One Heartbeat

In the wake of tragedies, Tveshi legal decisions happen very quickly, almost too quickly. Once they have assembled all of the testimonies, they are played on a video screen in the open courtroom—perfectly rigged so that prosecuting and defense attorneys cannot milk questions. All of the testifiers are required to show that they have taken a blood oath to be completely open and honest for the duration of their statement. It plays like a documentary at the front of the room; the legal tribunal controls when everything is stopped, paused, or replayed.

All of the accused remain in their cells to avoid provoking hostile responses from the crowd. Or … at least, they have since a few years after the interim government ended and the New Dynasty began, back when Deimo Tiannyi’s sister was murdered. Someone put a bullet through the murderer’s head in the courtroom—a service, some said, because her mind had snapped sometime between following the poor woman home to kill her and beating her skull into pulp with a statue of Likhera. Most testifiers remain at home and wait for the tribunal’s sentence. I certainly hadn’t intended to go.

The idea first entered my mind while making offerings at the apartment’s shrine—white incense fresh from the Menarki market and thin slivers of candied fruit. For the first time since we had moved in, Nurannyi had turned on the large viewscreen on the opposite wall, flipping through entertainment channels for something that wasn’t a documentary or an opera. She stopped on a music video channel to watch a program on the music of Mityen. After I finished praying, I decided to sit down next to her on the cushions.

I want to drop in at the trial.

She looked down at her hands. I know.

Do you think it would be terrible of me? I mean, I—

Do what you want to do. She paused the screen and lay down on her side, looking up at me. I almost thought that she would start laughing, but she caged it and put her hand on my shoulder. For the first time, I didn’t flinch. Just … when you come back, stop at the market. I made a list. Bags are on the counter.

I nodded and pulled myself up. Five minutes later, I veiled my hair with a deep indigo gyena and checked the charge on my walking assistant—a mechanical contraption that took most of the weight off of my leg so I could walk, courtesy of Khadeimo Shekhunnyi. For the market, I put a string of hard lh. in my pocket.

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Most of the testaments didn’t shock me. Sehutannyi and her co-conspirators denied an official sanction from Daybreak, and they all seemed remorseful—not because they had murdered Deimo Akaiannyi, but because she didn’t die immediately. And … in case I need to see them again, a data disc has been given to the judicial archives. While I’m sure that someone will write a book about what just happened—someone who may portray me less as the clumsy, glory-greedy woman I am and more like a heroine—for the moment it is completely mine.

And that’s not an exaggeration. I’m watching it right now, trying to get back into what went through my head as I stood at the back of a packed courtroom staring at Likua’s face on the video feed.

The conversation goes something like this:

LIKUA sits with his hands folded neatly on a table. He is well-groomed, eyeliner applied skillfully according to up-to-date Menarki male fashion, arm makeup enhancing any natural musculature so he looks subtly well-built. Around his neck, he wears a copper pendant with an inscribed prayer to Yilrega. His sleeveless burgundy shirt has a crisp spiral pattern that runs along the collar. His eyes are purple-tinged, not ash gray. This is important.

LIKUA: [clearing his throat] The situation first came to our attention several weeks ago. A woman I know, Akah Nitannyi—who I believe will also testify—overheard a disturbing conversation on a train. We … manipulated her, something I deeply regret—

INTERVIEWER: I didn’t know that the collective was capable of regret.

LIKUA: [taps his fingers on the table twice before continuing] She knew one of the conspirators and became intimate with her to gain other information. When she completed that task, she didn’t go to us, but to the authorities. What else would you like to know?

INTERVIEWER: What is your function within Equilibrium Nexus?

LIKUA: While not officially a member of the organization, I have made an agreement to freely provide any information they might find pertinent or useful, and to assist them when needed.

INTERVIEWER: What is your function within the nuamua?

LIKUA: [significant pause] I … don’t know how to answer that question. Is it important?

Coping with discovering a friend’s true identity is somewhat like coping with the death of one’s fiancée. First comes denial. On that warm summer day, I first assumed that the interviewer had made a mistake assuming that everyone affiliated with Equilibrium Nexus had to be a nuamë. Unfortunately, everyone with more than a casual association with Equilibrium Nexus is. Few records mention that.

INTERVIEWER: [another significant pause, during which LIKUA looks progressively more uncomfortable] I suppose not. Where did you find information on the assassination plot, and why didn’t you come forward?

LIKUA: I hacked into communication bands and computer accounts. Several video feeds from public transportation authorities. [laughter] Why didn’t I come forward? The law only grants immunity to people in my line of work once an individual has been accused of a crime. If any of us had come forward with information beforehand, you would have put us in jail without considering the evidence—and the conspirators would have had immunity.

INTERVIEWER: But you’re a nuamë. Anything you do cannot be referred to civilian courts.

LIKUA: And what does that say about people affiliated with us? If the police had taken Akah Nitannyi’s information seriously, you would have had the legal responsibility to punish her for coming forward.

Suka says that I react emotionally for everything. That Likua had not denied it—and that I saw him for the first time since our reconnection two years ago without his colored contacts——but also that the pain medication’s side effects—made me feel like curling up into a ball on the floor. Unfortunately, my leg didn’t have enough mobility for that, so I pulled the gyena over my face and started to cry.

I should have known what his absence meant. I should have known why his family never wanted to see him and why Suka had become such a passionate advocate for their rights. Every conversation we had ever had, every moment of my recovery from Kelis’s death … all of them could know, at least if they wanted.

Karatau Meiyenesi had plucked my likes and dislikes from Likua’s mind like ripe fruit.