At the dedication ceremony, senior members of the church speak about how much this new building will mean to the community. I believe it. In my journal there’s a picture of the old church. At best, it was a glorified barn. This new building has real walls, the kind that actually keep the heat out instead of just blocking sunlight. And, my stepfather’s greatest pride, it has a series of attached rooms, each large enough to give temporary shelter to a family of four. Rural wastelanders eschew formal houses, but on bright days, days when the sun is too close and the atmosphere too thin, even those adept at living rough need more than mud over their heads.
The theme of the night is gratitude, so every speaker thanks God. But the theme for the night is also survival, so they are careful to thank Nik Nik almost as often. I don’t know if they’re thanking the emperor for a donation, or if they’re thanking him for the privilege of having a building without his runners burning it down, but they aren’t really grateful, just afraid of what will happen if they don’t look it.
Nik Nik is sitting behind me. The Ruralites always save a seat in the back row for him during services, even though he rarely attends. Just as they always save a seat for the House proprietor, even though Exlee has no use for religion. They are both here tonight though: Exlee because standing there looking like the only soft thing in the desert is an excellent advertisement, and Nik Nik because he wants to remind people who bow to God that they must bow to him first. I stare at Exlee, done up in leather and black glitter, and long for the days when the proprietor knew my name.
After the speeches, my mother serves refreshments from behind a counter while the rest of my family gives tours of the facility. When I go to her, she hands me a glass of lemonade like I’m just another donor. It’s her own recipe—hints of honey, the scent of lavender without the taste. She’s not allowed to brag, but when I say it’s the best thing she’s ever made she doesn’t correct me.
“Did you have to invite everyone?” I ask.
She manages to convey irritation without compromising the benevolence in her face. It’s all in the eyes. “He gave. Everyone who gave is entitled to come.”
She has to be respectful, because if you disrespect Nik Nik, he may want to teach you a lesson. That lesson can be a quadrupled utility bill, or a house fire set by a smiling runner.
I’ve never catered to him. But then, I’ve never been afraid to die, which has probably been my problem on more than one Earth.
“I don’t know why you hate him so much,” she says. “It’s not as if he’s ever crossed us personally.”
I open my mouth to tell her how wrong she is, but she continues, saving me from making a mistake.
“We left downtown before he even inherited.”
Hearing my mother talk about leaving the center of Ash reminds me where and who I am and which one she is. She doesn’t know how many other hers died in the concrete because of Nik Nik and his even-worse father…but you’d think she could guess.
“You’re right. I’ve never met the emperor. I just don’t like the idea of him.”
She stiffens, tapping the lemonade ladle against the bowl.
The sound is too loud in the room, which has suddenly gone silent. Which means he’s here. If I turn around, I’ll see the spectacle of Nik Nik: two tight rows braided just above his left ear, because he is the third in his line to control Ash; the rest of his hair left down so everyone who sees him knows he is not a man who works in the wastelands or with machines or at all; and in his mouth, all four incisors plated in synthetic onyx so they shine like black diamonds and, yes the rumors are true, cut just like them too.
And there is a world where in this moment a more reckless and honest me smashes my lemonade glass and cuts his throat with a shard, where I put my hands into his still-warm blood and the thick of it washes away the multitude of shames I carry. But that world and that me are so different from this one I doubt Eldridge would ever be able to resonate with it. I am no longer reckless, and I have never been honest.
I set the glass back down at my mother’s station and leave the room to find Esther. I haven’t heard Nik Nik’s voice in over six years, and I intend to keep it that way.
To bring the night to a close, everyone is gathered outside. Daniel and Esther have each had moments addressing the crowd tonight, but this time it’s Michael who steps forward alone. He doesn’t speak. He just kneels, checking the wind every so often, until we finally see a faint spark in his hands. By the time he walks back to the crowd the sky is exploding over us. Michael is the son of the Ruralite leader, but he doesn’t give sermons. He worships with fire.
The religious are the only ones who use explosive powders anymore. Weapons capable of murdering from a distance were banned after the civil wars, when Nik Senior took power, long before I was born. It feels miraculous to watch the fireworks, louder and brighter than anything Wiley City can ever give me.
Voices murmur through the crowd. This is when Ruralites believe in making confession, when the fire has grabbed God’s attention and no mortal ears can hear through the explosion. So I wait, and when the next bloom of gold breaks open into the sky with a scream, I tell my truth.
“I am not Caramenta,” I say. “Caramenta is dead.”
* * *
CARAMENTA DIED SIX years ago on Earth 22, my actual home Earth.
I was born Caralee, but I’d been Caralexx since my seventeenth birthday when I’d finally gotten tired of fighting for scraps in a world that would always be Nik Nik’s. Once his dad died and Nik got true power, I put an x on my name and became his favorite girl. But he had a jealous streak as wide as his smile. I learned early on he was no different from my mom in handing out punishments for things I’d never done. My real mother—not the wilting silk scrap of a woman on Earth Zero who belongs to Esther, Michael, and Daniel but who will never be mine.
Out on the edge of the wasteland that was still half wet from the mostly dead river, Nik spent the night pretending to drown me. He held my head in the muck, but pulled me back before my lungs were even really burning.
I’d say, Why’d you stop?
And he’d say, Practicing.
Then he left, and left me alive, like he always did, because he liked me walking back to him tired and blistered. He liked caring for me afterward, as if the damage were done by someone else.
I was in a piece of the wasteland where the Rurals still reach in Earth Zero, face caked in mud that had turned as hard as fired clay under the sun, wishing I had anywhere else to go. That’s when I saw the body.
Her eyes had starbursts of red in the white. Her left arm was broken out once and then back in again like a puppet, her shoulders caved forward but her spine bent back. In all my years living rough, I’d never met anyone who could stomach doing that to a person. Hers were the only tracks in the dirt—drag marks, not footprints. She’d pulled herself a little with her good arm, but whatever grace had pushed her had worn off, and a blood tide was crawling from her mouth across the sand.