Collapsing the Divide (Kirasu Rising Book 2)

Sweat rolled down Miranda’s back as the gyrating mass pressed closer. Too many. Too close. Sweet and spicy aromas clashed in the sticky air. Her knees buckled. She stumbled.

Samsara had been partying for days since the funeral, as if honoring the woman who’d saved Nibiru from a black hole was a contest they didn’t plan to lose.

So carefree, so sure there would be no repercussions.

“Come out and see the city,” Monrovia had said. “You can’t spend the rest of your life hiding in bed.”

But ten minutes outside the house, she’d lost Monrovia in the crowd. Now Miranda regretted few things more than leaving the safety of her covers.

Three boys hammered out a driving beat on drums strapped to their chests, so close she could touch them. Her cells vibrated with each strike. The mass swayed and stomped in time, moving with practiced rhythms, jostling her like a ball in a pinball machine. With shallow breaths, she stumbled, searching for a way out of the hot bodies.

If they knew the black hole had never been headed to Nibiru, they wouldn’t be dancing. They’d be furious.

Breathe.

Miranda moved to squeeze past a tall woman blocking her escape from the crush, but Miranda misjudged her next dance move and she rocked back, crunching Miranda’s foot. Searing pain shot up her leg while the woman swooped down to help, her eyes wide with unsaid apology. Miranda brushed aside the sympathy and tried to limp through the gap.

“Wait! You’re—” She seized Miranda’s hand, trapping her in the thick and hoisted her arm into the air. She shook Miranda’s fist above both their heads. “Toast to Beda Ess!” she shouted.

Nearby horns ripped out a tinny retort, and half the woman’s drink spilled on Miranda’s shoe as she fought the tight grip on her wrist.
No attention.

She wanted to shrink, not be fawned over for her mother’s sacrifice.

The pack swung, and a new hole opened. Miranda pried her wrist from the woman’s grip and lurched out of the scrum. Lumbering to the sidewalk, she leaned against a wall and pressed her cheek to the rough brick, thanking whatever gods of chaos and revelry deposited her in this empty spot.

Miranda dug her fingers into the grooves of the bricks while she watched the mob. Since she’d stood next to Carl for his impromptu interview on the day of the Gathering, people had occasionally recognized her. For these revelers, the Gathering had been the day they had used their ancient strength to help Beda stop the black hole from ending their world. For Miranda, it had been the day Beda died.

The scent of buttery bread wafted toward her, and she squinted against the sun to read the sign. Two Buns, Monrovia’s favorite bakery. Miranda hadn’t done a lot in these past few weeks on Nibiru, but she’d sampled their treats more than once with her sister. Maybe she’d show up here.

A woman in the bakery kneaded dough on a long wooden table, so much like the one Nathan had used. Miranda’s heart tightened. He’d punch and flip the dough, flour up to his elbows, and he’d always make sure a few rolls came out too small for selling. The rejects. And what else could they do with the rejects but eat them? She touched the glass with the tips of her fingers and bit back tears. Is he really gone? Are they all gone?

How could she live like these people? Like everything was ok? The banner ‘Prayers for Beda Ess’ rippled over the crowd.

“I thought I’d never find you.” Monrovia’s voice startled Miranda, but she grabbed her sister in a tight hug. Monrovia awkwardly patted her back. “You okay?”

Miranda dropped her arms, stepping back, trying to act casual. Too much. She pointed at the throng of dancers. “I can’t handle that.”

Monrovia nodded. “There won’t be as many people where we’re going. I hope you’re hungry.”

As she hustled to keep up with Monrovia’s long strides, Miranda’s stomach answered with a loud growl. She’d been eating small portions at Carl’s house just in case he might rethink bringing on another child. But he’d been nothing but loving, accepting, since she’d first shown up on his balcony. And she knew he had all the money they needed to live comfortably, even though he’d left his job at the Interstellar Research Group.

No, it wasn’t the fear of Carl’s rejection stopping her from getting out of bed to eat. Her stomach twisted as the realization crystallized. Lying in bed pretending to sleep was easier than meeting their concerned faces. The unsaid: are you ok?

Everything would have been different if she hadn’t followed Beda to Earth that night so many years ago—but she couldn’t take that back.

Monrovia stopped to let Miranda catch up. “After the noodles, I have a surprise for you.” Monrovia’s eyes sparkled with a flare Miranda had not seen before, but the word ‘surprise’ sent a hot shot of panic racing through her. After destroying Earth, losing her mother, and trying to settle into a new planet, surprises were not on the top of her list. Instead of running screaming, she took a breath. “What kind of surprise?”

“Let’s just say I’m sure you’ve never done it before.”

Miranda’s mind raced with things she’d never done, eaten in a fancy restaurant, swam in the ocean, tied her shoes underwater. “Can you give me a hint?”

Monrovia ignored the entreaty. “Just try to keep up.”
She weaved through a group of people clustered around a man holding a pink-and-green bird.

Miranda couldn’t look away from its bright feathers and sharp, black beak. A child reached out nervously with pudgy fingers to touch its feathers. The bird held its head high, enduring the encounter until the trainer produced a wriggling worm. Pointed teeth flashed as it scarfed the treat. Miranda shivered, and the child jerked his hand back. She broke her gaze and caught the edge of Monrovia’s flowing skirt turning down a side street.

“Hey, slow down!” Miranda jogged to catch up.

The crowds had thinned to only a few passersby. Monrovia waited by a cottage marked with a short fence and a small yard. The quiet hopefulness of this street made Miranda wish she could remember life here before she left at only three years old. They all lived together then, perhaps in a house like one of these. If Monrovia remembered the day her sister and mother disappeared, she’d never mentioned it. Miranda watched her, staring into the garden. They had both been so young.

A creeping plant with delicate white flowers grew along the fences, filling the air with a complex aroma unmatched by any chemical concoction. Miranda drew in its sweet smell as she strolled beside Monrovia.

A woman appeared in her doorway, sweeping the threshold. As Miranda blinked, the woman became Beda, with her long, white hair catching the ash rain as she swept the soot out of their cinder-block shack in the Trash Lands.

A sharp pang stabbed Miranda’s chest. She gripped the fence tight. Beda gave this up to go to Earth to save people she didn’t know or even understand. But the black hole had taken Earth, anyway.
Earth gone. Beda gone.

Could they have stopped Alois another way? Was he really gone?

Still gripping the wood, Miranda focused on a beam of sunlight playing on a patch of flowers near her. She felt the woman watching her and leaned down to a blossom, lingering in the smell, feeling the warm sun on her face. Her chest released, and she straightened up, giving the woman a wan smile.

Monrovia moved closer, whispering, “You okay?”

Miranda loosened her grasp, nodded, and followed Monrovia through the winding streets, wandering to tangy smells.

They came to a wide street with back-to-back huts filling its middle. Monrovia barreled through the maze of scents with unmatched focus. Miranda ambled behind, her mouth watering as she imagined what delicious treats might be in those boiling pots and searing woks. Monrovia stopped at the counter of a sagging hut, its dingy bamboo walls struggling under the weight of expectations.

“This one is the best.” Monrovia held up two fingers to the stooped woman, who nodded and filled two nubby-looking bowls from a blackened pot. A board painted red hung over the pots on the back wall, and in yellow letters it declared: Be Here Now.

The words stung. There’s nowhere else I can be.

Monrovia placed some large coins on the counter as the woman set down the steaming bowls. Miranda scooped one up and sniffed hard. Pepper seared her nose. She sneezed into her soup, sending hot droplets sailing into the air. The old woman chuckled.

Monrovia handed her two sticks. “Can you eat and walk?”

Miranda took them, bewildered by the mechanics required. “I can try.” She trailed Monrovia, shoveling hot noodles while trying not to look like a person who grew up in the Trash Lands—but the slippery food was too delicious for decorum.

Monrovia paused at a set of bamboo poles that each held a red lantern painted with black symbols. Miranda slurped down her last noodles as she gazed at the sharp strokes. Were they words? She’d seen nothing like them. The lanterns marked the entrance to a staircase that descended into a dark jungle. She shivered.

“Your surprise is down there,” Monrovia said, then took a confident bite out of her bowl.

Miranda didn’t know which was stranger, walking into thick, dark foliage or eating one’s dinnerware. “You want us to go down there?”

“Of course,” Monrovia said, taking another bite.

“Why are you eating that?” Miranda asked, distracted now by the spectacle.

Monrovia cocked her head, looking at Miranda like she was the strange one. “It’s made of rice. Eat it, and you have less waste.”

Miranda studied the nubby bowl, red from the juices and spices that had soaked in, then looked back up at her sister as she finished her own with a last bite. Miranda cautiously nibbled and found it had a nice crunch, but the concentration of the chili oil scorched her mouth as if she’d eaten a burning match.

“See, it’s fine.” Monrovia started down the darkened stairs.

Miranda waited at the top while she gobbled her bowl. Her eyes watered from the heat, but she would not be outdone. She swallowed down the last of it and gestured at the stairs. “Is it safe?”

Monrovia did not turn around but tilted her head like it might help her understand the question.

“There could be spiders, I guess. You should watch out for those.”

“Why would they recreate spiders?”

Monrovia moved further into darkness. “We remade Earth’s ecosystem. Spiders are an important part of that.”

Miranda stepped into the gloom, watching for trouble on eight legs, but as the sun broke through the leaves, it lit up Monrovia’s long, white hair, making it a beacon in darkness. Miranda watched it shimmer, so much like Beda’s. She touched her own mass of black curls.

What if Monrovia had followed Beda that night instead of me? Would they have been able to save Earth together?

Monrovia paused on a landing, looking out over a clearing in the jungle. As Miranda caught up, she saw a massive wooden structure rising from the clearing like three giant hats woven together and wet from the rain, suspended in gentle sweeping curves and peaks. It seemed impossible that anything so fluid could be a solid structure, the opposite of the harshly lined buildings she’d left behind in Bubble City.

Miranda’s skin tingled and, for the first time in a long time, everything felt right. Shadows from lanterns and burning torches played among the trees as a song floated on the breeze. “It’s beautiful,” she said, wishing she could better describe the completeness that filled her. She wanted to hold on to this moment, to put it in a box to save for when she might need it later.

People glided under the curved structure, not walking or running, but moving in smooth motions. Miranda couldn’t pull her eyes away. “How are they moving like that?”

“They are skating. That’s what we came to do.”
Miranda watched the people effortlessly gliding. Was there some magic trick to it, like the way Beda and Monrovia had taught her to transport to Nibiru? Jitters danced in her stomach.

As they descended, the hairs on Miranda’s arm stood up. The faces of the people were familiar. She only had to imagine them in a shiny silver suit or dusty rags. She rubbed her eyes and blinked hard. It must be her mind making sense of the new place. Clearly, these people were not from Bubble City or the Trash Lands.

Monrovia searched the crowd, much more subdued than the revelers celebrating Beda. “I know he’s here somewhere.”

Stalls with grass roofs dotted the clearing around the giant curved wooden structure. A band played a lively tune, and it surprised Miranda to find her foot tapping out the rhythm.

“I found you.” A boy about Miranda’s height gave her a quick wink as he tapped Monrovia’s shoulder.

“Tan!” She pulled him into a hug, and he fit neatly under her chin.

Monrovia seemed so open to that hug. Miranda couldn’t help but think how differently her own attempt had been received earlier.

He broke away and turned to Miranda. “I’m Tan, and you must be the famous lost twin?”

He had an open, easy smile. Miranda reached to shake his hand, and he shoved a pair of worn, wheeled boots at her. She took them with both hands, surprised at their weight. “What are these?”

“Skates!”

Miranda looked back at the skaters. “Those people are rolling around on these?”

Tan grinned, which was surely meant to be reassuring, but Miranda had deep doubts. “It’s easy! I’ll teach you.”

“Oh no.” She tried to pass the skates back. “You guys go ahead. I’ll just watch.”

“Nope, doctor’s orders. You need to move around and do something different.”

He had a bubbly energy Miranda would have normally hated, but rather than being annoying, it had an endearing quality.

“What doctor?” She looked to Monrovia for help, but she just shrugged and smiled.

Miranda followed him to a bench near a small rink. The soft grass sprang back under her toes, making each step satisfying.

Tan tightened his skates in one practiced motion and Miranda did her best to copy. She got a firm hold on the back of the bench and stood. Her legs wobbled like they would fly out from under her at any second. “But really, why are we doing this?”

“Because it’s fun.” Tan’s face glowed as he said the word and motioned for her to let go and take his hand.

For half an hour, Miranda clung to Tan’s arm, falling on her butt between brief bouts of unconfident rolling while Monrovia watched from the sidelines like a proud parent. Safe on the bench now, Miranda breathed in the evening air. The light scent of flowers mingled with the peppery smells from more bubbling pots, forming a fragrance that wrapped around her like a blanket. Miranda touched a few coins in her pocket. She could have anything she wanted. It was all right here at her fingertips.

She whipped her head, sure she’d heard Nathan’s easy laugh. Only leaves danced on the breeze. She whispered to the darkness between the trunks, “You’d do so much better here than me. You’d make friends and appreciate the food, and I bet you’d be running your own bakery in a few weeks.”

A cool breeze brushed a tear on her cheek.
I’ll try. For you.