Before I was brought to Ethar, Jax had surgically implanted a language translator into the area of my brain located behind my ear. Since then, I’ve learned that the implant has branched out from the module, creating pathways to the frontal lobe, affecting centers in my brain that control not only language, but speech and sound as well. It deciphers several of the dialects used on Ethar, but it doesn’t always get everything right. Just like with any technology, it’s only as good as the information loaded into it. Slang, as well as some other Etharian-to-English translations, can sometimes still be confusing and insufficient to me. The way in which things are said—the use of idioms as modes of expression—can throw me off. I’m going to have to have Jax upgrade my language chip to accommodate this kind of slang.
Growls come from Trey, Wayra, and Jax as they eye the soldier like he’s meat.
The soldier grins. “Whah-ho! Have yous all had her then?” He laughs at his own crudeness.
Wayra scowls at the other soldier who seems to be in charge. “Since when are you letting foreigners into the Brigade?” he demands.
“Since we’re at war. Comantre sent us reinforcements,” he answers Wayra with a look of resignation. Then he directs his comments to the rude Comantre soldier, “Shut your maw, Raspin. You speak only when I say you speak.”
Raspin looks unfazed. “Don’t stretch your underbits,” he says with a sly, insubordinate smile, “I was just makin’ friends.” He winks and makes kissy faces at me. I turn away and look straight ahead again, ignoring him.
Leelenaw, the soldier who’d lifted me from the ground, leads me out of Trey’s quarters. Several more soldiers in combat gear await us in the corridor. They eye me curiously as we pause and wait for the others to file out. Trey somehow maneuvers into position next to me, not an easy feat with so many wanting to get a look at me. The floating triangle-vending-machine-of-terror follows us into the hall; its stalking, all-seeing pyramid eye focuses its attention on me.
“So that thing’s creepy,” I murmur to Trey.
“It’s a programmed killer. Don’t provoke it.”
“Okay,” I agree, trying to hide my shiver of fear. There are times when acting like a raving lunatic can save your life. In the foster care system, when another kid thinks you’re crazy, she’s more apt to leave you alone. Even when she’s much bigger than you, you know that she knows there’s such a thing as “crazy strength.” Crazy doesn’t hold anything back—doesn’t save anything in reserve. It doesn’t fight fair. It just goes ballistic . . . and crazy never stops. I’ve gone crazy before with a broken beer bottle, fending off drunken men. In a situation like this, however, crazy gets you killed—or worse—and there are things worse than death. I glance over my shoulder at Raspin behind me; he scratches his wiry red hair with his two fingers beneath his helmet, giving me a wicked grin, but there’s something dishonest about it. It confuses me.
“Look at all the Brigadets they ordered to arrest us,” Wayra starts mouthing off to Jax. “Cavars everywhere are laughing at you!” he says to the soldier with a hand on his upper arm. “Why’s everyone so afraid of her?” he nods his head in my direction because his hands are a plastic paperweight behind his back. “She’s just a little lost Etharian. You should be protecting her. She’s Rafian. She has proven her loyalty to us.”
“They’re just doing their jobs, Wayra,” I say, trying to calm him down. He’s never been in this situation. He’s never felt this kind of betrayal.
“Blow their jobs!” he snarls.
Winding through a few curving hallways, the high-end elegance of the sconce lighting on the walls falls away the farther we get from Trey’s door. As we progress and turn down several more corridors, the soft lighting is replaced by silver tracks of light in the floor and ceiling.
On the next corridor, we enter a bridge-tunnel of pure glass suspended two hundred stories or more above the base platform of the ship. Stretching between two separate towers, it’s illuminated by the sun, giving us an unimpeded view of blue sky. I squint, unable to shield my eyes from the glare as I assess the height of the tower we’re about to enter; it’s the tallest within the floating city, almost reaching the top of the iridescent defensive shield that covers us the way a dome protects the scene within a snow globe. As we cross the bridge to it, I peer through the transparent floor; beneath us is a breathtaking reservoir of crystal-blue water. The water streams into a deep blue moat around the base of the gleaming silver tower. Beyond it, lush green lawns divide beautifully structured gardens.
As we cross to the tower, glass doors slide open for us to enter through; the lead Brigadet strobes a pattern of light onto the crisscross of blue security beams barring our way. The blue lasers evaporate, allowing us to proceed into the tower. A fem-bot hologram materializes as we move forward, floating along with us. “Greetings and welcome to Premiere Palisade’s level 210,” her sultry robot voice says, “featuring the offices of some of our most prominent members of Skye Congress and Skye Council. The main concourse of Palisade Station is one level below. The Sonic Rail Line, transport to surrounding skyscapes, can be located on the main concourse, one level down. Overups to destinations within Premiere Palisades are located on the main concourse, one level down. Do you require a guide?”
“Cancel guide,” one of the soldiers barks, resulting in the hologram’s disappearance from sight.
We continue through the corridor. Military personnel in the Premiere Palisade begin to take note of us. Most of the tall, willowy women we encounter slow their progression as we pass them—sometimes with mouths agape. At first, I think they’re looking at just me, startled to see someone who looks Alameeda, but then I notice the adoring stares that Trey is getting when their eyes move from me to him. Blushes and soft whispers behind hands greet me as I glance over my shoulder.
Walking by an elaborate wrought-iron balustrade, we arrive at a gallery that overlooks the round chamber below. It’s an ultramodern elevated train station. The tracks intersect the building and run between skyscrapers, linking them together. The arrival and departure area is the size of a high-tech coliseum. All along the walls of the chamber below are elevatorlike doors, which must be the entry points to the overups referred to by the guidebot. The doors project television images featuring some kind of news program that I can’t make out from here. Passengers enter the small chambers and disappear behind their doors. My eyes move on to the gleaming silver tile that lines the chamber, noting that the black-tiled pillars and arched niches of its architecture give the space an old-world-meets-new-world look.
I lift my eyes to stare across the gallery from us. A lone figure leans over the railing, his elbows on the balustrade with his hands clasped together. He’s between two columns that are carved in the image of saers. What sets this Etharian apart to make me notice him is that he’s not Rafian; his dress uniform is that of a Comantre Syndic. His long, golden-brown hair is rolled into dreadlocks and secured in a ponytail. He looks like a surfer—someone you’d see on a beach in Chicago’s North Park playing two-man volleyball. The paler skin on his jaw suggests that he had a beard, but shaved it recently. I can’t tell what color his eyes are from this distance as they bore into mine, returning my stare, but I’d bet Wayra an entire venish that they aren’t violet.