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  A Flight of Broken Wings

  Nupur Chowdhury

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: The Aeriel Hunter

  Chapter 2: The Aeriel Prince

  Chapter 3: The Aeriel Hunt

  Chapter 4: The Formula

  Chapter 5: Hiya

  Chapter 6: The Forgotten Thunder

  Chapter 7: Surai

  Chapter 8: The Abduction

  Chapter 9: A History Lesson

  Chapter 10: The Vaan Court

  Chapter 11: Ibanborah

  Chapter 12: The Kinoh House

  Chapter 13: Tauheen

  Chapter 14: The Clash

  Chapter 15: The Funeral

  Chapter 1: The Aeriel Hunter

  They sat on the veranda, as they usually did every evening after Baba came home from work. Ruban was curled up on his father’s lap as the latter rocked slowly on the creaky easy chair that had been there ever since the boy could remember. The vast countryside spread out before them like an unending vista of gold. The crops, carefully arranged across numerous fields, swayed gently in the breeze. Spring was well on its way to Surai.

  “How was the picnic, my love?” his father asked, voice hushed in deference to the tranquillity of the evening. His fingers carded through Ruban’s short brown curls.

  “Good,” Ruban mumbled, burying his face in Abhas’s shirt.

  His father lifted Ruban high enough to be level with him. “What’s the matter, my child? Didn’t you enjoy yourself? Did someone say something to you?”

  Ruban shook his head, trying to bury his face once again into his father’s rumpled shirt. He was prevented from doing so, however, by Abhas’s gentle but insistent hand on his chin, holding his face up and forcing him to look into the older man’s eyes. “Come now, child. You know you can tell me, whatever it was. Out with it.”

  “Mi-Miki’s mommy baked us a cake for the picnic,” Ruban said finally, putting up a valiant struggle against the tears that threatened to spill out and make a mess of his father’s shirt.

  Abhas sighed, allowing the miserable boy to wrap himself further around his torso and hide his tear-streaked face in his shirt. “And didn’t you like it?”

  A muffled sob. “Did too.”

  “And?”

  “W-where’s my Mommy, Baba?” the words tore themselves past Ruban’s trembling lips.

  Abhas continued to run his fingers through his son’s messy locks, gazing contemplatively up at the starry sky. “I don’t know, love,” he said, gently rocking Ruban on his lap as he spoke. “They used to say, a long time ago, that those who left the earth went to the sky. Became stars.” Ruban spun around, extricating his tiny wet face from his father’s shirt to gaze eagerly out at the star-studded sky. “Who knows? Maybe they were right. Maybe that’s where she is now, watching over us from the skies.”

  “You think?” Ruban asked, wide eyes now bright with excitement rather than grief. “I’ll tell Miki that’s where she is, then! You think she can see us?”

  “Of course,” said Abhas, lifting the boy off his lap as they prepared to enter the house for the night. “And she can see you’re awake past your bedtime. Come on in now, Ruban. It’s getting late...”

  A violent crack of thunder shattered the peace of the quiet evening, obscuring all the stars with its harsh light. Terrified, Ruban grabbed at the hems of his father’s shirt, but it was too late. Fire engulfed the house around them and even as he watched, Abhas faded away before his eyes, turning to ashes despite his efforts to hold on to his father’s arms.

  “Baba!” he cried, but the word stuck in his throat, refusing to be spoken. Miki screamed in the distance, her voice laced with pain and horror. Ruban tried to reach her but she was surrounded by fire – screaming, calling out to him for help he couldn’t provide. Then she too was gone, and he stood on a pile of smouldering black ash, tiny sparks burning the soles of his feet as a loud screeching noise permeated his senses...

  Ruban Kinoh jerked awake, hand flying out with practiced precision to hammer at his obnoxious, yellow alarm clock. It had been a present from Simani, and he still wasn’t sure it hadn’t been a gag gift. Every morning he thought of tossing it out the window; he had a perfectly good cell phone with perfectly functional alarms. And yet, every night he found himself flicking the familiar switch at the back of the plastic chicken to set the buzzer, too tired to fumble with the intricacies of the smartphone alarm app. It was a vicious circle he needed to break, he decided.

  He groaned as his sleep-addled brain caught up with the rest of his senses, after-images of crimson flames fading from the back of his eyelids. His sheets were drenched, the palms of his hands reddened with the crescent marks of sharp nails etched deep into the calloused skin. It had been a bad night.

  He sighed. He could guess what had triggered the nightmare. His ears were already ringing from the cacophony of firecrackers going off just outside his window, roaring like multiple thunder-storms gathering at the same spot, all at once. The prismatic shadows of multicoloured lights lit up the wall opposite the room’s only window.

  Gritting his teeth in annoyance, he pushed himself off the narrow bed. This wasn’t a day he was looking forward to. It was like this every year, cacophonous firecrackers accompanied by even more cacophonous hawkers and vendors crowding the streets, clogging traffic; topped by the inane, self-aggrandizing speeches of the pompous politicos they’d be forced to listen to for the better part of the morning. Emancipation Day seemed to bring with it everything but what its name proclaimed – emancipation of any sort. It was an affair at once rowdy and dreary, from Ruban’s point of view anyway, and he couldn’t wait to get it over with and get back to his real job. In his profession, he could not help but feel a perpetual sense of being under siege. It was why he was so good at his job. Emancipation, to him, was the stuff of history books and political speeches, not the reality in which he lived and breathed every day.

  Blearily, he stumbled into the washroom, feeling around blindly for his toothbrush and razor. Simani would laugh herself silly if she could see him right now. Perhaps she was right after all; maybe he really was clumsy when not driving a sifblade into some damned Aeriel’s heart.

  He grimaced at the sound of raindrops hitting his windowpanes. Great! That’s exactly what was needed right now – traffic-choked streets overflowing with mud and rainwater. No doubt the drains would be clogged for days from all the littering of sweet wrappers and whatnot. A flooded capital was exactly what the country needed to commemorate its independence from tyrannical Aeriel rule.

  Personally, he did not see why Emancipation Day had to happen in the middle of the monsoon. Intellectually, of course, he understood that the first victory of a human platoon against an Aeriel stronghold probably had to have taken place during the cloudy days of the monsoons, when the fog obscured the sun – the chief source of the Aeriels’ energy – for the better part of the day. It did make for some mighty difficult celebrating, though.

  He had barely finished towelling his hair dry after a mildly rejuvenating cold shower when his phone came alive, blaring out the screechy tunes of some teen idol’s latest hit. Ruban made a mental note to lock his cell in a safe or something the next time Hiya visited the flat. The girl was fast turning out to be a nuisance around electronics.

  “Hello?” he said, balancing the device between his ear and shoulder as he used his hands to adjust the cuffs of his hastily ironed ceremonial tunic. “Who is this?” He wondered who could be calling him this early in the morning. Simani wouldn’t be up for another hour at least, he was sure of that.

  “Hello Sir,” began a polite, official-sounding female voice on the other end of the line. “Am I speaking to Mr. Ruban Kino
h, Chief Hunter, South Ragah Division?”

  “Yes,” said Ruban, more mystified than ever. He could only think of one place that would address him by that title, and he couldn’t imagine why they would be calling him today of all days. Wouldn’t they have bigger, international fish to fry on a day like this?

  “Hello, Mr. Kinoh. I’m sorry to disturb you sir, but I’m afraid you’ll have to report to headquarters as soon as possible,” the voice said, appropriately polite, although firm. Ruban wondered for a second if they made IAW receptionists in a factory.

  “Umm, sure. May I know what this is about?” He had to ask, on principle. Not that he was in the least opposed to skipping the morning ceremonies at the office, if such a thing were at all possible.

  “The Senior Secretary of Defence wants to see you sir. I’m afraid I’m not authorised to divulge any further details at the moment.”

  “The Senior...oh alright!” said Ruban, finally connecting the title to the man. He really did need to brush up on his politics one of these days. If it weren’t for Uncle Subhas, and the fact that he happened to be really rather good at his job, Ruban was pretty sure he would have gotten into trouble for his lack of interest in official protocol a long time ago. “Tell him I’ll be there in an hour.”

  “Of course sir.”

  With a sigh of gratitude at his uncle’s thoughtfulness, he hurriedly stripped off the heavily embroidered tunic in favour of his regular cotton uniform and light black overcoat, tucking his sifblade into the hidden compartment inside the coat before rushing out of the flat. He would have to hurry to be on time in this atrocious traffic.

  The headquarters of the Intelligence and Analysis Wing, Vandram’s largest Intelligence organisation and the body officially in charge of the country’s Hunter Corps, loomed imposingly large before him as Ruban parked his tiny black sedan next to the gigantic limousine of some visiting foreign dignitary. IAW usually hosted high-ranking diplomats and foreign politicians this time of the year, something about building international cooperation to more effectively combat the threat of Aeriel terrorism. That was the official line anyway. In reality, Emancipation Day was party-time for the higher-ups just as much as it was for the commoners, and the only cooperation actually being built this weekend would be between the party-goers and their champagne flutes.

  Still, Ruban had always felt an inherent sense of reverence for this building; ever since the day he had first laid eyes on it over eight years ago. Besides, even a morning spent talking politics with his uncle was a definite improvement over sitting for hours in uncomfortable clothing listening to the droning, rehearsed speeches of a bunch of clueless demagogues.

  Flashing his badge at the heavily armed guards at the gates and earning a quick salute for his trouble, Ruban made his way through the lush green grounds that served as the front-yard of the IAW. It was rumoured that this was where Queen Tauheen had carried out most of her executions during the early days of the Revolt – her favourite garden. But then, lots of things were rumoured about the building that had served as the last stronghold of the Aeriels before they were finally driven out of the mortal realm and into Vaan almost six hundred years ago. And Ruban wasn’t quite sure how much of it was true and how much was myth anymore.

  The irony of the primary residence of the erstwhile Aeriel monarchy being turned into the headquarters of an organisation founded with the main purpose of eradicating Aeriel presence on earth was not lost on him, however. Perhaps the Founding Fathers had been aiming for a symbolic statement when they had chosen to convert the nearly-destroyed palace into the IAW headquarters after all.

  The grounds were decorated – rather tastefully, Ruban had to admit – with colourful festoons, banners and artful tapestries, technicolour string-lights already twinkling across the length and breadth of the lawn despite the early hour. Exquisitely dressed dignitaries milled about the grounds, occasionally trying the treats on offer in the stalls being set up for the evening’s celebrations. The press was already there, setting up their cameras and equipment, trying to get interviews and sound-bites from any foreign official who happened to stray from the protective shelter of the main building.

  As he passed one particular cluster of some of the better known media personalities, some of whom even he could recognize, Ruban was stopped in his tracks by what appeared to be a minor ruckus breaking out in the middle of the gathering. He thought he spied Casia Washi of World News Now somewhere in the crowd. She had interviewed him after the Hunt that had killed two of the Parliament attackers last year, and despite his knee-jerk dislike of most reporters, she had actually been quite tolerable, interesting even. She had asked some intelligent, surprisingly pertinent questions about the political ramifications of the Justifiable Homicide Bill. That bill was what had triggered the Parliament attack – a forty-eight hour siege of the Parliament building by a group of Aeriels – that had resulted in the deaths of two MPs, the main proponents of the bill, as well as the death and dismemberment of several security officials and other staff on duty at the time.

  The Hunter Corps would be the ones most directly affected by the bill, and personally, Ruban was all for it. Aeriels were a threat to the human race itself and needed to be eliminated by any means possible, as far as he was concerned. But he understood that there were concerns about possible terrorist retaliations against civilian targets if executions without trial of dangerous Aeriel suspects were legalised, and he was perfectly willing to address those concerns. As long as he wasn’t being inundated by sensational phone calls from teary viewers calling into the studio to talk about their personal opinions on a subject, the intricacies of which they could not begin to understand. And on one memorable occasion even to propose marriage to him. Casia had entertained none of that nonsense, asking straight-forward, meaningful questions and encouraging informative answers without ever giving the slightest impression of undue nosiness; and Ruban had appreciated her professional competence, if nothing else.

  “Oh but we’ll break it tonight!” Casia’s voice drifted out to him, high-pitched with glee and what he suspected to be some hard partying the night before. The only thing that beat Emancipation Day celebrations in uptown Ragah was the Emancipation Eve celebrations that started the night before in the downtown clubs. And the media weren’t exactly known for their ascetic restraint in matters celebratory. “We have the exclusive on this one. It’ll put us at the top of every chart in the country. You’ll see.”

  “But that’s so not fair Cas!” a male voice piped up from somewhere amidst the melee. “You’re taking undue advantage of an unsuspecting foreigner. I’m sure he wants to talk to the rest of us too. Of course you found him, so you can have the first go but–”

  “Back off Raj. He’s mine!” Casia barked, advancing on the former with a predatory glint that reminded Ruban of her expression when asking him a particularly piercing question. He smiled. The woman sure knew what she was doing, and Ruban appreciated competence, even in his professional adversaries.

  “There there, ladies...and gentlemen,” the foreigner in question intervened, his voice somehow bringing to Ruban’s mind the incredibly clichéd impression of bells tingling. “You’ll all get your turns, don’t worry. Miss Casia is just being protective of her source, I’m sure. Which is very kind of you, Miss Casia,” he continued, turning to the fiery reporter. All of her anger seemed to melt away at the sound of the youngster’s voice, and she smiled at him with what Ruban could only call the fondness of a mother duck for her favourite duckling. “I really do appreciate all your help.”

  The foreigner, probably Zainian, if his pale skin and long, dark hair braided to one side were anything to go by, could not have been a day older than twenty, twenty-one at the most. Not that much younger than Ruban, or Casia herself, for that matter, but he could sort of see what had inspired the latter’s fierce protectiveness. The boy (and Ruban couldn’t really bring himself to think of the petite, wide-eyed stranger as a man) couldn’t have been more than fiv
e-six, if that. He looked like he had just walked out of a school-bus, dropped into the real world for the first time and simultaneously bewildered and amazed by it. He gazed wide-eyed at everything around him, drinking in the sights and sounds of the area as if he had never seen anything like it before. He smiled like he was genuinely ecstatic to simply exist, surrounded though he was by a bunch of raucous reporters fighting over his person for some unknown reason. Overall, he gave the impression of someone who would be robbed blind by a five-year-old if left alone for even a moment.

  Probably some form of Zainian nobility, Ruban assumed, drawn to the unusual scene before him, though he didn’t really understand what was going on. The purple ribbon woven into the stranger’s braid certainly spoke for some form of aristocratic heritage. Ruban didn’t know all that much about foreign customs, but even he had watched the highlights of the seven-day spectacle that had been the new Zainian King’s coronation last summer. It had been all over the news; you couldn’t have escaped it if you wanted to. Obsolete as they were, Kings and Queens, or at least the idea of them, seemed to hold an almost visceral appeal for the masses. And Zaini being the only nation on earth that still retained anything resembling a monarchy, albeit one purely ceremonial in nature, every time a Zainian royal so much as pooped funny, it made it to the international news section of almost every paper and TV channel. Ruban groaned internally. He supposed this was another spoilt, minor nobleman with some inane scoop about the eye-colour of the next royal baby, or some nonsense like that.

  “Come, let me show you around the grounds some more,” cooed one of the younger reporters, leaning into the foreigner’s personal space, ostensibly to make herself heard in the midst of all the commotion. Ruban would bet half his salary, though, that she was at least halfway in love with the exotic aristocrat already. “It really is quite an amazing place; the pride of our city!”