One Heartbeat

Those words come from a drama written in the second century by Akah Gysabalar. We studied her work for an entire month in my regional literature class. Akah Gysabalar came from a village in the Middle Depths to Menarka while the Deimo’s seat remained in the ancestral regions. She wrote two books of poetry, composed ninety-seven Narahji dramas, and her posthumous memoirs provide the most readable firsthand account of court life in second-century Tveshë. While it may seem strange for a young woman interested in a political career to adore a playwright, Towers of Smoke: the Memoirs of Gysabalar tal Katsun provided me with much of my drive to make a difference in the world and motivated me to enter politics. Those of us from the canyon dark have histories and literature, science and technology—and no one can take away these achievements or diminish our current potential unless we let them.

I read the majority of Towers of Smoke on my own, staying up late with a light beneath the covers in my room. Her words burned into my brain as the hours counted up towards dawn. Perhaps writing about her provides a form of self-justification for what I did today. In 167 Standard Count, Akah Gysabalar married Katvoa tal Kisrem, an ambitious young judge. She met him through his sister, one of Deimo Meksar’s attendants. On 2 Čelakhin of Thaukol 168, Akah Gysabalar left their house on Medesa Avenue—when Menarka was reconstructed after the Invasion, this residential district became the open air market—with a bag of correspondences and torn-out pages from her husband’s personal journal. She walked down Hamakra Way towards the bridge leading to the palace. Before half an hour had passed, she had betrayed her husband and his co-conspirators to the palace authorities. Her husband was executed seven weeks later for plotting to murder a rival at court.

We do not live in the second century, and Menarka is no longer the center of government. With only illegal evidence to support me, I cannot make claims against any members of the Daybreak Movement. I need something in writing, something in live audio, before they move.

As a political party employee, I cannot join Citizen Watch. However, I do have Suka’s cousin. Thoughts of conspiracy woke me up early this morning; I called him because he never seems to sleep. He had to close his window to hear me over the blætsa birds. I have to do something, I said. Please help me.

All right, but we need to set some rules, he said. His face looked ghostly, illuminated only by his monitors and a rainbow of indicator lights from his equipment. What we’re doing is—

Right. But if I have writings—

Still illegal. Spies need to be as discerning as a maksei digging into the canyon wall. One wrong move and you start a landslide. He sighed and looked right at his video transmitter—which is to say, he looked right at me. We need to figure out whose heart the bullets belong to and catch them in the act. If you come forward with case-relevant information afterwards, they will provide anyone involved with legal immunity. Meanwhile, sign every petition you can to change those inane laws.

I nodded solemnly. I can agree to that. Tell me what you want me to do.

Like most Narahji women my age, my hair is styled with dreadlocks and braids, metal hair cuffs and beads. I usually tie the dreads and braids together and secure them behind my head, but not anymore: Likua is sending me an audio implant for one of my dreadlocks. Today, I started to wear my hair in a different style to accommodate this future addition: sixteen small braids now loop around my head and attach to the back dread with cuffs, and I have cuffed the others. The two front ones slip out from beneath my white gyena.

Likua is now my official angel.

I ate lunch in the rooftop gardens today: bread with nut spread, two pieces of fruit, and meat from a street vendor. She sat at another table. When she glanced at me, goosebumps flashed up my arms. My hands moved slowly towards one of the fruits; birds fluttered in my stomach. I gripped it in my left hand and brought it up to my mouth. It smelled like paradise. As I bit into it, I let the juice run down my chin and chewed its tangy flesh. Sehutannyi lowered her eyes. Color rushed into her cheeks.

She must remember what happened. I’m counting on it. Otherwise, how will I make her trust me?