The Body Politic: A Dystopian Science Fiction Novel (The Tribal Wars Book 2)

Kyle Rula at 28

Her eyes were hazel, not the arresting green of her cousin Hakulupe Le. Brianna’s hair was short and her skin was golden as though tanned by the sun.

“I come today, Henry,” she added, “with a request that you join an ambassador mission to Urbyd. You would be, um . . . I believe the Softcheeks term is embedded.”

Hershel Henry

“Why did you even come to Westend?” Endicott demanded. “What was it, Henry? The lure of exotic locales, or running away from a broken heart?”

“Where I come from, everything is broken. The savannah tribes have a purpose.”

Endicott shook his head slightly. “So . . . it’s the romance thing. Your tour will end six months early. Mark my words. You’ll shake with malaria chills for a decade.”

Marcy el Cylahi

We sat cross-legged on straw mats as she lit a tallow. In the flickering light, I realized my suspicions were true. Marcy’s soulful eyes were both bloodshot and yellow, resembling broken egg embryos. She was suffering from hepatitis, a curable disease. It was curable, I wanted to shout. But not perhaps in her advanced state.

“I know what you think,” Marcy said in Arrivi. “The set-aside wife, why don’t I leave?”