Intermix Nation

Perhaps isn’t true at all.

Nazirah hisses at one of them, a little boy,just to see his reaction, just to feel the control. He bursts intotears. Several onlookers step back. She feels disgusted withherself. This boy can’t be older than Cayu, than Caria. Nazirahturns to apologize, but Grum shoves her into the backseat of apolice vehicle, a waiting motorcade of blaring sirens and horns.None of this is right. She can’t become the monster they believeher to be. Nazirah thinks of Ramses, lying in a pool of his ownblood. She thinks of the moment when she slit his throat … thatdevastating satisfaction she felt.

She wonders if she’s too late.

Nazirah sits uncomfortably on the edge ofher seat, fighting amazement as they ride through Mediah. A networkof bullet trains and skyways paint the horizon. Fluorescent streetswind around the capital, stacked vertically and slicing throughbuildings. Cars jet across them, drivers indifferent to their doom,should they misjudge a turn and careen over an edge.

Shoppers flood the streets on every level,weighed down by bags and consumer addictions. Captured intermix arechained to storefront window displays, modeling clothes ironically,starvation chic. Many of them are being flogged.

Spectators abound and laugh. Children lickice cream from dripping cones. Nazirah’s body jerks with everycrack of the lashes, like she is under the whips herself. Steel andglass skytowers ascend through rock, air, smog, and cloud. Nazirahcranes her neck, unable to see where they end. When Nazirah was achild, she built sandcastles she thought could touch the heavens.And the Medis nearly did it.

But they are no closer to the gods.

“Disgusting, aren’t they?” Grum asks, asthough reading her thoughts. “These parasites.”

“Parasites?”

“Listen up, Nation,” he says. “Because thisis something no history book will ever teach you. Mediah is a ruse,a distraction designed to keep Medis entertained, fat andcomplacent on glut and lust and greed.”

“A ruse to hide what?”

“Look around and guess for yourself,” heanswers. “It’s not hard to figure out.”

Nazirah does. All she sees are the flashinglights, the glitter and hyperintense color. But then, Nazirahrealizes. It’s not what she sees, but what she does not see. Trees,wildlife, vegetation, water. “Life here isn’t sustainable,” shesays.

“Completely obvious,” Grum agrees. “Butstill, no one really gets it.” He leans closer, inches away fromher face. The stench of his rancid breath suffocates her. “TheMedis hate intermix, Nation. Tell me why.”

Nazirah shrugs. “Because they forbidinterracial breeding.”

“Why?”

“Because they want to maintain racialpurity.”

“Wrong.”

“Because we threaten them.”

“You’re getting there.”

“I don’t understand where you’re going withthis,” she snaps.

“Color me shocked,” he retorts. “The Medis,as a race, are dying! It may take a while, but they are dyingnonetheless. They have no immunity to disease anymore, or famine,or hardship. Centuries of self-prescribed inbreeding have sulliedtheir chromosomes, leaving them stale and fragile. Haven’t you everwondered why their MEDIcine program is booming? Why they are alldrug addicts and pill poppers?”

“What does that have to do withintermix?”

“Everything!” he criespassionately. “We are everything they are not! Everything theycould never be! Do you think the majority of Medis could eversurvive the slums, the Deathlands? Half of them would be deadwithin a week! Our genes are dominant, not theirs! Even in the mostturbulent situations, intermix thrive. The Medis leech off ourresources, suckling the teat of self-righteousness. They condemnand slaughter us, only to study our genetics! They isolatethemselves in their homogenous skytowers … city … lives … all tohide from the simple truth that would collapse their entire dogma.Despite their purity, they are weak. And because of our impurity, we arestrong.”

“And you’re right!” Nazirah cries. “Like yousaid, we’re intermix! We mean nothing to them! Why would you betrayus?”

“You’re too naïve, Nation,” he says. “I needto look out for myself, because no one else will. Haven’t youlearned by now that everyone has a price? Especially intermix.”

“Take what you want and screw everyoneelse,” she spits. “Is that it?”

“Now you’re catching on.”

The vehicle stops after a short journey.Grum drags Nazirah outside into a minefield of armed guards,reporters, and news vans. Nazirah recognizes the skytowerinstantly. She’s seen it countless times on television and in thepapers and books back home. It’s the capitol building of Renatus,the country’s symbol of power. Here at government headquarters, theChancellor conducts his business … sermons from the pulpit ofhell.

Grum pushes Nazirah through the entrance,but not before having to turn over his pistol to one of the guards.They walk quickly across the large lobby, where governmentemployees idly chat.

The entire room immediately goes silent. Aman with lilac spectacles spills coffee down the front of hisshirt, but doesn’t bother to wipe it. An emaciated secretaryshrieks and runs into a wall, knocking the steel bouffant off witha dull clang, revealing her shaved head beneath. Several peoplelight cigarettes and take deep, shaky drags.

Grum pulls Nazirah through the extensiveelevator bank and into a waiting glass lift. He presses the buttonfor the top floor. The doors close with a hiss. The lift rapidlyshoots upwards, climbing thousands of feet. Nazirah watches thecity fall and fold beneath her. She glances at Grum, noticing heappears queasy. Nazirah considers trying to take him out. But sheisn’t eager to test the strength of this glass cage.

They exit at the top, walk down a luxurioushallway plated in gold towards an ornate door. Grum enters withoutknocking, dragging her inside. Nazirah looks around, needing nointroduction.

She’s been here before.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

There were once tigers.

And electric blue champagne, restrainedlaughter, even a fuchsia piano. Now there is only emptiness …threatening emptiness. The grand room of the Morgen penthouse iscold and lifeless, a mausoleum of sepulchered hopes and marbledreams.

Men smoke cigars around a circular table,drinking and gambling. A pile of gold bars and jewels rests beforethem. A row of girls, dolled-up in makeup and luxury, quiver in aline nearby. As Grum pulls Nazirah closer, she can see they arechained to one another. “Full house!” one man says, showing theothers his cards. He greedily rubs his hands together, claiming hiswi

“Fine, Roskum,” another sighs. “Pickone.”

The man named Roskum stands. He walks downthe line of girls, scrutinizing each one. They squirm under hisstare, eyes averted. He stops before a girl with ebony skin, barelya teenager, clearly fighting back tears. Roskum touches her exposedshoulder. “Has she bled yet?” he asks.

“No,” someone casually responds.

“Then I’ll take this Deathland bitch.”

Another man slams his hand on the table. “Iwanted her,” he complains.

“Armison, I’ll let you have her when I’mdone,” Roskum says, laughing, “if you deal with the disposal.”

“I don’t share,” Armison snaps, looking up.“And I don’t want anyone’s sloppy.…” He spots Nazirah, eyes bulgingand then slanting. “Gabirel … how much for the prettyintermix?”

Roskum scans the lineup of girls again,confused. “There’s no intermix in this.…”

“She’s not for sale.”

Everyone looks at the Chancellor, then atNazirah in shock. Armison says, “Name your price.”

“Nothing you can afford,” Gabirel says,rising elegantly. He approaches Nazirah, flanked by two youngfemale bodyguards armed with machine guns. Nazirah is u