Malefactor

by Robert Repino

  Jackson lurked behind him, wearing a camouflage uniform. D’Arc realized that she did not get the chance to see the man’s face in their last encounter. Without his gas mask, he seemed older than she remembered, thanks to the white whiskers on his chin. Upon seeing the marauders, he rubbed his trigger finger against the pad of his thumb, centimeters from his sidearm. A soldier to the last.

  Representatives of other species joined them. D’Arc recognized Grissom, the silent feline. He gave no indication that he recognized her, which strangely felt right. A German shepherd and a stag eyed her, though the deer acted uninterested. He impatiently clicked his hoof on the asphalt.

  Two smaller, furry creatures stood off to the side: Gaunt the bat, wearing wraparound goggles, and Castor the beaver, squatting with his tail flat behind him. Hosanna certainly could have done worse than these people. But D’Arc got the feeling that the delegation brought along her old friends to remind her of what was at stake for this meeting. As if she, of all people, did not know.

  A row of troop transport vehicles blocked the other side of the bridge. The soldiers formed a line across, holding their rifles diagonally across their chests.

  For a few seconds, the river gurgling around the pillars of the bridge provided the only sound.

  “Are you injured?” Jackson asked D’Arc.

  “No.”

  “And your son?”

  “He’s safe.”

  Jackson nodded. “But are you . . . okay?”

  “I’m not being kept against my will, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  The delegation stirred.

  “As for the rahvek,” she added, “I don’t know yet what it will do to me.”

  “We have doctors who can help,” Jackson said.

  “There are more pressing matters.”

  “Indeed,” the Archon said, his voice surprisingly deep for such a weathered man. “I need to know if you speak for the wolves. For all the wolf packs surrounding Hosanna.”

  “I speak for now,” D’Arc said. “Jackson, you saw it.”

  “I did,” Jackson said.

  After Jackson had ordered the retreat from Mudfoot territory, the wolves gave D’Arc a new title: Aneega. It literally meant water, but they used it to mean Protector, Life-Giver. Pack leaders who took in strays often earned this title. D’Arc insisted that her leadership would last only a brief time. At the next ken-ra, a council of wolves would take over. A generous wolf is a strong wolf, she often heard.

  “Why, though?” the Archon asked. “Why take this on?”

  “You tell me,” D’Arc said. “It’s your prophecy.”

  A hint of a smile appeared on the man’s face.

  “Think of what would have happened if I hadn’t done it,” she added. “That should answer your question.”

  She let that stew for a few seconds. All their prophecies of the Warrior saving them and the Mother sheltering them had come true. What more could they want?

  “There will be no more attacks,” D’Arc said. “There will be peace. But only if we earn it.”

  “Let’s get to your demands, then,” the Archon said.

  “The border stays where it is,” she said. “We keep Camp Echo and the Northern Reservoir. You took those in the occupation. The wolves are simply taking them back. You know they’re not worth fighting over.”

  The Archon folded his arms, making his hands disappear into his baggy sleeves. She took this as consent.

  “The Mudfoot took in too many people,” D’Arc said. “More than a pack can handle. We sent some west. If they want to live as true wolves, they can do it elsewhere. As for the rest: you should pardon them. Let them return.”

  “That I cannot do,” the Archon said. “They betrayed us.”

  D’Arc turned to Falkirk.

  “We understand that,” he said. “But we also understand that your electrical plant needs to be rebuilt. Along with the shipyard. The beavers can’t fix all of it.”

  Being a good beaver, Castor of course could never admit such a thing. But they all knew it was true.

  “Let the dogs return,” Falkirk said. “They can help rebuild. Let them earn your trust.”

  “Still not good enough,” the Archon said. “It’s a generous offer, but I owe it to our people to keep them safe.”

  “I’ll go,” Falkirk said. “And I can bring at least a hundred with me. If it goes well, more will come.”

  The Archon fidgeted with his collar as he considered the offer. It meant something to have the captain of the Vesuvius join in the reconstruction. Falkirk convinced D’Arc of this a few days before. A penance, he called it. For abandoning his post. The husky’s sense of honor had remained intact through all of this.

  “One season,” Falkirk said.

  “The defectors can return,” the Archon said. “As for the known murderers and saboteurs—they’re wolves now, as far as I’m concerned. They can’t come back.”

  D’Arc agreed that this made sense. The angriest dogs would have no interest in helping Hosanna rebuild anyway. In seven days’ time, the workers would gather at the border so that Tranquility could identify them and let them into Sanctuary Union territory.

  Once she worked out the details, D’Arc glanced at Falkirk. This was really happening. She’d left him nearly a year before. Now he would leave her, though he promised to return.

  “I must say something unpleasant,” D’Arc said. “It would be unfortunate if the father of my child had some kind of accident during his time in Hosanna.”

  “He won’t,” the Archon said. “I’m not letting your dogs into the city just to start another fight.”

  There was more to discuss. More trades. Hosanna agreed to send farmers into wolf country to show the hunters how to grow crops they could eat. In the meantime, the wolves would purchase carcasses from the morgue in exchange for the highly prized pelts of fallen marauders. It was a ghoulish trade that would nevertheless keep the peace. Meanwhile, the wolves would let Tranquility restore their communication towers in the formerly occupied territories. If the bears or any other species attempted an invasion, the wolves would act as a buffer, and they would warn Hosanna immediately. An armistice now could lead to a much-needed alliance in the future, should the situation arise. For all the hope bound in this summit, the world remained a cruel place. Old enemies would have to trust each other—or at least pretend they did.

  Those were the easy parts. The Archon saved the most difficult question for last.

  “The ants,” he said. “I have to ask.”

  “They’ve already built a hill,” D’Arc said. “Digging out tunnels. But you knew that.”

  “And you expect us to take your word for it that they’re not dangerous,” the Archon said. “That they’re simple farmers. Like us.”

  “That’s right. Because that’s how I raised them.”

  “You told Jackson that the Queen wanted the fighting to go on forever.”

  “The Queen has no say in this,” D’Arc said. “Send your scientists if you must. Observe. Do some studies. But do not interfere. The only way we break this cycle is by learning to live together. That is what victory will look like.”

  “Put yourself in my position,” the Archon said. “I have to go back to Hosanna and explain to people why I trust you.”

  “You trusted her when you used her as a prop,” Falkirk said. Everyone turned to him. “You asked everyone to believe in the prophecy about the Warrior and the Mother. And now you can’t do it yourself.”

  “You think this is the prophecy?”

  “It’s better,” Falkirk said. “She’s still the person Michael said she’d be. But now you have to share. With the wolves and the ants.”

  The Archon must have liked this explanation, though he did not say it. Instead, he approached D’Arc. Quay tapped the hilt of her cutlass, but then
thought better of it and remained still.

  “Walk with me,” the man said.

  The two delegations waited while the Archon led her to the edge of the bridge. They leaned their elbows on the guardrail. To her surprise, this man of God pulled out a cigarette, most likely hand-rolled by beavers. Shielding it with his palm, he struck a match, lit the tip, and inhaled. His fingers trembled in ecstasy. He must have loved a nice smoke before the war. She knew then that this thankless job had been thrust upon him. When he offered her a puff, she gently declined.

  “I appreciate what you did,” the Archon began. “Without a leader, the wolves would have split apart again. We’d be right back where we started.”

  “Yes.”

  “But I have to tell you,” the man continued. “A lot of our generals want us to roll the dice. Invade wolf country again. Because they think you’re bluffing. Or you’re simply wrong.”

  “I might be.”

  He took a knowing drag on his cigarette. “You might be. But if this is our best chance for peace, then I have to give it a shot. Even if the warmongers don’t like it.”

  He tapped the cigarette with his thumb. Ashes broke from the tip and floated toward the water. “Do you think that one day, we can get along without the threat of annihilation?”

  “No,” she said. The Archon raised his bushy eyebrows. “Not us, I mean,” she added. “It’s too late for our generation. But maybe our children will get it right.”

  The Archon smiled. “That reminds me,” he said. “Did you give your son a name?”

  “Rev.”

  He squinted at her. “Is that short for something?”

  “Revelation.”

  The Archon laughed uneasily. “Hey, why not?” he said.

  His cigarette had burned to a nub. He flicked it, sending it end over end into the water. “Maybe our children will get it right.” He placed a hand on her arm, long enough for her to feel the warmth in his palm. It was his human way of saying that he believed her.

  “Before we leave, my friends have something to give you,” the Archon said. He gestured toward the others, and they walked over.

  Gaunt spread his wings to reveal a long, narrow object wrapped in cloth, pressed against his chest. Castor took it and handed it to her. She unwound the fabric to find the scabbard of her sword underneath. When she pulled the blade free, it emerged polished and sharpened, brighter than the day she found it.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Your mother . . .” She realized that she did not know what to say.

  “I know,” Castor said. “Gaunt told me all about it.”

  She clipped the sword to her belt. “The Old Man,” she said. “He was grateful for what you did. And he was sorry.”

  “It’s all right. I understand now.”

  “Your nephew. Did he . . . ?”

  “He’ll live.”

  A weight slipped from D’Arc’s shoulders. She gazed at the forest, the Old Man’s burial ground. He was everywhere, in all the ditches and streams, the roots and the soil. She wanted to believe that this place could hear Castor’s words and find some peace. The forest answered with a strong breeze. Gaunt pulled in his wings to brace himself. He must have felt it.

  “Seven days,” D’Arc announced. “Our dogs will leave from Camp Echo. You can escort them into Hosanna from there.”

  The Archon’s fingers nervously twirled a cigarette that was no longer there. “We’ll be ready. Good luck to you.”

  “Good luck to us,” D’Arc said.

  As she headed for the tree line, Quay and the other guards gathered in formation around her. The muscles in her chest loosened. She could breathe normally again. Diplomacy could be more frightening than warfare, but she would learn.

  Something brushed her tail. It was Falkirk, playing with her tail like a dog would, to let her know that things would be all right. The stern guards tried to ignore him. D’Arc was still mad at Falkirk for suggesting this compromise with Hosanna, which would take him away for months. All the same, she used her tail to playfully swat his hand away.

  Chapter 30

  Undaunted

  Falkirk put on his welding gloves. Before him lay the starboard hull of a freighter, an enormous hunk of metal lying flat on the shipyard dock. The bolts had been removed, and the supports had been severed with cutting torches. A row of heavy trucks had joined together to drag the piece free from the sunken ship and onto the dock, using the largest chains that Falkirk had ever seen. Once the hull was in place, water spilled from the sides, pouring out of the divots and flooding the shipyard.

  “Torches,” someone shouted. The overseers repeated it. “Torches! Torches!”

  The dogs formed a line at the edge of the hull. One hundred and six dogs stayed at this camp alone—a penance camp, as the Archon called it—each hoping to earn their way back into Hosanna again. In the guard towers overlooking the shipyard, soldiers watched them with binoculars, their rifles ready in case the torches gave the dogs any ideas.

  Falkirk motioned for Angel, a young pit bull who slept in the bunk beside him. On days when they removed a big piece from the water, Angel acted as Falkirk’s assistant. Here, the young ones would learn from those with more experience. Older dogs like Falkirk would set a good example so they would not be led astray again. While Angel handed over his blowtorch and goggles, Falkirk staked out a spot near the corner of the hull. He cranked the knob on the torch until a sharp blue flame formed at the spout. It took only a few seconds for the flame to make the metal glow red hot. Once it reached a shade of bright orange, Falkirk moved the torch in a wide arc, slicing away the hull into a smaller chunk. When he finished, the piece fell away and hit the concrete with a pinging sound that echoed off the wall of the old customs house. Angel pulled the metal away and slid it behind him, where other dogs collected it and loaded it onto a truck.

  The row of cutter dogs acted like termites chewing away at a piece of wood. Orange sparks shot out from their torches. The air shimmered with the rising heat, and Falkirk, having the thickest coat, began to pant. In another hour, the sun would crown over the skyline, making the work even more difficult. He would fight his way through. Every piece of metal they hauled away represented progress and another step closer to home. To D’Arc. To his son.

  This was day thirty-nine of his penance. Finally, he had to do something besides moving equipment from one end of the shipyard to the other or fixing the barracks where the penitents slept. The sunken ship, the SUS Undaunted, sat half-submerged in the water, a gift from the Mudfoot. By destroying it, they clogged the port, making it impossible for the larger ships to dock. For weeks, the best engineers in Hosanna had tried to recover the ship. Divers patched the hole, pumped out the water. But as the ship rose, the hull ruptured again, breaking the vessel into several pieces and worsening the situation. From then on, the penitents referred to it as the Daunting. Rather than waiting for heavy machinery to do the job, the overseers ordered the dogs to remove the debris in any way they could. Somehow, destroying the ship felt like a more suitable task for the penitents. They were here because they chose to destroy rather than build. It made sense to let them hack away at this giant steel sea creature until they worked the anger and the regret out of their systems.

  Falkirk adjusted the flame and readied for another cut. The last piece he removed was still on the ground. He turned to find Angel gazing in the opposite direction.

  Falkirk lightly elbowed him in his chest. “Wake up!” he said.

  At the entrance of the shipyard, about fifty yards away, a row of soldiers formed a line at the metal fence. Among them was Colonel Thornton, the lead overseer for the penance camps. Standing beside her, wearing his black robe, was the Archon, his narrow face fitting almost perfectly between the bars. A breeze fluttered his wispy white hair.

  “Is that a council member?” Angel asked.

  “It’s the
leader of the council,” Falkirk said.

  “The fuck is he doin’ here?” someone to his right said.

  The relentless hissing of the torches began to die out as word spread through the penitents.

  “Let’s go,” one of the humans shouted from the guard tower. “Get back to work!”

  Falkirk remembered his promise: to set the right example for the others. He pushed the flame against the metal and watched it change from red to bright orange.

  “What’s going on?” Angel asked.

  Falkirk needed to concentrate. Moving the flame too slowly warped the metal, spilling blobs of molten steel on the ground. Moving too quickly would require him to start over.

  “Why are they here?” Angel said.

  “I don’t know,” Falkirk said.

  The piece fell away and dribbled on the concrete. When Angel reached for it, Falkirk whispered in his ear: “When you bring the next load to the truck, ask Vera. She might know.”

  Vera drove one of the supply vehicles. If anyone needed quick information on the outside world, she would have it.

  Angel acknowledged him with a grunt as he pulled the piece of steel away. Falkirk felt a strange combination of terror and euphoria upon seeing the leader of Hosanna here. Anything new amid this dreary routine could at least provide a distraction, if not point to a way out of this place.

  Falkirk stole a last glance at the Archon before the soldiers escorted the old human from the site. The Archon wagged his finger, issuing orders while Thornton bowed her head and nodded. Falkirk knew the look of a leader faced with a decision. Something was happening. Something was coming.

  That night, after lights-out, whispers drifted among the cots, bouncing off the canvas ceiling of the tent. Every so often it would get too loud, and the older dogs would shush everyone quiet. Then the noise would build again.

  Angel tried his best to explain what Vera had told him: that the council planned to bring more penitents later that week. They wanted the Daunting removed from the water as soon as possible.