Lost Horizon

by Michelle Hercules

  I’m keen to get what I came for and slip out as fast as I can. Trying to match my pace to ride the crowd’s motion is hard, though. I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to arrange this meeting, and if it turns out to be another dead end, it might be hard to control the familiar rage, which is already brewing in the pit of my stomach.

  A foul-smelling gas drifts from one of the apartments above, hitting me square in the face when I round a corner. Suppressing a cough, I step into the gap between one dwelling and another, working my way through a labyrinth of passages until I finally reach a dead end. The coordinates flashing in front of my digital eye indicates this is the right place.

  I don’t like the looks of this. The alleyway is too narrow, just wide enough for two men to stand side by side. It would be difficult to fight in case the need arises. No matter. I’ve fought in worse conditions than this. Curling my metal hand, I access the charger embedded on my palm. It’s at full capacity. For extra precaution, I sweep the area for living creatures, using my infrared sensors. I only see one heat signature.

  “About time,” a nervous voice says.

  A munchkin with neon-yellow hair emerges from the shadows, dressed in faded clothes that have seen better days. Munchkins are known for their preference to wear loud, boisterous colors. This individual, however, in his faded jacket and wrinkled shirt, looks like one sad version of the cheeriest race in all of Oz.

  My gaze locks on the creature as I widen my stance, amplifying my menacing nature. “Do you have what I asked for?”

  The munchkin cowers as his beady gaze darts left and right. “Yes. I have the fake pilot license you requested. Do you have the payment?”

  I retrieve the small pouch from inside my cloak. “One hundred Emmerlin gold coins.”

  He reaches for it, but I keep it dangling above his head and out of reach. “The scan-doc first.”

  With a heavy exhale, he pulls from his breast pocket a translucent metal card. The gold symbol of the Emmerlin royal crest shines when it catches the light from a balcony above. I retrieve the scan-doc, dropping the pouch as I do so.

  Scrambling to catch the payment before it hits the ground, the munchkin almost falls sideways. Adjusting his posture in the next moment, he throws me an annoyed glance.

  “I don’t know what good that’s going to do you. Everyone knows Prince Lennox has no more airspeeds. He has sealed the gates of Emerald City. No one is allowed in.”

  Safely hiding the scan-doc in a small compartment in my mechanical arm, I ignore the munchkin’s comment. You can’t trust the value or accuracy of any of the news these folks regurgitate here. I’m ready to leave when my ears detect the distinct sound of a few pairs of boots walking softly at the entrance of the alleyway.

  The munchkin’s eyes become glassy as he mumbles, “I’m sorry. I had no choice.”

  Fuck my luck. The rat sold me out. I should have known.

  Forgetting the creature, I pivot where I stand, facing the three larger and meaner munchkins who are approaching me with eager strides. Immediately, my enhanced senses register everything about the threat: their body mass, their strength, and the number of weapons they carry—even the concealed ones.

  “Look at what we’ve got here, a shiny cyborg fool,” the one in the middle sneers, his scarred lips twisting into an ugly grin.

  “I bet that arm will fetch a great prize at Scrape Market,” the lowlife on the right adds.

  There’s a quickening of my pulse, an automatic overreaction of my human body, which is swiftly adjusted by my improved robotic system. I grin, feeling the low hum of my blaster as it ignites. Quickly, reason prevails as my brain begins to calculate other ways I can defeat these bandits without resorting to the weapon embedded on my palm. I have to be conscious of its energy levels. I’m far from any crystal reservoirs.

  “What’s so funny, Tin Man?” the munchkin on the left asks, raising his glove-clad hand. The blue stone on the top gleams, telling me the weapon is ready. “That’s right. You don’t want to make any sudden movements—unless you want to have your circuits fried. It’s fine by us, either way.”

  They must have me confused with some low-quality aberration commonly traded in the main lands. Cyborgs made out of scrape metal and body parts. They have no idea of what I am. The contestants in the Syvern Mortal Games didn’t either.

  To prove his point, the munchkin fires. A stream of electric energy shoots from his glove, hitting me square on my chest. My system flashes a warning, which lasts no more than a second. I let out a grunt just the same, bending my knees to pretend like that blast affected more than it did.

  Slowly lifting my gaze, I peer at my assailants from under my lashes. “You wanted to know what I thought was so amusing? You shouldn’t start a brawl with someone who’s not afraid to die.”

  With a high jump, I reach the lowlife, hitting his nose with my knee. He falls on his back a few feet away, unconscious. His companions stare at their fallen comrade for a split second before they both aim their gloves and fire. Leaping away from their blasts, I come behind one, grabbing his neck and twisting sharply. A loud crack follows, and then the munchkin falls lifeless on the dirt.

  My ears pick up the muffled thump of more boots hitting the ground. My defensive mechanism warns me three more assailants are behind me. With a curse, I grab the arm of the munchkin in front of me, savagely rotating it before he can fire another blast at me. He yells when his bone breaks, dropping to his knees and clutching at his useless arm.

  My entire body shakes when I’m hit by another electric current, this one stronger than the first. My muscles spasm, and a copper taste fills my mouth. To remain standing is an effort. My system goes haywire. Letters and numbers flash in front of my bionic eye. My vision is tinged in crimson as I enter survival mode. The electric current frying my circuits ceases abruptly. It’s not the lowlife who stopped shooting, but my mechanical body, which recalibrated and isolated the problem.

  I whirl fast as my metal arm flies out. A bright laser blast shoots from my palm, pulverizing the munchkin who attacked me. His other cohorts stare, befuddled, probably not believing what just happened to their friend. I turn toward the second one, hitting him next. The third munchkin finally snaps out of his shock and attempts to flee down the alleyway.

  Fool.

  Another zap, and he’s nothing but ashes.

  Breathing out in bursts, I scan the area, searching for another threat I’ve missed. Empty.

  The sound of someone scurrying catches my attention. I remember the vermin who betrayed me. I’m on him in the blink of an eye, lifting his small, meek frame from the ground.

  “I beg you. Have mercy.” He trembles.

  “Mercy?” I laugh without humor. “That word doesn’t compute.”

  I throw him to the ground once more, only to stare in disgust at the wretched creature as he soils himself.

  “Please. Don’t kill me. Think about your soul.”

  Grinning, I reply, “I don’t have a soul.”

  The blast comes swiftly. The munchkin has no chance to even lift his arm in an ill attempt to protect himself.

  The familiar hum of my blaster ceases to nothing as my vision goes back to normal. It takes another second for me to grasp what happened. I let the rage take complete control again. I became the monster I’d vowed to bury. Letting my shoulders hunch forward, I rub my face.

  Just one more mission, Reo. Just one more mission, and this will all be over. Forever.

  Glancing at the energy levels on my mechanical arm, I see that I depleted it completely. So much for preserving it, but on a positive note, I won’t be able to kill folks so easily next time.

  I veer to the mouth of the alleyway, determined to get to Emerald City as fast as I can. As I approach the small junction, my enhanced hearing picks up a commotion two streets over.

  I would ignore it if I didn’t hear someone say, “She killed the Red Witch.”

  As much as I want to, I can’t ignore such a statement. It coul
d be nothing. As a matter of fact, I’m betting it’s nothing. But if it’s true, it will change everything.

  9

  Dorothy

  “Take your hands off me.” I struggle against the mean-looking munchkin who is taking us through a labyrinth of narrow pathways.

  We’re walking single file. The man I rescued from the pole is behind me, and Toto is in the hands of one of these ruffians.

  “Why don’t you make me, Witch Slayer?” The munchkin shoves me forward with a laugh, the assault making me grate my teeth.

  If only I still had my blaster or my hands weren’t bound.

  I should be trying to memorize the way we’re going, but this place is a maze of small arteries and throughways, and the buildings, despite their peculiar, patched-up design, are not distinct enough from one another.

  After walking for about ten minutes, we arrive at the largest construction I’ve seen so far—and also the most polished. The metal sheets of its facade aren’t rusted, and they gleam under the artificial light. A bright neon sign above the entrance says Boq’s Playroom, which makes me immediately think of a colorful indoor playing area for children. The thought is ludicrous. After what I witnessed, it’s clear this Boq creature is a mobster of sorts. I wish Skooli had warned me about the types of personalities I would find in Scrape Town.

  Two bodyguards, taller than the munchkins, stand in front of the entrance. Their faces are hidden under masks, but by their body physique and height, I’d guess they’re humans. More and more, my suspicion that Oz is a colony from Earth solidifies. It’s the only explanation for the official language of this planet to be close to USF—Universal Star Freedom. The accent is different, naturally, and I’ve heard words I don’t recognize, but the core is the same.

  The guards step aside, letting us through the building. The interior is dark, and a strong smell of crude oil, metal, and sweat mixes in the air. Gruff laughter bellows from the booth near the door, but as soon as our presence is noticed, a rush of silence descends upon the room. Ahead in the line, I feel all eyes on me.

  The leader of Boq’s associates wraps his thick hand around my arm, ushering me farther into the dimly lit establishment. Even with my wrists tied together in front of me, I keep my chin high. I won’t be intimidated by this band of lowlifes. After we cross the cantina, we come to another set of double doors, also manned by humans who are built like mountains.

  These men don’t wear masks like their counterparts stationed outside. However, they wear similar garb, which is a blend of leather, fur, and metal breastplates. In their right hand, they don the same strange glove the munchkins who captured me did. It’s a weapon—of that I’m sure—but what exactly it does I have yet to discover. It contrasts oddly with their ensemble, for it looks too modern in comparison to their barbarian uniform.

  The guards regard me in a curious manner, but neither utters a single word directed at me as they push the double doors open. The room revealed beyond is more lavish than the cantina behind. The walls are covered in rich tapestry with intricate designs and bold colors, mostly red. Maybe it’s an homage to the Red Witch, the woman who ruled this area. The main question is, was Boq a loyal subject, or is he glad she’s dead?

  Several tables are spread in the room, each fully occupied by four to eight individuals. Their attention is riveted on what is in front of them. Now, the name of this place makes sense. Boq’s Playroom is, in fact, a gambling locale. As expected, our entry causes little commotion among the players. I quickly scan the area, trying to absorb as much intel as I can. Most importantly, I’m searching for another exit from the room.

  My captor keeps walking without pause, dragging me with him. At the far end of the room, a lavish couch in deep mahogany leather is framed by two golden statues. An overweight munchkin is spread on it, leaning against the plush cushions with his arms braced against the back of the seat and legs spread apart. His bright tomato-colored hair is styled into an elaborate updo, his long bangs spiraling upward to end in a thin tip. A long and thick mustache follows the same style to each side, curling at the ends. The munchkin’s clothes are equally loud in hue and fashion. A tailored jacket in deep purple is adorned with gold embellishments, and it stretches against the munchkin’s large frame. Underneath his jacket, a white blouse with a ruffled collar peeks from underneath the outer garment.

  So, that’s the famous Boq. The statues next to the couch are carved to his likeness, I realize. So, the munchkin is not only a creature of extravagant tastes, but he’s also an egomaniac. I file that information away, knowing I can use it to my advantage if the opportunity presents itself.

  “What have you brought me, Tarek?” Boq leans forward, his hand poised over the food assortment on the table in front of the couch.

  “Haven’t gotten a name, but she claims she killed the Red Witch.”

  Boq freezes for a moment before raising his gaze to mine. “So, the rumors are true.”

  “It seems so, my lord,” Tarek replies.

  Narrowing his gaze, Boq selects a treat from a random tray without looking and pops it into his mouth. He doesn’t speak as he chews slowly, but his stare doesn’t waver. What? Is he trying to read my mind? Make me cave under his not-so-terrifying stare?

  A hard swallow follows before he speaks again. “How did you kill the witch?”

  There’s no point in lying about it when Tarek already confiscated my blaster. “I shot her.”

  “Just like that, you shot her?” He rubs his mustache, concentrating at the tip.

  “Yes, just like that. I pointed and shot. I suppose you know how a gun works, right? Isn’t it how those strange-looking gloves your employees wear operate?”

  The munchkin’s gaze darkens. A vein throbs on his tanned forehead. Maybe I shouldn’t antagonize the lord of this town while there’s still a chance—albeit slim—he will let us go free.

  “Tarek, do you have the Witch Slayer’s weapon?”

  “Yes, my lord.” He lets go of my arm to snap his fingers at one of his companions.

  A shorter and lankier munchkin steps forward, carrying my blaster in his hands. I’m glad that it’s still in training mode. Hopefully, they won’t notice and switch it back to its full power.

  Almost reverently, Boq retrieves my weapon from his minion. He turns it in his hand, inspecting it from all angles. After a moment of scrutiny, he says, “I haven’t seen one of these around. Where did you get it?”

  I’m torn now about revealing how I ended up here. If I say my ship crashed not too far from Scrape Town, I’m sure Boq will send his associates to pillage what’s left of Horizon.

  Someone is moving closer to me, which immediately makes me tense. From my peripheral, I see it’s the white-haired man.

  “We’re from the outer lands,” he says. “That’s where my sister bought her blaster.”

  Whoa, nice save. I’m glad that he’s no longer dazed. But sister? We look nothing alike.

  “The outer lands, eh?” Boq raises an eyebrow. “And how did a scrawny fellow like you and a little woman like your sister manage to cross the deserts surrounding the main lands?”

  My fake brother stalls. I can read in his face that he didn’t think his lie through, so I burst out the first thing that crosses my mind. “We flew.”

  “You flew?” Boq’s tone is of surprised incredulity. A few seconds of stunned silence follows before he lets out a rough laugh, which catches like wildfire among his employees.

  Some of the patrons chance a glance in our direction, no doubt wondering what has amused their great lord so much.

  A few seconds pass before Boq’s amusement morphs into dangerous grievance. “You expect me to believe you flew when there aren’t any airspeeds available to the common public?”

  Shit. I don’t even know what he’s referring to now. I was hoping Oz had developed air-travel technology. It was a gamble, and I lost.

  “Of course not,” my companion replies. “We traveled in a hot-air balloon. It’s a mode of tra
nsport still widely used in the Hiland and Loland.”

  Boq dedicates his attention to my so-called brother now. The poor guy’s face is a palette of bruises and dried blood, which is emphasized by his white hair. But under the grime, I notice a strange marking on his right cheek. It looks like a swirling design tattoo. Despite his white hair, he’s probably just a few years older than me, maybe in his early twenties.

  “And where’s your balloon now?” Boq rubs his hands together, drawing my attention to all the bejeweled rings on his stubby fingers.

  “We sold it to the munchkin army stationed between the Loland and the Shifting Sands Desert. They’ve probably torn it completely apart by now—you know, for parts.”

  My new friend is back in the game. The corners of my lips tug upward. He doesn’t remember who he is, but his wit is still intact. Boq rests against the back of the couch, his facial expression losing some of the suspicion.

  “Now that you know all about us, we must get back on the yellow road,” I press.

  Boq scoffs. “Do you think I’m going to let the Red Witch’s killer simply go? Not a chance.”

  “What? Are we your prisoners now?” I curl my hands into fists, finding it difficult to keep my mood from escalating.

  Time is wasting, and Mirus can disappear at any minute. I must acquire a starship, which means I have to get to Emerald City.

  “No, not prisoners. More like honorable guests.” Boq casually waves his hand. “How about a game of cards? Are you feeling lucky?”

  I take a couple of calming breaths before I reply. “Even though I appreciate your hospitality, I must insist on getting back on the road. We have an urgent matter to attend to. It’s the reason we risked a perilous journey over the desert.”

  “Where are you headed, and what’s so important?”

  “We’re headed to Winkie Country,” my companion replies, saving me again. “Our grandmother is ill; she might not live past a fortnight.”