Noor(37)

I slowed us to a stop and as if by my command, white flood lights lit up the darkness, showing the swirling dust storm retreating and lifting. And there was the red crystal archway. This close to it, I could see the famous etchings, from Nsibidi to Vah to Adinkra.

“Allah is here,” DNA whispered.

“Someone definitely was,” I muttered.

All around us was quiet and still. We were in the field of the Hour Glass’s giant anti-aejej, but this part of it was like the entrance. In the back of the jeep, GPS mooed softly and the quiet was so profound, I could hear the worry in his voice.

“We’re here,” I said. “They’re going to send . . .”

Ding. It appeared on the screen in bright yellow words.

“How’d you know they were sending that?” DNA asked. “Just curious.”

“I can even hear them typing the message,” I said. I chuckled.

The message was five words, “Step out of the truck.”

“Can they turn their anti-aejej off?” DNA asked.

“Maybe,” I said. “We’re just past the borders of it. But if they move the border, I’m sure I can move it back.” I really was sure. I just wasn’t sure if I could do it before the Red Eye’s violent winds swept us away or if doing something big like this would hurt me. The thing that had shifted or ruptured in my brain—what if flexing or pushing that something damaged my brain? Maybe I could drop dead at any moment, from a brain aneurism, a heart attack, or stroke if I attempted the wrong thing.

Another message came on the screen. This time it was six words. “Get out of the truck NOW.”

“Or what?” I muttered. But we’d come here for a reason. We wanted in. I turned to DNA, “Come on. Let’s go.”

DNA didn’t wait for me to ask again. I opened my door and got out on my side. I carefully took my mask off. The first thing I noticed was that air was free of dust and it was warm, the anti-aejej removing every speck of sand and dust in the air. The Hour Glass would not have dust problems as most places in the desert did. And the quiet was amazing, despite the storm that roiled and raged about a half mile behind and hundreds of feet above us. Beyond the archway, although it was through a veil of whipping dust, I could see the Hour Glass: buildings of stone, giant tents made of fortified weather-treated polymers, glimpses of outdoor camps, and knots of markets. More lights, so many lights, because the storm kept so much of the sunshine from coming through. A refugee city in the shadows.

I walked in front of the truck where DNA met me, followed by GPS and Carpe Diem. We stood facing the archway.

“Wait,” DNA said, taking his mask off. Then he shut his eyes.

I nodded. We had to wait anyway, but I knew what he was doing, and it was damn important, in my opinion. I hadn’t forgotten what he told me when we first met. How before he and his people had gone into that town, he’d paused. Of all of them, he’d paused. And he’d done what his mother had taught him to do and it had saved his life. Now he was doing it again. Grounding.

I looked down at my metal feet. Was it even possible for me to ground? Could the energy of the Earth, the aura of the Hour Glass, travel through the bottoms of my cybernetic feet, into my flesh, all the way to my brain, centering and informing me? I didn’t think so.

DNA grunted and looked at me.

“Okay?” I asked.

“We’ll see.” DNA muttered. “What now?”

“We wait some more,” I said.

He nodded, looking ahead at the arch. “No problem.”

For over a minute, there was nothing, and the silence was amazing. No wind, no grains of sand tumbling, not even the sound of the city just beyond the archway. We were in a type of sound-proof bubble. Then, “AO and DNA.” The voice was female, loud and strikingly clear, and it spoke in Igbo.

We looked at each other yet again. “Do you speak Igbo?” I asked him.

“No,” he said.

“That is us,” I replied in Igbo. No point in trying to hide who we were. These days, privacy was a myth and there clearly was no secrecy when entering the Hour Glass, anyway. “But DNA doesn’t speak Igbo.”

“You’re on the run, both of you,” the voice continued in Igbo. “AO, you’re responsible for publicly murdering five men in a market.”

“That’s an overly simplified way to put it,” I said in Igbo.

“We’ve all seen the footage. We know it was complicated.” The voice switched to English. “DNA, you were involved in the incident in Matazu that led to the deaths of seven people and seventy six steer.”

DNA shook his head, raising his hands. “I was there. I was involved, but not—”

“We’ve seen the complete footage,” the voice said.

We were both silent. This wasn’t our decision to make.

“You’ve come here to hide,” the voice said. “Most people do.” There was a long pause and GPS mooed loudly. Carpe Diem grunted at him as if to say, “Shush!” DNA patted her side.

“You’re both legends here. We’re proud to have you.”

I saw nothing shift, but I felt it and we both heard it. PHOOOWOOOOOOSH! The veil of dust dissipated and then the sound of vehicles, voices, generators, music, laughter, reached our ears. The sounds of the Hour Glass. The voice spoke again, “Every hour at 1:11, all clocks reset to 12:11, all satellite locations and communication, all passwords reset, as well. We call that The Rotation of the Glass. We live within the chaos. Welcome to the Hour Glass.”