by DJ Molles
“Would you stop for a second?” And then he grabbed her elbow.
She whirled, shot that right hook that she’d already decided on. He must’ve known it was coming, because he leaned just out of range. Teran overshot, then corrected and turned it into a backfist, which came about an inch from the side of his face before he blocked it, and she was just in the process of rearing her leg back when he sidestepped and raised his thigh to defend his crotch.
“Don’t kick me in the balls!” he yelped.
She halted, granting him a few second’s clemency. “Don’t ever fucking grab me like that.”
“Alright! Okay!” Both hands up, showing his palms.
After a few seconds of trying to light his hair on fire with the malice of her gaze, Teran registered that the clatter and murmur of morning activities had fallen silent around them. Well, there was no need for any more awkward silences, Teran felt. They were past that now.
“You’re all fucking weak!” She didn’t exactly shout it, but it was sure loud enough for everyone to hear. “Everything about you is weak. You’re a parasite on the human race, only ever taking, and never giving back. And I’m ashamed that I came from you. You’re all going to die in a mire of your own ignorance. But I guess you get what you deserve.”
And with that, feeling hot and bothered, and a little vindicated, Teran swung around and proceeded to march out of the main chamber. Her anger, burning and bubbling, carried her along the exit passage, and she didn’t realize that Lucky was still behind her until she saw her skiff, and froze, breath caught in her chest.
“I mean…” Lucky started from over her shoulder, causing her to jerk and look at him. “I was trying to tell you.”
Teran jutted a finger out to her skiff. “What the hell are they doing on my skiff?”
Because there was about twenty men and women standing on the deck.
Lucky quirked his non-burned eyebrow, and smirked with the non-burned side of his mouth. “What? Am I allowed to talk now?”
Teran simply narrowed her gaze to let him know that he’d better.
Lucky swallowed and nodded to them. “They’re going with you. I’m going with you. To Karapalida.” He fidgeted a bit. “Might not have convinced many people, but you did me. And you did them.”
Teran was just about to let her anger get washed out with some gratitude, but a clamor came from further down the passageway, and Sage emerged, trailing his entourage of sallow elders. For a pleasant little snippet of time, Teran wondered if she was going to be seen off with well-wishes.
“I forbid you to leave, Lucky!” Sage thundered down the passage as he approached, stabbing a shaky finger at them. “And you idiots on the skiff! Get off that thing right now! You’re not going anywhere!”
Even Lucky recoiled at this, turning to look at Sage with a frown. “You’re our leader, Sage. Not our demigod. We’re free to make our own decisions.”
Sage stopped, quivering with righteous indignation. He looked past Lucky and Teran. “And you?” he shouted to the people on the skiff. “Does Lucky speak for you as well?”
Much murmuring and shuffling and downcast eyes. But…no one got off the skiff.
Sage was so tense that his lips were turning white. “If you leave, you’re not welcome back! You’ll never be allowed to come back here!”
Lucky winced at the words as though they were blows.
The last thing in the world Teran wanted was to enter into another debate with Sage and his cronies. She gave him a look of utter contempt, and turned her back on him. “Well then. I’m leaving.”
Lucky sighed heavily, shaking his head. Teran was accustomed to disappointments by now, but she still felt her feet hesitate, not wanting to walk away from Lucky before his decision had been made, and fearing that Sage’s ultimatum was too much for him.
But Lucky only turned a sad gaze on Sage. “I’m afraid that if we don’t go, we won’t have anything to return to anyways.”
***
The problem with men—the fighting kind, anyways; Stuber didn’t know much about the docile kind—was that they were always pulled in two directions. If you wanted to be with your woman—and most men did, even the docile kind—then you had to at least try to be a functioning member of some social order, to be gentle, and avoid killing or otherwise seriously maiming other people.
But if you wanted to protect your woman—and most men did, especially the fighting kind—then you had to be willing to become a savage at the drop of a hat, and to take that violence to the threat, and to meet that threat as far away from your loved ones as possible. After all, the best defense is a good offense.
But it’s very difficult to keep the savage in you primed and ready to rip faces off, while being a gentle, loyal, functioning member of a social order.
Stuber figured this was why men went away for war. Because if you dragged your wife along with you, she probably wouldn’t care much for what she saw.
But then again, if you stayed out of the war and stuck by her side, which it seemed is what women preferred, then the little savage you kept under lock and key would atrophy. Go soft. Not be ready. And then when trouble came, you would fail to be aggressive enough, and your wife would be murdered or worse, and she probably wouldn’t care much for that either.
But then again, it’s not like women were helpless. They had arms and trigger fingers, after all. They were perfectly capable of fighting.
But then again, most women didn’t spend their lives devoted to the craft of learning how to take the lives of others. Same was true for the docile men, come to think of it. And, of course, there were the Malas and Terans of the world, that appeared more than capable of doing violence. But that was not the case with Petra, who had spent her life learning how to heal wounds. Stuber had spent his life learning how to make them. Genitalia notwithstanding, Stuber was obviously going to be better at fighting than Petra, by virtue of what he’d spent his life learning.
So, was that an argument for staying by her side to protect her? Or was that an argument for leaving her and taking it to the threat?
He’d spent so much time learning how to do violence to others, it seemed a shame to let that wither away.
But then again, he’d spent so much time trying to get back to Petra, it seemed a shame to leave her after only just reuniting with her.
It was a terrible dilemma. A very fine line to walk. Perhaps an impossible one. Perhaps you couldn’t walk that line—perhaps all you could do was make a choice. Do you want to keep being a fighting man, or do you want to let it wither and become…
Docile.
Stuber grimaced at the thought, so completely lost in his rumination that he stood there at the side of the reloading table, hands on the crate of freshly-reloaded ammunition, staring off into a terrible nightmare where his hands were soft and his beard was shaved, and his muscles turned to flab, and everyone around him was just so comfortable with him because he no longer had that look in his eyes that made them stop and think, This is a dangerous man.
Terrible dilemma. Impossible choice.
Stuber figured this was why fighting men—the ones that didn’t die, anyways—wound up lonely and drinking too much.
“Uh…Stuber?”
Stuber blinked and turned a frown on Bigs. How dare he interrupt such a serious internal monologue. “What?”
Bigs nodded at the crate. “I need an empty crate. Trying to make ammunition here.”
Stuber looked down at the crate as though surprised at its defiance for not putting itself where it belonged. “Right.”
He hefted the crate. It was not overly heavy—Stuber had lifted crates twice this size in preparations to throw him and his battle line into a bloody fray…and yet he felt a distant ache in his elbows.
Stuber had faced down many things without panicking: Withering autocannon fire, ruffians, lokos, nekrofages, demigods, polymorphs, Guardians…just to name a few.
But he’d never had to face his body breaking down on hi
m.
His reaction to it could only be described as dread. Was it old age? He wasn’t that old, was he? Was it old wounds come back to haunt him? Something despicable like arthritis? Or was it something even more insidious than that? Was he…going soft?
He set the crate down next to the others—three thousand rounds for the autoturrets, but the math of battle was lost on him. He extracted his fingers from the handles of the crate and stared at them. What was this distant ache in the joints? These fingers had plucked men’s eyes from their skulls. And, gods in the skies, what was that dull throb in his lower back? A back that had hefted fully-armored comrades up and dragged them to safety. What was this twinge in his shoulder? A shoulder that could carry a week of supplies and a mortar tube for a full day’s march.
What was happening to him?!
“Stuber!” Bigs’s nagging voice. “Crate!”
Before he really could think about it, Stuber seized an empty crate and hurled it at Bigs, fully intending for it to smash the little fucker in the face, but it didn’t quite make the distance, and Bigs watched it with a sort of distant confusion as it clattered to the ground at his feet.
“Oh my fuck,” Stuber gasped, staring at the crate in horror. “I’m falling apart.”
Bigs, unaware of the true nature of Stuber’s inner argument, simply shook his head and grabbed the crate. “Thanks, asshole.”
“Stuber, my large friend,” Hauten’s voice sounded over-loud behind Stuber. “Are we having issues?”
Stuber leaned back on the table with the ammunition. “I’m turning into a peon.”
“Gods help us,” Hauten replied flatly, sauntering around the table to stand abreast of the troubled legionnaire. “And what has brought you to this conclusion?”
“That crate should have hit Bigs in the face.”
“Well, I’m glad it didn’t. Maybe you subconsciously pulled your throw because you knew it would be an unnecessary and time-consuming injury.”
Stuber frowned. “I have aches and pains.”
“No shit. You’ve been beating your body to smithereens your entire life and fueling it with whiskey. What’d you think was going to happen?”
Stuber nodded with great gravitas. “So…it’s less that I’m turning into a peon, and more that I’m old and decrepit?”
Hauten screwed up his face. “I’ve never heard you be so angsty. Maybe you are turning into a peon. Or maybe Shortstack’s been rubbing off on you too much.”
The horror delved deeper. “No.”
Hauten looked upwards, peering at the rafters of the foundry. “Come to think of it, I have seen you this angsty before.”
“Never.”
“Oh, yes.” Hauten nodded sagely. “The first time I met you. Slobbering drunk. Trying to drink yourself to death. Don’t you recall?”
“I don’t remember being angsty. Just wanting to die.”
“That’s pretty angsty.”
“I’d just murdered my commanding officer and deserted the only thing I’d ever known. I was directionless. Purposeless.”
“Indeed.” Hauten clapped a fatherly hand on Stuber’s shoulder. “And then what happened?”
Stuber looked at him like it was obvious. “Then I tried to drink myself to death.”
“Yes, of course. But then I showed up, good old Boss Hauten, with my soft spot for helping the wayward and disenfranchised—”
“And you needed muscle.”
“Yes, that. But more what I said.” Hauten smiled with nostalgia. “I gave you purpose.”
“I have a purpose,” Stuber challenged.
“And that is?”
“Protecting my wife.”
Hauten scoffed at that. “That’s not a purpose. That’s a nebulous, romantic promise.”
“But protecting you was a purpose?”
Hauten waved it away. “Why didn’t you go back to your wife after you deserted?”
“I was a fugitive. It would’ve made trouble for her.”
“But you’re back with her now.”
“The power structure has changed. No one’s hunting down fugitives.”
“And yet she’s still in danger.”
“Everyone’s in danger. The whole world is in danger.” Stuber shifted irritably. “Make a point or shut the fuck up, Hauten.”
Hauten rolled his eyes. “One man’s purpose is another man’s slow, torturous, death of the soul. Some men’s purpose in life is to grow millet. If I were to do that, I would go mad. Probably try to kill myself like you did. My purpose is to…well, I’d say it’s to reload ammunition, but mostly it’s to make money. Now, the man whose purpose it is to grow millet? He’s damn fine at growing millet. I should not attempt to do his job. That is not my purpose. And if he were to try to do my job, I’m sure he’d be miserable as well. The tinkerers tinker, the hockers hock, the distillers distill—and thank the gods for them. My point being, everyone has their own purpose. Doing anything else besides that will leave you empty, resentful, and probably considering suicide.”
Hauten gave Stuber a firm pat and finally released his shoulder. “I think you know what your purpose is. And this?” Gesturing around at their environs. “This isn’t it.”
Stuber glowered—his favorite expression of late. Probably because he was feeling empty and resentful. “Pardon me if I struggle to take life lessons from you.”
Hauten, who usually would have responded with offense to such a statement, simply shrugged and started walking away. “Then go play nursemaid with your wife. Doubtless, it’s made you a cheery individual so far.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
TROUBLE ON THE HORIZON
“Feels like I’ve been here before,” Sagum observed, with a note of sarcasm.
Perry wasn’t quite sure what he meant, but he was sure that he didn’t like how this was all shaping up: Sagum, Lux, and he, standing out in the middle of the wastes just outside of Karapalida, sandwiched between the praetors behind them and a double line of legionnaires in front of them, through which Mala was marching through, looking all peeved and ready for battle.
“Mala,” Perry said, his tone a little flat, as the tension between them hadn’t had a chance to abate since their little argument. “Where’s Legatus Mordicus?”
“Busy,” she snapped, stopping with a sharp thunk of her longstaff against the ground. “I thought I made our position on Lux clear.”
“Yeah, you did,” Perry said, narrowing his gaze at her. “It was bullshit then, and it still is.”
“This is pointless,” Mala growled, then turned dismissively and began walking away. “I’m returning to Karapalida.”
“Oh, good,” Perry said, stepping after her. “We’ll just follow you in, if that’s alright.”
The first line of legionnaires seemed a little kerfluffled by this—they knew Perry was in with Mordicus, and they knew Mala was in with Mordicus, but now the two of them seemed not to be so into each other.
Mala stopped and swung around, not exactly brandishing her longstaff, but not being too casual with it either. Perry noted the blade shimmer slightly.
“You may follow,” she stated. Looked at Sagum. “He may follow. The praetors behind you can wait for approval from Legatus Mordicus.” Finally her eyes rested on Lux. “He can stay out there or return to The Clouds where he so yearns to be.”
Perry started objecting, but Lux stalked forward, interrupting him.
“This is ridiculous, Mala,” Lux seethed. “You’ve a poor judgement of my character, and you insist on keeping it despite evidence to the contrary.”
“This isn’t one of your inquisitions, Lux,” Mala hissed at him, grip tightening on her longstaff. “There is no evidence to be gathered and evaluated. There is only what I am saying to you. And what I’m saying will be obeyed.”
Perry took extreme care not to handle his own longstaff so carelessly as she did. “Or what, Mala? What will you do if you are not obeyed?”
“By Lux?” she asked. “Well, I suppose I�
�ll kill him.”
“Just like that then?” Perry felt his anger rising. “Just like that you turn aside any common ground you might have and resort to doing things the way you always have—you don’t like something so you turn it into a battle to the death?”
Mala stared over Perry’s shoulder at Lux. “We have no common ground.”
Lux came forward again until he stood by Perry’s side. “No common ground? I’m here aren’t I? I’m asking to help you! I’m asking for your help! I’m trying to be an ally! I haven’t returned to The Clouds, I haven’t betrayed you, or anyone!” Lux was so frustrated he spun in an impotent little circle, then refocused on Mala. “Alright. I was responsible for the blast that released Batu. It was a mistake. And yes, I was there to arrest you, Mala. Because I had a job to do! How can you call it a betrayal?” He pointed a finger at her. “You knew that I would have to do it! I warned you, didn’t I? And yet you forced my hand! You’re the one who betrayed me!”
“Um, excuse me…” Sagum shouldered forward, fully cognizant that he was the only one in this cluster of burgeoning violence that didn’t have a shield or a longstaff. “There seems to be a lot of talk about betrayal and all that. And maybe that would matter if we weren’t all joined by the fact that we’re facing imminent extinction.” He turned a hesitant smile on those gathered, but seemed to find no one willing to return it. He let it fall. “Come on, guys. Am I the only one that sees how stupid this is?”
“No,” Mala and Lux both said at the same time, then glared at each other.
Sagum seized on it. “There, see? You guys have common ground after all.”
“I can see how stupid it is,” Mala said. “To allow Lux any opportunity to fuck us over.”
“And I can see how stupid it is,” Lux said, slightly louder. “To allow old grudges to ruin our chances in the here and now.”
“Oh please, Lux,” Mala sneered. “What chances do you think you’re going to enhance by being here? Your abilities are useless in this world. You’re an investigator who has nothing to investigate.”