Intermix Nation (35 page)

Aldrik is abnormally patient. “Nation,” he
says, “our role all along has been providing the catalyst for these
outbreaks to occur, which we have accomplished in two territories.
Osen is already on the path by itself, but we can forge valuable
alliances in Zima. Everything we do on campaign will help the
rebels much more than three extra soldiers in the field ever
could.”

“I know, but –”

“The Commander has dispersed support forces
and aid throughout lower Eridies, including many Deathlandic
mercenaries. He’s recalled the recruits from assignment. The
compound is well guarded … it can withstand much more than you
probably think. We need to continue this campaign for a few more
days. Giving up now will only help the Chancellor.”

Nazirah pinches her arm under the pelt,
keeping the tears at bay. “I understand,” she says.

They ride in silence. The truck hums along,
singing doldrums. Outside, the landscape erodes, turning glacial.
Once they make headway into Zima, the light weakens. Even in
midday, it slants and shatters, losing intensity. Deep fir trees
shadow rolling hillsides, covering them like an emerald beard. The
road elevates and the truck gains altitude. The hills become
steeper, morphing into mountains … a range of dusty peaks.

A strange white cloud forms on the ground.
At first, Nazirah assumes it is cotton, but quickly realizes it is
snow. She yearns to jump out of the truck, to touch, play, roll
around, and sink into that foreign powder. Sink so far into its
soft embrace that no one can ever find her again.

The wind picks up, whistling around them. It
shakes the vehicle as they continue scaling the mountainside.
Nazirah peers out the window, staring into a chasm dropping
hundreds of feet below.

Luka smirks. “It is a very deep ravine,
southie,” she says.

“That’s not my name,” Nazirah snaps.

“I meant no offense,” Luka says. “We
NoZimans consider everyone else a southerner. Especially someone
from Rafu, the furthest south one can go.”

“How inclusive of you,” Nazirah says. Luka’s
liquid eyes turn to steel.

Aldrik intervenes. “As Luka was saying, the
Zimans must drill very deep into the mountainside. Their quarries
plunge to incredible depths in order to excavate the minerals left
behind so many centuries ago.”

“So our goal is winning over the mine
owners?”

“Exactly,” Aldrik says, stroking his beard.
“Zima is particularly rich in iron ore, which can be refined into
steel. The whole of Renatus gets its steel from only a few
Lordships throughout Zima. It will be a huge advantage to the
rebels if we can convince them to send it to us instead of the
Medis. Just think of how the territories could build the
rebellion’s defense, weaponry, and infrastructure.”

“You always absurdly simplify things,” Luka
scoffs. “The majority of mine owners yield to Ivan Grigori’s reign
of terror. The Medis pay the Grigoris handsomely for their loyalty.
The chances of them joining us are slim, regardless of the depth of
Adamek’s pockets. They are inaccessible.”

“Then what chance does the campaign have
here?” asks Nazirah.

“Unfortunately for Shizar, but fortunately
for us,” Aldrik replies, “the Medis don’t seem to care very much
about the welfare of NoZima. They have only taken pains to secure
the loyalty of SoZimans closest to the Mediah border. We have a
better chance of winning over the mine owners here. Morgen and I
are meeting with some of them late tomorrow afternoon. If all goes
well, we’ll be leaving the following morning. The faster we can
escape this siren’s den, this viper’s nest, the better.”

Luka shoots Aldrik a harsh, sideways glance.
“If I may interrupt your soliloquy,” she snips, “I would like to
welcome the southie to Shizar.”

The truck plateaus onto a snowy road,
passing through the gate of what appears to be a small city. Shizar
is built into the mountainside, overlooking the ravine. It is
fortified by walls of boulders, cannons, and towers. Rolling
towards the city center, they pass thousands of scanty, stone
houses. Men by the hundreds schlep home from their long workday in
the quarry, light skin painted black with soot and grime. Burly
women chop wood with sharp axes, preparing their homes for the
frozen night ahead. Everywhere, Nazirah sees bright blue eyes, fair
heads, flushed faces, and chapped fingers. She thinks nostalgically
of alabaster cliffs, of sun drenched cottages, and of creaking
swing sets on the beach. This campaign, now more than ever, has
made Nazirah appreciate the place she calls home.

Assuming it still stands.

Nazirah sees a large stone manor looming in
the distance, probably Luka’s home. “What should I be doing, then?”
she asks, after a moment. Aldrik didn’t mention her attending the
meeting with the miners.

“I am the steward, the protector, over all
that you see,” Luka responds passionately, “as was my father before
me. Conditions here are grim, to say the least. Life is hard. And
since Ivan overthrew his brother … everything has deteriorated.
This has been our most desperate winter yet.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Nazirah says
honestly, not entirely sure where Luka is going with this.

“You have come here in a hopeless time,”
Luka continues, “a time of famine and violence. I am afraid for my
people, who have nothing to eat and no prospects. I am afraid of
the drastic measures they might take.”

“What are you getting at, Luka?” grumbles
Aldrik.

“Aldrik, you are SoZiman and my husband,”
Luka tells him. “Your presence here will go unquestioned, at least,
concerning the insurgency. But there’s a huge bounty on your head,
Adamek. Amnesty only protects you from those loyal to the rebels,
and you have made many enemies in Shizar. And you, southie. I have
no doubt Commander Nation has honorable intentions. But he was
wrong to send you here. Everyone knows you. I’m not naïve enough to
believe my people wouldn’t turn you both over to the Medis in a
heartbeat, if it meant feeding their starving families. It has
become a matter of life or death.”

“So Morgen and I are supposed to hide away
until we leave?” Nazirah asks.

“No,” Luka responds, staring at Nazirah.
“I’ll take my chances with Adamek. He can protect himself. But not
you.”

“The girl stays,” Aldrik says tersely.

“Of course she stays!” Luka scoffs. “She’s
here already! But she needs to be concealed, Aldrik! No one must
recognize her.” The truck rolls to a stop and the engine shuts off.
They are now in an underground garage, but no one moves to get
out.

“This is completely ridiculous!” Nazirah
cries, quickly losing control. “My entire hometown and territory is
up in arms, getting destroyed, and I can’t do anything about it!
And now you’re asking me to hide who I am? What good am I to the
campaign that way? How can I be the face of the rebellion, if no
one can see my face? How can I recruit the Ziman intermix, if they
don’t know I’m here?”

Aldrik and Luka visibly tense, looking at
each other hesitantly. “Nation,” Adamek answers her slowly, “there
are no Ziman intermix.”

“How is that possible?” Nazirah asks, not
understanding. “They don’t exist?”

“Intermix are a luxury this territory cannot
afford,” Luka says curtly, reciting it like a mantra. “They only
drain our already depleted resources. We cannot justify feeding
intermix mouths, while the native population of Zima starves. The
capital subsidizes us for every intermix we … terminate.”

Shizar may be cold as ice, but Nazirah’s
eyes blaze fire. “You kill them?”

“Don’t take it personally.”

Nazirah lunges forward, intent on crushing
Luka’s albino neck. Adamek grabs Nazirah’s shoulder, holding her
back. “Let go of me!” she screams, and he releases her. She pulls
off the pelt and chucks it at Luka. Nazirah wants nothing to do
with anything Ziman anymore.

“I would not expect someone like you to
understand,” Luka says coldly.

“An intermix?”

“A
southerner
,” she
stresses.

“There’s nothing to understand,” Nazirah
scoffs. “You’ve made that entirely clear.”

Luka throws the pelt back over her bony
shoulders. “I knowingly condone the intermix genocide in this
country,” she says. “We do what we must to survive, Nazirah. I did
not join this rebellion to fight for your right to live. I fight
for my own life, for the lives of my starving people. I’m sorry if
you don’t understand my reasons. But they are my reasons,
nonetheless.”

“You disgust me.”

“I frankly don’t care.”

“Nation,” Aldrik says, trying to defuse the
tension. “We’ll be out of here in little more than a day. As much
as I hate to admit it, Luka’s right. If you really want to help the
rebellion, help put an end to this genocide, you need to conceal
yourself here.”

“And if I say no?” she asks. “You’re putting
the entire fate of the rebellion on me?”

“Did I say that?” Aldrik snaps. “But we
can’t risk starting a premature war because people recognize you.
The rebellion doesn’t have the resources to fight opposition in
every territory, defend ourselves, and attack Mediah as well!”

“I hate this!” Nazirah says, pulling her
hair. “But I have no choice. I’ll do it.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Luka rolls down a tinted window, nodding at
a guard stationed outside the truck. The guard exits the
underground garage through a nearby door which leads directly into
the manor above. The four rebels sit in tense silence until he
returns.

Nazirah shakes her leg, drums her fingers
against her jeans. This probably annoys Adamek. But she doesn’t
care and he doesn’t stop her. She needs to get away from everyone,
especially Luka. Nazirah will attack her again if she has to wait
much longer. And this time, Adamek won’t be able to intervene.

The guard soon returns, accompanied by an
elderly, hunchbacked man. His head is shaved. Exotic characters,
similar to Adamek’s dusza, line his scalp. He’s also barefoot,
wearing only a deep yellow robe. He shuffles his feet meekly as he
walks. The man is unlike any Ziman Nazirah has ever seen, with high
cheeks, frail bones, a flat nose, and almost golden skin. Before he
enters the truck, he gives a bow so deep it could rival one of
Solomon’s.

“It’s one of the silent zimbaba,” Adamek
whispers in Nazirah’s ear, making the hairs on the back of her neck
stand straight up. She’s almost forgotten how her body reacts
around him.

Almost.

“What’s a zimbaba?” she asks, watching as
the man sits down. He rifles through his deep pockets, pulling out
a bag of electric blue powder and shaking it gently into his
outstretched palm. He spits into his hand and begins rolling the
powder into a small ball.

“A spiritual leader here,” Adamek replies,
watching the zimbaba closely. “He’s taken a vow of silence for the
remainder of his mortal life, pledging to uphold the honor of
Zima.”

Nazirah notices that the zimbaba’s eyes are
completely clouded over, milky white orbs. He smiles toothlessly,
somehow recognizing her presence. Extending his arm, he drops the
marble of blue sky and saliva clouds into Nazirah’s reluctant hand.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” she asks.

“What do you think?” Luka asks. “Eat
it.”

“What is it?” she asks, disgusted.

“An altered strain of MEDIcine,” Luka
replies vaguely. “They use it for plastic surgery and cosmetics …
we use it for concealment. It’s obscenely expensive, so we could
only get our hands on a day’s worth. But it should last long enough
for your trip here.” Nazirah looks at Adamek, who nods once. She
grimaces, popping the mushy ball into her mouth and swallowing
quickly.

Nazirah instantly doubles over, clutching
her abdomen. She feels like snakes are winding and writhing
underneath her skin. Nazirah squeezes her eyes shut, but the pain
is over almost immediately. Ears ringing, she opens her eyes,
blinking rapidly. “Did it work?” she asks curiously.

Her voice sounds the same. Nazirah inspects
her arms, rolling up her sleeves. Her bruises are miraculously
healed, replaced by pale, smooth skin. She looks at Aldrik and
Luka, who are both smiling. And at Adamek, who is not.

“See for yourself,” Luka says. The zimbaba
reaches into his robe, pulls out a hand mirror. Nazirah glances
into it warily.

It is her face, yet not her face at all. Her
cheekbones are just as prominent, nose has the same slope. But her
skin is several shades lighter, tan completely gone, like she
hasn’t seen a beach in decades. The bruises on her cheek and
forehead are vanished. Her hair is unruly as ever, but platinum
blonde instead of copper brown. And her eyes are indigo as a
cloudless Rafu sky. Nazirah touches her face, blue eyes wide.

“You look good as a blonde, Nation,” Aldrik
says approvingly. “But this doesn’t mean you can go off
gallivanting. It’s still your face. You’re still recognizable to
those who know to look. You can’t leave your room.”

“Fine,” Nazirah scowls. “Are we done?”

“Just one final touch,” Luka says, nodding
at the zimbaba. He delves into his robe once more, retrieving a
thin brush and jar of black ink. He leans forward, gently grabbing
Nazirah left arm. She pulls away quickly.

“Is it permanent?”

“As if you’re worthy of a real Ziman
tattoo,” Luka scoffs. “It’s just paint! It will wash off in a few
days.”

The zimbaba dips his brush into the jar and
details a perfect replica of the Ziman crescent moon on Nazirah’s
forearm. Satisfied with his work, he stuffs everything back into
his deep pockets. Nazirah inspects her arm, touching the mark
gingerly.

Luka retrieves two heavy coats from a
compartment under her seat. She tosses them at Nazirah and Adamek.
“Here, take these.”