Chapter 13 – Shaky hands

  The outskirts of the Bdain Araan Desert – Drift 9

  ?

  She didn’t sleep much again.

  And this time, it wasn’t her own troubles that burdened her mind.

  She’d borrowed other people’s.

  The market closed gradually, lights fading, canopies pulled down, and the heat slowly leaving the sand. When the last light went out, she was already home, holding a cup of tea and staring out the window. She couldn’t stop hearing the green-eyed boy’s voice. Variant 3.

  The compound was intended for memory retention and to help fight cognitive decline. It worked by enhancing neural connections, either by preserving pathways or erasing unused ones. Its effects were potent and sometimes unpredictable, often causing more harm than good. But people still searched for it. There were safer choices. But its rarity stemmed from the difficulty of harvesting the raw variant, which made it an illicit commodity. People only turned to Variant 3 when nothing else worked, when they were desperate. Like the kid.?

  She remembered the conversation clearly. It had sent a cold shiver down her neck.

  His voice cracked when the lie slipped out.

  She sighed and stood, crossing the room in two large steps.

  Cold morning air drifted in through the open windows, but she didn’t mind. Devon Five felt gentler at night, cooler, quieter, and more honest.

  She pulled out the old, cracked sat-terminal and typed a short message:

  Guess who came to the stall? A Librarian boy, I think. Young. Green eyes. Shaky hands, bad liar. Asked for Variant 3. I didn’t get his name.

  Then she opened the archive logs.

  The information on Variant 3 was as unclear as she remembered. It wasn’t local. There was only one harvest site listed: Sector Delta-V, also called Dead Monk Valley. It was the only confirmed source in this area.

  No mapped routes.

  Coordinates mostly corrupted.

  But she recognized the markers.

  Far.

  Deep desert.

  Beyond the Rainbow Mountains.

  She pulled the image anyway and pinned it to the side of her screen.

  Then came the list: mortar, press, purifier vial, solvent.

  She got up, draped Hayam’s scarf across her shoulders, gathered what she had, and laid the tools out in a neat half-circle on the workbench. It was a ritual. Not to use them, not yet. Just to look at.

  To weigh the maybe.

  She sifted through her ingredients. What she had. What she still needed. She drew up the list.

  And finally, she stood in front of the map on the wall and traced the route with one finger.

  If she had said yes.

  If she were going, and she wasn’t, this is how she’d do it:

  Through the Glass Canyons, where the wind was sharp and sounded almost like singing.

  Over the Rainbow Mountains.

  Sleeping under the sky that doesn’t blink.

  She’d need a ship for part of the way.

  Otherwise, she’d have to skirt the ridges for shadow and travel mostly at night.

  Then a few drifts through the canyons and open terrain.

  A few more, climbing the mountains.

  And then, she didn’t know.

  The final stretch was deep in the Magnetic Zone.

  Uncharted. Unstable.

  Unbelievably hard to resist.

  A place even maps refused to remember.

  But the distance wasn’t impossible. A dozen drifts, maybe.

  Long, but not beyond her.

  She could use Hayam’s desert runner, if it decided to work.

  No place for a trumpet-nose on those steep paths.

  She traced the line again, slower this time.

  It seemed to vibrate beneath her finger, whispering:

  Go. See if the desert eats you, too.

  She stared.

  And her terminal chimed.

  Don’t even think about it.

  She laughed. Of course, she was thinking about it.

  Forget the silver dart, this was something else entirely. Variant 3. If she could reach the site, get enough, and stabilize it as soon as possible, she could bring back enough for one or two sols, easily. Especially if she listed it on the Market Weave. Someone was sure to ask for it.

  That was probably the kid brother of the next Librarian, Hayam wrote.

  Why? she typed back.

  His description matches the missing Heir, green eyes, young, too polite for a thief? And Variant 3? That’s for cognitive decline. Heir Prime or not, he’s too young to be taking it himself. Which means… Someone close to him is sick. Like the current Iso Librarian. They announced it a few drifts ago.

  She sat with that.

  It lined up well.

  She could see it—right on his face.

  He looked desperate. It wasn’t pride or ambition, just desperation. Maybe someone had taken his title and given it away.

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  No, not that. Something else. Something more emotional.

  She remembered his hands. Shaking.

  Her own fingers flexed involuntarily, a mirrored tremor spreading through her hands, as if trying to grasp the boy's urgency. Trying to seem brave.

  He seemed like a boy trying to act grown-up, standing at the edge of a cliff. He was too eager, too sincere, ready to jump in.

  She hated liars. She hated the sound of falsehood curling in someone’s throat, slithering down her spine.

  But that boy…

  He lied like an innocent.

  Not for gain. Not to cheat.

  He had lied to persuade her. To get what he needed.

  She didn’t move. Not for a long while, staring at the fluttering curtain.

  Then, finally, she folded the list and slipped it into her pocket like it didn’t mean anything.

  Her treacherous, infuriating mind, already set.

  Hurry back! she typed to Hayam, tossing the terminal onto her bed.

  The suns were rising.

  And she was going for a run.?

  An hour later, she was sweaty, hot, and exhausted from the rising heat. The air felt different, thinner somehow, sharper, like the morning drift had swallowed something pointy in the night and was now exhaling splinters.

  Her pacing was off, too. Steps too wide. Feet too eager.

  She was angry, and she knew exactly why.

  Hayam wouldn’t be back until the next morning drift, and she was supposed to stay put until then.

  Stay put, with all this new heat in her chest, with all this restless energy itching behind her ribs, and no outlet for any of it. She was going to do something stupid and she had no means to stop herself.

  She’d seen Library delegates before. Never this young. But then again, he wasn’t a delegate, was he? He was an Heir. Still just a boy. Still too young. He reminded her of herself: lost, alone, carrying too much.

  She slipped on soft sand, caught herself with a hiss, and cursed under her breath. She didn’t have the patience for careful running today. Too much buzzing filled her skin, a kind of anxiety that coiled through her spine and twitched down her tail.

  Her tightly bound, double-wrapped tail.

  She’d taken a new path this morning, one that cut behind the long trader row, wound through an alley of tarp-hung drying racks, then climbed up a short rise that overlooked the western edge of the Scorch Market, and the landing pads just beyond.

  She slowed at the top, catching her breath, shielding her eyes.

  Refusing to admit why she’d come this way.

  The docks were quiet. The ships rested like metal frogs on frosted lily pads.

  And still, she watched.

  Unsure why she cared, and at the same time, fully aware she wasn’t going to let it go.

  Helping him was the excuse; the desert was the dare.

  Am I brave enough, or just reckless?

  Maybe, just maybe, she wanted to prove she could bring something back no one else dared to touch.

  She kept seeing his shaking hands. The way his eyes dropped when she said no.

  She had to know.

  She needed to know.

  She turned back toward her stall, her legs tired, her nose assaulted by the alley’s thick stew of market smells, sharp, spoiled, clinging.

  Instantly, she remembered why she never came this way. And hot garbage was the least of her problems.

  Around the corner, dust lifted from a barrel, and she froze.

  Her tail stilled. No threat.

  She crouched low and sniffed the air: urine, rot, sulfur, iron… and something else.

  Something organic. Something wrong.

  She stepped forward, slow, circling the edge of the dust cloud, then stopped.

  Fur. Pink. Wet.

  A small body, shivering in the drift light.

  Transparent fluid dripped from its flank, thick and shiny, turning the red sand black. The puddle smelled sweet and not in a good way, a scent she recognized from Hayam’s scrubs. Behind the barrel, a torn sale tag fluttered. Someone had cut their losses.

  A Mirrora.

  Smaller than the others she had seen. Already out of its chrysalis.

  Scared worse than the silver dart had been.

  It looked up. Not at her hands. Not at her shadow. At her.

  Its eyes were glossy, one bright blue, the other pale gold, too large for its head, but bright. Alive.

  It didn’t blink, as if closing its eyes might mean not opening them again. Its gaze was too deliberate for a creature sold in a market cage.

  Serendipity crouched.

  One slow motion. Palms down. Breath still.

  No threat. No noise. Just patience.

  She didn’t speak. Wouldn’t have helped.

  But she thought something like: It’s alright. You’re seen.

  And maybe the little thing heard her.

  Because it didn’t run.

  She didn’t know why she reached out. Maybe because it looked half-dead.

  Maybe because she didn’t like seeing things give up. Her fingers hovered over its side, not touching, just letting it feel the shape of her.

  The Mirrora flinched, then stilled. Its breathing was fast, too fast. It was hurt. Or scared. Or both.

  “Yeah,” she muttered, “I get that. This desert has a habit of spitting things up, battered and hopeless.”

  She peeled off her outer wrap, tore a clean strip from the edge, and moved slow, as slow as the animal allowed it. The Mirrora didn’t move as she pressed the cloth gently to its wound.

  It just blinked. Once. Long.

  Then it leaned, barely, into her hand.

  “Oh, no,” she said flatly. “Don’t imprint on me. I don’t collect lost causes.”

  It blinked again. She sighed.

  And tucked the bundle of fur and blood and maybe-sentience against her side.

  She stood, wrapped it tighter, adjusted her hold. “I swear, if you die on me, I’m naming you something stupid.”

  The Mirrora made a sound like a hiccup, or maybe just a breath.

  She didn’t smile. But something softened behind her eyes.

  “You’re going to make trouble, aren’t you?” she murmured.

  She turned back toward the stall, the alley smells clinging to her heels.

  The market was waking up. She had a wounded creature in her arms, and she knew without a doubt now that David hadn’t given up.

  He was still here. Somewhere.

  And if he was stupid enough to go into the desert, she was stupid enough to follow.

  The Mirrora stirred in her arms, its breath warm against her collarbone. She adjusted her grip, careful not to press the wound.

  The market had begun to hum, stalls groaning open, sun nets unfurling like tired wings. She slipped between crates and canvas, weaving through back alleys where the scents of spice and engine grease tangled in the air.

  She paused behind a shade tarp, just above one of the lower rows. Ahead, a dark figure spoke loudly to one of the vendors.

  David. The other lost cause.

  She recognized his awkward stance right away. His hands were knotted in front of him. He stood stiffly, talking to a tall man with sleeves rolled to the elbows and a grease smear across his jaw. That was Holland, one of Hayam's old friends, a man who could trade almost anything. If David had found Holland, he'd find a way. But Holland's eyes flicked briefly to the sun, now climbing rapidly in the sky, and a quiet urgency settled into his posture. Ships depart at high sun, he seemed to say without words. Time was slipping through their fingers.

  David looked awkward. Trying not to fidget. Asking questions he probably didn’t know how to phrase. Holland listened, patient but amused. Then, his gaze flicked, not at David, but past him.

  To her.

  They locked eyes.

  Just for a second.

  And Holland, to his credit, didn’t flinch.

  Didn’t call her out.

  Didn’t raise a brow or ask what she was doing crouched behind someone’s spice crate, holding a bloodied bundle like a stolen fruit.

  Instead, he gave her a slow, knowing nod. It meant, Ah, you’re part of this too. She could almost hear his smug voice, and she hated that he was right.

  The corner of his mouth lifted. Barely.

  Approval. Maybe amusement. Maybe a warning. Knowing him, all of them.

  She cursed under her breath. She hated being recognized. And Holland would definitely tell Hayam she’d been lurking.

  But David was still in the market. Still looking for help. He hadn’t left yet, hadn’t made the stupid decision to go alone.

  She’d told herself it wasn’t her problem. That the boy would give up and leave. But here he was, still searching, still stubborn.

  She stepped around the stall and headed back to her own.

  The Mirrora didn’t make a sound.

  And neither did she.