Those were the pages of my journals that described how I rose to power.

I was so young in 1865, and I hardly knew any of the things that I take for granted now. In 1869, I moved onto my next journal and censored as much as possible. It was a balance because my daughter would need to see enough to guess at what truly happened, but not enough to be dangerous. I wrapped the journal you hold now in waterproof cloth and used fingerprint technology to keep prying eyes from looking in. No one should bother hunting for my other journals. If there is a skill I possess in excess, it is self-censorship.

Now, I have a second daughter, you — the one who will read these words first.

My child, i xetåm lịberås mosmur, my Toma, you were born on 9 Hikol 1892. I ascended to the Presidency of the International Congress on 1 Khinekol 1892. I have plans, many of them ambitious, and you are one of them. Truly, all of Niksubvya is ascendant: Kitesrati is now the Governor of Narahja, we have three Niksubvya senators, and a good number of us work outside of the home at all levels of politics.

You are a miracle brought by the will of Tsemanok. The family will accept this in time, as I am far old to have had you and have every reason to believe that you will bring great honor to our family.

Toma, this is the story of a heartbeat. It began before I was born, when Sehutañi took ler first breath. The heartbeat raced in that Progressive Movement elevator when le touched my hair. It ended on the execution platform. Each of the actions we undertake pushes the next generation forward or pulls it back. We are so many racing hearts, a globular cluster humming with gravitation.

For the first decade after that assassination, when Kitesrati and I walked down Kisera Street, I thought I saw Sehutañi rush towards the Progressive Movement headquarters. This only happened during spontaneous summer showers when the trees were in full bloom.

The dreams continued until the night of your conception: Sehutañi stood at the foot of my bed, and ler heart beat so loudly that the windows rattled. The death-prayers should have prevented apparitions. I visited ler ashes monthly and libated rivers of blood.

If you are reading this, my sunbeam, I am dead. I hope that it happened when I was old and that you have blossomed, ksibja-plucker, and watched me pull Ameisa so far forward that an ocean of inertia will prevent it from regressing back. I hope that you have married well and that you have had godlike children with whichever spouse you have chosen. Niksubvya is a name written on the vault of Heaven.

I have curated these words for the masses because they deserve to know what happened. Share it, if you will. Keep it close if you must.

Do with this what you will, but remember that you will always be legitimate to me.

Salus
1 Poråkol 1892

[A note accompanying the journal’s publication: Axopatomsa Eråsis glabdesu. Dof tëæmlaek mamgukofa mosjefenga. T’eikniphaomæ klesælịru kul makra dåmịmla av sanmoksuösaịru omnibh. Glabdeml mök lịbånibhæ̈ paänxa, dokusa kubhu tazai radåmfæva länglabdeml? Hjenähjas oxikanælaeroneu ịkur besu. Murhjas rịbhælaịrruịr. Ku fædeis murhjas oxikanælaịrru. Axopatomsa Eråsis glabdesu. Kækyåv moru glabdesu.]

END

[Author’s final notes for those who are reading: It’s done. Wow.

Thank you so much for reading. You all rock. So, if you like what you’ve read, feel free to share this with others, talk about it, rate it, describe it as a package unto itself.

I’m not done with podcasting/writing, though! The best way to stay up to date is to follow me on Twitter at @kayeboesme or to subscribe to my blog Pangrammatike, which you can find on kayeboesme.com

I’m planning a different podcast set in the same universe several decades after Epiphany is set, and the best way to know when it’s ready is to follow me elsewhere.

Again, thank you!]

Here, the sun sizzles on the pavement and the sky never quite loses an undertone like steel. Those of us who decided to watch the executions assembled early in the day, most with parasols to protect us from the sunlight. I wore red for the first time since mourning Kelis. The entire Execution Square was awash with people in vivid scarlet, hardly any other color represented.

This is an event wholly unlike anything else. No vendors are allowed. No one sells offerings to the gods. The only businesses present are the news crews and the young girls and boys selling water from giant wheeled drums.

From the screen projected up high, we could see vital signs for each of the assembled assassins, whom the guards had placed in a pen beside the execution pedestal. As an adviser, I watched with the others from a special seating area adjacent to the stage. I could see everything.

Advisers Tenes and Kurutwe sat beside me. Adviser Tenes grabbed my hand and squeezed it when they brought Sehutañi up.

Two screens mounted at the front of the Execution Square showed Sehutañi ascend the narrow steps, ler mouth and eyes bound with red fabric. Ler heart beat steady, like a metronome. The other heartbeats raced.

I remembered those moments in bed when I pressed my ear against that torso and lulled myself to sleep with the steadiness of that heartbeat. If le feared death, ler face and comportment didn’t show it, but Sehutañi had a sister who’d died. Sehutañi is following in those footsteps, and there is a certain peace in following family, even when they have done something so heinous and wrong-headed.

The guards kicked Sehutañi’s knees out from under lim. Le fell onto the chopping block.

The deathwatch priestess approached a microphone and began to chant from the Book of Ghosts and Demons, which contains Sabaji chants to be said over those who are dying at the hands of the state. A young apprentice stood beside lim with clapping blocks, which le hit together at each line break.

The Old Tveshi means, In undermining the State, you have sacrificed yourself to the State. Through your sacrilege, you will hold up the sacredness of the office of our ruler. By dying, you give your heartbeats to the ones whom you have wronged.

The blade came down. Ler vital signs stopped.

I thought that I was fine, but when the display flatlined, my cheeks went hot. Tears welled in my eyes.

Adviser Tenes squeezed my hand tightly and whispered, “We can leave if you like. You don’t have to stay.” Le put ler arm around me and hugged me close.

Regent Thassañi was here. All of the advisers were here. This was no trivial execution, and I had a duty. I stayed. They mounted the heads on pikes, and I couldn’t watch. This is standard Sabaji practice.

No one prepared me for what watching this many executions done at the same time would do. Every time I close my eyes, I see those faces. I hear that chanting in my ears even though I cannot understand a word of Old Tveshi. Those faces will haunt my nightmares, most of all Sehutañi’s.

After incineration, the ashes will not go to their families. This is high treason. The ashes will be scattered in the soils that yield grain. I made a special, back-room deal with the Regent to retain those of my former lover. Oaths matter. I am not Sehutañi. I keep my oaths.

But still, O Salus, those faces! What will you do to banish them from your head? How will it be to sit here year after year among the advisers every time something like this happens?

I am only nineteen. I might see many executions. This thought terrifies me.

After the final execution, Adviser Tenes and I left.

We parted ways several blocks away from the execution site, when I went to Nitårva Square on the Skyrail. Liga and Suka waited for me there, and as the train rumbled its way to them, I let the floodgates of emotions in. I felt the rage, the pain, and everything else that I have tried to keep hidden. I broke down crying — full-blown sobs, back and chest heaving, snot dripping from my nostrils — while I sat among a throng of people.

Private emotions poison the soul when they stay inside. I let out the venom that I have held inside for so long. Akaćeheñi. This, this here, is that. This is knowing who I am and why I am here.

A young jomela, probably about seven, put ler right hand on my knee while the train shook its way along. Le brought ler left hand to my chin and tilted my head up until we looked into each other’s eyes. This jomela-child had rich, false-color eyes, and le wore children’s play-clothes. An adult stood in the aisle holding a rail, and that one stared down at the two of us together.

The jomela-child said, “Akah, how do I make the crying better? Do you need a hug?”

I looked at the adult behind lim and shook my head fiercely, fighting to speak. The lump in my throat left no room for words.

Le furrowed ler brow and said, “Hold on.”

The jomela-child took a shopping bag from ler guardian and rifled through it for a small box. Le took something out of it while I watched and stumbled back towards me as the train came to a stop. As le opened ler hands, I saw the most beautiful candied flower.

“For you,” le said.

I took it and tried to smile. The child stared earnestly at me.

“Thank you,” I whispered. “You’re very kind.”

Le sat down when the woman beside me vacated that seat, and le rested ler head against my shoulder. We sat together until I detrained in Nitårva Square several stops later.

I never managed to catch that child’s family name.

Other things need to be said, too — that I will stop this journal, which has done me no good. It is far better to cry in public and to see the good in human children, even strangers. But I have one thing more to say.

In Narahja, temples for mourning often occupy places near waterfalls. Water is a liminal thing. It connects people to the sky and to the underworld. Waterfalls bring souls down into the darkness below. It evaporates passively into the air. I needed to see water.

Nitårva Square is not a mourning place. Here, pipes force water up several meters into the air. Children and adults of all genders, some nude, some in quick-drying clothes, run through the jets. Even with an execution halfway across town, people celebrated their lives here — Galasuhi and Shiji, Narahji and Iturji, foreigner and native-born.

The clock on Breeze Hotel chimed. Suka, also in red, stood to the side of the square with Liga, searching for me. I made my way up to them.

I strained to think of something to say that didn’t involve quoting Akah Gysabala. I am suffering. I am so deep in suffering. I have suffered ever since I realized that the Daybreak Movement meant to kill the Fadehin. I said that the cloudless sky was inappropriately cheerful.

A part of me doesn’t want to write what happened next because I want my descendants to believe that I mourned for a long time. I want you to believe that I could not smile. Grief is greedy and jealous. It sees other emotions and only thinks that there should be more space for itself.

Suka kissed me on both cheeks and said, “You were very strong today.”

“We could get ice if you want,” Liga said. “You look like you’re overheating, Salus.”

“It’s these Tveshi clothes. They’re thicker than what we wear in Narahja at this time of year.” I grabbed Suka’s hand and squeezed it.

Liga nodded. “We have some mourning clothing in Karatau’s home that might fit you.”

“Le’s not wearing Karatau’s clothes,” Suka said. Le clicked ler tongue. “Do you know nothing about Salus?”

Liga adjusted ler topknot and bit ler lower lip. I saw many people in lim then: Karatau, of course, but several hundred people behind that — all of the Kohjenya — but the collective fell away from lim suddenly. Le laughed. “You’re right. I obviously don’t know lim at all.”

I nodded vigorously and raised my hand in the traditional Narahji greeting. Le pressed ler palm against mine. “I am Liga tal Bisum,” le said, “Suka’s cousin, Akah.”

I nodded and said, in faux-formal Narahji, “It is a pleasure to meet you. May I address you informally? You have, after all, been reading my journal and listening to my most intimate conversations. I am Adviser Nitañi, but under the circumstances, you may skip the formal address and call me Salus without reservation.” My laugh felt hollow.

Suka rolled ler eyes and wormed out of my grip. “Honestly, you two!”

Liga clicked ler tongue twice. “If you like!” Le giggled.

“Tell me about yourself, Liga.”

“I’m a hacker.” Le poked Suka in the side. Suka looked at lim with the helplessness of anyone watching ler parent poke fun in public — because Liga is not our age. Liga will never be our age. Liga continued, “I am in the Kohjenya, which the Tveshi call Equilibrium Nexus, a collective. I have connections to many people.”

I closed my hand around lers and pulled lim close. Liga and I kissed on the cheeks like intimate friends, and I said, “Let’s undergo the friendship ritual. I don’t mind taking Karatau’s clothing as long as it doesn’t become common knowledge that I have done that. Certainly the only way to ensure that is for us to be friends.”

Liga let go of my hand and put ler arm around Suka. “Yes, let’s do that.”

Le pulled me out of my mourning-mind so perfectly, as always, even if part of why we did it that way was to satisfy the hidden surveillance cameras.

This is not the same grief from Kelis’ death. This death has not pulled me apart as much as I feared. Aneti’s radicalization and death unsettles me, and I have a memory of lim in my arms. I have a memory of ler sister — in the necropolis — and an obligation to both of them because they are dead. I am deep in that grief. Everything I described above regarding the execution is a real feeling.

The difference between now and Kelis is that I feel like I have a future. Kitesrati and I will marry. I have friends who care. I am beginning to understand reality. I have at least a sliver of akaćeheñi.

The last thing we did while we were out was to buy a new set of pale gray sheets for my bed. Liga and Suka changed them for me. I am still injured, but I think that I will call Kitesrati tomorrow for a date. I think that I am well enough now to have sex. Having lim over and going to breakfast in the morning with my family will paint over the events of the past few months with at least some semblance of normalcy. Hopefully, I won’t cry.

The country will not be normal for a while. I — my family — my relationships — won’t be “normal” for a while. And yet, there is so much to do, and unlike Karatau or Tenes, I have one human lifetime in which to do it.

As the parents’ blood spattered across the floor — as le heard the other villagers wail in the distance —— as the riders razed every other home in the town ——— as the scent of uncooked grain burning made ler mouth water and stomach growl ———— this child felt the veil between reality and illusion part. Le claimed to see a tapestry falling from Heaven.

Decades later, on returning to the ruined village, the now-old-man commissioned stacks of paper and began to write the epic that would change my country’s cultural legacy — that would change all of the gardens’ —— no, all of the worlds’ cultural legacies. Only the young child who brought lim porridge and ink from Kiasmu heard the story, at least until the old council demanded to know what the ancient stranger wanted with bones and dust.

The old man’s name is said to have been Maratịn, and le claimed that messengers of five gods had dictated this story to lim.

Thousands of years later, everyone knows this old man’s name.

Maratịn taught us that the world is holographic, immeasurably kind, and deeply cruel. The only constant is change. All smells and tastes evolve by the moment. Science and metaphor wrap around each other like two halves of a double helix, each properly understood in the context of how the pieces feed into each other until they reach perfect unity. In the waking dream, every chance causality is Tsemanok, and every fruit swelling in the Canyons is Yilrega. This is Impermanence.

An adviser’s initiation ceremony is a mystery that will always remain secret, but I can write my impressions of it in comparison to what everyone knows from Kamo #597. This is when Sehịnta created the Karatha and brought the first ten into the fold. Our oaths of service use those core things Sehịnta asked them as a model:

• Do you swear to uphold the will of the community?
• Do you swear to follow the best path forward?
• Do you swear to respect the leadership of the community, its gods, and its culture?
• Do you swear to sacrifice your own wants and needs for the good of the community?
• Do you swear to join me and never look back?

That, again, is what Sehịnta had the Karatha swear so long ago.

Everything I could want has fallen into place, and I am afraid of what might come next. The carvers have set my name into the crumbling stone, as it were, and the Priestesses of Enakhiavoshei have anointed my forehead with sacred oil. A man showed me seven sacred things that I cannot reveal.

If the Karatha have sworn something so similar to what I have put before my own interests, surely some god will strike them down eventually. It is perhaps blasphemous to say this. I should strike it out, but I won’t. This is not smart paper.

Sehịnta deserves respect. Unlike lim, we all forget.

We all die.

We are all forgotten.

I know what the Regent has asked me to do. I know that this will take a lifetime to carry out, and I don’t know what I will do if I die. Kitesrati and I will marry. We could have children, if we can. The thousand million decisions of my ancestors have brought me to this moment, and I will rise to my feet on their memory. I will do my duty.

Maratịn teaches that most things are impermanent. Love lasts. Hiahetå’s love for Kakedi is the main undercurrent of Impermanence. In the legends of tesekhaira, Namgyatzi will never stop feeling love for Sehịnta.

Sehutañi, like Kelis, will stay with me forever.

No one settled it until the Taritit decided to build infrastructure there. Only aliens would have funded the colossal penitentiary and the factories staffed entirely by people, not sharp-fingered robots like we had known before and since. Its human touches — the mechanical trees that whir open every morning to shade the sidewalks — popped up after the Occupation ended.

The penitentiary faces a temple of the dead, built over the culling chambers organized by the Taritit for their sacrificial plan. People still leave things there in memory of those who have died. It is the grandest temple of death in the world, put here by the Sabaji, Hicịptụ, and Ịgzarhjenya in one of our few displays of unity. All of our gods of death stand side by side to receive goodwill.

In the penitentiary, Sehutañi sat in ler own cell. Le risked more well-adjusted inmates ripping lim apart before the official state execution could happen. When I arrived, the woman in the cell across from lim was screaming obscenities in ler direction. That one stopped when I arrived. I am still not used to the silence that falls when I enter a room.

Most criminals have comforts, but most criminals can be rehabilitated because they were not in their right minds when they committed crimes. Sehutañi will be killed, so le must remain uncomfortable. Le has only a small floor pallet with no blankets. When I visited, an untouched bowl of protein porridge rested on the tile floor several feet from a squatting toilet.

Liga helped me approach the shock-proof glass. I leaned on lim slightly as I tapped with my fingers.

Sehutañi looked up at me.

I was not ready to see those eyes. They jarred the carefully-planned things I wanted and needed to say. Instead, I traced the curve of ler back and the tension in ler muscles as le stood. According to the digital reader in front of the cell, ler heart rate increased. The hormone-based emotional index turned white and violet, indicators for anger and lust.

“Could you open the communication channel?” I asked.

“Yes,” Liga said.

After le pressed the button, I said, “Mesahelepui, Sehutañi.”

“You came,” le said. Le walked towards the glass and stood close enough to feel the crackling electricity just inside of it. “So, are you a heroine, Akah Nitañi?”

For a moment, I pictured myself as Kakedi in the Canyons after the Chrysalis Interlude. Kakedi had a flying machine to build in the forest treetops. Currently, I have nothing. “Our Fadehin Akaiañi died.”

Sehutañi laughed. “Isn’t it wonderful how mortal our leaders are?” Le jutted ler chin towards Liga. “Even that can die. The one beside you is not a true tesekhaira. And since when did you use the word Fadehin? You are Narahji. You do not respect the Fadehin. You call lim your Deimo.”

I clenched my fist against the glass and wondered if I should ask Liga to end the call. Our eyes met, and I briefly remembered how to react in the face of Sehutañi’s anger. I said, “I will be an adviser soon. Still, what I call lim has no bearing on whether I consider the Kaureitha family fit to rule. It has no impact on where the true seat of the monarch should be, in Menarka.”

Saying more would have required me to think about other compromises that I have made and the things that I must do. Now that the trial has finished, I cannot afford displays of ambiguity. Traditional paper and hidden journals must be my only confessors.

“I don’t regret ler death,” Sehutañi said. “Do you regret killing me, Salus?”

“Do not call me Salus.”

“The Regent slipped you in that position to gain control over the Ịgzarhjenya. You are a despicable, stupid thing. You will fall in love with someone. You will seduce someone. You will then cut lim apart.” Le licked ler lips. “Tell me, Salus Niksubvya, if I can call you that, was this worth it? Is this how antisocial you are, that you would have sex with someone — that you would say that you love someone — and then you would betray lim to die?”

“Akah Gysabala did the same.”

“I don’t know who in the name of Enahari that is.”

I felt heat between my legs and despised myself for it. I tried remembering that this is the woman in the elevator who removed my gyena without asking. This is that despicable opportunist who wormed into a political movement’s headquarters. This is that woman. This is the one who had sex with me when I was too drunk and drugged to know what I wanted. This is that woman! This is the one who has become my gateway to misery instead of my antidote to sorrow. This is that woman, and I hate lim.

I could have explained who Akah Gysabala was, but I understand the playwright’s pain now, and I don’t want to see Sehutañi spit in the face of the heroic dead. It is one thing to out a nameless conspirator, and it is quite something else to betray someone whom one has loved, who has touched someone in the most intimate places, and who could have been a good companion, a good spouse.

Akah Gysabala, I will make an offering at your grave site. I will shed tears for you, and I will shed tears for myself.

Liga closed the communication channel. I turned away from Sehutañi.

Part of me wanted closure today. I don’t know what I was thinking. Sehutañi will die because le deserves to die. How could le ever give me closure? All I can do is try not to think about the times we had sex, the love that I felt and that I feel, the love that coexists with all of this hatred, disdain — disgust! All I can do is try to think of Kitesrati instead.

All I could do in the end in that hallway filled with all of those cells with the silent people watching — the once-screaming people watching — Sehutañi watching — was, in turn, to watch. To watch Sehutañi’s heart beat.

Liga and I stayed there for a quarter of an hour.

Liga dressed the most formally out of all who gave testimonies, a in a yellow men’s haukaptu with puffed fabric at the elbows. The embroidery, predominantly gray and amber, reminded me of a harvest I saw in Iturja when I was still a child. It looked altogether too warm, but ler white eyeliner and the banded, gray-and-yellow face paint over the bridge of ler nose hadn’t started to run. It must have been waterproof. Le sat with ler dark hands neatly folded on the table, the tips of ler index fingers twitching slightly. A copper medallion inscribed with prayers to Yilrega dangled from ler neck.

Le had red eyes, so le had removed the contacts. Hiding those eyes wouldn’t have made anyone in the audience sympathetic given the questions, though.

The interrogator asked lim to describe the situation from the beginning, and Liga did: “It first came to our attention several weeks ago. A woman I know, Akah Nitañi, who will also testify, I believe — le overheard a disturbing conversation on the Skyrail. We tried to engage with lim in the best way we could, but faced some limitations due to the legal issues surrounding gathering evidence without police authorization. There was no real way forward. I deeply regret—”

“Is the collective capable of regret?”

Liga tapped ler fingers twice on the table before continuing. “Le became intimate with Akah Sehutañi so le could gather more information on our behalf. My personal limitations prevented me from managing my relationship with lim to the best of my ability. I was under some stress. We did what we could.”

“Okay, then. What is your function within the nuamua?”

“I don’t know how to answer that question because I am not in the nuamua. Is it important?” Le frowned. “I would be able to answer the same question if it were about Equilibrium Nexus instead.”

The Tveshi name for the Kohjenya sounded odd in ler mouth.

“What is your function within Equilibrium Nexus?”

Liga cleared ler throat and steepled ler hands in front of ler lips. “I do software development and coding, among other related tasks. Karatau Meiyenesi is exempt from the legal restrictions surrounding public safety video feed hacking, and because I am in Equilibrium, I am also exempt.”

The interrogator paused. I think that le must not have known how to respond to Liga’s answer. I know only the basics about Equilibrium Nexus now, and were I in a state to march to Karatau and demand a ride on a daraiga so le could tell me everything, I would do so immediately. This is not the case, nor will it be for a while.

It is excruciating to be on the cusp of finding good information.

“Could you explain the specific tasks you undertook in your role that are related to this case?”

Liga nodded vigorously. “Certainly. I hacked into communication bands and computer accounts. Akah Nitañi allowed me to install malware on ler tech for easy access. I used a comm band message to infect Akah Sehutañi’s band with the same software. Software injections like this are routine. The Karatha, for example, have done this. You will ask a follow-up question about the evidence that we collected, and that is related to the bill being introduced in the Senate by Regent Thassañi to revoke Code 1830-229-17. I am within my rights to withhold any further commentary until that happens. My daughter completed a friendship ritual with Akah Nitañi, and I will protect their interests.”

“Did Equilibrium Nexus withhold information to force the government’s hand regarding Code 1830-229-17?”

“No.” Liga flattened ler hands against the table. “If there were no Code 1830-229-17, fewer assassinations would happen, and I wouldn’t have to do this much work.” After waiting ten seconds, le clicked ler tongue and said, “While you think of a response, I can elaborate. Code 1830-229-17 did not ultimately matter to us once we knew the target. Before we knew, I pushed back against others in Equilibrium to protect my daughter and ler friend. There is no blame in anything I did.”

The interrogator stayed silent. I strained to hear the sound of breathing, but the rustling of people around me prevented me from hearing it. It is only now, rewatching the testimony from the safety of my room with Suka beside me, that I know that the interrogator’s breathing is too regular. Le is nervous, according to Suka. We have been speculating — while I write — as to why.

“How could one of you go against the wishes of the collective for a relative? That runs counter to everything we know.”

Liga smiled. “That proves only one thing: You know nothing. Do you have any other questions for me?”

“Go back again to what you did. Could you explain it to me again without referencing Code 1830-229-17?”

“Of course. I used communication bands and computer accounts. And — I think before my previous explanation, I had mentioned the public safety video feeds. That required some hacking, too. Akah Nitañi allowed me to install malware on ler communication technologies, which I used to improve the range of what I could do. At one point, I used Akah Nitañi’s comm band to inject malicious software into Sehutañi’s comm. Afterward, I could see the messages le was sending and receiving. Akah Nitañi wore a bug. There is audio from every conversation that le had with Sehutañi, including several ones of interest to the prosecution. The majority had nothing to do with the assassination. I submitted data files of the relevant conversations along with my pre-interrogation briefing.” Le cleared ler throat. “Is that all you wanted?”

“Go back to what you said about Sehutañi’s comm band. You hacked into it and could read everything?”

“Yes.”

“In Akah Nitañi’s testimony, le discovered Sehutañi’s identity. If you had access to those comm band messages, why didn’t you have the information sooner?”

“Ah,” Liga said. “Allow me to explain. In all of the messages, Sehutañi and ler co-conspirators referred to the Fadehin as the khava. It was shorter and less respectful, obviously. Sehutañi’s papers only had a few mentions of the Fadehin.”

“Okay. Go back. Tell me what happened after Akah Nitañi gave you the information and intervened on ler own.”

Le steepled ler hands again. “We convened a meeting and decided to position counter-snipers along the route, along with some High-Wilds technology for surveillance. You have the video we captured from the procession. We would have gone further, but Adviser Tenes Sari contacted Karatau Meiyenesi to ask about coordinating something to keep the Fadehin safe. The plan went as anticipated. We don’t know how the Daybreak assassin found ler way into the Senate while it was closed. That isn’t easy. They might have used the shipping area.”

“So, on their side, they had a network of conspirators. On your side, you are Suka’s father, and that led you to Akah Nitañi how?”

“Akah Nitañi called Suka first. Suka contacted me.”

“I see. So, Akah Nitañi and Akah Suka are friends. Karatau Meiyenesi and Adviser Tenes Sari obviously have the same connection, and you are mediating between the two because you are Karatau Meiyenesi’s subordinate and Akah Suka’s father. Adviser Tenes Sari has direct access to the Fadehin, and Karatau Meiyenesi controls others like you. How did Akah Nitañi know Adviser Tenes Sari?”

“Akah Nitañi moved to Galasu to work for the Progressive Movement, and they met in that capacity.”

“How did you know that the police wouldn’t catch this?”

“We had a contact.”

“Had?”

“Le died when one of the explosions detonated. A lot of people died.”

“Thank you.”

The conversation continues on for another eight minutes, during which the interrogator cycles back to the same questions over and over. I could not rewatch my own interrogation because that circular rhythm was excruciating enough the first time. I don’t like looking at myself injured. I prefer to think about the cream that I have and how easily it makes things heal.

The court debated the outcome shortly after midday. The assassins will be executed. Some things are beyond rehabilitation, and if we allow them to live, we allow them to suck more life out of our nation.

Sehutañi will die. I don’t know how I feel about this. I fell in love with lim, and I still love lim, and I am marrying Kitesrati. Kitesrati is nothing like Sehutañi. Kitesrati is everything that my mother, father, and matriarch want in my wife. Kitesrati is worth the bride-price for taking a woman out of another family. Sehutañi would never have been worth it: So much older than me, so much more scarred than me, so much less ambitious than me — and a part of me hates myself for saying that.

My thoughts keep circling around my death: Whether Liga and Karatau and Tenes would mourn me for very long, what would happen to my family once they lost me, how many children I would leave behind. I have the sense that something is looming on the horizon and that it was set before I was even born. When Liga looked into the camera the first time, something clicked into place. It is as if it has already happened and the hours are just counting down.

Adviser Tenes says that this looks like Tveshė after the Occupation ended. Le also says that four murders in the late 1600s each took nearly five days to decide because the evidence was so messy. Gods, could you imagine five days for a trial?

The paste has made the healing so fast that I hardly need the wheelchair, but I am still wobbly, and the wheelchair prevents me from moving my torso too much to compensate. The doctors and I argued for some time yesterday about when I will start physical therapy. I won’t miss a minute of the trial. I can’t.

Nobody checked my wheelchair for weapons. That is absolute insanity given the gravity of the situation. What if one of the protesters got into the courtroom with a gun and fired at the defense attorney?

Everyone outside had signs calling for the Regent to order their execution without a trial. Such things were commonly done before the Occupation. We can’t do that, though! The Atara Government Federation will file a complaint against Tveshė via the International Congress if we do not give these people a trial.

This entire thing is a sham. Who would give those who assassinated a world leader a fair trial?

Our Fadehin deserves quick justice, not five days plus of deliberation. Gods, I hope that this comes to a speedy end and that the culprits receive what they are due. If anything, the verdict should take less time to deliver. I don’t know why that is not the case. There is clear culpability. Those idiots from Atara are wasting all of our time.

Perhaps this is taking so long because the default sentence for conspiring to murder a member of the royal family is death. Nobody cares as much when it’s just going to result in an individual rehabilitation plan in the penitentiary. Unless someone fails rehabilitation, le’ll be out in under six years.

I have never actually seen the process for doing murder testimonies before. They gathered all of these ahead of time — mine included, given on 46 Poråkol, and I will not repeat everything I said because you can locate that testimony in the court archives. They’ll all be there.

The video testimonies are played on screens in the open courtroom. While one’s testimony plays, one is veiled so the court cannot watch us watching ourselves — which will distract them from the deliberations. The process is not like the minor offenses court at all, where they just have the prosecution and defense interview witnesses who are kept behind a screen with voice amplifiers. It’s — it’s very different, and more time consuming, perhaps not effective this way.

The videos ensure that the prosecution and defense cannot interrupt each other, which admittedly happens often during the minor trials. Maybe video isn’t so bad. Witnesses may be called up to verify testimonies and expand on something that was said — hence the veiling — but that seldom happens in these cases. All who testify take oaths, and the pricked index finger is shown to the camera.

Kitesrati accompanied me into the testifiers’ section of the courtroom. We wore our gyena knotted with our hair wrapped up in it. Kitesrati wore a deep indigo one that was sheer enough for me to see ler many small braids beneath the surface. Le did a spa treatment, and ler black skin is almost shining today. Le may have chosen deep indigo to complement ler amber-yellow eyes. Le’s … attractive, yes. A very attractive person. It must feel so strange to have a fiancée who fucked a traitor, even if I did it for the right reasons. Things will be awkward for a while.

I can see Kitesrati as a senator because le was so patient with me on our way, and if there is anything that pays in politics, it is patience.

Regardless, our matriarchs have started the marriage negotiation, and I am trying really hard. It helps that Kitesrati understands these circumstances and has thus not requested sex. Regent Thassañi asked me to bring lim here because le believes that having my fiancée present will deemphasize my connection to Akah Sehutañi. I need to watch my presentation in public.

My one concern is that Kitesrati might not achieve what le wants. The Kohjenya will take care of me. My successes and failures were bound to theirs through the blood ritual Matriarch Mohata told me to do. Kitesrati will not know about it until after the marriage ceremony. We will have to bring it up delicately. One of my fears is that if my involvement continues to escalate, Kitesrati and I might not grow close. I don’t need to be married in the end. I could see courtesans for sex. My hope is that I can make Kitesrati a companion. I had to fall in love with someone and betray lim for the Kohjenya to approach Matriarch Mohata about an alliance. What would le have to do to join me? To know things?

The state kept the accused in their cells for their protection given the crowds. The courts hired several people to go out among the demonstrators and seed those rumors, which will hopefully deter armed discontents. Later today, I heard from Kati that the real reason is that the police intercepted a plot to rip the assassins apart by hand after overwhelming the guards at the edge of the courtroom. That’s not even a humane death.

Most of the testimonies didn’t shock me. Sehutañi and ler co-conspirators denied that they had any official ties to the official Daybreak political body. Three of them showed remorse for not killing the Fadehin in the blasts, which made the deaths unhelpful.

Several knew that their plans had been compromised to some degree. They decided to progress anyway. Sehutañi was among them. After le clarified what le meant by compromise, both le and the interrogator fell silent.

Sehutañi broke the silence and said, “This wasn’t about destroying Tveshė. This was about sending a clear political message to world leaders: You are not immune. It means more now that everyone knows that our plans were compromised. You cannot stop a tidal wave. We know what is best for civilization, and the gods provided us the path forward. This has always been the case.”

“So, what you are saying is that you moved forward with this plan of attack — this extremely heinous action — because you wanted the murder to set a precedent?”

“No government on Ameisa is legitimate. No country on Ameisa can govern itself. This is what I know, not because anyone told it to me, but because my eyes were opened, and I have seen the light,” Sehutañi said. “Why do you think the police had no intelligence? We were good. I know now that I was responsible for the leak. My performance could have been better. We owe all of the rest to our good fortune, that it still happened despite me.”

“By the leak, you must mean the woman who gathered intelligence on you. What can you tell us about your relationship with Akah Nitañi, the Niksubvya?”

“We had a relationship. I hadn’t dated anyone from Narahja before. Being single when one is older means that one has fewer choices. I wouldn’t have eyed someone this young unless I had to,” le said. “Especially not someone from Narahja. My family wanted me to date. I thought that it made me seem less suspicious. It was important, at least during the plot, for everything about me to seem as normal as possible.”

“You deliberately used the relationship as a cover?”

“Yes, exactly.” Le paused and smiled. “I know that Akah Nitañi will watch this in court. What I need to say to lim is that I did feel something. I bared pieces of my soul to lim that had nothing to do with the assassination. The request in the Necropolis was real.”

“This is a warning for talking out of turn,” the interrogator responded. Papers rustled. “I have more questions.”

“You will have me answer them until you have gleaned everything you can from me, and then you will kill me. The cycle will continue,” le said. “Let’s talk about something else. Literature, for example. Or Seven, for fuck’s sake. Let’s talk about Seven.”

“This is your second warning. Next time, you will receive a shock.”

The cycle will continue. Does Sehutañi have younger cousins? How can one know that their fascination with lim won’t lead to the same obsession? Is that how Sehutañi started?

Sehutañi cannot send a message that world leaders are vulnerable. What le has done is provoke a revisiting of the laws that led to this unfortunate situation. We will roll back the legislation and have a country that is more wholesome and safe for its residents and its leaders.

I am so angry with Atara for intervening.

This trial should never have happened. The assassins will have time in front of people to say things. It has filled people with so many dangerous ideas. I cannot voice these thoughts to my family.

Just because I am a quarter Atarahi doesn’t mean that I agree with them.

Just because Sehutañi and ler sister committed two heinous crimes doesn’t mean that their entire family is bad.

We need to make sure that Kuresa citizens are protected because the majority of them are good people. I don’t know what to do about the others. How does one save children in a toxic extremist family? Heivenau, for example, Jikuvė’s son. How does one save that child Heivenau?

I am going out to socialize with monarchical advisers. I am so exhausted. Maybe Adviser Tenes will do most of the talking. Le’s such an argumentative chatterbox. This is really too much.

Suka has what le needs to have for safekeeping. I mean, Liga and I agreed to write them as we did so they looked like Maðzi-inspired things that I merely shared with lim so le could have the writings legally — so we could cover for ourselves at court — and we may not even need them. I mean, I bared my soul in ways that — it’s not that I keep things private, which would be wrong, but there are things that only close friends, family, and oath-friends should even see.

I plan to move these Maðzi-style journal entries into a clothing trunk with a false base and keep constant watch over it. No one outside of my family should see these writings, at least for now or until I die. If they won’t serve a court purpose, what use would the rest of the world have — except to see this ugly underside? Let them have that propaganda. The spin that is in the media is good enough for them. They deserve closure. The Fadehin died. We can at least give them that.

So. Anyway. I told Karatau that I am comfortable giving a testimony, and I said — I asked if I was in danger.

Le made eye contact with my wall screen’s video camera. Regent Thassañi has told me enough to know why. There is a ghost network written in two dead languages, Marmaḥa layered on Eamaru. Marmaḥa is the one that linguists are trying to reconstruct. Eamaru is something I am afraid to search on. There must be a network flag on the term. Regent Thassañi says that Eamaru was the language spoken after Maðz was colonized, during the spacefaring period right before Impermanence is set. I had no idea that Impermanence was that old. Impermanence is a culture in decline. If Impermanence is that old, how long have people been going into space? How long have cultures been rising and falling?

Almost no one can program in Eamaru and Marmaḥa. Now that the Karatha know that I will become important, they know who I am. There are enough Karatha to have programmers. Regent Thassañi doesn’t know which tesekhaira and collectives actively understand either language. Anyone born after Eamaru was spoken would have a significant disadvantage. There are also, apparently, secret underground schools of mortal children who are taught this language.

Karatau must know Eamaru, and so must Liga. They must know Marmaḥa. If they don’t, the entire surveillance infrastructure could be taken from them in a heartbeat.

My old smart paper needs to have its network connection disabled so it doesn’t dump everything from the early entries into the digital nets waiting for it. (Admittedly, everything could already have been scraped.) While I can — and must — go back and delete the things I don’t want anyone to see, nothing can ever truly be deleted. That is why those smart pages must go in that trunk. My new status has put me under constant threat of discovery. It’s paranoid, but I’ve even been tilting traditional paper away from cameras to avoid detection. Thank Gods I realized that my writing would be read before I said too much.

So, when I asked that question about the testimony — to go back to that:

Karatau said, “From the testimony? No. You have made people angry for your involvement overall. Daybreak, yes, and the Karatha. They seeded most of the grassroots conservative movement in the first years after the Occupation ended.”

“Are they watching us now?”

“I don’t know.” Karatau smiled and turned towards me. “You can put tape over your cameras, but the audio is another matter. There are encrypted systems that one can have. There are ways to overwhelm the network so it doesn’t notice you for a few minutes or hours. Deo has the protocols. So does Tenes. So do I. They’re not foolproof, but they do work.”

“Why would anyone want the conservative movements to succeed? The spaceports and interplanetary commerce would help all of the Gardens. That’s what they want.” I looked at the video camera, not at lim.

Karatau clicked ler tongue. “Atara. Maðz. Laseå-Ameisa. These are the hubs, and Laseå-Ameisa does not like the way Atara or Maðz prefer to manage themselves. It could—” Le cleared ler throat, and ler eyes unfocused.

I counted to seventeen in my head.

“Cultural contact is so interesting, you know. It’s not wise to put one over the other,” le said. “I know that that answer doesn’t satisfy you. How is your wound? I can apply the cream. There’s no use overextending yourself.”

“All right.”

“Have you thought about that friendship ritual with someone in the Kohjenya yet? When?”

I sighed and leaned back onto the bed. My chest hurt during the exhalation. “I should do a friendship ritual with Liga very soon, in defiance of the doctors’ orders to rest. Shouldn’t I?”

Le smiled and rolled up ler sleeves. “Yes, I think so.”

“What do you want me to do? Sit up or lie down?” I twisted and turned as best I could, and truth be told, I don’t have enough command over my injuries to dress myself yet. Anything that requires two hands is too hard. “I will be an adviser, and I am already friends with ler daughter. Suka and Liga must be close. It would be a great honor for the Kohjenya to know an adviser that well.”

Karatau helped me out of my clothing and dressings just enough to apply the paste. Le started at my shoulder. When the cream touched my skin, it sent a cooling sensation down my arm, but the cold almost burned. “Restricted use. It comes from one of the Karatha-controlled factories in Īpa.” Le cleared ler throat, moved down to undress the next wound, and continued speaking. “It would be an honor to have favor from someone who will be so esteemed. Liga will say yes.”

“Thank you. The Karatha rebuilt the factory? I thought that most of them were destroyed.” I winced when le touched my chest, but attempted to relax.

The shrapnel injuries really, truly hurt, and I don’t know when the pain will end. I might have nerve damage, which will require more surgeries. If the Karatha hate me, will they send a surgeon who cannot do ler job?

“Correct, it was bombed by the Taritit. This is a stockpile. I think that the Taritit murdered the Karatha who knew how to make it. The reverse-engineered one doesn’t have the same properties as the original.”

“Surely it’s in a supercomputer bank.”

“That would mean that the Karatha are deliberately holding back a healing technology.” Karatau laughed nervously and glanced at the video camera. “I’m certain that you don’t mean that?”

For my descendants, if you ever encounter this situation: When someone code-switches to vague statements and you do not think too much of it — if le is a member of a collective — that silence before the change means that something has happened. I didn’t notice it today because I am an idiot. Karatau probably stopped speaking plainly because someone alerted lim that we were being watched, and le couldn’t exactly say it aloud.

Regent Thassañi can mentor me, but le must run a country. Karatau corrected me today because I am not yet good at this. I need to become good at this if I have any hope of success. I need to stop being nineteen. I’m way too young for this.

Of course I said, “I don’t mean it that way. I meant that I don’t believe that they would do it, so the data must have been corrupted. We will all learn how again someday.”

“Do you know how to ride a daraiga?”

“No, and I couldn’t, not with this leg — not for months.”

“When you heal, I would like to take you out for a ride. It would be very refreshing for you to be among nature and farmland.” Le laughed. “It’s good to get out of the city sometimes.”

I think I know what le means. In the countryside, especially if we go into agricultural fields, there is nothing to mount cameras on. No one can watch us. Here in the city, programmers can mine hacked video feeds for faces. Anyone who knows a secret override language can definitely do the same thing on a much larger scale.

Good Tsemanok beside me, is this what I must become? Someone who eschews the city to avoid being hounded by the Karatha for a secret mandate that they would hate? I am not prepared for this.

Gods, I wish that things could move fast, and the way we must do things is so, so slow!

Regent Thassañi met with me again, and I learned so much from lim (and ler staff) about the way we will market my appointment to the press: The assassination has provided them with the opportunity to add more Narahji representation. This is important because the Daybreak Movement has started recruiting from non-Shiji groups. That’s what we will say. We will say that Tveshė is many people, but one country, all under a descendant of Sehịnta.

News agencies will cover this story in Menarka while keeping a spotlight on the funeral preparations in Galasu. Half of the residents of Narahja boycotted the former Fadehin’s funeral in 1861, and we can’t have that happen again.

It all makes political sense.

Secretly, I have different orders: The first is to ask someone from the Kohjenya — probably Liga — for a friendship ritual to solidify my ties with them in a way that people could understand. The second, to meet with international diplomats like my father to assess what can be done to improve the status of naturalized citizens. The third, To Be Determined or something, accompanied only by a soft smile.

The diplomats will all likely say what I have said for a long time: Even if history is silent on the matter, the Sabaji invaded us long ago. The Tveshi monarchy is illicit as long as it is stationed in Sabaji territory. It is impossible to consider the Occupation without thinking about the Sabaji conquest of the Tvaji continent. Everyone knows what happened under the Taritit.

After we threw them back, it was almost like there was a new beginning, I think, in that first year — but they drew the same political borders that had existed before. My family did nothing. Other families in Narahja protested. The Tsatsubvya are the most noteworthy.

I only mean that it’s important to have regional pride, and that slight did happen fifteen hundred years ago. They should stop looking at us that way as if we are all demi-traitors, and we should stop expecting this country to be something different.

We know so little about the Sabaji invasion in comparison that everyone has painted what they know about the Taritit onto the Sabaji. I mean, it cannot have been that bad, and some of what I’m saying sounds — I’m doing this for my family. There are certain prices for ambition.

We have a tough time ahead of us if part of my job is to help unify Tveshė. I have never been a separatist, and neither has my family. We must reconcile all of this somehow. We just must.

42 Poråkol 1865

Kitesrati and ler matriarch will come to Galasu. I am not fit to travel for at least three more weeks, according to my doctors. During the checkup this morning, they said that I have not rested enough. A nurse practitioner drained pus from the wound in my shoulder, and I have had an injection to stop an infection. They’re worried that it will pass into the blood, so I was sent home with a tray of antibiotic needles for the next ten days.

Liga and I discussed the friendship ritual that I mentioned yesterday. Karatau wants lim to do it. It is unclear to both of us if this will impact my ability to visit some Narahji temples. I’ll have to check.

Are the Kohjenyakri different? Karatau says yes. No oracle has verified this. That’s what I’ll have to do.

Liga says that the Kohjenya could barter access to better healing medicines from Namgyatzi. I asked lim about the cost. They must pay in information. I don’t know that I want to put them in that position? The injections will be fine.

43 Poråkol 1865

Today was Remembrance Day. My family attended the official ceremonies. Matriarch Mohata gave a televised speech. It was painful to participate even with the wheelchair. When I came back and lay down, I finished the backdated entries. Suka doesn’t know why I have switched back to traditional paper at all. I don’t know what I want to tell lim.

44 Poråkol 1865

Kelta’s body has been identified. When I first heard the news, I started crying even though I shouldn’t have checked my comm band during that meeting. I, like everyone else, wish that nothing like this had ever happened. I barely knew lim.

Adviser Tenes and I went out to eat in the early evening. Le is just so impatient and has so much trouble slowing down for me. It was really rude. I cannot wait for this healing to be over. The infection hasn’t gotten better. I know that I should slow down, but there’s so much to do, and I now have all of these other responsibilities. It’s hard.

The hospital staff released me to my apartment. The morning dawned clear, and I have access to writing materials. Kati has gone to stay with a friend, and I have my room back. Once my parents left for the satellite home, I called Suka and asked lim to come with Liga.

I have the bug, and the data won’t sync to my computer. I need to write down what happened before it becomes unusable and I forget.

38 Poråkol 1865

I failed.

I failed as a Tveshi citizen, as a lover, and as a friend. Still, the dead Fadehin’s aunt wants to speak to me. And I guess I’ll have to go.

Suka came to my apartment in the early afternoon and brought food for us, creamy Khessa-style layered porridge and sautéed dried seafood. We sat down at the table and ate. Suka gave me a long hug, and I fell apart because le had brought me pickled kyenyat fruit, which I love eating when I am slightly sad. It tastes divine with root vegetables, and it makes me want to cry less.

“You still love lim,” le said.

Sehutañi touched my hair inappropriately when we first met. Sehutañi participated in a plot to murder the Fadehin. Sehutañi’s faction murdered the Fadehin.

Soon enough, the State will put an arrow between those eyes.

“How can I still feel this way?” I asked. It’s that one question, isn’t it? I wiped tears from my cheeks with my usable arm and let Suka hold me.

Le really is too good. I am so happy that I have lim.

39 Poråkol 1865

Regent Thassañi is an elderly woman whom I haven’t seen in the media. Niakhė, the only daughter of the late Fadehin, will not reach the age of majority until 1878.

If Thassañi dies, Akah Shekhuñi, the late Fadehin’s sister, will assume the role of Regent. It is a complicated dance like that of any matriarchal family, but the royal family practices visiting marriages: The daughters are married out as well as the sons and the jomela, and while some come back to Tveshė when they are gray and well-traveled like Thassañi, most remain in their host countries until they die. It is an odd practice, but the royal family carries responsibilities that most of us would never wish upon ourselves.

My grandmother had to coach me before I visited Regent Thassañi. My father brought me to the palace, and we used the disability compliance override on the commuter pods to make the trip run parallel to one of the Skyrail lines. I have a temporary pass until I finish physical therapy.

A small crowd of people waited near the palace, and some whispered when they saw my father helping me. Le has never softened ler Īpahi characteristics: The piercings, the layered high collars in vivid colors, and the tiny braids gathered around ler head. I am one-quarter Narahji, one-half Īpahi, and one-quarter Atarahi. This is my heritage. I should not be afraid to admit it.

Le left me sitting on cushions in an appointment room, where a palace attendant relieved lim of assisting me. Le took the wheelchair with lim, so I was trapped. Two charcoal-clad security guards said that they would help me if necessary. I mean, was that really necessary?

Regent Thassañi filed in with two of the advisers behind lim, both unknown to me. Le wore ler natural white hair in a collection of braids in the Tveshi style, and le had delicate hands. The Regent greeted me in the traditional way, but I couldn’t respond in kind due to my shoulder. I cannot observe proper greeting etiquette until my injuries heal.

The Regent said in Narahji, “It is a pleasure to meet you in person. The photographs don’t do justice to you.” Then, in Tveshi, le indicated to the others that they should go.

The guards protested, of course — I mean, who wouldn’t so soon after an assassination? — and the Regent negotiated a compromise: The guard who did not speak Narahji could stay inside.

The Regent’s Narahji accent sounds almost exactly like my grandmother’s, but the latter’s voice is higher.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” I said.

The Regent set up a table in front of us for the tisane and fruit ceremony. We went through it quickly and started the business at hand. I thought that le wanted to ask me about my role in the anti-Daybreak investigations.

I wanted to tell the Regent that I thought I had behaved like a coward, that I am for all intents and purposes a young girl, barely an adult. I could have gone to the authorities somehow, and I could have done something to prevent this horror from happening at all. Certainly, the authorities might have placed me in jail and they may never have believed me. Certainly, everything points to a larger conspiracy, the one I’ve barely hinted at, and they would have known that I had known too much.

Le spoke first. “I want to comment that I’m sorry this happened to you. When the Taritit Invasion ended, everyone was accusing neighbors of being conspirators. It was absolute chaos. We needed to act on real information, not misplaced grief. They — they were killing us. The laws that caused this situation have never been repealed because the political climate is delicate.”

“Thank you for the apology,” I said. “Adviser Tenes Sari explained that to me, too, in a bit of detail.”

“By Enahari, le never gives them a millimeter.” Le clicked ler tongue. “I need to speak to you more seriously, however, because I have the honor of overseeing the country until our future ruler comes of age. You have proven yourself loyal to the government in exceptional circumstances. Your connections to the Kohjenya make you very desirable to me, and you have a unique background and perspective. I would like to offer you a position as an adviser.”

I opened and closed my mouth. It took a while for me to form words. “I cannot accept that. Do you know how old I am? Do you realize that I failed to save your niece? That is — many apologies — it is my hope that you would prefer to see my failures.”

The Regent laughed at me. “No. I need someone with connections to the Kohjenya. You know things, Akah Nitañi, that one can never forget. You know who instigated Daybreak to kill my niece. You know that they must have helped it.”

“But I failed. At the very least, we live in politically delicate times, and I am Narahji.”

“All times are politically delicate times, Akah Nitañi. It is true that you are Narahji, but that you have foreign ancestry. The Tveshi Cultural Coalition will try to focus on that after the appointment. They will also say that your Narahji background means that you would sympathize with all of the unrest happening right now in Narahja. Those arguments have little weight. The true problem, that some want to overrun the government with people sympathetic to draconian ideologies, matters more. When Sehet Añi appointed my sister as the new ruler of Tveshė, the Karatha were completely unaware just how much my family hates them.”

“Who are you that you can talk like that?”

“Does it matter? I am the sister of a Fadehin and the aunt of a Fadehin who died. My family inherited a country that has the Shiji, Galasuhi, Iturji, Ịgzarhjenya, and Hicịptụ. It matters little to me where fathers have come from. The Coalitionists see the shadow of the Taritit wherever they look. We need to keep this fear from becoming a poison. I will appoint you?”

I could not argue: Le tolerated my first outburst, so I couldn’t make a second.

Le separated out the Iturji from the Shiji and did not use the term Sabaji at all. The Iturji are not Ịgzarhjenya. This is another thing I wanted to ask: What does it mean that le did this, that le acknowledged that? Has Regent Thassañi, by living abroad, learned how to be a true ruler?

40 Poråkol 1865

Suka and Liga brought me candied meña balls from one of the Iturji markets in the city. I propped myself up on my good arm and entertained them in my room for several hours. In the afternoon, my grandmother, parents, and I had a meeting.

If I am to be an adviser, I need to at least be married — children are not feasible in the short term. Kitesrati is the most obvious match. I like lim, and the marriage could work. My mother will find suitable matches just in case Kitesrati’s family does not want to have lim join our family. It is possible: My previous relationships have a fatality record.

(And my father just pointed out that Sehutañi is technically still alive, so.)

I told Suka what happened. Le laughed at me. Of course Kitesrati will want me. I’m to be an adviser, for gods’ sakes. I can’t even believe it.

Gradually, the pain lessened. The hospital drugs given intravenously caused vivid dreams. I dreamed that I had gone into the future to meet children currently unborn. I saw cities that once existed in ocean shallows and jungles that comprised the Malzgā Peninsula. I hallucinated the creation and destruction of the universe according to that ill-fated hymn from the procession.

I had a vision of Tsemanok-Enashisha in the form of a man with mismatched eyes and serpents for hair. Le touched my locks and snapped the frozen pieces from my head. I dreamt of a woman whose voice made the air shake and Heaven weep. Last of all, I saw a young man with smooth, dark hair and black skin in a room practically lightless.

Towards the end, I heard snippets of conversation while half-awake.

I don’t think that the vision of Tsemanok-Enashisha came from the drugs. Tsemanok is a trickster, a champion of randomness. In my life so far, I have had two chance encounters: Liga found me the day I decided to die. Sehutañi and ler co-conspirators came onto the Skyrail train while the entire city diverted itself with prayer. That is Tsemanok.

When Kelis and I were sixteen, we took the sacred stairs down to the boat rentals to visit one of the liminal spaces in the inner islands that Tsemanok rules. The weather had been bad, and I was nervous about going, but Kelis insisted. We had never been so alone before, and solitude is so dangerous. Kelis wanted to cut our hands on the old stones. The Hicịptụ do it at their shrines, but the Ịgzarhjenya do not. Le was always more forceful than me, so our blood dripped on the eager, erect boulder that represented the god. I offered the traditional candied fruit peels when we were done.

It is interesting to think that I might owe everything to that blood.

The medication wore off completely on 34 Poråkol during a thunderstorm. As I awoke, I listened to the rain beat against the window and inventoried the pain in my body. The wound in my leg throbbed. I couldn’t move a shoulder. Amputation didn’t occur to me until I realized that I was in the hospital. I twisted my head to one side to verify that my arm was still there. Electrodes connected to it hinted at why it wouldn’t move.

I couldn’t pull myself into a sitting position. One of the indicators beeped when I tried.

A dark-skinned man lay asleep in the lounge chair beside the bed. Ler hair had almost completely fallen out of divided buns, and le wore a semiformal burnt orange tunic over embroidered, cream-colored pants. Everything was crumpled, so le hadn’t changed in a while. A copy of Ashen Sky rested on ler lap. Le didn’t stir until a clap of thunder rumbled the building. It was Liga.

Le brushed ler hair aside and stretched. I recognized the scar on ler cheek from the anecdote that Suka had told me about lim falling as a child even before ler face turned completely towards mine.

“Your grandmother is out with your mother,” le said. “The doctors said that you wouldn’t die. The surgery was difficult.”

I half-smiled. “You know that I will die vaulting over a cliff.” I laughed, and the laughter hurt my chest.

Liga did not laugh at all.

“What happened?”

“Fadehin Akaiañi is dead.” Liga cleared ler throat and smoothed ler pants. They re-crumpled almost instantly. “I’m still angry — not at you. At Daybreak and at the Karatha. We put so much work in, and they still did something so utterly” — ler lips opened and closed as le searched for a word — “antisocial.”

“Where is Kelta?”

“We don’t know. Adviser Tenes says that le was accompanying you in the crowd. Many of the bodies haven’t been identified.” The book fell from ler lap, and le bent over to pick it up. “Nine arrests have been made. The Senate will vote on a public killing of the captured conspirators as soon as the interrogation ends. Akah Sehutañi was arrested. Le was trying to flee via the spaceport.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. “Will you have to testify at the interrogation? In the trial?”

“This will be a messy hearing, according to Karatau,” Liga said. “We cannot bleach out your involvement. Everyone knows about you. You’re a forum topic, and you’re in the news.”

I opened my eyes and stared up at the ceiling, which was painted with images of underwater landscapes. “I can successfully testify against Akah Sehutañi. Will they talk to you with the same amount of disrespect as they did in that other trial? The one in Menarka?”

“The senators draw from the people.” Le cleared ler throat. “Your mother wouldn’t let me sit with your grandmother on the train ride up. Your grandmother knows us.”

“Did you confront my mother?”

“No. I don’t know lim very well,” le said. “I expect it, so I usually wear contacts when I go out. How are you feeling? The nurses told me that you would be in pain.”

“Yes,” I said. “Did you pull out the bug?”

Obviously, considering the detail in this conversation, le did not. I still had all of the ornamentation in my hair. The conversation contains so much static because the hospital staff damaged it while washing me.

I chose not to reproduce any of the conversations I overheard while I was asleep: Five involving my grandmother and Liga, three arguments between my mother and grandmother, and one between Adviser Tenes and Karatau in a language I don’t even know. My mother hardly acknowledged Liga. At one point, I heard my father’s voice in the recording. Le, of course, didn’t come until a day after I awoke. Ler position in the Īpahi diplomatic service means that le is gone more often than not.

In the recording, Liga laughs when I ask about the bug, and le says, “I forgot about that. I could delete everything you shouldn’t have heard.”

“Why shouldn’t I have heard it?”

“This room wasn’t bugged.” Le laughed again and looked towards the door. “Karatau and Matriarch Mohata had me check. Your grandmother won’t hear of bugs spying on the family. Le even had me check in the satellite home here in Galasu. Oh — two cousins are staying in your apartment’s bedroom now. Everyone is shuffled around, and Suka has your journals — the smart paper in your apartment and a traditional one from Tenes. Suka and I are staying with the Kohjenya.”

“Gods, have you read the journal?”

“I haven’t. Suka may have peeked.” Le pressed ler lips together thoughtfully for a few moments. “Le didn’t want you to be embarrassed during the trial. The authorities came through your room and checked for things shortly after le arrived.”

“Where is Suka now?”

“In one of the healing temples praying for you.”

I sighed. “I am grateful for my family’s support.” My breath caught in my upper chest. The pain that came along with the tears burned.

Liga stopped speaking. A nurse came in to give me a painkiller injection.

Liga slid forward on the chair and whispered, “We like you, if you want to know. You are the most driven future Tveshi politician of your generation. You could go far. One would need to bury you in the Canyons to keep you from making a difference.”

We spoke in Narahji, so the nurse did not understand us. Something about Liga’s tone unnerved me, almost as if this were not lim.

I fell asleep as the nurse said in Tveshi, “You have so much affection for lim.”

In these dreams, I walked into one of the Menashi temples to Enahari. Someone washed my hair near the temple entrance, and I wanted to protest because no one could touch my hair. A woman carved the syllabic character for nua into my forehead. It hurt so much.

I ran through tunnels covered with moving pictures until I emerged in a small grotto. A person waited there, and le cleaned the blood from my face and breathed on my forehead until the wound disappeared. We walked back through tunnels. The golden designs depicted scenes from Impermanence.

Being struck with the flower petals is considered lucky.

The Great Road bisects a street that is Karudesa Street on the left and Nikara Street on the right. Karudesa Street leads to Senatorial Square, and Nikara Street leads to the embassies. It is one of the most well-watched places in the entire world because Tveshė is a world power, and everyone wants to see what happens here. The upper-level homes all have webcams facing out onto the streets, which make a kaleidoscope of images and videos of everything that happens — and these feed into the police (which feed into the thing that I have since learned — through screaming and shouting until someone told me — is the ghost network underlaying everything).

Anyone who read Akah Seholis’ And the Fountains Still Run Red, a bestseller last year, would understand what Daybreak wanted. At least, anyone who remembered the importance of this intersection.

The bowls started singing half a block away from Karudesa and Nikara. We all joined in on the Hymn to Creation, which I did not know — and I have reproduced it here:

Our universe began in timeless sleep.
One rested, and one was awakened,
one sunburst germinated, and a kaleidoscope
blossomed into a lattice of light.
Some say that the gods invented dancing.
I know this to be true, because they spun.
They come from this one, and they revolve,
whirling dancers with no centers,
whirling dancers with every center.
Here, everything exists and does not.
Here, the first is the last, the last, first.

If Adviser Tenes had been in contact with Karatau, then Liga would know where I was. If Adviser Tenes had not been, then Liga would not know.

This is the dance of Enahari,
Divine Afterthought, the dancer lagging
behind the others, who knew only
expanses of dreams and nothingness:
Here, le invented the first dreams.
Ler belly grew fat with Enashakaru,
Lord of Dreams and the curling Lattice.
Enahari created vast reaches of the High Wilds:
gaseous spacescapes, nebulae and compact clusters,
galaxies and networks of infinity strung like
jewels and webs all together, to free light
from its prison within lim, to stretch this
canvas’ limits as far as le could.
Darkness abated from ler dream-strength.
The light grew pregnant within ler belly.

Sweat beaded on my brow beneath the clay, capillaries breaking from the stress, but life — and the hymn — continued. We moved farther along the street, and the signs for Karudesa loomed over us. I saw the imperial guard’s snipers on the rooftops. They would surely not fail.

When Enashakaru came tumbling down,
sticky and fat from the great dream,
the first generation of stars exploded.
Out of these gases, Enahari ordered our
nebulae, our stars, our galaxies, our matter.
The Seven Gardens formed from this heaviness.

I blinked. The explosions ripped through the crowd on either side. I could not look in any specific direction because they came from everywhere, but I saw hands unconnected from bodies, heads filled with small shrapnel — eating utensils, I think — and the moaning and screaming started.

Some of the women behind me fell to the ground. Another explosion came from behind us, and the guards started firing. In the chaos, we were separated — we lost most of the processional party, and I found myself pulled forward through the streets with a small number of the people near the Fadehin and ler armed guards. Some people made a path for us down Karudesa Street — or “made” might be the wrong word. They reeled. So many were injured. People were running everywhere. A guard pushed a path through. We ran in the fallow space between the corpses and the injured. We could not run to either side or behind us because the explosion had made a mess on either side.

I nearly stumbled, and in that moment, I realized that the guard would trample over me if I stopped. They would let me die just to have a chance at saving lim — which is the right thing, but in those moments — when something happens you know will happen — despite everything — no.

Karudesa is the place where a dissident would have murdered a world leader: In 1541, a philosopher and statesman by that family name raised an army of dissatisfied citizens to protest a court order barring paternal families from disputing maternal families’ rights to children born of women who are already married, but who do not have the child with their husband, in violation of tradition. Fadehin Nikarañi lashed out brutally against these rebels. The Fadehin committed suicide when le learned that ler son, the statesman’s courting-friend, had died. Ler daughter, Fadehin Sehutañi, set up a memorial near the Senate and named the street after Karudesa to appease the dead. Fadehin Sehutañi.

Akah Seholis’ And the Fountains Still Run Red is a fictional retelling of that. Sehutañi had it on ler bookshelf.

I couldn’t think, or I would freeze. I forced myself to sprint forward. Both of my ears rang, and every sound was muffled. I could barely hear screaming. I felt like someone was following us, but none of the guards shot anyone.

From above, a sniper shot someone in the crowd, and a second shot another — both doing their jobs expertly because the snipers were on our side — but the assassins were not close by.

We were alone among the panicking crowd.

We found, or the guards made, a break in the chaos. It was just stampedes of people in every direction. It was hard — is hard — to say anything without repeating myself.

Beside me, one of the other young women fell, and I held lim up. We stumbled forward. Le fell again. I realized then that le had shrapnel in ler leg. I pushed lim against one of the buildings and continued on without looking back.

Hopefully, le avoided the stampede of people behind us.

I wondered if I had shrapnel in me. I felt fine. It was possible that I was not.

The backup plan in times of emergencies to go to the Senate rooftop. There’s a protocol I was briefed on. We needed to reach the Senate roof. I heard the emergency plane overhead as it started landing. The sky was safe, the reason behind this. It’s still three years after opening the spaceports. Nobody has ships. Daybreak would never have the money to invest in anti-aircraft guns. You can’t 3D print that.

One of the guards held the Fadehin up. The Fadehin had no headdress, and blood ran down one side of ler face. We took the stairs up to the Senate’s doors. None of the guards wanted to risk being caught in the elevator bay, so we would have to climb up seven floors at the central staircase. It was designed for that — the building.

In And the Fountains Still Run Red, one of the generals makes a last stand in the Senate before the rebels push the army back and slaughter everyone else inside. I remembered this just as we started down the corridor to the central stairs. I grabbed a guard’s arm and screamed, “We shouldn’t go this way!” and le threw me back. I stumbled.

I could not let the Fadehin leave my sight. If I lost them, or if I let myself feel whatever injury I possessed, something might happen. If they wouldn’t listen, I could at least do something.

The guard who pushed me collapsed suddenly. I saw shrapnel in ler thigh. Blood pooled into the mortar between the stones where le lay. I moved into the space that le had vacated near the Fadehin and yelled again, “Fadehin Nikarañi’s general died here! Karudesa and Nikara!”

The Fadehin tugged on a guard’s arm and stopped trying to move forward, completely frozen by all I had said. I mean, le knew now what I knew now.

We were by the elevators, not yet at the main staircase. Daybreak would have held the staircase. We both knew that now. Le turned ler face towards me.

Fadehin Akaiañi must have read it. The gaze we shared said, And how could we both be so stupid, both of us young, memory-gifted, and politically-minded?

“We shouldn’t have come in here,” le whispered. “Did anyone go ahead to secure this building?”

A guard said, “No one is here. The buildings are closed for the festival. No one could enter unless they had a shipment. Please, Fadehin! The stairs!”

The elevator behind the guard opened. I screamed.

The man opened fire immediately, and the guards turned around to fire back. One fell almost instantly. I pulled the Fadehin away, and we hid behind one of the columns. It provided some cover. I put ler arm over mine, and we started running. The guards outnumbered the man. They were well-trained and effective. They shot lim.

“If we can get to the roof, maybe we will live,” I whispered. “They have lim.”

We started running. Le fell, I held lim up, and I lifted ler skirt to see the shrapnel wedged just below ler right knee. I pulled ler arm over my shoulders and braced lim against me.

It was long enough that I was no longer looking at the hallway. Neither of us saw the second man in the hallway before it was too late. I froze. Behind us, the firefight continued. People shouted. Bodies hit the floor.

Fadehin Akaiañi, in those final moments, shrugged limself away from me. Le stood while the blood trickled onto the floor beneath lim and leveled ler gaze at this man. Le put ler hands on ler hips and cocked ler chin up, sizing lim up. I prepared to jump ler attacker. I prepared to die.

The Fadehin held ler arm out to block me. Le said, “Karudesa and Nikara.”

The man said, “Yes.”

Le fired. The gun exploded.

Fadehin Akaiañi received two wounds from the shrapnel: One in the abdomen, the other in the chest. Le didn’t die from either of them. I wonder if le was awake, bleeding out. What killed lim was the time delay before the medics came.

The shrapnel from the gun hit me in the left shoulder, right ribcage, and below my right knee. It missed my veins. It should have missed lers. I went unconscious almost instantaneously from the shock.

The Daybreak Movement’s original plan did not contain the bombs. They decided to lay them only after my Sehutañi realized that I had compromised their plan. They killed 87 people with five bombs and six people, including the Fadehin, in the Senate.

I think that this assassin, Jikuvė, knew that the gun would explode. I think that it was done deliberately.

93 people died.

93 people died, and I am alive.

It says, Look at me, I am eligible, and I have a family that is ready for you to join it. I am eligible. I come from a high-status family, so I will always have hjathoma against other women, with the exception of the royal family. I do not know how much this episode of insanity with Sehutañi will poison my heart to love. I have hjathoma, and that is all I can say.

It is the only time jomela can double-bind their hair in headdresses (in any social class) without censure because it is seen as lucky — even the people on the street sides. When their names are hauhi, they remove those endings and use the feminine ones in processions like these. I think it is done to attract young men. It’s every matriarch’s dream that a jomela will remain within ler maternal family.

We have something similar, but under the table, for the yadzakma. Ozkyev would never wear their hair double-bound and in a headdress. Women do, women of all kinds. The Sabaji Tveshi do not recognize the difference — they don’t recognize a lot of things. It’s wrong to go into a disaster of politics at this time. Until the Sabaji Tveshi change, we will continue to lose Ịgzarhjenya citizens to the separatist movements.

Being in this procession brought up all of this baggage. It was hard to breathe. It was so Sabaji! It was intense. I kept thinking about my yadzakma cousins who cannot leave Ịgzarhjenya territory for fear of violence. The Sabaji Tveshi have no right to legislate things as if we belonged to their culture, but I shouldn’t have been so distracted by any of thoughts. I mean, there was an assassination plot.

I have hijacked this journal to talk about politics, but that is probably the pain medication. I should go back to the task at hand. My descendants need to understand how the Sabaji in the Hariji denomination do their religious processions so we can talk about what happened.

Young Hariji priestesses chanted from sacred texts while the priests made månukha. I lowered my eyes and kept my breathing light while two of the temple assistants massaged it into my arms and face. The månukha cracked as it dried, but opakha contains natural whitening agents. It made my skin as pale as Adviser Tenes’ for days. That caused complications in the hospital because they thought that I had lost more blood than I actually did.

I don’t want to write too much too soon. I’m a politician! I’m not a writer or a dramatist — I don’t know the best way to backdate these entries. I know that everything I write will be read. That is all.

Priests dusted my hair with ash to make it white, and I lifted my underdress so they could powder my pubic hair. One of my locks was clipped and added to the offering bowl with clippings from every hjathomahi in the procession: Priestesses, processional devotees like me, members of the royal family, and unmarried children from among the political elite that live in or near Galasu.

Adviser Tenes approached me, and le handed me a taser. I slipped it into the deep pocket beneath my long hepteri vest. The thick, white vest splayed into slits in the kami style worn for Shiji religious rituals, and the number of pockets was the best thing about it, to be honest. Le said, “Be careful. It has enough charge to hit someone four times if you set it to kill. It’s also an illegal possession.”

The weight of that statement dropped deep into my gut. The cold handle of the weapon was real in a way that a knife could not be.

“Where will you be?” I asked.

Adviser Tenes smirked. “I will be watching from the steps of the Temple of Enahari in the Temple District. Tesekhaira do not march in these. We ride via daraiga in advance, and we give the libation offering at the temple steps while you watch. Akaiañi is very lucky to have a tesekhaira on staff so le doesn’t need to kowtow to the Karatha or my father. Then, I will perform the rest of our plan — on my way there.”

“What about Karatau? Could le do it? The libation?”

“Le is a Meiyenesi, and that would be politically disastrous for the monarchy. Surely you know who the Meiyenesi were.”

I won’t hold that condescending remark against lim. Le doesn’t know how much I have thought about this very thing privately.

The Temple District is a straight line from the Palace along the Great Road, but it takes several hours to walk. The Taritit destroyed nothing along the street, and so while the remainder of the city is covered with cranes and construction equipment, it’s the most beautiful road in the city. It is longer than the Memorial Walk from the beginning of Old South Street at the bottom of the Riverside District to the Monument of the Heroes.

The country’s guards were on alert. I knew, but did not see, the snipers positioned along the route. In front of and behind the Fadehin, the sacred guards carried weapons. It was an affront to the gods, but wasn’t I, just behind them and among the other hjathomahi, equally to blame for carrying a taser? (Equally to blame for everything else, too?)

We all knew what could happen. The Fadehin had signed vague arrest warrants for the people involved. They were khavać now, an ancient law that had existed long before the Old Monarchy. The security feeds would pick up their faces. It was straightforward as long as somebody didn’t realize from whom all of this had come.

“Perhaps nothing will happen now that they know that they will be apprehended,” I said.

Adviser Tenes raised an eyebrow. “Do you really think that?”

“No. I don’t know what to think. Have you had contact with Karatau?”

“Of course. Where is Kelta?”

“Le said that le would follow the procession as it advanced.”

Fadehin Akaiañi entered the room. Le was young, and while no decent person would have mentioned this on paper — even with the gray, corded wig — le must not have been older than twenty-five. My age group, I remember thinking, the tail-other part of it. I had never seen lim face-to-face before. Le had the entrancing, upper class beauty of someone who has always had access to the best of the High-Wilds black market, and that perfect medium-brown skin that the Sabaji prize in their women, the same hue used in the images of Sehet Añi.

“Who is the one whom Adviser Tenes Sari brought?”

I came forward and knelt down in front of lim. A temple attendant slinked forward behind me, still carrying the månukha. Fadehin Akaiañi had a voice that sounded like temple bells. My cheeks felt hot, but le couldn’t see me blush given the clay.

“What is your name?”

“Salus Kobsarka-Nitañi Niksubvya.” I cleared my throat. “I promise that I am familiar with my duties.”

Fadehin Akaiañi made the traditional hand gesture, and I rose to my feet to reciprocate. Le reached for my hands and squeezed them. “I am certain that you will do your duty.”

Le let go of me and turned ler attention to the others assembled in the room. Ler voice projected from all directions through the sound system, and le said, “We will need to be vigilant during the procession. Attention has come to me through unnatural channels that there may be a plot against the ceremonies as a protest against government policies. I assure you that people around us are armed, and we will have an uneventful festival for the gods.”

The room came alive with whispers. I remained motionless because the Fadehin was directly in front of me. I did not want a world leader to know how afraid I was.

I knew Sehutañi because I had slept with lim.

I had listened to ler fears about ler sister.

In the evenings after we had sex, there were a few times when le fell asleep — le was always tossing and turning. Always.

When we ate at lunch, I learned that le never backed down from arguments.

When it comes to honoring the dead, I knew one thing: Even if ler allies backed down, Sehutañi would not.

Something would happen on this day.

Fadehin Akaiañi smiled nervously at me. I nodded back at lim. The entire procession assembled.

This is what it was like, descendants:

• White-veiled temple maidens with skin painted gray, bells in their hands;
• Saffron-gowned priestesses with headdresses made of the sharpest of the kau grain;
• Celadon-robed priests carrying censers of incense;
• Pink-clad jomela children holding singing bowls patterned with the names of gods;
• Young boys bearing unlit incense and high-proof sacred liquors;
• Hjathomahi following Fadehin Akaiañi, bodies painted, faces blank: Jomela and women, so alike that one could not tell another person from the other, all uniform;
• Seven theatrical performers at the peaks of their careers who received the honors of representing the seven highest gods in the Hariji pantheon: Enahari, Enakhiavoshei, Enashisha, Oñiji, Enameisa, Nurogui, and Likhera.

Fadehin Akaiañi started the procession by spilling water on the ground. The temple maidens finished adorning their hair with wispy, white feathers. The priests led. Along the Great Road, a great crowd cheered as the palace’s front gates opened.

We started the Daybreak Hymn as the sun peeked through the stained glass windows, just as the front of the procession reached the steps down onto the road. Naked, I imagine, is what Namgyatzi must have felt when le first saw Sehịnta, or when Kakedi first met Hiahetå. Naked is how all of us feel in the eyes of the gods because, no matter what happens here, that divine reality remains.

As we stopped the hymn, the crowds outside started shouting. I felt for the taser in my dress. My hand closed around its metallic and comfortable grip. It provided me no sense of control.

Time is staggered and disjointed. The way I write dramas is the way most of us live our lives. I think that is why they have succeeded so much: I am splicing moments together to form a story. Alone, the pieces of our lives don’t make a plot with a beginning, middle, and end. Together, they do.

— Akah Gysabala, Memoirs

We waited outside for a quarter of an hour before Adviser Tenes answered the door. Le had wet hair, which le slicked back when le saw us. Le met Kelta’s eyes and grinned.

Kelta looked at lim and said, “You know how many hits there are against you? Six. Fucking idiots.” I stopped pacing and watched them size each other up.

Adviser Tenes said, “You again. Ah, and — you!” Le rolled up the sleeves of ler stately robes, which accentuated ler bony features and stocky frame. “I hịma Mosehịnta glabdeml i hịn. Is that still current?”

Kelta stifled a laugh. Le moved ler hand to one of the guns beneath ler tunic. I kept my composure better than le did, so I said, “We say tsumnarav or tsum now.”

“Do you need something?” Adviser Tenes glanced down at my balled fist. Ler gaze moved to my other fist, the cut of my clothes, and finally to my face.

The adviser closed the distance between us and reached for my hand, the one with the cut. Le untwisted my fingers and laid them out straight. Sehịnta performed this same action when taming the demon Orobi in the ancient stories. Tenes looked at the cut on my hand and traced ler fingers across it. Ler fingertips felt like ice, and they sent stabbing pains up my arm. I threw up a little in my mouth. Before Tenes could speak, Kelta unholstered ler gun and pointed it out at the street. Le cocked ler head towards the door.

We shuffled into Adviser Tenes’ home, and Kelta remained in the doorframe. Le fired the gun out into the street, and both of us heard a scream. I flinched and grabbed the adviser’s hand tightly, never mind the pain. Kelta fired again, and the screaming stopped.

“Has Karatau Vepessa-Mainė Meiyenesi contacted you?” I asked.

The adviser pursed ler lips together, ler eyes still on Kelta. “Not about anything like this,” le said. “That’s from lim?”

“Yes.”

Kelta left the door frame, ler gun still in front of lim, and moved towards the sidewalk.

I stepped away from the door and took cover. “Last night, I illegally acquired documents. The Daybreak Movement will make an assassination attempt against Fadehin Akaiañi tomorrow.”

“And you haven’t gone to the police?”

“Code 1830-229-17.”

Adviser Tenes growled. I furrowed my brow. I have never seen any man do that in public, but maybe it’s something they do among themselves. “That still exists? I thought I told the Fadehin to propose a resolution to the Senate at least ten years ago.”

Kelta moved back into the home. “It was nothing, just a large bird. We could carve it for meat, but it would be city meat. Not very good.” Le shut the door and locked it. I write locked it, but the adviser’s door had eighteen bolts — and I hadn’t noticed this before, but the windows had bolts of their own, and all of the interior doors. “I was certain that someone had come after us. We should barricade the door just in case. Adviser-Akah, do you have secure comm here? Or is it the standard?”

“It’s secure. No one can eavesdrop.”

Kelta clicked ler tongue against the roof of ler mouth. “That depends on who no one is, but all right.”

“No, it’s secure. I am very talented with communication systems. You will need to remind me of your name. I haven’t seen you in months and didn’t think that I would encounter you again.” Adviser Tenes glanced down at the gun. “Also, put that away. You won’t fire it in the house unless it is absolutely necessary. Avoid shooting the records if that happens. Some of them are rare, 11^th-18^th century.”

I asked, “Are you singing in any of them?”

“Only five.” Adviser Tenes glanced between us. “Well?”

“Akah Kelta, no family affiliation.” Kelta cleared ler throat. “Akah Mainė hired me to protect Akah Nitañi.”

Adviser Tenes motioned for us to move deeper into the home. I followed lim first. Kelta surveyed the windows and doors and smiled, and le eventually fell in line behind me.

“Karatau left a message,” Adviser Tenes said. “It might have been about a contact among the royal guards or canceling the religious ritual tomorrow — something like that. Not about an assassination. Whatever le said, Fadehin Akaiañi is very pious. Le would never cancel religious rites, even if they’re more for people than for gods.”

“What do you know?” I asked.

“Karatau never tells me what Equilibrium is working on in any detail. There are weeks, sometimes years, when le doesn’t contact me at all and is not in Galasu. I think that they have a base of operations in Vepessa, but le also spends time in Essoda, Itaka, and Tok on Ameisa. The Thousand Islands on Atara. Asāhobom, too, which is the town by the interplanetary medical school. Dukká and Atamnonqaqan on Madhz. Khataq on Mntaka. Såsuå and Shedi on Laseå. Do you know what it is like to know more about your best friend via intelligence briefings than from lim directly?”

The adviser bought us into a large downstairs office. It was a room with beautiful floors and brightly-colored, modern wall murals. There were so many carved and painted flowers that it was hard for my eyes to rest on anything in particular. Only after staring at them for a few seconds did I realize that they all came from carnivorous plants. Le possessed several wall monitors and a low table stacked with husk-like traditional paper. Le closed the window immediately, and some of the paper scattered across the floor. I picked it up.

Kelta sat down on one of the low chairs, and I picked a cushion. We crossed our legs. Kelta set the gun down on the table, and I brought out the drive with my copies of the documents.

“We came to ask you about the royal guard, too. It is good to know that Karatau already has,” I said. “I said that I illegally acquired documents. A woman I have been dating, Sehutañi, had a folder in ler room. I saw it when le was asleep because I was searching ler room. Le belongs to the Daybreak Movement. Do you know why this intelligence would never have reached the royal guard or the Fadehin directly?”

“I could think of twelve reasons,” Adviser Tenes said. Le took the disk from me and walked to a cabinet that concealed computing equipment. “The Fadehin and ler mother made laws that other tesekhaira did not like, specifically the Karatha.”

“Do you like those laws?” Kelta asked.

I rose to my feet and walked to one of the room’s bookshelves. I pulled out a scroll at random. It was a copy of a Galasuhi play from the eleventh century, sans music. The score was in a book on the shelf below it. I don’t want to think that Adviser Tenes knew about the assassination attempt. If the tesekhaira hate something and one is a tesekhaira, all of them must hate it or the generalization no longer makes sense. Karatau is a tesekhaira — and le showed no signs of backing down once le learned the identity of the target. If anything, we are all scrambling to prepare ourselves for tomorrow.

Adviser Tenes said, “Not all tesekhaira dislike them. Only the older ones do.”

I looked up from the scroll at Kelta. Le frowned and said, “There is a chance that the Daybreak Movement has realized that their plot has been compromised. I don’t know who was following us. It wasn’t the bird. There were no robotic attachments. It could be someone from among Daybreak. Hostile tesekhaira could also have agents. What is your position?”

Adviser Tenes inserted the data drive and powered on the displays. “Karatha, perhaps. Not Arieḥ or the nuamua. Arieḥ decided to be neutral about the legislation. It only impacts the Karatha, the nuamua, Karatau and Equilibrium, me, and perhaps Amkzị. None of the other tesekhaira live in Tveshė frequently enough to care. Outside of the collectives and their associated tesekhaira, there are at most only a few of us on all of the gardens combined.”

“Amkzị?” Kelta frowned. “The one in that story about the far north of Akēfa?”

“No one knows where le lives, hence perhaps. Anyway, that’s off-topic.” Le covered ler face with ler hands, sighed, and let ler hands come to rest back down at ler sides. “The contact between you and Equilibrium is how close, Kelta?”

“I’m just a contractor, but I do regular work for them. Akah Nitañi is close,” Kelta said.

“I know that le is close. Le isn’t using formal words for Karatau.” Adviser Tenes studied me. “Karatau charmed you into liking lim, didn’t le? And you are now hopelessly in platonic love even though you’ve only seen each other several times.”

Tenes’ eyes searched mine, surprisingly unguarded. I had no doubt that Tenes would work with us. Platonic love can take a person beyond what le would do on ler own. I’ve spent so much time focused on Sehutañi that I didn’t notice.

After I realized Karatau had no malice, and after that long conversation, le completely disarmed me. I never wrote down what happened, not in its exact sense, but another woman would have pushed more even after being told by a matriarch to do what I was told to do. But that look in Tenes’ eyes! Is this what such a thing turns into after millennia? I am allied to lim, but not in love yet. Or am I? Thank gods I am no tesekhaira.

I said, “Le could be so dangerous if le weren’t so nice.”

“All tesekhaira are dangerous,” Tenes said.

Kelta said, “I’m not in love with Karatau Meiyenesi, but let’s talk about the assassination, not your infatuations. Karatau Meiyenesi and Equilibrium Nexus cannot move quickly enough to stop this even if the former is a disarming and charming jomela. Like, one can’t just put Karatau Meiyenesi in the middle of Daybreak’s nest and infect everyone with true friendship love rays.”

I nearly laughed, but Tenes flinched. While I shouldn’t have breached etiquette, I spoke first. “Daybreak has spent so much time preparing for this opportunity. I don’t know what they will do if they think that it is threatened. Even if it they know about our counterterrorism work, they have a good chance at success. Is it the Karatha? I mean, the reason the law is still on the books — the 1830-229-17 one — is it to stifle the flow of information?”

Tenes projected the data disk and started flipping through the documents. I watched ler face for any sign of surprise. Ler brow furrowed, and le gritted ler teeth. Le turned away from the screens and started pacing the length of the room. Kelta and I exchanged glances, and I didn’t know what to say. Tenes clicked ler tongue, sighed, and clicked ler tongue again. Le came to rest with ler fingertips on the bookshelf.

I met ler eyes. A strange, chilly stillness cut through the air, rather like the sensation when I touched Karatau’s palm — or when Tenes touched mine. I thought, Who are these immortals, and why has my grandmother decided to give me to one of them? It was a horrible thought, a disloyal thought. Matriarch Mohata holds the bow of our family, and we are ler arrows. If le wants this alliance, I want it. If this alliance means that I must interact with Adviser Tenes, so be it.

“You mean to tell me that you have been gathering information on an assassination plot that you cannot even mention to the police. You mean to say that you never confided in anyone from the Progressive Movement or even thought to ask your contacts within Equilibrium — our Karatau limself — about involving me?” Ler voice rose, and by the end, le was shouting. “Why didn’t le tell me this?!”

Tenes punched the bookshelf. It cracked, and ler fist came away bloody. The edges of the adviser’s body looked like they were flickering, and a paper-thin atmosphere of ice and condensation collected against ler skin. I set the scroll down on the bookshelf and tried not to panic. Kelta had ler eyes on the adviser’s hair, where the fog was more pronounced, and ler hair seemed to defy gravity, moving around ler head in a halo. Kelta couldn’t see Tenes’ eyes. Tenes was crying, and the tears were freezing on ler cheeks.

One of us needed to speak. It was my responsibility, not lers. I said, “I am nineteen. I have never done anything like this before. Will you judge me for my youth? What is next? Will you call me three-quarters foreign?”

“Fadehin Akaiañi, 28 Poråkol, during the procession.” Le frowned and turned away from me. “This could be anywhere during the procession, at any intersection.”

The fog dissipated. My heart pounded in my chest. I felt dizzy, so I went to sit down. Adviser Tenes leaned against the bookshelf and looked down at both of us.

Kelta cleared ler throat. “Is there any chance that Fadehin Akaiañi will not be at the festival? Could le take ill? That would give the palace guard time to make arrests.”

“As I said, this is a complex situation involving hotåkhi religious conservatives, and Fadehin Akaiañi is also religious and conservative. They’re still very angry about the reforms five years ago when le ascended to office. Le delegated most religious duties to ler jomela sibling Lakhiodị. Akaiañi is still early on in ler reign, reliant on political alliances forged by ler mother, and le knows this. When I go to lim with this information and brief the palace guards, the festival will still happen. You need to understand that! This is the price of opening the spaceports and relaxing the immigration laws. For everything that the Progressive Movement wins, the Coalitionists will take something else back. I can talk to Lakhiodị separately.” Le breathed in through ler teeth.

Kelta said, “What do you think will happen?”

Adviser Tenes breathed in and out three times. “When we increase surveillance, we will have random bag searches. All weapons are chipped, so we can put up temporary scanning poles. They will pick up any gun carriers.”

“What about homemade weapons?” Kelta asked.

I would never have thought to ask that question, and before 27 Poråkol, I didn’t know that one could even make a gun at home. Materials printing only happens in factories.

Adviser Tenes said, “Most people don’t have the resources or training to do that. The ones who do have degrees. We can pull names of people with engineering degrees and correlate them against lists if Karatau provides the latter. Anyone else would make something so dangerous that it could fall apart on firing.”

“‘Two for lim, one for me,’” I whispered. Neither of them caught it. I have turned those words over and over in my head ever since. Two for lim, one for me. Two for lim, one for me. Two for lim, one for me. Does someone who plans to die really care about the kind of weapon? Le might not even decide on a gun. Le could use a grenade.

Kelta clicked ler tongue against the roof of ler mouth and shook ler head. “That is an understatement. When I was stationed with a woman in Itaka last year, someone tried firing at us with a homemade gun, and it exploded.”

“What about something smuggled from the High Wilds?” I asked.

Adviser Tenes chuckled. “Theoretically, it has been easier for the past three years. I tried to purchase a restricted weapon that way, and it would have cost me 8,000 lh. The ship was intercepted. Don’t give me that look. No one who had a role in the Occupation can own any weapon legally. The International Congress has information in a registry.”

The audio is silent for fifteen seconds. I like to think that Kelta and I exchanged glances. I had nearly forgotten that Adviser Tenes had had a role in the Occupation. It’s unsettling to think about it.

“So, you expect that le will have a festival,” I said. “Le will process.” I thought, Sehutañi might be there. If I see lim — if they have surveillance facial recognition of all of the members of Daybreak — they can do something. This can be stopped.

Something about Sehutañi and the procession started a dissonant sensation in my head. I felt like I had missed something very important: Something historical, like Akah Gysabala, but different. I have a grounding in history. I know where I come from. I should have remembered.

“I expect that.” Adviser Tenes frowned.

“I want to be at the festival to protect the Fadehin,” I said.

Adviser Tenes said, “Absolutely not.”

I let air out from between my lips. “You will allow me to stand in the procession with the Fadehin because I have gleaned information. If Daybreak finds out that their plot has been compromised, they might suspect me based on everything I have done to Sehutañi. I will be safer among the Fadehin’s staff. They have cornered me, and I won’t wait idly in your home to be murdered. I know you have locked doors, but it’s not enough. I won’t wait in the palace. What if Daybreak is among the staff? Akah Kelta is a good bodyguard, but not as good as the imperial guard.”

The adviser sighed. We bantered back and forth for a quarter of an hour. Nothing is important to put down here, but the conversation was ugly. It was about what one would expect during a woman’s argument with a man who works in domestic politics and still doesn’t seem to know ler place.

The philosophers say that epiphany happens when one realizes one’s purpose and identity. The Tveshi added a layer over that to make akaćeheñi, an epiphany that happens when who and purpose fuse together into perfection, symbolized with a double helix. Only in akaćeheñi can one even hope to sit at the gods’ table and consume their immortal food. Perhaps akaćeheñi is the secret of the tesekhaira, or perhaps those who attain it dissipate in the wind.

In the Canyons, we use the Tveshi word to describe the moment of reckoning in a tragedy, not epiphany or enlightenment. We do it because the Shiji and the Galasuhi Tveshi have abused us so harshly across the centuries and millennia, so much so that I feel the pressure cooker will burst at any moment to seethe and burn against everything in its vicinity. In the dramas, akaćeheñi is when the protagonists come to know everything, yet realize that they must still face destruction. This word means coming to know one’s place.

I have read back through my earlier entries, working them into my head until they make grooves. This story is a series of fragments, centered on the things I thought I knew. These things do not add up. This entire story has actors, still hidden from me, who have orchestrated this entire thing.

You may suspect by now that I have been back-dating. It is very detailed because I have added embellishments based on the sounds I can hear from the bug that I wore. I think that I can remember perfectly when I close my eyes, but what is memory? This was over a week ago. If I can listen enough, and if I can write truthfully enough — if I can have enough courage with these words that my descendants will definitely read and judge and judge correctly — I can enrich a story that has already entered the propaganda cycle, where the monarchy and Progressive Movement have torn it to shreds and refashioned it into what they need to progress their agendas while removing the pieces of it that were human. This is a story that those shadows have already marked me for experiencing. This is that symbol that Liga dissipated all those weeks ago on my smart paper. This is them.

I only need to write down the critical part of the argument. You, my descendants, only need to know this.

Adviser Tenes said yes after that quarter-hour. Then, le said something else. “The one you resemble was named Thani Karoumo-Nitasė Kaleso.” I knew that, but I allowed lim to continue. “You two have very similar faces, but the resemblance is deeper than that. You have the same look in your eyes when discussing your dreams and expectations. You subsist on dreams.”

Kelta rolled ler eyes and went to the window. Le did not stand directly in front of it, but to the side, and ler critical gaze landed on something specific. Le glanced back at the gun on the table.

“Akah Gysabala wore the white ash on ler face when le was very young. I will do the same with your blessing,” I said.

Adviser Tenes took a fast breath in. “You know about Akah Gysabala, too?”

“Yes?”

“Thani never stopped talking about lim. Le believed in making a difference.”

“Akah Gysabala betrayed ler husband to the authorities,” I said calmly. “This is why I will go and paint my face white with ash.”

Adviser Tenes clicked ler tongue ad infinitum. When le finished, le said, “Thani contracted the muakanua at twenty-four. It’s something that I have seen happen before to politically ambitious people. Le slashed ler arms thirty-seven times before le did it the correct way. Le also stabbed limself in the throat three times. It was an absolutely hideous forensic scene. Le lived away from family just like you, in an apartment building.”

“I am not your Thani.”

“I hate seeing the next generation die before they have the opportunity to make a difference. Akah Nitañi, this country is sick, the world is sick, the Gardens are sick, and you have a future. You will not make a difference in this moment, but in the future, if only you back down.”

I lowered my voice and said, “I vow to the gods that I will be in that procession, and you will allow this to pass. I vow this to Hatkranar, Nardresan, and Sahamatsra. I vow this to Gyisfen. I vow it, and it will be observed.” I used the gods’ formal names.

Adviser Tenes sighed, but le allowed the oath to pass without comment. Kelta and I went into another room while le made a call to Karatau. We could hear them screaming at each other through the closed door — well, not both of them. Tenes was the one screaming. Karatau’s voice was as charming and cool as ever, but neither of us knows the language. I heard my name, the Fadehin’s name, and Kelta’s name repeatedly. There was a lot of sighing. At one point, Tenes broke something against a wall. That was during one of the intense shouting episodes.

Tenes came out of the room disheveled, looking like something had chased lim. Le said, “Other tesekhaira want the Fadehin dead. We do not have a high chance of success. After I do my part in the ritual tomorrow, I will leave and do something that will draw them away. That way, at least you’ll be dealing with only mortal assassins. Don’t ask me anything else about it. It’s enough that you’re as involved as you are.”

“I could help you,” Kelta said.

“No. You need to stay with Salus to protect lim,” le said. “Nitañi.”

I don’t think that Kelta was happy with that because le spoke only in monosyllables that entire afternoon. Then again, everyone was tense. The three of us traveled to the palace that evening in a private car. My belly felt heavy, as if I had eaten a stone. Even though Tenes had told me not to ask lim anything, I could not help but brainstorm questions.

I awoke with strong morning light on my face and felt like I hadn’t slept at all.

As I stretched, I glanced at the space beside me. Kelta lay in a fetal position, back towards me. Le breathed steadily.

Slowly, le stirred and pushed aside the light summer blankets. Ler eyes snapped open, and le rushed to a sitting position so quickly that I yelped. The sunlight caught on the dark gun in ler hand. I stilled myself and tried not to move or breathe.

Kelta sighed and set the gun down in a nest of bedsheets. Le said, “I forgot where I was for a short while. We were up so late.” Le squeezed ler eyes shut and yawned. “You tossed and turned —”

“Sorry,” I said.

Kelta raised ler arms and flipped ler palms up, then moved them over ler head. Le arced ler spine. “What do you think about the conversation last night? What they said?”

“I will need to call in sick,” I said. “I cannot work like this. The attempt will happen tomorrow.”

“Do you trust that Karatau Meiyenesi will have a handle on this by tomorrow?”

I shook my head. “No, and I have no ability to pay you for your help.”

“Equilibrium Nexus has hired me to be your bodyguard. The money will keep coming in. They pay very well. If you do something, I will go after you,” Kelta said. Le lowered ler arms and started stretching ler wrists. “Sehutañi might suspect what happened last night. Tsemanok only knows if your luck held. Le could have called friends at Daybreak to let them know about the security lapse.”

“Does le have any reason to suspect me —”

“You are the girlfriend who drugged lim!”

I reached for the back of my neck and felt the base of my skull. The phantom sensation of a bullet entering my head or an electric gun shocking me to death made my hand shake. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to think about waves crashing on cliffs. I needed to think up an excuse for Akah Kara.

“What would happen if we tried the police?” I asked. “We were all very sure that they would laugh at me last night, that they wouldn’t —”

“Who would murder a ruler? They have no reason to suspect Sehutañi.”

“There has to be someone.” I lowered my hand. “Do you know anything about the police reporting structure? Are there any units that we can actually approach without seeming too odd?”

Kelta frowned and looked down at the gun. Le reached for it, turned on the safety, and set it down between ler legs. “The police have jurisdiction over everything but the royal family’s affairs. The royal family keeps its own guard, all trained separately from the police and military. They sometimes work with the police on intelligence. I’ve run into them a few times. I don’t know much about their structure.”

“You’ve run into them? Do you have any contacts?”

“No.” Le clicked ler tongue, yawned, and stretched from side to side. “I meant that I did something illegal. I’m not ashamed of saying that on the record. It was the right thing to do.”

How anything against the monarchy could be right is beyond me, but I need Kelta to protect me. I put my hand over my mouth to stop the conversation. Then, I made a voice call to let Akah Kara know that I was sick. While we spoke, Kelta made the bed.

When the conversation ended, Kelta said, “I don’t trust that Karatau Meiyenesi could put something together in a day. We need a fallback option. Do you have any suggestions at this point, or is it just me?”

All that was running through my head is that I am only nineteen. I am only nineteen, and I have the weight of the country on my shoulders. I am Tehjen, holding up all Narahja because I have become its cliff-rocks. I am Tehjen, who somehow must hold up the country and protect it from ruin. Would the royal family even believe Karatau if le intervened? Karatau is from the Meiyenesi. My family will not trigger bad blood between my ancestral dead and the Fadehin’s, unless the dead speak to one another and the Kaureitha know.

Nothing in this blood oath to Karatau prevents me from acting according to my own judgment. The Kohjenya must work fast, and they might be sloppy. I can supplement what they do.

While Kelta and I ate breakfast, I composed a message to Liga and Karatau. I have the haze of a plan in my head. It is admittedly insane, inadvisable, and crude, but I don’t see another option. I doubt that Karatau has thought of it. Allies don’t take advantage of allies or work at cross purposes. I need to ensure that our plans have symmetry, at least in their rudiments. Maybe saying less is better.

Kelta and I showered. I dressed simply, in dark purple, and packed an extra pair of underwear and my notebook. I decided to carry a fountain pen and ink. I don’t know what to bring for stopping an assassination attempt against the Fadehin. I packed a toothbrush? I don’t know when I will come home. Kelta brought a bag that contains ler guns, spare ammunition, and whatever else bodyguards carry. I’m so inexperienced at this. I have nothing that tells me what to do.

We are now on a commuter pod to the only person I know who has an office within the palace. We need to hurry. I don’t know when advisers leave for work.

I ate too much because I could not stop being hungry. Nothing but glistening raw seafood tasted good. The experience disoriented me, but without it, I could not have done this. The holograms and light playing across the ceiling distracted and dazzled me. I only pretended to drink, and still the illusions came around and into me.

Sehutañi wore the form of an atseba, the transparent ocean creature that just floats, recommended for winding down after a stressful day. It is like a billowing sheet of paper, and iridescence flashes across its skin. The organs are transparent. At one end, these atseba take in the microscopic creatures of the ocean. At the other, carnivorous fish feed on the small swimmers eating their waste. It’s a truly bizarre thing. I remember seeing them in Menarka when a very high tide swelled in one night, and they crashed against the cliffs beneath us spectators.

Ler body moved up and down, and ler skin felt cold, like death in the arctic ocean. Our server queried us about drinks. Le prepared the berry-dark wine with an expert hand, and as le worked, the show burst into being. Colored lights danced all around us. Phantoms swirled up from the ground at our feet and coalesced into a dream-like story of someone traveling across the solar system.

I leaned in to kiss Sehutañi as the craft flew past our Giant in an out-of-control spin, caught in that world’s alien gravity. My hand tilted over ler drink when ler eyes closed, the vial masked by the illusion over me. The only risk was that one of the servers would notice and come to assist lim, but part of Kelta’s job was to ensure that everything went as planned.

My heart thudded in my throat. The Dream Gardens have made lesser people murderous. Adrenaline rushed through me, filtered by the neural interface. I had impulses to use limbs I did not have to attack and consume everything around me. What has Atara done in the decades since the Occupation? How could they know what an ịbarbok would feel unless they had caught one?

I panicked, and the vial slipped. I plunged more into the fluke than we had agreed on. As I capped it, le reached for ler drink. It was too late.

My panic blackened the edges of my vision, and my heart pumped irregularly in my chest. I needed to get out of there, but I had to breathe through this as much as possible. Someone else would die if I did nothing. This is what I had decided on — what I had coerced the Kohjenya into doing.

Le whispered, “This drink is way too salty.”

“Is it? Let me try it.” I took it from lim and lifted it to my mouth. It touched my lips, but I drank none of it. “You are pretending to be a sea-creature now. Everything will probably taste like saltwater. It’s fine.” Thank Gods that le chose this costume. Thank Tsemanok. Thank Yilrega. Thank Gyisfen. Thank the Divine Twins.

“It wasn’t like this before.”

“When did you last take a sip?”

“I don’t know.”

“What if it takes time to have an effect?” I asked.

“Maybe,” le said.

Le continued drinking. I modulated my breathing so it wouldn’t be obvious how relieved this made me. Soon, Aneti tilted ler head down towards the table and said, “I’m not feeling well. It’s the salt. I think I’m going to be sick.” Le pressed ler hands against ler forehead, and the billowing illusion came with them.

I grabbed Aneti around the waist and lifted lim up. “I can take you home.”

As we stood, ler hand brushed against my thigh. The euphoric feelings should have offset the nausea, although I’m not very familiar with what the drug even does, especially not at this dose. With Aneti like this, I decided to only give lim a peck. It was wrong to kiss lim or think about having sex. Karatau was right. Besides, le might have vomited into my mouth.

We took off the arrays and checked out of the Dream Garden. I had pre-purchased ler ticket, so we didn’t need to pay, but ler condition worsened as we left and took the Skyrail to ler home. Had I not memorized ler address, le would have had us turn down the wrong street. Le was suggestible, hardly able to stand, and completely dependent on me for everything.

Le opened the door to ler house, and I told one of ler cousins that I was taking lim up to ler room — that Aneti was drunk — and surprisingly, the cousin helped me.

When we opened the door, we brought lim over to the bed. Le was practically in a stupor, and we positioned lim just like one does when one has had too much to drink. The cousin went for water, and le left me alone with a partially-ajar door.

A stone caught in my throat, and my hands shook. To this hour, I do not know if Sehutañi remembered what happened. Everything I have seen about this drug says that le did not. I started combing the room for documents, carefully replacing everything I moved. When I heard footsteps in the hallway, I went back to the side of the bed. The cousin came into the room. We gave Aneti water. Le had trouble swallowing. I couldn’t administer anything else with lim like this.

“Le hasn’t been this much of a mess since ler sister died,” the cousin said. “Who are you?”

“A coworker.”

Le looked between the two of us and nodded. “You called lim ‘Aneti’ below. I wasn’t certain. You did seem a bit young for this to be romantic.”

“Do you need someone to sit up with lim for a little while? I can stay for as long as you need. It’s not really any trouble. I’m in an apartment, and my cousin knows that I will be out for part of the night,” I said. “My name is Jogta.”

“Puatahau,” le said. “We have family who can watch lim.”

“I don’t doubt that. What I mean to say is that I want you to feel at ease while you find someone who can do so. I can stay for at least half of an hour.”

Le clicked ler tongue and studied me. Ler gaze moved from me to Aneti and back again. “I suppose that is possible. It won’t take half of an hour to find someone else.”

“Thank you for letting me be of service to your family.”

“Cut the crap. You’re a demi-traitor. You wouldn’t do this out of compassion. It’s an opportunity to get ahead at the office, isn’t it?” Le spat on the ground. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes with someone to relieve you.”

When le left, le kept the door slightly ajar. I stayed by Sehutañi’s side, motionless, for a count of five hundred — I think. My thoughts wandered a bit.

I thought that someone would come and find me searching through drawers for keys and papers, but Puatahau must have been otherwise occupied, and no one came. Every time Sehutañi shifted on the bed, I thought that le would come to ler senses and find me pawing through the drawers and bookshelves in the claustrophobic room. There were not too many places to hide something, but the obvious places — tucked into treatises, in the well-worn pages of the bestseller And the Fountains Still Run Red, underneath the mattress, in the drawers beneath clothing racks — had nothing from the Daybreak Movement. Five minutes passed, and then ten. Every time the house settled, I thought that Puatahau had come back.

I found the folder between the bed frame and the wall, a piece of string attached to it so Sehutañi could guide it out when necessary. Dust bunnies came out with it, but the files themselves looked clean. Some had dates that marked them as current. None of the dated files were earlier than 1 Poråkol.

I went to my bag and scanned them quickly without reading them — all 41 documents — and just as I replaced the folder, I heard footsteps in the corridor. I rushed up and made it look like I was repositioning Aneti. Puatahau and another man came into the room.

Puatahau said, “You should go now. You’ve made the journey worth your while.”

The other man said, “Please say nothing to any of the other coworkers. It’s bad enough that le did this in public.”

I nodded. While Puatahau watched, I picked up my bag. Le escorted me out of the home. While I walked, my thoughts raced. Aneti had done this before. Sehutañi. Sehutañi. I stopped on the sidewalk and focused on the cool breeze, the nighttime nature-songs, and the faint sounds from the houses. My head wanted to take me back to that moment in the Necropolis. After doing this, I reasoned, what right did I have to vividly inhabit those private spaces of grief?

Instead, I pulled myself back into reality. Sehutañi had kept those pages in a specific order. I don’t know that I preserved it with the shuffling at the end. I think I left the most recent ones on top. Besides, le wouldn’t need the older ones — especially not the train timetables with the circles.

Kelta emerged from a side street a block beyond the Kuresa home, and we moved down the sidewalk in silence for some time. I mentally went through the words that had popped out at me from the documents. I don’t know Shiji. Some of the cognates, I thought, could be false.

Kelta said, “I think it was wise to avoid saying that you were a girlfriend. It will make your family less involved.”

“I am in love with lim.”

“I saw it when you panicked in the Dream Garden,” Kelta said. “You recovered from that weakness immediately before I intervened, and everything you did is exactly what I would have done. Good job, I guess.”

I chuckled. “Does that make me an assassin like you?”

“It means that you are not stupid or naïve.” Kelta crossed ler arms over ler chest and continued, “I had a boyfriend when I was your age who did not suit me. Le is one of the reasons I left my family and went into mercenary practice. You have the luxury of having a family who does not know about Sehutañi. They wouldn’t even take a match between you two seriously if you asked for it, would they?”

“My matriarch would not. The family has been positioning someone else for me,” I responded. “I don’t like lim as much as I like Sehutañi, but Sehutañi will likely be killed.”

“What do the documents say?”

“We can go over them once we return to my apartment,” I said.

We walked to the Skyrail and took it to the Metasai Residential Zone. In Metasai, we passed slumbering family homes and apartment complexes until we reached the dark apartment. Kelta hummed Narahji nursery songs the entire time, and I tried to ignore lim as much as possible.

In the apartment, we took off our shoes. Kelta, as an assassin, only bowed at my shrine. I gave the offerings on ler behalf. I texted Karatau. The cut in my palm ached. I still cannot believe that I have ler number programmed into my comm unit and that my matriarch told me to do this. I cannot believe that we have this permanent thread between us.

Liga called me and put a request in for Karatau. The wall screen showed both of them. I searched Liga’s body language for awkwardness. Le tried to stay professional, but I could sense it. Liga stuttered a bit, and le doesn’t stutter. Karatau stopped the conversation to apologize. I don’t know of any upper-level official who would do that to a subordinate.

We looked at the scanned pages together. I loaded them onto my smart paper and spread them across the floor. Karatau did the same on ler table, but Liga used monitors. Kelta looked down at some of my blurrier scans and clicked ler tongue. A woman sat down beside Liga. That one translated while Liga annotated. The video lagged behind my smart paper.

When I saw the name, my vision blurred. I felt sick. I had nothing to save myself from panic now. Kelta looked up when I collapsed back onto my palms. I whispered the target’s name as if Enahari could hear me and put a stop to this. The room folded inward.

The police should have information about things at this scale. If not, why do we have them? Why would the Karatha not just murder this lim outright?

Kelta set down a piece of smart paper, scooted across the bed towards me, and pulled me close. “Breathe,” le said.

The others said things. I don’t have the heart to go back to those conversations now — I skip this every time I can — but I need to say something. I was such an immature ass.

It is one thing to stop an assassination of someone in a regional office, as the Kohjenya have done frequently, as I assumed this was.

It’s another thing to realize quite suddenly that the structures of support that exist in society like ours, or that the people whom one has put on a pedestal, are just as vulnerable as others.

An earthquake does not care if it rumbles beneath the house of a great family or a humble one.

The Karatha should stop attacks at this level. Forget the police. The Karatha must have information. This is beyond politics. They should pass it on! Deo said chatter. What if the Karatha have fanned this fire instead of stopping it? What if …

The problem — as pointed out by Karatau — is that no one among the police would ever believe us even if I give them the information with full knowledge that I am turning myself in for violating those obscure legal codes. They have received no legitimate evidence, and the thought of someone doing this is absolute madness. The Karatha must even be the reason those codes exist.

Daybreak cannot be laughing. Sehutañi cannot be laughing.

This did more to cure my love for Sehutañi than anything else could have. Sehutañi. No.

Fadehin Akaiañi’s name is on that page. Fadehin Akaiañi! Daybreak cannot murder a ruler, a world leader. Daybreak cannot do it during a religious celebration in front of a myriad of people, and it cannot, cannot, cannot have chosen 28 Poråkol.

The jomela stood on the other side and did not move to open the door or even to knock. I kept my eyes on lim while I had a sharp discussion with Kati. If Karatau can read lips, le must have caught the entire conversation. Ler smile showed nothing.

When I opened the door, I said, “Mesahelepui, Akah Mainė,” and greeted lim in the traditional way. “This is Kati, a cousin, and you startled lim.”

The smile widened. Today, Karatau wore ler hair double-bound with a headdress that covered ler two braided buns in ornamental flowers. A fringe of gold and garnet dangled down ler forehead and the sides of ler face. Ler hepteri vest had patterns of feathers in red thread, the color of fading life, of death on tile floors, and of broken carapaces in the grass. The black background reminded me of the night sky. I felt underdressed. It was the kind of thing an upper-class jomela wears to a wedding or a friendship union or in court before delivering a speech, so ornamental.

Karatau looked directly at Kati and said, “I need to speak with Akah Nitañi. I have Matriarch Mohata’s blessing for this conversation.”

Both of us looked at Kati, who tried to hide the scowl. It prevented Karatau from seeing my confusion as to why le needed my matriarch’s blessing. Kati could have challenged lim or said that le lied. Le has remained silent about Deisurås at the family breakfasts, but in Kati’s heart, I know that le doesn’t want the Kohjenya-who-look-like-nuamua anywhere around lim.

Kati said, “Today is Gyetsuk’s birthday, Salus.”

“You could call Akah Nitañi’s matriarch to confirm. This conversation needs to happen now,” Karatau said, voice firm. Le said something in Shiji — I will not reproduce it here — that made Kati grit ler teeth.

I said, “Give my regards to Gyetsuk.”

“My family would never tell me to meet with one of them over celebrating a birthday,” Kati said.

“Tell them that I am not feeling well,” I said.

Karatau lifted ler right hand and started looking at ler fingernails, corners of ler lips still turned up. Le kept ler facial expression so tightly-controlled that I knew le must be raging inside at the disrespect. I wonder what kind of control le must have if le can stand this. Karatau is an upper-class jomela. Le comes from a family that once ruled an entire country, the Meiyenesi. What must it be like to live with constant disrespect from social inferiors?

Kati whispered, “Will you allow this one to make offerings in our apartment? Will you do that even if ler presence offends ancestors and sacred decency? My gods, how does your i pho meet such people?” I pho is the colloquial way people say ku bvyadö on the fora when they want to be disrespectful, and even people who don’t know Narahji know it.

Ku pho is also colloquial, but it respects one’s ancestors. The language spelling reformers who want to standardize Narahji slang and reform our dictionaries use that word as part of their slogan. They have made lists of words to change, grammar to modernize, and conventions to overturn. I like some of the changes, and I use them inconsistently on my own, but ku pho is too much. It’s just so … colloquial. One should never use a slang term to describe one’s family. That’s a hard line for me. Furthermore, one should never diminish it to i. It’s ku pho, not i pho. The people on the fora who do that have committed a sin.

This could have started a fight. Karatau’s presence made me back down. I glared at Kati. Le bit ler lower lip, stomped ler feet on the ground, and bumped Karatau’s shoulder when le walked past lim. Karatau remained stoic and hardly turned ler head.

Only I saw Kati turn around behind Karatau and raise ler fist. Even with my misgivings about the nuamua and Kohjenya, I would never make a gesture like that to one of their faces. Le was an ass. I have been an ass, but at least I know my place. This is such unbecoming behavior for an adult woman who has mothered two children and who works in a profession.

Karatau touched my arm, and our gazes met. The anger embedded deep within those eyes was not something that le could hide with that smile.

“It is good to see you,” I offered.

Le responded in Narahji. “I have heard reports about you from three people: Liga, Akah Deohårañi, and Deisurås. Liga and Deisurås have given me a thorough understanding of the situation, but Akah Deo was vague — le said, ‘I think that you need to talk to your associate Akah Nitañi, who is deeply disturbed by something related to you.’ I called Matriarch Mohata. We need to have a conversation alone.”

“We could go up to my apartment.”

Karatau gritted ler teeth and glanced at the stairs. “That works. There is no other convenient place, is there?”

I nodded. With a bow, I said, “Akah Mainė, let me lead you there.” Le offered ler hand, I took it, and we started the walk up the great staircase. “Why did you call Matriarch Mohata?”

“Akah Deo told me to speak to you. Liga and Deisurås assumed that I wouldn’t have time. I always have time for your family. Going through your matriarch was the proper way to start this conversation,” Karatau said.

People only go through one’s matriarch when they want something. Karatau did not need permission to talk to me after the show. I weighed possibilities during the walk upstairs, and le didn’t engage me in any more conversation. When I opened the door, though, I looked at lim and said, “Akah Deo says that le has five anti-eavesdropping technologies. Could I have one?”

Karatau laughed and shut the door behind lim. “I don’t know. Liga is monitoring the building network right now. Where is your shrine?”

“Over there.” I pointed and stepped aside.

Karatau reached into a hidden pocket beneath ler hepteri vest and handed me a hot package. It smelled like meat and spices. I took it from lim.

“I brought this because Liga says you leave for breakfast. I will not impose. We can eat while we talk. This conversation will take some time.”

Le greeted my ancestors in the Narahji way and gave a stranger-tribute to Kati’s — something very appropriate considering what happened downstairs. Out of everyone who has come to my apartment, only the Kohjenya have consistently offered at the shrine before engaging in business with me. That etiquette matters.

While le oblated, I sliced alahara, warmed flatbread, and put together a tray with condiments. I chopped the meat into small pieces and took two plates out of the cupboard. It took me longer than ler prayers. By the time I finished, le sat motionless, eyes closed, at the table.

I set everything on the table between us and sat down.

Ler eyes opened, le smiled, and we started eating. Le said, “Liga wants to know if you have stopped journaling.”

“I’m using traditional paper because I don’t want Liga to see it.”

“That is very fair. Annoying to lim, admittedly.” Karatau smiled. “I spoke to your grandmother, not about the assassination plot, but about you. Le and I use informal address. You can call me Karatau without my family name. May I address you informally?”

“Liga addressed me informally and probably shouldn’t have.” I dipped my flatbread in one of the condiments and ate it. “As long as you don’t become arrogant, you may call me Salus.”

Karatau skewered a piece of meat and popped it into ler mouth. The amusement shone in ler eyes. “When I was your age, most of the families around me called me arrogant, shrewd, impertinent, and presumptuous. If I could show you the political cartoons. I don’t think that changes with age, although people have mentioned it less and less over time.”

I nearly choked with laughter. “Really. What did you do?”

“At the time, I was the first non-woman Iturji senator. I delivered all of my speeches in Iturji before Tveshi, and I was in my late teens. All at the same time? Ha. Very overwhelming for people. Even as a jomela. I can’t imagine how a son-into-man would have fared. We didn’t have kaju back then.” Karatau pointed at my plate. “The meat is seasoned with Iturji spices. Tell me if it is too bitter for you.”

“I’ve been using jam.”

“That works. Salus, you are politically ambitious.” Le spooned some spicy sauce out of a condiment bowl and slathered it on ler flatbread. “Matriarch Mohata and Liga both mentioned it. You want to make your family great even though loss has followed you to Galasu. I respect that resilience.”

“The Kuresa sisters have been ambitious. Keptar made one mistake, and Sehutañi has made two. I will be the fatal one for lim if we succeed, won’t I?”

“I have something to offer you based on my conversation with your grandmother.”

“Don’t ask me to use smart paper again. I never stopped wearing the bug. Le knows what I have said, but not what I am thinking. Some things, I never should have said — they were too private.” I set down my spoon and leaned back.

Karatau clicked ler tongue. “No one in the Kohjenya has that luxury. I am the only one with boundaries, and I choose to keep them as low as possible. Liga could be listening to your bug or through my ears. Le cares about you. Could you pass me the green sauce?”

I handed lim the entire set of condiments. Le set the tray down beside ler plate and twirled it around. It came to rest before le dipped a spoon in the green sauce.

“What is the proposition?”

“Someone told me that you found a photograph of a woman who looks like you. I can give you ler name. Further, I can authorize and support your decision regarding Sehutañi. You are nineteen. That is old enough to make your own decisions about how this happens.” Karatau dropped the sauce from the spoon onto the center of the flatbread. Le dipped a sliver of meat in it. “Liga misstepped. Le thinks of you as ler daughter’s friend, not as an adult, Salus. Le will see things differently if le reaches two hundred.”

Despite using my informal name, Karatau remained very polite. Le is much more confident than most Sabaji jomela I have met, although I haven’t met many from Iturja. If le has the ear of Likhera, le has had thousands of years to make offerings of nectar and incense. All of the tesekhaira have had so much time to prepare.

I waited some seconds before responding so I didn’t appear overeager to compromise. “I will consider that. Beyond deciding what I will do, I need support. I am nineteen, and my matriarch has given me an allowance that reflects my experience and professional role in Galasu. That professional role does not involve funding this.”

“Ah, I remember that. If you can estimate how much you have spent already, I can give you money. You can make other purchases through us.” Le ate more flatbread. I studied ler face and didn’t see malice in it. “I made a deal with your grandmother because you are competent, and I am desperate. This assassination attempt now is not like the others. There have always been leaks among the tesekhaira. This one has nothing. It frightens me.”

“I would like ler name. I would like protection. I would like whatever happens when I log into computers and use them too much to stop happening. I would like all of this to be over, and I want the Kar—”

“Tell me exactly what you need us to do.” Le smiled, coughed, and put some flatbread into ler mouth.

Le chewed. And — and le looked towards one of the wall screens — and the knot in my stomach — that’s not a look I’d ever want directed at me. Karatau snapped ler fingers. I looked back at lim.

I handed Karatau a list. Le read it quietly.

When ler gaze lost its focus and the expressions played across ler face, I watched for anything that could tell me the outcome. Resignation, fear, disgust — and at last a sigh when le said, “Yes. But I need to talk to someone about this. Vials, fine. Rope, fine. Sleeping medication, fine. A document scanner, certainly. However, I’m not a chemist or a medical doctor. 4-hydroxybutanoic acid is used for what, Salus?”

“Kidnappings. I think it was used in a rape case — a prosecuted one, not very often for that.. It addles the senses. I saw someone use it in a drama for a criminal investigation. It’s slipped into a drink.”

“Ah, so black market?”

“I think so, but I don’t trust the black market. It’s something we’d want to make on our own. I have a list of what goes into it. Would your someone be better?”

Karatau frowned and raised ler hand. More than a minute passed before le spoke. “According to people who know more than me, 4-hydroxybutanoic acid is something that you must administer carefully. If Liga hacks Akah Sehutañi’s medical files, we can know the appropriate dosage. Liga might refuse.”

I closed my eyes and pictured Liga on the bridge. I said, “Tell lim that this is exactly like the blood on the tile floor. Tell lim that I am at the edge again, and le needs to help me. Besides, if I overdose Sehutañi, it will look even worse to have a corpse on our hands.”

Karatau’s eyes widened. I put the final piece of alahara in my mouth. Le said, “I told lim. Le will do it.”

“How long has Liga been in the Kohjenya?”

“Eighteen years.”

“Le must have contracted the muakanua when Suka was born, roughly?”

Karatau shook ler head. “Yes, and they reestablished contact when Suka was fifteen. Suka’s family believes in the old superstitions about exposing children to people in a collective. Suka is fine, and keeping them apart was unnecessary. And, well, you know Liga now.”

I sighed. “Suka should have mentioned that to me. Is this why Liga cares so much?”

“Liga will outlive both you and Suka,” Karatau said. “It is extremely difficult to kill someone in a collective, and le is frozen as le was when le contracted the initial sickness. It’s a complicated thing that I cannot explain to those who haven’t experienced it. Salus, I need to know your plan.”

I cleared my throat. “Tomorrow, I will take Akah Sehutañi to a Dream Garden and spike ler drink with just enough to make lim not remember what happens next. Under its effects, I will take lim home and put lim to bed, saying that le had too much alcohol. Then, I will give lim sleeping medication — I could use assistance with the dosage — and scan documents from ler personal collection.”

“I can hire someone to keep you safe,” Karatau said. “This is the least I can do. This plan sounds permeable.”

“I would prefer to take care of Aneti on my own.”

“You will have distant protection.” Karatau smiled and steepled ler hands. “Nothing will leave the Kohjenya’s possession without your permission — from our copies of the audio files, the comm files, or your private journal. When this goes to trial, we will protect you as much as we can. Your matriarch asked. It will take three or four days to compile what we need for the authorities. Your own copies might be confiscated. It’s — delicate, more delicate than I can say.”

“You have collaborated with people before in this situation? Have they been released promptly? Have they ended up in custody?”

Le nodded. “In most circumstances, yes. I would be lying to you if I said all of them. We had a situation in the 1840s in which our collaborator stabbed one of the conspirators in the neck with a kitchen knife. Le received a prison sentence for the assault. Do not assault Sehutañi. No cuts, no marks, no kisses.”

“I would never kiss Sehutañi while le’s unconscious. I have another question. What happens if we don’t have several days for you to compile a dossier? What happens if the assassination is scheduled, I don’t know, for the day after tomorrow?”

“We need to hope that that is not the case. I do not have the power to sway the authorities like that, and we will never make the requisite arrests in time. In that case, we may need to use extralegal means.” Le shook ler head. “You will need to exercise your judgment and keep us updated. The police have authority over everyone in the city except the royal family. You could go directly to them. You could call us. There are limits, but still possibilities.”

“What about you? You’re the nexus of the Kohjenya. Can you do anything else?”

Karatau frowned. “I can stop an assassin as long as we’re in hand-to-hand combat. Pulling someone into the space between space isn’t something I can do by distance. Tenes has a much better feel for the lattice than I do.” (I still do not know what le meant by lattice. I only wanted a sharp yes or no from lim.)

Reluctantly, I will describe what happened next. Even on traditional paper, I wonder if putting this down in a place where others can see it could condemn me.

The conversation above has gaps. Much more happened in that conversation, descendant, than I can say. Karatau told me to write nothing down about those parts, even on old paper that sucks down ink. Liga will destroy parts of the audio recording, and I only wanted the pieces I needed to make this journal sensible for my descendants. Matriarch Mohata sent Karatau a letter, and I read it. We burned this letter. I cannot describe its contents anywhere, either, because that would violate the oaths that I have now spoken in front of gods and family. It’s only semi-related, if at all, to the assassination.

The letter from Matriarch Mohata could have been a forgery, but I caught lim on video chat for under a minute to confirm it. Karatau leaned against the doorframe. I blushed when I realized that I hadn’t even cleaned up my laundry from the past few days. The hepteri vests, makeup, and underclothes aren’t anywhere near the dry-cleaning and laundering baskets. Le only said one thing: I think I had something with a pattern like that in the 1560s.

I changed from my simple work clothes into the one elaborate aniku I own, working hastily. A ritual like this needed preparation. We only had so much time before I needed to leave for work. I rushed so much that I hardly had time to bind my hair appropriately.

Karatau cauterized one of our kitchen knives with a lighter. Le spoke plainly and succinctly, outlining the ritual we would do. It was not anything Ịgzarhjenya or Sabaji. This is something that could only have come from the time before Kāmak fell.

We cut into our palms in front of my family’s gods and ancestor-proxies and put our hands together. I repeated an oath that I cannot write down, but I promised to be an ally to the Kohjenya. My grandmother never did anything like this for lim.

In that letter — I do not know the exact words — le wrote, My little eye of the hurricane is an offering to you, and in exchange, you will always favor the Niksubvya family as if it were your own. 

I mean, from my perspective, we are all arrows who travel in the direction our matriarchs want, regardless of our own longings. I have no idea what this means for my political career. This is not a friendship ritual, so it cannot have the weight of the law behind it. It only has the weight of the gods and the ephemeral dead. I am trapped in this liminal space between Niksubvya and Meiyenesi. Karatau must treat me like family.

Further, Karatau’s blood burned when it touched my hand. It must be like how an unlucky person feels when liquid nitrogen touches ler bare skin. I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth. My hand was on fire for about a minute after the physical contact stopped, and it worsened when le touched me to bind the wound.

I started laughing. I am laughing now. Kati has no idea — the force of this undertow! And now the patient immortals are jumping past our parents’ generation to take us as allies. How will le use me? What has my matriarch sacrificed me to do? Karatau asked if I was fine. I am fine. Just fine!

My hand shows no sign of the burn, only a cut. Karatau had no mark on lers at all. Le wiped my tears away with a napkin and hugged me. Le whispered, “I will advertise this to the tesekhaira. One of my informants thinks someone will put out a hit on you, and they will all need to rethink that now. For full legal effect, you and Liga should swear a traditional friendship oath. It is up to you to decide if that is appropriate. I can find someone else for it.”

I pulled away. “A hit on me?”

“You have been triggering dormant surveillance programs.”

“Are you sure that this will deter lim? Or them?”

Karatau clicked ler tongue. “In addition to being cute, warm, and good at oratory, I am actually very dangerous. Le knows what happens when le crosses my boundaries.”

“I don’t—”

“Don’t worry. I have been arguing that you’re only nineteen.” Karatau laughed and clapped ler hands together. “Don’t look at me like that. It is a contradiction. The others don’t view nineteen the way I do.”

What was I supposed to say to that? I went silent. This was too much.

Deisurås will visit after sunrise with the items I have requested.

My doppelgänger’s name is Thani Karoumo-Nitasė Kaleso. The Kohjenya will protect me with an obscure, long-dead blood oath, and I will have the agency I desperately need. I have already decompressed so many anxieties today that I feel like I am vomiting on the page. I need to stop before I write things that I shouldn’t.

My bodyguard’s name is Kelta. Le is not in the Kohjenya. Le is a Narahji devotee of Narresan. Liga has given lim access to my audio feed.

Kelta is tall, with long-falling locked hair that le wears in a ponytail. Le dresses in masculine dark gray, sleeveless for the summer, and has strong, developed muscles on ler upper body. Ler cheeks dimple when le smiles. I don’t think that le smiles frequently. I made lim laugh.

Le brought along layout plans for the Dream Garden, and I now know the best way to take Akah Sehutañi out once I give lim the drugs. Just in case the feedback from the hologram I wear inhibits my judgment, I will pass two backup doses of 4-hydroxybutanoic acid to Kelta. Le will know based on the audio if intervention is necessary. I have no idea how le intends to gain access to the Dream Garden without a costume, but at my suggestion that le impersonate a staff member, Kelta laughed. Le must have money for bribes.

I am writing this now just in case something happens. I want any reader to know that I did try to stop whatever Sehutañi and the Daybreak Movement had planned. I am so nervous that I awoke in the middle of the night and vomited. Here is to good luck. When I leave the house today, I will make offerings to Tsemanok.

I had the name of Aneti’s sister — the intimate name, not the formal one. It is Keptar. I have ler family name. I mean, families reuse these names all of the time. One needs both, but — it was all I had.

Deo met me in the shrine vestibule. I went early to make my own offerings in the Shiji style, and le joined me. We lit incense together, and after praying, le brought me back into ler office for a consultation. I sat in the office, not sure what to say given Liga. I tried.

“I want to know about a woman who died several years ago. Young. The family name is Kuresa, and the person was named Keptar. Le has a sister named Sehutañi, informally Aneti,” I said. The sentences pulled all of the air from my lungs because I said them quickly and did not breathe. I didn’t take time like I do in writing. The air in the room became oppressive, almost as if the ghost of the dead sister hovered over the two of us.

Deo smiled sweetly and said, “I had no idea that you were coming, so this could take me a bit of time to find. We’ll start with the Notices, which contain Tveshi births, marriages, divorces, and deaths, and then see what we can find in the newspapers. Untimely deaths sometimes have articles associated with them. Is this the Kuresa family in Galasu?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, then this may be easier. They’re in the news sometimes.”

I waited at the desk and looked around the small room at ler personal artifacts. The seaweeds within the water-walls shone bright green — mesmerizing, in fact. If the display broke, it wouldn’t be good for the books.

“Oh, wow,” Deo said after five minutes. Le grimaced across the desk at me. “This took much less time than I thought it would. I was right.”

“What?”

Le tapped the monitor in the table for me, and it came to life. The table display mirrored lers, so it scrolled through lists of court notices. The obituary was hidden towards the end of the results.

“Oh,” I whispered.

“Who is this that you’re looking on behalf of? Is this for Akah Mainė and Equilibrium?” Le grimaced again and paged through several of the previews. “My gods, this person had a husband in Cradle.”

“Had?”

“They divorced. See this?”

Deo’s searches turned up horror after horror. Oh my fucking gods, this is just one example of how I should have fucking asked Liga. I mean, le wasn’t going to tell me any of this on ler own — the kind of thing anyone else would have done! Instead, I wandered into this like a hotåkhi fool. Anybody else in the Kohjenya would have been better.

Aneti’s sister married a man who turned out to be Cradle operative, and le left Keptar for someone else without formalizing a divorce in 1856. Keptar followed ler husband to Kiaėtha in 1857, where Keptar had a nervous breakdown and tried to kill their daughter. The breakdown was witnessed by about a hundred people. The child survived, but the Kuresa family started proceedings to disown Keptar. At the same time, the state apparently intervened and placed Keptar in a psychiatric facility. The proceedings to expel Keptar from the Kuresa family failed because le would have no social support network left. This is just ridiculous.

Ler now ex-husband was arrested after an attempted train bombing targeting three officials from Vepessa. Le was caught on the Kai River in Aderei, a town known for its foreign religious sects due to its proximity to Narahja. Le committed suicide by placing a poison pill under ler tongue. Authorities discovered the materials to make hundreds of bombs in a small shack near a farming village where the ex-husband had family. The insanity was plainly visible on the walls: Le had scribbled them with every combative piece of text from eighteen Sabaji sacred works. It reminds me of how Aneti has decorated ler walls, and I wonder if Aneti’s family remembers these news reports. I mean, this sounds like a fucking Maðzi soap opera.

On Keptar’s release from psychiatric observation in 1858, le joined the Daybreak Movement and carried out an attack with no remorse in the International Congress in Khessa, killing seventeen, including limself. I must have been eleven. I had exams? Eleven-year-old girls don’t watch the news! No wonder the name sounded familiar.

Aneti, the woman for whom I have fallen so desperately, has given pride of place in ler heart to a despicable sister who murdered people. Aneti has idolized someone who brought shame and government suspicion on ler entire family. Aneti has followed in Keptar’s footsteps, and this afternoon, I wondered for the first time whether something was just not right at all in Aneti’s mind beyond the obvious. This goes beyond grief. This — this raises, suspicions, doesn’t it? Swiftly-fading symbols indeed.

It’s not even that. I understand with complete clarity what has happened with this unknown official. If Aneti’s family is under observation, surely the police would know something. This is not an unknown family. The bottleneck must come from within the intelligence community. If the police prefer Karatha as a source …

It must come from within the Karatha. I could not say something like that in public, on smart paper. Here, I can. It must be the Karatha. It has always been the Karatha. This is not really — I have avoided writing that, I know. It must be them, it must always have been them, and — I’ve avoided writing that even here despite my suspicions — they are that symbol — but it’s unavoidable, how deep this goes. This is why Liga has tried to protect me so much. I’m not naïve enough to forget that the Karatha did nothing during the Occupation. But this?

“How does no one know about what happened?” I asked.

Deo sighed through ler teeth and said, “I don’t know. That is a family that has many roots in Galasu. Everyone would give them the benefit of the doubt. Everyone would sympathize with them. It’s hard to say.”

“I’m dating ler sister, and I think that le might have ties to something,” I whispered. It was the first time I mentioned this to someone other than Liga, and I don’t know if I should have. “Akah Mainė knows, but we don’t have any conclusive evidence.”

Le nodded. “Packets of information have been moving on the old network. I can see them, but I can’t read a word. They’re in a dead language.”

“Do you think it’s the Daybreak Movement?”

“No. What is the sister’s name again?”

“Aneti, formally Sehutañi.”

Deo worked ler database magic again. The computer told me that Aneti had started as a child athlete, with a good mastery of archery, discus, and wrestling. Aneti has never said anything about it. Le married someone in 1858, the same year that ler sister went insane, and divorced that person in 1860. Aneti has worked for the Progressive Movement since 1857, and the Bulletin of the Progressive Movement profiled ler work in Galasu in 1862.

“None of these records provides any—”

“One moment.” Deo reached under ler desk and pressed a button. A hum I had hardly noticed suddenly stopped. “No one is ever alone in Galasu. We have about ten minutes in private.”

I was not ready for that. “I am saying things that should not be repeated. Will you violate my trust?”

“I take questions from tesekhaira. They do not trust one another. As soon as I said that I would answer their questions, I had five competing anti-eavesdropping technologies installed in my office. When they’re all on at the same time, it’s imp—well, not impossible. It’s information technology.”

I nodded. “None of these records provides any motivation. All I have is ler connection to a sister who died doing poisonous work.”

“What about Akah Sehutañi’s ex-husband?”

Before I could answer, le pulled up the ex-husband’s image. I recognized lim instantly—the man whom I saw with Aneti only days ago. This man is Kesetvi Galasu-Kitåhau Meitasela. Le is a member of a male courtesan group in the Galasu suburbs, and le serves upper-class clients from the Senate. Officially, le belongs to the Tveshi Cultural Coalition, but le started out in the Progressive Movement.

On ler courtesan profile, le wears ler hair in two top buns in an elaborate style, and le sports the new bioluminescent tattoos that I have seen from the High Wilds. On ler profile, le says that le knows several Sabaji languages. However, no Ịgzarhjenya language is included. This must mean that le doesn’t serve clients from Narahja or Nasja.

We can’t get a client list. I will need that from someone else if I want to tie lim to others within Daybreak.

“This man is in the Daybreak Movement,” I said to Deo. “Do you think that the divorce was a cover for their activities?”

Deo clicked ler tongue three times and shook ler head. “No. I haven’t found any information linking Akah Sehutañi to the Daybreak Movement, and if it existed, it would have been at my fingertips. My husband comes from the Tveshi Cultural Coalition, and le sometimes voices ler odd opinions, but my sisters and I usually point out the logical fallacies in most of what le says. It’s only after ten years of marriage that I have realized that Coalitionists have good points about a small number of domestic problems. That is how influence happens. A partner does it over years and decades. I could see a change coming over someone during several years of grief, especially if the family has not invested in counseling. But this?”

“How could Akah Sehutañi think well of someone who nearly murdered a child? Someone who murdered people?”

“Le remembers a sister, not a criminal,” Deo said. “That makes the heartbreak hurt more. Gods, just think about what the family — this will be bad for them.”

“Akah Sehutañi has a lightless void inside of lim,” I said.

“That could be the case. An earthquake does not care whether it rumbles beneath the house of a great family or a humble one.” Deo wiped the screens clean and turned to face me in ler chair, hands steepled in front of ler face. “Akah Mainė would have come to me for information if le needed it, but given that le hasn’t, I think that Equilibrium Nexus already knew it.”

“They’ve withheld it.”

“Akah Mainė gives a person things when one asks for them.”

“I am not working directly with Akah Mainė,” I said. “Le and I have met once, and the rest of the time, I have engaged with other members of Equilibrium.”

Deo clicked ler tongue, but said nothing.

I broke the silence and said, “If anything we saw could be of use, please save it for me and give it to me on a disk. I might need it when I approach the authorities about what is happening.”

“The articles?”

“Yes, all of them.”

Le saved the information, and while I waited, I listened for the hum to return. When it did, I tried to keep that sound from fading into the background. I never wanted to get used to it again — of course, I have.

It’s odd, but I think that I hear the same thing in some parts of the Skyrail. Somewhere, someone is listening to what people say. I think it’s clear from context that here, someone means the Karatha, and they do not always have our best interests at heart.

I think that I should say yes and have sex with Kitesrati, but I haven’t changed the bedsheets since Aneti and I last fucked. Do people do that at all, leave the same sheets on?

Kelis and I met so early and never dated other women simultaneously before the marriage negotiation was settled. I mean, other people did. I was so focused on Kelis that I tuned all of those conversations out — but you’d want them to be clean, wouldn’t you? I don’t know what to do.

After seeing Aneti, I went to visit a small, out-of-the-way Temple of Likhera, and I made incense offerings. It cleared my head a lot. There’s just something about the murals of statecraft goddesses, filled with their stories, that calms me down. I spent two-thirds of an hour walking around and just looking at things after I prayed.

Gods are not like tesekhaira. They do not have flesh and blood. They find shape in our stories and our myths, emanating through like beams of light peeking through cloud banks. Beyond all of this strife, there is something greater than me in the cold darkness of space and time.

Liga has not attempted to contact me, thankfully. I think that le knows I will not stand down. Maybe tomorrow, I will tell Suka to have lim call me. Tomorrow will give me more time to think about where this conversation belongs and what needs to happen. I’m embarrassed when I read over my earlier entries on smart paper, how naïve I was, how trusting. There are so many things I would have asked up front, and I think that all of that — but of course, I was also writing knowing that le was reading. I never voiced the true extent of my doubts. I’m afraid to voice those even now, even here. Someone will read this after I die.

I am the granddaughter of one of the women who brought Heaven to its knees and drove back the Taritit. My ancestors joined a princess in ler efforts to send back the Shēdakla from our shores and restore balance. My mother named me after the eye of the hurricane, the salị, where everything is calm.

So many of the women in my family have been exiled into mercenary work, so many men have been married to the God of War, and so many of the women and men and ozkyev and yadzakma of my family have gone into politics and the respectable art of taking back what belongs to us. We are the Canyons made visible. We are Tehjen come home.

This is Galasu. Here, I did not find Kelis dead in a first-floor room, blood pooling into the mortar between floor mosaic tiles, with a slashed-open neck, lacerated arms, and half-eaten belly. My younger brother is the one who hunted down the animal that killed lim and strung it up from a pole in the center of our street. I am the one who touched the torch to the pyre we lit when we burned that thing. That was Kobsarga. That was Kobsarga. That was Kobsarga. This is Galasu.

When I was fourteen and Kelis was thirteen, I told lim that we would marry, and le said, “Okay, that is for the best.” Lers was the only name I provided to my matriarch. I said, “No other.”

And then le died.

I mourned.

I grew up.

There will always be others.

Maybe used sheets are not so bad?

I will text Kitesrati. Then, I will contact Suka, who will know everything. Suka and I did not bind our hands together in a Shiji temple, but in a Narahji one, to solidify our friendship. Narahji friendships are genuine and eternal. Shiji friendships are convenient and political.

Galasu is a new start. It is the Chrysalis Interlude of Impermanence, where I can make of myself what I can. It is not a place for those old wounds to reopen. It is the place where I can be freed of all of the baser pieces of myself and come out on the other side, new and unscathed. It is the place where I can spread wings.

I must remember who I am and where I have come from. As Suka said, I am Salus Kobsarka-Nitañi Niksubvya, and I will be remembered long after I am gone.

Wind damage from the storm means that cleanup crews are working throughout town. Even so, I wanted to pull Aneti into the vine-copse and have sex. This would have meant political disaster in public. I need to make something of myself. A good daughter thinks about the future — not the pit of anxiety in my stomach tenses into lust, unweighted and undirected —— just in need of some release. Sex won’t satisfy it for long. I mean, that’s how couples fight. I need to fix the anxiety itself.

My thoughts have raced since cutting off Liga. I have a weight balanced above my head. Aneti, I know, will die. The relationship will end. Kitesrati, if my family and lers still allow it, will marry me. These events might as well have been woven in the Tapestry’s diamond threads.

Possibly — if things go according to plan — Daybreak will want to assassinate me. I wonder if Aneti will be alive when that happens. When I left Aneti at ler office door, I lingered to watch lim bend over the papers and materials for ler upcoming deadlines. Le pinches ler upper and lower lips together when le concentrates. Like Suka, le is strong. Like Suka, strong does not mean unbreakable.

Aneti may trust me. I need to force lim open and reveal things that le wants to keep secret. The pain le feels for ler dead sister, the mystery of ler target’s identity, and everything else about lim intertwine to make Sehutañi Aneti. We have lost so much.

I want to lock my lips around lers and pull out the poison anger and loss from lim. I want to distill the venom into the memories and decisions that brought lim here, to this moment, to this commitment that has put us at odds with each other. I can write most of what I want to write here. There’s other stuff I don’t think that I can even dare say here. It all goes back to that thing that Liga drew on smart paper. It feels like so long ago. It all goes back to that symbol that fades even as it is lain down, that hides — I do not think that Aneti is evil. I think that people can do evil things when in grief. My destructive impulses turned inwards, and lers turn outward. What would I have done if Kelis’ family refused to honor ler ashes at all?

It would have made me angry. So, so angry. I would have violated my own ancestors’ sacred place to keep them. I would have placed them in the shrine where no one could see them. Not much separates us. Would I have joined the Narahji Separatists? Probably not. My family does not play short-count games.

While Kati showered, I did research on ler tablet. My shopping list contains moderately expensive ingredients. It could take time to save up for them if I make the draught myself, and I will have excess. It would be so easy to find the Galasuhi underground and purchase something there, but in the underground, I won’t know anything about quality or strength — and you’re also funneling money to people who use it for despicable purposes. I cannot kill Aneti with an overdose. If le dies, it will be by an executioner’s hand.

Hopefully, Karatau Meiyenesi will approve all of this. That may be another avenue for procuring what I need. I did book tickets for a holographic garden show on 26 Poråkol. I wrote to Liga about it.

Aneti has cleared ler calendar, and I made it perfectly obvious how dissatisfied I am that le continues to have last-minute meetings. Le might love me enough to push back against the other members of the Daybreak cell for the sake of our relationship. I am counting on it.

The show will be good, and I have three days to prepare. Le will drink too much, and I will bring lim back to ler family home in too much of a stupor for anyone to question what I am doing.

After I prepared, I downloaded new encryption software, changed the password for my comm band, and installed a few security updates. This could keep Liga out. It probably won’t, but le knows that le is not welcome.

Via Suka, I let lim know that le shouldn’t bother calling me. Of course, Suka saw through it. Le called me on vid and said, “It’s really hard to be torn in two directions with you both texting me.”

“What is happening with Liga?”

Suka sighed and played with the ends of ler knotted gyena. Le unhooked ler comm band from ler wrist and scrolled through it, glancing up at me periodically. “I told lim that you could be trusted weeks ago. You’d never break a friendship bond with anyone. Besides, it won’t impact my fiancé’s family as long as we’re careful.”

I’m recounting this conversation because it’s important, not for now, but for posterity. I want whoever reads this to understand what happened at least enough to — there are many layers of why. This is not the deepest. Whatever happens, I need to know that at least one source remains intact. We are all biased.

To Suka, I said, “Liga invoked you as a reason to proceed cautiously. Le doesn’t understand the stakes. I need to be done with this seduction—”

“This is about Kelis.” Suka nodded. “What happened last time you talked? Le told me something. Probably not what you would tell me.”

“We argued. One of ler associates came up behind lim and cut the feed. Deisurås, another one of them, has been trying to catch me alone at breakfast. I think that Liga must have misstepped.” I winced.

Suka clicked ler tongue. “Le never mentioned that someone cut the feed. When we spoke on vid, le did sound a bit embarrassed, I’ll admit.”

“I hope that le is embarrassed.”

“Liga doesn’t understand what happened with Kelis. I don’t think that le has ever experienced bereavement. Le will when I die. What did the Kohjenakri say when le cut the video feed?” Suka reattached ler comm band.

“Let me check my smart paper.” I loaded it up. Liga hasn’t left any messages there. “Le told me that Liga had other business. They spent the entire conversation wordlessly speaking to each other, and I felt left out of that conversation.”

Suka nodded vigorously. “Ah, le has arguments with the Kohjenya all of the time. When we met for the first time since I was young, there were three of them with lim. It was a truly bizarre thing, right? Liga had asked to meet me in a city about an hour away from home on the train, and even though it was a public place, the trains don’t run regularly enough for me to hop on one and go home without loitering in town. I nearly walked out twice. They get into a feedback bubble.”

“What do you mean?”

“Imagine hearing thoughts and sensing emotions every day, all day, among those closest to you. The only thing that the Karatha, nuamua, and Kohjenya have in common is that they are all empathically out of shape — at least the ones I have met. They don’t read people outside of their collectives very well,” le said. “The Menarka Progressive Movement Office directs all of them to me because I am good at developing rapport, and little do they know that I’m used to dealing with my father.”

“Karatau Meiyenesi and Deisurås are fine.”

“They probably socialize a lot with outsiders. A nuamė I spoke to last week said that le hadn’t been out in about ten years.” Le laughed. “Just imagine it. Ten years!”

“Oh my gods.”

“Exactly. I can talk to Liga.” Suka leaned forward. “Just let me know when.”

“Thank you, Suka.” I smiled. “This means a lot to me.”

For whatever reason, I started crying. I was doing so well. The tears must have been welling in my heart. I mean — I transcribed all of that above by hand.

I wiped them away from my face and said, “I don’t even know why I’m crying.”

Suka waited for me to stop. When I finished, le said, “You will be a great force, Salus, that will live on long after the two of us have been reduced to ash. Remember why you are doing this. Don’t allow my father or the Kohjenya to disturb your equilibrium.”

Those words meant the world to me. Suka takes my side in everything. Ler capacity to relate to me is why we chose to ritualize our friendship at fifteen, and we had intended to do so since childhood. Our friendship never changed when I courted Kelis or when Suka rejected every man, ozkyev, yadzakma, or woman ler family attempted to pair with lim until Amklia. Le and I can pick up just as we left off even when we haven’t spoken in weeks.

My hands are covered with ink now, and once all of this is over with Aneti, I will need purification.

This is a risk considering my ongoing fight with Liga. Hopefully, less biased minds within the Kohjenya will prevail and I will have the support from them to complete this mission the way it must be done. Suka is behind me. I urgently need information, and so do they.

Most of the religious face paint came off successfully, but I wore long sleeves today because pumice is not a universal cure for temporary tattoos. Aneti cannot see me naked until the designs have disappeared completely. I look like myself again now that I have the gyena. Of course, after I marry, I will look very much like that woman I became for a day. I will not wear the gyena, and I have not decided whether I will wear a wig or keep my hair natural. I have spent a long time on my dreadlocks and will mourn them when they are shaved for the marriage ritual.

There is a hurricane on the coast, so we have wind, some rain, and broken branches on the streets. Some of the clouds overhead made funnels intermittently, but my comm band didn’t tell me anything about a tornado threat. The Skyrail wasn’t very packed.

Aneti and I walked through Senatorial Square during lunch, ill-advised due to the winds, and we debated the political implications of a divorce within the royal family. The current Deimo’s aunt wants one, and le has lived abroad for decades due to a political visiting marriage. Liga called me on my band, and I didn’t answer because Aneti isn’t an idiot and would know that we were talking about lim.

Liga followed up with a message: Do you understand how dangerous that was?! What if le had SEEN YOU?!

Of course, le doesn’t realize that I took proper precautions. I reasoned that someone from the Kohjenya would see me in person if they thought I had done something untoward. As the hours ticked away, that seemed less and less likely.

After lunch, the Progressive Movement closed the office due to the severe storm warning. The city closed the Skyrail in the mid-afternoon due to high winds, and most businesses and offices in Galasu had to accommodate for that. I didn’t go home directly because I saw Aneti looking at a message on a piece of paper. I had not dressed in Shiji clothing, but in the frantic crowds, it didn’t matter.

Le went to the same family home as yesterday. I wrote down its address and left abruptly when someone opened one of the curtains to look out. That person may have seen me. Aneti limself doesn’t frighten me because le doesn’t ever twist ler head to look back. Ler lack of experience could condemn all of them.

I need more information about the home where Aneti has gone, but the Kohjenya may be the best route for that. I plan to visit Deo in the Galasu Knowledge Foundation for another reason — that the name Kuresa has been bothering me — and it wouldn’t be appropriate to ask so many questions at once.

On the final Skyrail train before the closure, I barely found the space to cram myself in. The downpour started halfway between my neighborhood stop and the apartment. I ran into a Temple of Likhera to wait for a lull in the rain. Others had taken shelter, too, and we all made offerings to Likhera.

I sat on one of the cushions and contemplated the divine icon. In the smoke, the geometric figure seemed to move, and I considered ler relationship with the Ịgzarhjenya Divine Twins, Anumga and Sayimga. Likhera presides over friendship, and the Tveshi call lim the goddess who brings things together. Le is thus the goddess of the jomela, who transcend male or female, but also of foreign diplomacy, rhetoric, and any situation along the boundaries where things are mixed. Our twins are a lot like lim.

About half an hour after the rain started, Deisurås entered the temple. We locked eyes, and my heart sank. Le made an offering and came to sit beside me. The priest looked the other way.

Deisurås whispered, “I have been looking for you. Liga traced your comm band here.”

“I don’t want to talk to Liga.”

“I know. Le doesn’t completely understand why.” Deisurås smiled. “Le has lost perspective with this. It is always complicated when things involve one’s family. We want lim to focus on providing documentation for the Menarki assassination case right now.”

“Are you involved in that?”

“No, I spend most of my time working with the government in Galasu. Karatau Meiyenesi has a team specifically devoted to Menarka and its politics. Le won’t visit Menarka because le has a disagreement with Namgyatzi, and Namgyatzi loves the Narahji Ịgzarhjenya. It’s complicated.” Le shook ler head. “I was on the team in Menarka, but things became unbearable for me, and I shouldn’t involve myself in the politics there. Shija is much better for me. Akah Nitañi, may I address you less formally?”

“Salus Niksubvya.”

“Salus Niksubvya, I know that what is happening must be stressful. Liga described ler perspective.” Deisurås’ gaze followed the fine curls of incense in front of Likhera’s icon. “When the rain lets up, we can go to a restaurant and have something to eat. One of the neighborhood places is still open. I think that you need something to take your mind off of these things.”

“Did Liga tell you what I think?” I cleared my throat and took a deep breath. “I can’t do it in that slow way. I need results now, and I want to come out of this unscathed and unscarred. When Kelis died, I was beside myself. I cannot let that happen to me again.”

“You must be very close to the information. Liga thinks that you are.”

“Every time I think about Aneti, I realize that I love lim. I think about whether anyone in that organization cares about Aneti as much as I do. Le trusts me. Le has opened up about ler family and ler past. Does le even have someone to talk to within it? Do you think that its members care if le lives or dies as long as they reach their organization’s goals?”

Deisurås said, “That may be the case, but le volunteered to be a part of this. You volunteered to help hunt them down.”

“Why is this so slow?”

“Because it has to be if we want to get it right.”

“Liga is too cautious.”

“You are too brash.” Deisurås clicked ler tongue and grabbed my right wrist. “You need to think carefully about what you do. Otherwise, you could endanger yourself.”

“Are there positions within the Kohjenya that are not Liga’s?” The question was just meant to unsettle lim.

Le answered with what appears to be honesty: “Yes.”

It caught me off guard. Why did they pick Liga to be the person to speak with me directly? Why can’t I be in contact with someone who more closely shares my view?

Deisurås kowtowed in front of the icon as the incense ran down, and I followed suit. When we sat back up, Deisurås said, “Karatau Meiyenesi shares Liga’s ethical concerns, but is willing to entertain your proposal. Liga does not want it to happen this way at all. Karatau Meiyenesi went to the Temple of Likhera in Iturja to seek guidance.”

“This is not something that concerns gods,” I whispered. “What is more important to all of you: Doing something ethically or preventing a tragedy? It sounds like you already made a decision in Menarka when you used hacking to uncover a plot for which there is no Tveshi legal precedent in resolving.”

“I’ll put that forward for you. Now, do you want to have something to eat? Let’s not talk about this further in public.” Deisurås sighed. “I recommend not following Aneti like that again. It bothers Liga.”

I’ll put that forward for you. Not, “No, Salus, that is unethical,” not, “But you will be hurt,” not, “Think about my daughter and ler marriage.” This is what I need from the Kohjenya. What I want will be taken to Karatau Meiyenesi, and if that jomela with the infectious smile can be persuaded, the door will open. I hope that le receives confirmation from Likhera that it should be done like this. Despite the uncertainty, it’s better than hearing no.

And if they say no, I will do this anyway. The Kohjenya could be like the Daybreak Movement. They could spit me out at the end of all of this and leave me broken to drown in the salt marshes. Karatau Meiyenesi knows my grandmother. Le might not do that.

Suka cannot have connected me to an organization that would seek to do me harm. If all else fails, I can invoke my friendship with lim.

The way the sunlight hit lim reminded me of a few lines of a poem I read last year by Akah Laioñi Karodanė:

This is the first river in the cosmos,
seeing you lying there in the dappled sun.
The morning light cascades between your
golden breasts like the first rivers from
which Enakhiavoshei crawled out.

Today is a Sabaji holiday. The lines of that erotic poem are wholly inappropriate considering that fresh henna covered Aneti’s arms from the household rituals. It chipped and caked as ler arms bent. A collection of cousins, uncles, and aunts came out of the house just as le finished eating. All wore white tunics under purple stolas, nothing embroidered.

The women had double-bound their hair beautifully, covered with simple headbands. The men wore single-bound buns and elaborate face paint. Four who could have been women or jomela wore their hair double-bound, unadorned.

Someone in the crowd looked at me once. I recognized one of Aneti’s cousins, a person whom I had seen one or two times in their home. Le did not recognize me.

Liga would have hated this. I would have messaged Deisurås about it had I not been wholly certain that Liga would have coerced Deisurås into telling me no.

The wall screen messages stopped this morning, incidentally. Liga hasn’t contacted me via comm band, nor has le inserted limself into messages between Suka and me. Perhaps the Kohjenya want lim to take a break. Suka revealed when we spoke last night that the most trying thing about ler father being in the Kohjenya is the anxiety Liga has for ler daughter’s future. I understand it, but why couldn’t they have assigned someone else after the initial contact? Someone is at fault.

Aneti alone wore a small backpack. Le walked with ler thumbs tucked under the straps, but lowered ler arms before the group passed one of Enashisha’s temples. I followed at a distance. Staying unseen wasn’t hard in the crowd. Everyone swelled around the temple’s left side.

Enashisha and Tsemanok, of course, we consider the same god — but knowing how to worship Tsemanok did not prepare me to wander into the temple precinct’s amphitheater with the others to watch a religious performance. Almost everyone wore the same white and purple uniform regardless of class. I stood out.

According to the Galasu Knowledge Foundation, the Eneiji sect prefers these colors during formal temple worship. Stolas are a Galasuhi Eneiji phenomenon. Outside of the Galasuhi areas, the Eneiji Shiji wear their hair loose like mourners during worship, and they wear purple tunics with white sashes. The white sashes contain embroidered sacred verses, usually stitched by the wearer a year before le reached adulthood (or the year after?). It is similar to the practice in Amurja or Kakmejė.

I found others who did not look like Eneiji, and I sat with them towards the back. The religious ritual looked nothing like the sacrifices I have attended in the city center. I think that the Sabaji around me were tourists because one of them took several dozen covert photos.

Two dancers on the stage whirled around and clicked wooden sticks together while a priestess and a priest incanted. Thirteen children carried offerings down the center aisle and burned them in a great fire. When the chanting started, I could hardly hear my own voice. It was in Old Tveshi, so that is just as well. I stumbled through even recognizing any of the chants, let alone the words.

Most people left after the ceremonies. Outside of the precinct, several Eneiji passed out documents about lectures from their philosophers, topics neatly printed on thick cards.

Aneti kissed ler relatives goodbye and made ler way down the road alone. Again, I followed lim without drawing much attention to myself. We ran into a procession from the Hariji Galasuhi. A man with light hair met Aneti towards the crowd’s edge. They kissed, and I gritted my teeth. I remembered to duck underneath a café awning so they wouldn’t have a good look at me.

I took three quick photographs of Aneti and ler associate. When Aneti turned abruptly, I wondered if either of them had noticed me. Neither said a word, and they walked away from the festivities. I blended in with some Karoji philosophers walking in the same direction.

We all walked towards one of the bridges. The man handed Aneti a file folder and left lim. As soon as Aneti crossed the bridge, le left the path to sit on some benches along the creekside park. Le opened the documents delicately.

I lost cover because the Karoji philosophers also went to the park. They opened a picnic basket near some young children playing games with wooden balls. I looped around until I found a tree that would give me a good vantage point. When I zoomed in with my camera, I saw a symbol at the top of the documents that I did not recognize. I uploaded the photographs to my smart paper just in case Liga is checking it, but otherwise, Liga has no context for any of this. Le will have to call and ask.

Aneti annotated the documents as le leafed through them. Le shredded most of the original papers into tiny pieces and went down to the water, where le discarded them before leaving the park.

I scrambled to follow lim out. A group of worshippers stopped me. They were chanting and carrying a deity’s statue, and one of them adorned me with flowers. I allowed this because I didn’t want to cause a scene, so I now have the blessings of a god I don’t even know.

Aneti walked to a residential building about six blocks from the park. It was small, about the size of Adviser Tenes Sari’s home, so the family was small. They let Aneti in, and I watched outside until the prickling at the back of my neck drove me to doubt. I left.

Back at the park, I looked for fragments of those documents near the water. The pieces I recovered were so waterlogged that I couldn’t make anything out. I don’t know what I could even say to Liga on vid other than that I know an address where Aneti probably meets with ler co-conspirators — unless that was a benign house call and the only Daybreak-related occurrence was the document handoff.

The intimacy that man shared with Aneti makes me very uncomfortable, and I don’t know that it is my place to feel uncomfortable. They may have emotional connections because they are in the same Daybreak cell. Aneti is already betraying the Progressive Movement and ler family, so what good is it to feel jealous for ler other duplicities? I am seeing Kitesrati, and I haven’t told Aneti anything.

Aneti is a temporary love interest involved in an assassination plot. Kitesrati is Narahji. Le has an interest in politics, and my family obviously can afford the bride-price for taking a daughter from another family.

It is horrible to be alone, to work out one’s thoughts without others in this way, and to have no training to stop a maelstrom of doubts. If I betray Aneti, who is to say that a second relationship falling apart won’t deter Kitesrati from pursuing me, especially if my involvement goes public? Am I strong enough to do what Suka has done? That is a relationship with clear hjathoma. It is different when one family must pay a bride price.

How am I supposed to navigate a current in complete darkness? Do I trust myself enough to feel the rocks beneath my feet and understand the way the water pulls me? I have ambition, but is ambition the same thing as resolve?

True beauty lies in impermanence.
Reeds die to create masterpieces,
festival baskets, and colored mats.
Insects singing today will surely die tomorrow,
crushed mercilessly by a woman’s slow-moving
pestle to extract the deep dyes.
Mortality makes you beautiful, Kakedi,
whose name means sweet-singing
birds and lush meadow-flowers,
able hands and libation vessels,
one word with a fluid essence
across time and human language.
So flaunt that beauty:
give yourself to the rushing summer streams
and the heights of the canyons.
Plunge yourself into deep coastal waters
and ride reed boats to the edge of space,
for such adventures bring meaning to your short life.
Such adventures make you remembered.

Namgyatzi, the nuamė nuaf ića, said those words in the middle of Impermanence the day after Kakedi awakened in one of ler strongholds injured and afraid.

Scholars call this part the Chrysalis Interlude because it bisects the epic: In the first half, Kakedi behaved passively, and le accepted whatever fate cast into ler outstretched palms. After the Chrysalis Interlude, Kakedi learns agency. Le builds the flying machine, kakaḥaban, and quests for the Seven Hundred Sacred Things in the High Wilds with Jeiyeḥa and ler daughter. Jeiyeḥa is the librarian-archivist among the Karatha. They found a Great World there. Kakedi names ler tesekhaira child Kadarė on the shores of newly-founded Maðz.

I have been so short-sighted. Impermanence never portrays the nuamua poorly. Namgyatzi is the catalyst for positive change. Le prepares Kakedi for the dangers and challenges of the second half. Namgyatzi, not the Karatha, the other tesekhaira, or the gods, will deliver the final speech at the end of the epic when the humble basket-weaver has ler epiphany.

Kakedi became the beloved of the wind god Hiahetå, who delights in the solar wind and in the breezes and hurricanes of all atmospheres. My favorite part of the epic is Hiahetå’s constant, unseen devotion to the woman whom le will wed. Kakedi has so many challenges that I cannot even fathom today. No one knows when this story was written. Ler village raided, Kakedi was sold into slavery, forced to work on pirate vessels, and thrown at the front lines of a battle to be a shield for the trained soldiers behind lim. After le escaped, a magician cursed Kakedi when le said that a man could not shoot an arrow straight, and Kakedi went on a quest to make amends (but too late, as the magician dies before le finishes it), is sent to battle again — and then there is this: this beautiful piece at the epic’s very center.

Life does not happen like that. Kadarė exists, but the events in the epic are too fantastical. There must be a truth at their core. Events happen at random. A leader does things that make lim afraid to look in the mirror on dark, solitary nights. Everyone wants things that no one would admit to within civilized society because it could damage community.

Aneti confessed this morning that le once kissed a Narahji statue of Asämta on the cheeks and forehead in the quiet before anyone had arrived. Aneti has also tasted the blood of animals on the draining floor of ler community’s slaughterhouse. Le liked it. The Sabaji do not consume blood because blood is given to the dead and the god of war.

If I wrote an epic about my family, I would write that we exist in the space among many different worlds. My grandfather’s Atarahi stories sound so alien to me, and yet I am part Atarahi. Five summers ago, when I went with my father to Īpa for the first time, I felt like any Ịgzarhjenya foreigner — and most non-family in my hometown told me I would instantly feel a sense of belonging because I come from the Īpahi, too.

I do not know the names of their gods, how to shop in their markets, or what to wear to a dinner party. I have no piercings in my face to mark status. I have a better understanding of my grandfather’s Classical Atarahi movies than I do of my father’s Īpahi conversations on vid with my paternal grandparents.

If I wrote an epic about my family, it would be about the intersection of the realm of Tsemanok, who rules liminality, with our constant devotion to the gods of discourse and politics. The Divine Twins Anumga and Sayimga would receive vivid passages, much like those hymning Hiahetå in Impermanence.

Akah Kara wants me to advocate for immigrants’ rights and sees a path forward in that. My paternal genes from my father and grandfather make that an easy path forward. However, I am Ịgzarhjenya Tveshi, not an immigrant.

I am more Tveshi than any of them could know.

These are thoughts that can never be written on smart paper, even if traditional paper is just as archivally dangerous. My grandmother’s Menashi family had gone native at the beginning of the Taritit, when we escaped from the Shallows into the Canyon-Dark. The Menashi blood, that Sabaji core, has faded so much. It is the most important in many ways because the Menashi ancestry receives honors in our private ancestor rituals.

Everyone had an opportunity to reinvent themselves after the Taritit left. That is why the ten years that followed contained so much violence.

I need to let my bitterness towards Liga dissipate to move forward. I am so angry at lim that I found myself staring into space at the office, my hands trembling with anger. Suka has texted me to ask what happened. I can’t bring myself to say anything other than excuses, withholding the truths of this deep resentment I feel for how ler father has treated me.

This evening, I returned home to find the screensaver on my bedroom’s wall replaced with a slideshow of apologies from Liga. I can’t turn them off. I did, however, manage to tape over the webcam with heavy-duty packing tape. The video wall won’t respond to my commands to switch back to the old photographs. I am writing in the kitchen because I cannot bear to see them.

I know one thing: I need to take more risks because someone could die. If the government has no information, and if the police do nothing, someone surely will die. If I acquire information, I have no guarantees that anyone will listen. I may be nineteen, and I may have so little experience in this dark world of intelligence, and it may be true that the police only listen to the Karatha and never to Karatau Meiyenesi or ler Kohjenya, but I am the granddaughter of a war hero. Mohata was not much older than me when le saved the worlds.

With that webcam covered, I removed my gyena. I took paint that I purchased in the market today (3.75 lh.) — the same color as henna, but washable — and made designs on my face like a Shiji woman just coming out of a temple purification ceremony, the most elaborate designs for women I could find. I put on a bird-patterned dress in the Shiji style and swept my locked hair into a very traditional bun, complete with a headdress that covered the bottom half of my face with flat disks.

I hardly recognized myself standing there because I looked so Shiji. Anyone could tell that I had a non-Shiji ancestor, but I did not look like a Canyon girl. This young woman in the mirror was a Shiji temple-goer, at least upper middle class, with no knowledge of the Canyons at all.

I can follow Sehutañi because Tsemanok has blessed my ancestors. We have found love and built marriages among people from the High Wilds and across the ocean. The Niksubvya are the essence of Tsemanok’s liminality. We are where Sayimga, Anumga, and Tsemanok meet. We are smoke, flowing like water, through cracks and tight spaces.

This is why Suka is stronger than me, but it is also why I am the one who moves and changes, not lim.

At least I can burn this instead of relying on Liga to correctly apply deletion so that forensics cannot uncover ler comments on my smart paper. At least I will not have to tag text that could look bad in court, in that specific — if we need to use the audio and journal, I need to look as heroic as possible.

At least these analog thoughts are mine and mine alone — in the most asocial way. At least I can say things here one would never say where other people would see. At least I don’t have to toy with Liga to see if I can get lim to crack open. Le won’t, not unless I apply so much pressure that it hurts our business relationship.

I’m printing my smart paper images to traditional paper. That’s the only way to know that le won’t go in and delete everything. It won’t catch the audio attachments or the videos, but it will get text, and that’s important. There’s a pocket in the back of this journal. I’ve already taken out the sheets to accommodate the bulk. I don’t know — if the printer magically transported my documents somewhere else, I don’t even care at this point. Liga can go fuck limself.

How can I trust ler digital forensics when I know that someone in the building’s computer has been stalking me?

Nothing Liga has recommended has or will work. Liga and I both know that the pure seduction tactic will fail. Aneti would awaken if I tampered with ler room without drugging lim first.

Liga is also wrong. Aneti must have something hidden there that can make this work shorter and less painful for me. I need to fashion an opportunity that will give me access without the burden of anyone’s eyes, and drugging lim is the way forward. I could knock lim out directly, of course — which means that le will know, for one, and that would compromise the overall mission. I could go when le is not at home and hope that the family will let me in. But, they wouldn’t. I’m Ịgzarhjenya. Someone would say something.

I will drug lim.

Stopping this assassination conspiracy is a top priority. I have so many anxieties about other things, too — like the identity of that woman in the photographs who looks like me. Any time I spend on that diverts energy from taking care of Aneti. I don’t want my fear of losing lim — what, to make me stand idle while le and Daybreak murder a politician?

Aneti and I were supposed to see a lantern-lighting ceremony in one of the parks. Le canceled, so I went home to read the news while I waited for word on whether Gyetsuk and Kitesrati wanted to play cards in one of the local cafés. Gyetsuk told me to message Kitesrati directly, and the two of us will have dinner later this evening.

Kitesrati is uncomplicated and just what I need in a relationship. This is the rational way to curb my interest in Aneti. A motivated Ịgzarhjenya woman like lim will make my family happy. This is the duty that I have before my ancestors, second only to my oathbound friendship with Suka.

Fuck Liga. I am so angry, and here, I don’t need to mince words.

No amount of love for Aneti will change ler connections to Daybreak. I cried this morning with my hand over the webcam. I put paper over it in two layers, but it won’t stick. Whoever watches me — if le does it the right way, without activating the screen — should not see me fucking Aneti. Le should not see me crying alone in my room while all of those old wounds about Kelis spew their bitter, rusty blood.

Aneti, Sehutañi, attracts me so much. I think I recognized that we both know loss when I met lim. Here we are, bearing the weight of it, on opposite sides. Kitesrati is so fresh. Le couldn’t possibly know what this pain means. Kitesrati flirts with me at breakfast, and while I want to have sex with lim, Kelis’ death has left a ravine of life experience between me and other women my age.

A news story about a murder plot and the Kohjenya hit the news today. I printed it to paper and pasted it into the notebook. The manufacturers should really make it easier to add extra things — if I do this often, the binding wouldn’t like it. It’s so laborious to do this manually, but I like digital. I like being able to link and reference things. That’s the hard thing about printing.

EQUILIBRIUM NEXUS PROVIDES INFORMATION ABOUT A MURDER PLOT IN MENARKA TO AUTHORITIES, MANY ARRESTED

A series of arrests made local news channels this morning in Menarka, Narahja, as six individuals faced questioning over an assassination attempt against Senator Tsekar. Police confiscated weapons and bombing equipment from two additional individuals in the Menarka Skyrail. The names of the two would-be murderers have not been released.

The controversy comes from the source of the information, a group called Equilibrium Nexus. Its founder, Karatau Vepessa-Mainė Meiyenesi, passed information to the police three weeks ago. “The police failed to follow up because they don’t believe that the information is trustworthy, so my associates and I hired contacts to track those involved and lead two sympathetic police officers to the criminals,” Akah Mainė told the Menarka Daily News. Le described a situation of continuous hostility between the police and Akah Mainė’s independent investigators.

Police have commented that they have a thorough internal verification process that must be followed before moving on any intelligence information, including a review of legitimate information sources. The plot against Senator Tsekar did not create flags in their systems.

Further, police commented that the methods Equilibrium Nexus used to obtain the information are illegal: digital espionage and hacking. Equilibrium Nexus is in a legal gray area because its members fall under tesekhaira exceptions. When asked, Akah Mainė said, “I don’t think that digital privacy adds to the discussion in this case. People have choices in the technology they use, and relying on a single source of intelligence information will definitely lead to gaps in knowledge. This isn’t the seventeenth century, and the post-Taritit world requires a more nuanced understanding of information. If you receive everything from the Karatha, whoever the Karatha hate will be vulnerable to attack. Let’s stop using euphemisms like ‘legitimate’ when this is the intelligence source they mean. Right?”

Representative Tsekar has been criticized in recent years for failures to speak out strongly against Shiji primacy, culminating in ler condemnation of the protests and riots across Narahja in 1860. Le has increased the amount of Tveshi required to pass the entrance examinations from Cohort to Advanced Studies, citing the importance of Tveshi as the nation’s common language. The legislation resulted in more protests in 1863, when 68% of students taking the exam were held back due to a lack of language proficiency.

Equilibrium Nexus denies any possible connections to Narahji separatists and pivoted our interview to discuss the broad-based, destabilizing Cradle and Daybreak Movements that still have mainstream supporters. 

The police waited until noon to announce that eight leaders of the Tveshi Cultural Coalition and three known Cradle activists have been detained, bringing the arrest count to twenty-one. The Tveshi Senate has started an inquiry into suspected members of the Narahji Separatist Movement, focusing on the families of those arrested. If they find Narahji Separatist ties, the anti-protest legislation currently stalled in the Senate may find a path forward. 

Updates will be posted following next week’s scheduled press debrief.

It does not surprise me at all that the Tveshi-language article called the Kohjenya Equilibrium Nexus or that the reporter ended by talking about the NSM. Liga must have some part in this article because le lives in Menarka, and Karatau Meiyenesi would have controlled lim like an archer controls an arrow. I can hear some of Liga in the quotations. Of course, the Kohjenya must have other Kohjenyakri who can program.

If Liga were the only expert, le could never keep up with the demands of watchdogging the entire intelligence community.

Wait. If Liga were the only expert Kohjenakri, it would give a new meaning to ler anxieties and lack of communication. Is Sehutañi the only one overwhelmed by the workload?

The official article linked to documents about Equilibrium Nexus from the Galasu Knowledge Foundation’s online encyclopedias. I will continue to use the Narahji term because it’s shorter, but the Kohjenya have a surprisingly short article. The one about the Karatha is 89,000 words. The one about the nuamua is 120,140.

The Kohjenya have 2,000 words. Karatau Meiyenesi started it at some point between 1399 and 1450. The first mention of them comes from a political commentator in 1479. The Shiji writer wrote, “A new faction has come out of the nuamua, and they call themselves a bound pathway united together. The leader, Karatau Meiyenesi, is the one among the nuamua who wore the red color of mourning until we beat the Shēdakla back from our wide shores.”

Otherwise, the Kohjenya played a pivotal role when we overthrew the Taritit. It supplied the intelligence and the communications grid that the rebels used. It worked with Maðz and Atara to bring reinforcements for the space battle.

The organization has helped people, and my grandmother has connections to them. I have hazy memories as a child of lim sending all of us kids to the guest audience room because the middle generation of the household didn’t want us exposed to a collective. I remember peeking out and seeing a well-dressed jomela squeeze my grandmother’s hands and kiss both of ler cheeks.

If our matriarch would allow a Kohjenakri to touch lim and kiss ler cheeks, I will fall in line with that jomela. The middle generation of my family became so conservative. I can hardly blame them if the Kohjenya can be so easily confused with the nuamua.

However, the words in Tveshi — and the origins of the term in Narahji — do beg a very specific question. Equilibrium Nexus. Kohjenya, or Kofahjenya (lyịb-/rua-/luar-)asub, which means mindspeople together of the same status in Narahji. What is the meaning of nexus, and who is bound together in this path?

I don’t blame you, necessarily. You wanted to protect Suka. You thought you needed to protect lim from me, and that is the part that I hate.

When you called me, the space behind you had been repurposed into soft seating around a low table. From the camera angle and lighting, I could barely make out the print maps under examination. Do you not sleep any longer? Was this not a bedroom? Should I read into these constant changes at all?

A person sat at the table with the maps, and le didn’t lift ler head. Ler hand and wrist flicked out over the maps on the table as le made annotations.

“Is this the same person who had been sleeping on the bed during prior conversations?” I asked.

“We don’t have enough space in Menarka,” you said, “and I am not the only one who needs to use this residence for work. Le hasn’t been sleeping here, but in one of the hotels several blocks away.”

I cleared my throat and asked, “Did you read my entry yesterday?”

“Yes.”

You closed your eyes, and the person looked up from the table, ler eyes practically boring a hole into the middle of your back. Le looked beyond you — at the camera — and the gaze made my stomach drop. You said, “I have something that I need to tell you.”

“I have already decided that you are in the Kohjenya. You couldn’t be one of the Karatha or nuamua based on your associations. Have you been in the nuamua or just the Kohjenya?”

The audio registers someone chuckling, and it sounds like your voice. I don’t remember that happening in the video. It must have been the person behind you or someone watching off-screen. “Correct, only the Kohjenya, or Equilibrium Nexus to the Tveshi, abbreviated Equilibrium. There is a complicated relationship between us and the nuamua that only Karatau Meiyenesi understands.”

“Are you serious?”

“I’m a programmer and don’t spend much of my time thinking about it.”

“Do you have red eyes?”

“I do wear contacts,” you said.

I said, “If you are in a collective and have the marker of being one of the nuamua, no wonder you are afraid of being mistaken for one. Anyone would do it. I did it.” The comment wasn’t meant to antagonize you, but it had that effect. I could have brought up the illegality of colored contacts, but didn’t.

As I write this, I think that this must be the place in the conversation where the two of us went wrong.

“Even though it doesn’t work like that. You have no idea what it has been like to read the things that you have written.” You gaped your mouth open and shut, sighed, and glanced at something off-camera.

The person behind you looked down at the maps and started moving tiny slips around on them. You clicked your fingertips against the spacebar on your keyboard. Your facial expressions changed as if talking to someone, and so did those of that person behind you. I started unpacking my laundry from the case beside the bed.

You clapped your hands, and I looked back towards the monitor. “I can do things that are not precisely legal precisely because I belong to the Kohjenya,” you said. “You have limitations because you are a citizen who falls under the aegis of the State. Collectives and tesekhaira last longer than governments. We lose our citizenship.”

“Akah Kara believes that I might have the muakanua.”

“You don’t. Nothing in your journals indicates that you would,” you said.

I turned back to my undergarments and started packing them in a drawer beside my hanging rods. “How would you know?”

“You have met nuamua and Kohjenya before. I don’t know if you have met one of the Karatha. Still, it would never progress this slowly. The process takes between 30-120 days, half of which involves debilitating pain. None of the classes of drugs available on the market today makes the pain manageable when it is at its apex.” You cleared your throat. “I don’t want to think about that. We need to talk about Sehutañi. Will you be all right? Do you know enough about my connections? This cannot be broadcast, Nitañi.”

You have begun addressing me formally again. I noticed that earlier, but with all of the bullshit from you recently, I consider it an appropriate change. It will not change the outcome of this conversation.

“Why would I tell anyone? Who would care?”

“Not even your family. Deisurås told you too much about me in an effort to explain. I don’t trust anyone outside of the Kohjenya with that information until my daughter marries and has ler first child. Le and I have spent the past four years ensuring that all of the records name a dead man who isn’t me as ler father. My maternal family won’t threaten this, but members of the community who know the details of why I left the family will. I have just as much reason to want this to happen legally as you do. If I testify in court, I will need to explain my connection to you. Suka’s fiancé comes from a conservative Narahji family. Suka is my daughter, and having a father who contracted the muakanua will make that fiancé’s maternal family suspicious of ler genetics — despite the fact that this has no genetic basis. I hate that it is me who needs to be involved in this, but those are my orders.”

You said daughter, and it is still so unnerving to see your face — young like mine, young like Suka’s — because it will always stay the same as long as I am alive, right? I dropped the pair of underwear that I was folding. “So you have wanted me to say that I trust you when you don’t trust me?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Does Suka call you a cousin in public or just to me?”

“In public, if necessary, but never around ler fiancé. I am never mentioned.” Liga frowned. “Nitañi.”

“How could you think that I would betray a friendship ritual? Do you think that my misgivings about the muakanua and the nuamua and — and the Kohjenya — do you think that they matter as much as le does?” My voice rose to a shout.

You frowned and whispered, “Nitañi, can we please discuss Sehutañi?”

“Fine.” I threw the box of clean laundry on the ground and sat down on the bed. “What is your next brilliant avenue? You mentioned audio bugs. Have they worked?”

You shook your head and said, “No.”

“Did you ever believe that they would?” I pulled out my comm band and texted Suka while I waited for you to respond. There, I said, Suka, if we could stop an assassination attempt, but your father would need to come clean about ler identity and thus endanger your marriage, would you consent to it?

Liga, you do not know the first thing about friendship. Friendship turns water into blood and strangers into siblings.

“I need you to redouble your efforts at seducing Sehutañi so you can have an invite to ler matriarchal home. We have conferred here, and the majority of us — myself excluded — believe that there could be documents in ler room at home that will serve as evidence. I hacked into the Kuresa family’s home communication network via a transfer that one of ler aunts approved. Sehutañi printed several documents that le later scrubbed on the network. I haven’t forensically recovered their contents, but my associates are right — something must exist in print. I’m thinking of an anonymous data dump.” You glanced at your computer and said, “Nitañi, that text—”

“You excluded?”

You clicked your tongue and closed your eyes. “Le has already made errors, and if those documents did exist, le would have purged them.”

I shook my head and said, “I don’t believe that. Le purchases traditional paper. Le might think that it’s safe.”

“Le is new to the Daybreak Movement, but one of your entries indicated that Daybreak’s leaders may have punished lim,” you said. “It’s also not legal for us to steal them, technically. That — that is — it would mean —”

“Why would they trust lim with something so important if le is new?”

“There may be other connections or reasons why Sehutañi decided to involve limself in something like this. I can’t talk about any of that because I don’t want to harm your ability to conduct this part of the mission,” you said.

I stopped putting away my clothing and looked into your eyes. “You want me to redouble my efforts through seduction, and you won’t even tell me the full story of what needs to happen and why.”

“Yes.”

“And what if I refuse to do it that way?” My comm band buzzed, and I read it: A life is more important than my future marriage. Tell Liga that I don’t need this kind of protection.

“If you back out now, someone will die. This is our best lead.” Your voice had a desperate edge, and your gaze remained on your computer. You must have read both of these messages, and you hadn’t deleted the one I sent in time. (You could have done so. You and I both know that.)

To Suka, I wrote, Are you completely certain?

Le wrote, I have always been the stronger of us. You are the cliff-rocks, and I am the roots holding you up. I am not a controversial person. I have always been a good daughter of Bisum. Amklia has performed ler military service with distinction and is a desirable son. The Progressive Movement would call us a perfect legal case. Amklia and I will fight.

When you turned to face me, you had wide eyes and raised eyebrows.

I said, “Yesterday, Aneti showed me ler sister’s ashes, and I made a promise. I think that they have found a path forward. Le would never have asked me to make that promise if le were not intending to die soon. We need to stop this before the worst happens. Suka and I both come from great families. If anyone can weather a political or legal storm, we can. This is not so great in comparison to what my grandmother faced when le fought on the front lines against the Taritit.”

I wrote, You are the roots, and I am the cliff-rocks.

“What are you suggesting?”

“I could drug lim. We hooked up the first time because we had both had too many drugs.” I bit my lower lip and said, “You know how I feel about Aneti. I love lim, and I will betray lim. It is best for all of us that I do this quickly.”

You shook your head and said, “Don’t do that!” very abruptly — and behind you at the table, the person looked up. While I couldn’t hear what le said, I hope that le agreed with me.

I steepled my hands and moved them close to my lips. “I won’t seduce Aneti because my heart and my mind cannot take it. Do you want my assistance or not?”

“Do you really want to be known as the woman who drugged ler girlfriend to obtain intelligence information?” I could only listen to your words once when I played and replayed the recordings because this does make me sick inside. Seeing the judgment in your face makes it worse even if I see no other option at this point. “We have laws against this. The family could come after you. If I testify in court, regardless of what my daughter thinks, this will be a black mark that will follow lim. Le will not be a ‘perfect legal case’ if ler father is so immoral as to condone date-rape.”

I let breath out through my teeth. “See? Now that you have come clean, we can have a good conversation. The Kuresa family will suffer so much heartbreak from ler duplicity, but it is not my fault. If anyone ruins their reputation, it will be Aneti. Everyone will know that one daughter in their ascendant generation has secret ties to Daybreak. It will not be anything about Suka or about me.”

You clicked your tongue and shook your head. “You do not know the name Kuresa, do you?”

Behind you, the nameless person opened ler mouth, but did not speak. Le made eye contact with the camera. Did you prevent lim from saying something? If others agree with me and not with you, how would I know directly? Are you all hiding this from me?

I said, “If we stop an assassination, it will be worth it.”

“Nitañi. Akah.” You frowned. “Don’t.”

“You are not the arbiter of what I will and will not do. Your daughter is not fragile. I am fragile, but the Niksubvya family will stand behind me. The Progressive Movement will reward me for rooting out a traitor. Why would I do what you want when you don’t trust me? You have decided that I would loathe you for being in the Kohjenya. You have decided that anything I do will hurt your daughter in ways that le cannot overcome. You have made a moral judgment against protecting an unknown assassination target whom you readily agree may be a higher-up. What has society come to that a man who has no friendship to me, who has no ties to me beyond Sukalvar tal Bisum, can be the arbiter of my behavior?”

In the silence that followed what I said was a silent scream. I couldn’t bear it — way too loud — unacceptable — but in that silence, where all of my — all of my frustrations and pain about this fucking hotåkhi situation — that silence slammed into you like a sea wall, and the wall could not contain it. It was a tsunami sucking against the North Shore’s great tidal estuaries. It was the High Wilds: A place that enables life, but that is so cold and empty that it can suck the breath from one’s body even as it freezes one to death.

You gritted your teeth together and breathed out. Behind you, the person rose from the table and came to meet you. Le had red eyes and a long, black braid that roped completely down ler back, a taut face exaggerated by ler lips pursing together in anger, and Madhzi features.

Le wrapped ler arm around your waist and said, “Liga needs to take care of something else now.” Ler voice was lower than I expected.

You cast a sideways glance at lim so chilling that my belly tensed. Silence, and then you said, “Nitañi, don’t do this.”

The stranger-to-me said, “Akah Nitañi, Liga is very tired and overworked. Please forgive lim for not listening to you the way le should have. Farewell, Akah.”

Le reached forward and cut the channel. I stared at the dark screen and waited for the default image gallery to come on. The stranger told me that you didn’t listen to me, and if le can be inside of your head, is this the agreement that I need?

Don’t write your counterargument. I won’t believe you. Someone could die, you insist on following the law, and I am just done with this. If you cannot trust me — I have ammunition. Why have I written these entries on smart paper for you? So you could know my intimate thoughts.

I think it is time to stop this intimacy. It’s time to take more control over what I think and everything I haven’t written down, that which remains unsaid. You will address me as Nitañi. You will not have the privilege of reading this any longer.

The necropoles of Shija look similar to one another: All endless shelves lining the walls in the open air, with trees in the center of some of the larger through roads — but only trees of certain kinds — and on the shelves, their oldest ancestors eventually become tucked away towards the back. So many people died during the Occupation that extensions were built at the edge of the North Quarter and to the south of us on Old South Street to house the ashes of the people found in the debris during the reconstruction. I have only visited those with Kati.

We walked in silence because the man at the Necropolis’ gate bound our mouths with red fabric, and we bought red Tveshi veils from the vendors to cover our heads in honor of the official mourning day. The rough-woven fabric frayed over Aneti’s face. Le complained about the veil, but the Shiji don’t wear gyenya and thus don’t know which fabrics work best in heat.

“I visited the graves with my family during the morning,” Aneti said, ler voice muffled, “but they don’t know that I brought my sister’s ashes here. Le was not named in the official rites, so I will make another offering to lim now.”

“I thought you said we shouldn’t speak,” I responded.

“It’s something you need to know.”

We walked down one of the pathways, our hands linked together. Tight-knit family groups made offerings at small shrines on both sides. The masses of silent people lessened as we walked farther and farther from the Skyrail stop. The stones turned uneven. Many smaller family shrines around us had crumbling shelves and urns covered in dead leaves and debris. Some had spilled open, the ashes of the dead washed away in the rain.

Most wealthy families keep their shrines near the Skyrail stops. Kuresa was a firm exception. They keep their ashes in a more private area, in the same one where a non-Tveshi family name, Sari, is written.

“Yours is out this far?” I asked.

“Most of the families here died during the Occupation and no longer tend to their shrines,” le said. “Our matriarch refuses to move.”

In Menarka, of course, the city burned to the ground when the Taritit invaded. We built New Menarka on its foundations. Our homes contain and are built on our dead. No one would have gone back for the ashes in the chaos. “All dead.”

“Kuresa survived because we knew how to play political games,” Aneti said firmly. Le narrowed ler eyes. “One of my cousins organizes Action Days to clean up shrines in the abandoned nooks. It involves coordinating with death-priests and selecting auspicious days. They went out today. I think our family’s section is on the slate for a few months from now.”

“What will they do with the urns?”

Aneti jutted ler chin towards the north. “There’s a construction project one Skyrail stop away for the Forgotten Shrine. That’s where all of the ashes of dead families will go.”

We turned the corner, where a stonework arch bore ler family’s name in bold, syllabic lettering. The family has lived in here for thousands of years, and the Necropolis dates to the 200s or 300s. Most of the family’s urns show signs of laser scarring from when the Taritit pursued those who ran into the shrine alcoves. The Taritit didn’t level this place, though. They allowed families to continue burying their dead during the purges.

If you listen to the audio, Liga, you’ll hear that Aneti had resentment in ler voice. What does that mean for us, that le resents the Taritit? I thought that Daybreak liked them.

Kuresa has so few broken urns, not like my family. Niksubvya has only two from before the Taritit, carried by the founder of our modern family. One of ours went back for our ashes through the fire from Heaven and the ashes spraying down all around lim.

Aneti hooked ler finger through the red gag and pulled it down over ler cheek so it rested on ler neck. I followed suit, unsure of the customs. None of those other groups had removed these before prayer.

We walked about three meters in before Aneti stopped. Le knelt down, pushed aside an urn, and pulled one out from behind it. This urn was a plain stone box. The ancestor name looked like a child had carved it into the stone. Aneti gave it pride of place in front of the deep offering hole. Le beat ler hands together seven times, gave a mourning cry, and beat ler hands again. The skin on my arms pebbled up when le wailed.

Aneti cut ler palm and offered blood to the dead sister. Le murmured prayers that I couldn’t understand, and I waited in silence.

Fifteen minutes later, le wiped the blood from ler hand, sterilized the wound, and dressed it with flesh-knit cream.

“My sister had an ordeal of a life,” Aneti said. “Our family did not appreciate how le spent ler time. Le left home young. It is important to honor the dead no matter what they did in life.”

“I had no idea that the Sabaji honored the dead like this,” I said. I shuffled my feet, my gaze on ler hand.

Aneti said, “My family is in the Eneiji denomination. We offer live human blood to the dead. The denomination that follows the Fadehin is called the Hariji denomination, after Enahari, and the Iturji are all Hariji or Liķruji, after Likhera, because the Meiyenesi family that ascended after the fall of the Old State two thousand years ago built the Temple to Likhera in Vepessa. They consider human blood offerings impure.”

“What is the difference, um, I mean philosophically?”

“It depends on where one throws the stone into the center.” Aneti smiled tensely. “I have something else to say about my sister.”

Le pointed at one of the empty spaces near the front. “When I die, my family will not place a box in the ancestral shrine for me. We paint these in bright colors when someone dies, but the color fades quickly. My sister died, and I could not afford to have it painted without my family’s blessing. In a few centuries, the name of my sister and my own name will never be used to honor and name newborns in front of the ancestral dead. No one will pray to us for our blessings on the living. It ends here.”

“What was ler name? I cannot read old Tveshi syllabary.”

“Keptar.”

“How old was le?”

“Le was born in 1833 and died in 1860. It happened at the same time as your Narahji riots.” Aneti winced.

The semi-formal name Keptar Kuresa made a pit in my stomach when I repeated it in my head. There’s something about it. Something makes me think of school before my examinations. I’m certain that I had seen some document with that intimate name on it. It’s irrelevant now — I mean, that was so long ago! To Aneti, I said, “You are twenty-seven now, yes? Or did you say twenty-eight?”

“Yes, twenty-seven. And you are barely nineteen. A good family, and your matriarch must already want you to find a wife.” Aneti cleared ler throat and said, “I was married. I sent my husband back to ler family. We fought constantly. Salus, little girl, I have something to ask you.”

“What?”

“You need to swear it on my sister’s grave.”

“Tell me what it is, and I’ll tell you if I’ll do it.”

“When I die, be it four decads or four decades from now, I want you to remember me. Any Eneiji man or woman could teach you the etiquette for honoring the dead. Come here and pour candied wine into the pit. You are not family, my spirit will not accept your blood, and offering animal blood like the Hariji and Liķruji is inappropriate. Burn kili cakes for me. Don’t forget that I existed.” Le cleared ler throat and wiped tears from ler eyes by sliding ler fingers gently below each of them. “They will not honor me.”

“I swear that I will honor you. I will pour out candied wine and burn kili as soon as I know what that means.” I held out my hand, and le clasped it.

You should know that it took all of my fucking training to remain calm. What the fuck does le mean by all of this? It’s the kind of hotåkhi thing that would make anyone vid the Kuresa home and ask if Aneti were suicidal.

Le squeezed my hand three times and said, “May you have a long, happy life.”

“And you, the same.”

We bound our mouths and left the shrine. When I listened to the audio and reproduced the ghost of what happened in the Necropolis, I thought about how quickly we hurled ourselves back to the world of the living. The image of ler dead sister and my dead fiancée twisted together.

All of us are touched by loss, aren’t we?

I love Aneti. Kitesrati, meanwhile, grows on me at breakfast. Le has so much energy and vitality. We walk to the temples sometimes now. Eventually, I will need to tell Aneti, and maybe le already knows — le made that comment after all, that thing about marriage and coming from a good family. I cannot allow this relationship to end before we know Daybreak’s target.

I have cursed myself so many times for opening up to this woman who bared ler soul to me today. Le could have done this intentionally if le suspects me. Aneti must manipulate people at ler job. How hard would it be to seed doubt in someone trying to sabotage an assassination plot?

Every part of me wishes that none of this were real. I want Aneti to have a long and happy life, the same thing that I wish for myself and everyone in my family. If only Aneti had never involved limself in Daybreak. This relationship has become a slow march to a funeral.

Daybreak must fail. Aneti must fall. I am the only key to their city gates.

I cannot keep up like this.

Thank you for sending me the protocols in the package, and as per your instructions, I will not describe precisely what they are in the journal. It really does put things into perspective, and again, xai ku tsekto xikanosaịrru tsurhjas tsansakssa. You deserve to have the benefit of doubt.

Of course, some of the protocols sound elaborate. Is this true, Liga? What are the notes about something called Eamaru? It looks almost like a grammar. I don’t think that I have ever seen those words before, and it sounds like you had to learn them all through trial and error?

The other conspiracies you have worked against had more well-organized antagonists. None of them has sloppily-executed conversations overheard by young political staffers on the Skyrail. The clumsiness of this cell is astonishing. Who would risk everything by saying careless words in a public place? How could they have been sure that the train was empty?

This raises even more questions. Tsemanok has conspired against them: The physical assault and state of shock that paralyzed me from moving is a small coincidence. So many other small coincidences have conspired against them. Daybreak should have placed more competent people in charge of this cell, but perhaps people with strong personalities prevailed over people with skill, and we should feel grateful for that. Tsemanok has given me this unprecedented access, although I question what outcome the god seeks.

I am writing out on the balcony with a light, waiting for the sun to rise. In the predawn light, the six-winged bird is murdering others of its kind. The remains of its nest lie in the grass. Its babies died. This must be a form of revenge against its fellows. I wonder what Tveshė was like right after the Occupation with so many lying dead in the streets. I wonder if Daybreak started because our world’s situation did look hopeless, and so many people did turn to violence.

People do strange things in the throes of grief. I had a nightmare shortly before I awoke that I was back in Kalgeitsị Park, and I thought you were there. The more I think about it, the more I remember your voice. It wasn’t just a dream.

This is something that I have blacked out of my memory because it was not my best moment, and the days after Kelis’ death and cremation still blur together. My mother told the therapist stories about what I did, and I have no memory. It was like my mind frayed apart at the seams, and some other Salus slipped in and inhabited my body.

I am fairly certain — I think you are the person — I know you are the person I met two days after Kelis’ cremation ritual. I am certain of this now. I spent the majority of those days wandering in the fine-misting rain, according to the therapist. My mother and aunts took photographs of the soaked dresses covered in mud. I wouldn’t have believed the therapist otherwise. I was just so out of my own head.

Most of my nightmares have something to do with those days.

At Kalgeitsị Park, where the water rolls over the falls in great sheets, I think I went to the lookout. Unlike the tourists or those pilgrims who take the long steps down to the shrines along the cliffside, I had nothing with me. I wore a red hatkrei gown. I had fallen in a sudden downpour because the rocks had become slippery, but the rain had already washed most of the mud away.

The thoughts in my head spiraled out of control. No one interrupted my crying to help me. I decided to jump.

As I climbed up onto the railing and onto the other side, I heard a thud behind me, and an umbrella rolled. It stopped at my feet. I gripped the fence and looked in ler — no, your direction. Rain beat against your half-formed buns and dripped from your nose. Your face reminded me of Suka’s, albeit masculine, and I nearly fell from surprise. I wondered if I had hallucinated Suka as a man.

You grabbed my shoulders and said, “Akah Nitañi, Suka sent me after you.”

I let go of the railing. My feet dangled into the abyss, and you pulled me back over. I started wailing, and you put your hand over my mouth. Your body was warm despite the rain, and you whispered lines from one of Akah Gysabala’s memoirs in my head — exactly what Suka had done before I threw lim out of my room.

As soon as you lowered your hand from my face, I whispered, “You cannot be Suka’s brother.”

You said a name, and I know now that you must have said — “Liga, Suka’s cousin. Come walk with me.”

“Leave me alone,” I whispered, or something like it.

“Suka is beside limself. Le needs you to come,” you said. You squeezed me. “It is all right to cry. I know that Kelis meant a lot to you. Suka wants you to eat and sleep. Your mother and relatives are very worried. You have a career ahead of you. Don’t jump.”

Eventually, you coaxed me away from the lookout, and we walked back towards Kobsarka. You had no umbrella now, so you must have left it. Suka let me in at ler family home’s back door, and you did not enter.

What happened at Kalgeitsị is the stain that made my family realize that I needed help, and I spent twenty-five days in intensive grief counseling. The ordinary purification ceremonies would have done no good with grief like that. How can someone become pure when ler head is not clean?

I resumed my duties at the Progressive Movement’s offices about a month after le died, but I often thought about lim whenever I was alone. In those moments, the world became darker.

What bothers me about falling in love with Aneti is that I don’t want to be in that place with a woman ever again — to want the dearly departed, to need lim, to see ler smile in my mind whenever I close my eyes, to open my eyes and realize that there can be no future conversations between the two of us, sheets over our heads, eyes filled with laughter.

For the first few months, I dreamed about Kelis almost every night. The dream started in my family home and moved into lers. We had conversations about what we wanted in life, and le told me over and over, “A fire will always wait for you.” I awoke with cold sweats.

I took sleeping medication and pushed through campaigning for the Movement despite my matriarch’s insistence that I scale back my work. The dreams stopped after the pilgrimage to the Navel of the World, where I received the last purification.

Kelis is why my matriarch allowed me to move to Galasu to work for the national Progressive Movement offices and why Kati decided to pursue ler career here. It was too hard to be in Kobsarka. My therapist strongly supported the move. I avoided writing about this after Suka told me to journal because writing that I went insane with grief and nearly committed suicide, that my family has worked so hard to reclaim me for the world of the living, and that still — still — Hatkranar pulls me down so strongly —— I cannot even finish that sentence.

Why do you think that I moved to Galasu before marrying? Why do you think that I pursued my career here instead of doing what is right and staying home — for a few years — having a marriage in Kobsarka? A child, maybe two or three? And gaining credentials in politics so I could run for the Senate there? Why do you think I am doing it this way?

The nuamua frighten me because the word nuamua makes me think about loss. What must it be like to spend centuries making connections with new people and to have all of those lives just fade away? It’s not the horror stories about the muakanua that frighten me. Pain is something I can understand. I don’t see how being faced with constant loss could make a person anything but callous. I don’t see how one could still be a person. Not after a century, not after two. Good gods, some of you are millennia old! This doesn’t mean that I cannot try to push all of that aside. Changing an opinion is easier than losing a beloved.

Deisurås says that you have a daughter. Is this what you are so afraid of? Are you afraid of hurting lim, losing lim, and having time and death separate the two of you without ever making things right?

Liga, you can call me.

Ler presence diverted the path of an indigo-crested bird with six pebbly wings, which had just gone into a dive towards one of the small slithering things in the grass. A smaller black bird swooped in and pulled an obelisk thasa out of the grass before the thasa could poke holes in its wings. The black bird came up to my balcony and ate the small creature with its three-tentacled tongue pulling it in. Deisurås stepped just beneath the black bird as the indigo-crested one dove to intercept it, showering the grass with blood.

Deisurås jumped back. I heard a faint yelp, and I flinched when le met my eyes. Le had no blood on lim.

Le waved at me and pointed at the door. I went down to meet lim, and I asked, “Do you want something?”

The parcel contained paper and several data disks. I searched Deisurås’ eyes for some explanation, and le said, “Liga gave these to me. Do you have water, Akah Nitañi?”

I nodded and showed lim up to the apartment. Le removed ler shoes at the door and approached the household shrine, where le made a flawless oil offering to the household gods. The entire apartment smelled like fresh nuts when le finished.

While le drank water, I fried kifu in a pan with sugar and spices, mixed in puréed fruits and nuts, and served it with cold meat from one of the refrigeration drawers. Deisurås thanked me, and we talked about current events in Menarka.

The metalworkers have started striking again, as they do during every monsoon season, but the Narahja United Movement wants to start another protest. Hopefully, this one won’t end with the same mass executions as the ones five years ago. There must be some way for us to win our rights without people dying.

Le said, “You need to trust Liga,” once the conversation died down.

The alarm in Kati’s room started ringing.

“I just want to know what is going on with lim.” This was a true statement. I do want to know what is wrong with you.

Deisurås said, “Liga is a complex case. We’re working on lim.”

“What is the complexity?”

“Le has a daughter from a marriage. They reestablished contact a few years ago, and the emotions there are complex. The daughter is old enough to marry, and you understand that some connections are undesirable during marriage negotiations and can even stop them altogether if they are known. Liga is careful and a worrywart.” Deisurås smiled. “Your opinion actually means a lot to Liga, Akah Nitañi. Thank you.”

Le rose, and before Kati came out of ler room, le left. I remained seated, staring at Deisurås’ empty bowl, and thought about what le said. Everyone travels a hard road, certainly, but it’s irrational to think that me knowing something like that could damage a marriage negotiation. I examined the package that Deisurås brought to me. Inside, on traditional paper, I found a message in your handwriting:

The photographs that our people took provided a lot of useful information. The ones I received from you, Nitañi, have a complementary angle that is good for contextualizing our images. The man standing beside Sehutañi has a very identifiable traditional tattoo that runs from ler neck to just below ler eyes on both sides. Ler bracelets contain the names of family members. Before the Occupation, Galasuhi sons who married into good families were given bracelets with the names of their host families’ resplendent dead at the breakfast after the marriage ceremony.

My associates say that the crest belongs to the Meitasako family. Records state that most family members fled to Atara and Mntaka when the Taritit fell. There are only about eighteen in the family home now: Eight men, one jomela, and nine women. A man named Jikuvė married into the family seven years ago. Le has a son, Heivenau, aged five. Jikuvė married Meiti Galasu-Niokateñi Meitasako. Jikuvė belongs to the Daybreak Movement, as does everyone else in that family, and comes from the Thesaptako family. That one is split evenly between Cradle and Daybreak.

I have a way to read Sehutañi’s messages now. Le will meet an associate in a place where audio bugs are viable. I will see if that gives us what we need. Do not engage, Nitañi.

Obviously, this is a task for someone like you who already knows the stakes. Do not worry that I will go after lim. I have professional engagements and a woman to seduce.

I found another photograph of my double today. It is glossy, in color, and the size of a standard sheet of paper. Le is standing slightly behind the Fadehin with ler hands behind ler back. Our great Fadehin is shaking hands with the top leaders of the Progressive Movement, including Akah Kara and Adviser Tenes. The joy in ler face is palpable.

One day, I would like to meet the Fadehin — hopefully after I have matured enough to offer policy expertise.

I slid the photograph into the inner pocket of my hepteri vest and smuggled it out of the archives. This time, I will keep it close. Akah Kara never returned the previous one. The new archivist likes me and noticed nothing. The security bots have mechanical eyes that favor no one, and they missed the theft, too.

This evening, I removed it from my pocket while Kati cooked and talked about ler gig playing for Kissing the Nine. It’s a one-act play that describes a Shiji satellite home in Menarka. The play sounds unoriginal. The writer really should have focused on the Menashi, not recent transplants. I described Narahji-Shiji fashion for Kati and corrected some of the costuming styles in the annotated script le showed me. Kati made notes over them after le took dinner off of the heat. I wonder how this must sound to lim — specifically that the Shiji living in Menarka have adopted the gyena and most local customs, including humanoid statues of gods as foci within the temples. I don’t know that Kati has worshipped at a Shiji-style shrine with anthropomorphic images. I showed lim images from the Temple of Likhera in Menarka, which I visited shortly before coming to Galasu, where the Shiji sat in silence during one of the musical performances for the goddess.

I don’t know how to write to you, Liga. Perhaps you think I am naïve for threatening to stop talking to you. How old are you? Do I seem like a child to you? What I do know is that my personal and professional lives are barely holding together. It is so hard to see Sehutañi day after day while knowing that I will betray lim. It is even harder to see Kitesrati at the breakfast table with my family while they guide me towards lim. Le knows how my fiancée died.

I wonder how much money my family would offer lers if the two of us married. Le seems just as ambitious as me. I have had nightmares about Sehutañi choking me with ler hair while Kitesrati watches on. Akah Kara continues to ask about my health.

Professionally, I want assurances from you. Personally, I need them even more. It’s not enough for Deisurås to hint at things. You need to have the courage to say them yourself.

I don’t think that you slept, Liga. Your hair fell stiffly around your face in a halo, no longer held by tight bands into buns. You paced back and forth. I sank down onto the bed and waited for you to speak because I had so much to ask you — those questions that I have posed at regular intervals as long as we have worked together — even as I knew that you would not answer them. You will not extend me that courtesy.

You said, “That should not have happened.”

I said, “You gave me the plans to the buildings. What was I supposed to think, that you wanted me to be neutral? No one would do that.”

“I did that,” you said, and you turned to face the video. In the soft light of the room, hardly any of you was visible but your eyes, their color stark in your dark face. “It was informational.”

I cleared my throat and said, “I need to hang up. I don’t want to talk to you.”

“You asked me to call you,” you said. You reached near one of the monitors and turned on the light, and it illuminated that room again. Someone lay asleep on the bed behind you. “Salus, don’t do this to me. I told everyone that you would cooperate, and you need to follow my instructions exactly. This is not an accident like Kelis’ death. This is a methodical assassination—”

“Do not invoke Kelis!” I screamed. I lost control of the timbre of my voice, jumped to my feet, and balled my fists. “Don’t you dare say a word about lim!”

“I’m sorry.”

“How am I damaging your credibility? I am a living, breathing person, and you cannot just have me thrown this way and that according to the notes that you make in the margins of my smart paper!” My fists loosened, and I sat down again. My heart thudded in my ears like those drums in the dances for Sebhu. I said softly, “My cousin Gyetsuk has a friend named Deisurås. Le and Okiyot, according to a jomela whom I just met, are both Kohjenyakri. Why do you keep their company? Do you also know Karatau Meiyenesi?”

Your lips parted, and you glanced towards the shape on the bed. When you looked back at the camera, you lowered your gaze. “I read what you wrote about them and about the nuamua. You have said things that people in the Kohjenya and the nuamua hear on a daily basis from the Coalitionists, from the Khessi, and from even Progressive Movement officials in Narahja and Nasja. You are a cosmopolitan woman with political aspirations, and I do not believe that you would say those things aloud. Suka and I have discussed journaling and the Maðzi. Journaling can allow the worst thoughts to snake out. No one interrupts, as in face-to-face conversations. Intimate oath-bound friends love each other too much to allow poisonous thoughts like those to continue. Do you really hate the nuamua so much that you would want a return to Sehịnta’s policies? Do you even know how those policies happened, Salus? I mean, Nitañi.”

My fingers paused over the command to end the conversation. I said, “I don’t want a return to Sehịnta’s policies. I just mean that le must have had a reason. What do you discuss with Suka?”

“What does it even matter to you?”

“I think it is enlightening and invigorating to write things that have no other outlet. I mean, this is all — this is all for the mission. I wouldn’t be sharing my private thoughts with you if you weren’t one of Suka’s relatives. I need something to ground myself, to anchor myself in reality. If I were moving through this on my own? I am falling in love with Aneti, and I would go insane if I didn’t journal and recenter myself in this mission.” I licked my lips. My fingers twitched. “I want to cut the vid.”

“I’m not done talking to you. Suka says the same thing about journaling, as do the Maðzi I know.” You smiled. “The Maðzi I know all work within my organization, and everyone knows what they will write down. It’s almost unnecessary, but we still notice things in their writings that were not readily apparent before.”

“How does everyone know? Who is everyone?”

“They don’t have privacy,” you said. You scratched your forehead and glanced towards the bed.

“Do you have privacy?”

You hesitated before you confirmed my doubts about you: No, Liga, you do not have privacy. Who else can see what I have written? Do your eyes have privacy, Liga?

I followed up with the obvious question. You know, the one that’s actually true, but I still need to hear it from you. You stared at me as if I had slapped you. In light of what you said, it was justifiable, and you only needed to give me one simple answer. At least you didn’t fucking lie outright. You skirted around the problem. I said, “Are you too independent of your cousin Suka to understand that I need to know the answer? I need to hear it from you. Suka and I have a sacred ritual between us. You and I do not. I care deeply about my career, and if I cannot verify your intentions or know which — if you are so coy as to say you work with them without verifying that you have no choice, why are you doing this to me? Suka will take responsibility if anything happens to my career. You know lim. Le takes responsibility for not having me back home in time to save Kelis. Le takes responsibility for almost everything.”

You said nothing.

“Liga?” I paused. “I know Karatau Meiyenesi. I could call lim. Would you like me to do that?”

“Akah Salus Niksubvya, please don’t treat me like this,” you whispered. “You have a temper that you try to keep hidden, and that is the true risk to your political career. Now. What’s happening with Suka is between the two of us and within our family. It’s not something for the Niksubvya to care about. I have programming expertise. I need you for social hacking. How could I tell you everything when your temper makes your heart poisonous? What do you think of your grandmother for being around Karatau Meiyenesi and ler Kohjenya? I mean, truly? Truly, Salus Niksubvya?”

I don’t know how to translate what I said next because the Sabaji don’t have a way to say it. In Narahji, it reads, Xai ku tsekto xikanosaịrru tsurhjas tsansakssa. For the future, if this goes into an archive, sakit is a very specific word for apologizing, and tsekto is a form of alienation, both for people who have been left out. Sakit is not the same verb someone uses when jostling someone at a door. I know that I wronged you, Liga, by associating you with what I said about the others. I have no right to call you out for any of this.

My communication band chirped, but I didn’t answer it. Instead, I kept my eyes on the video screen — on you — and you said, “I need a break from communicating with you. Please continue to winnow your way into ler heart. We need to solve this problem, and we need to do it together.”

The video feed cut out, and now, I am alone. I told Akah Kara that I have a slight headache. I need to go in later, but for now, all I can do is pace back and forth while replaying the video without audio to catch every one of those expressions when you told me that journaling was eating my compassion.

I never did have compassion for the nuamua, not because my parents’ generation poisoned me against them and the Kohjenya, but because I read history, and I read legal precedent, and I read all of those things that prepare me to be one of the leaders of this nation. You could hardly know this, but I fenced verbally four or five times with Bækxus, a man about five years older than me at the regional office for the Progressive Movement, during our commutes in from Kobsarka. Le did not agree with ritual purity laws for some temples, nor does le want the nuamua so maligned by the State when we do not feel the same animosity to the Karatha. Bækxus told me that I do not have opinions of the Karatha that fall in line with Narahji tradition, so I could stand to modernize on the nuamua.

Kelis, too, liked nuamua more than I did. My opinion has always been that there must be something that slips in — some pollution, perhaps — that opens someone up to that. I’m not naïve enough to think that it runs in families even though everyone has heard a story of a family plagued by it.

“The muakanua does exactly what one doesn’t expect, as if everything is up to chance.” — Akah Gysabala, through the character Kakeitsa, Commander of the Night-Birds

You know what happens in that play.

Aneti asked me if I ate dinner last night at the docks. I told lim that I went out with family and friends. Le already knows about the family satellite home, so I showed lim some of the photos I took of Gyetsuk and ler fiancé. Aneti accepted the account, but I saw something in ler eyes. Perhaps you were right. I should not have gone because now Aneti suspects that I am lying about something.

Giving the excuse made my heart beat fast even though I had prepared my answer on the Skyrail train this morning. Ler eyes narrowed and le looked up from the historical novel le was reading, something popular and classy. Ler jaw set, but le didn’t say anything. I didn’t mention Kitesrati. Of course, it’s expected for me to date now that I am no longer in mourning, but all the same, Aneti frightens me. I look into ler eyes and think, This woman is participating in an assassination plot. How could someone like that be so nice?

Akah Kara wanted me to query things related to Code 1830-229-17. We have a Progressive Movement-affiliated politician willing to weaken the Code by adding an addendum to surveillance legislation in the Senate. Le wouldn’t tell me who, but I have a feeling that it is one of my cousins. I mean, we don’t discuss their legislative projects at the family breakfast table — I don’t know. The computer made a beeping noise seven times before it shut itself down, but I don’t think the power cut completely.

I had this sense that the video camera had activated itself. Can those watch people when a machine isn’t on? I unplugged it and plugged it back in?

When I redid the searches, I printed them out. The computer was so slow and glitchy. It reminded me of the first Atarahi import store I walked into two years ago. Kelis was with me. We tried out one of the thought-controlled computing devices and giggled the entire time because haptic displays worked so much better. Le used translation software to talk to the vendor instead of asking me to translate. Kelis was always considerate like that.

Akah Kara made me scan and OCR the pages so le could read them on the screen. I went back to my workstation after finishing and slumped low in my chair. My work computer kept losing its connection to the network. I rebooted it three times.

I sent you a text with the computer’s network ID just in case you want to look at it.

For the rest of the day, I queried theatrical performances happening in the City Center because we have a few regional people coming in, and I will show them around the city. Guiding Light looks like a good option. The reviews say that it was done in the new style, which is a euphemism for High Wilds culture from either Maðz or Mntaka because the Shiji like those plays. Guiding Light is filled with staccato recitation rhythms and wailing voices that clash with its tonal percussion ensemble. Akah Kisetar, the best voice of the new style in Shiji theater, is considered visionary here. I think that le doesn’t do anything particularly revolutionary, at least not in comparison to our Narahji playwrights. I mean, I memorized some trivia.

Akah Narvasaluta has a play out in Menarka that I hope comes up here. It comments on the impact of technology in our daily lives, and le mentions epiphany in the context of an orgiastic union between the mechanical and the organic. So many people have called it blasphemous and posthumanist that it must have something interesting in it. Specialists are already putting implants in people doing space work. I could see that play happening in reality twenty or thirty years from now once mods become more mainstream.

I like Narahji theater better. The Narahji know how to use metaphors, symbols, and melodrama. The Shiji keep everything just so boring and realistic, just like their political speeches. If one knows what a politician will say, why not at least make the speech an interesting monologue? I don’t understand the Shiji. Sabaji. I don’t know — do the Galasuhi alone perform oratory with that minimalist style? It’s hard to tell the difference between them and the other cultural groups in Shija. The Iturji are even more oratorically dense than the Ịgzarhjenya.

The computer problems made me anxious. Akah Kara asked me how I felt — not about the computer problems, but I think that le saw the stress in my face, so again— please call me! Le asked about other symptoms that presumably indicate the muakanua, and I shook my head.

The nuamua in Galasu keep an outreach center, according to Akah Kara, but I don’t know why I would ever go there. Karatau Meiyenesi may seem cordial, Deisurås may have the platonic heart of Gyetsuk, and Okiyot may have treated me with respect in my apartment, but how do I know that the ritual pollution that remains controversial in those twenty-three temples in Menarka and its environs doesn’t mean something real? How do I know that it stops at the nuamua? Has an oracle argued for the ritual purity of the Kohjenya?

Any of them could take photographs of ancestors’ ashes in household shrines to the dead. Any of them could have helped Namgyatzi dishonor Sehịnta. If Okiyot was alive when Sehịnta made the exception for Karatau Meiyenesi, what does that mean about Okiyot? I’ve read so many stories on the network fora.

What would be the purpose of going to an outreach center to have someone tell me it’s in my head? I don’t need to seek any of them out.

Liga, I want to see the photographs that Deisurås mentioned, and I would like you to enhance the ones I just put on my tablet for you. Thank you.

Tsum, Gyetsuk! This is Salus, your younger cousin. You may still be asleep, and I am not scheduled for breakfast this morning — but I would like to show my appreciation for you. My roommate and I have plans to visit Ten Thousand Flavors tonight, a Mãkyei restaurant. Do you want to come? Feel free to bring anyone you want, but please respond by the noon hour.

At 3h82, Gyetsuk responded:

Little cousin! I can meet you. I will bring Deisurås and my fiancé. We can also bring Kitesrati. What time?

I responded:

11h.40. Meet Kati and me at the restaurant. We look forward to seeing you!

Of course, Kati didn’t verify that le could come until 5h33. It involved me promising to purchase groceries for the next two weeks (which I think I can afford), and I reminded lim that everyone there could speak Tveshi. It will not be like the family breakfasts, in other words, and it did live up to that promise. Le wanted the guest list, which I provided — and le interrogated me in messages throughout the morning about Kitesrati.

My cousins have paired us with each other at breakfast for the past week, and Kati doesn’t understand how I haven’t spent that entire week investigating ler friends and family on the digital fora. The real answer is that I have been working to uncover an assassination plot, but the fake answer was that I have a lot of work and come home tired.

Kitesrati monitors satellite systems with Geocentric International, controlled by the International Congress, but has decided to run for office in one of the Canyon towns — a Senatorial seat, I mean, so actually a bit larger than just a town — a small city — and so le is receiving mentorship from my family. Le plans to go back to ler district and campaign soon. The Salus I was before my introduction to this murder plot would have listened attentively as le spoke. I couldn’t bring myself to give lim the attention le deserved. At least Kitesrati is cute, with small breasts and tight curves — very curvy. I could see myself married to lim, and that is the part that terrifies and excites me. It’s the exact kind of match my family would want for me. This infatuation with Aneti could never result in a marriage even if Aneti were a moral, pious person.

Kati and I convened on one of the Skyrail trains passing through the Juakatua District, which has connecting lines between my stop for work and the stop from the Metasai Residential Zone where we live. The trains heading North are crowded until Juakatua because Juakatua is where people can connect to the satellite transit leading into the suburbs. Nobody goes to the Necropolis after dark.

The East Docks sit on the river, and the Necropolis looms at their back. We accidentally took a train that put us at the Necropolis entrance instead of the one that branches into the East Docks directly, which meant more walking.

I brought a camera, and I took photos of Kati and me sitting in the balcony area at the restaurant. As we sat down, Kati said, “I invited a tonal percussionist I know. We’re trying to have lim do work for us.”

I nodded. The more we looked like a natural group, the less Daybreak would notice us — and the less Liga’s associates might pay attention to the group of Narahji-Atarahi-Īpahi women.

Gyetsuk, Kitesrati, and Deisurås arrived about ten minutes after us, accompanied by Kazajap. I positioned myself in the center, with my back to the edge of the balcony (as Aneti probably couldn’t recognize me from the back, but I could turn around as necessary). Kati sat down beside me. We spent the first ten minutes on introductions and small talk.

Kati showed off photographs of ler two children, who look mostly Shiji. Kitesrati is the first person to see those photos without asking the obvious early weaning question, but it helps that Kati’s husband is forwarding photographs as the younger one approaches three. Kitesrati is so polite that my bluntness feels like coarse sand in my mouth. I could learn to love this woman. I certainly admire lim.

I kept glancing at my comm band for the time. Deisurås met my eyes the third time I did it. I knew without a doubt that le understood I should not be here. My hands shook, but I took photographs of all of us at intervals. I paid attention to Gyetsuk and Kazajap because anyone would have focused on a couple about to be married. This is how I have so many photographs with Kelis.

At the appointed time, I glanced over the rail. Someone who could have been Aneti walked across the dock space below us. From the tension in my stomach, I knew that it must be lim. I excused myself from the table and said that I would take photographs of the construction site beyond the water. Its lights glittered so brilliantly that the lie sounded plausible.

Deisurås followed me to my lookout position and stood behind me while I took photographs. We were protected by the columns holding up the ceiling, but had a full view of the woman as le approached the group. I saw another woman — that one was Aneti. They looked like they could be siblings.

For five minutes, the three of them stood in a circle. My shaky hands made the photographs a bit blurry, but still good. They looked this way and that as if waiting for someone, and that person never came. Aneti turned ler attention towards the second-floor restaurant. For a moment, I thought that our gazes met, but le could not have seen me in the darkness.

When le looked away, Deisurås grabbed my wrist and leaned in close. Le whispered in Narahji, “I wish you could comprehend just how angry this has made Liga.”

I turned my head towards lim and lowered the camera. Le wore no gyena, and ler hair fell in single-bound locked hair. I glanced down at ler grip on my wrist and said, “How could you comprehend that any more than I can?”

The Daybreak group dispersed. I had no chance of another photograph. Deisurås said, “We have a protocol for this. We already hired someone. You are duplicating work and putting yourself and the people around you in danger.”

“How do you know about this?”

Deisurås sighed and lifted ler chin. Ler gaze shot towards the exit, and le raised ler right arm to fiddle with one of ler locks’ intricately-etched metal beads. “One cannot separate root from bedrock,” le said. Ler eyes met mine. “You don’t trust Liga.”

“Do you know Liga well?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Then you know that le hides things,” I said. “How can I respect someone like that? How could I trust lim?”

Le brushed ler dreadlocks away from ler face. “I cannot interfere with this. Let’s go back to the table.”

“How well do you know Liga?”

Deisurås’ lips parted. Le lowered ler hand from the bead and said, “Liga has a lot of anxiety. Le’s smart and useful, but ler mind takes lim to hyperbolic places. It is hard to fight a poison like that.”

We walked back to the table together. I bumped one of my hips against the table and nearly toppled a few of the water glasses. Kitesrati smiled at me and called me clumsy. I held back the worst of the rumination and tried to smile back. Le is marriage material.

Liga, how could I know you if everything you say points to something that you have hidden out in the open? I cannot continue without this information. I mean, at this point, we both know what it actually is. I deserve to be treated with respect. You couch things in half-truths and evasion, and you have frightened or pleaded with those around you like Deisurås to say nothing. The more I play what happened over in my mind, the more immature it seems. If you are this afraid that I will judge you, why bother to work with me at all?

JIKUVĖ IS FIRMLY COMMITTED AND I FOUND A SECOND. COPY INFO AND MEET US AT EAST PIER DOCKS 11B AT 12H.

Aneti, staying awake all night in ler room painting quotations on ler walls — or going over old-fashioned Daybreak documents — or half-asleep, or otherwise-conspiring — chose the wrong recipient for this message on ler communication band. It came in shortly after midnight.

Of course, I called you immediately after I copied the message above.

Aneti would have maintained a record of it in ler comm band, and I don’t want lim to know that le made a mistake. I mean, the message was open because we were talking last night. I don’t know.

I started looking up tutorials on deleting the message completely — from ler comm band. It is all too technical, and unless you do it, le will know that I have received a message for someone likely involved in a murder plot. When I called you, the wall screen strobed from black to gray as I dialed, and it chirruped when it decided that you wouldn’t be there. It gave me the option to force-signal your computer the third time, but I don’t have codes to do that, and I didn’t want to wake you.

Please see this.

Later. THANK YOU. For the purposes of the archival record (yes, I know — that sounds pretentious), I will reproduce what happened here:

Shortly after dawn, you sent a message to my comm band, and I awoke just in time to receive the call. You had pulled a towel around yourself, and you stood by the phone controls. “Salus,” you said, and your voice sounded thick. “What are you doing, calling me at such an hour?”

“Read.”

You squeezed your eyes shut and pressed your thumb and forefinger on the top of the bridge of your nose for several seconds. “Let me put something on.”

The video feed disappeared, replaced by a neon green line snaking across the screen. I attached my comm band to my tablet in the meantime, and I explained the problem. When I paused and you didn’t reply, that’s when I realized you had also held the audio feed, so I went to the kitchen and made a quick meal of cold meat and porridge. I brought it back to my bedroom and ate it eagerly while I watched the green line. The uncertain voice in my head had nearly convinced me to hang up.

You are silly. I had expected something more substantial after fifteen minutes, but putting something on apparently means that you tied a house wrap over your left shoulder and made yourself something to eat! You even tied the sash after turning on the video! I wanted to chide you for it, but I know that I have spent so much time in these entries interrogating your motives. I would rather have you answer the questions from 10 Poråkol. Please?

“I’m sorry for waking you.”

“It’s fine. An associate told me I missed a cluster of calls from you. Aneti sent you a message by mistake?” You clicked your tongue. “That is so …”

I waited in silence for you to finish.

“This is amateur,” you continued. “Daybreak is better than this. Did they just pull lim in?” You clicked your tongue again and sat down in a chair in front of your keyboards and layered monitors.

“Le did. I think that it contains something important, and I don’t want lim to know that le made a mistake. Can you help?” My voice sounds so eager when I replay this conversation.

“What’s the message?”

“Something about meeting a person by the docks. Daybreak has found someone, apparently.”

“Did you delete the message?”

“No.”

You smiled. “This will be a lot easier if you give me your account password — anything you might have changed, like your keys? I don’t have the correct access permissions from the malware I installed on your devices earlier. It would be easier to just be you.” You pressed several sections of your computer screen and replaced your Ịgzarhjenya keyboard with a Tveshi one. “So, it sounds like I need to delete it from ler communication band as well. If you verify which of these numbers is lers, I can make the message disappear within a few hours.”

“What if le sees it? And why haven’t you tried this with ler comm band before?”

“This is really dangerous, Salus — but otherwise, that’s a good point.” You adjusted the new keyboard and typed something, and then you said, “I should have given you a method to contact me with urgent matters. Next time, call Deisurås.”

“Why lim?”

“Le is not as busy as Okiyot, and you know lim.”

“No, why would I—”

“Daybreak wouldn’t send messages over comm bands beyond what you received. That’s one of the reasons it doesn’t make any sense to do it despite — yeah — they only do it in cases of urgency,” you said. “Everything Deisurås and Okiyot communicate to me will come securely. Okay, I have completely taken over your comm band. I’m going to use some malicious code to get to ler communication band and mask yours so it looks like you are not you.”

You typed furiously and swore for a few minutes. I did not interrupt, and you volunteered more information. “The ghost code seems to be completely ignoring both your comm and lers. This matches the pattern that we’ve been seeing with the other urgent situations.”

“Which ones? Which other urgent situations?”

You spent five minutes working on your computer before you answered. “We are averting a bombing in Vepessa, Iturja, an unknown threat in Yotsupyureno, Nasja, and have hired two professional assassins in Menarka, Narahja, to deal with a delicate espionage situation. Regarding this unknown plot in Galasu, I checked with several contacts and did not see anything conclusive. Daybreak keeps names—wait, this is interesting. Le messaged a recipient using a personal name? I think I can get to ler—”

“What did they tell you about the Galasu assassination?” I folded my hands neatly in my lap and looked at the clock.

You concentrated for several more minutes. You are a thousand kilometers away, and I have no ammunition to make you disclose what you were thinking. My attention turned to the room around you. I saw evidence that you shared it with someone, although I didn’t see lim—and there, next to the table, your elbow tapped against a small, rectangular case that shadows partially hid from my view. It had cushioning in it. What was that?

At last, you said, “The Daybreak plot came to our attention twelve hours after I helped you hack that feed. We decided that we wanted to work on the project when you contacted me through Suka.” You laughed. “That’s surprisingly simple to say. Sorry, I’m setting up a proxy so I can geolocate to ler home for the next step. It’s taking a bit longer than I thought.”

“Liga, I need to know why you associate with the not-nuamua. Those woman?”

“We care about the same things,” you said. “Oh, thank every god, this is so simple!”

I clicked my tongue. “What’s so simple? Why are you changing—”

“Sehutañi has no encryption! Anyone can access it with basic hacking protocols, and you’ve given me enough information in your journals that I guessed ler passwords correctly on the second try. That’s — Salus, do you have encryption set up? I can do that for you.” You toggled between active screens and resumed typing. “Most other Daybreak people I have hacked have a decent grasp of security, and it usually takes between four and eight hours to break through it. It’s probably like watching paint dry for someone like you. Le must be so, so new. How old is le?”

“Twenty-seven.” Ler identity card tells ler date of birth: the first Kaiakhin of Thaukol 1843. It’s the day my parents married. “What do you think the message means?”

“I am sending some files to your tablet with the layout of the West Pier Docks. It looks like—wait—no.”

I retrieved my tablet and sat down on my bed.

“11B is in the open-air interplanetary market. 11B is the name of the block designation. There is a small restaurant on the second floor next door. It’s” — and you fell silent for so long! — “Salus, we can send someone there to see what will happen.”

“Do you want me to go to the docks?”

“No, by someone, I mean a person in Galasu who is not you. You could endanger yourself, and we need you. It is more valuable to us right now that you continue to press on Sehutañi and actually obtain real evidence, hopefully legal.” You pursed your lips together.

“Liga, according to your documentation, these are not regional and rural officials. Can we honestly afford to remain legal?” I said it without thinking, and while I meant it, I don’t think that you expected this. I didn’t, either. “Don’t I know lim best? How can your person be as effective as me, Liga?”

We argued until Kati awoke and started frying the nonu spices. Obviously, you broke me in the end, and I came to my senses — but I am so afraid of what might happen to your associate this evening that I could throw up.

I want to call you back and say that — what, that I want to go? I have ambitions, and currently, following Sehutañi, calling lim Aneti, fucking lim, and falling in love with lim, are my highest priorities because I love lim and need to betray lim. I cannot stop thinking about ler smooth skin and ler beautiful hair, which I look at, but do not touch. There must be someone else to lure my heart away.

I am intimately — and sexually — involved in this investigation. I am nearly at my limit. We need to have information that can be verified by the police unless you and your associates would prefer that we acquire illegal evidence. And — and then, I cannot help you there. I don’t know how to do so many things that are common to those who work on dark nights.

I brainstormed the following list that contains what I don’t know (and would like to know):

• How to make Aneti feel safe enough to discuss ler political plot in Shiji while I am present.
• Who will die if we do nothing.
• Why Tsemanok saw fit to have me on that train.
• How Karatau Meiyenesi is connected to Adviser Tenes.
• What happened to Daybreak after the Occupation that made it this cancerous thing?
• Does Aneti love me and what will happen to that love when I betray lim?
• How are you connected to Okiyot?
• Does your connection to Okiyot mean that you are bound on the same path?
• Have you ever used illegal eye color contacts?

I am going to push back against you, and I am about to explain my rationale for transparency. Today, I went into the cold archives to work with the new archivist on Akah Kara’s papers. I know ler work intimately at this point and have made notes describing this collection of ephemera. Akah Kara never kept a journal. The spaceports closed so early after the Occupation, and Madhz only started blasting us with cultural programming in the 1840s. I have had anxious internal deliberations while leafing through pages of Akah Kara’s meeting notebooks. I have seen anxieties about ler impending wedding written in the margins of reports alongside prayers to various Tveshi gods for support and hope.

Later this month, we will celebrate the anniversary of the new spaceports’ opening. So much has already changed in these three years. Kelis even wanted to visit Laseå, and we both saw that documentary about how horrific space travel really is.

The archivist paused to take in some documents from a Progressive Movement official who just died. Among the documents, le had a journal. It was a plain, well-bound book. When the archivist went out to eat something, I stayed behind and skimmed it.

Everything I have written here — everything I will write here — will be read by other people after I die. That is, unless someone commits to burning it. My family could censor it. It could become part of an archive like this, waiting for a future researcher to find it. People could publish it like they published Akah Gysabala’s Private Essays on the Art of Imagination, which le shared only with close friends during ler lifetime. This all depends on my life achievements.

When it comes to uncovering this plot, I know that this is dangerous, and I know that I will be judged by readers if everything goes wrong. I have decided that I must now hold you accountable, that I must now push back and request information, and that you are endangering the mission by withholding everything from me.

You will hear a confrontation between myself and Akah Kara while skimming through today’s audio logs. Today, I solved part of a mystery — the one in which everyone above a certain age in the Progressive Movement looks at me as if I were a ghost.

While going through Akah Kara’s photographs, an old-fashioned one fell onto the floor. I crouched down to my feet and turned it over. The back read, Upper-level Progressive Movement members share drinks and conversation in honor of Akah Kara, the 4^th Shakhin of Hoiekol 1846, a memento for Akah Kara.

It shows six people seated around a table at the Wide River Kuaićo, and historical data tells me that a Cradle radical burned the building down sixteen years ago.

In the photograph, I see Adviser Tenes and Akah Kara. Adviser Tenes looks slightly older in the photograph than le does now. Akah Kara, young and happier here than in most of the other early Progressive Movement stills I have seen, has ler arm around a woman I recognize, yet cannot identify. Akah Khera and a man, Akah Shuyesė — now one of the highest judges in the nation — have folded newspaper hats on their heads, and they are leaning in towards each other with their hands over their mouths.

The final person sits left of center. Ler face has perfect symmetry, and of everyone here, le must be the most beautiful, even if ler skin is too light to be beautiful. The camera catches every glint of the elaborate hairstyle le wears, a combination of locked hair and braids, and le is trying not to laugh while holding a spoon in ler mouth. The fingers of ler right hand curl around some news publication, perhaps The Long-Count Journal. Only on further inspection did I see the familiar formatting of Notes from the Senate. Le, like me, must have had one non-Tveshi parent, or several generations of non-Tveshi parents. I can guess, based on the year: Īpa, or Atara, because le could have been descended from one of the Atarahi who slipped in before the spaceports closed in the early 1830s like my grandfather.

Le looks so much like me.

I took the photo back to Akah Kara’s office and dropped it on ler desk. I asked lim, “Do you have anything to tell me?”

Le looked down at the photo, minimized one of the windows on ler screen, and tapped ler fingers against the table. I counted to fifty-seven before I broke the silence.

“I found it in the archives,” I said. “It fell out of one of the items I was describing for the archivist. Do you know who this person is? Le looks like me.”

Le shook ler head and said, “I don’t remember.”

“Aren’t you in the photograph? It’s for a celebration honoring you.”

Le picked up the photo and turned it over. “That was so long ago. I cannot remember everyone I’ve met — that is impossible. Now, I remember that night. Adviser Tenes left early, and this woman had a gift for lim. I would see lim the next day, so le passed it on to me.”

I am so sick and tired of everything, Liga, that I said, “I don’t believe that. You must know who le is.”

“My wife went into labor shortly after I arrived at home, and I had my family obligations to consider. I don’t remember.” Pressure from Akah Kara’s fingertips warped the center of the photograph.

“Please.”

“My wife had a difficult pregnancy, and le nearly died from complications,” Akah Kara said.

“The woman never asked about it afterward?”

“Not that I remember. Le could have, but I spent a month away from the Progressive Movement.” Le set the photo back down and steepled ler hands. “Don’t worry about it. Akah Nitañi, are you all right?”

I stood in silence in front of lim until I worked up the courage to say, “I’m fine, just tired. May I have the photo back? It needs to go into the archives.”

Akah Kara shook ler head. “No, I can bring it down. It’s actually good that you came here because I was going to comm you. I need you to check with the advertising department to see if they have the proofs yet.”

Le really just wanted me out of that office. I spent the remainder of the day running between various departments for information. I saw no sign that the photo had been returned when I checked this afternoon. I can all but guarantee that le destroyed it.

Perhaps I should have brought a copy of it and not the original. I can be so careless sometimes! However, it makes me less anxious to know that so many of the older members of the Progressive Movement look at me with fact-based anxiety and not for some other reason. I can look at that woman and blame their reactions on lim.

This is all I can write. Kati has a formal performance in Galasu, and about five of us from the family satellite will go. I need to dress. It’ll get my mind off of things, at least.

Please think on what I wrote earlier. This is your final warning. I mean it when I say that I am tired, Liga. How can I expect to do anything when I am being pulled in so many different directions? How long will it be before I fracture apart?

Today, Aneti came into work and rushed past the front desk. Le took the stairs up to the rooftop garden, and I watched from the security cameras with Larañi. In a secluded part of the garden, le wedged a small pocket mirror into a space between two vases. Larañi clicked ler tongue and shook ler head.

I took the elevator up and found Aneti there. Le had scattered men’s makeup every which way around the mirror, and ler hands trembled as le tried to apply the makeup well enough to hide the massive bruise beneath one of ler eyes. I felt bad for lim. Sabaji men’s makeup comes in flashy colors for streaking across the nose and cheeks, not in natural colors. It’s not like theater makeup. Le must have stolen this from a relative, and what kind of family doesn’t have at least one thespian in their midst?

I walked up behind lim and cleared my throat. “Aneti, do you need help? You look like an eight-year-old boy playing dress-up.”

Le flinched and looked back at me. “You.”

“Who did you expect?” I knelt down beside lim and put my hands over the makeup cases. Then, I held my hand out for the applicator pads. “You need to match the paste to your skin tone. Did you steal these from a brother or a cousin?”

“My cousin-in-law,” le said. “Le cannot know that they are missing.”

“You have broken some of ler powder.” I went into a leaning position and moved one of the concealer pads towards lim. “You keep flinching.”

“Maybe if I had pretty hair and a gyena like you, I could just wear it low, and no one would see it. If I were in a family as distinguished as yours, I could wear a headdress of coins over my face so that only my eyes and mouth peeked out.” Ler voice cracked.

“No, Aneti,” I said. “I know that’s the fashion now, but the gold glints in the sun, and I hate it. My family doesn’t have a monopoly on silliness.”

Le laughed. “They don’t?”

“I went to my family’s satellite home for breakfast. My cousin Gyetsuk invites a nuamė. Do you know what it’s like to know that your family has gone insane?” I paused. Knowing what I know now from Karatau Meiyenesi, it was technically a lie. I felt like at any moment, Karatau Meiyenesi or ler Kohjenyakri would come to know this and chide me for it. “My mother wears this kind of concealer sometimes. It is good as an undercoating before the ash powder. Le never let me wear it. What happened?”

Ler breath came hard through ler teeth, and le stared at me without blinking. My fingers swept liquid concealer across ler nose, and le reached for the towel to wipe it off. “Could we talk about something else?”

Ler fingers tensed at this moment as if le held a gun, not a small towel. My heart hammered in my chest.

“I need to keep things private,” le said.

“Not when they hurt you.”

Ler eyes welled with tears, and when le closed them, the tears mingled with ler concealer. Le shook ler head emphatically and pushed me away. I stumbled back and caught myself on one hand.

This bruise cannot have come from ler family. Something inside Daybreak must be moving along, and Aneti may have made a mistake. They may have punished lim. Le has cracked under pressure from the workload. Was le punished for talking back at such a critical time?

Please talk to me, Liga, face-to-face. Do not silently write in the margins.

I could stop working.

Aneti said, “I have a higher purpose.”

“Higher purposes are bullshit when they hurt you like this,” I told lim. “You could go to the police.”

Color came back into ler cheeks, and le slackened ler hand. Le said, “I don’t know. Do you care about me that much?”

Part of me hoped that le would look at my face and see that I had lied to lim this entire time. … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … What if ler family disallows ler ashes from the ancestral shrine?

I won’t say more about that to you because it makes my heart cold. I hope that what we are doing to Sehutañi matters. That is not to say that assassination should happen or that some lives are worth more than others — just that this woman is coming undone, I am falling apart, and I want the caliber of the official to be worth this significant price. I need you to talk to me.^*

As I told Aneti this morning, Gyetsuk brought ler nuamė-not-nuamė friend Deisurås to breakfast. They sat together and made excellent jokes. Karatau Meiyenesi’s smiles may have charmed me, but being out on the town with one of them — these Kohjenyakri, these individuals in Equilibrium, or whatever they are — their red eyes make them look like nuamua. Most of my cousins stared at lim and whispered to one another. My aunt should have done something to keep the peace in the room, and we had people under fifteen present. Deisurås should not have come at all.

They called each other “friends,” and they used the Narahji term that means they probably underwent a friendship ritual. I wonder if Deisurås instigated it or if Gyetsuk did. I wonder if Deisurås contracted the muakanua recently. They both look about the same age, so it is possible. But where would Gyetsuk have met someone from Nasja by chance?

Again, this was once illegal. I have checked the digital reference library.^** Sehịnta had only one exception in ler queendom. One nuamė had the freedom to move and live within it. I can see why, given ler personality and bearing. It makes me less nervous to know that Karatau Meiyenesi did not incur ler wrath. I read through several dozen documents tagged with ler name from the 0-400 SC period, and I think I need to work harder to overcome my aversions.

Deisurås left at the same time as me. We avoided eye contact while we put on our shoes and prepared ourselves for the streets in the mirror. I stared at ler gyena-free head, and le caught my gaze. Le said, “As if you don’t have connections with us yourself. I know that look.”

“It wasn’t that look,” I said.

Le clicked ler tongue as I left. Today, in addition to my worries about Aneti, I thought about what le said, and I don’t know what it means. Karatau Meiyenesi and I have only met once. Okiyot and I have only met once. Who would I associate with regularly from among them? Unless le or they wear contacts. Unless le isn’t someone verified to have been around since our childhood. My mind is racing.

It happened again, incidentally, while I was looking up information — to my wall screen, not the terminal at work. Everything in our apartment turned glitchy, and Kati called a maintenance technician while I sat frozen in my room, staring at the green lines splaying across my wall screen. It strobed three times and went dead.

The technician came and says that the unit overloaded from a data transfer. Le put in a work order, and someone will replace it.

I don’t know whether to be happy or anxious about this. What if this is not just a dead wall screen and someone deliberately wants me to have new equipment?

^{* Salus. This is not the only murder plot, and the others are now more time-sensitive. I know that you have put yourself in a precarious position and that sex could mean emotional entanglements. What we are doing does matter because the targets that Daybreak and other organizations have selected over the past 15 years continue to be more and more prestigious politicians. I can send you data files separately, but they will be deleted after 20 hours because the analysis is confidential. Please keep the communication channel open between us. I will tell you when I am free to talk.} Liga, that’s not good enough.

^{** NEVER LOOK THINGS UP RELATED TO THIS INVESTIGATION AGAIN, SALUS. GO THROUGH YOUR LIBRARIAN CONTACT. I CANNOT BE RESPONSIBLE IF THIS HAPPENS AGAIN.}

Sehuta, eğ søngabu søi! Seğ nigavøḥaiḥa gavøsu tagamnil lejeḥ helai Kuta fas medtė ødya. Sø topo eğil.

Sehuta, I need you! We can’t try it in the first decad of the month because Kuta has backed out. Come meet me.

Kuta must be a person. Rain makes no sense in the sentence otherwise. Liga, do you know someone named Kuta, perhaps with a name suffix, in the Daybreak Movement of Galasu? Liga, will you contact me? I have seen some of your messages, but I want a face-to-face conversation. You cannot treat me like this! I talked to Suka via chat, and le agrees with me.

The situation I occupy stands between two walls that are quickly closing in on each other. It doesn’t matter what the name means and what its origins are because someone plans to murder another person, and ler actions are backed by Daybreak.

The conspirators did not use the Shiji word for murder, which does not seem to exist in my Narahji-Shiji dictionary or Tveshi-Shiji dictionary. It must be something in the phrase rajeḥ gopeseğ nothahil that the program returns when I try to find the word. Nothing like that appears in their conversation!

Liga, the first question I would have if I were you would be what happened after Aneti was summoned away. I did not see lim at all today. Ler supervisor said that le called in sick, and ler fever was verified by an uncle of some kind. Whatever Daybreak has decided to do, we at least have time. Kuta backing out has afforded us this luxury.^* Le has shown signs of stress, Liga. Anyway, take from that what you will.

This afternoon, I passed by one of the holographic gardens in City Center, and a male voice called out behind me. Le said, “GIRL WITH THE GYENA!” and ran up to me. When I turned around, I recognized lim almost immediately as Adviser Tenes.

“Mesahelepui, I trust that you’re doing well this afternoon?” I asked.

“Well!” Le smiled like a young boy caught doing something untoward, and said, “I forgot your name, but I wondered if you were going inside.”

I smiled and continued to walk past the holographic garden. Le kept pace with me. We used formal language, but truth be told, continuing to walk away from lim would have been considered rude for non-Narahji. I don’t think le noticed. I said, “The holographic gardens cost a large portion of my family allowance. I can do them at most once every week.”

Adviser Tenes laughed. “Such austerity. You should come to a light show with me.” Le slid ler arm around my back, and I stiffened. Ler hand landed on my hip, and I pushed it away because everyone has heard about lim on the gossip fora, and le has no excuse for that kind of behavior.

I said, “Why?”

“I know someone who once liked them, and you remind me of lim.” Adviser Tenes smiled.

I said, “I’m in a relationship,” and I stopped walking. When I turned to face lim, I moved out of the street traffic. Nobody else approached us, and the air felt chilly against my skin.

“It’s not that,” le said.

“How many people in the Progressive Movement knew this woman? Is it the one who causes all of the sideways glances from Akah Kara, Akah Khera, and the others?”

“What?”

“You know what I mean.”

Adviser Tenes blinked, and the crowd pulsed towards us again. Le hooked ler arm in mine in a chaste social gesture, ler body an acceptable distance away. While le had changed tactics, I think that ler intentions remained the same. Men cannot control their impulses or think strategically.

Le leaned close to me and whispered, “Yes, le enjoyed the light shows.”

I sighed. “I suppose I will come with you, then.” There was nothing much I could do. Liga — as much as I wanted to, this man holds power, and I can accept a certain amount of unwanted social attention provided that nothing escalates.

The light show happened in a large warehouse covered in graffiti about five stops towards the edge of town. It had boarded-up scars of war with the Taritit on the outside, some of it covered in soldered metal sheets. A large sign above the rolling doors read HYDROPONICS LABORATORY, but the word hydroponics was missing several vowels. Inside, it transformed into a giant, square auditorium. Large columns supported the roof. Seating lined three of the four walls, and a great, white sheet hung from the fourth. Adviser Tenes laughed when I asked about sailing.

Most audience members looked over forty, so when the two of us walked in to take our seats, the back of my neck prickled from their gazes. Adviser Tenes navigated us through the cramped seats. Three-quarters of the participants had brought their own ćukuseh and alcohol.

Adviser Tenes stopped next to a jomela. The jomela looked up at us. Le wore ler hair in high khañiptị! That natural hair fell over ler shoulders in braids, and le wore a headdress that radiated out in a half-disk. Small coins dangled over ler forehead and cheeks. It was lightweight enough to not need a neck brace. Le wore the sunrise pattern, and the fabric teemed with embroidered pastoral scenes. This was incredibly audacious.

Two meters away, our eyes met, and I realized their color. I winced, and le smiled. My mind raced to the conversation with Akah Kara.

Le set aside a fume bowl and rose to greet Adviser Tenes. They kissed each other on the cheeks and hugged warmly. Adviser Tenes stepped back and canted ler head towards me. “I would like to make a formal introduction between you and Nitañi, who works in the Progressive Movement’s headquarters.”

The jomela made the traditional greeting gesture and said, “Most people dispense with high formality with me and say Karatau Meiyenesi or Kurutimi. Formally, Mainė. How long have you known Tenes?”

“We met at my house,” Adviser Tenes said.

“Salus Kobsarka-Nitañi Niksubvya,” Karatau Meiyenesi pronounced and stressed my name perfectly. Le clicked ler tongue against the roof of ler mouth. “Matriarch Mohata and I have known each other for decades. Please wish lim well next time you talk.”

I bit my lower lip. “Akah, I had no idea.”

The show started, thank Tsemanok, with a flash of fire onstage that sent me into my chair in surprise.

The lasers made artistic light displays as they coiled around dancers on the stage. A man in the center somersaulted through the jets of flame, and the music crescendoed from an imperceptible hum to the cacophonous throttle of an electric ksibja orchestra. I have never seen acrobatic performances this daring. The Shiji do not climb as well as we do, but their people twirled and flew through the air as if they had transformed into birds. The heavy scent of ćukuseh in the air made my head giddy and calmed my racing thoughts about Grandmother. Without ćukuseh, I would certainly have stayed. I would not have enjoyed myself.

When we emerged from the building several hours later, Adviser Tenes and Karatau Meiyenesi spoke quickly to each other in something that sounded like Atarahi, but wasn’t. Adviser Tenes left before I could say something. My head ballooned from the ćukuseh, and Karatau Meiyenesi offered to walk me home. I did not protest as much as I should have.

Karatau Meiyenesi touched my arm and said, “I understand your facial expression. Your parents’ generation raised you all very traditionally. It is the way things happen.”

“I don’t want the muakanua.”

“Do you know how rare that is?” Le stopped mid-chuckle. “I understand the concern. It does not flow like a river. It does not follow the path of least resistance as the highlands lead to the flat saltwater marshes. Besides, we are not talking about the nuamua. You have met one of my people before, in Narahja, and you are fine.”

I shook my head. “I don’t believe you. I met a nuamė named Okiyot at the end of Hikol. I have met another named Deisurås who knows a cousin. To use your metaphor, you are following me like debris running downstream. How do you know my grandmother?”

Karatau Meiyenesi clicked ler tongue. “Okiyot is not in the nuamua. I am not in the nuamua. Okiyot and I were once in the nuamua, and Deisurås has never been in the nuamua because le is young enough to have always been under my aegis. Yes, one can contract the muakanua from me, or from Okiyot, or from anyone under me. We have a connection to the nuamua that creates the same impossible eyes. Its effects do not flee even in the together-bound pathway. But you would not have the muakanua nuami.”

“What do you mean by ‘together-bound pathway’?”

“We say Kofahjenya lyịbasub in Narahji,” le said. “It is the sense of coming together of one mind, with a sense of equality. You may have heard Kohjenya or Kohjenyakri, and that is a shorthand that loses most of the nuance. The Tveshi say Equilibrium Nexus, and that, too, loses the nuance. It is a different collective, overlapping with the nuamua, yet not completely the same. Unattached. I am its nexus. Are you hungry?”

My matriarch knows an Iturji person associated with the Kohjenya. Karatau Meiyenesi is an Iturji jomela. Karatau Meiyenesi knows lim. Is this the organization my grandmother wanted me to seek out, one filled with nuamua-who-are-not-nuamua? I tried to clear my head. I am more anxious now writing this than I was, the fault of the ćukuseh, and so I said, “My grandmother did mention you. Le likes you. Are there Kohjenya who are not in the collective?”

Karatau Meiyenesi smiled. “We have known each other for decades. Of course le mentioned me. I was going to find you and introduce myself after you settled in, before anything happened, but it seems I have failed at that. I am starving and want food. Will you come with me? I could tell you more about us if you like after we order. Ah — to your question, right. No.”

“Yes,” I said. I held back the questions I wanted to ask, Are you Kohjenya more or less dangerous than the nuamua and the Karatha? What are you that you were once in the nuamua and are now in something else? Is this something that any nuamė can do? Any Karatha?

Le put ler arm around my waist, and I stiffened. I am from an elite family. A nexus must be something elite within a collective, perhaps the most elite thing. At the same time, touching one of the nuamua? It is not as if we are two people on equal footing. The nuamua were put to death on sight until half a millennium ago in Tveshė. Some blood crime must have caused that. Karatau Meiyenesi might even have been part of it.

Karatau Meiyenesi broke the silence with a story about a drinking party a long time ago at an old-fashioned Galasuhi bar that once stood where we now have modern apartments. Le had casually dated one of the men there for three years, and it was their last drink together before the man’s marriage. They played a prank on the bride-to-be’s family that nearly went wrong. It involved a daraiga and one of the family homes’ inner courtyards.

I forgot the punch line, but it appears that Karatau Meiyenesi once wore contacts when le was out to avoid suspicion. I don’t know where one might have found colorful contacts. They’re illegal, and they always have been.

We went to a late-night restaurant and ordered fluffy steamed cakes covered in a sticky ground meat sauce, cold summer fish soup, and an assortment of sliced fatty fruits. Le ordered a surprise for dessert, chunks of frozen fruit juice that we ate with our fingers. Le knew my favorite ice flavor.

This openness from me was not the ćukuseh. We hit off so well that I forgot to ask lim about the Kohjenya! I genuinely like lim, and the ease of our conversation reminded me so much of those late nights talking to other people in my school cohort. Also, of talking to Kelis. I miss Kelis so much.

What does it mean about me that I have listened to the recording of our conversation twice, skipping over the boring pieces when neither of us had a thing to say, and that I feel so torn about lim? Le has, as the hymns to Likhera go, a quick-tongued mouth whose words unfurl their target, and le is the most well-mannered jomela I have ever met. I would go out with lim again if given the opportunity. Le would make such a good friend, but I fear my family’s opinion. My grandmother might know lim and even like lim, but my parents, aunts, and uncles would have so many unkind words.

Liga, have I been a hotåkhi ass? Please don’t leave a message about that! I would prefer that you talk to me face-to-face.

^{* Yes, this definitely affords us more time. We had a spike of chatter last night in the resources that we started monitoring a few months ago, and I tunneled in and placed malware on several computing nodes. It’s possible that we will have additional information soon. I am happy that we have a good break.}

I don’t know. Aneti confuses me. … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … Ler relationships seem to progress more slowly than ler flings — I am only now getting close enough to betray lim to the authorities. Le has done nothing documented, though, and so I can do nothing.

I opened one of the refrigeration drawers and sliced raw fish for the two of us, which we had with puffed noodle cakes. I added seasonings to mine. Aneti, Kati, and everyone else I have asked says that the sliced raw fish over these cakes is a northern speciality, but the river fish is chewy and bland. Saltwater fish tastes so much better like this!

Kati, meanwhile, ate ler noodles quickly and left the apartment because le has a musical performance in one of the small temples near the edge of town. I am excited for lim.

Without much warning, Aneti said, “My older sister used to make these every night. Le used fresh noodles and the leftover oils from the morning breakfast, and the cakes came out of the oil so hot that they burned our tongues if we didn’t let them cool. The ones from bakeries are not the same.”

“Le doesn’t make them now?”

“Le died before I was a woman,” Aneti said. “Le left the family at sixteen and was five years older.”

I chewed quickly so I could respond and said, “That’s hard.”

“Just for me. My family didn’t mourn.” Aneti grimaced. “I loved lim so much.” Le took a bite of one of the cakes and swallowed.

I cannot imagine having a sister whom one’s family wouldn’t mourn. It is chilling.

Le asked me about my own family, and I can hardly answer with anything so bad. We are Narahji, of an esteemed family, and I have the flexibility and freedom of my grandmother’s heroic sacrifices. It gives me a safety net that many Narahji don’t have in the Tveshi state. I can dissent because my family is ascendant.

“Is there anything else about them?” I asked.

Aneti shrugged. “My grandaunt controls the family. Le has devoted limself to the Progressive Movement, and the majority of my cousins hold state positions. My sister is the only stain.”

I frowned. “Really?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” le said. Le finished off one of the cakes and stood.

The conversation was over. I brought lim back towards my room, and there, I transitioned out of my gyena into one of the caps to protect my hair during sex. Le pulled me down onto the bed, and we started kissing.

Ler communication band went off about a quarter of an hour later, and le immediately flinched away from me and grabbed it from the room’s small table. It was a voice call. The caller must have been so rude! It’s the kind of thing no one would ever accept.

Aneti, however, answered it. Liga — I have gone to the trouble of transcribing what the bug picked up. It’s a bit muffled from the cap, but it picks up almost all that le said.

I’ve corrected the spelling based on what my tablet’s software says this should be like — I ran it through a few of the translation databases that can understand audio, and it has high confidence. I don’t think that I can pronounce any of it.

“Sehuta, eğ søngabu … … nigavøḥaiḥa gavøsu tagamnil lejeḥ … … medtė ødya. … …” The voice was masculine, and le spoke with the same cadence as Aneti. I think, but am not positive, that Sehuta was a short form of Aneti’s formal name.

My translation software says that that means Sehuta, I really need (and then the speech is muffled) cannot attempt in the month’s first decad that thing (and more muffling) failed to fulfill obligations.

“Eğ ḥioğaim gourinkehioḥ jas ødya. Seğ basabu jisabø lie isa?” This was simple: I might know someone who will work. We only need one extra person? 

“Tasø. Sø … … fil.” This is turning better against all odds. You (muffled) lim.

“Eğ gavøha loja øva? Eğ meğis gouria raihaḥil ødya.” In full: Do I need to do this now? I must respectfully say that I’m busy.

“Sehuta, sø haga so … … … … … …  ødya.” Aneti, you have — and the rest of it is cut out. It is all still so stiff — ødya is a formality marker. Le has what?

“Eğ meğis gouria nasahil helai raiha ødya.” I feel overwhelmed due to the workload.

I understand what all of that means now, but at the time, I lay on the bed staring up at the ceiling, uncertain of what to do. Le had me so worked up, and I understood that the tone was urgent, so I anxiously waited for lim to say that le needed to leave. Halfway through the conversation, Aneti slipped from the bed and started pacing. I propped myself up on my elbows.

Le did need to leave. I let lim. Please don’t listen to the three minutes after le left, Liga.

Obviously, I missed something crucial — and even though so much came out, they were still speaking in code. Maybe I missed the most important part or mistakenly identified words. Liga, do you know Shiji? Did I get it right? Do you understand more than I do?

You can’t do everything for me. I found a script that can reduce the audio noise relative to the background, and it will take about an hour to run.

Salus Niksubvya —

– Liga

Liga, when you say all of this, you — it’s illegal, right? And you’re keeping things in a dossier? I doubt writing URGENT will make you listen to me. The fact that you have dodged my questions about the nuamua and everything else? This gives me a lot of stress. Never mind Sehutañi. You need to say something.

– Salus.

Hello, this is Kaye! I have a few quick updates before this week’s chapter. Also, I’m recording this before sunset, so you may hear the birds in a nest outside. Epiphany includes a heavy use of constructed languages. And guess what! George from the Conlangery podcast interviewed me about Epiphany, conlangs, and a bunch of other stuff. You can head over to conlangery.com and listen. Conlangery is a really good podcast, and I encourage you to take a look if you’re interested in conlanging.

You can now find me at ko-fi.com/kayeboesme. If you like Epiphany and would like to contribute, you can do so in coffee-sized increments there. Also, last but not least, please consider leaving a review in iTunes or wherever you download your podcasts.

Thank you for listening! And now on to Chapter 19. ]

Today, Akah Kara asked me about my ambitions in the Progressive Movement.

It would dishonor my family if I said that I had none, but the converse could also damage them: I have more ambition than any man or woman I know, and I have withheld it from these pages as much as possible. Ambition becomes a darkness when a person possesses it without a mind for ler family.

I think about my family, of course, but my impatience has a cause. I want my actions to ripple down through history, even if no one remembers me specifically. The hubris of wanting others to remember me like this cannot be underestimated.

The Progressive Movement has a sense of purpose and history, and I like its political platforms. Humanity can achieve anything as long as we work together. Everyone born on each of the worlds must receive equal treatment, and the Karatha and nuamua should receive no special status. This is something I firmly believe. I have reflected on Daybreak’s opinion that Ameisi humans are inferior to those from the other gardens, or even the Taritit, and it makes my temples pound.

Nothing justifies what my family paid for in blood under the Taritit. My grandmother and grandaunt fought for our freedom, and one of them died. How could those awful people on the train think that the Ịgzarhjenya would ever support them? Shija controls the national culture, and they control the monarchy, but if the Narahji have learned anything, it is that no one should feel like le is less worthy of self-governance than anyone else.

As far as Shiji culture is concerned, I am acclimating. Galasuhi refers to more than just the people living within Galasu. Galasuhi is the divide between people in the office from Eastern and Western Shija, and the former call themselves by this term.

Akah Heivetve (from the communications staff) and I were eating in the rooftop garden together, and some of the people around us started speaking Shiji. Ler family does not speak Shiji, and many of the Galasuhi families in Eastern Shija refuse to allow their children to learn it. Galasuhi Tveshi is almost like formal Tveshi, but with fewer irregular verbs. Le says I sound stilted. I can work on that.

When we went back downstairs, Akah Kara looked up and asked me, “What do you plan on doing with your life, Akah Nitañi?”

Akah Heivetve turned to go, and I nodded. Le twisted ler head back towards me and said, “My family keeps an open breakfast table on the fifth days of the week, if you ever want to come and visit.”

I smiled at lim and said that I obviously would go. Then, I addressed Akah Kara’s question. Ler attention had turned back to the screens, which glowed against ler face and light-toned clothing. I bit my lower lip and said, “I’m very ambitious, Tveihau.”

Tveihau is a word I learned from Heivetve at lunch, an archaic masculine counterpart to akah. They don’t teach it in the Tveshi classes in Narahja. According to Heivetve, it has come back recently in formal speech. I don’t think that there’s something special for jomela. It doesn’t seem appropriate.

Akah Kara looked up from ler screens, and in the silence, I continued, “I plan on being active in the Progressive Movement as long as I can. After four years, I will petition the ruler for a political appointment working with Narahja, perhaps under one of ler advisers. If not, I will run to represent Narahja in the Senate in 1870.”

Ler brow furrowed, and le opened ler mouth and closed it twice before responding. “Is that because your matriarch expects it, or do you want it?”

“I want it. My grandmother raised me to think about the country. Narahja needs a better voice than it has, especially considering the protests. I would need to be louder and more vocal than almost everyone in the Senate.” I walked farther into the room and sat down in the chair across from ler desk. Ler scrutiny made me feel lightheaded. “The Progressive Movement is the way for someone like me to do that.”

Le leaned back in ler chair and studied me silently. At last, le said, “True, you were raised like that. It was a good day when your family’s matriarch contacted us in 1839 and brought your family in. Your grandmother’s influence is considerable. There are things that you would need to do before that.”

“Like what?”

“Have you ever met one of the nuamua?”

My shoulders tensed. “Yes, at the end of Hikol.”

“You should be vigilant about the muakanua.” Akah Kara grimaced. “It can dash dreams, and if that was your first time meeting one, you should look for fatigue and pain. I have heard that it hurts considerably. You look tired, and you mentioned headaches.”

“I haven’t slept well.”

“Why?”

“There is a situation with a friend,” I said, “and I am being torn in two directions. It’s not the muakanua.”

I kept my anger in check, thank Gods, because hearing that from lim made my shoulders tense and a pit start crawling up my stomach and into my chest. Liga, do you know what it is like to hear that from someone?

The Progressive Movement does have a position of neutrality with regards to the nuamua. For most of us in Narahja, however, it is an issue of propriety. It is not good to associate with them or to benefit them. Sehịnta wouldn’t have wanted that. Le had a policy of execution. We haven’t killed them since the 14^th century, but there are limits.

I cleared my throat and said, “Tveihau Kara, forgive me if I sound like I am talking back. I have stress in my family life because my cousins and aunts have asked me to start courting again, and the memory of Kelis will not leave me alone. The muakanua would be easy in comparison to this.”

Akah Kara laughed. “Akah Nitañi, do you know how much it is rumored to hurt?”

“No.”

“Be on edge for a few weeks,” le said.

“What do you mean?”

“I would feel better if you did. This is the concern of an old man, but I want to see you grow in the Progressive Movement, and we will lose so much if you go.”

Le remained silent for a long time, and I hardly moved from where I sat in front of lim. Finally, le smiled and forced a chuckle out of ler throat.

I am still angry. I need to write a scatter diagram.

childhood memories dances sunlight dawn drumming

dying gods sacred friendship heartbeats thunder dispelled illusions terror Liga

painted hands kissing in the rain spinning in dresses Daybreak

bird-filled skies fulfillment children writing

summer in the community real returns canyons

hidden tears purpose daydreams sweet nut milk fear fucking muakanua

hotåkhi incursions on my privacy

I will not be just another overambitious demi-traitor. I will hit the target with my arrows.

The librarian offices are past the Great Room in Paradise Atrium, a set of small rooms built around towering trees that have stood for millennia. The librarian I needed, Deohårañi, works from the mid-afternoon into the evening. We met in the shrine vestibule to the left of the offices before le brought me inside and closed the door.

Deo smiled elegantly at me, which I will always remember because le smiles like Kelis did. But Deo is not Kelis. Deo has a wig made of shoulder-length, rainbow-colored cords ranging from red to orange to yellow to spring to green to indigo and to violet, all coiling together like an iridescent sea-beast, and le has henna on ler face because le is a married member of the Galasuhi version of the Yilrega cult. Deo calls limself Galasuhi and not Shiji, le knows Liga, and le immediately warned me to use ler formal nickname — as if we were already close colleagues.

We talked for some time about the Daybreak Movement, and le teased words out of me like water. Originally, I thought that I just needed basic definitions, but my uncertainty about the origins and disposition of the movement (yes, you were talking about it yesterday, Liga, but I don’t trust you, and you pissed me off) showed after only a few of ler pointed questions. Le brought me to the archival documents section, where we spent three-quarters of an hour using a handheld scanner to put all of the relevant works on my drive. There was more on tape backup offsite, but that would take two weeks to get with the backlog, and I don’t know that Liga and I have that much time? I didn’t request it. I should have. Who knows how long this will take? Anyway.

Deo bit ler lower lip on occasion and smoothed the corded braids away from ler face, looking at me. I wonder if le had questions that le considered imprudent. O Salus, does everyone who works with Liga feel like this?

We joked about ler husband and ler young daughter. I mentioned Kelis, and I felt less hollow than usual. It could be Aneti’s influence.

The Daybreak Movement’s motto: “We live in the IGNORANCE of NIGHT. We wait for the DAYBREAK to ILLUMINE us.” The emphasis is theirs.

The most succinct description of Daybreak I found was uncovered towards the end of our meeting.

The document “A Short Primer on the Tveshi Daybreak Movement from: Briefing, 43 Poråkol 1838, Morning, Before the Senate Investigation on the Murders of Several Prominent Tveshi Cultural Coalition Members,” written by Nikoa Talesu-Likhesau Jitaso, Senior Assistant to Senator Komañi:

The Daybreak Movement spans all three continents, helped in a large part by comm band technology and networked digital forums. Its motto graces all of its publications, seemingly innocuous, yet obscuring a sinister network of conspiracies and out-of-touch plots against all political movements, all countries, and all human leaders. It arose following the end of the Occupation, when the mob murders of Occupation collaborators and their families pushed many who survived to flee to Atara. Those collaborators too low-profile to be threatened assimilated into mainstream political factions, but a small fraction of the other collaborators looked elsewhere for political representation. 

Daybreak began as three grassroots organizations working independently out of urban centers affected by the rapid recession of Taritit forces. Daybreak itself began in late 1826 and was formalized throughout the year 1827. Gradually, it cannibalized the membership of the two other founding organizations, also anti-government.

The Daybreak Movement uses a cell structure, with nodes communicating up and down the chain of command. In some countries, as in Tveshė, the Daybreak Movement has split into semi-public and semi-private arms. The public side of the Daybreak Movement maintains itself here as a fringe political party. In the Leissi Federation, they incorporated as a religious group called Dhéuk and received their permit four years ago.

Regardless of regional differences, all members hold to the same basic tenets: (1) Humanity needs help, and nonhuman High Wilds imperialists, with their advanced technology and millennia of experience, are a gift from Enahari to shepherd our childlike civilizations into our best selves. (2) The tesekhaira are corrupt, the name of that corruption is the Captain, and their influence must be driven out. (3) The International Congress and regional governments have no authority and should cede any claimed authority to the most powerful alien entity.

The “Corruption is Captain” idea originates from an oracle given in Essoda in 1648, when Taukha held the oracular seat. Some have pointed out that the oracle anticipates the Taritit Invasion: “In the year when all hope seems lost and humanity ceases to rule itself, a great family will rise under the aegis of Elaukha [Likhera] and Elapua [Enapuata]. Its daughters and sons will restore humanity to the stars. When the people govern themselves once again, its descendants will catapult the tesekhaira into a bloody conflict: Its Captain will be the end of everything we know.” The 1648 Oracular Utterance is commonly held to describe the Taritit Invasion, and the nascent Asynch has speculated on the identity of the family and ethnic group referred to in the remaining sentences.

The local incarnation of the Daybreak Movement has developed a suite of more palatable political positions. These include the modernization of formal grammar rules to reflect changes in the Tveshi language, namely the addition of a character to represent glottal stops; relaxed rules governing the incorporation of new families and the process of applying for a non-family apartment room; the yoking of colonies such as Laseå, Mntaka, and Atara; execution for practitioners of what is known (borrowed from the Narahji nebzestu) as nepasetu, or marriage mingling with those descending from the other Six Gardens; preservation of old forms of documents to deter tesekhaira censorship; the re-criminalization and systemic execution of the nuamua; and criminalization of the Karatha, all in direct opposition to preferred policies. Their most controversial position is their desire to limit the power of the Tveshi monarchy, which they have identified as the family in the oracle.

While the International Watch, Radicals for the High Wilds, the Tveshi Cultural Coalition, and Cradle have all performed assassinations — and some of these groups are considered mainstream political fashions — no deaths have yet been attributed to the Daybreak Movement. Given that most members are already on watch lists for their involvement in the Occupation, it is far more likely that the murders came out of Cradle or International Watch, which share some of Daybreak’s views.

“What is Asynch?” I asked.

Deo laughed. “It’s an old Tveshi term for the boards and forums on the Network. They called it the Asynchronous Agora until the mid-1850s.”

“Thank you, it’s not a term I know.”

I thought about the text for a long time after I left the Galasu Knowledge Foundation. No one truly taught me about the Daybreak Movement during my political education, and I had overlooked them — just as everyone else had — until they turned violent. This piece was written in the late 1830s, which is before most of the radicalized groups became problems for states. That happened in the 1840s and early 1850s, and perhaps up until the monarchical protests in Narahja. If the Shiji and Galasuhi must consider all of these extremist groups, it is no wonder that they suspect all of us in Narahja so strongly when we claim things that are simply our right.

Their position on nepasetu bothers me. I have worked for the Progressive Movement since I joined a youth group at the age of eleven.

My grandfather is Atarahi.

Of course I should be legal.

Cradle and I agree on the Uncovering Ritual. Daybreak and I agree on combatting the stigma of living without family and about deterring too much tesekhaira oversight. I wouldn’t have agreed with the individualism piece before moving to Galasu and starting a journal. It is nice to have one’s thoughts and know that they are private to almost everyone.

I don’t know about the nuamua. It is a Progressive Movement policy to tolerate them, and the one who visited me seemed fine, but Namgyatzi did spurn Sehịnta. My parents told me to avoid them, and I know that they bring families to ruin. Professionally, I can cope. The Karatha abandoned us during the Occupation and did little, if anything, to help the resistance. The nuamua and the Kohjenya did help — the nuamua on all of the Gardens, the Kohjenya on Madhz and Ameisa. The Kohjenya gave the International Madhzi Congress the keys to their orbital fleet. If these groups did everything and the Karatha on Ameisa did nothing, the Ameisi Karatha should not have been welcomed with open arms after the Occupation.

Daybreak has killed so many people since the 1830s. I was a girl when most of the assassinations happened. They must have lost popularity after those came to light.

Liga, is this why you have such distaste for them?

I can sympathize with some of their platform, but the Taritit subjugation was never for our benefit.

Let’s start at the beginning. The indicator lights from your computer equipment bathed you in surreal green and sky-scattered light. It was afternoon, so you must have drawn those shades over the balcony doors that I saw hanging partially open the last time we spoke. You unmuted the conversation channel, routed my image to a wall screen in your room, and I saw myself. You were sitting at your desk, only partially turned towards me. I saw the dry eyes solvent on the desk, the remains of a meal on a cart, and an unmade bed. I heard nothing but the faint sounds of the street.

You sat back in the chair and made eye contact with the camera. “I turned on the feed recorder. Sorry about that,” you said quickly and formally. Your voice had a flatness to it that tensed it and moved it forward in your mouth. “Clients have priority.”

The way you said it made me think of those short action adventure films about ghostly secret lairs and illicit High Wilds technology that they screen after hours in the cinemas. Your face softened suddenly. You can be kind-eyed and docile when you don’t have that intensity.

“There has been suspicious chatter in some Daybreak circles since we last spoke,” you said. You dimmed the video feed and began typing, and what you next said was broken into bursts. “Some of my associates noticed it. It’s not just in Shija, but in Narahja and Iturja — no word in Nasja. We are still developing infiltration strategies for Nasja, and it’s taken us decades thus far.”

“We?” Our eyes locked. You did not mean to say it like that, Liga, but I held you to those words then, and I will hold you to what you said until the answer becomes satisfactory. What if you are in some rival group to Daybreak? What if you are in Daybreak itself and this is a tightly-wound nest of lies?

Liga, this is what you said: “I am affiliated with a clandestine organization that looks into matters. Technically, I am an employee. I don’t — this is more high-profile than what I usually do. They are giving me more attention than usual, and it’s not particularly thrilling to always have those pressing eyes. I find it hard to focus.”

What does that even mean?

Something happened in the chat on the screen, and you frowned. I saw an image. “Shit,” you said.

“Was that lim?” I took off my shoes and gyena and moved into a more comfortable position on my bed.

You barely looked away from your computer, and you dug your teeth into your lower lip, breathing out softly all the while. “Who?”

“Your boss.”

“Yes and no. I’m not entirely sure how to field this, Salus. This might not be the best time for a discussion.” Your diction did not sound like yours.

“Just tell me: Have you been reading my entries?”

“Of course. You’ve read my comments?” That sounded like you.

In the kitchen, Kati swore and turned on loud music. Le started singing along. “Do you have anything to say? What do you mean by that ‘chatter,’ and how am I supposed to navigate Aneti? Sehutañi. Sehutañi.”

You paused again, and your eyes shifted to the side as if you could hear something that I couldn’t. “How much do you know about the Daybreak Movement, Salus Niksubvya?”

“Only what you told me, what we learned in school — I have plans to do research in the library later this week because I don’t want those searches tied to my Net account.”

You bit your lower lip and said, “We have the staffing schedules for the library in Galasu. You will visit at the time we state and request a specific person. It’s for your own safety.” And then you said, “I can give you some information to help you get started. The Daybreak Movement doesn’t operate like most political movements. It has no center at all. They create small cells and communicate via word-of-mouth. You keep transcripts of audiovisual recordings — don’t snicker, Salus, this is really important — and you have a smart paper journal. If someone wanted to hack into your information streams, they could have. I’ve pushed code to your devices to deter monitoring crawlers. Members of the Daybreak Movement do not have someone with my experience. They prefer to meet in person without voice recordings, and they hold their meetings in public places. They covered their mouths on the security feeds from the Skyrail, for example, but they otherwise looked quite normal. They use old paper, and they burn it. There is a courier system that we are trying to infiltrate right now.”

I closed my eyes and considered Aneti’s workstation at the office. I keep personal items on my desk, but le has nothing that would acquaint others with ler personality — not even sacred texts and inspirational quotations, and everyone keeps those out.

Now that I remember it, Aneti has taken me to a stationery store. Le chose the old-fashioned paper, bleached indigo, almost purple, with visible paper fibers. While le made ler selections, I searched through the racks of smart paper for audio stickers, image slide show inserts, and colorful inks. I don’t remember it completely, but I think le rolled ler eyes and said something about the sophistication of classic paper. Le must use paper for Daybreak. Does le use any smart paper? How will this complicate finding documents?

“You meant to say that spying on them creates more problems than it solves, correct? If you’re hearing something from them at all, that must mean something significant. Something is about to happen.”

“Exactly.”

I licked my lips. “Liga, does that mean that this will be significant? I have so many unanswered questions for you. I have doubts that we can find the information before something happens. Do you know about the rank of the official?”

You looked away from the camera and said, “We know nothing.”

“Are you lying?”

“We have a list of officials whom the surveillance equipment ignores. The list keeps growing longer. The list currently contains about 1,000 people. Seventeen of them are world leaders. Two hundred of them live in small towns across the globe. The remainder are somewhere in the middle. You cannot say that none of them is important. Great families rise from ordinary fields like vines climbing up cliff-rocks, like yours.”

I won’t call you out on what you just said because I accidentally mentioned something yesterday that should have been left unsaid, and I’ve censored it. Please do not say anything about that again.

“You want me to trust you. Why do you consort with nuamua?”

“I will annotate your journal with some information. I can type something up for you to search on, a second entry to yesterday. I would tell you now, but — I really — there’s something that I have to sort out.”

“You haven’t answered any of my more serious questions.”

“I know.” You glanced at your computer screen. “I will have something to say soon.”

“Tonight?”

“No.” You paused and bit your lower lip.

“You can’t keep doing this to me, Liga. How can I refrain from suspecting you of wrongdoing in a situation like this?”

You opened and closed your mouth. You glanced at the camera, your eyes went out of focus, and you looked away. Your hands trembled into fists, and you squeezed your eyes shut, brow furrowed. Your body froze like that. I mentally counted to thirty.

“I —” — and you sighed —

The feed stopped. How could you have cut it when you could hardly move? I sat for a full five minutes in complete denial of what had just happened. If you have read my entries, why won’t you act? Why do you deflect my more serious questions? Why did you cut me off?

If you want my loyalty for this project, Liga! If you want my loyalty!

Salus:

The search is more complicated than I thought. The query has been redirected to our librarian contact by someone within my organization. Please don’t ask about what happened. Go to the Galasu Knowledge Foundation tomorrow at 10h.45. Ask the attendant for Deohårañi’s office and say that you have an appointment.

-Liga

These are all anxious thoughts, and I don’t know which ones to isolate. O Salus, your handwriting is like unbound hair, blocky, without any style or tradition keeping to together. Hopefully, something will jump out at me, something that I can do. The Tveshi letters are so messy that Liga likely cannot read them.^*

Gyetsuk wants me to attend the family home for breakfast within the next few weeks because the woman has arrived from the Canyons, Kitesrati. The former vidded me this morning about half an hour after I awoke, and we set plans for me to eat there later this week to meet lim. Gyetsuk pushed a photograph of Kitesrati onto the screen: Dark skin and eyes, high cheekbones, and an unblemished face, ler gyena ending in coiled ribbons over ler shoulders. Le must come from Daläzin. Gyetsuk says that Kitesrati placed near the top of ler class in the final examinations, and le attends the Menarka Academy of Rhetoric and Civil Service, which I graduated from two years ago. Kitesrati is seventeen.

Le wouldn’t have told me so much about this woman if the family had no designs. I cannot believe that the satelliters would make a match for me without our matriarch’s approval. This doesn’t sit well with the agreement that my grandmother made with the grief therapist, that I move away for several years and not consider marriage for at least three. I should have told my grandmother that I should still wear mourning red. Now my relatives here have the wrong idea about everything.

But how, Salus, is this different from Aneti? I am falling in love with Aneti, but Aneti would never be material for marriage. I can steel my heart against lim, except with every day that passes, I am less certain. I think that Kitesrati makes me panic because le has the kind of background that we would want to bring into my family.

We are one of the greatest families in Narahja, and because I told my grandmother that I would not like any men in my matches, the trick is to find an ambitious woman who would be worth the bride-price offered to ler family. There can be no ambiguity about which family has the higher status. … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

This is not the only thing that happened today. Imagine, if you will, Liga: My heart racing as I went out the door, all of these emotions tearing this way and that in my head. I needed to pause and breathe, but I couldn’t. This was the worst day for a message like that. Akah Khera retired today, and I needed to manage so much at work.

We made a last-minute change to the retirement video collage this morning, and I ran halfway across the city to have it recompiled using a vendor that we haven’t used before, so I had to file paperwork. We paid 234 lh. for the last-minute change, and it was ready by 9h.

I had to manage that from a table while several of us on staff coordinated the decorating crew for the receiving room. We made it look like the opaque and clear sky, day and night, as a covert symbol of our attention to the High Wilds. The sky-opaque banners looked like a cloudless sky at noon, and the clear sky banners studded with stars and nebulae seemed almost real. Above everything, the Progressive Movement’s seven-pointed star shone in interlocked silver and gold.

The event planner and I spent most of the afternoon going through the program. We have only met in person several times, as le travels all over Tveshė for the Movement’s events.

I also met Akah Kara’s previous assistant, a man in ler early 30s who currently leads the men’s minority contingent in the Senate. Le helped me move some furniture. Le spent seven years in my position. It sounds like an eternity.

The guests began arriving at 8h75. Adviser Tenes came about five minutes after the first guest. Le smiled at me and kissed my hands. I tried to smile back because the deference was entirely uncalled for, and it made me feel like a toddler. Le greeted an older woman beside me — someone whom I do not yet know — and kissed ler hands as well.

Perhaps le does this because le is a tesekhaira. People greet one another like this in old plays from the 13^th century because it is in the queuing.

Adviser Tenes approached Akah Khera, and le called lim Kherañi. Adviser Tenes held out ler hands, and Akah Khera squeezed them. Le kissed Adviser Tenes’ hands, and as le did so, I noticed something lonely in the adviser’s eyes. I thought about lim in those older photographs, when both of them looked about the same age. Akah Khera will die within the next two or three decades. I wonder what it must be like to interact with non-tesekhaira, to hear the time ticking away in the back of one’s head, to know intimately how fragile and impermanent interactions and friendships truly are. I don’t know how one couldn’t sink into a deep depression.

“You should be proud of the work you have done,” Adviser Tenes said slowly, “especially because your initiative began everything that we now have.”

Akah Khera pushed ler hand away dismissively and laughed. Ler gaze passed over me and doubled back. Akah Khera’s smile faltered as if le had seen an apparition.

Akah Kara, at that moment, touched Akah Khera on the shoulder and handed lim and Adviser Tenes flukes of puatuamė wine. “That’s my new assistant,” le said, “Salus Kobsarka-Nitañi Niksubvya. I apologize for not introducing you two, but my schedule has been hectic, and le made the surprise from the Movement for you.”

Akah Khera nodded and took a fluke from ler hand. Le drank it quickly. My heart sank slowly down towards my feet, and my temples hammered. Aneti came up behind me and handed me alcohol. I thanked lim and tried to remember not to put my arm around ler waist.

I went up to the second-tier balcony and outside — without Aneti, and with no one following me. The guests streamed towards the building from outside, and I had them in full view. No one could see me crying like this with the angle of sunlight. It wasn’t fair, not knowing.

My vision cleared by the time I needed to go back to start the video.

Liga, I need to talk to you.^** You have barely answered any of my comm messages, either by voice or by text. Why won’t you say anything to me about what I need to do? Am I meant to figure this out? I feel like I am being ripped in multiple directions. I am not sure I can do this, and you won’t do much more than silently wait there, you with your nuamua associations and cryptic, encouraging words. I need more than encouragement. I need to know what is happening here. I don’t know which thoughts to focus on because I need structure and guidance from someone. How could I bring this up to my matriarch or to my boss? How could I inform the police without evidence? Should I gather it by force, and if I do, what ensures that I will not find myself endangered and a target myself?

Who is watching, and who are you, O cousin of my Gods-sworn friend?

^{* I have read handwriting worse than yours …}

^{** I apologize for how busy I have been. You don’t deserve that. My recommendations are as follows: Continue to fashion a relationship with Akah Sehutañi. Call lim Aneti only to ler face, not in your journals. That is too intimate, and I think that it accounts for your problem! Don’t worry about gaining access to the documents for now — it sounds like you have had a hard time. Of course, I cannot force you to do anything. Don’t inform your matriarch or the Progressive Movement about any of this because we will lose access to Akah Sehutañi if you do. That means that we will have no information at all. As for my associations with the nuamua, as I have said before, Okiyot is not one of the nuamua. I can call you tomorrow, but I don’t have the time to address that topic during our conversation.}

I need to remember the way there again, so here are the directions: From the Progressive Movement’s office, walk outside, turning left. It takes fifteen minutes to reach the Blossom Sun Skyrail Terminal, one of the linking places between the Sky and Berry Lines (just a note — one of the lines will be renamed after a god soon). Take Sky to Waterside Plaza, the fourth stop on the express, and switch to the Riverside Line. Nikasa Street’s stop is number six.

Here, all of the trees bend and twist around one another like souls in agony. I know that that sounds weird, especially given the reason I’m doing this, but it’s the first thing I thought of. The temples smell like burning cakes and oils. I remember it now from the first time I saw Aneti in ler ancestral home. When I left that morning, the streets twisted me this way and that like a doll on a string, and I had to use my band to navigate. Masija Temple faces the Skyrail exit here.

A priestess in one of the Lijai Street temples knows Aneti. This is the street where Aneti lives. The priestess is young and smiled at lim for a little bit too long.

I don’t know why I wrote that here, Liga.

Aneti lives in a seven-story family home, one of those that barely scrapes under the building code limits. Ler family must have built up instead of to the side so many centuries ago, and it stands out among the other buildings. The code le punched into the door is 0-11-6-10 in Tveshi base twelve.

Le took me around the side of the house and upstairs. I met ler mother and one of ler siblings. Neither stood out. Ler family might not even know that le has switched affiliations to Daybreak. I looked them up at work today. The matriarch of that family is a major supporter of the Progressive Movement.

We helped ourselves to the cold afternoon spread in the kitchen — reheated flatbreads and a variety of meat, fruit, nut, and green sauces arranged in little bowls. My favorite was the marinated dried fish. It’s less elaborate than a Narahji aftermeal, but in Tveshi, aftermeal and afterthought share the same root. And the majority of ler family speaks Galasuhi Tveshi at home, which is almost identical to what we speak at work. I called the bowls “cute,” and a young boy in the kitchen asked me what we do. Le called that “cuter.”

Two young men in the kitchen made small talk with us. You can listen to the recording if you like, but there’s not much of interest.

Aneti has a small closet of a room, which le does not share with cousins or siblings — much like what I have now in the apartment, just a small space for a bed, wardrobe, built-in shelves, and thin wall table. Aside from yesterday, it is the first time that I have thought about our age difference: Aneti must have ler own room because most adults move to a spousal room by the age of twenty-three.

When le closed the door behind us, I saw a flowering tree painted on it in a wild, looping brush style, so colorful that it almost looks worthy of Canyon art. Le had a small shrine in one wall with the ashes of offerings, a fume-bowl for ćukuseh, and a small package of ćas cigarettes. I had never seen ćas before, but I heard stories from my grandfather about growing up on the South Islands on Atara where they grow it. Aneti has left hints about anxiety, and that underscores it. My grandfather says that ćas smoke smells good. Anxiety meds do not.

On the shrine, I saw an icon of a white goddess holding ten balls, one for each color of the rainbow, and then a neutral, opaque-sky hue around each one. Constellations glowed around the icon.

Again, I looked this up: Some Galasuhi do keep private shrines in their bedrooms, typically a shared god of a couple or set of siblings or cousins. In Narahja, the practice would be antisocial.

Quotations cover most of Aneti’s other walls: song lyrics, verses from sacred texts, and political statements. Here are some of the more interesting ones:

1. Already le dances in the breeze, heartbeat praising ler beloved.
2. The perfect form of divine worship is self-contemplation. 
3. When you know who you are, the mask of the world is cast aside and you can acknowledge the source of all of this.
4. Though individuals may be sacrificed, the forest of humanity still remains, and the mission is divine.

The first two come from the end of Impermanence, and the other two are things that Sehịnta said in state documents from the first century. A few other phrases on the walls made me look away quickly:

1. The state must be made to kneel. 
2. Power lies in the heart of the thousand suns and fires that consumed Menarka and that Enahari has kept waiting for us. 
3. Humanity must recognize that we are not in control. Do we grant ourselves humility, or is it given to us in times of submission? 
4. Take back the night sky. 

I touched the last sentence with my fingertips. The paint gave a bit. Le must have written it within the past two days.

Aneti watched me. I approached lim and offered a kiss. “You are really intellectual,” I whispered, “and I like it. You never said that you liked literature or that you did art.”

Le smirked, let go of me, and set ler bag down. The seriousness in ler eyes chilled my heart, but I felt hard, and I wanted to have sex. I knotted my gyena around my hair while le watched me, and I pulled lim down onto the bed. A Narahji girl would have said, “It looks like we are engaged.” Aneti doesn’t know what knots in a gyena mean.

After we had sex, we went to one of the dance halls in the neighborhood, and I went home.

I do regret one thing.

Aneti had a spare key to ler room on a table, just barely visible beneath ler paints.

I regret that I did not take it. I regret that I was too weak to just do what I have to do to finish this. Of course, ler eyes tracked me the entire time. Short of taking ćas and ćukuseh with lim — but only if the spirits within those substances spurn me, an impossible thing — I don’t know how I will ever twist my way into ler private documents.

Still, the celebration went well! My aunt let me borrow a spare gown at the satellite home, and I went to the rain dances with the rest of my family.

The processional attendants wore the traditional outfits and water-like face paints, their heads adorned with stiffened, spine-like growths shed by beasts in the Canyon-dark rivers that shatter through Narahja like jewels. The celebration lasted about half as long as the one in Menarka, as we must contend with the Shiji and Galasuhi rituals, and within each, the Eneiji and other categories of Sabaji religious practices. The Galasuhi practices look more like ours.

It’s odd because I thought that the Shiji and the Galasuhi were the same. The Galasuhi are, it would seem, just a subgroup of Shiji with a very strong monarchical influence. They’re a bit more blended, a bit more like us. They don’t speak Shiji because they want to preserve their cultural identity. I wonder if we could target them better with political campaigning — yeah.

We had the festival in Bell Park near the cultural center. While the meats roasted, we linked hands and did the labyrinthine dances, trampling the plants underfoot in that winding pattern at the center of most Ịgzarhjenya cities. I bought offering cakes and kaksado liqueur to offer to the gods. Readings and skits lasted about two hours.

Sweat beaded on my brow. It was so hot this year! The people who had planned these vigorous dances had Canyon ground and Canyon weather in mind. The monsoon rains would have cooled the performers, and they would have also worn mud-grips.

Two boys came by with watered-down wine to soothe our throats. Old men fed the fires with dried ćukuseh petals, and the smoke tendriled throughout the park. My mind felt like it had expanded to encompass the entire galaxy, and I was filled with such happiness. The loud chanting and bodies pressing and dancing were so much that I started crying, and I was not the only one. That part, at least, was exactly like the Canyons.

The god of the rains has come. Yilrega has come: the watery procession has penetrated deep into the ground and ler vines shoot up to form the doorway to eternity. Through this door le comes. Dripping with vines and water and blood, le comes. With the tempest le comes, and with the calm rains, and with the chaos of new growth. See lim wander Ameisa. See lim find ler people. Near, far—everywhere. Le has come.

The sound roared in my ears. I found rhythm in the ćukuseh and the drumbeats. My palms sweat as I slapped the hands of the people around me. The grills piled with meat made me hungry and lightheaded, so I ate, danced, and ate more.

Aneti called me when the festival ended at 10h. Still slightly high, very full, and humming with God, I stumbled away from the park and met lim, giggling.

The Skyrail had limited service, and the Bell Quarter — thankfully — was included in the list of access stops. The sub-rail system was closed, which I have heard that the Taritit abandoned completing as soon as they realized how much of a problem the bedrock would be, in addition to the earthquakes. The tunnels were abandoned until two years ago when the city started coping with overflow on some of the Skyrail lines.

One of the women on our train tried selling us fried dough balls. I took one in my mouth and kissed Aneti. Le stumbled back, a lehi in hand, to pay for it. Ler eyes swam in their sockets when I pulled away. We nearly missed our stop.

Fifteen blocks from the river, we walked the rest of the way. Aneti and I ordered iced nonu from one of the vendors, and le asked for extra ice. It’s traditional for the Galasuhi to jump into the water on the Summer Solstice, a tradition that no one else in Shija observes, and no one else anywhere — as far as I know — and Aneti says that ler family has always been in Shija, even before the Occupation — le says so many things, and I hardly remember half of what le said, but I think that it was important. Le says that the ice helps because the river is cold.

We joined one of the processions and made our way down to the river. Aneti handed me ler electronics, and le jumped in with a scream. I captured a photograph of ler face: Ler mouth is a perfect O, le has squeezed ler eyes shut, and ler hair is spraying water in an arc as le turns ler head. While people jumped, the priests and priestesses prayed to various gods.

Aneti asked me if I would jump in. I had freshly-scraped henna designs on my forehead and had worn a good costume for the Water Dances, but I did it anyway. That must have been the drugs.

Le was right about the water. It was so cold that it burned! But it must have been warmer than I thought. It was just a shock because the day was so hot.

When I climbed out, le said, “Look at you shake! The expression on your face! Do you take any risks?”

“Not at all.”

Aneti is a risk. I am taking lim, preferably down, and by all that my family holds sacred, why does writing preferably down make my cheeks flush? Why am I fantasizing about someone whom the police should have forced out of the Movement long ago? All I can think about is ler body pressed against mine and my body hard against lers.

We escaped from the crowds soon after the offerings finished and ran in wet shoes along the streets until we found a vendor who sold white festival robes. Aneti bought new ones, and I bought my first set. We changed in one of the squares, roped our clothes together, and walked to one of the parks.

The bug in my hair is waterproof.^* I have captured the entire conversation. Tomorrow, I will invite Aneti to the apartment, and I hope that le won’t leave early.

^{* Waterproof is an interesting term. I wouldn’t recommend going diving in it below 2 meters. It now has some graininess in the audio that will hopefully go away on its own as the nano-repair kicks in. Don’t try it again! Self-repairing technology doesn’t always work.}

Kati successfully auditioned for the Kekas Ensemble, which will sponsor lim during the remainder of ler music education at the local conservatory. The entire family will celebrate at breakfast tomorrow, and Kati won’t stop singing along with this music! Le has just filed to receive quota-free music streaming with the flip in ler professional status.

The ensemble meets in Aravakha, about an hour’s commute via pod-on-demand. Le will have enough time to work on other musical projects, and the conservatory means having dedicated practice space within the soundproof rooms there.

Liga and Suka sent me Narahji-language magazines and candied leaves. I tried to call them, but neither picked up. I still need to talk to Liga about the nuamė that le knows so I can find something satisfying to say to Kati — also so that I can allay my own fears.^*

I don’t want to write my concerns here because I know that you are reading them, and while I hardly know you and have wondered if this is a bit too personal, why should I try to have private thoughts? Suka told me that journaling would not lead to dangerous things, and I have already cut myself off.

Every word I say is now stored on a hard drive. The unit in my hair broadcasts the files when less than 5% of the floating space remains. Liga will speech-to-text and data mine everything.

You know, Liga, what I said last night at dinner. You know what I will say later tonight when Kati’s bread comes out of the oven. You know the indignation I expressed at the crowd of twelve-year-old boys playing in the middle of the street when I needed to be at the Skyrail entrance.

The recorder knows what I said to Aneti on the video phone 20 minutes ago. However, it does not see me remove the gyena when I speak to Aneti when we are on vid. It does not see the charming hand motions that Suka makes when something excites lim and le stutters. It doesn’t know that Aneti loves the outer shell of the recording cuff because it is indigo and sky-opaque, ler favorite color juxtaposed against something fake and unreal that the Atarahi think is a color. Aneti has loved the idea of sky- and sea-opaque since acting in The Sea-Moon Rises during school.

Aneti says so much when I see lim. It sounds so normal. Le is making me fall in love with lim with this illicit disclosure.

I would toss lim into the Canyon dark if I could. If only I could stop thinking about lim and wanting to trust lim.

Le will stumble, hopefully soon, and I will be free.

Later. Thank you for calling me, Liga. I had been wondering why you were so silent about the technology problem I mentioned. As I said in the call, maybe you should have told me that you were investigating it? It’s good to know that it was someone who wasn’t you. I don’t know what you meant by, “I can’t talk about that.” You have put up a wall between us. I don’t like it. Could you tell me what you meant, Liga? Our conversation was five minutes, or to be overly exact, five minutes and twenty-six seconds.

I understand if you are busy, but this is an assassination. Do you know about those politicians who were murdered? What do you know about them?

It makes me anxious to have this wall screen here now, in full view of me as I sleep. What if Aneti and I had sex in here? Would someone be watching? Would you be watching? Maybe it isn’t actually malicious hacking. Not politically malicious. It could just be any young person who just learned how to program and who has nothing better to do with ler life than spy on young professionals.

You will need to talk about that eventually, Liga, if we continue working together.

^{* You are writing in Tveshi. Their word for ksibja is kasipta.}

^{** I can’t address this now. Wait for me to call you within the next week.}

This episode does not address the specific gender-neutral pronoun chosen, but is intended to be a cultural orientation to help listeners understand the world as Salus sees it and the political and social environment of gender in mid-19th century Standard Count Tveshė. The reality of the matter is that the ruling culture, the Sabaji Tveshi, has only 3 recognized genders, and this has implications for the ways that Ịgzarhjenya (including the Narahji), Iturji, and Hicịptụ citizens exist in Tveshė’s legal and social realms.

The Shiji have a religious holiday on the first of Poråkol. I think I knew this, but didn’t know this, because I expected everything here to happen at different times. To the Shiji, the first of Poråkol is an observance for Enahari, Enakhiavoshei, and Enashisha in honor of the Summer Solstice. I won’t need to use a HEP day!

I can attend the first of four days of the festival at the Narahji Community center — the exact day of the rain dances that I love so much and that remind me so much of Suka and my family. The Niksubvya satelliters down the street have organized a group to go, and it has been very incoherent. Most of them are taking all four days off, but if I just take the one, I will still retain my ten days. Five of them are essential for major Narahji religious holidays that don’t have a Sabaji equivalent, so I have five that I can use to participate in religious celebrations for Anumga, Sayimga, and Tsemanok. On the copy of the chart I took from HR, I also highlighted the Sabaji holidays for Likhera and Enahari. It makes sense to court those gods if I want to become a politician.

When I pinged my mother on the comm to tell lim about it, le wrote, “I am so happy for you. You and Kati are eating breakfast with the Niksubvya satelliters? Matsab says that you are not eating there nearly enough. Do you have enough money?”

I wrote, “Of course I have enough money, and I have spent more time there than Matsab says.”

(Truthfully, though, Kati and I often go late, frequently after Matsab has left.)

I worked quickly and spent much of lunch in the archives to put the finishing touches on a project. Aneti fetched me for an early afternoon walk on the waterfront and said that le had been thinking about me all day.

Le pushed me against the back of the elevator, and we kissed until the doors opened again. Four others entered the elevator, and one of them said something in Shiji that Aneti wouldn’t translate for me. Le laughed.

Aneti noticed my mood, and when I told lim, le laughed at me and said that of course they observe the Summer Solstice and that it was so Narahji to think that they might not. We have a common religious origin, after all. I retorted that Shija doesn’t honor Yilrega at this time of year, as le is responsible for the rains that do not quite reach into Shija. Aneti bit ler lower lip and said, “Salus, you don’t know anything about Shija, and this sometimes shows. Eneiji honor Enapuata, and le’s essentially the same god.”

The two of us walked to the waterfront in silence. Le said, “I come here to gather my thoughts. The buskers play good music.”

“Why do you need good music?”

“I get anxious sometimes.” Le sighed and leaned against a pole, pulling me close all the while.

If le’s a Daybreak mole, maybe anxiety means that le has a conscience and understands deep down what le’s doing. Liga, am I reaching?

Le kissed me again and closed ler eyes. The music had a beat, and a few couples danced around us in wide circles. “Do you dance?” I asked.

Aneti shook ler head. “Of course not. We don’t all dance, not like you Narahji.” Le bit ler lower lip, and the resentment in ler gaze made my heart pound. I need to be careful.

Le must have joined the Daybreak Movement out of pride. Can there be another explanation? Daybreak has such a sense of purpose, even if it says such inflammatory and indecent things. This is right, that is wrong — but how can anyone think that when what we so badly need is to bring all of the worlds together? O Salus, this is what you know: To be human, and human alone — to be unburdened by the Taritit and to have that illicit conquest at our backs — this is a good thing. Once the last person who lived under the Occupation dies, we can finally move forward.

“Your girlfriend is from the canyons,” I said, and I grabbed ler hand. “You will dance with lim.”

I dragged lim into the center of the dance before le could protest. I don’t know what the Galasuhi do in their dances, but I gave it Narahji footwork. Aneti stumbled back and forth in front of me, and le had no rhythm. I put my hand on ler waist to coax lim forward and back through signaling, which made ler movements even more contorted. Aneti stood too far away from me, and ler body remained tense the entire time.

After we finished, le grabbed my wrists in ler sweaty hands and said breathlessly, “I cannot — you made me do that — they must think that I’m —” and le stopped speaking.

I kissed the backs of Aneti’s hands. The gesture concealed my anger because my mind ballooned with everything I wrote above. Aneti didn’t know the gesture.

The rain began to fall around us, and thunder rumbled close by. People ran this way and that, bound for the Skyrail or offices or museums. We went beneath a restaurant awning and watched the rain waterfall over the sides. Our underdresses sucked against our skin.

We walked back to the office after the rain stopped. I changed into a new set of clothes and went back to work. I mulled over what le had meant by they must think that I’m—

Le wanted to say, They will think that I am Narahji. This could invite violence because people suspect all Narahji of working in one of the separatist groups. No one will think that le is Narahji. There is a certain style of dress and manner that transcends appearance. Otherwise, that man would never have pushed me. What matters in Tveshė is culture, not ethnic appearance. The gods know my family has learned that lesson.

Not all of us want to separate from Shija. The police put me through an extensive background check to work in the Progressive Movement’s national office despite my family’s reputation. This was Code 1861-348-8, which I doubt that you have ever encountered, Liga.

So many of my ancestors are foreigners, yet I fall under that scrutiny because I am Narahji. My father can be an Īpahi diplomat, and I am Narahji. My grandfather can be an Atarahi immigrant, and I am Narahji. Code 1861-348-8 assumes that all Narahji have an equal preference for self-governance and ignores the complexities that most of us operate in: The Menashi marry into the Narahji, the Narahji marry into the Menashi, the Narahji marry the High-Wilds immigrants, the Narahji marry those whom they meet in other countries.

I don’t mean that I have no cultural pride. I do. Culture matters. I am Narahji. Liga, I meant to say that they suspect us for being Ịgzarhjenya. They call our families insular when our families have never been insular.

This evening, in the lobby, I felt Aneti’s hand slip into mine before I noticed lim.

“Where should we go?” I still looked like I had been trapped in a rain shower, and the cloud-filled sky outside threatened more. “We could dance in your home.”

“No, let’s go to your apartment.”

We remained quiet on our way to the Skyrail and dashed with everyone else when the heavens opened up again. The line for the trains extended beyond the escalator and into the streets. We took the stairs.

This evening, le stayed for dinner. Kati smiled at me and called the two of us cute! If only le knew!

The three of us made gespedgya. I taught Aneti how to grind the bird meat and check for spine-cones. We mixed it with the Canyon spices and ground nuts that Kati found. They’re not exactly what we’d use if it were authentic, but they taste fine as a stand-in. Aneti put too much in the dough wraps, so some of the dumplings fell apart in the water, but le knew the noodle recipe that went with them. The three of us made offerings while the food cooked. Aneti stayed several steps back, but the Eneiji must make offerings after everyone else unless one is worshipping Enapuata.

Kati started talking about gigs, and I said a few things about work. We argued about Baruwh. Kati doesn’t think that Atara did anything wrong, but I can see the signs. I have seen enough political movements go violent.

Aneti stood abruptly, the food on ler plate half-eaten. Le said that le had to go.

Kati frowned at me. I let Aneti out of the apartment and rushed back up the stairs to look out from one of the windows. Kati crept beside me and whispered, “What was that about? Does le have anxiety? How old is le, a decade above you?”

I shushed lim.

Aneti walked down the street without looking back. I motioned for Kati to kill the lights, which le did. Kati returned to the window and stood beside me. In the darkness, Aneti met a man halfway down the street who grabbed ler hand. They ran towards the Skyrail.

Kati asked me so many questions that I couldn’t keep up. I left the window abruptly and returned to the dinner table.

I decided to write all of this for you, Liga, because I have the audio clips. Your system^* is genius: I know about when everything happened, and I can move between times of day as easily as a swift boat moves through tidal marshes.

Aneti’s departure confused me. I like lim, but I cannot like lim.

Akah Gysabala wrote ler best plays after ler husband’s execution because ler grief made everything le penned beautiful and shining. Perhaps this will happen to me, too. Perhaps it doesn’t matter that I intend to betray a beloved.

^{* Thank you for your comments about the system, and I am happy that it is working so well. Regarding holding in your anger, agreed. Nothing good will come out of arguing with the Shiji about sovereignty, and we need you to be closer to lim. And now for a personal comment: I read the news story about Baruwh and Atara earlier this afternoon, and I agree. Rumor has it that Wellness Worlds will move into Okoro to stage relief centers within Aḥorahwa and Baptei. Atara gave modern weapons to one of the groups in the mountainous region of Baptei about fifteen years ago, primarily for hunting, but the group is now using them against people in the region. We should have focused on education before giving them technologies. It has never gone well the other way around at any point in human history.}

Oh, you’re making personal comments now? What were the other things? Impersonal comments? Also, fuck. Baruwh sounds like a bad situation.

Looking straight ahead, le sang:

Sixteen red dresses:
Four for the dark bride.
Sixteen red dresses:
Two for those who died.
Sixteen red dresses:
Nine for the mourners.
Sixteen red dresses:
One in the corner.

At Kelis’ funeral, a group of young children on hover boards shouted those verses as they passed our mourning procession. Suka helped me confront them about it because it was rude. I was crying so hard that the procession had to stop on its way to the crematorium, and I hid my face in my red veil. After we dispersed the children and went inside, we did the customary prayers and observations for Hatkranar. I offered red flowers. Suka held my dress away from the flames as I set those offerings on the altar.

Whether or not that dream was a message from Kelis, I called Suka at 18h.42. Morning had broken, but the new day had not. Suka is an hour ahead of me, but le hadn’t left for work yet. I could tell that le had spent most of ler night away from home, and le didn’t have to indulge me, but I told lim about the dream I had had.

“You’re having second thoughts about Akah Sehutañi,” le said. “But this isn’t like Kelis. Kelis was your fiancée. This woman is a shady character whom you fucked and who may be involved in an assassination attempt.”

“I know, but do you think that Kelis’ ghost is trying to say something? I think that there’s a shrine to Hatkranar outside of the city limits here. Not a big one. Perhaps I should go?”

“No.” Le reached for a small bowl of fruit and paused for a few moments while le chewed and swallowed. “Go for a walk and clear your head. The day is what, in the negative for you? Don’t brood all day. It’s so like you to treat everything like an omen.”

I took Suka’s advice and left early. Instead of going to work directly, I stopped in the Mau Taji Quarter. There is a vine garden there that miraculously survived the Occupation, and it was a great place to have breakfast, especially since I am avoiding Kati. I left a donation and picked some of the vine-fruit. While sitting, I thought about Code 1830-229-17, the assassins, and my vision of Kelis. I have finished the official mourning period, but as my matriarch told me, I should have considered extending it because I loved Kelis so much.

My cousin Matsab says that a woman will come from the Canyons towards the beginning of Poråkol, and le thinks that we would have something in common. At the breakfasts I have attended in Galasu, my relatives have done nothing but show me kindness and support. They have assumed that, since I am no longer in mourning red, I am fine.

Sehutañi told me that I may address lim by ler informal name, Aneti.^* We walked to one of the temples where le made religious offerings while I waited outside. From there, we went to a park to sit down, and we ate the fruit I picked this morning. Le traced shapes on my arms while I fought not to kiss lim. If I can control myself, perhaps I am not falling in love.

Will the flowers offered during ler funeral smell as bitter as the ones I offered for Kelis?

Le kissed my cheek. We progressed to mouth-to-mouth, to making out, and ler hand traveled down my torso to my hips. I love that. I forgot how to string words together because all I want to do is have sex with lim. It could just be lust. I am sitting in my room, and I cannot stop mentally undressing lim.

Aneti wants to bring me to all of the city’s attractions because I told lim that I haven’t seen most of them. The first on ler list was the Galasu Museum, so we went back to the Mau Taji Quarter.

Two dresses for the dead indeed.

Later. I didn’t think to mention any of this until now, but I suppose that Liga will want to know. Le could have been hacking me, but if it wasn’t lim, who was it? Kati and I just finished eating dinner, and when I walked back to my room, the wall screen was on, along with the webcam. I watched myself walk into the room and come to stand in front of it. I tried the controls, but they had frozen. I panicked after I tried turning it off because the power circuits are in the wall, and how could one turn something off from within the wall?

I succeeded after a few minutes, but I put in a work order for the apartment manager anyway. That was just too weird. You weren’t hacking me, were you, Liga? Right?

Something happened earlier today like this. I spent a few more hours in the archives today. Akah Maiohañi, a new hire in the political analytics department, was trying to get started using our Legislation Professional terminal up at the front of the archival center. I heard lim swearing. Hotåkhi, this fucking computer—language like that.

I used Legislative Professional in Menarka. It helps track the news in conjunction with legislation, and you can see intelligence on specific politicians. The Progressive Movement-affiliated ones have supplemental information in the database that we populate. I imagine that the Coalitionists have some similar data streams. The interface has updated since I last used it, which made the training I’d received from the Menarka office’s librarian almost useless. Maiohañi and I couldn’t even find the data export tool. We had to use the help files.

When le finished and left, I had an idea. I looked in some of the news articles for politicians who have been assassinated in the past five years. There are so many! I wrote a few of the names down on a piece of paper.

Daybreak assassinated five out of the seven Progressive Movement politicians in the list. I went poking around, bumbling through that clean and nearly unusable user interface, and it took me about half an hour to find their political legislation sponsorship records and the things they had been doing before they all died. A few of them had tried cosponsoring legislation against technology surveillance. The last two had been pushing for bills suggested by the Deimo, and those bills had died in committee after they both died.

The computer froze when I tried clicking on the semantic links to active politicians with similar profiles. I pressed everything I could on the touchscreen and even tried using the backup controls on the keyboard. Nothing worked. The screen went black, and then I saw my face in it, confused, a bit flustered, definitely angry.

That computer had a wall plug, and I cut the power. It was fine when I turned it back on.

I don’t think that I should have been looking up assassinations. This goes back to that thing you drew, doesn’t it, Liga? And people have died, and there are so many in that semantic map who could die if there are any correlations. How many of these assassinations did people try to stop? Any of them? Did the police have intelligence?

The building manager just called me. There was apparently a data surge that caused the same error on a few floors. It’s just a weird coincidence that the thing at work happened on the same day. Knowing that doesn’t change how I feel about looking up this information. There must be a way to do all of this anonymously, but I’m too tired to look it up. I just want to sleep.

^{* Please don’t do this in your journals. This is a suggestion, not an order, but it will be easier to keep your distance from lim if you don’t. I will do what I please. You haven’t been very forthcoming.}

Once I detrained, I stopped for a cup of hot nonu at a vendor stall and dashed down Kisera Street.

I watched the rain pounding against the glass walls in the lobby and dropped a lehi into Nukena’s fountain. My skin felt cold and clammy, and my teeth chattered. I ran into the bathroom, removed my hepteri vest, and changed my gyena. The underdress billowed shapelessly when I went into my office, but the hepteri vest wasn’t even dry when I put it on to leave work. My feet felt clammy because the rain had soaked through my sandals. Everyone else wore waterproof ones. O Salus, what did you expect? Shija is not so different from the Canyons that you don’t need an extra underdress at the office! This is so unprofessional.

My first agenda item for the day — going into the archives — meant coping with the cold, but the thick archival coats and gloves are warm. I went in and grabbed a document reader. My tits felt like they had frozen solid.

The video disks from the 1830s are so large and bulky, especially with the gloves. Most of the documents in that section consist of old-fashioned paper, often in binders. I wonder why the Progressive Movement hasn’t used digital preservation on more of it, especially the papers. It would be easy to take a document scanner so people could leaf through records on smart sheets.

The first video I picked up was from an event in 1841. The camera panned around smiling faces and groups of people mingling while a dance started. Sixteen minutes into the film, Adviser Tenes asked Akah Khera to dance, and the former glanced repeatedly at the camera, frowning. Le looked like le hadn’t slept, and white streaked ler hair. I hadn’t seen white when we met earlier this week.

Some people say that the nuamua remain young because they steal youth from others. When Sehịnta united the Ịgzarhjenya, le executed them. This is the reason quoted by some commentators. Others cited a falling-out with Namgyatzi, and still more say that the nuamua bring plagues, which is why their eyes are always the color of mourning. The nuamua and Karatha are both subtypes of tesekhaira. Do the tesekhaira steal life, and do these rumors apply? Certainly not the one about the eyes — but do they? To Adviser Tenes? The Karatha? What makes someone a tesekhaira, not a normal human being?

I have paused to write about this because, while I recount what happened earlier today, someone with eyes like a nuamė is making ler way to this apartment. Le has the voice recorder, and le will help me install it in my hair. I cannot believe that one of them will be within a meter of me. I will hollow out my hair and follow ler instructions because I cannot, cannot, cannot, CANNOT receive another purification for something like this.

My grandmother received nuamua in the house while I was small, but in accordance with the custom, le never allowed those of us under the age of majority to see them. I might have, however, while Kelis was alive and we were planning our marriage. I was going home on the light rail, and four people came into the car and sat down nearby. None of them spoke. On my way out, I passed by, but I couldn’t see any of their eyes because the sun had set. The one time I thought a nuamė had gone into my grandmother’s office, it was actually a thirty-something woman with very light brown eyes.

Thinking about them doesn’t help me recount my day for you, Liga. While watching the video, a hand landed on my shoulder. I yelped and nearly dropped the document reader, but caught myself just in time. Akah Sehutañi let go of me. Le held a gyena in ler right hand.

“Listen,” le said, “I don’t like apologizing to people for hookups, but I’m sorry about what happened. We were drunk. I didn’t realize who you were, and I wouldn’t have slept with a coworker had I been in my right mind.”

Le would have chosen someone else. That makes a lot of sense, but it also means that Sehutañi has taken many other people home for the night — and until we made that mistake earlier this week, le never had to see them again. My cheeks feel so hot. This is so embarr—was so embarrassing then. I told lim not to apologize. “I don’t regret what happened,” I said. I couldn’t take my eyes off of ler lips.

To think that this is the woman I need to betray.

Le smiled and let out a breath. I set the document reader on the shelf and closed the distance between us. I took the gyena, and ler body stiffened.

I leaned forward and pressed my lips against lers. Le smelled like spices and incense. Ler body melted against mine like wax yielding to heat. The gyena fell to the floor.

Who needs to be a nuamė to steal life? Sehutañi gave me lers with each kiss that passed between us. I swallowed each sigh, each gasp, until le was mine utterly. I nagmiña gdatazosa, as the song says.

I feel unclean inside. O Salus, is it really worth this?

Back at my journal. The nuamė has come and gone. Yes, Liga: I have called lim a nuamė because I don’t want that ambiguity you gave me.^* Le has red eyes, and le spaces out when speaking. This must mean that you thought I wouldn’t consent to having lim here if I knew the truth. Don’t do that again.

Let me explain a bit more, just in case I wasn’t entirely clear. Kati answered, not me, and le looked between the nuamė and me as if I had poisoned lim. I tried to mediate by saying that I was doing a favor for Suka, and Kati drew back from the door as if something had burned lim. Le went into the kitchen and murmured something about heating nonu. The nuamė and I went into my room and shut the door.

The nuamė volunteered a name, Okiyot. I hadn’t even thought to ask, and I know that none of them has a personality because they all exist in that collective, so that name is more of an identifier than anything else for the physical shell.

Okiyot’s name is Classical Atarahi. Le behaved almost as if le had a personality, and ler breasts are truly amazing works of creation. Why did you send someone so attractive, Liga? I was so nervous around lim, and it wasn’t only that I have never interacted with a nuamė before. My heart kept hammering, and I felt dizzy. Everything I said and did seemed too flirtatious to me, but then again, any warmth is too flirtatious for one of them.

I wanted to ask lim about the legends, but le said, “You’re treating me like shit, just as Liga said you would,” and I instantly sobered. I have never felt guilty about any of my opinions regarding the nuamua before. My parents share my thoughts.

Le told me to stop staring like I had just been slapped in the face, and then le laughed. Is this what you associate with, Liga?

We went over the particulars of the audio device, and le helped me install it. I stammered a few words, but I couldn’t get anything meaningful out. Le asked me what was wrong, and I finally blurted out the bit about nuamua stealing life through breath. Le looked like le might slap me, but answered the question, and it made me feel even worse. How will I ever be a good politician if I cannot even cope with tesekhaira?

Now, though, le has installed the audio piece, so I am live and ready to go.

Kati (ugh) just came into my room. Le says that le might mention that a nuamė came by to ler and our family. I feel like I could die. Liga, why did you do this to me?

^{* Salus Niksubvya, please be reasonable here. I didn’t lie to you. Nothing you have said here truly reflects how either the nuamua or the Karatha or any other collective works. Okiyot visited you because le understands the hardware (and, in fact, made it), and I trust ler work. Please don’t criticize my associates when you know nothing about them. Your grandmother would want better from you, and le won’t care if you had someone who presented as a nuamė come to your apartment. I won’t say anything else on this matter because you have upset me. Fuvä, fuvä, fuvä, Liga. I really don’t get you.}

I mukro bezurælotek kul magdu mosmur xai Tehjenan manlịdgu.
I neä rualịgzærmobæ glabdeml i blesgị mosmur xai lagịgzæla.
Ku klazæxub mosmur gleglælaben ku Narahjịgz lịbịmị̈nobæ.
Kusanglabdemlben omdag ku glịklazæ mosmur; radag kusanglabdemlben ku kovta.
Ku koværna belæla kul ösyosnosyosjab xai kul bizar ragazị glabdæl bakus
Xai i ëiza glabdeml i ịtö, ku sjenä i hjenganas nokla i ëiza.
I dom mosmur glabdeml lexai fubä, gåmịtit kolborị:
Ku tsærgbị mosbyur, Katatyan, Kerosyan, ñæ Deimolan natzssaịtrun!
Tselvit bladeissaịtrun, xai ku narlị glabdeml kolborị! Boglabdesunuakba.

These are my favorite words from a drama written by Akah Gysabala tal Katsun in the second century. We studied ler work for two months, and everyone in my school cohort loved lim.

I suppose that you’re reading this, Liga, so I should explain — I know that you could look it up — but le came to Menarka from a village in the Middle Depths while the Deimo’s seat was in the ancestral place and our ruler was properly called the Fadehin by the Ịgzarhjenya. Gysabala wrote two books of poetry and ninety-seven Narahji dramas. Ler family published ler memoirs posthumously.

They provide the most readable firsthand account of court life in second-century Tveshė before the Shiji stole the seat of Sehịnta from us. It may seem strange, but Towers of Smoke: The Memoirs of Gysabala tal Katsun provided me with most of the grounding to go into politics. Coming from a pivotal family with war heroes, it wasn’t always clear to me how, three generations later, I could make a difference that would live up to my grandmother’s accomplishments.

I want to be in politics because I want to change things from the inside. Those of us who come out of the Canyon Dark have histories and literature, science and technology. No one can take our accomplishments away from us or diminish how culturally important our people is to Tveshė. We are not Khessa. We do not leave the nation out of resentment when others take things that are not theirs.

Liga, the first time I read Towers of Smoke, I stayed up until dawn. Ler words burned into my skull. I have kept this book close to me ever since, and I pulled it out this morning to read during transit.

In 167 Standard Count, Akah Gysabala married Katvoa tal Kisrem, an ambitious young judge. Katvoa joined the family. They had met through Katvoa’s sister, one of Deimo Meksar’s attendants. On the second Ćelakhin of Thaukol 168, Akah Gysabala left the family home on Medesa Avenue. (This is now an open-air market; I don’t think any of that street survived the orbital bombardment.) Le brought a bag of correspondence and torn-out pages from a journal, all belonging to ler husband. Le walked down Hamakra Way and took the bridge to the palace. Before half an hour passed, the authorities arrested Akah Gysabala’s husband and ler co-conspirators. The man was executed seven weeks later for plotting to murder court rivals.

We do not live in the second century, and certainly, navigating Shiji culture will be difficult. You’re right: It is likely that I will have illegal evidence to support me, nothing beyond it. It is likely that I can steal documents. It is not likely that someone in a conspiracy would slip and say something wrong in front of me. I cannot make claims against members of the Daybreak Movement. At the same time, there was a world before Code 1830-229-17. We should live in a world without it.

In addition, I don’t know how any of this has evaded the police’s attention.

Joining Citizen Watch is not possible because I am a political movement staffer. I checked.

I know that you say you weren’t reading everything above as I wrote it, but you called me! I can jokingly accuse you of that still, can’t I? — Anyway, I will write some of the particulars of our conversation here so I can remember what we said. And I can move back to more organic entries. I suppose that I don’t need to call you out.

Liga made me close my window because the blætsa-like birds sang so loudly outside. We spoke softly.

Clearly, le wanted me to help, and I wanted to do what I could. If we were in the same city, this would necessitate a friendship ritual. I wouldn’t take chances. However, Suka swears by lim, and I love Suka.

“We need to set some rules,” le said. “What we are doing is technically illegal.”

“Right. But if I have writings —”

“It will be illegal until you transfer them to the authorities. Spies need to be discerning, like maksei digging into canyon walls. One wrong move and you will start a landslide and ruin your career.” Le looked directly at the camera. “We need to discern whom they have marked for bullets. The police will give you legal immunity if there is definitive evidence.”

“What do you need me to do?”

Liga spoke methodically for some minutes. I will hollow out one of my dreadlocks for an audio implant, which I can hide behind a cuff. Le will send it over via an ally in person, and I have been warned that le will have red eyes, like a nuamė. I said, “Is there anyone who has red eyes who is not in the nuamua? That is what they are known for!”

I will address you again, my apologies: You bit your lower lip and glared at me. The nervous chuckle that you used to cover that up hardly made me forget it! But as for the business at hand, I can field questions from Kati. For the bug, I will need to change how I wear my hair. Since the incident with Sehutañi, I have used pins. It is fine if some of my locks slip out from beneath my gyena, but harder to justify if the pins hold all of the other locks back.

I don’t want to ask Liga how le knows any of the nuamua. If the nuamua are involved, do I want to be involved? Notice how the line reads, “Ku tsærgbị mosbyur, Katatyan, Kerosyan, ñæ Deimolan natzssaịtrun!” Akah Gysabala wrote nothing about the nuamua. One does not make alliances with them, as my mother said. O Salus, what have you agreed to? Are you allying yourself with the nuamua? Namgyatzi? Are you Tehjen, bound to become the cliff-rocks and roots that support the world?

I need to ask Suka. How could I have given someone access to my private thoughts here whom I don’t know enough to answer those questions? Can I trust you, Liga, to honor my friendship with Suka and to be on my side?

I have at least the beginning of this foul business to mention. Akah Sehutañi always eats ler lunch in the rooftop gardens. I went up after securing my food: bread with a nut spread, two pieces of fruit, and marinated raw meats from one of the street vendors.

Le sat at another table, and when I sat down, le glanced up at me. Goosebumps flashed up and down my arms. My face felt hot. I nearly dropped one of the fruits.

Le lowered ler eyes, and I saw the color in ler cheeks.

Birds fluttered in my stomach as I rose to my feet. Le must have seen the gyena. Le must have known that le had slept with me. Le did know.

I sat down across from lim and said, “Look at us, sitting alone.”

Le smiled, and my heart beat faster. I fantasized about pulling myself over the table and kissing lim, and my cheeks felt even hotter. Le licked a spoon.

This will be so easy and so, so difficult.

Le may have avoided us, of course. Suka says that Liga fell out with their family, and le isn’t married out. Le lives — likely in disgrace — with non-family in a crumbling apartment complex near the edge of the intact pre-Taritit apartment buildings in Menarka proper. Le hasn’t spoken with ler relatives since turning nineteen, but Suka won’t answer any of my questions about it. Le gets that look in ler face that means it must be private family matters.

It frustrates me that Suka is withholding information! O Salus, how can you have a friend who won’t trust you? Perhaps le would have told me if this were truly said in private and not via vid. I truly deserve better from someone who is recognized by the Gods as a friend. I told lim something that I shouldn’t have.

Maybe Liga hacked into their family’s kitchen and ruined an important meal during the prep.

I should not say such cruel things about Suka. Le did tell me other things: Liga swims in the Canyons during monsoon season, which most Narahji recognize as dangerous and inadvisable. Le climbs, something that I did in school, but apparently much better than I could ever manage. I never made a national team, and Liga did. I suppose that I could look lim up if I wanted to.^*

I cried four times during the two-hour private chat before Suka managed to grab Liga.

During our three-way video chat, I cleaned my room and inventoried my remaining gyenya. Menarki slang flew from our lips like spit. Thankfully, Kati learned Atarahi more in-depth than Narahji and probably had no idea what we said. Le started playing music in the kitchen area.

When I replay the video, I see Liga raise both eyebrows when I ask, “Could you retrieve the video feed from the Skyrail at the Blossom Street stop at 14h.76 yesterday?”

My face is pleading. There is a pause. The healing scabs on my forehead make me look pathetic, but Liga never comments on them. Ler gray eyes impassively probe the monitors beside lim. Suka may have warned lim about my desire to see the feeds. Hacking them took lim less time than it takes me to fold a load of clean laundry.

Le relayed the file to my tablet. It had no sound, so Suka talked about ler family’s preparations for the Water Festival and ler coming proposals to Amklia. Le wants to marry lim when the second flower bloom comes, but I wish le wouldn’t so I don’t have to take time off during the peak political season. Liga told lim that le will have a conflict, and Suka didn’t protest.

Liga said, “Wait, Salus, are you crying?” Le used my informal name without even thinking. I didn’t correct lim.

I zoomed in on the video. As I thought of what to say, I saw the five people walk into the Skyrail car. They all sat calmly in their seats, leaning in only when they wanted to speak without yelling. They looked like an ordinary group. Liga clicked ler tongue against the roof of ler mouth.

“This is precious,” le said. “I think that you have two of the sorriest assholes in Tveshi politics here. Do you know about the Daybreak Movement?”

“This is Daybreak?” I stared at the woman. “Yes, from history classes. Not much. It’s Shiji?”

I knew a bit more than that — they were involved in something in the 1840s, right near the end of the Early Reconstruction Period history that I had at eleven or twelve. We didn’t spend much time on them. I did my project on the early Progressive Movement leaders in Narahja and how they distanced themselves from the Narahji Separatism Movement plots following the International Congress’s move to Itaka. It wasn’t the first thing out of my mouth, which I regret — I didn’t say anything articulate at all.

This is why: Few people have the specific carriage that Sehutañi possesses. I would recognize lim anywhere, even if all Shiji look similar. Few people make my cheeks hot when I see them, and after the sex, I confess that my feelings have only become more confused. I said, “I know the woman with the hennaed arms.” My voice cracked.

Liga said, “Who is le?”

I told lim.

Liga just interrupted me via vid. Le pushed a software patch through to my paper. Le can see everything that I have written easily and wants to test it out by having me write out the things that we agreed to on vid. This means interrupting that narrative, and truth be told, I need to stop writing for the day because I have work tomorrow.

Liga has it on authority — whose?^** — that no intelligence is following Sehutañi. The chatter about the two people le recognized? Minimal.

Le believes that reporting this to the police would be inefficient and that they would just ask me for proof. On vid, Liga told me that Code 1830-229-17 impacts more than ethnic violence. While I watched my smart paper, le drew a river on its pages and said a few lines of a poem I don’t know. Le annotated it in messy, expressive Narahji handwriting to describe how police receive intelligence from their sources, including the surveillance cameras, digital skimmers, and a sketch of something I have never seen before.

It was an eight-spoked wheel with a dark, yonic scribble at its center. Around the wheel, le set down another circle: Five spaced around the right, five spaced around the left, such — how do I explain this? That is the wrong way! … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

The image disappeared from the page even as I tried committing it to memory. “That is a heresy,” Liga said with a laugh.

I tried scribbling it down out of ler view on another smart sheet, but le deleted it, too. Le continued: The police arrest those guilty of wrongdoing using what they learn from the small tributaries feeding into their rivers.

Code 1830-229-17 officially means that only things caught through one of those sources matter. Since cameras observed it, I could prosecute the person who committed violence against me. (But I won’t, as it would risk revealing that I was on that train.) Code 1830-229-17 means that what I heard in the Skyrail car is ephemeral and unproven, like claiming that a neighbor committed treason during the Taritit. That was its original purpose, to protect people. Collaborators’ children were assassinated in the streets for their parents’ supposed crimes, and at least a third of the people hunted down by their neighbors for treason were innocent.

The original purpose of the law makes sense. Under Code 1830-229-17, I could be prosecuted for approaching police without tangible evidence.

This is not the early days of the Occupation. I told Liga, and le drew that shape in the notebook again. It bubbled from the pages like water from a once-dormant spring and disappeared just as quickly. I met ler eyes by looking at the camera, not at lim on the monitor. … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

It must not matter immediately. I need to trust Liga, if only because le is Suka’s cousin, and Suka would never lead me to ruin.

Until I have proof of wrongdoing, I will need to sift through everything to find as many facts as I can about the person who will receive two bullets. It could be anyone — male, female, jomela, ozkyev — because I had a horrible day, and the speaker only used pronouns instead of clear words. Liga keeps pressing me about this, and my brain feels like it will shatter in half. I have no information.

I have never thought about what happens when the police know nothing. Something — somewhere — has gone wrong, and I hope that I can do my part before the worst happens. For the police, the limits of legality mean that they will take audio or visual evidence. If I steal anything — papers, for instance — or obtain information through hacking, I could be prosecuted by their families.

Depending on what we find, if the stakes are high enough, I might need to break the law. If that happens, Liga and I will use illegal means to counteract the threat. I don’t know if I can commit to that.

Liga and I will talk soon.

^{* Please don’t look me up, Salus. You can tell by this message that I have access to everything. Thank you.}

^{** I am involved in a network of people who receives intelligence from the public video feeds and police channels. None of it is legal, admittedly, but I have some diplomatic protections.}

We had noodles with nut sauce and bought fruit-filled pastries like they eat in Itaka to celebrate the new apartment and our family relationship, right in front of the shrine, and we offered the naksbetru incense that the Narahji Community Center has given to me for the month. It smelled so much like home that I nearly started crying. Kati offered puatuamė wine to our respective families’ gods in a Shiji dialect set to the chiming of bells.

I am trying not to think about what happened today. I cannot stop thinking about what happened today. Kati asked me what had happened to my face. I started crying while we prepared our celebratory food, but I told lim that I couldn’t talk about this yet. I feel numb inside. I lied to Kati. I have a story about what happened, which does not match the raw memory of everything in my head. Kati knows that I have lied.

Maybe if I write it out, the memories will go away — but should I write it out? This is a scribe sheet. What if someone knows?

Truth be told, I hope that someone is reading this because the police need to know. I don’t have the strength to tell them anything because I have no evidence, and Code 1830-229-17 is now used against Narahji and Nasji individuals reporting ethnic violence. Originally, the law meant that no one could bring something to the police without concrete evidence to support lim. Originally, the law protected people from turning on their neighbors after we threw out the Taritit and realized that our neighbors had collaborated with them.

Could the police, if this entry became part of their data feed, read Narahji? I don’t know. I’ve reverted back today because I am too shaken, and the Tveshi won’t come out properly. Tveshi can happen tomorrow when my brain stops shaking in my skull. O Salus, what does it mean that you, at nineteen, cannot control your anxieties?

Kati and I left at the same time this morning. I remembered to take the box addressed to Adviser Tenes. This morning, I had meetings, and I sorted through part of the video collage. Akah Kara and I spoke about the programming for an upcoming video conference with regional party constituents for a long time, and I took diligent notes. Before I left, I asked lim about the box.

My boss unhooked ler reading glasses from ler shirt and raised them to ler face. “Saradva Residential Zone is just five stops before the River Market District. Akah Tenes lives there. You can bring this to lim on your way home. I will write down the address for you.” Le said this so nonchalantly that I was embarrassed that it had taken me so long to bring up. Talking to an adviser is intimidating. It’s a political blessing that most of us will never even hope to achieve. Akah Kara then added, “Akah Tenes is the reason we have the Progressive Movement. Express your gratitude.”

I returned to Akah Kara’s house and worked there for most of the afternoon, only leaving when the sound systems cried out the afternoon prayers. There are a few sects in the city from Shija and Iturja that need these counts for ritual observances, but I’m not very familiar with them and feel a bit guilty that I don’t have the mental energy to look up these practices in the digital library. I passed by a few young girls making offerings of incense at a street shrine, giggling as they tried an old, worn electric lighter.

The Shiji have shrines for these observances in most of the Skyrail terminals, and I wove around a mass of praying people. On the sparsely-peopled platform, a man blocked me from boarding, but I was paying so much attention to avoiding devotees of Shiji gods that I didn’t see lim. I broke my fall with my palms, and the skinned flesh stung. I wondered if I had broken whatever had been meant for Adviser Tenes in my bag, and I scrambled up.

The man must have seen the designs on my forehead or identified me by the gyena that had spilled to my shoulders. Le grabbed me by the scarf and pulled me close to lim. Fear burned through my skin and hit my belly like fire. I started shaking, and I couldn’t breathe.

Le clawed at my forehead with ler long-nailed hands. “Hekhiakouri gekhasėo,” le said. “Go back to that fucking Canyon dark where you belong, you traitorous insurgent rioter. Dark glasses, burned souls — no wonder the monarchy abandoned you!”

I opened and closed my mouth and tried to apologize. The words would not come.

“Fucking Narahji nationalist. Probably can’t even understand Tveshi.”

Le tore the gyena from my shoulders. Then, as the doors of the train behind us started to close, le shoved me inside. I stumbled against the gap and hit my head against the floor. The doors closed between us.

I lay stunned, and I stared up at the ceiling. I was so queasy that I could have thrown up. The train, at least, was empty — it was too early for rush hour, and with the prayers, the trains for the next fifteen to twenty minutes would be mostly empty. I couldn’t think. I curled up behind the corner door’s partition from the rest of the car and clutched my bag to my chest, tears stinging in the corners of my eyes. My forehead felt hot and wet.

No one has ever attacked me like that before. Even when I visited Karoumo after the riots five years ago, I was still a girl. My father and our matriarch told me what they would call me here. Father must contend with a constant barrage of criticism for being Īpahi, albeit raised in Menarka, and le knows.

Nothing makes the Shiji any better than the rest of us. Nothing about them says that they deserve the seat of the monarchy. If anything, they did steal power from my people, and they took it with impunity. They set the policy of hate. Khessa would still belong to Tveshė if the monarchy had not moved. We would never have had the civil war, and no one would call people in Narahja traitors for believing that the crown moved unjustly. Perhaps even the Occupation would never have happened! Perhaps the tesekhaira organizations would not have so much power over us. No organization, no matter what its intentions are, should have as much sway as the Karatha currently enjoy.

Maybe I should stop dwelling on my hatred and write my memories of what happened on the train before they fade.

The train stopped. A group of people came in and sat in the main area. They did not see me, and they spoke softly. I could hardly hear anything above the hum of the engines, and their conversation came to me in snippets and in bursts.

Two shots to the chest, nothing more. Guards will have caught lim before we finish otherwise.

The chatter in my assignment isn’t new. Someone is retiring. All of the big names are getting old.

You won’t get the security clearance required to do poison. They know about your sister.

Gather any intelligence on ler replacement that you can, enough that we can perhaps use blackmail to get what we want.

Recruit from the demi-traitors. They experience discrimination and might want to hurt people. They won’t care who we are.

Security is always more lax during religious festivals.

I know a girl who might do.

No, no, no — there will be three bullets. Two for lim, one for me. Never doubt my loyalty.

I gritted my teeth shut. They were right behind me, they were talking about murder, and I was afraid that if they noticed me, they would kill me. The next stop was mine. As the train slowed, I crawled on my hands and knees out of the door and onto the platform. I hid my face as the train pulled away.

No one shouted from inside, and no one ran to catch the eavesdropper. I could see the backs of their heads as the train pulled away.

That was stupid and clumsy of them. The police will certainly find out. They must.

Hekhiakouri gekhasėo. Demi-traitor. Both of these were terms for the unwanted and the unseen. The first was a slur, the second a legal marker. The woman in the group had been Shiji, and something about ler voice sounded familiar.

Saradva Residential Zone smelled like flower blossoms and my grandmother’s bath oils. Tourists who want photographs of typical residential districts in the Galasuhi style go there because it is so beautiful. Spring trees rain blossoms onto the sidewalks, but my mother once showed me a photograph of the district during the Festival of Eternal Light in the winter. They roped chains of flower-shaped lights around all of the trees. They look ethereal and spectacular under the ice, nothing like how we ornament the city for the festival in Narahja. I wish I had been in a mental state to enjoy it.

Today, the ivies were blooming, and the petals stuck to my skin and uncovered hair.

No one in the residential zone glanced at me. Without the gyena, I do not look Ịgzarhjenya.

I stopped in front of a storefront and straightened my hepteri vest in the mirror. My hair looked fine. I wondered if the man had touched it. It would be embarrassing to explain to the priests why I needed another purification ritual so soon after the first one.

Adviser Tenes Sari lives in a house from a storybook. A blood vine pergola hides the sunlight in front of the building, and today, it was pregnant with tiny, tart berries. Small animals moved through the pergola and sucked them up in their mouths, and two birds nestled in the vines. Their white bodies were splattered with red. An ice snake darted out in front of me in pursuit of something I could not see, and I stepped out of its way.

I knocked with the base of my palm and waited. The man who opened the door was a bit older than me, and le looked vaguely like the photographs I had seen of Adviser Tenes in the archives — perhaps a relative. Adviser Tenes looked part Atarahi, or part Īpahi, or God knows what else, but this person in front of me did not only look Īpahi. There was something unsettling about lim in the eyes. It was like waking up in the middle of the night and trying to remember details from a dream already fading from memory. Perhaps Adviser Tenes had had a child with someone from Madhz.

Le didn’t bind ler hair, so it fell loosely to ler shoulders. Le ran ler hand through it and cleared ler throat. I realized that I had been standing there without moving, so I quickly greeted lim in the traditional way and apologized.

Le stared at me with the same nostalgic confusion as Akah Kara. “You have blood on your face, Akah. I hope that the thorns didn’t cut you. What do you want? Are you from one of the embassies? Ah, um, īk, ah, wu — rag, ah, rag ćalzotson qō — qōwabōkćoto. Ai? Īk rag ćalzotson qōwabōkćoto ai?”

I reached into my bag and pulled out the box. Looking down helped me compose myself after hearing lim speak Classical Atarahi. Whenever this happens, I try not to say anything because I don’t want people to think I am foreign. And I do know Classical Atarahi, at least a bit of it, because most of the politicians in my family work in interplanetary diplomacy — I think sometimes because we are part-Atarahi, just like how Akah Kara wants to groom me for immigration advocacy. The use of Atarahi flusters me every time, especially in polite settings. There’s a balance between feigning ignorance and being rude that I sometimes miss.

I answered in Tveshi and stumbled over my words. It was what happened on the Skyrail, what had just happened now. I made myself look like an idiot. “Sent Akah Kara. Assistant new — I’m ler new assistant, and I found something addressed to Adviser Tenes. Do you know where I should leave it?”

The man raised an eyebrow and took the box from me. I wanted to say something — what if the adviser had not wanted anyone to look into ler affairs? — but I was still trying to keep calm after my two experiences in the Skyrail. Three bullets, I kept thinking. Who was lim? Besides, I felt naked in front of this man, and the steady drift of ler gaze towards my chest unsettled me.

The man invited me in, and I stood just inside the door. Le asked, “Does Akah Kara’s assistant have a name?” while le carelessly ripped open the wrappings. “The last time Thani gave me a present, it exploded in my face.”

I told lim that my formal name is Nitañi, and le frowned. I told lim that my family has Tveshi-style names. Outside of the Menashi, almost no one does it.

I asked if le was related to Adviser Sari.

This man was Adviser Tenes Sari, and I should refer to lim as Tenes, not as Sari, if I want to drop half of the name. I had thought that le would be older, but then again, I have never seen recent photos of lim, and the news I consume about the monarchy is in text. It was still embarrassing.

The box contained a dagger. Adviser Tenes set it on the table beside the door, mumbled something about tesekhaira, and asked me to take a seat while le searched for a damp towel for my forehead. I stood and stared at Thani’s gift. A soft hum emanated from it, and the golden hilt design coursed like liquid. I felt even more strongly that I had walked into a fairy story. Adviser Tenes Sari, a young man who did not or could not age, lived in an idyllic neighborhood in a beautiful home, and le now had a weapon that should not exist.

Le asked me what happened, and I told lim about the hotåkha on the platform. I said nothing about the conspiracy I overheard. Adviser Tenes cleaned my forehead and applied a stinging liquid to it. Le gave me fabric to wear over my hair for the journey home. Le didn’t need to do any of these things. Le is an adviser and probably has a lot on ler mind.

To know that something terrible will happen to some lim and to keep silent about it makes my head feel like it will break apart. The police should know, but I have neither names nor faces.

I need to call Suka. Le might know what to do.

It does not help that looking at archives is solitary work, so while my hands and eyes are busy — and while it does involve some mental effort — the remainder of the time, my thoughts circle around no center. … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

I want to run for a political position by the time I reach 30, like my cousin Matsab. I know that this will not happen immediately, but I want things to be easier and faster, and everything in this society takes decades or centuries to happen.

Akah Kara’s body language is distant, and while we don’t know each other, I wish le were Narahji because I would know how to put lim at ease. There must be Shiji proxemics and body language that can make this less uncomfortable. O Salus, don’t wonder if you should go home! … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

If I want to look out for Narahji interests and those of my family on the national level, staying in Menarka might have been a better choice. I cannot stand not knowing. I am less than a week into this position, and my head is ballooning.

As I left the family satellite home this morning, I received a message from Kara — “Get off of the Skyrail at Blossom Street on the district line. Turn right when you exit the terminal and go six blocks to 322 Keptomi Street. Knock and wait at the entrance for me to get you.”

322 Keptomi Street is an impressively-sized, 150-person matriarchal home next to an apartment building. Strong incense smoke wafts from the shrine across the street, and this must continuously bless its stones — at least, I felt that way when I put my hand against the pre-Occupation wood door to knock with the hard part of my palm. I envisioned the stone walls consuming the incense smoke particle by particle. My hands still smell like it.

Akah Kara married into the Paptetha, but they do open rooms to extrafamilial residents. I learned that ler older sister’s granddaughter had moved into the home to have better transit access to the biotechnology-focused school. A first cousin once removed has moved there from Karoumo to work for the Shiji Province Senate. Le still has one son who has not married, an acoustic coordinator at the clubs on Topiso Square.

Admittedly — and yes, even with what I said above — hmm, that was a bit much, deleting — we addressed each other in the informal, mesah instead of mesahelepui and ni negation instead of ni/hėa construction. I still used ịña at the end of the sentence, as I had been taught, though — and of course we — I am overthinking. Narahji has precious little to offer for formality. Aside from sentence order and verb construction, it’s the oddest thing about Tveshi. I think I would practice more outside of work if I knew more Shiji.

Akah Kara complimented the geometric designs on my forehead. Ler wife gave me a cup of iced nonu with sliced fruit on behalf of ler matriarch, who is out.

My boss has summoned me to go through files in ler attic. Before 1841, the Progressive Movement operated out of major party members’ homes. After 1841, they moved into the headquarters that we use now. The Progressive Movement refuses to have the remainder of ler records moved into the official archives until we have our new librarian-archivist, but I need to survey the situation so that when the new hire comes, le knows what le will have to do here. This collection will be a top priority because the Paptetha matriarch has decided to charge the Progressive Movement for each month that the documents remain here. They take up almost an entire room.

Perhaps my disdain for lackluster parts of history is obvious. I enjoy current events and politics. It must have shown in my personality assessment on file, and the best case scenario is that Akah Kara is correcting that aversion. I must admit that organizing and documenting what Akah Kara has here would be worse if le had not provided a dust mask.

I walked to Topiso Square for lunch and ate fried noodles and vegetables from a paper cup. The Tveshi Cultural Coalition approached me with pamphlets. I took one to pass on to my boss.

Le has many, many paper letters. Back in the early days of the Reconstruction, the band messaging system didn’t work properly, so people relied on paper — although I suppose it could have been to avoid the notice of hackers from the nuamua, Karatha, and that other organization I forget. Almost everyone talks via band or scribe now. Maybe I should be writing on traditional paper instead of scribe sheets. Anyone with the skill to hack electronic courier software could read this, and nothing is ever deleted completely with digital forensics. Is Suka wrong about journaling? What does le use? Something other than ECS scribe sheets?

I like being able to embed media and cross-reference things.

Akah Kara has audio and video recordings stacked high in boxes. Le has even more boxes of pamphlets, most of them duplicates. I put red stickers on them because we only need a few copies of each. The data drives and old computers are things that the archivist will need to assess because we may need to call in an emulation specialist, and I don’t understand most of the disciplinary vocabulary for that.

Almost everything seems in order. I need to go back tomorrow afternoon after some meetings so I can finish. And — I found something.

It was a box addressed to Adviser Tenes Sari.

It is wrapped in circle-patterned indigo paper and weighs about 6 kepiu. Something jingles inside when I shake it lightly. The card insert reads:

For the earth-bound traveler Adviser Tenes Sari from your glorious, most fervent admirer. This is in honor of the time we spent together in that Mau Taji Quarter kuaićo. May you find ultimate peace, akaćeheñi, and that daughter of yours.

Sincerely,

Thani

Message reproduced from an image. Now, what would Adviser Tenes Sari want with a woman in a kuaićo? Does le visit this woman? Why would Akah Kara have this box?

These are all questions for the office tomorrow.

This morning, I ran back to my apartment, showered, changed, and went out for a hangover IV. The cure nearly made me late for a meeting. I told Akah Kara that I needed to attend a religious ritual. It is so embarrassing to think that I didn’t observe the proper sexual etiquette for an unmarried woman that I couldn’t bear tell lim that I needed a purification.

Kartreytin’s priestesses bathed and re-sanctified my hair in the goddess’s small offshoot of the main Temple of Yilrega that the Ịgzarhjenya built in Galasu just after the Occupation. I paid my respects to the god in the public part of ler temple once the purification had finished. My mother and several aunts have all taken initiation into the mysteries, so they can see the icon in the inner sanctum. I joined the non-initiates along the outer wall. The small offering spaces have crisp, new images of the god in them, just like the ones in the rebuilt temple in Menarka.

Neither has as much character or history as the small temple down the street from my family in Kobsarka. The women in my family used to leave my sister and me in the outer chamber while they went to secret rituals in the inner one, and the two of us would usually end up climbing trees outside with a few boys.

I’ve never wanted to worship Yilrega intensely, but I go when the temple is convenient to me or with family. I worship Anumga and Sayimga, as befits an Ịgzarhjenya politician. Neither of them has temples in Galasu, so I have been visiting the ones to Likhera and to Gyisfen, which the new monarchy has placed beside the temple to Enahari near the palace.

Today, one of the priests painted geometric designs on my forehead. From inside the secret chambers, I heard chants in a language I don’t know. While on the Skyrail, I realized that the next time I visit the Dream Garden — if that coworker is there — le is so hot — I need to wear one of the gyena caps preemptively so the sex is not an issue.

Salus, what are you thinking? How could sex not be problematic with a Shiji woman?

Dad vidded me as soon as I arrived home, and I talked to lim for a good hour. I told lim that I went to a Dream Garden, and le asked me about my boss and my job. Le’s still in Īpa, not Kobsarka, so le doesn’t know what the family has decided to do during the rain dances this year. My sister has replaced me in most family functions, and I’m happy that le’ll have an opportunity to shine. Father talked for some time about the diplomatic envoy and ler role as the cultural translator, and le apologized for not visiting me in Galasu when le was here last week. I reminded lim that I didn’t arrive until the 49^th.

After that call, I vidded home and talked to my mother and grandmother, along with my aunt Kseita and ler husband Kesa. Grandmother wants me to register at the Narahji Community Center as soon as possible so they can send me notices, and I have no other way to legally obtain the naksbetru that I need for shrine offerings. It’s a controlled substance in Shija.

Mother pointed out the geometric pattern on my forehead, which is admittedly very visible due to my light skin, unlike practically everyone in the Canyons. The point of the designs is their subtlety. Le asked if I had plans to join the mystery cult, and I said no.

The embarrassing situation with a coworker is not a divine sign. A mystery cult? I could never do something like that right now because I have just moved, and they require too much time and dedication. Besides, Grandmother and I discussed it during our private meeting. Le has other plans for me. Since I am no longer mourning, le wants me to meet someone at the family’s satellite home soon, provided we can both schedule it.

Grandmother transferred me to the line in ler matriarchal office, a clever, wide room filled with furniture, books, and old-fashioned technology. Le mentioned networking with the Kohjenya, one of the groups from the Late Occupation. My grandmother knows an Iturji Kohjenakri, and my parents dislike them all. It seems antiquated to ally with them, but my grandmother says that they will be important when I run for public service. They favor our family. It is 1865, not 1825, so I don’t know what that means. Any help counts.

Finally, I watched a lecture on politics, but I couldn’t concentrate. I’m reproducing the scattershot lists that I made.

1:

• shaking windows
• emergency landings
• dances
• chants in my ears
• dying gods
• resurrected gods
• kisses
• love
• getting caught in Shiji summer storms
• loss of items
• (How does this relate to the impermanence of life as outlined by Akah Saleisi?)
• my boss’s sadness
• movement
• stillness
• old men
• work
• love
• video
• writing
• writing alone
• holographic journeys
• laughter
• homesickness
• nightmares

2:

• reconciliation with those I hate
• reunion with what I have lost
• tonight’s conversation with Suka
• professional competence
• immersion in love’s madness
• attainment of Akah Kara’s trust
• running through cold fountains
• success in love and war
• dinner
• income-based resource allocation form
• akaćeheñi
• realization of the meaning of life
• donation of hair to the Temple of Kartreytin
• respite from routine tears
• relaxation with friends in a bath house—must make local friends
• sojourn on Riverside Street

Suka told me via messaging that Dream Gardens have led to all kinds of horrible stories on the fora.

Akah Kara told me that authorities found a woman in one of the garden nooks by a fountain, ler head smashed in and blood and brains pooling into the water. Le hadn’t noticed ler skull being bashed in. Ler facial expression was lax and loose. The police arrested a former lover.

The neural net of the costume I wore — an ocean elemental — made everything swirl back and forth, back and forth, back and forth in my head. My thoughts repeated circularly, I could feel the tides, and my skin felt wet. My hands had become an amorphous blob of sea that sucked against the sandy shores of my nails, and my hair shot into the sky like a stream of water. Two of my coworkers had chosen android-type skins, and their holograms glowed with half-moon eyes and metallic shapes. My other coworkers had chosen things from mythology.

They had said not to choose something so weird my first time, but I hadn’t listened because I can be young and arrogant. I was too proud to settle for something tame and familiar.

We had food and ćukuseh fume bowls. Right before the beginning of the show, I placed a nut-and-meat mixture onto my plate to eat quickly because the neural array had started working on me, and I couldn’t think of anything else but food. I made the same repetitive, oceanic actions over and over again. Our server, who had no holographic skin or neural array, prepared our wine by warming and aerating it in a series of pipes. Le mixed it in a krater with the spoonfuls of dark purple spices that made the wine delicious. As le mellowed it, le intoned prayers to the Sabaji version of Yilrega whose name escapes me. Le only presides over wine to them, an import from the Ịgzarhjenya.

The Dream Garden was very impressive because it blended iconography of the god from a multitude of cultures and even from within sects of the Sabaji religion. My thoughts about how cool that was looped for about five minutes before the neural array let me think about something else.

My head my own again, I wonder what the workers in these new, High Wilds entertainment places think when they see us. The hypnotic menagerie of living dreams encountered while under substance makes it hard to remember that one is not the neural array. Our behavior must look odd to them. Do they think of us as willing experimenters succumbing to insanity for a few hours? Do they think that we come here to escape our humanity? A combination?

All I know is that the light dazzled me. Through a combination of the wine, ćukuseh, and the array, I thought that the wine’s perfume-dark scent came from salt-marsh plants that I was sucking into my elemental self. I knew I was human, and I knew that I could take the array off or signal for help, but I felt completely disassociated from myself.

The show on the screen overhead erupted into scenes of madness from various sacred texts, including the Shushei Enaharipui of the official Tveshi state cult to Enahari. We collectively saw the destruction of the First City begun by a woman in the grip of a strange fever called the many-winged hunger. As the city burned, I felt the water sizzle against my skin. When it flooded from the tsunami, I was sucking and pulling the buildings. I was the one who drowned those left behind.

“The electrodes make everything feel so weird,” a voice said beside me. “It is conditioning at its most extreme.”

I took another sip from the fluke of wine and turned. Moving felt so difficult because I was made of water. The dåmorai sitting beside me was a coworker, but le had arrived after the rest of us, so I did not know who it was. The dåmorai’s four wings flitted and buzzed independently of the person’s motions, and its chest was well-endowed like the Nakbur carvings of the monster — subdued and feminized despite its upright barb-nest, which according to a digital library record I looked up just now is how they breed, by injecting the females with sperm. The record actually mentioned that the Menarka Dream Garden has disallowed dåmorai patterns because the neural pattern requires stimulating lust, most individuals in the Dream Garden have not consented to a sex-oriented party, and there were problems in the first week of the club’s opening as a result.

The voice sounded familiar, as garbled by the neural pattern’s relay system as it was.

A spray of light swirled through the sky, and I heard crying birds. The water feedback made me repeat what I said next over and over, my voice cycling like a wave: “I know.”

Le curled up beside me on the bench. I felt ler heartbeat with my hand, which the relay propagated throughout my body. My consciousness dissipated into the next show, which was a tour through the ocean. This must have been why the ocean elemental was a featured choice this evening, as it felt wonderful.

I drank so much wine that I don’t remember much of what happened. We were all so drunk, and the ćukuseh left us euphoric. I have a vague memory of feeling sick after the show, like coming off of a boat. The coworker who played the dåmorai and I were on top of each other before we had even left the Dream Garden, and all I wanted was to have sex with lim — I could feel ler breasts — and we managed to make it to ler family’s home before we had sex in a small, cramped room. The bed smelled like pressed flowers and antique lace, rocket fuel and steel.

We both tasted like wine and drugs and food. From how much my abdomen hurts now, I think that we must have had drugged sex for at least an hour before we fell asleep. I don’t know why no one stopped us in that state. I have a vague memory of someone in the hallway, but all I truly remember is that it was the first time I had had sex since Kelis was alive.

Four hours later, I awoke and looked down at ler arms. This is when I realized that I had had sex with a coworker, and I still cannot write who le is without the shame paralyzing my hand. Unlike several hours ago, I cannot run from ler room, out of ler home, and through the streets of Galasu. Hopefully, substance touched ler brain enough that le won’t remember what happened.

Except I left my gyena behind.

Le must have touched my hair, and I need ritual purification. If I hadn’t been so under substance, I would have knotted the gyena to keep this from happening.

When the earthquake stopped, I opened the windows and looked outside. The cirrus-whipped sky stretched as far as I could see, like deeply opaque, faded paper held against a light.

I leaned my elbows against the sill and watched the many-winged birds flit about in the trees until my video panel gleamed to life with the alarm. The images of Menarka with my friends made my heart sink.

I let the music play while I dressed.

Suka clarified last night that I am supposed to talk about my thoughts and reasonings in journal entries, work through them, and toss them about. It’s like a pre-conversation so I don’t think through things in front of others, I suppose, even if I am skeptical about private thoughts.

I paid careful attention to lacing my hepteri vest because I did not want a repeat of yesterday.

The knife under the pillow would sound insane to people who didn’t know. I can use a bow, but it’s suspicious when someone has arms in a bedroom regardless. I haven’t been able to sleep soundly without something since Kelis died. The knife makes more sense because I can reach it faster than I can arm myself with a bow and arrows.

I just read over the above. It doesn’t sound good. Perhaps substance would make my writing flow better and be more genuine, alcohol or ćukuseh or ćas or gabnoa root. How much do I want to commit to writing this journal?

I know that the exact words of the exchanges I have been in today are in my mind somewhere, layered into my neurons, but no one is that good, and I cannot write the exact conversations. I must resign myself to the embellishments and acknowledge that this is a dialogue with myself, not a direct report of events. I do not truly remember the exact shade of the cirrus-whipped skies this morning or my thoughts as I dressed, but I remember the way the light glinted on the sun patterns on the links I clasped around my dreadlocks. I remember the routine of pulling the transparent gyena over my hair.

Kelis and I would see each other every morning just after I dressed, sometimes before breakfast, other times when le called out from the door as I passed ler home. O, Kelis, you toyed with Kartreytin’s future gift because you ran your hand over the gyena while we kissed. I did the same. Unlike Sehutañi with the lovely breasts, the acid tongue, and Ịgzarhjenya-hating rhetoric, you never violated me.

But why did I bring up Akah Sehutañi now? It insults your memory, Kelis.

I need to think about something else, and I have more to say on the frustrations I wrote down yesterday. Akah Kara brought me to the Progressive Movement’s archives today. One of the other movement founders, Akah Khera, will retire from active service soon because le is taking over the matriarch position within ler family.

Akah Kara wants a video collage that speaks to Akah Khera’s triumphs and failures over the past thirty-two years. I have met lim once—in passing, when I was a child and le visited my grandmother—but the information is easy to find. Le edited The People’s Voice in the 1830s before transitioning into the Progressive Movement full-time. The entire task is less straightforward because the Progressive Movement’s librarian-archivist left last year for a position with Wellness Worlds. We have a new person starting at the beginning of next month, but I’m not certain what that start date actually is.

NOBODY SEEMS TO KNOW!!!!!!

The Tveshi Cultural Coalition must be more efficient than us, and we need to beat them at organizational capabilities if we will ever get our platforms advanced.

I have a stack of tapes on my desk waiting for me tomorrow, and I have worked through half. They show speeches and gatherings. Everyone looks so young, especially Kara. Some are younger than me. To think that all of the people who took back our world from the Taritit are nearing the end of their public service commitments.

What happens when all of the people who witnessed the revolution against our oppressors die? Will we forget? You cannot even trust the Karatha when it comes to history, so where does that leave my generation? Will we eventually forgive Atara for harboring traitors? Grandmother says that there was a silence, and something dark and seething waits within it.

I need to stop there.

Some of us from the office are going to a Dream Garden after work. I have never been to one. They only put the first Dream Garden in Menarka about six weeks ago, it’s High-Wilds technology, and I was in mourning at the time.

Akah Kara wants me to be careful. It’s not like the old-fashioned hologram entertainment. The illusions sometimes look so realistic that the viewers cannot tell the difference between the images and the real thing, and the pageantry of personal holograms includes a neural array that gives some interesting feedback. It’s all Atarahi brilliance or Madhzi insanity. I think it was a collaboration between the two. Brilliant madness?

Anyway, le said that two months after this one opened, a young woman went to this one and ler skull was — coworkers here. Will write later.

My first commute began at 2h.35 this morning. I overestimated the time it takes to go from the River Market District Station to Senatorial Square. People in formal aniku and hepteri styles jostled me back and forth as I struggled off of the Skyrail platform. Children in school uniforms wove through the crowds. We packed down the escalators like canned meat.

In Senatorial Square, street vendors shoved steaming cups of noodles and newspapers in my way. My allowance from the family does not give me the opportunity to be extravagant because my matriarch assumes that I will eat for half of the week at the family satellite home a block away from the apartment, and I won’t receive the local benefit roster until tomorrow when my paperwork finishes processing. I had to pass by.

The buskers offered music on Kisera Street right at the corner in front of a deity shrine, and I gave them a bit of pocket change.

The chaotic noise of the city ceased immediately when I entered the national headquarters. I rested against the door to collect my thoughts and looked around. While I have seen pictures, visiting the headquarters in person is a completely different experience. The Progressive Movement’s original seven-pointed star banner hangs in the place of glory against one wall.

I paid my respects at the small shrine for Nukena against one wall before I turned to the reception desk. It gave me enough time to compose myself because I had wanted to think about the conversation with my grandmother before I arrived, the private words that le had communicated to me, and the reason our ancestor shrine’s shelves contain only four generations. As the matriarch, le can shoot me wherever le desires: I am the arrow, and le holds the bow. I am the arrow, and we have decided to have me come here.

Akah Helė hardly said anything while I waited at the desk. Le checked my identification and handed me the forms, followed by my access badge.

A woman came out of the elevators and approached the front desk from behind. Le had henna designs that crawled up ler arms, which I think marks lim as a member of the Eneiji denomination. The pattern went across ler shoulders and down underneath ler shirt — presumably — across ler rising and falling breasts. Le said mesahelepui and greeted me. I smiled like a complete idiot.

As we started walking, le asked if anyone had given me my assignment. I said no, which was true, but I hardly paid any attention.

I caught glimpses of people in conference rooms and saw faces that I had only heard about in the news, all of them clustered around the tables and dynamic presentation screens. They worked on advertising, fundraising, family engagement, and political strategy for engaging with Deimo Akaiañi’s administration.

“You will assist Akah Karatau,” le told me, “but you must never call lim Karatau. Le’s a Kara.”

At first, I was in denial. I tried to think of anyone I had heard of who uses that nickname. There must have been at least a dozen men named Karatau in the office because it is the most popular men’s name in Iturja and Shija. Most of them must have been staffers. The only one who took assistants and who used the name Kara had helped found the Progressive Movement.

I denied it because few would assign someone so new to the national arm of the Progressive Movement to someone so high-profile, even considering all of my work organizing in Narahja, because I am Narahji, and the party needs to distance itself from the unrest in my region. Even considering that an aunt and a cousin are senators, and my grandmother has a statue in the Monument of the Heroes. Even considering that I have done such good work and collected the best reviews out of all of my peers. My grandmother would certainly have told me. Then again, Salus, would your grandmother have sent you here for anything less than an elite assistant position?

The woman and I made small talk about business procedures as we approached the elevator. On the way up, le turned towards me, said something noncommittal, and pushed aside my gyena to adjust my hepteri vest’s lacing.

I flinched and backed against the elevator’s far wall. Le paid no attention. My face flushed, and I balled my right fist against the wall. Suka thinks that I should have punched lim. I restrained myself. That is what I told Suka — but I could not move, and my mind raced. My other hand reached up to clutch the scarf. Ler chest heaved up and down in front of me, the curve of ler breasts readily apparent. I tried to make myself small.

There are so many Narahji in the Progressive Movement that le must have known what touching my hair meant.

The doors opened, and I stumbled out. I righted the gyena over my hair and adjusted the trails. Le looked at me and furrowed ler brow. “You are Akah Mohata Niksubvya’s granddaughter, if memory is my ally today,” le whispered. “If you want to survive in Shija, demi-traitor, you need to be used to non-family touching you. Your grandmother’s power is limited here.”

I wanted to ask lim if le would let me spill patternless henna on ler arms in violation of ler gods’ wishes, but I must avoid making political enemies. O Salus, what will you do tomorrow if you see lim again? The term demi-traitor is wrong. My family has never conspired against the monarchy. No one in Shija will ever call me an Ịgzarhjenya because it is politically unwise to use our terms given the source of our grievances with the monarchy.

We went into Akah Kara’s dimly-lit office. It overlooks the Kiera and Orchard Boulevard intersection, and the screensaver on the blinds shows the rolling waves of the North Shore. Stacks of old-fashioned paper littered the office’s floors and tables. The majority of ler desk and one wall housed ler integrated holographic interface and several two-dimensional monitors. Le minimized several documents on the transparent vertical panels.

The image feed of news reporting never stopped scrolling. We had a big victory two years ago, and we need to prepare ourselves for backlash from the Coalitionists. My eyes tracked across the room to the empty desk on the other side, which had fewer monitors.

Akah Kara raised ler eyebrow when le saw us enter. Before le smiled, I saw something pass across ler eyes, and le looked me up and down. Le asked, “This is my new assistant, Akah Nitañi?”

My heart was a bird hammering to escape from my chest. I am from one of the most prominent families in Narahja, and I still owe so much to the Movement. My grandparents know this man, and le must have sent for me based on their suggestions.

Le continued, “I hope that Akah Sehutañi didn’t say anything too aggressive on the way up. Le has that effect on people. Akah Sehutañi knows how to harden new staff members, and the remainder of the staff depends on lim.”

(Yes, I looked up Sehutañi’s name in the directory just now. I cannot continue to call lim that woman as if le had never been granted a name in front of ler ancestors.)

Sehutañi shifted ler weight from one foot to the other and clasped ler hands behind ler back — exactly what I would have done if put in the spotlight after violating someone in an elevator, not that I would have ever done that in the first place! I wonder if le has a history of violations and if others know about them. The Movement has no place for moral indecency. We have enough to worry about with Tenes Sari’s reputation.

“Thank you. I am honored to be of service and to work at such high capacity,” Sehutañi said. It is just so antisocial to take all of the credit when the people under lim and the family that raised lim are just as responsible for ler success. This isn’t meant to be a literal recollection, but to have it down — because I have ranted at Suka, and it is still burning in my chest — LE THEN SAID, “Akah Nitañi has an aversion to speaking.”

THIS LEADS ME DOWN ANOTHER RAVINE INTO SHIJI SARCASM. I cannot stand what happened today, and I had to stand there in that room appearing completely fine with all of this.

Akah Kara chuckled at lim. “Bring me the completed PR report on yesterday’s forum. I heard about it from a news report, but cannot draw any of my own conclusions because it wasn’t provided in a timely fashion.”

Le nodded, said a few words of parting, and left the room. Akah Kara called out after lim, “You need to pour concrete around that heart of yours. It shows in your face, Akah.” And with that, the conversation between them finished.

As soon as Sehutañi left hearing range, Akah Kara said, “Le has wonderful analytical skills, but a tongue of acid. The papers are about the forum for reasonable travel restrictions — something that you would care about.”

I brushed my slick palms on my hepteri vest. “Why did no one say that I would work for you?”

“We want to minimize media attention. Akah Mohata wants you to have an opportunity to work without being pulled into state functions.” Le wiped sweat from ler brow and studied me. Ler gaze, glassier than before, turned towards the windows. I know that look because it is the one that I had after Kelis died, even when I was fighting for our right to the High Wilds. I wonder who le lost.

I mean Akah Kara no disrespect at all, but I wish that le were more forthcoming about all of this. Le obviously wants me to be the next in the generation of Niksubvya to speak out against the contingent afraid of the High Wilds. My mother was half-Atarahi, and I am a quarter Atarahi, a quarter Narahji, and half-Īpahi. It’s so unusual that I should not be as surprised as I am that they assigned me to Akah Kara. Everyone knows that le wants immigration reform, expanded dependent partners’ rights during marriage negotiations, smaller travel fees for visiting the other Gardens, and a fight against the resettlement tax. My family had to pay the resettlement fee retroactively for my grandfather. If the monarchy worries about us because we could have been the most powerful family in Narahja, there was no better way to ensure that such a thing couldn’t happen.

(But, admittedly, who could blame Ameisa for not listening given how many blood crime-polluted families who collaborated with the Taritit now live on Atara? What if one of them came back and vented grief against our governments or the international forum?)

I can be a face for the Movement because I am young, and I was hired for potential and proven effort. My fiancée died last year, which makes me sympathetic. Grandmother told me that this would happen when I relocated for this position. Le was so adamant that I go even if there was no room in the family’s satellite house in Galasu. Le convinced Kati’s mother that Kati could do music in Galasu so I wouldn’t disgrace my family by living with a complete stranger.

Grandmother did all of these things for me and for our family, and I almost listened to lim when le told me to continue wearing mourning red. That is the one point I wouldn’t concede when we discussed our plan.

The Movement is my family in many ways. I just don’t know that I can stomach what I need to do to succeed.

The cause? The man who shouted hekhiakouri gekhasėo at me on the Skyrail this morning. The streets were so unfamiliar, and I cut lim off on the access ramp. It wasn’t until that moment that I realized that my mother is right. A move to Central Shija five years after the Narahji Protests means that I must stay on my guard constantly.

I told lim that five years was an eternity. I’ve had glances on the Skyrail before while visiting Galasu, but most of my work over the past few years has kept me in Narahja. The Sabaji Tveshi still frown when making eye contract with me, and if I smile, they stare at me as if I have slapped them. My father says that the protests made the Sabaji Tveshi remember the disconnect between their culture and the culture of the Ịgzarhjenya to the South. My father is Īpahi and is very blunt during any conversations about Tveshė. I’m surprised that the state naturalized lim.

The Sabaji Fadehin is our Deimo. The Sabaji think that it is an insult for us to call lim the Deimo. One can only be a Fadehin when the monarchy has its seat in Narahja. Even if I were to use Fadehin publicly, it would be a lie. Sehịnta never meant for all of Tvaji to be united.

On my way, I saw several other Ịgzarhjenya individuals. One of them helped me with my luggage, and another held a door. It is as if the Sabaji Tveshi have forgotten what mesahele means because they did nothing. This isn’t like a tourist visit. Will I need to deal with this every time I go out in public for the next however many years?

An hour later. Kati and I made dinner. I feel a bit better. There are only two of us family in the apartment, and le’s Shiji. We are so different, and considering the Skyrail incident, how do I relate to lim? How can le be Uncle Bizarmu’s daughter? At least the family’s satellite home is only a short walk away.

I lied about needing to finish unpacking and called Suka immediately after Kati left the apartment to work on a music gig. “I despise Galasu,” was the first thing out of my mouth.

I have many, many reasons.

The accents sound staccato and inelegant. They don’t know how to use consonants.

I hate that it takes me three or four times to understand what someone wants.

I hated it when, in the train station, they laughed when I reversed the subject, verb, and object completely. I was tired. I had been on the train for over a day! I despise how much thinking about that makes me want to cry. As I told Suka, I need to be the best that I can be. Salus, how can you become great when you cannot even speak the national language fluently enough?

“Stop spewing shit,” Suka told me. “You have the job you wanted. Your mother even allowed you to go, and you found family to live with. It sounds like a small price to pay for your goals. I can send you things—fruit, newspapers, whatever you want. Just tell me everything. Do they really bathe in henna up there? Does the color look atrocious?” Le scrunched ler face up and stuck out ler tongue. I laughed.

Suka behaves so tactfully towards everyone, even the nuamua. Le never stopped being my friend, not even through the worst of my grief. Ler smile makes Enahari’s thousand suns dim by comparison, and it emanates from ler eyes. My face, glum as the monsoon sky, could never compare. Le should have received the position at the Progressive Movement National Headquarters. I know that le applied for it. Our friendship is strong.

“Try keeping a journal,” le said by text while late last night. That’s why I started it earlier this evening when the stress was so great I couldn’t hold my misery in.

Suka says that it will give me some insight into Shiji culture. The words surprised me because Suka has never been a controversial person. I’m surprised that le would recommend something so asocial. If it gets out that I am writing a journal, I don’t know what people will think of me, especially my mother. It’s a Madhzi thing, and everyone knows that the Madhzi have no family values.

Maybe I need something to turn myself inward. After the train, I could use a break from constant socialization. Sitting next to that eight-year-old bratty boy bouncing a ball against the ceiling was infuriating. We were on that train for seven hours, and le only stopped doing that to eat! It was the third time that I can remember wishing I could be free of other people.

But what if wanting to be alone becomes a habit? O Salus, what if this journaling is a Madhzi habit unsuitable for an Ameisi person?

This is what Suka wrote to me yesterday: It won’t hurt you. I keep a journal, and it has never given me the desire to chop someone up and put lim in a freezer.

None of Suka’s confessions has ever made me regret our friendship ritual. I’m flattered that le told me.

The conversation tonight made me feel better. I have replayed the vid as I write. It’s hard to see anything because I keep nearly crying.

Le is my friend forever, and forever is the stuff of dreams.