D4RK Illusions
PART ONE, CHAPTER FIVE
Three days.
Nine moonsets. One eleventh lunar cycle. Eighty-one hours—if she didn’t sleep. And she had no plans to do so.
Rashelind clipped toward the centre of the Abyss, snapping her fingers as she passed through the darkness. The great chamber lit as though she had struck a match, and at once she stood on a limestone cliffside before a rolling crimson sea.
The Erythris’s waters, separating the eastern hemisphere from the acrid wasteland to the west, were calm today. Evidence of an early springtide. The sun turned the water bright as a ruby, and a decadence of white illuskiri dove in concert to its surface, before surging in spirals for the wispy clouds, shaking themselves dry. It was a dance they liked to perform for hours on days like this, as if, for a time, nothing mattered but this singular catharsis.
A soft wind swept up from below, and Rashelind let it lift her chest, her chin, her arms. Behind her, a massive digiwall shielded her from seeing inside Sefos. But at least she could be close, in some way, to Molga. At least she could imagine her sister safe and looking out over the same glittering blood red waves, the same lightening indigo sky.
Aunolen’s Assembly House, with its interior constructed entirely of blackglass, and no discernable walls, floors, or ceiling, was a digital sanctuary. Here meetings of thousands could be held, hundreds filling the chamber and hundreds more joining virtually. Offices and boardrooms and lunchrooms were constructed as needed, and then filed away or destroyed by close of business. Molga’s trial had been held here. D4RK had designed it to be efficient, extraordinarily beautiful, and impregnable to most. It was the hub of RSE power; a place of business, where serious work was done.
Rashelind had arrived early to the second last day of her old life, dressed now in stardusted grey heels that daggered the ground and crawled up to her thighs, and a layered wrap of white arani. The foreign material dripped off her midnight body like liquid jewels, splitting in the centre to reveal a diamond of skin, and a peek at the burgundy e-tats below her breasts. The ensemble gave the impression of someone with an inordinate amount of digimarks—and power enough to send any rival to prison with but a look.
It was a typical ensemble for Thearis’s seat of power.
Rashelind stepped closer to the cliff’s edge, dark heel meeting pale stone. She had not programmed the sea below her to roil, or the cliffside to smell vaguely of sweet locifiris petals. The digitech responded to her imagination as if by magic, neural receptor and code one and the same. This was power again, of a different sort.
Dragon’s fire, so to speak.
D4RK was a fragment of the RSE in the way a star might appear through parallax. They were a paradox. Identical but different. And the RSE relied on D4RK to run the planet’s capital, and to implement the laws of Thearis on its only active hemisphere. The organization’s creations were deep tech. Artificial intelligence developed and corralled by those who possessed more than the average Thearisian’s understanding of what it took to make a planet work. It was a wild and unknown thing to everyone but the ones who danced the net, who could interact with the AI as if it were real. As if it were alive.
The tech was nothing short of a miracle.
And it was what would keep Rashelind in Aunolen and out of Sefos. The Theamiran city was shielded by it at the behest of the Theamira’s leader, Meser Thea. It was why she needed Rorick’s help. He could bypass barriers that would see her mindlocked or disintegrated. He could get her to her sister.
Rashelind looked down and felt vertigo clasp its leathered fists around her ankles. The red waves below climbed the cliff face, only to slide once again back toward the purpling horizon, drawing her downward, toward them. Away, away. How she longed to jump.
Three days. Two spent working, and the last spent preparing the last of her arrangements. She had taken care of much already before even speaking to Rorick, securing her assets and pursuing the legal assurance that her properties would remain her own once she fled. She had anticipated leaving one day, with or without Rorick. She had started planning for this the night they had taken Molga.
Now to play her part. To bide her time.
‘What are you doing wandering around the Basal Ward at third moonset?’
Rashelind stumbled backward, cursing. She had not heard Evera enter as the foamy waves slathered the stone below in a meditative lament. She did not turn as she recovered. ‘I thought you’d stopped working for D4RK last rotation, Evera. Why are you snooping around my location history?’
‘After our little get-together, do you really think I wouldn’t keep an eye on you? Twice I woke up alone in your flat, only to wake up a third time to you dressing and acting like nothing happened.’
Evera came to stand beside her and offer a glare fueled by her characteristic righteousness. Rashelind noted her square-shouldered black suit, its flowing pant legs glittering with celestite. A quick side-eye revealed a dusting of e-silver over sapphire eyes, sparking like lightning across slate skin. There was no denying her gods-given beauty—and it seemed she meant business today.
‘I cannot believe that even you would spend time in a place like that,’ the senator pressed.
Rashelind hid her blush and swiped her hand to the left with practiced nonchalance. An ornate bench carved itself into the cliff, rising to just the right height. She took a seat, smoothing out her arani. It rippled beneath her light touch. ‘Is it such a crime for me to explore my city?’
Evera grimaced, slicing her left hand, palm up, toward the ceiling. The stone bench vanished. Rashelind fell on her bottom, yelping.
‘To explore your city? No. To gallivant around the Basal Ward after we make love? Yes. Your signal disappeared once you entered that den,’ she said, and her voice cut with the same metal as her cosmetics. ‘Why?’
‘That was uncalled for,’ said Rashelind, standing and rubbing her lower back. Gods above, the sun had not even reached its zenith, and she was being interrogated. ‘Do you mind? I’m trying to enjoy a moment’s peace before the senate convenes.’
‘Tell me why your signal—.’
Rashelind threw her hands up, exasperated. ‘Who knows? Who knows what sort of interference the patrons of those places run? I imagine there were more than a few jammers at work last night.’
‘You go to… a place like that. And then you do not appear on D4RK’s radar again until this morning!’ She winced, and then rose to full height, searching Rashelind’s face. ‘You are tired today. And clearly lying. You met someone down there.’
Rashelind squared her shoulders. Another tack, then.
‘And what if I did? Are you going to hand me over to them like you did Molga?’
Evera’s eyes flashed, but she was incensed, which meant she was thrown off. At least for now. Relief washed over Rashelind, though she did not show it. The accusation wasn’t at all fair, especially after asking her over last night, but it contained more than a kernel of truth—at least in terms of the pain Rashelind felt. And the place she felt the blame should lie.
Evera’s lips were thin, her pointed ears perked, as she hissed, ‘It must be so very difficult being the sole being alive on this planet who is in pain. Allow me to be your punching bag. It is my greatest pleasure to alleviate your burdens.’
Rashelind shook her head. There was no retort she could give without everything exploding out of her. Had Evera allowed it, she might have collapsed into her arms. She’d more than once considered begging her to get over this foolish workplace barrier and save her from her misery. But her love was secondary to her grief. She kept quiet.
Evera placed her hands on her hips, her anger dying with what she perceived to be Rashelind’s slight concession. The senators surveyed each other a moment before Evera cleared her throat.
‘We’ve the procurement strategy to discuss today and tomorrow,’ she delayed. ‘Before we break for next cycle.’
‘Yes.’
Her nostrils flared. ‘My darling, I didn’t go snooping after you.’
‘Evera—.’
‘I was just concerned. Anyway, it’s part of my duty to keep track of all of us.’
‘Fine.’
Evera pursed her lips. ‘I didn’t bring it up to—I did not come here to accuse you of anything. It just concerned me. After we… I thought—.’
‘You thought what?’
Evera’s jaw tightened, and Rashelind considered all that must have gone through her head this morning. The distrust between Rashelind and her colleagues had festered because of Molga’s behaviour over the past few rotations, but it had got far worse after the trial. Then, once she was taken, the wound had split wide open into suspicion and frustration. Evera, like the others, could not see beyond her politics, especially where Rashelind was concerned. As if Rashelind were, like her sister had been, in league with rebels and terrorists.
How awfully absurd.
‘My brother had an issue, too,’ said Evera. ‘After his mate passed.’
‘An issue?’
Evera lowered her voice. ‘Yes. And—he has someone who helps him.’ She looked pointedly at Rashelind, brows raised. ‘Should you need support.’
Rashelind’s confusion must have registered for Evera released an exasperated sigh. ‘Void beads, Oreli. I know that’s why you went down there.’
Rashelind could not help herself. She burst into laughter, loud and full and deep from the belly. Rounding over herself and clutching her knees, she caught glimpses of an aghast Evera out of the corner of her eye, which only made her laugh harder. The sound startled the illuskiri who broke from their dance for but a moment before returning to the ruby waves once more.
The highly addictive upper had led to the resignation of more than a few senators over the past few decirotations. Notoriously common in the Basal Ward, Dos, and Sefos. Evera thought she had turned to hard drugs.
If only it were so easy.
The other senator started to speak but stopped when Rashelind loosed another cacophony of belly laughs. She only subsided into giggles as Evera gestured for a false door to appear—a corridor to the digitally synthesized shared space outside Rashelind’s dream-within-a-dream.
Well. Perhaps, in this, Evera’s heart was in the right place. Rashelind watched the senator flee to the soft light of the antechamber.
‘Evera! Wait, please!’
The senator stopped before the threshold, charcoal hair swaying about her, shoulders rising to her ears. ‘I really ought to inform the First Minister of your behaviour. I fear for you, Rashelind—you’re on the edge of madness.’
‘The edge of madness! Dear Evera, I’ve already jumped.’
Evera gaped, but Rashelind held out her hands, conceding sincerely this time.
‘There’s no need to speak with Aor,’ said Rashelind, and they exited to the bright, open corridor beyond. The fabricated space was teeming with dracossi assistants within the simulation prepared for the arrival of their ministers. ‘I’m sorry,’ Rashelind went on, falling into step with Evera. ‘I have had a rough time of late, but it’s no excuse to treat you this way.’
Evera harrumphed.
There were too many assistants to know on a second-name basis, but Rashelind had schooled with several in this wing. Some held resentment for her too-quick rise to political stardom, or avoided her because of her political radioactivity since the trial, but most were in awe of her—which was something she could not quite wrap her head around. She shared smiles with a few of them as she and Evera followed the wide, bending corridor, toward their respective offices. The smooth-stoned edifice, encrusted with quartz and Hesperian crystal, was so detailed that any ignorant foreigner would think they walked in a real building. The Abyss was built to compel the inexperienced to feel foolish; D4RK was the measure of dracossic superiority.
Rashelind lowered her voice, deciding a degree of deviousness was in order. ‘To be quite honest with you, I did go to the Basal Ward for beads. I almost purchased them too. Check the records further and you’ll see I ran into a varo and vez down there, who caught me with the dealer. I headed them off.’
Evera shot her a look of deep concern as they crossed a luminous crystalline bridge onto an exquisite mezzanine. Tall, weeping trees of powder blue crystal lined the circular hall around them, and a broad skylight invited gentle indigo sunbeams into the building. The illusion offered sensations of warmth and peace.
‘I put an end to it before I made the deal, Evera.’ Rashelind was surprised at how easily the lies were tripping off her tongue. ‘And I came straight back. I don’t know why D4RK couldn’t track me, but that’s what happened.’
‘Well,’ Evera murmured. ‘I suppose I can forgive a small transgression.’
She sounded unconvinced, however, and so Rashelind added, ‘It was kind of you to offer your brother’s therapist.’ She placed a hand on Evera’s arm to stop her. ‘I appreciate it.’
Evera considered her, and then seemed to decide that that would be the end of it. She gave a little sigh, placing both hands on the mezzanine’s banister, as if to steady herself. ‘Perhaps I judged too quickly. I confess I’m more than a little on edge these days.’ She tapped her painted fingers. ‘Temple was unsettling last night.’
‘Oh?’
‘Not the Dialogues. The Dires Pelam is always excellent with his words. But there were esteri outside. Lingering.’ She made a face. ‘They have been there every moonrise now this week, and they seem to be growing in number.’
‘Outside the Sanctum of Purity?’ Rashelind asked.
Evera’s temple, in the city south. Meser Thea’s closest lieutenants were his Dires Sempres, arms of justice, and his Dires Pelami, arms of faith. While each bore the same vitriolic hatred for anything un-Vashenric, each had their place—one on the streets, and one in the temple. The Dires Pelami were easier targets for the esteri. Nonviolent, confined to their speeches and protected by the RSE.
Evera nodded. ‘They’ve some bizarre infatuation with bothering their former masters, I suppose. But I do not like to entertain what goes on inside their heads.’ Evera’s face darkened. ‘They disrupt our places of worship, and they expect this will change something. Fools. It is not as if my praying to my gods will ensure they’ve a better education. I mean, honestly.’
Rashelind recalled the pictures in the bar last night. ‘There have been more protests of late,’ she mused.
‘Yes.’
‘I have no love for the esteri,’ said Rashelind. ‘You know that well enough. But I do wonder if we’ve lost sight of something.’
Evera’s face fell. She was silent for a moment, peering below them at a pond of liquid nitrogen that took up much of the fabricated first floor. ‘Why the Erythris?’
Rashelind was caught off-guard by the question.
‘You stood before the crimson sea this morning,’ clarified Evera, gently. ‘I don’t mean to overstep, but I do wonder why.’
Rashelind observed her, and then joined her in looking to the wisping pond below. She opted this time for the truth. ‘She is fond of the sea. She used to like to make up stories about journeying west and finding ancient dracossi there. I thought to be close to her, to bulwark my heart against my troubles.’
Every moment that brought her closer to Molga confirmed she had made the right decision yestereve. And look—eight of her eighty-one hours had already passed since the moons had set.
Someone cleared their throat, and the senators turned to find Senator Maratren Vaul approaching from the direction they had come. At one hundred and five rotations, he was the oldest senator of their seven—and the least likely to wander all the way from his office to fetch the two youngest members of the senate. His jade, braided hair wrapped around his thick neck, falling off his shoulder to his ankle, and there was sweat forming on his brow. He had walked here with some haste.
‘We’re needed in Chambers,’ he stated, halting when they noticed him. ‘There’s been trouble in the Hub.’
#
A digiwall of massive windows overlooked a courtyard, where lay a thousand dead esteri, their corpses littering the steps of the Assembly House. Kneeling amongst them, more esteri, raising their fists in protest.
The dead were holographic. Those kneeling were not.
‘Oh, for the Vashenra, change the scene!’
In a wash of tiny pixels, the picture beyond the windows transformed to the Erythris. Rashelind braced her arms against the heavy crystal work surface before her and wrenched her gaze away from the coincidence. On her left, Evera’s eyes bore into her, but she ignored her gaze, instead pretending to admire the shoes of her other colleague, Movni Fortunis, on her right. Around the rest of the table sat senators Farrin Onagi, Modev Linsk, Jised Alen, and Maratren Vaul.
Characters, fat off their wealth, so to speak. Players in a game. Rashelind had grown fond of every one of them, which had made the pain of their betrayal that much worse. She could stomach Evera more than any of them, but only because, well, of their shared, if complicated feelings… and because Evera still had some sort of belief in her despite the rift Molga had started. Alongside Rashelind, Evera had even fought to negotiate with one of the Theamira’s Dires Sempres for Molga’s release after she had been taken, against the objections of the others. She had, at least, until it had become politically poisonous to do so. But it had been something.
The most ardent opponent to negotiation, and the final voice on it, was First Minister Aor Quen, who had given the order to switch the scene outside. They sat now at the head of the table, in a throne of roving light, a broad-shouldered dracossox with a domineering air, even with the lilac specs. This air, in addition to their numerous relationships with digitech firms on and offworld, was what had got them elected thrice over the past fourteen rotations. When she had been young and naïve and exceptionally ambitious, they had been the reason Rashelind had wanted to become a senator, and the reason Rashelind now believed that it was best never to get to know those you aspired to.
‘I presume an arrest has been made?’ they went on, eyeing the senators.
‘Yes, First Minister,’ Evera answered. ‘Two esteri, both with criminal convictions: Milonis San and Oka Sye. They brutally attacked a Dires Sempre.’
The First Minister leaned forward. ‘An attempted assassination.’
‘It certainly looks that way,’ said Evera. ‘Though we cannot know for sure. They have both been detained.’
‘And what of the esteri?’ asked Aor.
‘Comms chatter is minimal for now’ said Fortunis, whose portfolio was Culture and Society. She and Evera exchanged a glance. ‘But it will not stay that way for long.’
‘I think it right we send someone to quell any chatter before it starts,’ offered Maratren.
‘Quite right,’ said Aor, who affixed their gaze on Rashelind. The other five around the table looked to her, as well, and she raised her brow. The only reason Aor thought she would be an appropriate choice was because they thought so low of the esteri. It was chump work, in their view, even with the protests.
She did not mind. She supposed it was only fitting that the gods drop this last assignment on her before she ran from these people.
‘Take a visit to one of the mothers, would you?’ Aor Quen’s voice was strained, a defense against what they presumed would be an imminent argument from their least favourite senator. ‘We don’t need another news story.’
‘I’ll take care of it immediately, First Minister,’ said Rashelind.
They nodded, satisfied, and probably a little surprised, but choosing not to show it.
Rashelind wetted her throat. Oka Sye’s mother had died during the labour revolts. She’d gleaned this from one or two of the several hundred news interviews she had witnessed with the activist. So, she would be speaking with San’s mother then.
The darkness, which had never left, sloshed about in Rashelind’s stomach, threatening to rip her away from the present—to make her jump and scream and shake these people until they understood. Rashelind stared at the crystalline table—how delightful were those shimmers, how they captured the throne’s light.
‘Don’t they see we give them what we can,’ Aor Quen’s voice was distant now, existing somewhere beyond the pounding in Rashelind’s head. They were standing again at the window, arms folded behind their back. ‘I do anything better for them and I will have the Theamira reaching down my throat, and a hundred thousand more esteri seeking reparations for past ills. We don’t have a digimark for every crying esteri that makes art at our door.’
Rashelind closed her eyes, trying to forget about the Erythris, and the sea of bodies.
Seventy-nine hours to go.