Nyx (NINE Series, Book #4) Page 15
Phaira didn’t know what to think, nor how to move from the spot she was rooted to.
“So let's make this simple. If you take this," Ozias said, placing a hand on the folded uniform, "you need to swear an oath to protect. And I'll need a sample of your DNA. But that’s all."
So I can't disappear. Ever again. They’ll always be able to find me.
Phaira shook her head. "You don't want me. Trust me, you don't."
To Phaira's surprise, Ozias laughed, a husky ha-ha. It made her temper flare.
“I’m not getting involved,” Phaira repeated. "You want to take on the Savas, you do it yourself."
The sound of laughter grew quieter, but the wry look remained on the detective’s face. “What is it you want, I wonder?”
Phaira balled her hands into fists, energy coiling into her biceps, and a strange, vibrant panic in her chest.
Watching, Ozias nodded once. The tightness in her jaw gave away her disappointment.
Then she turned on her heel, and Daryn Ozias was gone.
* * *
Phaira had been searching for Sydel and Cohen for the past hour. Her blood thrummed with slow-growing anxiety, as she completed the circular path of Soares Valley. Then Phaira crossed the path into the men’s side, keeping to walls and natural shadows, staying out of sight as she made her way to Cohen’s red-doored hut.
The fire was out, and the beds were made. No one was inside.
But there was a note, stuck under Cohen's pillow.
When Phaira snatched it free, it fell open, revealing Sydel's light penmanship: We have to help. We'll stay with the patrol, but we have to try and put a stop to this, once and for all. We'll be fine. No need to follow us. We will find you again.
Phaira sank to her knees, feeling the rise of her blood pressure, how it strangled her heart, how her veins felt like they were at capacity, straining to explode.
Calm down. Calm down.
She put her fists to her temples, pressing the knuckles into the skin.
It's a gang war, came her inner voice. . Never get involved in a gang war. Ever.
I have to follow them. Protect them.
But they don't want your protection. The voice turned ripe with malice. What good has it done for them? Look at all the things you've let happen.
The voice continued to berate Phaira as she stalked down the hill, back to the valley path, and kept whispering until she was back in her hut, with the door shut. Only then did she realize that the note was still balled up in her hand. She threw it across the room. It bounced off the wall, and came to rest on Sydel's bed, now stripped of its quilt and linens. Even the other residents already knew Sydel was gone. Phaira's bed was untouched. They knew she was staying. The uniform was still folded on the bed. Ozias had left the Compact firearm, too. That was reckless. Was it a mistake?
Wary, Phaira slid a hand into the folded uniform, searching for any kind of trap. Nothing but smooth, thick material. Wool blend? It reminded her of her days in the armed forces: similar feel, that smoothness. No medals this time, though, and no grey and yellow army uniform. Osha Patrol wore black, with red insignia. Trousers, collared shirt. Curious, she shook out the items of clothing, holding it up to the light. What if this was a real offer?
A different voice rose in her head, soft, but persistent: Imagine that it is. Just imagine. No commitment. Just a dream to consider.
A dream. Phaira didn't want to deal in dreams. She wanted to deal in facts, and logic, and anything other than her bad temper and passionate impulses.
So, logic. Phaira stared at the uniform on the bed. I'd need to adapt, was her first thought. I can't move in this. What part is the most important? Probably with the insignia, and the colors. But other than that, does it matter?
It doesn’t matter, the soft voice responded. If you want to help people. That's always been your impulse. It's a good one. Why not embrace it?
When did Sydel become the voice of her conscience?
The rush of affection turned cold.
She's sick. And no one knows but me.
Sydel. Anandi, in the hospital, near death. Renzo, nowhere to be found. Maybe being held captive. CaLarca, and her family. There was a little boy in that video. She remembered the sound of his screaming. The look on Theron's face as he held the kicking toddler and shoved him into CaLarca's arms. The look of disappointment on Ozias's face, on all the patrol faces. They didn't fear her. They didn't hate her. They wanted her along.
They were perhaps a few hours ahead of her. She could catch up.
No. She could follow at a distance. Watch what happened. Intervene if necessary.
Maybe she wouldn’t need to. Maybe she could see this peacefully resolved. Everyone in handcuffs.
Not likely.
She needed a plan. One thing at a time. She could follow, but she couldn't be seen. And not just at a distance; she needed to overhear conversations, be close enough to interject as needed. Disguised as an officer? What if Theron was there? What if he recognized her, even disguised? The thought made her both nauseous and despondent. She couldn’t be seen, not by anyone. She was too recognizable, especially with her damned blue hair (why had she chosen it in the first place?). But even if it were different, her face was the same; her tattooed makeup casting permanent darkness around her eyes and her mouth; the hairline implant that projected a smooth sheen over the multiple tiny scars on her face. Again, she wondered why she'd been so impulsive to have the surgery done.
Then it hit her. The stealthsuit, the one she used in Kings. It shorted out, yes, but Renzo had taken it after. She remembered now, when they were investigating the Red, and he was dressing her wounds, he said something about applying the suit's characteristics to the Arazura. If he did that, he must have been able to fix and stabilize the suit. It was probably still in his cabin. If she could find the Arazura, she could use it, and pull other supplies...
And Renzo. He would be where the Arazura was, she felt sure of it. He loved that ship too much, he would never abandon it. It might lead her to Theron and where they were holing up, if Renzo was still with them.
Renzo. She had to clench her jaw to keep the rage down in her chest.
Be calm. Cool, blue focus.
A Lissome, to start. So she could figure out which direction to go, where the closest transportation was, train or bus or otherwise. Why hadn't she gotten one off Ozias, or the other officers while they were here?
Sydel had one. Would she have taken it with her? Not likely, if she was with the group.
Phaira searched Sydel's freshly-made bed, running her hands under the quilts. Nothing. She looked for any seams in the floor, the wall, even checked outside on the roof, wondering if she might have left it there. Nothing.
Her gaze turned to her own bed,: a mess, like every bed she'd ever slept in. Phaira slid her hand under one of the pillows and felt the hard edge against her palm.
The Lissome was fully charged and sprang to life when she brought it before her eyes. Instant mapping, showing her where she was on the continent. She could find the Arazura, easily, as long as Renzo hadn't changed the connection code. But what about Cohen?
Solar trackers. The sudden idea made her gasp outloud. The solar tracker. Renzo and Cohen still wore the same boots; the trackers would still be in the hidden back seam of the leather. It was a vow they had made, years ago, when Phaira secretly joined the armed forces. The trackers were archaic, and embarrassingly engraved, but Renzo insisted that she keep one on her person at all times. Then Cohen got between the two, as he always did, and said he would wear one too, to appease them both, if they would just please stop yelling at each other. It was the solar tracker that helped the brothers find Phaira in Midland, in Jala Communia; it was how Renzo found Kings Canyon and rescued them all.
She didn't have hers anymore; it was in that rock pile from the collapse of the Kings Canyon base.
But Cohen might. She had to hope that he would remember and activate it. Maybe he had already.
It came up negative.
Not yet, then. She made a silent plea to Cohen to remember. If only she'd thought of it sooner and could have told him.
She had to trust him to think of it himself. Take care of himself, and of Sydel.
First, the Arazura.
IV.
When Phaira took her leave of Soares Valley, every resident gathered to watch her go. It was strangely comforting. Tomo was at the forefront, bidding her farewell. He had provided her with a change of clothing and a satchel to keep them in, plus provisions and water for the hike, and some spare rana, which she took with some embarrassment.
"Thank you," she told him. "For everything."
"You're one of us," Tomo replied, his expression neutral. "You always have a place here."
Phaira didn't know what to say to that. But she did look back once.
Then the mist hit, the planes changed, the Valley was out of sight, and she was alone.
The air was brisk, chilling her lungs to the edge, but her legs were still strong, churning through the rocks, heading east. Theron's katana was strapped across her back, tight and sheathed. The world was silent save for the sound of her footsteps through the brush. Phaira remembered how she felt the last time she was walking through these plains, only days ago; buried under shame and barely able to function, feeling only the trace presence of her brothers, of Sydel, on either side of her, and wanting nothing more than to find a precipice to throw herself over.
Now it was different. Phaira still felt that little dark thread that wove through her, thickened with emotion. But layered on that was a different kind of shame: developing feelings for someone like Theron Sava, letting herself get so distracted and foolish, forgetting what was important.
What do I want?
Phaira brought up her Lissome, and the blinking target that indicated the current location of the Arazura. A rush of relief went through her every time she could pinpoint it. The connection code hadn't been deactivated yet; she still had a path to follow.
As the day passed, and the sun slid overhead, Phaira stopped a few times to rest, to eat, to hydrate. In the open air, the voices in her head had quieted somewhat, still there, but the volume had been turned down. She saw no other travelers on the way, only horizons and the edge of the Cyan Mountains. Would she have to sleep outside? It was very possible, unless she wanted to keep travelling in the dark. She thought of Renzo, how they had reluctantly embraced each other for warmth. What was she going to say to him? What was she going to do when she found him?
What do I want?
As Phaira hiked, her brain replayed scenes from her life like a continuous film reel. She thought about her father, and her mother; both dead, both frayed and grey in her memories. Little moments when she was younger, with Renzo, with Cohen. How Cohen used to cling to her. How she felt some sense of motherly affection towards him, the kind that she would never replicate in life. She had been so consumed with being invisible, had she bothered to notice anyone else in the world?
The day wore on. Phaira felt the strain of her muscles, her arms, her back, her thighs. Her always-reliable strength, coming to her aid again and again. She wondered how long it would last, when she would start to feel an ache in her hips, or her knees might give out. Young to think about such things, perhaps, but she'd been so physical for so long, it occurred to her as she moved up a rocky incline that she was probably in for some significant pain. If she managed to grow old.
What do I need?
The question echoed again and again, as Phaira hiked into a village. She found rides with people passing through, then she hitched on the back of a passing train. Resting when she found a pocket of safe space. Eating when she couldn't stand it any longer. Handing over rana to eager hands only when necessary, and when she made it clear that the funds secured silence. Crawling east, one kilometer at a time, and her thoughts on constant rotation, a computer processing and spitting out potential answers.
Many times, Phaira's thoughts turned to Nox. She remembered him vividly, his patrol uniform, that silly red beard he grew in the last year.
If I had followed him out of the military, and into public service, I could have pursued Nican Macatia when he attacked Renzo. Built a case against him, instead of throwing him off a bridge, and ruining all my family's lives.
If I could go back, I would. I would take the desk job, and complain about the lack of action, if it meant....
Meant what?
Those thoughts ground to a halt. Despite her desire to believe that any part of them were true. Because they weren't. She would have been like Nican Macatia: seeking out little thrills, making dumb choices, her ego overwhelming any sense of humanity. It didn't matter if Phaira were behind a desk, or in the field. Trouble would always find her. It always had.
And in a secret, small way, she loved that it did.
I need to know I'm worth something.
I need to be seen.
One hundred kilometers from West Lea, and the Arazura’s location, Phaira negotiated a ride with a passing trucker, who let her climb into the cargo bed already full of crates. In there, Phaira stared up at the night sky, feeling the rumble of the road through her thighs. She activated her Lissome, and then the LRP network, and searched for her name. That listing was still there; posted by someone anonymously, so many weeks ago, with a blurred picture of her face, a list of her physical skills and suspected missions, and that name she spat out in a moment of pressure that now followed her everywhere. Phaira Lore. Like some superhero name. It still made her cringe to hear it.
Her gaze lifted to the network description: LRP: Locate - Retrieve - Protect.
Maybe it was time to embrace what people saw her as.
Phaira clicked the Lissome shut. Cohen and Sydel were right. No more hiding. No drugs, no sex, not any other distraction. If she wanted to be seen, and be worth something, she had to become someone worthy. Not just search for it from outside sources, but something inside that made her feel worth a damn.
I've made so many mistakes as Phaira Byrne.
I won't as Phaira Lore.
* * *
The Arazura was unlocked, and silent as Phaira crept through. When she peered through the doorway of Renzo's cabin on the Arazura, her heart jumped.
Renzo’s pallor was sickly, his cheeks were thick with stubble, and he wasn't even wearing his prosthetic; it was propped up in the corner. When Renzo saw her, his jaw dropped. Then his eyes darkened, and his chin jutted out.
"I made a mistake," he spat.
"Yes, you did," Phaira shot back. She could tell by the way his jaw was working that he wanted to accuse her of making so many mistakes herself. Let him try. It didn't negate what he'd done.
"So, are you a Sava now?" she flung out, like a knife.
"No." Renzo's voice was strangely distant. "I never was."
He lifted his gaze to hers. "I made a mistake," he repeated with a growl.
"So fix it," Phaira said. "Get up and fix it."
"I'm not doing anything,” Renzo snapped. “You had the right idea all along. Just don't care about anything. Stay detached, take what you can get to survive, don't engage, don't care...."
Phaira stared at him. Is that what he really thinks of me?
“Did you get hurt in the fire?” Phaira finally asked, trying to dampen down her hurt. She searched him for any bandages, a hint of smell in the air. The ship was musty, but nothing that spoke to infection or burnt skin.
“I lost everything.” The flat way he said the sentence, she didn’t know what to think.
"So that’s what you’re doing in here?" she accused. "Hiding?"
"I'm not hiding," Renzo said hotly.
"Oh really? Have you gone to see Anandi in the hospital?"
Renzo's face drained of color. "You - you know about that?"
Phaira wanted to grab him and shake him until his teeth clacked.
"Get up," she demanded. "Get out of bed and stop feeling sorry for yourself."
Renzo glared at her with the intensity of the sun and didn't move.
Phaira felt heat rising in her palms. She would grab him. She would fight him. She saw all the moves to come in her mind, like a flicker of cards.
She balled her fists instead. "And Theron?" she tried. “Is he hiding out, too?”
Renzo's eyes shifted. "I don't know what he's doing."
“When did you see him last?”
“When the fire broke out.”
Phaira waited for more details, but Renzo remained silent. Who was this brother of hers? What kind of person had he become, when she wasn't looking?
"I need the stealthsuit from Kings," she finally told him, keeping her voice low and steady. "And reinforcements."
Renzo's face twisted. "Why? What are you getting into now?"
Me? she wanted to splash back in his face like boiling water. Instead, she told him: "I know about the bridge confrontation. Cohen and Sydel left the valley before me. They want to try and stop the fighting."
To Phaira’s surprise, a gasp escaped Renzo's mouth. Then he buried his face in his hands.
“Why? Why would they do something so stupid?” she heard him mutter through his fingers.
“Why have anyone of us done the things we have?”
Renzo said nothing, but Phaira saw how tight he clenched his jaw under his hands. Weariness suddenly fell over her, like a heavy blanket; she even felt her knees buckle with the fatigue.
"Ren,” she began quietly. “I’m following.”
Renzo still didn’t move or look up from his hands.
“At least, I’m going to try to. I’m hoping Cohen will activate his solar tracker," she continued. “He hasn’t yet, so I don’t know his position right now.”
"I forgot about those," Renzo said through his fingers. He glanced at the floor, where his boot lay, empty of the prosthetic. "Is that how you found me?"
"I tracked the connection code to the Arazura, dummy. You never changed it."