Page 123 of Coldwire
Nik huffs. “What is this—twenty ethnic questions?”
“Ah, ah,” I say, pointing at him. “You’re not allowed to say that.”
“It’s not aslur—”
“I can see the tabloid headlines now,” I interrupt, waving my hand in front of me. “?‘Nik Grant Called Me Ethnic.’?”
“That’snotwhat I said!”
I can’t hold back my snort. It echoes through the car before I bite down on it, suppressing any further tittering. Nik eyes me suspiciously for a moment. When I’m clearly done ridiculing him, he says:
“My family isn’t all Atahuan. Half are from Cega. My mother’s side.”
I wasn’t expecting that.
“I didn’t realize it was incorrect to call you a domestic anarchist.”
“It’s correct,” Nik says flatly. “It doesn’t matter where anyone before me came from. I’m Atahuan. I have the right to protest how Atahua is being run.”
How easy it is for him to make that statement, even if half his bloodline only came over to Atahua one generation ago. It’s different for Medans. It’ll be different for Medans for as long as this cold war goes on. It doesn’t matter when I was brought over, nor how much I claim that I’m Atahuan. No one believes me the same.
“Are you still in touch with them?” I ask. “Your family.”
Nik frowns. “Some.”
“Your parents?”
“No.”
The car is struggling to maintain speed on the rural road. We’re hitting a rough patch where there hasn’t been maintenance in decades.
“Not on good terms?” I ask.
Nik concentrates on the road, steering the wheel rapidly to avoid the worst of the ditches. I suspect he’ll ignore my question entirely. He’s quiet for so long that I even forget what I last asked, resting my head on my seat.
Then, when we’re rumbling up an elevated expressway again:
“It’s complicated.”
I blink, my attention snapping back to him. “How so?”
“You go rogue for long enough,” Nik says, “and you begin to expect that you’ll lose. Maybe you can win the final war, but in the process there’ll be a dozen fragmented battles trying to take what you have. Your family. Your loved ones.”
His hands are tight on the steering wheel. It must be easier to have nothing, then. No family. No loved ones. I would be a better candidate for playing the role of the rogue anarchist. Instead Nik Grant has to become someone else, callous and cold, only to prevent losing more in the line of fire.
“So much has been taken from me,” he goes on, “but I’m going to take everything back.”
I probably shouldn’t have asked. All the same, I’m met with a pang of bitterness that I can’t particularly place. Nik would have the willpower to walk across the oceans demanding the waters hold him up, and he could drown in the process but he would try anyway. I don’t understand purpose so all-encompassing. I was likely born missing the part of me responsible for that urge.
Maybe that’s why I’ve developed this pull to be near it.
Near him.
“I’m sorry,” I say plainly.
“Don’t be.” The car beeps, warning of a large pothole approaching, and Nik tugs the wheel with vigor. “That’s why we’re going to Kunlun now. I’m not accepting failure.”
I don’t say anything for a long time after that.
