Commissioner.”
“I know you will. Andao was the same. All that capital wasted in maintaining a legacy. But as soon as Mr. Dep was enlisted, his tune changed.” The commissioner lifted himself off the chair, leaving a heavy depression in the cushion. “I have seen her in the flesh.”
Kochin’s eyes flared wide.
“That’s got your attention, hasn’t it? Well, she’s walking, talking—wholly restored. Revived. I almost didn’t believe you before. I believe you now. And I need you to make everyone believe it, too.”
He had a dozen new questions—was she okay? Safe? Happy? But those weren’t questions meant for the commissioner. Instead, he said, “Everyone?”
“Tomorrow is a big day. Politicians and sponsors will be here. Show them a miracle.”
“So you can be adulated for turning the tides of war?” Kochin asked, emboldened now that he knew Nhika was awake. “Was it not enough to be a commissioner?”
Commissioner Nem’s brow lowered. “So we can actually win this war,” he corrected. “Everyone has lost hope that we can—until I promised them a weapon that can save us. Now, I’ve seen how it works. Tomorrow, you’re going to prove to this whole city such a weapon exists.”
With a grunt, Commissioner Nem stood to leave. Kochin stopped him at the threshold of the door. “And if I can’t?” he asked.
Commissioner Nem paused, pivoted. “Then all the proof of your miracle lies in the body of the girl. If you can’t produce evidence of your gift, I’ll have to find it elsewhere.”
Kochin swallowed the stone in his throat, narrowed eyes contesting Nem’s. “Is that a threat, Commissioner?”
“No,” Commissioner Nem said, turning again to leave. “It’s a deadline.”