A prompt medical screening derived no serious injury, so Jessica returned home the very same night. She wouldn't leave, at first. Beth's remains were somewhere; they had to be. The cleanup crew was coy, however, and offered nothing until they came upon the necklace, the six-sided star.
Under the dark sky, only the sound of her feet brought company. Hers was a slow, remorseful gai down and down the village avenues, head low in the cast shadow. Plenty of white orbs to guide her path home, which retreated in the silence of solitude. No other soul stirred on the path home, a path long-winding. The gravity board had never felt so useless.
She mumbled recitations nearly every step of the way. Beyond the yards and terraces, she repeated them. Past the closed doors to cafes and restaurants, she cemented them. At the storefront where big, lightless letters spelled Tacquizza, she shouted them.
"What is the point?"
Crickets...
The moment she entered her apartment, she took off her dirty uniform and fell on the sheets.
Sleep was impossible.
***
"We awake to a city in mourning, as federal officials comb through what remains of..."
"Dozens of innocent lives lost in what authorities are calling..."
"What is undoubtedly the most calculated terror attack in recent memory..."
Dismal looks filled Goliath's floors the next morning. TNN, ARB, ANA, PCS – Just about every watermark signed the luminescent grid of employee terminals. The tragedy played everywhere, from television to social media. Engineers wept silently as they listened to the anchors and reporters rehash Pine Rime Hovels, an event "clouding New Sumer in tragedy."
Nearly every other listed target was unscorched. Asgard units deployed fast enough to evacuate civilians. Investigations revealed zero explosives at most locations. Already, speculation was in the air concerning the "why" and "how," but most news coverages focused on the identities of the lost. The headlines varied slightly.
What 'fake' news sites the Azarean hierarchy failed to shut down pointed fingers at different groups, while social media blamed the disaster on either lax security or conspiracy. Public opinion, however—reinforced by mainstream news reports—chose to believe the terror was prejudice-driven. They accepted that the organization known as Sub Terra was real, that xenophobia had armed a portion of Earth's population against the Azarean-controlled Union. An attack on Eden, a city of the Union, implied hate as a motive, even if the victims were humans. So long as friction survived between cultures, terrorism had met its goal, so claimed the government and media.
David kept silent beside the memo board. He had forgotten his hat, and the exposed furrow in his brow steered dejectedly towards every workstation. His tired eyes and their dark rings watched the holo-recording, in front of which some employees had gathered. The sight stung in places he preferred docile at work.
"Stop that!" he stammered. His outburst startled everyone, so they shut off the news and returned to work. The room's tension permeated as he let out a deep sigh, rubbing his head for an imaginary headache that crept close.
"Everyone," he began apologetically, "eyes up..."
Curious, confused, scared, and somber eyes fell from every corner of the room. Shaking his head and crossing his arms, he failed to consider his next words. Nevertheless, something for the long day ahead felt warranted.
"Everyone tried their best. And the reason some of you might feel it wasn't enough is because it wasn't..." Defeat and guilt interlinked the employees' faces. "But nobody should feel guilty! Not for working toward the right thing, and not for evil perpetrated by some cowards behind a camera! We were blindsided. End of. If someone needs to take a day off, I understand. Me, I still see the value in getting things done, because no terrorist is going to shit on my routine.
"Sorry..."
The director was unsure how his speech would affect the downcast workforce, but he did notice more chins up. None of them seemed ready to leave.
Following the bustle of feet to seats and busy keyboards, a looming figure stepped right beside David.
"Clever and collected conveyance on your part, director."
Over his shoulder, he saw Malvis. The Azarean, by default, was a presence that did not need to be present. Therefore, resentment stirred in his belly. "Morning, Malvis," he said mechanically.
"Did you inquire after our employee of interest?"
"I forgot. Judging by the outcome, I don't imagine they'd care. Do you watch the news, Malvis?"
"I keep informed; I assure you."
David rubbed his chin at the alien. "You weren't lying when you said Asgard was fast. They may have been lucky, however, since they reached the buildings that harbored no explosives."
"Yes, the outer city was unfortunate. I can already promise that such an outrage shall not be left unrequited by my superiors. An attack on but one Eden constitutes a war against my kind, even if casualties manifest nothing more than humans. This militant group, Sub Terra, shall be routed to its foundations."
David suddenly remembered why Malvis was so easy to loathe and loathed him more. "You know, Malvis, let me at least apologize to you."
"For what, in particular?"
"For the Azareans who got caught in the blast."
Malvis deadpanned.
"I heard the Bomb Disposal Unit was at Pine Rime when it happened. An Azarean uniform, correct?"
"That is correct, director."
"Does the Union have a plan to rid New Sumer of these monsters, these cowards who hide behind a camera? Now that they're out in the open, something's gotta be done."
"They will gauge every plausible endeavor." With that, Malvis sauntered off. "And, director, inquire after our mystery savior in the memo."
"Of course," he sighed, then muttered under his breath. "Persistent."
Malvis waited for the elevator, staring straightly and blankly at the double doors. When they opened, his gait was perfect, almost. Perfectly upright, he waited until for the doors to shut. Once alone, his unstable hands prevailed in weaving discomfort throughout his entire body. It worsened as he took off his glasses and faced the floor. He clenched his scalp, compressed his breath, and out of his coat pocket retrieved a tin case. Plucking a thin syrette, he Inhaled through his nostrils and rolled up his sleeve for a quick injection. One last, slow breath and he opened his eyes.
The trembling stopped. He tucked the tin case away and delicately unfurled his sleeve. Staring at the elevator doors, upright and hands folded behind his back, he was perfectly calm.
ns 15.158.61.48da2
