Eko (NINE Series, #1)

  * * *

  As they walked across the desolate land, the sun blazing above them, Emir began to sing. His voice was a rich baritone, and resonated off the dunes: an old song, some lovers’ lament. Slowly, Phaira recalled the notes and lyrics, first in Emir’s rendition, then in her memories.

  The singing in the house stopped when her mother got a sore shoulder. Just a strain, she told them all. But when forced to go see a doctor, they discovered cancer in her bones, fast-moving and incurable. She deteriorated so quickly. Cohen was only four years old, so twelve-year-old Phaira and thirteen-year-old Renzo worked to shelter him from the worst. They put him to bed and dressed him in the morning; they took him for walks and adventures in the city. He was always with one of them; it was probably why he turned out so well-adjusted.

  But late at night, when her little brother slept, Phaira remembered her stolen glimpses of their mother in the last days, how their father carried her from the bed to the bath, how the skin stretched thin over her bones.

  Every hour, Emir needed to rest, sweat beading on his forehead, perspiration spreading under his arms. Staying at a distance, Phaira wondered if the old man could last in this heat. But eventually he would get up and start to walk again, slower each time, but moving forward.

  Time passed. The landscape grew rockier, the dull sand turning to red earth. Emir had to watch his step now, dodging large rocks and crevices. He never looked back. If he had, he might have caught a slight shimmer. But to anyone watching, Emir was alone in the desert.

  Five hours earlier, Renzo and Phaira were in the Arazura’s common space, creating schematics, hypothesizing on what lay beneath the red sandstone range, the exact location of the coordinates that Theron provided. Mining her knowledge of government-run bases, Phaira laid out the probable design. An entrance somewhere at ground level, but also an emergency exit. Tunnels, ventilation shafts, perhaps some sort of aerial escape option….

  “No,” Renzo countered, staring at her notes. “I bet it’s a designated no-fly zone. I bet the Savas have already thought of that. To keep the area clear. No witnesses.”

  “It is,” Anandi chimed in from across the room. “Says it’s government-ordered, but who knows. Recently renewed to protect natural resources from contamination, whatever that means.”

  “Okay, then,” Phaira murmured, a little surprised. “You’re good at this, Ren.”

  Renzo grinned at her. Phaira chose not to tease him in that moment.

  Then her brother jumped to his feet, scattering papers in all directions.

  “What’s wrong?” Phaira cried.

  Anandi and Emir turned in their chairs to watch Renzo rummage through a hidden floor compartment. When he rose, he held a crumpled ball of white material. With a few quick snaps, he shook it out: a wrinkled white bodysuit, complete with hood and mask.

  Phaira made a face. “Are you that worried about contamination?”

  “No.” Renzo tossed it to Phaira, who caught it and held it between two fingers. “Put it on,” he commanded.

  “Why?”

  “Do you have to argue with everything I say? Just do it.”

  Huffing, Phaira slid the white suit over her clothes and tucked her hair under the hood. She looked ridiculous, and her belief was confirmed when she turned around to the sight of Renzo smirking, Anandi hiding a smile behind her hand, and Emir with the faintest look of bemusement on his face.

  “Aren’t you adorable,” Renzo snickered. “But look. Watch this.”

  He reached over and touched the narrow blue stripe on the inside of her wrist. Something shot through the bodysuit, stiffening the material. Then the fabric shifted from white to transparent, and Phaira with it.

  “Whoa!” Anandi cried.

  “Impressive,” Emir said.

  “Incredible, more like,” Renzo nodded. “Just like she said.”

  “Where did you get this?” Anandi inquired, her eyes popping with excitement.

  “It’s a prototype, one of the scientists who helped with the Arazura? I guess she lost government funding for it halfway through the process. Anyway, I bought it from her and packed it away, I’d forgotten all about it.”

  Bought it? Phaira thought as she deactivated the suit. She glanced around the Arazura, taking in all of the shiny new construction. She assumed Anandi’s friends had helped to fund its creation. But there wasn’t time to think about it now.

  It might have been a prototype, but the stealth suit was solid and still charged after hours of walking across the desert. Under the suit, her body was coated with sweat, and her calves ached. But she could see the crest of the massive Kings canyon, brilliant orange under the sun, just like the satellite images. And to her left, there was the outline of a stone foundation, half worn away by wind and sand; some metal bars and piping; and a cellar dug into the ground, a black hole against the red landscape.

  Phaira felt for her HALO and the three additional ones stacked above it, all encircling the base of her head. It was still on. But it didn’t lessen her nerves.

  Twenty feet from her, Emir walked in circles. Suddenly he stomped on the ground, creating a cloud of red dust. Then he stepped a few feet to the left and stomped again. He began to sing again, each stomp and grunt in rhythm with his song, like a galumphing madman.

  In that moment, Phaira was thankful for the stealth suit, so Emir couldn’t see her laughing.

  Then she heard the sound of a hinge creaking.

  Emir darted over to the in-ground cellar. Phaira walked carefully in Emir’s footsteps and peered over the edge.

  Six feet deep and full of old glass jars and broken wood, the cellar’s dirt floor shifted. Then something broke through: a trap door, debris pouring off as it lifted. The barrel of a pistol emerged, followed by a wary face.

  Emir waved at the man with a big smile. “Hello!”

  “Hey, stop that!” the man hissed up. “What are you doing here?”

  “Good question,” Emir called down. “A better one might be: how do I know your secret location?”

  The man frowned. With that, Emir clumsily dragged his body over the cellar’s edge. Clouds of dust billowed as his feet and hands made deep grooves in the red clay. His production made it easy for Phaira to also slide down and press her back to the earth, undetected.

  The henchman held the trapdoor a foot above the ground, his Aegis firearm aimed at Emir. “I’ll kill you, old man, without a second thought. You tell me what you know and why you’re here.”

  “To assist. And be paid for my services, of course,” Emir said. “I’d suggest letting me speak to the Sava in charge of security.”

  The man surveyed the cellar and the land above it. He was suspicious, naturally, but he was also young and uncertain.

  Emir sighed. “They’ll know who I am,” he instructed. “I’m Emir Ajyo. Just ask one of them in there: Keller, or Xanto, I assume? I knew them as children. Plus, I fully support retribution for old crimes.”

  That last statement seemed to do it. The mercenary chewed his lip for a few moments.

  “No guarantees, old man,” he finally said. “Xanto is in charge of the hackers.” He gestured for Emir to come in, lifting the trapdoor a little higher.

  Emir frowned. “I can’t shimmy under that door, son. Can’t you see the white in this beard? You’ll have to open it wider.”

  Phaira pressed her mouth together to hold in her laughter.

  The henchman huffed and stepped up to the surface, turning to lift the trapdoor to a right angle. “Quickly,” he said to Emir.

  Crouching down, Phaira ran her fingers over the dirt until she found a stone.

  Emir made his way to the opening; Phaira walked in his footsteps. As Emir stepped down, Phaira flicked the stone over the henchman’s head. It hit the earth wall on the other side, and a wave of dirt and dust billowed down. The man jumped, dropping the door. Emir caught it, stumbling to his knees, but holding the door over his head. “What are you doing?” he b
ellowed. “Are you trying to kill me here?”

  In the commotion, Phaira leapt past Emir through the entryway, landing hard on her hip and skidding down one step before she caught her grip.

  On the surface, she heard the mercenary hiss at Emir to be quiet. As Phaira crouched against the dirt wall, she heard the smack of a fist on flesh.

  Soon, Emir walked down the stairs. His eye was swelling, but his face remained impassive.

  The henchman followed, securing the trapdoor and bolting it shut. The narrow staircase plunged into darkness, until the mercenary flicked on a portable light.

  “Let’s go,” he said curtly to Emir.