One Heartbeat

My first commute began at 2h.35 this morning. I overestimated the time it took to go from the platform at the River Market District Station to Senatorial Square. People in formal aniku and hepteri styles jostled me as I struggled off the skyrail platform, and children in school uniforms wove through the crowds. We packed into the elevators like canned meat.

In Senatorial Square, street vendors threw newspapers and cups of steaming noodles in my way as I struggled to get my bearings, competing for the cash that I don’t yet have. When I found Kisera Street, the buskers had already begun to offer music.

The chaotic noise ceased almost immediately when I entered the national headquarters. I leaned against the door and closed my eyes for a few moments to collect my thoughts before looking around. Almost immediately, I noticed the Progressive Movement’s seven-pointed star hanging on a banner. Frayed and faded, I recognized it as the one used in the 1833 founding ceremony. In front of the reception desk, an image of Nukena knelt in a small fountain. I paid my respects before turning to the reception desk.

Our receptionist, Akah Helë, didn’t say much to me. He checked my identification and made me fill out forms; once I had completed them, he handed me a personalized access badge.

A woman approached the front desk from behind. From the henna designs crawling up her arms and the undyed skin, I recognized her as a member of the Eneiji denomination. The pattern stopped just beneath her rising and falling breasts. Mësahelepui, she said, wiping her left palm across her upturned right hand. I repeated the gesture and smiled at her as she said the obligatory welcoming remarks.

As we began to walk, she asked, Have they told you your assignment?

No, I replied, trying to pay attention. In the conference rooms at either side, I glimpsed people I had only heard about. Clustered around the tables and dynamic presentation screens, I saw advertisement strategies for political rallies and fund-raising, along with the room where lobbyists brainstormed how to approach Deimo Akaiannyi with our requests. For the first time since I accepted the job, I felt like I belonged.

You will assist Akah Karatau, she told me. However, you must never call him that. He uses the nickname Kara.

My brain searched for people in the movement with that name, but the only Akah Kara who came to mind was the one who had helped found the Progressive Movement. No one would assign someone new to someone so high-profile, even with the work I had done at the regional level. Perhaps they had another Karatau who worked in political strategy—as the most common name in Shija, it wasn’t impossible.

We made small talk about business procedures as we approached the elevator. On the way up, though, she turned towards me. In a scandalous move, she pulled my gyena to my shoulders.

Suka says that I should have punched her in the face. Instead, I stood paralyzed (and, I’ll admit, slightly excited). My hands clutched the scarf’s trails as she adjusted my hepteri vest’s lacing, and my face felt hot.

The opening doors prevented her from violating me more. I quickly raised the gyena over my hair and threw the trail over my left shoulder. She looked at me, furrowing her brow like she didn’t understand my outrage, and said, If you want to survive in Shija, nikuvu, you need to get used to others touching you.

I floundered. Would I spill henna on your arms? I wanted to say, but of course I didn’t. Without knowing the order of things, I knew that I should avoid making more enemies than necessary. At least she hadn’t used the offensive term for a non-Shija person.

Akah Kara met us in his dimly-lit office, which overlooked the intersection at Kiera and Orchard Boulevard. A stack of old-fashioned paper lay on the desk beside his personal computing unit. Like most professionals, he used an integrated holographic interface and several monitors. Several documents projected from the transparent vertical panel, along with an image feed from one of the Progressive Movement’s recent events. The entire unit had probably cost 400 lh., more money than someone like me would make in three months. He raised his eyebrow when he saw us enter. In his old face, I saw a glimmer of sadness.

This is my new assistant? He pushed away from his desk and stood. My stomach dropped when I saw him—it was the Akah Kara I had thought of. While somewhat laughable, I actually had an urge to prostrate. I hope that Akah Sehutannyi didn’t use you poorly on the way up. She has that effect on people sometimes. Dependable girl, though—like rock. Good at hardening new staff members.

Sehutannyi shifted her weight and clasped her hands behind herback. Akah Nitannyi has an aversion to speaking. She said it much too slowly, which indicates sarcasm or humor in Shija because the Shiji cannot recognize jokes without obvious vocal cues.

Akah Kara chuckled. Bring me the report from PR on yesterday’s forum proceedings, and I might laugh next time. Sehutannyi nodded and exited the room. Her footfalls whispered against the stone floor. As I said, wonderful girl, but she has a tongue of acid, he said as soon as she had left hearing range.

My heart felt like it would leap from my chest, and my palms felt slick. Thank you, sir.

He cracked his knuckles and looked back at the paperwork-covered desk. You look surprised, and I apologize … we don’t tell people who they will work with until their first day. It minimizes media attention.

That’s not a problem. What do you foresee me working on, Akah Kara?

You will accomplish tasks as they arise. He sighed and looked out the window, wiping sweat from his wrinkled brow with a handkerchief. When he looked back at me, a single tear ran down his cheek. Pardon an old man and his memories. You look so much like someone I used to know …

I mean the man no disrespect by writing this, but I wish that he were more forthcoming about the particulars.