It was the first time I saw Almyra for real, not within smoke, not within tear gas, but in actual light. And I felt in a dream. A dream that turned into a nightmare when I saw myself longing for an artificial girl, when I saw myself forgetting Ashley for an artificial, Victorian princess. She fixed her long hair, forged by the sun itself. The very sun made her eyes glint, fashioned by the gemstones of Earth’s core. Her skin, more lustrous and fair than the Achroite Eugenex that streamed through her veins. All of her, of more vivid colors than those of the average Achroite.
Almyra may have looked like perfection personified, she may have been perfection personified, but she was not Ashley. She was not the Ashley I would forever love. In Ashley I felt the zephyr of the Celtic sea, the scent of chocolate potato cake. In her I began. In me she ended. In Almyra, I felt nothing, and only saw synthetic hues. Her eyes. Hue 13747. Her lips. Hue 37492. Her hair. Hue 57832. Enough to feed all of the city’s villes. With real food. But she knew nothing else. Almyra was kind for an Achroite. And she wasn’t the one who set the rage that swelled my heart. She wasn’t the one who ripped my soul and shattered my heart. Ashley was all gone. Memories. Dreams only. And it wasn’t because of the Bernharts, as much as I loathed admitting it.
But then I felt something and glanced back. Someone’s eye hovered over me. I turned. My heart stopped as if I had seen the Angel at the Holy Sepulcher. We were the only ones in the elevator. I knew it, but for some reason, I—
“Are you afflicted with Gieves Syndrome?” Almyra said. “Feeling or seeing things that are not in existence is one of the key early symptoms. Should I order you a visit to the Sanatorium?”
“I’m not afflicted with that. I know it.” A visit to the Sanatorium, the Zielkkenhom Sanatorium—I’d have rather perished than staying there. I didn’t even want to think about what happened there. Gieves Syndrome. I had never stayed over four minutes in the Bridge. There was no chance I could be afflicted with it, right?
The elevator’s doors opened. Almyra had told me to be ready, but nothing could compare to that horde. The media swarmed us—an odd scene that looked like a Victorian painting with smartwatches and hologram displays—but Almyra maintained her regal poise, as if she were posing for a portrait. I didn’t care for that. We were lamps and they fireflies, all chattering in sounds that Almyra understood. I didn’t.
I was about to answer some questions when I noticed someone in the crowd, his fists clenched. And his right hand pulled back. I knew what was coming. I sidestepped and the punch clouted a reporter. Thrust him to the floor. He cried. And that would have been me. On national television. Minus the crying. That would have been embarrassing.
But then the puncher glared at me. He drew out a gun. Zeroed in on my head. And I knew exactly who he was. “How dare you—”
“Hæeft Nabritt, enough!” yelled Almyra. “Mr. Cavanaugh here saved my life. He did not kidnap me.”
“Is that so, Almie?”
Eugenex’s first poster boy, Julius Nabritt. At twenty-six and six feet and four inches, he was already Lieutenant of the USN’s Armed Forces, Senior Trustee at the Zielkkenhom Foundation, and the head of the Tower of Rebirth’s security forces. A perfectly groomed medium stubble framed Julius’ broad jaw, with a sturdy build and Atlas shoulders that looked statuesque, but that paled in comparison to those of a Body Fengel, and didn’t make him any more menacing than your average Esne soldier, despite his height. Guessed the bowler hat that covered his short, gelled coyote brown hair didn’t spell threat.
And neither did his voice. Deep. Grave. But artificial. Enhanced timbre 14358. Not as deep as Zielkkenhom’s. Not as grave as mine. Must have obsessed Julius. Even more so than it did to the average Enhanced. I guessed that’s why Julius always seemed one bridge away from blasting someone into iridescent shards of blood. Cracking the zielkithe-coated walls that protected the Tower, even if that was the strongest substance known to humankind, Eugenex-infused goethite. But Julius would never sound exactly like Zielkkenhom. Because Eugenex couldn’t surpass God. I had to grant Zielkkenhom that. He didn’t use voice enhancers or artificial timbres. In fact, most Achroites were more enhanced than Zielkkenhom. Guessed that showed what he truly believed of his Eugenex, his Rebirth Age, of his poison.
Julius caught sight of Almyra’s arm bruises, and his eyes turned to spring leaves. He leaped toward her, and handed her his coat—I guessed not because he cared, but because he didn’t want Almyra’s bruises broadcast on national TV—but she shoved his arm back. But then again, I saw his face, and he seemed to care about her, for real. I didn’t know. And didn’t care that much either.
Almyra’s lips narrowed. “Do not call me Almie. You lost the right.”
Julius stared at her bruises again, almost as if he wanted to extend his arms and comfort her. His eyes like fire glints when he saw Almyra, ice shards when he saw everyone else, and guns when he saw me. “What has this guttersnipe done to you, my dearest?”
I thought he would shoot me, but he just handed Almyra a healer, a Eugenex-powered portable device that could heal most minor wounds, and even some major ones, provided they were not too lethal.
Almyra was going to reject it, but she took it, with a smile. Julius even grinned. Forgot that I stood next to her. But he remembered me, forever, when Almyra used the healer, not on herself, but on me, on my raw Eugenex wound, right in front of him, of the cameras, of the millions watching at home, or on their smartwatches. “The effects of my most recent Eugenex injection are waning, but it shall heal my own wounds soon enough,” she said. “But Héafodling Cavanaugh’s shall not.” She glared at Julius, her eyes also like glimmering blazes, not of zealous love though, but of ardent hatred. “He saved my life, Lieutenant. Or are you of such idiocy that I am in need of telling you thrice?” she said in Achroite accent to sound even more regal. A rising song of rolled r’s and geminated vowels I tended to dislike, but that sounded prettier in Almyra’s voice.
Achroites only called their peers Héafodling. The newscasters, the crowd, everyone just stared at Julius. Expected him to know what to do, what to say to the fact that the USN’s daughter had just committed the crime of calling a Natural Héafodling. But Julius remained silent. Didn’t know what to say. But someone saved him, someone I didn’t want to see again.
“If that is the case, then the bridger is one of us,” a deep voice said.
It was as if I had seen the Twister himself take human form—Daan Zielkkenhom, the founder and Chairman of the Zielkkenhom Foundation, the one whose grant originated Eugenex, the one who controlled the government, the one who caused Ashley’s death. He was a few years shy of sixty, but his long grey hair and tailored suit with a turtle neck shirt over his dress shirt made him look distinguished instead of old. And though Zielkkenhom wasn’t the tallest of the Achroites, as even Bernhart surpassed his height, his gravitas and rapport commanded everyone’s attention. As did his smile and deep soothing voice. But his actions struck people most.
Most powerful, when he helped a Natural woman who had tripped stand up; gloveless—disregarding his own textbooks that said an Enhanced could be contaminated by the mere touch of a Natural—and even let her street enjoy clean water. Something I had only seen Aisha do before. With my hands. Because he did it just as naturally as Aisha did, as if he did not think of Naturals as inferior beings. As if he thought Naturals and Enhanceds equal.
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A gesture that sparked cognitive dissonance among the Achroites, who always seemed oblivious to that when they idolized Zielkkenhom. Because in their minds, you could forget real power, that of helping others, for it did not equal mercy, even if Zielkkenhom had shown it only to promote his poison and beatify himself to the dejected Naturals’ not-yet-reborn minds, as he had probably mastered the arts of lying and manipulation.
But I guessed sometimes even false warmth surpassed real cold. When it granted you a momentary reprieve from your daily misery. Though perhaps not when sociopaths were involved. As I couldn’t read Zielkkenhom’s face, and see what his hidden agenda was. Because it did not even sow envy among the Naturals who could not enjoy that clean water, if that was Zielkkenhom’s secret agenda. It ignited kindness even. To the point that Congress made it illegal for Naturals to share things, mainly water and foodstuffs. But the woman’s street never lost its clean water.
Deep down, I hoped Zielkkenhom really cared for Naturals, because he didn’t force Eugenex upon us in the Rebirth School, thank God for that, but wishful thinking tended to blind you, harm you in the end. And I had been its victim before. I guessed, most likely, that within Zielkkenhom’s heart pulsed the charm of a serial killer luring his victims before the slaughter. And we fell for it. Worse perhaps, the Harmonists had not. And their torment would assail us all if I … we did not coerce Zielkkenhom into reform.
Julius’ eyes brightened as a child meeting his childhood hero when he saw Zielkkenhom. If your hero was a megalomaniacal sociopath, that was.
But before either one of them could say something, Almyra leaned toward me and hugged me from the back, her hands seductively positioned on my chest, her cheeks touching mine, and kneeled a little so it seemed I was keeping her from falling. She then glared at Julius and signaled the reporters to record. I guessed just to spite him. Something had happened between those two. “Some thugs kidnapped me and were about to hurl me into the abyss beneath us, but Héafodling Cavanaugh here valorously risked his life to save me.” She signaled my cicatrized wound. “He even took a raw Eugenex burn for me, my darling Cael Cavanaugh.” She kissed my cheek. “While the dishonorable Lieutenant did nothing to rescue the girl he professes to love.”
I almost laughed at the timbre she was talking with. Mocking.
“The founder of the bridger district system,” yelled a newscaster. “Class A+ bridger Cael Cavanaugh. The hero who saved Almyra Bernhart.” And before I could even sidestep, he broadcasted a close-up of me. And it clouted me.
Everyone would know me as the bridger who had saved Almyra Bernhart.
And then the cameras shifted to Zielkkenhom’s favorite bootlicker, who had to play his part, if not only because Zielkkenhom had sided with me. My veins squirmed at that thought. And something else was at hand. Julius straightened his suit. “I have heard quite a lot about you and your kind, Hæft Cavanaugh.” He sneered and then he extended his hand, palm down.
And I was about to shake hands with him, but what if it was a trap? What if he hid a Eugenex vial on it?
“No handshake? Is that because you lack spine? I thought you had saved Almie.” His sneer still on his face, his palm still faced down, as if he’d have rather dealt with vermin than with me, but I wasn’t going to let him off the hook so easily.
I’d do what my dad had taught me to do with those pretend alphas who thought they were God, when he first returned from the war in Europe, just three years ago. I stepped forward with my left foot, not my right, with my palm facing up. And the moment Julius clutched my hand I stepped towards him with my right foot and strode to his left, forcing him to twist his palm in a vertical position. And the result was an equal authority handshake. I just chuckled when I saw his Enhanced sneer vanish in two steps. “So the Enhanceds in Section A just sit around talking about me? Didn’t know I was so important to your kind, Julius. I just thought you spent your time moisturizing.” Almyra stared at Julius, saved him from answering. “Not even a gramercy, Lieutenant?” she said. “Nothing for the man who saved the woman you profess to love?”
He glimpsed at Zielkkenhom, as if looking for help. As if he wanted Zielkkenhom to slaughter the reporters and gathered people snickering and gossiping about his weakness, sissy-shaming him in their feeds, mocking him on live TV. The Milksop Lieutenant, they were calling him. I felt kind of bad for him, despite everything, when I glanced at what people said about him online. But then Julius sneered. And my victory did not seem so victorious anymore.
I thought of punching him. But then he’d have killed me. And my family would have lost everything, because Naturals could not maintain bank accounts, so the state would have expropriated my assets, and forced my family to the Zielkkenhomvilles. I wouldn’t be reckless. Even if my sense of honor clawed at my veins.
“An Honorary Achroite Medal, Chairman,” Julius said. “For the bridger who saved Almyra Bernhart.” And then he hammered his next words, told right into a reporter’s microphone, “Instead of saving a Natural.”
Honorary Achroite Medal. The prize for Non-Achroites who lived ríceablæd to its fullest, and exemplified the values of rebirth and progress, the pillars of the Zielkkenhom Foundation, the stalwarts of the Age of Rebirth. Reserved for collaborationists, traitors, Naturals who willed to progress directly to Fengel Eugenex without passing the exams or paying the fees for their monthly supply. I didn’t consider the recipients traitors, not all of them, though I always tried to convince them not to accept it, because of what the Zielkkenhom Foundation stood for, but they always accepted it, and most Naturals considered them traitors. And the Harmonists would take advantage of that. “Cael Cavanaugh, recipient of the prize for traitors,” they’d say. But I could not leave Almyra. I would decline the award, but only one thing pounded my brain.
Was I one of them? Was I an Honorary? Even if I did not accept the award? Zielkkenhom’s words drilled my brain. You’re one of us.
“That should suffice,” Zielkkenhom said.
“Chairman,” Almyra said. “A little more?”
“Be not avaricious, Healdend Bernhart,” Zielkkenhom said. “That is not Enhanced behavior.” Zielkkenhom turned to me. Stared at me with expressionless eyes, the same ones he had the day the world ended, the day the world was reborn. “I expect you at the Zielkkenhom Foundation Awards Ceremony, bridger. Which shall take place in your district, today at night, as a gesture of goodwill.” He raised his voice so everyone could hear. And indeed, everyone had.
“He shall be there,” Almyra answered for me.
And with the same eyes Zielkkenhom had stared at me, he glanced at Julius. “We must discuss with the others how shall we proceed. Hardakhan is in wait.” He raised his head and glared at me for a last second.
It was as if gravity had increased, as if something clutched me, as if I weighed thousands of tons and could not move. I thought that when the moment arrived, the moment I had Zielkkenhom in front of me, I’d be ready, but I wasn’t. I had a whole speech prepared but I forgot the words. I thought I’d have been ready to argue with him, or if it came to, to fight against him, but the moment arrived, and I didn’t do a thing. But God was going to grant me another chance. And I was going to be ready. At the Ceremony.
Julius stood as straight as the platinum-coated zielkithe slabs plastered over the Towers. “I am afraid I must depart. Goodbye, Almie.” He bowed in front of her. And then he glared at me. “I always win, bridger.” He clouted my back wound.
“Lt. Nabritt,” a reporter said. “Is it true that a Natural is responsible for the attack?”
Julius didn’t even glance at him, because Almyra had embraced me and not him. “Hæft Cavanaugh,” he said. “I shall guarantee that every Natural knows of your feats, of how you saved Almyra Bernhart, daughter of Eugenex’s manufacturer, instead of a Natural. And how the Zielkkenhom Foundation Awards Ceremony shall transpire in your district, guttersnipe.” He sneered and strode away with Zielkkenhom, with the city at their feet. My district lighted buildings visible, just a bridge away.
I gazed at the horizon for just a second. Was the last time I’d see the capital I loved as I remembered.
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