Intermix Nation

  Perhaps isn’t true at all.

  Nazirah hisses at one of them, a little boy, just to see his reaction, just to feel the control. He bursts into tears. Several onlookers step back. She feels disgusted with herself. This boy can’t be older than Cayu, than Caria. Nazirah turns to apologize, but Grum shoves her into the backseat of a police vehicle, a waiting motorcade of blaring sirens and horns. None of this is right. She can’t become the monster they believe her to be. Nazirah thinks of Ramses, lying in a pool of his own blood. She thinks of the moment when she slit his throat … that devastating satisfaction she felt.

  She wonders if she’s too late.

  Nazirah sits uncomfortably on the edge of her seat, fighting amazement as they ride through Mediah. A network of bullet trains and skyways paint the horizon. Fluorescent streets wind around the capital, stacked vertically and slicing through buildings. Cars jet across them, drivers indifferent to their doom, should they misjudge a turn and careen over an edge.

  Shoppers flood the streets on every level, weighed down by bags and consumer addictions. Captured intermix are chained to storefront window displays, modeling clothes ironically, starvation chic. Many of them are being flogged.

  Spectators abound and laugh. Children lick ice cream from dripping cones. Nazirah’s body jerks with every crack of the lashes, like she is under the whips herself. Steel and glass skytowers ascend through rock, air, smog, and cloud. Nazirah cranes her neck, unable to see where they end. When Nazirah was a child, she built sandcastles she thought could touch the heavens. And the Medis nearly did it.

  But they are no closer to the gods.

  “Disgusting, aren’t they?” Grum asks, as though reading her thoughts. “These parasites.”

  “Parasites?”

  “Listen up, Nation,” he says. “Because this is something no history book will ever teach you. Mediah is a ruse, a distraction designed to keep Medis entertained, fat and complacent on glut and lust and greed.”

  “A ruse to hide what?”

  “Look around and guess for yourself,” he answers. “It’s not hard to figure out.”

  Nazirah does. All she sees are the flashing lights, the glitter and hyperintense color. But then, Nazirah realizes. It’s not what she sees, but what she does not see. Trees, wildlife, vegetation, water. “Life here isn’t sustainable,” she says.

  “Completely obvious,” Grum agrees. “But still, no one really gets it.” He leans closer, inches away from her face. The stench of his rancid breath suffocates her. “The Medis hate intermix, Nation. Tell me why.”

  Nazirah shrugs. “Because they forbid interracial breeding.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they want to maintain racial purity.”

  “Wrong.”

  “Because we threaten them.”

  “You’re getting there.”

  “I don’t understand where you’re going with this,” she snaps.

  “Color me shocked,” he retorts. “The Medis, as a race, are dying! It may take a while, but they are dying nonetheless. They have no immunity to disease anymore, or famine, or hardship. Centuries of self-prescribed inbreeding have sullied their chromosomes, leaving them stale and fragile. Haven’t you ever wondered why their MEDIcine program is booming? Why they are all drug addicts and pill poppers?”

  “What does that have to do with intermix?”

  “Everything!” he cries passionately. “We are everything they are not! Everything they could never be! Do you think the majority of Medis could ever survive the slums, the Deathlands? Half of them would be dead within a week! Our genes are dominant, not theirs! Even in the most turbulent situations, intermix thrive. The Medis leech off our resources, suckling the teat of self-righteousness. They condemn and slaughter us, only to study our genetics! They isolate themselves in their homogenous skytowers … city … lives … all to hide from the simple truth that would collapse their entire dogma. Despite their purity, they are weak. And because of our impurity, we are strong.”

  “And you’re right!” Nazirah cries. “Like you said, we’re intermix! We mean nothing to them! Why would you betray us?”

  “You’re too naïve, Nation,” he says. “I need to look out for myself, because no one else will. Haven’t you learned by now that everyone has a price? Especially intermix.”

  “Take what you want and screw everyone else,” she spits. “Is that it?”

  “Now you’re catching on.”

  The vehicle stops after a short journey. Grum drags Nazirah outside into a minefield of armed guards, reporters, and news vans. Nazirah recognizes the skytower instantly. She’s seen it countless times on television and in the papers and books back home. It’s the capitol building of Renatus, the country’s symbol of power. Here at government headquarters, the Chancellor conducts his business … sermons from the pulpit of hell.

  Grum pushes Nazirah through the entrance, but not before having to turn over his pistol to one of the guards. They walk quickly across the large lobby, where government employees idly chat.

  The entire room immediately goes silent. A man with lilac spectacles spills coffee down the front of his shirt, but doesn’t bother to wipe it. An emaciated secretary shrieks and runs into a wall, knocking the steel bouffant off with a dull clang, revealing her shaved head beneath. Several people light cigarettes and take deep, shaky drags.

  Grum pulls Nazirah through the extensive elevator bank and into a waiting glass lift. He presses the button for the top floor. The doors close with a hiss. The lift rapidly shoots upwards, climbing thousands of feet. Nazirah watches the city fall and fold beneath her. She glances at Grum, noticing he appears queasy. Nazirah considers trying to take him out. But she isn’t eager to test the strength of this glass cage.

  They exit at the top, walk down a luxurious hallway plated in gold towards an ornate door. Grum enters without knocking, dragging her inside. Nazirah looks around, needing no introduction.

  She’s been here before.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  There were once tigers.

  And electric blue champagne, restrained laughter, even a fuchsia piano. Now there is only emptiness … threatening emptiness. The grand room of the Morgen penthouse is cold and lifeless, a mausoleum of sepulchered hopes and marble dreams.

  Men smoke cigars around a circular table, drinking and gambling. A pile of gold bars and jewels rests before them. A row of girls, dolled-up in makeup and luxury, quiver in a line nearby. As Grum pulls Nazirah closer, she can see they are chained to one another. “Full house!” one man says, showing the others his cards. He greedily rubs his hands together, claiming his winnings.

  “Fine, Roskum,” another sighs. “Pick one.”

  The man named Roskum stands. He walks down the line of girls, scrutinizing each one. They squirm under his stare, eyes averted. He stops before a girl with ebony skin, barely a teenager, clearly fighting back tears. Roskum touches her exposed shoulder. “Has she bled yet?” he asks.

  “No,” someone casually responds.

  “Then I’ll take this Deathland bitch.”

  Another man slams his hand on the table. “I wanted her,” he complains.

  “Armison, I’ll let you have her when I’m done,” Roskum says, laughing, “if you deal with the disposal.”

  “I don’t share,” Armison snaps, looking up. “And I don’t want anyone’s sloppy.…” He spots Nazirah, eyes bulging and then slanting. “Gabirel … how much for the pretty intermix?”

  Roskum scans the lineup of girls again, confused. “There’s no intermix in this.…”

  “She’s not for sale.”

  Everyone looks at the Chancellor, then at Nazirah in shock. Armison says, “Name your price.”

  “Nothing you can afford,” Gabirel says, rising elegantly. He approaches Nazirah, flanked by two young female bodyguards armed with machine guns. Nazirah is unnerved by how much he resembles Adamek. But his eyes are black, burning coals, not striking green. Just one glance and her stomach turns
over. They may look alike, but the similarities end there. “You’re late, Nazirah,” Gabirel chides, taking a long drag of his cigar. “I was so worried you wouldn’t be able to make it.” His voice is soft, with an unnaturally singsong cadence. Gabirel blows smoke in her face, singeing her lungs, as he observes her bloody appearance. “You are pretty, I’ll give you that. But for all your pretty holes, you cannot hide that filthy blood.”

  “I believe you have something for me,” Grum snaps.

  Gabirel retrieves a gold bar from his pocket. “It’s rude to speak out of turn,” he says, tossing it Grum’s way. “But how could someone like you know any better?” His companions snicker, watching in amusement. “And your eleventh hour associate?”

  Nazirah tenses and Grum shrugs noncommittally. “Taken care of.”

  Gabirel looks at Nazirah quizzically. “I see.”

  “Are we done here?” Grum asks, flinging a guard the key to Nazirah’s handcuffs.

  “You can go, intermix.”

  “Thank you,” he sneers, turning.

  “On second thought,” Gabirel says, inspecting his nails, “I think I’m rather displeased with your attitude after all.”

  Grum faces Gabirel stiffly. “Apologies, Chancellor.”

  “Do you value your life, intermix?”

  “Yes, Chancellor.”

  “Then you should know not to bite the hand that feeds you.” Gabirel nods at his guard, who passes him a machete from her belt. “I’m in an unusually literal mood today,” Gabirel says, fingering the blade. He shivers excitedly. “Oh, it’s sharp!” Gabirel extends it to Grum, who cautiously accepts it. Nazirah knows something very bad is about to happen.

  “Chancellor?” asks Grum warily.

  “Cut it off.”

  Grum looks at him, shocked. “M-My hand?”

  “Y-Yes,” Gabirel mocks. “You’re not leaving here any other way.”

  “Please, Chancellor!” Grum cries, dropping to his knees. “I didn’t mean to…”

  “Don’t beg,” he says. “It’s not flattering. You intermix need to learn a lesson in appreciation. Do it now and keep your life, or die. It’s your choice. Be grateful I’m giving you one.”

  Nazirah doesn’t want to watch. But she can’t look away. The guards raise their guns, pointing them at Grum. Grum looks between them hopelessly, shakily raising the machete. He begins hyperventilating and crying. Nazirah almost feels sorry for him. He shuts his eyes, grits his teeth, and in one swift motion hacks off his hand at the wrist. It rolls across the marble floor.

  Grum’s screams echo through the room. He cradles the remaining stump against his chest, wailing, collapsing on the ground. Blood gushes as he crawls towards the exit. Several girls cry out, gagging and looking away. Even the men appear nauseous.

  Grum leaves pools and trails of crimson in his stead. Nazirah refuses to cower. Because that’s exactly what Gabirel wants. The Chancellor looks at her expectantly. “He deserved it,” she says, calmly as she can, trying not to betray her emotions.

  Gabirel smiles wickedly, standing before her. “She has a voice,” he says, running a finger along her jaw. “She has a tongue.”

  “You’re repulsive.”

  “I’m repulsive?” He chuckles, turning around. “Did everyone hear that? The intermix finds me repulsive!” His friends laugh uncomfortably. “Remove her handcuffs.” One of his guards quickly unlocks them. Gabirel grabs Nazirah’s wrist, hisses, “You, little intermix, are the repulsive one! You and your dirty blood that taints everything it touches. Here, let me give you the mark you so desperately crave.”

  Gabirel holds the burning end of his cigar just above Nazirah’s forearm. He keeps it there for several seconds, patiently waiting, staring into her eyes. Only when Nazirah flinches does Gabirel lower the tip to her skin, satisfied. Her flesh sizzles, the stench of fear and loathing. Knees buckling, Nazirah bites her lip until it bleeds. But she doesn’t cry out.

  Gabirel stamps the cigar out with his foot. “Stronger than you look,” he says, licking his lips. “I like that. The strong ones always break hardest.”

  “Have fun trying,” she snarls.

  “I believe I will,” he says, turning again. “Gentlemen, I’m afraid I must cut our game short. As you can see, I have my hands full. But please, take our female companions as a parting gift. Do with them what you like.” The others quickly exit the room, dragging the sobbing girls through the blood.

  Nazirah watches the girls go, not wishing their fate on her worst enemy. She protectively holds her burned arm, already feeling the tender skin blister.

  Gabirel addresses her. “Your presence in Mediah is no secret, Nazirah … may I call you Nazirah? I leaked your arrival to the public myself. Even here, you are a legend.”

  “And whose fault is that?”

  “Mine, I admit,” he taunts. “When I first sanctioned your parents’ elimination, I did not realize the consequences of that action. It was an oversight on my part, to feed an already smoldering fire. But I will rectify that error soon enough.”

  “When you kill me.”

  “Yes,” he agrees, “When I kill you, tomorrow morning at your execution. It will be spectacular, broadcast throughout the entire country. I’ve been trying to capture you for quite some time, you know. I’m sure you’ve realized by now that sending that fool Ivan through hell and high water to your little compound was just a diversion so I could get to you. You’re quite the traitor, Nazirah. But as they say … the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  “Killing me won’t solve your problem!”

  “Actually,” he corrects, “killing you solves all my problems. To the capital and our loyal allies, it’s an unfortunate means of justice … finally ending the vile grassroots uprising threatening our happiness. To the insurgents, it’s a brutal blow, destroying their symbol of hope and rallying cry all at once. It’s a win-win situation … except for you. Sorry about that.”

  “My death won’t stop the rebellion,” she snaps. “You think I’m the only thing binding us together? All we have to do is look around! Poverty, famine, inequality, death … those are better rallying cries than I could ever hope to be!”

  “Hope is a funny thing, isn’t it?” Gabirel asks. “Do you really think that, in the entire history of our nation, yours is the first uprising? It’s not. Many have come before you and many will come after. The key to quelling a rebellion is to kill the hope.” He points at her. “That’s you, my dear. And the rest will follow, like lambs lining up for the slaughter.”

  “If you kill me, then you agree there’s no need to hurt anyone else?”

  He laughs. “Look at you … bargaining when you have no cards left to play! No, pet. After your death, when the rebels are most vulnerable, we will attack. Those intermix in the meadow must go, followed by your backwoods brother and whatever other rubes stand in our way. But contrary to what you might think, I don’t want to spill any more blood than necessary. What good is a country with no citizens?”

  “There would be no one for you to rule,” Nazirah observes. “No one to fulfill your quotas.”

  “Exactly,” he replies. “The Medis have suffered terribly in the past few months, Nazirah. It has been most trying, explaining why they must ration their food, why there are water shortages, why their furniture is backlogged. It confuses them.”

  “I bet it does.”

  “You can see why your death is necessary.”

  “And what of your wife’s death?” she asks, savoring the look of unchecked shock on his face. Even his bodyguards tense. “Was that necessary too?”

  “Interesting,” Gabirel breathes, eyes narrowing. He inspects Nazirah’s throat more closely, noticing the bruises and bites. He touches one near her clavicle, making Nazirah shudder. Hand catching her chain, Gabirel slowly pulls out the pendant. Nazirah inhales sharply. “Very interesting,” he repeats. “It seems Adamek enjoys his pillow talk.”

  “You don’t know anything!”

  “I
know you like to work that mouth of yours. No wonder my son likes you so much.”

  Nazirah spits in his face. His two bodyguards look alarmed, but Gabirel does not move.

  “Let me tell you something, Nazirah,” he says, smiling insanely. “The aforementioned reasons for killing you are all true, and they are all good reasons. But they are not my reasons. Do you follow me?”

  “No, but I’m sure you’ll elaborate.”

  “When I learned of Victoria’s indiscretion,” Gabirel continues, “that was embarrassing enough. But she kept it quiet, as did I with my own dalliances, so it was tolerable for a time. When I learned her lover was a dirty intermix, however, it was no longer tolerable. I had him killed, and then I killed her. It was a matter of pride, of honor.”

  Nazirah remains silent.

  “When Adamek turned on me for that decision, knowingly betrayed me, you can imagine how hurt I was. I gave him everything he wanted, and this was his thanks? Another brutal attack on my honor.” He grabs Nazirah roughly, growling. “Still, I would have forgiven him! He is my only son, heir to everything I own … everything I am! But the fatal blow was learning he had fallen for an intermix whore. And not just any intermix, no. You, Nazirah Nation, champion of everything I hate.” He licks the side of her bloody face, spitting on the floor. “You’re not worth the air I breathe.”

  “You can’t honestly believe all that!” she says. “Even you aren’t that stupid.”

  “I believe you are barbaric, dirty, poor, uneducated, and completely wrong for my son. But, yes, it is all circumstantial … contingent on the conditions we have forced upon you.”

  “Then why not integrate us into society?”

  “Because,” Gabirel says, “you intermix are a disease, infesting and breeding without a cure! You are the leprosy of the country. And you must be eradicated before becoming toxic to the entire system.”