Marissa stumbled through the next few days in a sort of daze. Her feet did most of the thinking, lifting her out of bed and carrying her down to the stadium every morning. She had no idea what to do, except what she’d already been doing. It seemed wrong to change, as if maintaining the status quo might reverse time and bring Arc back. So her plans for the future were set aside pending further developments, and she spent the days unsure of what to expect.
Her friends accommodated her glum attitude admirably, and Marissa silently thanked them for it. Arlen was there for her most of all, not just at the stadium but at home in the evenings. Hours of being called Rissa were worth it for the company. Back at the arena, Zurn was less taciturn than usual, offering advice during practice. Even Matt let up on being a pervert, and gave her something of a challenge during their sparring sessions. Marissa took strength from their kindness, something she never thought she’d have to do. They comforted her in their own way, and were considerate enough not to mention Arc directly.
That almost made up for how much everyone else was talking about him. She’d been accosted by numerous reporters in the last few days; the polite ones called for an interview, but some came knocking on her door at the strangest hours, or hunted her down at the stadium. The questions were always the same: was she worried about her husband? Yes. Had he given any indication that he knew of the attack beforehand? No. Did she think he was still alive? Of course. She would come home to find her answers repeated on every channel, accompanied by newscasters trying to latch their opinions onto her words. Many praised her for her perseverance in such a trying time, but there were a few critics who seemed displeased that she wasn’t holed up in her bedroom, weeping over her lost love every hour of the day.
The first time she heard herself referred to as a ‘widow’, she felt a stab in her chest. That was what she was to some of these people: a vicarious victim. They slapped that label on her and thought they understood her grief, but they failed to understand that she didn’t grieve for Arc; she felt sad because everyone else seemed to have given up on him. He wasn’t dead. That was a fact that she clung to fiercely. Hold onto hope, Coach had said, and that was what Marissa planned to do. The rest of the Kinship obviously hadn’t gotten the message.
The nights were the worst. There were memories lurking in the depths of her mind, ones she’d rather forget, but they clung with unsettling tenacity. These were the most painful events she’d experienced in her life: the worst cruelties of her masters, the death of her mother, and other moments when things had seemed completely beyond her control. Sometimes, when she tried to sleep, they rose to the surface to haunt her, wracking her body with shivers and cold sweat. Only Arc understood what she’d been through, and he was the only one she could talk to about these phantoms and by doing so render them as only memories, remnants of the past, in her mind. Without him, she was forced to bear the pain alone, and the nightmares had become far more frequent since she’d heard about the Consortium. She knew Arc was still alive, but a tiny seed of doubt had been planted that threatened to taint her memories of him with that same pain, that aggravating sense of helplessness.
Though she insisted publicly that Arc was alive and innocent, perhaps too strongly, she knew it was out of her hands to find him. It would take some branch of the government, maybe even the military, to find him. She hated that, because while she continued to hope, she’d rather be doing something positive towards locating him.
Almost a week after their less-than-productive conversation, Marissa received a call from Prime Minister Torwin. Marissa had been sparring with Arlen at the stadium when she’d heard her phone ring and excused herself. There was a moment of hesitation when she saw the ID and recalled how their last talk had gone, but she set her reservations aside and answered. Torwin would be one of the first people to hear any news about Arc.
“Hello, Marissa?” Torwin asked. “How are you holding up?”
Marissa immediately knew there was no news to be shared. “I get by,” she answered.
“That’s—that’s good,” said Torwin, trying to sound happy. “I’ve been meaning to get back to you for a while, but things are still hectic in parliament. I wanted to apologize for how we left off. I should have had more tact, and more confidence.”
Arlen watched expectantly from their sparring place, but Marissa waved her off; this might take a while. “Confidence? You mean in Arc? Yes, you should have, but I don’t blame you. You were just trying to warn me of the possibility. I’m sorry I overreacted.”
Torwin hummed in agreement. “Your reaction seemed downright subdued compared to most of the people I’ve dealt with this week. Outside of typical bureaucratic nonsense, I’ve been trying to persuade the Aquila to let someone from the Kinship have a look around the Consortium, but they don’t want to cooperate. They’re scared shitless about this whole thing—I can’t imagine what the Rashani had to do to get through.”
“Do you think the Rashani will find the answer?” Marissa only knew the Rashani through stories, so she hadn’t known how to take the news that they were investigating the attack.
“They’ll find an answer, but maybe not the one we’re looking for,” Torwin replied. “The Rashani priorities are finding their sister, then finding out who was responsible for the attack. Since we’re both certain Arc is innocent, nothing in their task precludes finding him. We can’t be sure what they’ll turn up.”
“I see,” said Marissa, doing her best to be polite. She appreciated Torwin’s concern, but she would have preferred some useful information. “Well, thanks for calling, but I have training to do.”
“Are you going to join the Tournament?” Torwin asked. “I always thought you’d be an excellent contender.”
“Thank you. I haven’t decided yet,” Marissa answered. “It’s a big decision to be making under all this stress.”
“Well, I won’t keep you then. Have a good day Marissa, and keep your chin up.” And that was all there was to say.
There was a package in the mailbox when Marissa returned home that night. She could have sworn deliveries were made in the morning, but she didn’t remember seeing it when she left for the stadium. She tucked the small, flat box under her arm and went inside, dropping it on the coffee table before going to make dinner.
She hastily threw together a meal—beef and baked potatoes—as her heart wasn’t up for anything grander. Marissa wasn’t the greatest of cooks to begin with, and she was fine with underachieving when she was alone. She took the plate to the living room couch, flipping on the TV as she ate. No real news, and nothing else worth watching.
Her eye wandered down to the package lying on the coffee table before her. It was thin and rectangular, protected by a sheath of cardboard. She turned it over; there was no postage stamp or return address, both of which were required in order to send something through Aegis’ postal system. Marissa Rhapsody was written across one side in almost mechanical-looking letters, and nothing else. It was as though the package had sprung from thin air.
She opened it, her strong fingers easily prying open the cardboard shell and extracting the contents. It was a black tablet, swathed in a tight layer of bubble wrap. Like the outer packaging, its surface bore no distinctive marks or logos to tell her who had sent it. Consumer instinct told her it must be a knock-off of a more popular model; it was thicker and heavier than the average tablet, and its overly square design was more than a decade behind the times. It had probably been churned out in some faraway Dwin factory and then somehow found its way to her.
She turned it every which way in search of an ON switch, but the tablet was a complete unbroken surface. She delicately brushed a finger down the back as she might caress a lover, feeling for a button, and the screen flickered to life without any indication that she’d done anything. It showed a blank white space with a brief message written on it. Only two words, but those two words made her heart lurch: Arc Rhapsody, handwritten.
Before doing anything else, before she jumped to conclusions and let emotion take hold, Marissa went to the computer on Arc’s desk and pulled up one of the many documents he had scanned for record-keeping purposes. There, at the bottom, was Arc’s signature, identical to the one on the tablet. He’d signed both. But when? And why send it to her? It almost seemed like a cruel joke, or maybe a scheme by some reporter to catch her sobbing on camera. She peered out the windows for any peeping strangers, but the street looked clear in the fading light.
She looked the tablet over again. A little yellow triangle flashed in the corner of the screen, drawing her eye with its urgency. She gave it a prod with the tip of her finger and the white space dissolved into black, taking Arc’s signature with it. Tiny dots of light filled the void, linked by faint white lines into familiar patterns. A star map. Marissa sought out the triangular pattern of the Serpent’s Head to orient herself, then let her eyes rove across the galaxy in search of an answer to the tablet’s riddle. She spotted it just outside what she thought was Alliance space; the same blinking triangle, hovering free of any solar system. Marissa tapped the triangle again, and Arc’s signature returned. That was a pretty direct message as far as she was concerned.
Marissa let feeling return, excitement washing over her like a tidal wave. She actually shook with it. This map showed where Arc was; he was alive, and had sent this message. She returned to the couch, hugging the tablet to her chest. This was really it—the way to find Arc! She could show this to Torwin and they could set everything straight.
If it was genuine, that was. A sliver of doubt slunk its way among her hopes. She checked the tablet once more, switching between the signature and the map and back again; it didn’t seem to have any other functions. If Arc could send this, why hadn’t he just returned himself? Did he send it? This could be a hoax, as Arc had signed plenty of documents, and it couldn’t be too hard to copy his signature. She couldn’t understand the purpose of such a trick, but it was possible.
But it was also possible it was genuine. Marissa clung to that hope as she phoned Torwin. She got Torwin’s voicemail on her personal phone, so she left a short message and called the Prime Minister’s office. Torwin was out, and a secretary answered. Marissa asked to make an appointment to meet with the Prime Minister in person, offering the promise of information on Arc. The secretary promised to get back to her tomorrow. That was all Marissa could think to do at that moment, but she did feel better. Whatever this was, she believed it was significant, and she wasn’t going to let it pass her by.
* * *
That night, Marissa found herself back in the locker room, sitting on the bench. Coach stood brooding in the corner, enveloped in dream-shadows. Marissa stood and approached, but then she saw the deep furrows of his face and thought better of it.
“What’s up, Coach?” she asked, sitting back down.
Coach slowly turned his face towards her. “Nothing really—I shouldn’t be talking to you, not with the trouble I’m in. I thought you’d like to talk about… anything you think you should mention.”
Marissa knew immediately what he was getting at. “I got this weird tablet in the mail.” She held up her empty hand, and there it was, materializing between thoughts. “I don’t suppose you know anything about it?”
Coach’s eyes wandered to the ceiling, which rippled like water whenever Marissa thought to blink. “I might know something of it.”
“Did you send it?”
Coach shook his head. “No. It was a… friend of mine. Went to some trouble to get that autograph, apparently.”
“Right,” Marissa said, feeling lost. “This friend—is he also a figment of my imagination?”
The ground shook as Coach laughed, tremors radiating from him with every breath. “It’s probably for the best if you think of him that way. He doesn’t like people knowing he exists.”
Marissa dismissed his rambling as dream-logic and pressed on. “Is it real? Is Arc really where this map says he is?”
“That’s for you to decide,” Coach answered, lowering his eyes. “Both my friend and I are bending some very important rules to do what we’ve done. It’s best if we don’t lead you towards any particular conclusion.”
“You being here at all is already leading me to one,” said Marissa.
Coach said nothing, bending his head to try and hide a wry smile.
“Why send it to me?” Marissa asked.
“He’s your husband,” said Coach. “My friend assumed you’d like to know where he was.”
“I did, but that’s not what I meant.” Marissa was not pleased with these vague answers. Then again, Coach rarely gave anything else. “I mean why not give it to someone high up? Everyone wants to know where Arc is, but I’m the person who can do the least about it. If your friend had given it to the Assembly or the Prime Minister, they’d already be sending someone.”
“Ah, well, that I don’t know the answer to,” Coach replied. “My friend does what he will, and I can only guess at the reasons. Maybe he did it as a favour to me, or maybe he sees something in you—maybe the same thing I do. Don’t sell yourself short, girl—you may be able to do more than you think.”
“Thanks,” said Marissa, surprised by the compliment. “Are we done here?”
Coach nodded. “I’ve said what little I can say. What you do with that is your decision.”
That seemed like sound advice. “Thank your friend for me, will you?”
But before Coach could respond, Marissa awoke. She sighed; it seemed that as her life became stranger, so did her dreams. She should probably see a psychologist about it and find out what Coach’s deal really was, but she was also reluctant to pull back the veil on the mystery. There was something fun about not knowing, the possibility he might be real.
As she rose to make breakfast, she found her doubts gone. The tablet was no hoax. She would find a way to bring Arc home.
* * *
Aegis had turned its face away from the sun, yet this side of the planet still shone. The lights of the city were a constellation in their own right, illuminating what should be, by nature’s rule, a black night. Having tasked himself with spreading light, Sorin felt a little proud of the mortals. If they could do this, then what other wonders might they create over the next thousand years?
He walked the same streets he’d walked a few days before, passing from one streetlight to another, with few shadows in between. It was easier to walk in the Guise of a human than a Zulkar, he decided. The proportions of the limbs were closer to his own, so he could carry himself without any difficulties. Humans were shorter, too, and Sorin could walk beneath ceilings and not worry about hitting his head anymore. It was a wonder the other Zulkar hadn’t seen him for a fraud immediately.
He followed his previous path back to the stadium. It was closed for the night and the doors were locked tight, but getting in was a simple matter of manipulating the lock. He climbed the steps into the bleachers, stopping a moment to admire the stars twinkling above the open-roofed arena. Beautiful; Sorin wondered that no one had thought to charge admission just to sit in this place and gaze up at the sky. Maybe there was a law against it, the rule that none could own such a spectacle.
Fulmus was seated where Sorin had last found him, up in the very back row. The rags had been rearranged, and he sat in a meditative position, his legs folded beneath him. His silver-grey hair hung around his bowed head like a shawl, while his hands were clenched in a tight ball at his chest. Sorin approached carefully, as he didn’t want to disturb the old Deus in the middle of a trance. He sat down beside him, threw his legs up on the seat in front, and waited.
Slow, shallow breaths punctuated the night, escaping Fulmus’s lips as he worked through his trance. Deus rarely slept, and when they did it could last for decades, if the dreams were engaging enough. The trance was similar, but more focused; Fulmus had entered it with a purpose and would awake when that purpose had been fulfilled. After a few minutes, the old man lifted his head, pushing his hair back from his face. His vacant eyes wandered to Sorin, then coloured with clarity.
“I thought you would have left by now,” he said, yawning.
Sorin folded his arms, feeling a stab of guilt. By rights, he should’ve been back to scouring the galaxy for Lutus’ intruder, as was his duty. He’d played his small part in the matter of the war, but just dropping off the package and leaving seemed inadequate. Besides, a few minutes with Fulmus couldn’t hurt.
“I wanted to see if things were going properly,” he answered.
“Too early to say,” replied Fulmus, his eyes growing distant again. “I gave her a nudge in the right direction, but the rest is in her hands.”
“You talk to her through her dreams?” Sorin asked, surprised.
Fulmus gave him a sly look, the sort he’d used to give when he let young Sorin take the controls of his Chariot. “It’s not against the rules, exactly. I’ve been doing it for years now, since Monica died, and I use it to coach her through life’s hardships. It’s convenient, in a way—she forgets all the details of who I am, but keeps the resolve I’ve hammered into her.”
Sorin anxiously shifted in his seat. He wasn’t sure he liked what Fulmus was doing, but he also couldn’t say he’d done wrong. “How do you do it—entering a mortal’s mind?”
“It’s a lost art to most,” said Fulmus, scratching his chin through his thick beard. “Your father was the best at it, back when civilizations were starting to rise, but I think he lost the talent, or maybe he just grew bored with it. I’d all but forgotten I could do it until I felt Marissa. I think we share a bond, being father and daughter.”
“Why only you two?” Sorin asked, doubtfully. “I never shared such a bond with my parents.”
“You don’t remember sharing a bond with them,” Fulmus corrected. “The link is usually severed quickly for Deus—within the first decade of life, once we’ve grown beyond the most vulnerable stage. I’d guess it hasn’t for Marissa because she’s half-mortal.”
Sorin nodded, unsure, then started to rise. “I should be going—I’ve an unidentified object to chase. It was good to see you again, Uncle Fulmus, despite our disagreements.”
Fulmus grabbed his sleeve. “Are you sure you want to go? We don’t even know if we’ve changed anything.”
Sorin gently removed Fulmus’s hand from his sleeve and clasped it tightly between his own. “My brother says that even the smallest stone can make significant ripples, if you give it time. I’ve done enough here—by Lutus’ standards, I’ve probably done too much. Now I must do my duty.”
The words rang hollow in his own ears. While he said he’d done his part to help the mortals, he did not see himself running back to Lutus’ side for a revised prophecy to prove it. He could not say what effect the tablet would have in changing the course of the war, if any.
Fulmus’s expression said much the same, but he pulled his hand away regardless. “If you say so. So long, Sorin. Do not wait another millennium to come visit.”
The words cut deeper than Fulmus had probably intended. It really could be that long before he saw Fulmus or any other Deus again. This return to civilized space had reawakened old desires to be with others, to abandon the solitude he’d lived in for so long. Was it really necessary to leave? If the intruding element was somehow linked to the war, then maybe he was on the right track after all.
He slumped back into his seat. “Maybe I should stay a little longer—to see how things play out. It has been a long time since I’ve observed mortals, and it couldn’t hurt to see how they’ve changed.”
Fulmus gave a wheezy laugh. “That’s the spirit, Sorin—what else did we create them for if not to watch them grow?” He laughed again, less forcefully, then sobered somewhat. “I have a favour to ask of you, if you’ll hear it.”
Sorin tilted his head. “Another? I’ll listen, but I make no promises.”
“That’s fair,” said Fulmus. “I want you to watch over Marissa for me.”
“Why?” asked Sorin, surprised. “Can you not watch her yourself?”
“I could, but I can do nothing to help her.” Fulmus cringed. “I’ve spent too long in this Guise—it’s sapped my strength, made me as old as you see. Even if I had the power to help, I don’t trust myself to make the right decisions. I broke our laws when I loved Monica, then I failed to protect her and Marissa when honour and basic morals demanded I should. I’m afraid, Sorin, of what I may do if I find Marissa is in danger again.”
The admission filled Sorin with sympathy for his Uncle. He himself was now struggling with the question of what was right. “Why would she come to harm? She will take the map to the authorities, and they will retrieve her husband.”
Fulmus shook his head adamantly. “You don’t know Marissa like I do. Given the chance, she’ll throw herself at any danger in order to protect what she loves without a second thought—she is my daughter, after all.”
Sorin patted him on the back. “That does sound like you. Tell you what—I will keep an eye on her, at least until I find a lead on my other task.”
“Thank you.” Fulmus looked as if he might shed tears at any moment. “More than anyone else, I trust you to know when to intervene. I know you must uphold the law, but if it comes down to that or Marissa…” He trailed off, a watery glimmer forming in both eyes.
Sorin gave him a squeeze on the shoulder. “I promise I will make the right choice.”