by Greg Hanks
“Breckenridge says the next fifty rooms won’t be ready for another three weeks,” Rosalie said, hands in her pockets.
“I’d be in the cottage in a heartbeat if they let me,” V’delle said. “It’s my actual home after all.”
“I know.”
“I’m grateful,” V’delle added. “I just hate how he treats his soldiers—his fodder—like royalty. Sets up a lot of soldiers to abuse it.”
“Luckily I haven’t seen anything like that yet.”
She found her room and let Rosalie inside. Electricity was being rewired. She lit five candles as Rosalie shut the door behind them. Flickering glow. Dark oranges dancing, soft and ponderous. Her bed welcomed her. Removing her Khor uniform was like peeling a second skin. She removed the torso section. Cotton Caribbean blue t-shirt underneath, relaxed. Human clothing didn’t bother her anymore. The freeing nature. The updraft through her sleeves. After a quick stretch, she fell back onto the bed, her arms draped backward, still wearing the lower uniform.
Rosalie glided through the room, admiring trinkets from the dresser, the wall. A painting of Rain and Farin. A sketch of the Chalis. A figurine missing an arm, dirtied. Two Chinese therapy balls, chipped. Dried white roses. The little coin-shaped locket she had given V’delle at the barn. A silvery necklace with a square pendant. A crusty, bloodstained dagger on a piece of cloth at which she grimaced.
“How’s recruitment going?” she asked.
V’delle took out her hair tie. “Same as the last time you asked. And the time before that. Oh, you know what? It’s the same since we got here.” She angled her head to smell her armpit, wearing a look of soured offense.
“Well, at least you can call a cat a cat. It’s going to take time. I’ve been doing my best to mention it. I think I’ve got a few people on board. More or less.”
V’delle sighed, sitting up. “What was that about a cat?”
“I just mean, you can admit to the truth despite it being disappointing.
“Thanks, I think.”
An old map was tacked to the wall above V’delle’s pillow. In the bottom right corner, a little stick-figure girl drawn with twenty-year-old pink crayon.
“So you’re still going topside, then?” Rosalie asked. “That wasn’t here last time I visited.”
V’delle gave Rosalie a knowing look. “C’mon, Rosalie. Of course I’m still going up.”
“I know you’re careful up there. I just . . . I hope you’re doing okay.”
Sitting at the edge of her bed, V’delle shrugged. “I’m fine. I mean, I’m functional. The cottage helps me remember things, I think. It helps me.”
Rosalie stared at the stick version of V’delle. “Any news about you and Farin?”
V’delle made a listless gesture with one hand as if conducting a concert. “Again, same as the last time you asked.”
Rosalie wrapped herself in her sweater. “When’s the last you two discussed it?”
V’delle lay back on her pillow, one leg crossed on her knee, hands behind her head. “You know, some people were watching a movie last week that had this guy laying on a sofa, being asked all sorts of deep questions about his feelings and stuff.”
Rosalie realized she was being teased. “And what movie was that?”
“I dunno, but you sound a lot like the lady who asked him the questions. I think you’ve become the psychollogin of Beliveilles.”
“I . . . think you mean psychologist.”
“Hmm. Something only a psychologist would know.”
“Blame Breckenridge; he’s the one who asked me to keep tabs on people’s mental health.” She straightened, though mostly in jest. “I won’t lie, I enjoy it. But you know I’m not just doing my job, right? I really care about you—”
“I’m just messing with you, Rosalie.” V’delle sat upright. “You know I’m grateful.”
“Anyway, Farin says you’ve been avoiding the topic.”
“Oh, God. Because there’s nothing left to talk about. That picture could mean anything. Sisters, neighbors, school friends. Without proof, what kind of closure is it going to bring? I don’t know why she keeps wanting to talk about it.”
“If you found out you were sisters, wouldn’t that change a lot?”
“She’s not my sister.”
“But it’s possible.”
“You know what else is possible? Breckenridge becoming likable.”
Rosalie laughed a little. “Not everything is possible, V’delle.” Her face tightened, and the smile vanished. “What about . . . have you been having any nightmares lately? Daydreams? Headaches? Have you . . . been seeing him?”
Seen’ai’s face appeared in the dark reaches of her closet. Mask of light blue skin and red eyes.
A knock at the door. She embraced the interruption.
“V’delle?” said Rain’s muffled voice. “You in there?”
She nodded to Rosalie, who opened the door.
Rain didn’t smile when he saw Rosalie. He stepped inside, gazing at V’delle with concentration. This kind of Rain meant business.
“We need you in the interrogation chamber,” he said.
“Why?”
“We captured a Khor’Zon.”
“So?”
“In Beliveilles.”
“Where exactly?” V’delle said.
“He says he won’t talk to anyone except you.”
V’delle checked Rosalie’s reaction, then stood.
“His name?” V’delle asked.
“Wouldn’t say,” said Rain.
“I’ll come on one condition.”
Rain gave her a dead stare. “I’m not giving you my real name.” He left the room.
“You’ve gotta be more secretive than that,” Rosalie told V’delle.
“One of these days,” V’delle said, jogging after him.
“I guess I’ll just blow out the candles and lock up then,” said Rosalie to herself.
Through the mess hall, the busy doughnut chamber, to the first-floor corridor of the offices. Ten rooms staggered the hall, five of which had been partitioned to become interrogation chambers on one side and viewing rooms on the other.
“How’d you find him?” V’delle asked Rain breathlessly. They stopped outside the first empty room.
“He was wandering the streets above, telling us to capture him, shouting. It was really odd.”
“Where’s the other one?”
“Other one? You gonna tell me what’s going on?”
“How about you tell me why I just found out about Penelope.”
“V’delle, not now.”
“It’s bullshit and you know it.”
“I’ll explain after. I promise.”
“Fine. I met three Khor’Zon in the woods when Farin and I got separated. They were defectors.”
“Defectors?”
“This might be a distraction. Keep watch topside. Bringing him in might have just compromised us.”
Rain grabbed his walkie-talkie and sent orders around.
They entered the viewing room. Breckenridge, Möller, Olensky, and Chait Peavey stood around a small table. V’delle walked past them and looked through the interrogation window. It was Balien, tied to a chair.
“What, no greetin’?” asked Peavey, baring his yellowed, razor teeth. New clothing couldn’t negate his sewer rat appearance. “Thought we had somethin’ special? Prison buddies, eh?”
“There somethin’ you gotta tell us, V’delle?” asked Breckenridge. “How do you know this fella?”
“They took me captive when Farin and I got separated,” she said.
“They?”
“There were three of them. One of them got killed. They’re defectors.”
“You mean . . . wait, where’s the other one then?”
“That’s what I’m gonna find out,” she said, going for the door.
The leaders watched impatiently from behind the glass.
She closed the door behind her. It smelled like urine in
the small concrete cubicle. Balien wasn’t harmed. Same rusty outfit. Red eyes listless. Creeping smile.
“Where’s your bitch?” V’delle asked.
“That word is some kind of curse, is it not?”
“I dunno, you’ve been living in fairyland for the past twenty years, it could mean anything. Where is she, Balien?”
“I came alone. I promise.”
“How did you track me?”
“I did not.”
V’delle closed her eyes. She sighed. “Then what?”
“Are you going to let me speak freely?”
“Go on then.”
“You already know I have been looking for Seen’ai.” He stopped himself and looked at the one-way window, raising his voice. “Sorry, my brother, Seen’ai.” He turned back to V’delle. “Anyway, the last few months, I discovered he had been in Flonneburg. The only other city for miles is the one above us. After speaking with you, I decided to search on my own.”
V’delle shrugged. “Balien, you know we can’t trust you. They’re going to beat you. Badly.”
He opened his hands to her. “I am more than willing to share everything I know. I only want to see my brother’s grave. Khor’Zon need closure, too.”
“That’s not my point. It doesn’t matter what you say; you’re Khor’Zon—the enemy.”
Balien’s eyelids flickered. “I am far from afraid.” He glanced at the window again. “Okay, perhaps a tiny bit afraid.”
V’delle saw her own reflection in the window.
“Maybe they won’t hurt you if you give them something good,” she conceded.
“Wonderful. Can I begin now?”
V’delle hesitated. She bowed her head and stepped back, as if to give him the room.
Balien lifted his head proudly. “The Khor’Zon are fierce lovers of live drama and theater. Every season, tribes host their own—”
“All right, shit-head . . .”
“Forty miles southeast of Beliveilles there is an Outpost called Oleyt. We scouted the entire place. Eight square miles across, 349 Preen’ch, three Khor’Zon Overseers, six drones, and one Warlord. At night, half the Outpost sleeps. Perimeter rotations happen every three hours. They have a medical bay, a Central Hub, and a barracks. There is a weak point in the Outpost’s eastern presidio wall. A lack of resources from the Chalis left part of the wall unfinished. They have tried to cover it up with black canvas. The Outpost sits in a field near two large forests that encompass its flanks. If you had a force strong enough, this would be a highly probable win for you.”
V’delle ran memorized maps through her brain.
“I have given you something good, right?” he asked.
“We’ll see,” she said, turning to leave. She grabbed the doorknob.
“Please, girl.” A sincere, eager voice. “Just the grave. Then I am gone. It is such a small thing to ask for the risk at which I have put myself.”
V’delle’s hand tightened around the doorknob. “I burned him. He has no grave. He never deserved one.”
“There was a time when he did deserve one.”
“The Seen’ai I knew got exactly what he deserved,” she said, her temper rising.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Your brother’s killer.”
“I saw something in you yesterday. Something reserved, something that longed to be free. It is what made you negotiate with me. It is how you survived. That is the same thing I am doing now. I just want to negotiate. Information in exchange for my brother’s grave. I am a neutral party in this war; I have no hostility toward the Calcitra. Please, let me do as you did. Let me negotiate.”
V’delle hesitated at the door. Did his “neutrality” in the war really mean anything at all? She never thought she’d have to deal with questions that were outside the clear center of the battlefield. It had always been human versus Khor’Zon. Side versus side. There had never been any gray between. Even when she recognized her own mental diaspora—another useful Piers-taught word—there was still the idea of humans on one side and Khor’Zon on the other. She knew eventually she’d end up with one of them. But neutrality? How could someone sit on the sidelines and do nothing? Especially those who didn’t belong on Earth in the first place.
She left Balien empty-handed and shut the door behind her.
Peavey whistled. “I got all steamy just watchin’.”
“I think he’s telling the truth,” she announced.
“Oleyt could be something,” Möller said, looking hopefully concerned at Breckenridge.
“He’s wearing armor I’ve never seen before,” Rain added. “Twenty years of running around, and I’ve never seen it.” He gave V’delle a supportive wink.
“He’s a spy,” Olensky said, matter-of-factly. “It’s so plain that it angers me you do not see. If we don’t kill him now, we’ll have entire Chalis on our doorstep. We should never have captured him in first place. Our cover is blown, Breckenridge!”
“Neutral,” spat Peavey. “I’ve never heard of defectors. A bunch of shite.”
“All right, all right,” Breckenridge said, silencing the room with his hands. “Listen, I made the decision to capture him based on the armor. Wouldn’t have touched him elsewise. I’m inclined to go with V’delle. If he’s not neutral, then it’s on me. If he’s willin’ to give us concrete details—if this Oleyt turns out—I think we’ve got a chance to gain some heavy advantages here, folks.”
“Yeh gotta be kiddin’ me, Breck,” Peavey said. “This piece of shite is one thing and one thing only: a bloody kutt, neutral or not. There’s your proof. When did we start cooperatin’ with the enemy? Bringin’ in lil’ girls to fight, trustin’ kutts—when did yeh become so soft, Breck?”
“You know what I always hated about you, Peavey?” Breckenridge said, catching the redhead off-guard. “You can’t get outta that blunt skull a yers. Sometimes we gotta go against the grain to get results in this goddamn war. I know he’s a damned kutt; am I blind? We’re gettin’ information from him, that’s the decision.”
Peavey laughed it off and started for the door. “Yeh know what I’ve always loved about you, Breck? Yeh never bin able to see the truth in a problem.”
“And why would you love that?” Breckenridge asked.
“Because I always get to clean up when your plans fail. An’ by then the only thing that matters is blood.” He pointed menacingly at the one-way window. “Long as this kutt sleeps here, I cannae promise my best behavior.” He opened the door. “And I’d be willin’ to bet there’s quite a few lads here that feel the same way.” He left whistling a tune, Olensky in tow.
“You made me rescue that,” V’delle said to Breckenridge.
Breckenridge gave V’delle an impatient look. “Despite what you think, we need him. Got a few screws loose, but that ain’t nothin’. Let me worry about Peavey. You said this Balien fella had a friend?”
“I’m surprised, Breckenridge; you’re actually taking my side on this one.”
Rain enjoyed the banter, struggling to hide his own quips.
“When yer not creatin’ distractions in order to escape with war-winning intel, then yeah, I guess some a yer ideas might be worth considerin’.”
“So I’m right? That’s why you didn’t tell us about Penelope?”
Breckenridge sighed. “Y’know I’ve gotten to the point where I can tell when yer shootin’ yer little spikes at me. I’ve already told you my reasonin’ behind that decision, and I won’t waste time tryin’ to convince you further. We got a kutt sittin’ five feet from us. Let’s get to work. V’delle, if this fella makes good on his end of the bargain, you’ll show him what he wants. Are we clear?”
V’delle relaxed a little, letting the anger in her fingertips tap through the table. She pushed herself away. “We’re clear.”
“Good. Rain, I want you and Bazek to get things set up for this discussion with our friend here. We’ve been monitorin’ the perimeter since we brought him in; security is
tighter than a can a my ex-wife’s disgusting marmalade. Anyone tries to find our little operation here, we’ll have some heads up. We’re doin’ this in ten.”
“Done,” said Rain, carrying out his duties with swift, purposeful feet.
V’delle, Möller, and Breckenridge remained in the small antechamber.
“And what if he is just spy and it’s too late for watching the perimeter,” V’delle wondered, looking at Balien through the glass.
Breckenridge folded his arms and joined her gaze. “I never second-guess my decisions.”
THEM AND US
White linen around and around, wrapping each finger, spacing out the knuckles. Naon flexed her fingers. Palms on bony knees. A string of anxiety like a burning fuse. Wire frame agile, defined by striated muscles under black cloth shirt and shorts. Pale feet wrapped. Crownbone sleeved. She stood in front of the locker room mirror. Too skinny, she thought. Where was all the muscle the boys got?
She walked from the changing room to the main floor. Lines made by scraped white rock laddered up the doorframe, marking Naon’s height from age eight to fourteen.
This year there would not be a new line.
The Yor’sha sparring cavern. A maw of obsidian rock, home to a ground-level fighting ring. Wooden bleachers rose away from all four sides of the ring, a small slope. Rafters and struts pierced the craggy ceiling. Ripped flags and standards fluttered in the yawning cave breeze. The teacher’s shack near the ring, plastered in tacked papers and student schedules. Two staircases cut through either side of the bleachers toward locker rooms.
Naon stepped out and looked down upon the ring. Her classmates were gathering around the ring, their voices echoing loudly. Their teacher was busy looking at his tablet, the blue of the screen illuminating his stern face.
“He is a pushover,” a boy’s voice said, a shadow in the corner.
Naon turned and found Balien sitting in the bleachers. He smiled at her.
“Do not be so certain,” she said.
He had grown five inches over the past two years. His body taking the shape of his father—stout, vascular. Hand-stitched blue t-shirt and tan shorts. Simple leather shoes he’d fastened together with stripe weed and gloer skin. It was all he could do without anyone else to care for him.