Nemecene: The Epoch of Redress (18 page)

Our time had run out. After repositioning the body, we jumped into the shaft just as the gag dissolved and the beast reanimated. We hitched a ride to the first level, where a cloaked acquaintance of Stitch's was waiting to escort us to the roof terrace, just a six meter drop to the ground. Just! As recent as yesterday evening I would have sickened at the thought, but after swinging like a monkey between the residence towers, I'll take the six. Off the terrace we rolled, then, hands joined, we raced the rising fog through the clearing towards the J branch, threw the guard another bone, and maneuvered our way through the pacing sentinels until we reached Stitch's room, where we stared at each other and beamed. What a trip!

It is just past nine now and I'm rushing to recap the day before heading back out with Stitch again. Between the wake-up call, the lab, his room, the crime scene, the archives, and finally our morbid speculations at the Snack Shack, I have found his company surprisingly pleasant, aside from the little swipe at the west tower of course. I still have reservations about divulging our true objectives, but as long as he honors his word with regards to protecting your little girl, I am willing to share some. Which brings me to: why the rush? When I was on hush with Eli at the medi clinic, I overheard her secretly plotting to attend a daze with Caroline, and in sharing that with Stitch, we both agreed that given her head injury and the current manhunt, we should follow her. But let me backtrack to Stitch's room first while I wait for him.

The results from the sketch were in. His chumbuds network had extracted more than any of us could have imagined. As suspected, the medical slips Eli had fortuitously acquired at the clinic were a fraud, not unlike our own, come to think of it. Since her parents' death, Mashrin had been hearing voices, suffering debilitating nightmares, and experiencing memory lapses. I looked over at Eli fidgeting in her chair as the facts poured in. There was no emotional drifting. Mashrin's biochip was malfunctioning and she was no longer traceable, which made the Ministry very nervous. Our eyes locked, while Stitch, glued to the board, kept drilling deeper into the maze, and I knew in that instant that Eli had been hiding her blackouts from me. But why just her? The scanners can't trace me either? Why aren't I living in her hell?

At that point, I noticed Stitch becoming extremely tense. There was no more head grooving at his seat, he was perfectly still and fixated on the next packet. He had just read that someone had stripped Mashrin's brain to remove the biochip and was studying her body's reaction to the procedure most likely to perfect a living transplant, the motive unclear. "Collateral damage?" Stitch was furious. Furthermore, the network had correlated the procedure against other medical entries, and discovered a rash of drifting as far back as some forty-five years ago. Stitch started frantically picking through high council packets, from the Pramam's personal advisor himself. The boy's a genius.

Three weeks ago, another girl had bled to death and a guard was murdered, complete organ failure, no puncture wounds, but they have a suspect. Whoever is responsible, they want him alive. The GMU have strict orders to that effect but no access to the truth. They are looking for blood? We both stared at Eli, but she was somewhere lost in her head. We had to get rid of the evidence. Stitch and I grabbed Eli and we hurried to the arcade, only to find the area wiped clean, no blood, no muddy footprints from my shoes, no night flyer crap, nothing. It's as if it never really happened, but there was no mistaking the expression on Eli's face; she was reliving a terror words could not express.

You know what she is facing, don't you? If only you could speak to me and tell me what is happening, or perhaps Dr. Tenille can. He took care of you, remember? He's teaching now and Eli applied for his study group today. She's holding it together still, just as you warned her. You'd be proud. I know I am.

Stitch is here. Tomorrow, I'll summarize this afternoon's findings at the archives.

Day 26: Midday

W
ith surgical precision, she transfers the precious seed from the latest victim to an incubator on the windowsill. She had sheltered it against her flesh, her feathery arms draped across her shoulders in the underwater refuge as she awaited the vibrations of the trio's departure. The smooth cloth she presently wears hangs limp from her frame, imbued with the subtle scent of her new champion. The metamorphosis has started, and soon Keeto will shed his cocoon and vanquish his self-inflicted oppression, forsaking the unconscious, whilst the faithful few bask in the aura of his greatness. And she shall dance amongst them, unbounded and free.

Stroking her fingers along the rich linen panels of his chemise, Nathruyu imagines the exalted rank this "borrowed" piece must hold in his wardrobe. She chose wisely since he is unlikely to notice the theft, unless an exclusive engagement calls for it. In the interim, she savors its luxurious weave, as she considers it payment for her loss, a small price to pay for what she dropped on his account, for there was nothing commensurate he could have tendered, except that which he has sworn to protect, that which, in due time, will be forfeit as well.

As the sun works its magic upon the slice she acquired, she loses herself in the crystalline vase where it rests suspended in a blue nectar and recalls her early morning swim with it in the cool pool engulfing the museum generator.

Her invisible footprints on the tumbled stone shadow her movements inside Keeto's crypt, where she scouts for the journal to which he confides his daily reflections. The antiquated lock, like the keyhole on his door, did not offer much resistance to her intrusion, nor did its canine custodian provide an effective defense. Instead, he preferred to shiver in the corner by his toys after a brief struggle to avert her strike. She quickly inhales the pages of Keeto's life, looking for shades of a weakness to exploit, and finds one in his impressions of her and the confusion it creates. Her delight is short-lived. It fades to sorrow when, at the end of a recent memoir, she sullies the words with a lone tear as she succumbs to her troubled conscience through a name: "Mashrin Tamehr".

The remorse stoically suppressed, she initiates the dialog by scripting the ink with artistic finesse and gently lowers the book onto the head of his bunk, leaving the journal open for him to see before his subsequent entry. While her exposed skin seeks coverings from his armoire, her eyes wander to the makeshift library resting in piles and boxes bordering the northern wall. Despite the ridicule of his agnostic twin, his taste in literature has persisted, and she stalls her return for a journey through time.

The line between history, myth, and legend had been blurred throughout the ages, and what has materialized is a single man's sanction of fact or fiction in the halls of the official archives, but there, in the private quarters of an apprentice curator, the uncensored truths of remote civilizations congregate, lovingly preserved. From one gem to the next, she dives, thrilled with the diversity of narratives, perspectives, and styles, non-existent in this age of Unification, until her desirous fingertips linger on the fateful romantic tragedy that forever imprisons her soul.

The thinning air cautions her that the mist will soon clear and that a commotion over her scant attire could ensue, so she gathers her treasures and emitter, speeds home along the smoky catwalks to the Victory Bridge hatch, and stealthily slips into the deserted labyrinth. As she strolls underneath the floating causeway bisecting the primary canal, the ignorant pedestrians above her continue their blissful pace, oblivious to the hibernating poison beneath them. That has not always been the case.

Many humans had perished during the initial attempts at resettling the coastal cities, drowned in the planet's wrath when the intricate network of cooling ducts and vents originally operated. Similar to the gargantuan plants filtering the limey sea throughout the islands, smaller generators interlinked the imposing structures and pristine footpaths around them and kept the deadly gases at bay. Accidents had been frequent. One day, in spite of expertly documented and rehearsed evacuation procedures, the people working in the lower levels of the older office towers had collapsed beyond resuscitation, and their bodies had been sealed in the virulent cesspool that became their grave, turning the east district of this illustrious metropolis into submerged catacombs, where today only the lawless play.

Decades passed, and the memories of the dead fed the ghost stories of the living. Rumors abounded of creatures swimming in the depths, immune to the hydrogen sulphide sludge collecting on the ocean bed, whilst the Ministry revised the endorsed GHU statements to suit their own insidious needs and declared the zone restricted, pending further investigation. To the detriment of the current and future generations, the token surviving elders, who had witnessed the true potency of the disaster, no longer speak of it for fear of restraints, and the unwitting masses foolishly accept the fabrications of the misguided leadership.

Her illegally extracted specimen is sufficiently replenished as she sighs with relief and attends to her encroaching fatigue. She proceeds to the roof to recharge her energy in the warmth of the afternoon rays and pauses to admire the landscape through the veil of the deluded. As she explores their naive viewpoint, her observations suggest a different interpretation of the fragile ecosystem in which humanity engages. She is alone, enjoying the calming bouquet of the swaying flora, while a temperate breeze caresses her bare thighs. Across the fluid horizon, lavender channels abound in petals of white, rose, violet, and blue, flawlessly arranged in silky blooms that flow to the rhythms of the circadian cycle. By nightfall they sleep and relinquish their dominant presence to a twinkling display of bioluminescent organisms that thrive on the veneer of the aqueous stillness. Between deep flexible green stems sings a whimsical symphony of light, color and sound.

The structural eloquence, fundamental to the walkways, bridges, scaffolds, and sajadums, marries function and form to communicate their creators' passion for serenity to everyone treading their path. No aspect was left untouched by the detailed hand of the Gadlins, who, below the surface, skillfully concealed the slightest indication of vulnerability to the delicate chemical balance of their synergistic design. The breathtaking Central Core, with its immaculate gardens, ancestral monuments, and sophisticated mandalas, prevails, nonetheless, as their crowning achievement. Furthermore, were the oceans safe for leisurely crossings, the worldly traveler would undoubtedly revere the unparalleled ingenuity of the enveloping biowall. As the titanic tide comes crashing into the rugged shores, the imperceptible shield repels the toxins and balances the architectural masterpieces upon Eadonberg's liquid foundation, proudly showcasing her to admirers, as she stands majestically perched atop a watery cliff. The city skyline is simply stunning.

Nevertheless, this grand illusion does not beguile all. Without the tinted lens of the common resident, the utopian image transforms substantially. As the swell recedes, the fouler persona reveals itself. A mangled jungle of organic debris excretes noxious compounds that sink to the ocean's floor and invite symbiotic bacteria to aggravate the pollution. They exist as a grim reminder of the real purpose of the pretty and seemingly innocuous milky lilac hue of the expansive aqueduct system. The conduits hanging off the lips of the buoyant pathways, with their thousands of exhaust shafts boring into the platforms like tumors stretching their bloody roots to the heavens, lie dormant as an ominous threat. Only the eastern sector of the city, caged within a growing fortress, dispenses with deception, and plainly illustrates the dangers of forgetting.