Above World

THE ELDERS’ VOICES were faint, but when Hoku clung to the council dome and pressed his Extra Ear against the slick, opaque surface, he could make out the words. Aluna followed his example.

“. . . simply ridiculous,” Elder Maylea said. “It’s already dangerous enough sending our trade team to the Human settlement. Who knows what horrors have overtaken the rest of the Above World. The ancients came to the City of Shifting Tides for a reason, and that reason has not changed.”

“The surviving Humans have reverted to barbarism and worse,” said Elder Peleke. “Our scouts have seen Humans with fingers made of knives, with artificial eyes that burn like fires! And the Humans that do not reshape themselves with tech simply cower in their villages or wage senseless, bloody wars with their neighbors.” He grunted. “Theirs has always been a savage heritage.”

“Their heritage is the same as ours, Peleke,” Aluna’s father said. His voice, even through the sound shield, resonated stronger than the rest. “A few hundred years of separation does not erase the thousands of years that came before. We were all Humans once.”

“But our security is based on the fact that none of the Above Worlders know where we are,” Elder Maylea said. “Sarah Jennings went to great lengths to keep our location a secret. Not even the other Kampii tribes know where to find us, and we are still three dozen years away from the next Exchange. The more contact we have with others, the greater the risk.”

“Yes, there is safety in isolation,” Kapono said. “But are we afraid of contact for the right reasons? Are we jumping at sharks, or just at their shadows? We could use the outpost at Seahorse Alpha to communicate with other colonies, to learn about our past, to plan for our future! And yet, Seahorse Alpha has never even been opened in my lifetime. We have imprisoned it in a glowfield, as if knowledge itself were dangerous.” Kapono lowered his voice and spoke slowly. “As long as our gaze remains inward, we will never truly know what is happening in the Above World.”

The Elders fell silent. Aluna and her father were so alike, Hoku thought. More alike than either of them realized.

Elder Inoa’s voice broke the quiet. “Are you suggesting that we reject the ways of our ancestors, reject the very will of Sarah Jennings herself? That we rejoin the Above World while we are at our most vulnerable?”

Rejoin the Above World!

Hoku couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The Above World had always seemed like a dream to him, a world filled with endless artifacts and machines and people who knew how to use them. Sometimes he wished he’d been born in ancient times, before the Kampii gave up that wondrous, mechanical life.

But he’d heard other stories, too. Tales of Humans with poisonous weapons for arms and with hearts of cold metal, who roamed the Above World killing whomever they wanted. With the Deepfell hunting the oceans and those Humans on dry land, the only safe place in all the wide world was right where they were: hidden in the City of Shifting Tides.

There was a silence in the council dome. Hoku pressed his ear harder against the dome’s surface, afraid that he’d miss Kapono’s answer. His heart pounded and the breathing shell at his neck pulsed rapidly to keep up. Half a meter away, Aluna’s shell pulsed just as fast, her eyes wide.

The silence seemed to last forever. Then Aluna’s father said, “No, no. Of course not. You all know how I feel about the Above World. It’s too dangerous, too unpredictable. My allegiance has always been, and will always be, to the Coral Kampii and our founding principles. I believe I have already proven my loyalty.”

“My mother,” Aluna whispered to Hoku. “He’s talking about my mother. He could have gone to the Above World when she got sick. I bet the Humans had medicines that could have saved her. But he didn’t. He let her die instead. To him, that’s loyalty.”

Hoku looked at her, saw her lips pressed together and her brown eyes fierce. He didn’t know what to say. He never did. Aluna’s loss made him feel guilty that he still had his own mother. Guilty, and grateful.

Elder Inoa said, “Yes, of course you have proven your loyalty. No one thinks otherwise. But we must stay hidden as long as possible, if not forever. It is who we are. We must trust the Elders before us and keep the Seahorse Alpha outpost secure. Exposing our people to the information inside will only cause more strife. Kampii must not fight Kampii. Not ever again.”

Aluna whispered, “The outpost! We have to —”

“Even so,” Elder Kapono said, and Aluna clamped her mouth shut so they could hear. “Heed my words: this is not the last death our people will suffer.”

“It is not,” Elder Peleke agreed. “But as you know better than anyone, in dark times, some Kampii must die to preserve the way of life for the rest.”

The Elders all spoke their agreement at once.

“We will encourage more pregnancies,” Elder Inoa said. She herself had borne eight children, and she never let anyone forget it. Fertility was a great badge of honor for the women in the City of Shifting Tides.

“Yes, more pregnancies,” Elder Peleke said. “We can offer incentives. Our reasons need not be apparent.”

“Then the matter is settled,” said Elder Maylea. “We will weather this storm as we always have. As Sarah Jennings would have wanted us to. By the moon!”

The other Elders repeated, “By the moon!”

“The next order of business is the taxation of whitefish harvests from the sand-side farmers —”

“Enough,” Aluna said. She let go of the dome and drifted from its surface. She ripped off her Extra Ear and held it out. “Here, take it. I don’t want it anymore.”

Hoku stared at the artifact pinched between her fingers.

This is not the last death. Some must die . . .

“Take it,” she repeated.

He did. In the dome below, he could hear the Elders arguing about harvest rights. He quickly removed his own Extra Ear and shoved them both into one of his pockets.

“What should we do?” he asked her. Aluna always knew what to do. She always had a plan. No matter what, he could count on her to tell him where to go.

This time, she laughed. It wasn’t a happy sound.

“What should we do? Pass the tides, like good little fish,” she said. “And hope that the next Kampii to die isn’t someone we love.”





ALUNA SAID GOOD NIGHT to Hoku and swam for her nest, her thoughts dark. She kept seeing the same images, over and over: Makina’s dead white eyes, the broken necklace in her palm, Hoku’s worried face pressed against the council dome. How could she live a normal life knowing it was only a matter of time before someone else died?

Then again, maybe she wouldn’t be living a normal life. Maybe her own necklace would be the next to fail.

She changed direction and headed for the training dome. A few weapon drills would calm her tumultuous mind. Most days, they were the only thing that could. If only she were allowed to be a hunter like her brothers! She loved fighting — the emotional rush, the way her mind and body worked together, the rare feeling of power and control, even if it was just over herself. And she was good at it, too. But girls were forbidden to do anything the Elders deemed dangerous while the Coral Kampii population was below its “minimum safe level.” And now, with the Elders wanting more babies, she’d be lucky to do anything as deadly as shucking a mussel or skinning a fish.

Her brother Anadar was in the dome when she got there, going through a complicated spear set. Aluna treaded by the entrance, not wanting to distract him. Besides, she loved watching the swish of his long spear as it pierced the water. He wasn’t as strong or naturally talented as their older brothers, Pilipo and Ehu, but he worked harder and had more patience. And so far, he’d kept her training a secret.

When Anadar finished his series of moves, he saluted the old stone warriors’ shrine at the north curve of the dome and turned to her.

“I thought I might see you tonight, after everything,” he said, and that was all the mention he made of Makina. But there was a look in his eyes, a sadness, and Aluna wondered if he didn’t need this session as much as she did. Not that they could actually talk about it. Unless Daphine was part of the conversation, Aluna and her brothers stuck to the same three topics: eating, hunting, and which one of them would win in a fight.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” he said. “Grab your spear.”

Aluna grinned and darted for the weapons stuck to the nearby wall with jellyfish goo. A few of the spears had only one point, but most had sharpened metal tips on both ends. She chose the shortest, sturdiest spear, to match her smaller stature. One day, she’d wield the longer sinuous weapons and make them dance in the water, just as her brothers did.

“This is your last lesson before you get your tail, so let’s make it a good one,” Anadar said in his best grown-up teacher voice. “I want to see every spear set you’ve learned so far.”

She groaned. “All of them? But I want to learn something new!”

“Then you better find enlightenment in a set you already know.”

Aluna sighed and swam to the center of the dome, about three meters above the sandy floor. Before she started training, she’d thought the weapon sets were beautiful, but stupid. The hunter performed a series of moves with the weapon, but without an opponent. Some of the spear twirls and positions looked far too elaborate to ever be useful in a real fight. But after she learned her first set — Spear in Six Directions — she began to understand. The sets conditioned the body to understand the weapon, to feel its ebb and flow. And they were much harder than they looked. She never concentrated more than when she was learning a new series of moves.

She faced north, saluted the shrine and her brother, then began.

Her body did most of the work. It knew the moves, directed the spear to poke or slash, twist or spin. Her mind focused on intent. It was not enough to go through the motions. She had to understand what each of them meant. She had to give them heart, imbue them with her spirit. She wasn’t just poking the point toward the sand; she was driving it into the gills of an imaginary Great White.

After Six Directions, she performed two dolphin-style sets called Chase the Seal and Playing in the Surf that involved tumbles and quick changes of direction. By the end of the second one, her breathing necklace was pulsing so fast that she thought she might pass out.

“Go on,” Anadar said. “There is no time to catch your breath in the middle of a fight. Push.”

Push through the exhaustion. He’d been telling her that since the first day she picked up a knife. The only limits you have are the ones you set yourself.

Aluna saluted and began Devil in the Depths, a shark-style set with fast, sharp movements. Her arms wobbled, and the first few strikes were sloppy. She pushed, and found a second wave of strength.

When she had finished the rest of her sets, she stopped treading and drifted to the ocean floor. Her breath came in great gasps, and she held her side to ease the cramp in her ribs. Her spear hung lifeless from her hand. If Great White attacked right now, she’d almost welcome its jaws.

“Not bad,” Anadar said. “A little messy at times, but you maintained good speed and power. Let’s go over the spinning combination in the White Coral set. I think you have the wrong grip in one part.”

Aluna looked at him. Was he serious? His brown eyes sparkled their response. Tides’ teeth — he was.

She pulled herself upright with a groan, adjusted her hands on the spear, and adopted the White Coral stance.

Push.


Her father was waiting for her when she got back to the nest. His tail curled around his resting stick in the common room, the resting stick no one else dared use. He didn’t look at her when she entered but stared at his dinner pouch, seemingly transfixed by whatever food Daphine had prepared for the family that night.

Aluna hurried through the room, eager to collapse and savor her well-earned exhaustion. She had almost made it to the other side when her father spoke.

“That girl should never have been in the kelp forest alone,” he said. “Her death was an unfortunate accident.”

Aluna stopped and twirled to face him. “An accident?” The anger and frustration she’d just purged from her system returned in one flash of a tail. “How can you say that? It was her necklace!”

His eyes flickered wide, but he recovered quickly from the surprise. “You’re talking nonsense. The girl made a foolish mistake and she died for it.”

“But you know it’s the necklaces,” she sputtered. “And you know more people are going to die just like Makina!”

You let my mother die, too. You chose the City of Shifting Tides over your own wife. She couldn’t say the words out loud. Not to him. But they both felt the accusation floating there, an invisible barrier always between them.

“Lower your voice,” he hissed. “I know the girl was your friend, but if I tell you her death was an accident, then you’ll believe it was an accident. Do you understand me?”

Tears pooled in her eyes and she blinked them into the ocean. “The Elders listen to you. I know they’re afraid, but they listen to you. They would follow you anywhere.” Even to the Above World.

He gave a harsh laugh. “No one will follow a man who can’t even control his own daughter.”

“So this is my fault somehow?” she said. “What if Anadar is the next Kampii to die? Or Daphine?”

Her father’s brow darkened. “You are too young to understand what’s happening. You know nothing of the Above World and its horrors. Grow up, Aluna. You’re about to get your tail, and you’re still acting like a child.”

She glowered, her blistered hands curling into fists. She couldn’t speak, not without screaming. Where was the proud, honorable man the rest of the Kampii saw when they looked at her father? All she saw was a coward. A coward who was perpetually disappointed in her.

“Get out of my sight,” her father said, and she did.





TRADITIONALLY, her mother would have fixed her hair before the ceremony. Aluna had to make do with her sister.

“Stop moving,” Daphine chided. “This would be easier if you’d grown your hair out. I can’t get this shell woven on.”

“Tides’ teeth, how many shells do I need?” They’d been at this for more than an hour. Her head felt like a basket of clams.

“Shhhh,” Daphine said.

“Who did this to you, before your ceremony?” Aluna asked, surprised that she didn’t already know the answer. Their mother had died a week after Aluna was born, a few tides before Daphine got her tail.

“I did it myself,” Daphine said.

Aluna could hear a mix of pride and hurt in her sister’s voice, and that hollow, aching echo of silence that remained the only acknowledgment of their loss. She heard the echo in her brothers’ voices sometimes — and in her father’s voice on those rare occasions when he wasn’t yelling at her. But Daphine, who had suffered the most, rarely let it show. When she did, it made her look vulnerable. It made her seem young.

Aluna squirmed. “I bet it didn’t take this long when you did it yourself,” she said crossly. She’d rather her sister be angry than frail.

Daphine snorted. “It took longer, and half the shells fell out right before I swallowed the Ocean Seed.”

“Ha!” Aluna poked at a group of pearls clustered at her temple. “That must have irked the Elders. They like everything to go steady as tides. Remember when Ehu sneezed during his ceremony and Elder Peleke got so flustered he forgot a line of the ritual?”

Daphine laughed. The sound lifted Aluna’s heart. If her sister’s quiet despair could make others weep without even realizing why, then her laugh could bring sunlight to the abyss. Her three brothers had almost as much power. Pilipo and Ehu were the city’s best hunters, and Anadar would be, too, one day. Other Kampii looked up to them. Someday, they’d all be as respected as her father.

All of them except her.

She’d been telling herself for years that getting her tail would change everything. Once she looked like a real Kampii, she would suddenly become an invaluable member of the community and earn her siblings’ respect. Maybe even her father’s respect, too. But now, on the day of the ceremony, she faltered. Maybe a tail wouldn’t change enough. Maybe it wouldn’t change anything at all.

“There,” Daphine said, and swam back a bit to admire her handiwork. “Pretty as a porpoise.”

“Hey!”

Daphine laughed again, and Aluna forgave her the insult.


Aluna treaded water with six other girls and eight boys in a tiny cove near the ritual dome. The ceremonial robes fit loosely around her arms and legs, irritating her. She preferred her tight, sleeveless hunting leathers, designed for protection and speed. Dresses made her feel stupid, like she was trying to look as pretty as Daphine, when everyone knew she never would be.

Despite the company, Aluna had never felt more alone. The other girls whispered to one another and kept looking at their legs. Soon they’d swallow the Ocean Seed and the ancestors would bestow their blessings. Their legs would change into tails. At thirteen, they’d finally be true Kampii.

The transformation took several tides and was extremely painful. A rite of passage, the Elders called it, as if that somehow explained why it had to hurt. But everyone — every adult Kampii in the City of Shifting Tides — agreed that the pain was worth it.

Elder Inoa came to fetch them. A fit Kampii in her late fifties, Inoa wore a bright-white robe cinched at the waist with a green cord and decorated with pearls and sparkle shells. Eight thin bracelets slid up and down her right arm, one for each of her children. Her flowing skirt was embroidered with the ancient Kampii seahorse and billowed around her tail in the morning current.

Aluna’s chest swelled. She looked at her companions and saw the same mix of pride, excitement, and terror reflected on their faces. They followed the Elder in an ordered line, as they had seen Kampii do in years before this.

It looked as if the entire population of the City of Shifting Tides had come to watch the festivities. Kampii clustered around the entrance hatch to the ritual dome, cheering and shouting blessings of luck as Aluna and the others swam by. Spectators weren’t allowed inside the dome during the ceremony, but that didn’t stop Kampii from pressing their faces to the dome’s glassy surface and watching from the outside.

Once Aluna entered the ritual dome, the mood changed completely. The dome’s sound shield dulled the cheers to a distant murmur, and its curved glass walls had been darkened to black. The spectators could see in, but Aluna and the other ceremony participants couldn’t see out. The Elders had granted them the illusion of privacy.

Daphine and Hoku were out there somewhere, but her brothers were not. On ceremony days, the hunters had to catch three times as many fish for the feast. Pilipo, Ehu, and Anadar were scouring the ocean, swimming far and fast, looking for prey to honor the ocean spirits and their ancestors.

Elder Inoa shut the entrance hatch, and the world fell silent. Aluna followed the others to a small cluster of resting sticks dotting the center of the dome, wishing her heart would slow to its normal pace. Or at least stop beating so loudly in her head. She wrapped her legs around her resting stick, careful not to bend her knees too tightly. If past ceremonies were any indication, the Elders would drone on and on. She didn’t want her legs falling asleep or going numb.

“First to speak will be Elder Kapono,” Elder Inoa said, and took her place with the other Elders. Aluna’s father swam forward.

In his ritual clothes, he looked even more intimidating than usual. His flowing white tunic emphasized his dark skin. Shells and bits of kelp had been woven into his long, graying braids. Had Daphine done his hair before or after hers? If he cared that his youngest daughter was among the initiates this year, he didn’t show it. His gaze passed over her as if she were a hermit crab, beneath his notice.

Her father spoke about the city’s history. She’d heard the story a million times, but she had to admit, her father told it well.

Long ago, they had all lived in the Above World with the other Humans until the first Elder, Ali’ikai who-was-born Sarah Jennings, led them away from the disease and the famine and the war and made them a home under the waves. Only Sarah Jennings maintained contact with the Humans, the other Kampii colonies, and other splinter people. She became the Coral Kampii’s first Voice. But conditions in the Above World worsened. Sarah Jennings fell ill during one of her missions, and after she died, the Kampii vowed to limit their contact with the Above World forever.

As the Elders lectured about honor and duty, Aluna’s thoughts drifted back to the kelp forest, back to Makina. She could almost feel the girl’s dead hand clutching her wrist, could almost see Makina’s fog-filled eyes, as if she were swimming right in front of her. How long would that memory haunt her?

When Elder Inoa began handing out the ceremonial bowls, Aluna almost dropped hers. Elder Peleke was talking about responsibility at that very moment. Her father scowled. Aluna tightened her grip on the bowl and tried to focus.

Elder Peleke called their names. Aluna rose first and slowly swam forward. Elder Inoa used a pair of tongs to pluck an Ocean Seed from the ritual container that only the Elders could open. The seed glowed red-hot as she dropped it into Aluna’s bowl, but it sizzled and cooled quickly in open water. The seed was small, no bigger than a pearl, and a dingy brownish gray.

“The color of the stormy sea,” the Elder said. “A symbol of change.”