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  “That what you’re cleaning up?” Cohen asked, gesturing at the floor. “Two days later?”

  The man’s eyes were wide with fear. “Please. I won’t tell anyone you were here.”

  Sydel brushed past Cohen. The man flinched. “Please,” he begged. “I can’t - I can’t - ”

  Ignoring his pleas, she walked past him to the corner, and crouched down to scoop up the tissue in her hands. As she straightened, the man tried to grab it from her.

  “Hands off!’ Cohen snarled.

  The man recoiled, and Sydel unfurled the tissue carefully.

  Wrapped inside was a piece of metal, no bigger than a piece of rice.

  “What is this?” Sydel asked the doctor.

  “Nothing. It broke off one of my tools.”

  Sydel held the piece of metal between her thumb and index finger. It was dull, but compact and unmarked. And it pulsed, like a tiny heartbeat, framed in red energy.

  With a burst, the man bolted for the exit. Cohen blocked the way.

  “The person in red came to you for medical treatment,” Sydel said slowly. “Puncture wounds in the back, correct?” She held up the metal piece. “Did this come from its body?”

  “I can’t say!”

  “Tell us what you know,” Sydel demanded.

  “I won’t.”

  “You will, or I will take it out of you.” The words left her mouth before she had a chance to think about it.

  Cohen was staring at her, his face in shadow, but his shock still identifiable.

  “Whatever is necessary,” she reminded him.

  Cohen swallowed, and took the trembling man by the shoulders, turning him to face Sydel.

  “Please,” the man whispered to her. “Please just let me go.”

  “Then tell us what we need to know,” Sydel insisted.

  When the man shook his head again, something inside of her twisted and let go. Her motions were automatic. One hand resting on the man’s head, the other hand before his face, thumbnail extended, drawing a vertical line down the span of his forehead.

  The man's world spilled through. Sydel kept to the edges of the gossamer threads, the most vibrant, the most recent, and coaxed them into view. There it was: the doctor in this very office, working late, startled by a noise; the sound of metal on tile, a strange, screeching whine. Then the flood of red: red clothes, red blood; the pressure of a cold, clawed hand on either side of his throat, squeezing out the air; hot, sour breath, so close she could see the condensation on the intricate metal mask the creature wore, and the Red’s eyes through the openings: blood crusted over one eyebrow, the other one bloodshot and wild.

  The Red unwound yards of dirty, red fabric from its body, revealing a pale back, grotesque muscles, knobby spine and discolorations, and the patchwork job over its stab wounds, already bleeding through the dirty gauze.

  “Fix it,” came a guttural voice.

  Shaking, the doctor did as demanded, suturing the punctures. Sydel listened to his terrified observations: the Red was missing half its left ear; tattooed with some strange pattern along its lower ribs; its breathing was artificial, running through some kind of mechanical system...

  When the doctor finished stitching the wounds, the Red wound the fabric around its body again. As it did, Sydel felt the sensation of fingertips, reaching underneath the counter, groping for something, finding a button, and pushing it until it was flush against the wood. The doctor's panic button.

  The Red heard it. The backhand sent the doctor flying into his desk. Amidst the pain, she heard the sound of skittering feet, hissing noises.

  Sydel closed the Eko gap. The doctor slumped to the ground.

  “Did you find it?” Cohen asked her. “Should I call for a pick-up?”

  Staring at the doctor on the floor, Sydel gripped the tiny piece of metal so tight that it pierced the skin of her palm. The doctor’s eyes were open, but his breath was shallow, and his body jerked every few seconds.

  Tears filled her eyes. She grabbed Cohen’s hand and pulled him. “Go. Now. I need to go.”

  They climbed back through the window, and once they hit the ground, they both broke into a run, flying down alleys and between buildings, hands clasped the entire while. When she couldn’t breathe any more, Sydel stopped and slumped against a brick wall. Cohen had said nothing, only followed where she led. Now, as she gripped her hands into fists, he was trying to catch her eye. “Syd.”

  Shame flooded through her. “Please don’t tell the others what I did.”

  “Oh, Syd,” Cohen sighed, rubbing the back of his shaved head.

  Her eyes spilled over with tears. “I’ve never done that when the person wasn’t willing.”

  “This was an emergency,” Cohen reasoned. “What did you see?”

  “The Red’s body. Tattoo on the lower back. Artificial breathing mechanism. It’s enhanced artificially in some way.”

  “See? That’s fantastic! That makes it worth it, Syd.”

  But she shuddered at the memory of what she'd done. “I was tempted to keep going. To keep pushing further.”

  “But you didn’t,” Cohen broke in. “You stayed on the surface, and got what we needed. I’m sure Renzo can create some kind of program and find the Red now, and we can stop this thing from killing again.”

  She kept her eyes fixed on the ground, as Cohen spoke into his Lissome, asking for a pick-up.

  But her thoughts were on a loop: It’s what Huma did to Phaira.

  The same thing. I did the same invasive Eko.

  I couldn’t stop myself.

  IV.

  On the outskirts of Cardine, the Mazarine eased down its landing gear without a sound. When the hatch opened, no one was there to greet them. Wary, Sydel went first, creeping inside the oddly familiar interior, searching for signs of life. The corridor was silent, every door closed.

  So she headed for the cockpit. There was CaLarca, at the controls.

  “Any changes?” she asked the green-haired woman.

  “Everyone has been quiet. Save for Jetsun. She was sick again.” CaLarca rolled her eyes. “Had to drop her back on the ground almost as soon as she got on board.”

  “And Theron?”

  “No change. See for yourself.”

  In the narrow space between bed and wall, Phaira stood guard next to Theron. When she turned at the sound of entry, Sydel frowned at the sight; Phaira’s eyes were dull, and there was a waxy sheen to her skin.

  Then Renzo was in the doorway: “Well? What did you two find?”

  “This,” Sydel said. She removed the tissue from her pocket, and held up the metal splinter.

  Everyone leaned forward to peer at it.

  Then Theron jerked, half sitting up. “Where did you get that?” he demanded.

  “You know what this is?” Sydel asked, surprised.

  Theron's face had changed from ashen to red. “You went to my apartment. You went through my belongings.” He glared at Phaira. “Did you know they were doing this?”

  “Hold on!” Cohen exclaimed. “We were in Cardine, not Lea. Why, what is this thing, you recognize it?”

  Theron struggled to brace himself against his pillows. “I need to speak to Sydel alone,” he wheezed.

  “Why?” There was a challenge in Phaira’s voice, and they all heard it.

  “I’m not arguing with you,” he rasped. “Please.”

  Phaira’s mouth twitched, like a thousand words were bottled up against her lips, but she ducked out of the room before Sydel could say anything more.

  Cohen sighed loudly. He was already growing tired of secrecy, Sydel noted, they all were. She had to get Theron to talk, to trust her, if they were going to come out of this.

  By the time the door closed, and they were alone, Theron had managed to sit up fully. He looked more vulnerable, somehow, as he held out his hand. “Can I see it?” he wheezed.

  She tipped her palm, and let the metal piece fall. He brought it to his eyeline, studying it.

&nb
sp; Then, to her surprise, he laughed to himself.

  “What is funny?”

  “Not what I thought it was," he was muttering. "I’m so stupid.”

  “And what did you think it was?”

  “If I had just kept my mouth shut.” His smirk faded, and he hit his fist on his thigh.

  “Stop hiding from us,” she told him. “If you know who this person is -”

  “Sydel,” he interrupted. “Before this goes any further. Please heal me with Nadi."

  "I won’t.“

  “Your debt to me will be paid.”

  She faltered at that. Would it?

  “If you do it and it works, I’ll leave,” he continued, taking short breaths between sentences. “Never hear from me again. None of you will. Don’t need to be involved with this. You don’t want to be. None of you do. Just tell them I threatened you. Make me the villain. They’ll be glad to cast me off.”

  Sydel didn’t know what to say. But the longer she stood there, the more acceptable it sounded. They had done so much for him already. She could provide him with the clues she uncovered, and if he was healed, he could pursue the Red on his own. Phaira, Cohen and Renzo would be out of danger. She could be absolved, finally, of her debt to his family, for what had been done to him in Kings. Even CaLarca could finally be sent away. Perhaps this was why she was supposed to come back: not to stop a killer, but to protect her friends.

  She couldn’t help but blurt out: “You seem ill-suited to the position you are in.”

  That smirk of his returned. “A lot of people agree with you.”

  “Tell me what you thought that piece of metal to be.”

  “And then?”

  Sydel swallowed. “Then I will try to help you - ”

  “I found an implant,” came his breathless response, his cold tone back in place. “In the back of Kuri Nimat’s skull. This piece looks similar to that. But it’s not.”

  “What?” Sydel exclaimed.

  But Theron pulled his shirt over his head, exposing his broad back to her. “We made a deal,” he reminded her.

  But Sydel’s hands felt heavy as lead, and just as cold. “Is Kuri still alive?” she managed. “Did you recover his body?”

  “Hurry,” he hissed.

  Sydel stared at the curve of his spine. “Tell me what you did with Kuri.”

  Theron swiveled at the waist, wincing as he did so. “I made a trade with the Toomba militia. I took him. I found that sliver of metal in his skull. When he was eventually dead.”

  “You killed him? Why did you do that?” Sydel demanded.

  “You cast your vote to have him picked clean by the birds in the mountains." he spat. "Does it matter he lived a few days longer?”

  He wasn't wrong. It was no different, she realized with a sinking stomach.

  Still, something was pinging, deep inside her. Kuri. Kuri.

  What if… what if….

  “The Red wants revenge,” she listed slowly. “It has artificial enhancements. And suspected NINE abilities. When it was fighting with Phaira, I think - ”

  She pushed out the words. “I think it might have been saying the name ‘Kuri’ again and again.”

  Theron’s anger fell from his face.

  “He’s dead,” he stated, though his dark eyebrows were knit together. “He’s been dead for weeks.”

  “What if he’s not, somehow?”

  “Not possible. His body is where I left it.”

  “Do you know that for certain?”

  Theron’s mouth opened and closed, but even as he shook his head, she could see the dread in his eyes. “No technology to support that,” he offered weakly. “Re-animation doesn’t exist.”

  “Who is to say what exists?” Sydel countered. “Look at all we’ve seen in the past months. Where is his body?”

  Theron stared at her. Then he drew out his Lissome and spoke a series of letters and numbers. The click of connection.

  “Theron?” came Jetsun’s voice. “What’s wrong?”

  “Confirm something for me,” he coughed.

  “Of course, anything. I’m back with Renzo and the Arazura’s finished now, so we - “

  "Confirm that Kuri Nimat’s body is where I left it.”

  There was a long pause.

  “What did he say?” Sydel heard Renzo’s yelp through the speakers.

  But Theron clicked the Lissome closed, turning away from Sydel.

  “Quickly,” he muttered over his shoulder. “Do it.”

  Sydel took in a deep breath, studying his back on her exhale. Then she let the planes of her vision shift, and she saw the blood flowing through his veins, the ripple of his heartbeat, the electrical flutters of his brain. She saw the pink of his injuries, the strangled puff of his lungs, and the clusters of threads, red blood, black scarring, dancing and weaving.

  When she put her hands on him, Sydel felt the floor beneath her shudder.

  The fire billowed inside her, through her arteries and the bones of her arm, into her palms and fingertips. She focused on the threads, gathering them, pulling them away from the red. Theron made strangled noises of pain as she pulled the threads taunt, binding the muscle, fusing the cells; coaxing the lungs to expand.

  The floor dropped away. Sydel’s stomach lurched into her throat. Theron’s back floated before her for an instant, before settling.

  Something was wrong. She had to finish.

  With a burst of energy, she drew together the final edges of Theron’s wounds. Scars from the puncture wounds were left, of course, but sealed over, and lungs repaired. It was done. His breath wasn’t strained any longer. She had done it. They were even. He could breathe, and so could she.

  And Phaira was in the doorway, she realized; one hand on either side of the frame, as if to hold herself up.

  Her eyes darted from Sydel, who was covered in sweat, to Theron, hunched over on the bed.

  “We’re hitting turbulence,” Phaira finally spoke. “We need to strap down.”

  The ship rocked violently. Phaira grabbed Sydel by the forearm and hauled her into the corridor, to the open jump seat just outside the door. “Get in there,” she ordered. “I’ll get him secured.”

  Shivering, and woozy, Sydel buckled the black straps over her chest, and craned her neck over her shoulder to look into Theron’s cabin. To her shock, there was a fight going on. In the far corner of Theron’s cabin, a jump-seat had unfolded – only one - but the newly-healed Theron was already there, and yanking Phaira by the waist onto his lap. She was wrestling away from his grip, but he paid no heed, pulling the straps of the harness over them both and fastening just in time, as the Mazarine plummeted, dropping one hundred feet. Sydel shrieked.

  “Syd! You okay?” Cohen’s panicked voice came over the intercom.

  She tried to say yes, but her throat was choked with fear.

  Another drop, and shudder. Sydel gripped the straps that bound her and shut her eyes. Catch it. Catch it, she pleaded in her head.

  Another jostle. Then another, but less violent.

  The shaking gradually turned into a constant shudder. CaLarca had regained control of the flight, it seemed.

  Worried, Sydel glanced back into Theron's cabin. Were they safe?

  Yes, Phaira and Theron were still locked in. One of Theron’s hands gripped her thigh; the other was around her waist, his forehead in her shoulder. And Phaira was gripping the back of both his hands with hers, their fingers on the cusp of being interlaced. Sydel could see their chests rising and falling in unison.

  It was strangely, almost embarrassingly, intimate.

  They’re involved, Sydel realized.

  V.

  When the turbulence finally eased into stillness, no one spoke. Everyone on board Theron's ship averted their eyes, and went in different directions, closing doors to cabins and to cockpits, like too much was revealed; too many fears were out in the open, needing to be reeled back in. Sydel spent the rest of the afternoon in the cabin she shared with CaLarca,
scrolling through information on the Asanto estate on her Lissome.

  As she did, her mind wandered. Phaira, and Theron Sava. It made sense, somehow. For how long, though? And to what extent? Had anyone else guessed at their relationship?

  She forced herself to concentrate and read. The official death notice, from twenty years ago, said that Joran Asanto and his wife Tehmi Shovann died while hiking in Kings Canyons, both falling from an unsteady rock path. No mention of a pregnancy, nor child. Joran had left his rana to the foundation in his name, and today, the Asanto Foundation was one of the foremost givers in Osha. But while the Foundation was visible, the ones who made the funding decisions were not. In fact, the trustees had remained anonymous since the foundation's start. A few curious articles had been written about the Foundation, its secrecy and generosity; the general consensus was that as long as they were a fiscally responsible organization, no one much cared who controlled that money. And so it remained, for the past twenty years. The only spokesperson who ever appeared was an unidentified man, who refused photographs and left quickly after the check presentation….

  It was too much to take in. She needed to walk, to breathe, to speak to someone about what she had found.

  When Sydel entered the hallway, she heard whispers. A door was ajar. Sydel eased next to the opening, concentrating on the barely-audible voices within.

  “….enough running,” Phaira was saying. “You held your own against me, when we sparred back at your house on the cliffs. And those men who came into the apartment in Liera, if they hadn’t self-identified, you could have killed them. You have leagues of men at your command. More money than most in Osha. You’re far from helpless, Theron. But you’re acting like if you just ignore it, it will eventually go away. It’s not going away.”

  She was in there with Theron? He wasn't saying anything, though. What was he thinking? What was Phaira thinking?

  “Come with me.”

  Sydel blinked at the urgency in Phaira’s voice.

  “Meaning what, exactly?” Theron retorted.

  “I’m not waiting around for it to attack me, or anyone else, and neither should you, now that you’re healed up. Sydel and Cohen found the Red’s path. Let’s continue it on our own. And find whomever is helping it. Like that metal piece, or its cybernetic enhancement, there’s got to be something to trace.”