REINITIALIZING...
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‘Molga,’ Rashelind called, but there was no answer.
She peered at the black archway of her bedchamber and her heart fell, as it had done every morning for the past three cycles. Rising in a stupor, Rashelind took her ketreselk robe from where it hung beside her closet, and tied it tight about herself, fighting an insistent throbbing in her head.
She had taken to doing this of late, waking up just before everyone else went to temple. It should have made for an easier workday, but instead it only gave her more time to think, which wasn’t healthy. She strode barefoot into the upstairs living area, glowing dimly with inset ceiling lights running the perimeter of the room, and put the kettle on. When the tea was ready, she shuffled to the low couch overlooking the Oasys. The glass wall opposite had, inset in the center, an esteri-sized oculus window, which could open with a gentle push.
Far below, the luminescent forest twinkled back at her, its golden shimmer a boon in these cold, late hours. In the oceanic dark of the blackglass surrounding it, the massive park looked like an island. Rashelind blew on the tisane once before placing it on the settee to cool on its own.
Thearis was a world of dreams, and Aunolen, the City of the Sapphire Sun, was the most vivid of fantasies. Here, in this wild home of hers, colours and scents and textures mingled, screaming of the foreign and dangerous. Even at night, the entire city was a masquerade to which all races, classes, and creeds were invited.
But its superior pretenses were laced with patent grit. The people of Thearis had known pain. Deep, and dark, and indubitable. Pain was written into the history of this planet, shaped its politics, public and private. It lingered in Aunolen’s low places, quiet and unseen; in the shadows of Sefos; in the wastes of the Molderlands. It was the pain of Thearis, or rather, the way Thearisians endured it, which gave the planet its allure.
Indeed, as with all magical places, the danger with Thearis was that it was easy to fall in love with. One could fall head over heels without realizing that the pain that existed here would eventually worm its way into their heart too.
Rashelind retrieved a digipad from her robe pocket. Marching to the oculus, she tapped the device against her palm, peering at the drop-off between the glittering fauna-filled island, and her own blackglass building. Somewhere down there, beyond the sparkling pink mist of hologram and exhaust, was the Basal Ward. She tried to force her hands to stop shaking, to no avail.
She’d found the digipad in the upstairs living area the night Molga had been taken. It was directly connected to a D4RK interface—a hacking feat only Molga and her criminal ilk would be capable of. Rashelind had checked it daily in the cycles since. She hadn’t been sure why her sister had left it out for Rashelind to find, until she’d realized it had the ability to inform her just who entered and exited the city. Her brilliant, beautiful sister had left Rashelind a way to track her down.
Of course, there was no way of knowing for sure that was the reason Molga had left it behind. Rashelind had had no news of her sister since she’d been dragged from her sight.
The interface had so far offered no one useful, but she nevertheless checked it obsessively. It was her last recourse. For three cycles, she had become exceptional at wearing the façade she’d built since becoming a senator. So exceptional that she had wasted these weeks playing politics to save her sister’s life, only to learn that her position, her influence, her power meant damn all.
She could wait no longer.
It had all come to a head yesterday, and perhaps that was why she had dreamt of all that blood. Yesterday, on the anniversary of Molga’s sequestration, Milonis San and Oka Sye, the esteri activists, were arrested—probably for good, this time. In her mind, though she couldn’t explain it even to herself, the arrest was Molga’s trial all over again. All the feelings she’d never escaped dug their claws deeper into her heart, and she realized just how much she truly loathed herself. All this time, she’d played toady to a government too afraid of offending the Theamira to do anything meaningful.
It was maddening. Even if—.
Even if she had seen that something in Esemor Xorval’s eyes that night. A needing in those silver flames. For a fraction of a second, she had wanted to… to help him. To give to him. She had recognized some of herself in the way he moved, how he spoke…
How he wanted.
And then he was gone, and so was Molga. And she was left with naught but shame.
She tapped the pad against her palm again. If she were caught with it, she would face imprisonment or worse. But it was worth it. The digipad had been a buoy when the nightmares came, something she could return to, to check everyday for a—.
A little red notification blinking in the digipad’s top right corner.
Kroshvk.
Rashelind’s hands stopped shaking. She blinked. This couldn’t possibly be real. She tapped the notification.
D4RK-CSS-T9 [RESTRICTED]
Name: Varland, Rorick.
Age: 46 rotations.
Occupation: N/A.
Notes: Netdancer. Bioscans inconclusive. Attempted travel west**. Position available.
Tracking Number: 7030720911.
[ TRACK ]
[ REPORT ]
A netdancer. Of all the notifications she’d received since stealing the blasted thing, he was the first code magician. The first who could get her through to Sefos.
This Rorick Varland was a prayer answered.
She tapped TRACK and a three-dimensional overlay appeared onscreen. It zoomed in on a tiny holographic person, limned in green, and Rashelind cocked her head, watching him move through the lines that made up the alleys many atrelons below. She smiled, even as tears tripped down her cheeks. It was decided, finally.
Her whole body quivered. There would be no going back. And she’d make sure to destroy the digipad once it was done.
Good. Good.
She sat, taking a sip of her tea, staring at that tiny green figure. She did not have time to waste, but there was one last matter to attend to before she left her flat this evening.
‘Call: Valerine Evera,’ she ordered her computer.
A soft dracossus’s voice echoed back. ‘Calling.’
Evera picked up immediately. ‘I’m just about to leave.’
‘Give the Dires Pelam my best,’ said Rashelind. ‘I just thought, after you’re done there, perhaps you’d stop by here before breakfast.’
A pregnant pause. ‘I can’t.’ Rashelind blinked, hearing her hesitation. ‘Why don’t we meet tomorrow night? To discuss things. I’ll come straight after work.’
Rashelind shook her head. She had to leave tonight, but this—whatever they shared, whatever had started that night three cycles ago—she needed to find some way to keep hold of it, and never let it go. ‘Don’t go to temple, Evera. Come here now. Please.’
‘Lind,’ Evera whispered, disappointed, or concerned, but Rashelind interjected.
‘Please, just one more night. Please. We can forget about it again at sunrise, as we always do.’
‘I—.’ Another pause. Rashelind closed her eyes, praying, and crying. Then Evera’s voice returned. ‘Yes, very well. But I’m not skipping the first service. I’ll be there at second moonrise.’
The line went silent.
It was a gift, or that’s how Rashelind knew Evera saw it. She was only giving Rashelind this because she believed Rashelind needed the healing on this horrific anniversary.
That wasn’t a lie, but it also wasn’t the reason for all this.
Rashelind finished her tea and slipped her digipad into the pocket of her robe. She returned to her room briefly to hang her robe in her closet, then walked back to the living area. Burgundy e-tats on her chest lighting her way, she took a seat on her couch, and waited.
#
She had wanted to say that she wouldn’t have made it through these last three cycles without her. That, even though theirs was a challenging relationship, her mere presence made the task of living a less trying thing. That there were some days when she lived simply to hear her voice, enjoy her smile, and delight in her success. She had wanted to say so much, but with Evera, there was always too much to say, and too many emotions to contend with.
They moved together on the couch in perfect synchronicity, each buttery touch one movement in a dance between shadow and light. The soft, warm glow of the Oasys gilded them, forging them into one. Legs and arms entwined, scents mingled, and fingers and tongues found breasts and lips and elsewhere. They fell deeply into each other, embracing this transient paradise, living only for the present. Agony warred with ecstasy, and the ensuing catharsis was a mute goodbye.
When it was over, Evera let the cool desert air in through the oculus. The divine hum of the city slipped in with it, and Rashelind’s silent weeping transformed into resolve.
‘Forgive me,’ Rashelind whispered, long after Evera had fallen asleep in her arms. ‘For all that I am about to do.’