One Heartbeat

The hospital staff released me two days after I awoke. It was a clear, sunny morning, so the food vendors had come out in full force. There are always people in need of quick meals at hospitals.

Likua helped me walk on the crutches as we approached one of the frozen juice stations. I let him order for me because he always knows which flavor I want: apaia when I’m happy because it reminds me of childhood picnics; kyenyat when I’m sad because it tastes slightly bitter; and bnura (which the Shiji call penorà) at all other times. He ordered himself some frozen puatuamë juice and gave me a combination of kyenyat and apaia, but didn’t provide reasons for his choices.

He read my emotions exactly, of course: I wanted kyenyat because I had failed miserably at my duty as a Tveshi citizen, and I needed apaia because Khadeimo Shekhunnyi wanted to speak with me that afternoon. Adviser Sari had indicated that was a good thing. We found a bench and sat down.

“Your hair looks beautiful without the gyena,” he said.

“I feel naked.” I put a spoon piled with the flavored ice in my mouth and turned towards him. He laughed and pulled it from my mouth. “You know, I’m still in love with her. It’s strange … I mean, she must have notified the assassin in the park. She has always been so cruel to me.  And soon enough, they’ll sentence her and put an arrow between her eyes. How can I still feel this way?”

“Love is irrational. It fills us when we least expect it, and it derives pleasure from forcing us into difficult situations. We are more likely to love those we cannot have than to settle for the ones we can.” He shook his head and chuckled. “What am I saying?”

“I don’t know, but it was beautiful.”

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We left my apartment, where Nurannyi and Likua helped me change from the crumpled hospital clothes into something almost fancy enough to meet the comatose Deimo’s sister, only a quarter of an hour before my appointment with Khadeimo Shekhunnyi. Thankfully, Tveshë knows what to do with its cripples; they held one of the trains for me until I could hobble onto it. Some of the people whispered when they saw me; I later found out that someone in the press had profiled me after learning that I was the woman with Deimo Akaiannyi. After all, no one makes police reports private. At least the picture that ran with the article looked somewhat like me.

Two minutes before my appointment began, I found myself in a large room with fresco-covered walls, friendless and flanked by two grim-faced male security guards. They made Likua wait outside.

Khadeimo Shekhunnyi filed in with two of the advisers, both unknown to me. We greeted each other formally before they reclined on couches against the far wall; moments later, they motioned me to sit on the cushion in front of them. While I knew the protocols, it shocked me how early in my life I needed to exercise them—and that, in the end, I needed to offend them by standing because my injured leg didn’t appreciate the stress I had put it under.

“You’ve made yourself quite the heroine, Akah Nitannyi.” Khadeimo Shekhunnyi’s voice was high and shrill like a soprano flute, and she toyed with her headdress every few moments as though she was unaccustomed to wearing it.

“I would like to respectfully note that any accounts of my heroism or bravery are exaggerated,” I replied. “I’m actually a bit of a coward; I should have gone to the authorities with the information—”

She raised her right hand. “You filed a police request the day before it happened. There is no fault there on your account; the blame rests fully on the outdated laws—and Daybreak, of course.”

“We would like to raise another issue with you,” the man to her left said. “The government has decided to allow more representation from Narahja due to recent political events in the region.”

“What?”

“We think that, as you have proven yourself loyal to the federal government—and as someone active within her region—that you would make a well-informed choice. More specifically, you have both a mixed and Menashi background, which will make the Menashi minority and relocated individuals feel like they have a voice. However, your family’s adherence to Narahji cultural norms for more than one generation will align you with the Narahji.” He paused. “If you have a meeting with the Tveshi Cultural Coalition’s media center and bring the focus to your commitment to traditional values, you could gain majority support easily.”

I stared at him. “I’m not planning on starting a bid for the Senate this early in my life.”

“We’re not thinking of the Senate,” Khadeimo Shekhunnyi said. She smoothed the front of her aniku. “We are offering you a position as an adviser to the Deimo.”

“But Deimo Akaiannyi’s not well. She cannot accept it.”

“Her daughter is Deimo by default when my sister stops breathing, and I am in control of the government until that child reaches the age of majority in fourteen years. You will find no barriers within the royal family.”

The woman at Deimo Shekhunnyi’s right handed her a piece of paper and whispered something. She looked like one of the people I had seen outside the holographic gardens, always willing to pay but never willing to go beyond the antechamber where people suited up because she feared the illusions inside. Those people were worse than the individuals who thought that their teenage children had contracted the muakanua instead of a severe cold.

Everything that Khadeimo Shekhunnyi and the advisers told me made perfect sense. The assassination had provided them with the opportunity to add more Narahji representation without angering the Shiji purists. They would provide incentives for the news agencies to cover this story in Menarka while keeping the spotlight on Deimo Akaiannyi in Galasu; the surrounding cities in each region would follow suit. After all, Menarka did not house the monarchy. Half of the residents had boycotted the last Deimo’s funeral in 1861.

I agreed to think it over.

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Likua and I went to the Narahji market afterwards and ate candied menya balls. Halfway through one of his stories from the deep canyons, I finally realized how much I had missed him.