by Greg Hanks
“Ghare?” Naon breathed, barely a sound.
Vicious memories she had tried suppressing for years resurfaced in skin-scalding clarity. Flashes of his body weight. Mind spears of his heavy breathing. Blood tattoos in her veins of his shrill laugh. All her work to bury him after leaving the Chalis erased by his voice.
“I was not aware you were in a recent skirmish,” he said condescendingly. “Or have you just forgotten what hygiene is?”
She stepped out of the elevator, biting her lip to keep it from quivering. “You . . . why are you here? I thought you were bound to the Chalis?”
“That is how you greet me? After all this time? This is how you greet your old mentor?” He paced, shaking his head. “It is true; I was to remain in the Chalis until its expiration. But I am persuasive. The Lo’Zon needs me here, at his side. Especially now that you’re here.”
Naon’s exhaustion got the better of her manners.
“My mentor,” she scoffed. “You let that white-haired wretch escape last month. She found the Calcitra. She has probably told them everything they need to know about the Chalis. You let all of this happen.”
Ghare seemed slightly disappointed in her response but masked his emotions quickly.
“Still as heretical as the day I last saw you,” he said. “I wondered what being a Warlord might do to you. This . . . accent you have. For someone who hates humanity as much as you do, I am shocked to see you imitating them so strongly. You should have stayed in the Chalis where the pure blood belonged.”
“And look at you,” Naon said, eyeing Ghare’s skinny body. “The Chalis must have been . . . riveting.”
Ghare inhaled slowly. His neon red pupils surmised her face. A pompous Khor’Zon shredding himself to pieces to keep from reprimanding his pupil. Ten years apart made it difficult to conceal true reaction. He leaned back and smiled.
“Yet look where I stand,” he said, prolonging his delight. “And . . . look where you stand.”
“I know it is hard to believe, Ghare, but this is what the war looks like. I have been leading our progress for a decade while the rest of you purebred baked biscuits and read stories for pleasure. This is my world, and out here, you are the pupil.” Her face moved closer to his. “Back in Oro’nath, I used to respect you—an absurd thought now. You had ruthlessness; you focused your erratic violence into combat. But the Chalis made you brittle. Seen’ai was right; you have become ‘stale.’”
Ghare stepped back with his hands behind him. He was content. “Seen’ai. I had almost forgotten about him. How sorrowful, Naon. All this time and I truly thought you had become something astonishing. Your mother would be so disappointed in you if she could see you now.”
Naon shook her head, consumed by annoyance. “My mother would still be molesting children if she were here. She hid me for my entire childhood just so she could carry out her depravity. You do not know anything about me or my family. You only wish you had not been abandoned as a child. You wish you knew what it was like to have parents, to have anyone that cared about you. I am done with you. Where is the Lo’Zon?”
Ghare did not flinch, but his viciousness had faded.
“Only,” Ghare started, pacing with his head down, “you cared for me once.”
“I will find him myself,” Naon said, walking down the hall.
“Our Lord?” Ghare said, looking down the hallway toward the double doors. “Oh, he has been waiting for you. I guess I should not have held you up. You must be terribly late.”
She shook her head and sped off. The vaulted hallway, its walls immaculate and as white as a clear sun, a stark contrast from the Khor’Zon’s obsidian obsession. An inner womb of porcelain within the stone black Ovulith. Confidence weakened as she approached the doors. One decision last month could have changed everything. But the satisfaction of giving that order filled her with pride even now. How could the Lo’Zon not see her decision as anything but praiseworthy? Surely his devotion to his own race was immutable. Surely he could not find her actions inconceivable. They were humans! Before she reached the doors, she was no longer concerned about this meeting, but with how much internal strife was seducing her. One decision had put her entire realm of thought in jeopardy.
She waited at the automatic doors.
“May Orothaea bless you, Naon,” Ghare said, an imperceptible snicker at the end.
The doors opened to a pristine, pearlescent conference room. Natural light the room’s only source. A twenty-foot center table stretched toward a glass wall that overlooked Sanction. Miles away, the Chalis was framed in the center of the window, its sheen matching a distant storm. Naon’s yellow eyes gnawed through the contrast of the natural light and the dark room. At the end of the long table, the high back of a proud, white swivel chair faced her.
The doors closed.
She stepped forward, idling near the table’s edge. The table could have been a million miles long. A tunnel stretched before her. There had been a time on Khorsha when the Lo’Zon had looked upon Naon with admiration. He had shown her his hand. He had shown her a new planet. Never disappointment. Never disdain. She was the only purebred Warlord. Loyal. Pragmatic. Effective. Now how would he look at her? Her body flamed with self-annoyance and guilt.
She made a raspy sound, clearing her throat.
“Is that you, my Savior?”
“Of course it is,” the Lo’Zon said abruptly, standing and pushing the chair aside. His active, unabashed attitude startled Naon. He spoke quickly. “Who else would it be? Are you really going to start this with that kind of forced innocence?” His deep, true voice reverberated through his mask. “And has it been so long that you’ve forgotten how to bow?”
Nanomachines constricted Naon’s body, forcing her to form a crude bow. The Lo’Zon had not moved at all.
Unexpected. Mortified. Naon blinked at the floor, straining her back. “Forgive me, Savior. I am over-exhausted. I am—”
“Lower,” he whispered. There was no malice in his voice, just the tone of a curious father.
Naon’s knees crumpled. The nanomachines held her face an inch from the floor.
“I . . . I am—”
“Making excuses,” the Lo’Zon interjected. “You’re weaving. Manipulating. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Oh, and you’re so good at it. Proud of it, even.”
He turned away. Her face hit the floor. She recovered to an embarrassed kneel. Pain still emanated from her lower back. Little scorpions snipping her spinal cord.
“S-Savior,” she mumbled. “Please release them.”
The Lo’Zon tilted his head. “You still feel them?” He looked away, muttering to himself. “Must be a side-effect. It’s new, this transfer of nanomachines. Good to know.”
The pain fizzled out. She didn’t dare look up.
The Lo’Zon stepped toward her. All-white chestpiece, faceless mask, form-fitting quilted pants that melded into synthetic “socks.” A clean mummy with a bulky armor piece. The glowing white tendrils of his mask danced without gravity as he moved toward her.
“Did you know they finalized the body count?” he asked. “I want you to stand up, look at me, and tell me your best guess.”
Naon closed her eyes in defeat. “Please . . . just let me accept my punishment.”
“This is part of your punishment. Stand up or I will make you.”
She stood.
“Now guess.”
“A . . . thousand?”
The Lo’Zon scoffed. “Unbelievable. When I chose my Warlords, I didn’t pick brain-dead shits who couldn’t calculate simple mathematics and probabilities. Don’t insult me. No, not a thousand, Naon. Four thousand, six-hundred and twenty-three.” He gave a confused chuckle; there was no other emotion to explain such a travesty. He threw the nearest chair into the wall. The legs shattered upon impact. His prosthetic arm whirred a little as it powered down. “Most of them civilians, Naon.”
“I did what I thought—”
“Exactly. You did what you though
t. And what a shit thought that was.”
“We had no time to react, Savior. I tried to do what was right—for us. It was foresight.”
He leaned in. “Don’t start.”
“Fine,” she said. “Intuition, then.”
“Do you know what you are, Naon?” he said, pacing back to the glass wall. “You are a bull. Do you know this animal?”
“Yes.”
“But you probably don’t know about its hatred of movement?”
“I do not.”
The Lo’Zon’s voice shifted to an open, explanatory tone, but Naon knew his point would not be.
“Years ago,” he began, “before the war, the humans would corral one of these bulls for sport. They would agitate the bull by waving a flag or a sheet in front of it. When the bull would charge, the person holding the flag would move at the last second. These bulls would become enraged at the wave of a sheet of cloth. A sheet of cloth, Naon.” He paced back to her. “Do you know what that makes the bull?”
“No, Savior.”
“A brainless idiot,” he said. His voice returned to its usual low grit. “You see, you’ve become enraged by cloth, Naon. These humans—they’re nothing. They hide in holes and shoot tin casings at us. A Warlord must maintain herself. A Warlord is not rash. My Warlords are impervious to spite, jealousy, and revenge. Are you my Warlord?”
She did not answer.
“How quickly you forget how your father died,” he continued. “Zexl the Sage. The ‘great Servitor of Quar’on.’ Leader of the outcasts . . . betrayer of the Lo’Zon. He would still be alive if he’d listened to me. It was his pride that sent him and his followers to the cells. His pride could not save him from getting shot in the head by some ground-sucking Khor’Zon who could barely hold a pistol.”
“He was not shot,” she mumbled.
“Excuse me?”
“I was there that day, Savior—”
The back of the Lo’Zon’s hand swung hard, hitting Naon in the cheek. She staggered against the decorative table. Rage had to be stymied. Afraid to look at her Lord without exploding.
“Of course I know you were there that day,” he snapped. “You can believe whatever twisted outcome you want about him. My point is his demise was his own doing. He did not listen to my counsel.” His tone turned genuine, and he approached her. “Why did your personal desire conflict with our goal, Naon? You were my most prized tool. My purebred Warlord. I still remember the day I gave you your Warlord Mark. Imagine that. I hardly remember those ceremonies. You don’t have to like the humans, Naon. But we need them to make this work. I shouldn’t have to remind you of that. In fact, I’m insulted I have to.”
Naon straightened. “I thought our brothers and sisters were more important than the lives of these disgusting Earthlings. I thought our people would understand that.” She was thankful she could make it through a full thought process without being cut off.
“I don’t need to explain to you why losing that many workers and builders and farmers and engineers and electricians is so devastating. That’s why I entrusted you with the title of Warlord, why I gave you London, why I let you swap Outposts in a flash. I trusted you. I knew that wherever you went, whatever scheme you were working on, it was always for the building up of this cause.” He turned around and approached her slowly. “But now . . . when I look at you . . . all I see is incompetence. I see hatred masking your potential. You’re so caught up in this utter loathing for humanity that you forget poise, leadership, persuasion. You forget me. And to forget your Lord . . . to forget Orothaea? Naon, there is nothing without Orothaea. There is nothing without me.”
Naon swallowed and looked away, her eyes lazy and unfocused. “I am . . . sorry I disappointed you.”
“Don’t forget how much I hate apologies. I don’t care about your standing with me. I care about this entire invasion being worth it. I care about the long-term. The future. No matter how much you despise it, one day Khor’Zon and human will be equal and free. War is a stepping stone. A necessary, god-awful stone. A war I’m trying to win with as little casualties as possible. We cannot have mistakes like this again.” He made a sweeping glance of her body. “And for that reason, I have made the decision to revoke your Warlord Mark for the time being.”
“What?”
The Lo’Zon gripped Naon by the throat and lifted her off the ground. “No; when I declare a decision, it’s final. There’s no debate, no hesitation, no exclamation. And when you protest, it gives the impression that you think I have incorrectly decided.” He squeezed. Her hands pawed at his wrist. “I am done with half-measures and leniency. So, tell me, have I incorrectly decided?” He flung her away.
She caught herself against the wall. Breathing returned through coughs. “I will do whatever you ask, my Savior.”
“Ghare will show you your new duties.”
Naon looked up at the Lo’Zon. Malefaction and betrayal made her lips quiver. She bowed her head and silently reprimanded herself. Ten years of fulfilled duty. Of flawless service. The glaze of her loyalty started to drip down the sides. High-pitched ringing. Dizziness. The voice of her Lord repeated through her head as she met Ghare outside.
“Ghare,” called the Lo’Zon.
“Yes, my Savior?” he said.
“Send the engineers up again. The nanomachines need some work.”
“Of course,” Ghare said, bowing.
The doors closed automatically.
Ghare turned to face Naon.
“Look at me,” he said quietly.
She lifted her head. Her veins quaked inside her skin.
“For the first month, you will be working in the sewers,” he said. “The next two months will be factory work—manufacturing drones. After that, you will be Overseer of Nanomachine Production. So, you see, the Lo’Zon realizes your potential, Naon. You just need to pay your dues.”
Naon could not internalize and accept the words. She stood in a dazed state as Ghare walked toward the elevator and pressed the call button.
“Coming?” he rasped, an outstretched hand gesturing to the open elevator.
Sewers. For an entire month. Roiling blood pooled into her clenched fists as she entered the cramped cube. Ghare’s eyes were constantly bearing down upon her, hoping to retrieve a fiery reaction. She remained silent all the way down.
When the doors opened again, she followed Ghare numbly. He led her through the Ovulith’s main lobby, a massive obsidian cavern with pillars carved in elegant, spiral patterns. The lobby went on for miles it seemed, the ends obscured by that same digression of light that issued from Khor’Zon armor. A few silent, gliding Khor’Zon passed them on their way to the great doors. Outside, down the thousand-step decline to the city proper. An eight-lane road met them head on, and continued straight until the horizon, flanked by Sanction’s gaudy towers of glass. The Path of the Star Giver.
Together Ghare and Naon walked the middle of the Path, toward a white-glazed vehicle. The journey was short, and Naon continued her cold wither, pallid face in the reflection of the window. They arrived at the sanitation barracks where an old gray jumpsuit was given to her. She met her Taskmaster, met a few of her sanitation and maintenance workers, and was cleaned and clothed within the hour of her arrival. Lastly, Ghare stripped of her of the Warlord Mark, a small golden emblem kept hidden in a Warlord’s affects. In his palm the emblem looked stunted, almost drained of its luster. Handing the Mark was not far from giving him her identity. A sundered soul, its rent pieces flying away.
“Do not worry, my old pupil,” he said, hoarse as ever, “you will see it again.”
The Taskmaster usher Naon deeper into barracks to commence her first session as Ghare looked on with smug eyes.
Naon observed her surroundings with great care, noting her other coworkers, hallways, entrances, and exits. They stopped in the left corner of a large warehouse. Her Taskmaster knelt at a circular manhole. Naon peered across the warehouse, noting at least a dozen other manholes. The walls we
re lined with pallets of shovels, wheelbarrows, and other manual tools that, although new, looked degrading. In fact, the air she had to breathe in this wretched warehouse made her usual mettle shrink and cower. This in turn made her skin skitter and her determination activate. She would kill and claw and silence anyone to rid herself of this place.
The Taskmaster—a thin, redheaded man with a full, pointed mustache over stubble—removed the manhole with some effort and stood back.
“Down, fish-headed kutt,” he spat. His voice was like listening to someone squelching their hands in a bowl of ground meat.
Naon met his eyes for a second, before calmly descending the ladder, each movement precise and stiff.
A long gullet of circular brick and ankle-deep water stretched before her. The water was sickly green-brown. Clumps of feces and mulch clung to the sides of the brick. Her Taskmaster dropped, splashing her.
“C’mon,” he said, walking down the gullet, “I’ll show you who you’ll be from now on.” He guffawed and spat.
Naon watched her new master, roved her eyes along the circular brick, and forced herself at that moment to acclimate to the abhorrent stench. From now on, it would not bother her, would not make her flinch or gag. This place would have no power over her. Ghare and the Lo’Zon thought this kind of degrading work would change her, break her down and build her back again. But no matter how much shit she would shovel, her only regret would be that more humans had not been killed in Flonneburg.
THE ORPHAN AND THE ORACLE
This sort of capture was infantile compared to V’delle’s stay in Flonneburg three months ago. No sedative, no leash. Hell, there could be snacks at their destination. The mud had dried over her eyes, a raccoon visage. A male and a female Khor’Zon carried her. Paving the way ahead, another male. They wore ragged drapes and rusty chest plates. Carried through the grease black forest, out of the marsh, up a small knoll of muggy aspen groves, into a clearing that only allowed slivers of the afternoon haze through their medallion leaves. They’d found her earpiece, chucked it, and took all her weapons. They made camp: a modest fire and four bedrolls.