Anne Winchell - The Last War

“The díamont is currently leading the resistance movement in the slums.”

Raven drew in a sharp breath.

“He has already led one mass protest that ended in violence and injuries to dozens of police and protestors. He is dangerous,” Medane said, keeping his focus on Raven. “He will continue inciting violence. People will be killed if he isn’t stopped.”

Raven was silent. Medane knew he was weighing the consequences in his head. Raven had led the last serious attempt against the government when nearly fifty of his fellow protestors had been killed in the Graveyard Massacre. Medane wasn’t sure if Raven would be willing to risk more deaths if it meant that the movement would finally be successful, and he knew that the longer Raven thought, the more likely he was to refuse.

“Kaela, let us speak in private for a moment.”

She left quickly, closing the door with a small thud. His assistant would be outside to prevent her from leaving. Not that she had anywhere to go.

“Medane, this isn’t my kind of mission. I’m not just some hitman who kills at random.”

“I know,” Medane said, trying to sound compassionate. “And if I knew anyone else who were capable of this, I would ask them. But this is a díamont, Raven, a serious threat to the entire world.”

He could tell Raven was considering, wavering, and Medane continued. “I’m willing to pay you six billion díons for this, three up front. I believe that’s about a third of everything you’ve earned in the past ten years. This mission is that important.”

Raven stared at the ground and Medane tried to think of anything else he could add. But it was dangerous to bribe Raven like this. Best to leave it with money, he reasoned. If he piled too many perks and gifts on, Raven might realize he was being manipulated.

“I’ll bring the díamont to you,” Raven finally said. “But I can’t promise I’ll kill him. What do you know so far?”

Medane tried to hide his relief and pleasure, limiting himself to a smile.

“Let’s get Kaela back and I’ll tell you everything.”

Physical labor was not something Nalia enjoyed, but manual gardening was one of the trademarks of the resistance and it was her job to take care of the garden behind her father’s business. They were trying to show the government that people were capable of being self-sufficient without worldwide commerce. In many parts of the Eastern World, people used only what they could produce. Nalia had never been to a rural area, but she had met actual farmers from the African state who lived in communities of less than a thousand and had to take fuel cars to reach the city. They were the people her resistance movement was trying to help.

Even though Nalia lived in the slums, she was still a resident of NeoLondon, center of the Eastern World. And when her father had sent her to school outside of the European state in order to broaden her horizons, she had gone to the main center of commerce in the Asian state, Seoul. When Nalia was being honest with herself, she worried that her involvement in the movement was just another elitist attempt to transform the lower class. She had their best interests at heart, but wasn’t that exactly what the government said?

Nalia pulled a weed and winced as grains of dirt showered her hands. Her father said that the soil was much better now than it had been just after the war. He had gotten it from the Asian state, where there were still natural areas with no human development, and slowly mixed the rich foreign soil with the ashy native dirt until plants were able to take root. And weeds, Nalia thought as she yanked another out. For every crop that succeeded, there were dozens of weeds. Sometimes Nalia thought her father had called her back from Seoul just to help with the gardening after her mother died.

She dumped the weeds into the incinerator, picked up her basket of vegetables, and headed back inside. Her father said doing daily chores would help her keep in touch with the people despite her new abilities. He said díamonts were only dangerous when they stopped thinking of themselves as human, and he was incredibly strict about how she could use her powers. He didn’t, however, know about the bracelet that Nalia had picked up at the protest. The bracelet wasn’t made of ordinary metal, Nalia knew, because it had remained intact after being dropped, probably from a passing airship. But it also wasn’t ordinary because as soon as she put it on, it seemed to shrink to fit her wrist. She couldn’t get it off, but in all fairness she also hadn’t tried very hard.

The very first time Nalia found herself trapped in diamond skin and barely able to move, she had been terrified. Her father had talked her through the ordeal and soon she was able to control her body and plan her transition from one form to the other. But she learned very quickly that if she were wearing anything metal when she transformed, it melded with her skin. She had a line of golden skin from her favorite necklace now and was extremely careful about what she wore. But this bracelet remained solid in díamont and human form. Whatever it was, Nalia liked it. She could finally wear jewelry without having to constantly worry about accidentally transforming.

Her father, Klaus, greeted her as she entered the kitchen but didn’t look up from his cooking. Their home had long ago been transformed into an inn where homeless locals and resistance fighters gathered for free food and shelter. It was more than an inn in some ways; it was a safehouse where dozens of people could hide in a maze of hidden passages and underground corridors that ran from various secret entrances around the house to ultimately end up in a large bunker deep underground. Klaus had some connection with a European district that let him spend money freely, and his generosity and wealth were the backbone of the resistance. After Nalia’s first appearance as Galley, Grader’s Inn had been bursting with people from all the nearby islands, and even a few from the main European state.

Nalia emptied her basket of ripe vegetables into the fridge.

“Wash two potatoes, I need them,” Klaus said, again without looking.

“They’re pretty small.”

“Three, then.”

She set three potatoes on the counter and finished putting the rest away. She had hoped to get out of the kitchen before being roped into more chores, but no luck. It wasn’t that she didn’t like helping out, but she wanted to go into the main room, where guests and locals would be waiting to meet her. Not that they knew she was Galley, the díamont, of course. Klaus insisted that she not tell any of the newcomers in case they were spies. Nalia didn’t mind. She was still the daughter of Klaus, a major figure in the movement. She still got plenty of attention, and all of the NeoLondoners knew who she was.

The water ran ice cold as she scrubbed the measly potatoes. Hot water was rare in the slums but Klaus usually managed to keep it at a decent temperature. Maybe the government had totally shut down gas pipelines into the slums after the protest. Whatever the reason, the water felt nice after being out in the stuffy and humid garden.

“Peel and slice them, too.”

She stifled a groan of annoyance. She knew he was trying to help her adjust to her new fame, but she didn’t need to be stuck in the kitchen to do it. Even a year ago, Nalia might have been tempted to throw a fit and leave, maybe even run away to a friend’s house before coming home the next day. She was proud of her progress and thought that it showed maturity when she smiled at her father and starting peeling potatoes. She would just have to prove to him that she was ready for responsibility.

Nalia peeled patiently, only interrupting her father to ask how big to slice the potatoes. She had just finished slicing one when there was a knock and one of Klaus’ friends appeared at the kitchen door.