by Greg Hanks
“There were simply too many of us. Escape was easy. Too many Khor’Zon to regulate without complete subjugation and oversight. They tried to stop us, and we lost a lot of good people. That was the last time I saw my brother.”
“He tried to stop you?”
He nodded. “We fought. Nearly killed each other. But our past was more to blame for that.”
V’delle inhaled, paused, and began realizing she was starting to feel the trickle of sympathy. She shrugged it off. Talk of Seen’ai and the Chalis reminded her where she’d first met him. “Seen’ai looked for you.”
“Hm?” Balien asked.
“Did you ever stay in a town just outside of the Chalis? It would have been just to the north. Not Sanction.”
Balien creased his brow. “You seem like you already know I was there.”
“That’s where Seen’ai found me. In that town. He was looking for you. Or at least clues about you.”
Balien had to take a moment to filter through what that meant for him. “You are positive about this?”
“Yep.”
“When I escaped my people scattered, promising to rendezvous later. We had studied your planet. We knew where we wanted to go. That town was the first town I came to. When we got there, it had been partially destroyed by the drones. A few humans were still alive, but most had either evacuated or were dead.”
“Lemme guess. You escaped through a drone hatch, didn’t you?”
Balien leaned back and pondered their similar lives. “I guess we have a lot more in common than I thought.”
V’delle marveled at the odd circumstances set before her. The pillar she’d traversed to get to the drone hatch must have fallen from Balien’s escape—it had been stuck between that gorge for twenty years. The black markings near the far elevator at the end of the ravine must have come from their battle. She pictured hundreds of Khor’Zon pouring out of the hatch, trying to find their way across an unknown world. Just like her. She looked Balien in the eyes, trying to find his soul somewhere lurking underneath the red pupils.
Those red pupils. It was like Seen’ai had risen from the dead. Formed back together after being burnt to ash.
Finally, Balien cleared his throat. “We are both products of oppression, struggling to find the strength to be free. I wish we had never come to Earth.”
“Well, you’re here,” she said, placing her palms firmly on the table and standing. “So help.”
“I have already told you—”
“How about you walk me through that completely delusional thought-process then?”
“Just because we never wanted this war to happen does not mean we have any responsibility in it—or no sympathy for you. We need to protect our own; that is our one and only goal. Helping scattered humans try to take back already weakened cities does not appeal to us. We knew the Lo’Zon and his Warlords would not have enough soldiers to take the entire planet. They would dwindle for years and years before ever making progress. And by then, we would have developed our own civilization. By then the world would already have become a new frontier ready to be conquered. It is sad that your civilization has fallen, it really is. But we had to be smart. Pragmatic.”
“Wow. I guess it was stupid of me to even entertain the idea that Khor’Zon could show empathy. Doesn’t matter which side you’re on, you’re all selfish bastards.”
“V’delle . . . just because I know the history and beliefs of my group does not mean I agree with it whole-heartedly.”
V’delle hesitated. “I’m confused, do you want me to keep insulting you?”
“I am sorry. I think I have been around Maora too long.”
“So which is it? Are you for or against neutrality?”
Balien studied her face. His eyes fell to her maps. “May I?”
She watched.
He took the map of the continent. When he had scanned, his finger found a country with a faded blue sea. His fingernail underlined the water.
“This is where the Chalis was supposed to land.”
Supposed to? V’delle remembered the cracked earth surrounding the Chalis. The deadened soil, nutrients sucked away never to return.
“Over the years, the Chalis would have soaked up the lake. The surrounding area was rich in minerals and good soil, coal and iron and copper. It had everything the Chalis needed to sustain a steady output of Khor’Zon technology. On top of everything else, it was close to several large cities on the continent. Easy access to your planet’s already-running equipment and technology.”
V’delle picked up the breadcrumbs. “Are you telling me you did that?”
“Does it not make sense? Look where the Chalis lies now. Do you realize how slow their production has gotten?”
“Words are words,” V’delle said.
“How profound,” he mocked. “Believe me or do not. I am getting tired of trying to prove how much I risked being here—”
“Balien. Are you for or against neutrality?”
He sat quietly, hoping for a little more time to answer.
V’delle scooted from the table. “We should sleep. Tomorrow I’ll show you where I killed your brother.”
——————
Farin finished laying fresh Calcitra garments on one of the chairs in Penelope’s hospital room. Boots aligned symmetrically on the floor, pants and sleeves hanging nicely over the seat, each pouch and drape of leather keeping their creases.
As she admired her work, her smile faded to a vacant stare. Were her intentions truly pure? She turned around. Penelope snoozed underneath thin sheets. Little chunks of chopped red hair stuck out like stuffed-animal fur. Was the uniform too “gifty?” Farin sat in the second chair. Maybe she was overreacting.
The sleeping body shifted. A dry murmur.
“Penelope?” Farin said, jumping to the bedside.
Penelope rolled onto her back. Blue, drunken eyes fell upon Farin.
“G . . . Guh . . . Gar . . .” Penelope slurred.
“Pen, it’s me,” Farin said. “You’re back. You’re safe.”
Penelope’s eyelids flickered, her head dipping.
Farin grabbed Penelope’s chilly hand and held firm. “I’m here, Pen. You’re okay. You’re free. We’re all here. You’ve got all the help you can get.”
Penelope’s lids spread. She forced herself back, pushing and kicking to get as far away from Farin as possible. “No! I’ll stop! I’ll stop! Not again, Warlord! Please! I’ll obey! Stop! No!” She shivered violently against the headboard, shaking the echocardiogram; Farin had to catch it from falling.
“It’s me, Penelope. It’s Farin. Look at me. I’m your friend. We’re Unborn, remember? Remember Ressi? The Chalis?”
Penelope clenched the aluminum headboard, knuckles white. “G-Ghare. I-I promise I’ll be good. S-Silent. I’ll be good. Warlord, please . . .” A silent glimmer drained from her eyes, not a sob, but a constant, almost involuntary reaction. She kept her eyes to the floor. Panting. Dribbling.
“Ghare . . . ?” Farin said quietly to herself. “Pen . . . did you see Ghare? Tell me what happened? You can speak to me.”
Warmth fought Farin’s eyes, too. How could they torture her this badly? Why would the Khor’Zon be so unforgiving? What purpose did they have? Farin couldn’t help but take a step back. It was like watching an animated, overused doll writhe. It was hard to keep looking.
“I don’t know,” mumbled Penelope. “I d-don’t know, Lord. Please . . . I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry!” She buried her face into her hands and wept, screaming the same phrases.
Hayla stormed through the door. “Get back!” She went for the cupboard. “Why didn’t you get me when she woke?”
Farin backpedaled. “It barely happened. I wasn’t—”
“Just move.”
Hayla drew a sedative injector from her coat pocket and gave Penelope a dose through the thigh. The redhead didn’t fight the inoculation, shaking and sobbing, until the effects washed her out. Hayla gui
ded a calm Penelope back under the covers and made sure her head rested peacefully on the pillow.
“What happened?” Hayla asked Farin.
Farin didn’t answer, her eyes were locked on Penelope, who kept a steady glare at the adjacent wall.
“Pen?” Farin asked tentatively, fearing another scolding from Hayla. “Pen, can you hear me? It’s Farin.”
Penelope turned her mangled head, finally looking at Farin.
Farin traced the marks of torture across the young face: the laceration under the chin that sliced to the cheekbone, the chapped lips filled-in with dried blood, the blue and yellow eye sockets, parts of the scalp that would never regrow hair, a missing piece of the right ear lobe, innumerable scratches and healing scars, and a burn mark that snaked around the neck and disappeared under her gown. Penelope’s eyes had never looked so devoid of Penelope. Farin’s image of the spunky, Khor’Zon-hating girl had been dashed against the wall, leaving a half-bandaged ghoul.
“F-Farin?” she said, her amber-stricken sclera glistening under the light. “Farin?”
“Yes! It’s me, Pen!” Farin reached out to hold Penelope’s hand and was able to grasp it. There was no return grip, only a boneless hand. “I’m here. I’m right here.”
Penelope followed every curve of Farin’s head, traced the shoulders and the arms, then centered to the eyes. After a long pause, she retracted her hand. “You . . . left me . . .”
“Penelope, wait, it’s not . . . there was just . . .”
“You left me to die . . .”
Penelope turned her back to Farin.
A sudden chill spread outward from Farin’s chest. Her throat clogged. Her hand was still stretched over the bed, unable to believe she was on the receiving end of Penelope’s shun. The full weight of unthinkable fear was starting to catch up with her denial.
Hayla inhaled as quietly as she could and started to leave. “I’m just going to grab—”
“I’m leaving, too,” Farin said, going for the door. “Keep an eye on her, okay?”
She left the chamber and went for the Medical foyer, putting her back to the concrete wall of a small nook that used to hang a fire extinguisher. She drenched herself in darkness. The moment she had followed V’delle into the canal was on repeat. She remembered Penelope taking cover in the treatment plant’s command center. She closed her eyes and made herself accept what she’d done.
“We left her,” she whispered. “This is our fault. This is my fault.”
“Farin?”
She looked up.
Rain stood in the hallway holding a bag of bread.
“What’s going on?” Rain asked. He looked down the hall toward Penelope’s room. “Is . . . Penelope okay?”
“No.”
“What happened?”
Farin’s eyes glazed, her focus elsewhere. “We left her, Rain. I left her.”
It took Rain a moment to understand the memory to which she was referring. “You and I both know you didn’t leave her with some sinister agenda—”
“No . . .” Farin’s voice became low, beaten, defeated. “When I decided to leave and follow V’delle . . . that’s truly all I cared about. I didn’t . . . care about . . .” She flashed him a glance.
“This is bullshit,” Rain said. “You barely knew us! You told me you and Penelope met pretty much the same day you escaped the Chalis. Stop blaming yourself. We don’t have time for it now.”
Farin scoffed. “I even made sure she had this new uniform all ready. I thought I could somehow smooth things over. Because I knew this was going to happen. If Breckenridge had just told us! She was our whole mission, Rain. That was our entire life for these past three months, and he doesn’t tell us.”
“Then that’s what she’ll come to learn. Who is she going to believe? You two? Or Breckenridge, someone she doesn’t even know?”
Farin leaned back and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m just overwhelmed. Seeing her like that . . . even though we didn’t spend much time together, she’s Unborn, you know? Her, V’delle, and I—there’s always been that connection.”
“What did she say?”
“She told me, point blank, that I had left her to die.”
Rain sighed, nodding. “It’s been three months, Farin. She’s lucky to be alive. Give her mind some time to recover. This isn’t the real Penelope. They’ve warped her mind. Broken her.”
“Rain . . .” Farin asked, sticking her head out of the nook to see Penelope’s door. “Do you think she’s . . . a threat to us? To this place?”
“Some people think she could be. I think Breckenridge is going to be keeping a pretty close eye on her.”
“I don’t care what Breckenridge thinks. What do you think?”
Rain folded his arms and looked at Penelope’s door. “It’s possible. We might have just brought in a ticking time bomb.”
“Wait, if Breckenridge is keeping a close watch . . . shit. She’s not leaving that room, is she?”
Rain gave her a look of sobriety. “Look, if the real Penelope’s still in there somewhere, we’re going to get her back. We can’t worry about it, though. We can’t. And I hate to do this, but that’s an order. Penelope will get everything she needs. You, on the other hand, need to focus.”
“I need to go to the firing range.”
——————
“‘I think; therefore, I am,’” Balien recited, looking through the kitchen window to the grove of white and pink flowers lit by the first blues of morning.
“What did you say?” V’delle asked, clipping her pouches together and grabbing her cloak.
“It is something one of your philosophers said. I read it in a book a few years ago. Do you . . . know what a philosopher is?”
She gave him a long, impatient stare. “No. I don’t.”
“It is a title for people who think about complex ideas and problems of morality. You know, right and wrong. They believe problems can be solved just by thinking them through, using reason instead of violence, or other means. Like, for instance, the idea of existence. How do you and I know that we really, truly exist? It is not something that science or religion can tackle precisely.”
It wasn’t possible for V’delle’s shoulders to sag any lower. “Did you want to see this grave or not?”
“So this philosopher, Day-cart-ez—probably one of your ancestors—said that phrase, ‘I think; therefore, I am.’ Meaning, because I have the ability to think, to reason, I know that I exist. I cannot prove that I exist by touch or smell or sight or sound, because all of that is subjective, but by the ability we have to register those very things with thought. Or something like that. It is fascinating. We did not have much of that on our planet. It was too stuffed with religion.”
“I know you’ll be so surprised, but I don’t care.”
“I am sure you have wondered why you exist? Or maybe you have wondered why you are here? Why did you get picked by the Khor’Zon? Why did your planet have to go through this war?”
“Because you invaded our planet, stole me from my family, and tried to make me fight for you. I’ve heard people try to tell me that this is all happening for a reason, that everything has some kind of explanation behind it. It’s the biggest pile of horseshit I’ve ever heard.”
“Humans use all kinds of animal feces for slang, it seems.”
“You’re right. It’s dogshit, too.”
“Then how do you explain existence? Or coincidence? Do you think it was a coincidence that the two of us escaped the drone hatch? That you killed my brother, and now we are speaking, about to see his grave?”
She showed Balien a complex hand signal that displayed her well-thought-out reaction: her middle finger. “See this? Do you know what this means?” He began to deflate. Before he could speak, V’delle donned her cloak and started for the door, grabbing the threshold to give him a last look. “My ability to do that, and to see your reaction—that’s how I know I exist. Some people never have the opportunity to exi
st at all, and I’m not going to waste time praising myself.”
“V’delle,” Balien tried, grabbing his things on the way out, “I was just trying to have a conversation. I was not imposing anything. I just figured you might be interested in it. I mean, you have been studying maps since we got here.”
“You would get along well with Farin.”
Outside, she led him to the grove, her white frock swaying with the grass. The trees above sang their song through a whisper of leaves, and the morning sunlight sent shafts through the jittery pieces of flora. She stood a few feet from a mound of earth that had begun to sprout its own share of plant life.
“We burned him in the waterfall’s basin, but this is where he died. More or less. If you were to do whatever it is that you do, it would probably be best to do it here. There’s good cover, and it’s better than standing in a rocky ditch. So, go ahead. Get it over with.” She put her back to the cottage and placed a ready hand on her pistol underneath her cloak.
Balien looked around, pacing slowly through the growth, observing the limbs, the flowers, the mound of earth. “The ground is disturbed here.” He knelt and cupped his hands together in thought. He turned his head to inquire about the mound. “I thought you said there was no grave here.”
“It’s not Seen’ai.”
“Did . . . he do this?”
“The sun is rising, Balien.”
He nodded and began his quiet prayer. Before long, he stopped and turned around.
“What?” she asked.
“I mean, you are welcome to watch, but . . .”
“I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
“But you spent the night in the same room as me. Who knows what I could have done while you slept?”
“Who said I slept?”
Balien didn’t know if he needed to smile or quip. “Well, I guess I will have some company then.”
“Hurry.”
Balien knelt near Prism’s grave, and looked upward, into the rushing canopy. His voice was happy but withheld some essence that Balien had been delivering since V’delle met him. It was vulnerability.
“Brother,” he said. “I told you, did I not? I told you this would all eventually catch up with you. You were so quick to dismiss me, to throw family into the fire to please authority. But I am not shocked or surprised. It is you; you have always needed to prove yourself. To find some semblance of peace. And if that required becoming a Warlord and committing atrocities, then so be it. Perhaps death was the only way to achieve that peace you were looking for. Perhaps this girl, your sender, was the way that you finally found yourself again.”