The First Sister by Linden A. Lewis

Author:Linden A. Lewis [Lewis, Linden A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781529386929
Google: LX_dDwAAQBAJ
Amazon: 198212699X
Publisher: Hachette UK
Published: 2020-08-03T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 14

I’m in love with this new posting. Ceres is such a weird place, like nothing really belongs and yet it does. You can see hundreds of years of culture here, and it’s all sitting on top of each other, like no one bothered to wash off yesterday’s makeup but just kept applying more. It’s so mixed-up.

Excerpt from an email written by Hiro val Akira, age 18, to their family

It sounds perfect for you.

Reply from Souji val Akira

Mithridatism lies in a shallow pool of silver light in an otherwise black alley. In the darkness, it’s easy to pretend that it hasn’t been touched by the Fall.

The building’s stocky construction favors the Gean Modernist style. The bottom floors curve with the elegance of florals, punctuated by jutting spurs reminiscent of bones. The walls shimmer with ceramic scales as iridescent as an insect’s wings in soft pinks and blues. The double door handles taper in the middle from the swelled knots on the ends like a human femur. On the second floor, balconies protrude with the sharpness of a jawbone. The windows are bare ports, no two the same, and split as natural rock would be. Each opening is filled with grasping green plants that climb upward or dangle to the floor below.

Then the damage becomes too much to ignore. The top floors are scorched black as onyx, and the roof, once rising and falling like a breathing chest, now ends in a cluster of slanted points. Once I see that, I notice all the other little faults. Bullet holes that have shattered clusters of scales. A balcony collapsing in on itself. A window’s crystalline blue glass shattered.

An unassuming bald man stands outside the entrance, looking at his fingernails with disinterest. He’s most definitely checked me as I’ve checked him, and sure enough, as I step toward the double doors, he approaches me with a manicured hand held out at my hip. “Not for tourists,” he says.

“Not a tourist,” I say. “Trader.”

He doesn’t look impressed. “What kind of trading?”

“Alcohol.”

“Keep talking.”

I dig into an interior pocket in my jacket and return with a cylindrical flask. I have never cared for it myself, not even the expensive rice wine that Hiro steals from their father, but a trader selling alcohol is sure to be a drinker. Plus, carrying this stuff around works as a bribe. “Have a cup?” I ask, but before I can even unscrew the cap, the man snatches it from my hand and tips it back.

He takes a long gulp before smacking his lips and releasing a foul belch. “Tastes like fire.”

I know from my time at Mithridatism that the bar procures odd liquors. “Scorpion wine.”

“Doesn’t taste like it.” He shrugs and hands the flask back to me. After he put his mouth on it, I’m not about to… I screw the cap back on and put it in my jacket.

“If it’s not, I’ll kill the man who sold it to me.” I chuckle, and he joins me, comrades in our misfortune.

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