Ex Lacrima Remnant

Track #7 – Liminality

Lacrima let her vines touch the ground, while they slowly shifted from their tendril form to a makeshift arm and back, in a continuous, silent dance. Her body was still processing the loss of her sword, gathering nutrients and materials to produce a new one. Her bare feet were scraping the dried soil scattered all over the broken tiles, leeching every drop of minerals and traces of metal they could absorb. Vegetal matter alone wasn’t enough to reconstruct a blade, she needed more components. That would have also made good use of her excess lymph, fortunately. Her body was still producing too much of it, pumping it through her system, causing it to ooze out of her open wounds. She almost wished Robin were a junkie, someone who would lick it away from her skin, drink her sweat and body fluids, free her from that curse that made her plant parts grow healthier and lusher, to the detriment of her flesh. Her eye rose had never been more beautiful, though, which attracted many more birds in the wild. That was the only good thing that came out of it. She let her head rest in her right arm. Draining lymph out of her body was painful, inconvenient and inefficient. She knew a couple methods to do that on her own, but many required self-harm, vomiting or stimulating her body in specific ways to trigger a large release of lymph. That last method took significant effort to get to fruition and dulled her senses for a while. Sure, it was by far the least unpleasant way to get rid of her extra fluids, but had a massive downside: it left her wide open to sudden assaults, since it put her whole body out of commission for minutes after the act. Minutes. Even as few as five minutes were an impossibly large amount of time for someone on the run. Her allergy to rhizomes gave her a head start, true, but her slowed-down reflexes in her post-lymph-release state made it impossible for her to react in time. For once, though, she blessed her flawed overactive capillary network. The extra influx of lymph was speeding up her recovery by a significant margin, which meant that she had a chance of leaving that abandoned house before the Corps zeroed on her.

On them.

Robin was sitting on the other side of the dark, empty room, still staring at her. In the dim lights, Lacrima could still make out some of her colors, those unique colors. Her red cape contrasted with her emerald eyed, emerald gem and emerald hair that made her look less like a human being and more like an elf, a djinn of legend. Lacrima’s brain immediately associated her to a macaw or a parakeet, though. Same shade of green as the plumage of those majestic creatures. Her hair looked like tufts of feather too, from a certain point of view. Yet, her name was Robin. Not Ara, not Parrot. Robin. Weirdly dissonant, but not something anyone could change. She just had to accept it, as she had accepted her name was Lacrima and not Rose or Hummingbird. Lacrima meant ‘tear’ in the language of science, but also referred to a genus of lichens and one of grapes. What she had in common with either of them, she didn’t know. She had often wondered why Father gifted her that peculiar moniker.

“Of course, it’s because I’m a chad.”

His voice resonated in her mind, clear as day. She groaned. That might have been his response, as he always came up with something like that, back then.

Her vines kept touching the floor, reading the vibrations going through the building, while her body was slowly sucking up all nutrients it could find in that place forgotten by man. She focused on the signals coming from her tendrils. Still nobody in the vicinity. Her nose was not prickling either. So, no humans. No machines. No rhizomes. A rare moment of quiet, indeed. Which meant she could listen to Robin, watch her gently breathe in the dim light of the room, ask her questions. She raised her head, looked straight at the green girl that reminded her of a parrot, at the gem shining in the middle of her forehead, before finally starting to talk.

“‘Lagash gives, Lagash takes’, you said… but what exactly is Lagash?”

Robin nodded, still keeping some distance. That Lacrima, her savior, was a strange rhizome, one hostile to her own species and to the Peacekeepers. Yet, she wasn’t sure she could trust her. For all she knew, it might have been an elaborate Corps plant to force her to talk. So, caution it was, despite the ruckus she had gone through – or, rather, because of it. She shrugged, trained her eyes on that curious red iris in front of her.

“How long have you lived in New Babylon?”

“Two years. Before, I was… elsewhere.”

“A lab, I suppose.”

Silence. Lacrima didn’t answer, simply kept staring at her without saying a word. To which Robin understood. That wasn’t something she was allowed to ask.

“Sorry, I was indelicate. Let me answer your question first: Lagash is the name of the only colony seedship that landed on this planet, around one thousand years ago. It contained one hundred million human embryos, together with vast archives of knowledge. That made it possible for our civilization to flourish and make great strides in a relatively short time. I guess that’s the reason why we called our planet Lagash too – a tribute to the machine that gave us life. Today, there are more than five billion people on Lagash, all descending from that first generation.”

“Huh, so it was a spaceship. The comnet is full of posts on the topic, but by reading them I had the impression many people consider it a goddess of sorts.”

“She is a goddess of sorts. Lagash is not just a spaceship. Lagash is our mother. But, as every parent, Lagash is not kind when her children err. She has… countermeasures. Lethal countermeasures.”

Robin drew a deep breath. That was the part that could land her a trip to the nearest jail for the next two decades. The part she had to be careful about.

“Countermeasures we’re going to experience first hand, if we open the vaults of Lagash on the Turn of the Millennium. My religion… my cult, if you prefer, believes that nothing good will come out of them. But, without solid proof except our faith, nobody is going to trust us.”

That was it. That was the most she could say. She hoped that would be enough to satisfy Lacrima’s curiosity without giving away her whole game. Yet, that red iris of her was still fixated on her, on the gem encased in her forehead, almost as if it had hypnotized her. That state, though, lasted just for a couple seconds longer. Lacrima nodded, turned her attention back to her wounds, to the subtle movement of her toes, trying to find spots they hadn’t surveyed yet. That was all she could do. There was no old cutlery she could eat, no rusty umbrellas or anything of the sorts. Absorbing substances from the ground was very inefficient outside of patches of fertile soil, but she didn’t have any better alternative for the moment. Robin glanced at the platform shoes her mysterious companion had cast aside, neatly left in a corner with dark socks tucked in. The sole had to be at least eight centimeters tall, effectively making that girl look more imposing than she actually was, when she was wearing them. Of course, they were black, like the rest of her outfit. Black clothes, white skin, white hair, red eyes, red rose. A weird combination that would have felt at home on the cover of a classic gothic rock album. Her top was ripped open on her chest, in a cross pattern – the souvenir left by Felce’s whip. The gashes on her skin were still regenerating, but in most points the cuts weren’t wider than half a millimeter. Her skirt had also been damaged by the assault of the Corps rhizome. Its structural integrity was relying entirely on the whim of a two centimeter thick elastic band, a band that refused to rip when the whiplash reached Lacrima’s thigh and slashed through the fabric. Robin averted her gaze, with so much as a little blush. Asking herself whether Lacrima was wearing anything under that barely hanging skirt and imagining how a rhizome would look down there made a number on her hormones. It was neither the right time, nor the right place, nor the right circumstance for such impure thoughts. Fortunately for her embarrassment, Lacrima didn’t seem to mind at all. She was sitting with her eye closed, her vines now spread out, not even trying to keep a solid form.

Suddenly, she jolted.

Her eyelid lifted.

Her pupil shrunk.

Her iris shone in the dark.

“We’ve got company. Ground floor now. They’re looking around, I hear them walking. They haven’t reached the stairs yet. Five – no, six of them. Heavy boots, reinforced with metal.”

Before Robin could even react, Lacrima grabbed her socks, her shoes, wore them as fast as she could, using both her hand, her tendrils, her mouth to fasten the strings. She stood up on top of her tall heels, pulled Robin’s hand, forcing her on her feet. Robin didn’t even have time to ask questions. She wasn’t ready for that. All she could do was trust Lacrima.

Or sell her to the Corps.

That alternative felt somewhat alluring, in a corner of her mind. Handing a renegade rhizome to the Corps might have won her a ticket out of hell. But for how long? She bit her lower lip. Side with the rebel that protected her or with the Peacekeepers? That was a dilemma without no obvious solution. Yet, she had at least one certainty – Lacrima helped her when she needed it the most. Robin’s hand went down her tight, under her robe. There it was. She hadn’t brought it up yet because she didn’t want to cause a ruckus. Feeling the cold metal on the tips of her fingers soothed her. That was a trump card worth playing, might the need arise. She dusted her robe, pulled up her hood, fastened her gas mask, wore her gloves again, hiding every centimeter of skin. Robin disappeared, the preacher came back.

“What’s the plan?”

The distorted whisper reached Lacrima. Her platform shoes were now making her slightly taller than Robin, much to the latter’s dismay. The rhizome dusted her ripped clothes too, tried to fix them a little, before gazing at her companion, her red eye mirrored in those dark, opaque lenses. Lacrima whispered back at her, as close as possible to her hooded ears.

“We run to the roof.”

“What do we do when we’re up there?”

“I’ll tell you that when we’re up there.”

Robin fell silent. That was the tone of someone who had made her mind. No questions, no retorts, no remarks. Just follow her or sink. She nodded without saying another word. Every discussion was precious time lost.

**

“The ground floor is clear. Are you sure they’re here?”

“Cameras don’t lie. They must be hiding somewhere inside this building.”

The Peacekeeper helmets shone in the dark, their flashlights piercing the veil of blackness surrounding them. Three at the ground floor, all the rooms checked, all doors broken down. Without hurry, slowly, methodically. One way in, one way out. Those old buildings were mousetraps in disguise. If the illegal rhizome mad a run for it, she had to cross their paths. So, keeping a full patrol in front of the only door in was already taking care of her escape route. Now, nobody wanted to wait till she spontaneously turned in. Too much time wasted, too much ammunition for certain bad press. So, slow and steady it was, checking all the rooms, all the floors of that darned relic of a past long gone till they found her. Mal let out a long groan. He didn’t belong in the field and, even if he did, not in a rhizome-hunting operation. He looked at his standard-issue rifle, now loaded with herbicide too. It wasn’t lethal to rhizomes, but it burned their skins and caused them excruciating pain. He frowned under the helmet. He had seen that first hand, three years before. The day he met Prim.

“Gamma Three? Stop daydreaming and head up. Take Seven and Eight with you. Search for the targets on the first floor while we finish checking the corridors.”

Mal turned around, met the concealed gaze of Gamma One, his group leader. If Gamma One said go up, he had to go up. Or be shot in place. Both alternatives spelled death to him. Only one was certain to kill him, though.

“Sir, yes sir.”

He performed the best military salute he could, while wrapped in that heavy uniform of his. Standard issue, first class protection they said. The same that didn’t protect Prim’s unit from the sound waves of that freakish Kryzalid. Still, this time they were facing a normal rhizome, not an alleged terrorist with an unknown weapon of mass murder. He climbed up the stairs, one step at a time, hearing the squeaking of the wood, the cracking of the tiles under his weight. Seven and Eight were just a tad behind. He could hear the sound of their rebreathers, the broken harmony of their unique rhythms. Every human being breathed with a slightly different timing, a slightly different frequency. Mal had learned to listen to it, to associate it with faces he couldn’t see, whenever he was sent on a mission. He was pretty sure he had met Eight before, just by the way he (she? They?) let air flow into their lungs. Seven, though, was a first. They had to be one of the countless working ants at the precinct, people whose faces he had seen thousands of times but that he could not associate to their call marks. That was how the Corps worked, except when it came to special units. Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Delta and Epsilon were all made up of conscripts with a single rule: don’t identify yourself. Be quiet. Follow the orders. If you do, you’ll get back to your life. If you don’t, you’ll get back in a casket. Today’s Gamma Three is not the same as tomorrow’s. Everyone is an interchangeable cog in the grand scheme of things. A chirping noise attracted his attention. Mice. Maybe rats. Lurking in the walls, like in that old horror story. He groaned, kept his gun closer to his chest, let his searchlight scan his surroundings. Barricaded, shuttered rooms. No sunlight seeping through. Complete darkness. No living beings around. Well, except the rodents that were feasting on some bird carrion, no doubt. He waved his hand at Seven and Eight, let them know it was safe to follow. Their steps resounded in the empty halls of what once could have been a hotel. Too many small rooms to be an apartment complex, some room numbers still hanging to the closed doors. Mal touched a button under the visor, activated the bioscanner. A cone of blue light emerged from the side of his helmet, moving up and down, following his sight. It was, of course, just a way to make a scene. Bioscanners didn’t work on visible light, but surely it was intimidating to catch a glimpse of that unsettling bright beam, while it was moving around in search of fugitives. Smoke and mirrors to hide the real sensor, one that even Mal didn’t really know how it worked. What he knew was that it could penetrate through thin surfaces, but not through concrete or even five centimeters of wood. Yet, for the old doors of that building, it seemed to be enough. Mal spotted the signatures of a dozen small mammals, moving around behind panels of plywood. He turned around, scanning each of the other rooms, after trying to open their doors too. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Just rodents, at most. He tapped another button under his visor.

“Gamma One from Gamma Three. First floor clear. I repeat, first floor clear. They aren’t…”

A metallic noise. More than one. Steps. A sound of steps. Above them. Faster. Faster. Mal raised his gaze, the bioscanner light illuminated the ceiling, without being able to go through it. But he still heard them. Two people. Moving. Running away. Climbing the stairs.

A shout escaped his lips, his voice boomed through the comm radio.

“They are above us! Second floor, going up the stairwell! Moving to intercept!”

Seven and Eight cocked their guns, started giving chase. Mal followed soon after, disabling the safety first, readying his weapon. The steps echoed inside the empty building, the sound reaching the ground floor, causing the other Peacekeepers to start running too, under the effect of collective frenzy. Mal’s radio buzzed to life again.

“Gamma Eight here! They keep going up! Fourth floor now, they are damn fast!”

Good. There was no way out of it. If they wanted to corner themselves on the roof, so be it. Mal picked up the pace, loaded the herbicide stream. One hit to the leg. That was all he needed. One clean hit to the leg and that rhizome would have been incapacitated.

“Gamma Seven, sir! Sixth floor. Almost on the roof. We don’t have line of sight!”

“Keep chasing them!”

Mal felt his lungs exploding. Six floors worth of stairs in one go. So much for not wanting to work out – that was a full course. Fifth. Sixth. Seventh. Roof. Suddenly, there was light. Sunlight. Real sunlight coming from outside. He stepped through the door, raised his gun. Eight and Seven were already there. Five, Four and One were just behind him. Six and Two were probably still down with the Deltas. Classic pinch maneuver. No way out. He got out in the open, finally had a good look at the place, at the targets. Broken tiles, rusted antennas. Wreckage of devices that might have been air conditioners decades ago. A man in a red cape, wearing a gas mask. And, close to him, a slightly taller girl, standing on thick platform shoes, wearing what was left of a black outfit. Gashes crossed her chest, her right thigh. Green fluid oozed out of them. And a flower blooming from where her left eye should have been.

A rhizome. So different from Prim. Yet, so similar. Same pale complexion. Same determination in their eyes. For an instant, the figure of Prim, bathing in the sunlight of the greenhouse, overlapped with that of the renegade. Only one instant, before he saw her for what she really was. That rhizome wasn’t Prim. That rhizome was a criminal.

“Don’t move! The building is surrounded. If you turn yourself in, you’ll make your life easier with the judge.”

It was Gamma Seven’s distorted voice. Calm, despite the commotion, despite having to catch their breath. Yet, before they could even finish, the rhizome walked back to the ledge of the roof, the sun setting behind her, her dark figure resting in front of the orange sky.

“I said don’t move, or…”

The rhizome stared back at them. Her red iris made eye contact with theirs, with all of theirs, burning with something akin to determination. She glanced in silence, one last time. Before grabbing the collar of the hooded preacher. And letting herself fall from the roof.

Mal dashed forward, the shapes moving in slow motion. The rhizome, the man with the gas mask, Gamma Seven. Everything was slow. His perception was slow. It was, of course, just perception. In reality, milliseconds had passed. Just enough for the rhizome to enter free fall, for the hooded man to be dragged down by her. When Mal reached the ledge, maybe one second had come and passed. In that second, Lacrima had fallen by three floors, her rose shining in the sunset light, among the cramped buildings.

That’s when Mal saw them. The tendrils. Emerging from her spine, just like Prim’s, anchoring themselves to the walls like ivy, scratching plaster, breaking windows, grabbing steel bars, clotheslines, slowing the fall down. A beautiful spider web of vines, protecting the rhizome, shielding her as she fell down, her arms clenched around the preacher. Mal trained his gun on her, loaded the herbicide.

But didn’t shoot.

Didn’t.

Pull the trigger.

Because he saw her.

Prim.

It wasn’t her, but

He saw her.

Her tears.

Of pain.

He froze.

There.

On the roof.

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

A resounding, echoing thud. Lacrima’s back hit the ground, almost too gently. The vines reabsorbed in her spine, slowly, right as Robin gasped for air, her lungs, her heart almost out of commission. Only for her lenses to see something unexpected.

A car.

Or, rather, what was left of it.

No hood. No bumper. A broken bullbar. An open trunk. And a flickering, damaged sign on its roof, one spelling T, X and I. At the driving seat, on the opposite side of what was usual, sat a girl with a eyepatch, a face mask and a cap. A girl wildly waving her left arm at them, in front of a massive man with a metal face sitting close to her.

“Need a ride, ladies? Come on, let’s scramble! I ain’t waiting the Corps to shoot us again!”