The Recusant

by Greg Hanks

  V’delle was about to comment but held her tongue. The light piercing the canopy cast a perfect glow across the flowers, across the grave. Prism had become a threat just as Seen’ai had become to Balien. Was it truly possible Seen’ai had once been devoid of pride and regret?

  “I wish we could have had one last meeting,” he continued. “But we both made decisions. And now we both must—well, I must live with the consequences. Seen’ai . . . I knew who you were. I knew the reasons behind everything you did . . . I think. I will honor you, Seen’ai. Orothaea will care for you now. Watch over me, if you can. Help me to find my own peace.” Balien was silent for a few minutes, head bowed. He grasped a handful of dirt. “I miss you, my brother.” He placed the dirt on Prism’s grave and pressed, leaving a hand imprint.

  Her tongue could be held no longer. She was not about to allow Seen’ai to be “honored.”

  “You know, I tried using ‘reason,’ Balien. Your brother was about to charge me, his own blood smeared all over his face, right up on that bridge we passed on the way here. I tried to reason. I thought, hell, why not try some words instead of punches? I told him he would’ve done the same things I had done to survive if our positions had been switched. I was sincere, too, I really was. Something I never did before. At that moment I was willing to debate, to discuss, in order to divert our fight. I actually thought it might work, too. But you know what he did? He looked me straight in the eye and said everything other than murdering humans was immaterial. He laughed at my attempt to expose his morality. So I drove his knife through his throat and called it a day. Reason doesn’t work when others don’t play along. Being neutral never won wars, either. It’s time to go.” She began trudging back to the cottage door.

  He pivoted to face her. No flinching, no signs of anger. He simply nodded and said, “Unfortunately, I cannot come with you.”

  V’delle’s blood electrified. A sharp intake of breath. She spun and drew her weapon on him.

  Maora stood in the break of two trees, at the edge of the clearing. Balien’s hands were raised to V’delle.

  “You—” V’delle spat. “I knew it. I knew you were just like every other goddamn kutt out there.”

  “I am done here, Unborn,” Balien said, backing up. “I have nothing left to offer your people; you have nothing left to offer me.”

  “No,” V’delle breathed. “You’re not doing this. You piece of shit! I’m taking both of you back.”

  “We are not your enemy, V’delle,” Maora said. “We just want to go back to our home.”

  “My home!” V’delle shouted. She simultaneously flung her hood on and shot.

  The bullet struck Balien in the leg. He fell on his side.

  Maora fired back.

  V’delle lunged into the bushes, but felt her shin kick out from under her. She fell face-first into the grass. She rolled and sprung back up. Maora and Balien’s backs disappeared into the trees.

  V’delle checked her leg. No blood. The armor pulled through, but the bruise would be painful. She sprinted after them, her shin pulsing with pressure. She knew the forest. Each path, each bush, each branch. She’d combed the dirt for three months just to find a scrap of information about her family. Now it was paying off quite differently than she had anticipated. She bounced off a fallen trunk, latched on to a low-hanging bough, swung, and flew. She landed in a tiny clearing of smoothed dirt and immediately set off parallel her targets.

  Maora had her arm under a wounded Balien. V’delle pitied their attempt.

  She scaled a fat pine, ratcheting herself through the dense, sap-infused canopy. Leaping to another coniferous. Careful to brace herself accordingly, making sure her feet didn’t scrape too hard on the bark. Maora struggled to maintain her companion. The female Khor’Zon kept craning her neck to see behind them, her pistol at the ready in a sweeping motion. V’delle stalked them like a panther, taking mere seconds to judge distances before jumping to new branches. Her agility came at the cost of cuts and rakes from twigs and needles.

  She landed on a large branch intertwined with another tree. The perfect perch for her descent. She waited.

  A popping sound echoed from the forest ahead. A crackling of smoke shot across the floor in the form of two beads toward Maora and Balien. The trip shot hit the Khor’Zon and they both fell limp.

  V’delle’s eyes strained. She immersed herself in the foliage of her tree.

  Preen’ch started to filter through the trunks from all sides. V’delle counted six—a Cocoon. Their weapons drawn, their steps feline, bent knees, fingers taut, heads twitching at each crunch.

  V’delle looked down at her pistol and grimaced. Enough ammo. But enough dexterity?

  “I heard different gunshots,” said their leader, the one with the red stripe across his helmet. “I want two of you to stay back and investigate. They were fighting someone.”

  V’delle aimed at the leader and stepped off the limb. She pulled the trigger twice. The leader dropped dead. The second Preen’ch took the bullet to his neck. Her boots smashed into the head of her third target. She fanned her pistol toward the other soldiers. Three quick pops and they all dropped with a hole in their visors. Lastly, she snapped the neck of the soldier she’d landed upon.

  An entire Cocoon lay dead surrounding two unconscious Khor’Zon and an aqueous mirage. She stepped over to the two Khor’Zon and aimed. Her pistol wavered. Balien’s voice remained a constant stereo in her mind. Something told her even though they tried to escape, it wasn’t out of deceit to the Calcitra, but of a singular desire to go home. In the musky silence of the forest, where death had become as natural as the roots below her feet, V’delle began seeing a connection to her biggest problem. The pistol quietly lowered.

  “How the hell am I gonna bring both of you back?”

  BELIVEILLES CRACKING

  The door opened to Balien’s interrogation chamber. Chait Peavey looked down at the cross-legged, meditating alien. Red hair a wildfire. Thin nose flared. The room smelled of earthy urine, a sticky, sour fume.

  “Get up,” Peavey said, closing the door behind him.

  Balien tilted his head. “You are a new face.” He struggled to stand. Hands bound behind his back. They almost stood eye-to-eye, but Balien’s genetics gave him a slight advantage. Similar bodies, stomachs like wide trunks, bulbous chests, stony biceps and shoulders. Chait’s vascularity covered his arms and legs. Balien’s menacing brow shadowed defensive eyes.

  Peavey punched Balien in the face.

  Balien staggered but held firm.

  Chait smirked and struck again, driving the alien to the ground. Peavey laid no groundwork, no small talk; he relentlessly beat Balien into the concrete wall, blood painting his knuckles. He bent down and dragged Balien toward to the middle of the floor. He wound up and drove the metal toe of his boot into Balien’s ribs.

  Peavey drudged up a ball of phlegm and spat into Balien’s face. “How many?”

  Balien wheezed upon the floor, struggling to find coherence. Blood smeared the walls. It drained into the floor grate. Metallic odor and the beating of lungs. Using his foot, Peavey pushed Balien over. A mask of glistening crimson matched his dilated red pupils.

  “I . . . why?” Balien asked.

  Peavey crouched. “Haven’t I shown yeh I don’t play games? I’m not like these bawbags; I dunnae waste time. Tell me how many a yer friends’re out there.”

  “I-It is just me and Maora.” He swallowed hard. Caught his breath. “The woman you—”

  Peavey took Balien by the shoulders, pulled him upright, and shoved him against the wall.

  “I’ve gotta few rules you oughta know,” Peavey said. “First, I only ask three times. Second, I beat yeh ’til yeh scream, an’ yeh scream ’til yeh die. And third, I always get what I want. I’m not talkin’ about yer bloody bitch. How many Preen’ch did you bring here?”

  “I have already given your people what they asked of me. You are only here to beat me.”

  Peavey wound
up his fist.

  The door flung wide, and in charged V’delle. She punched Peavey in the shoulder with her prosthetic fist, causing him to flip sideways.

  He recovered quickly and lunged at her.

  She dodged.

  Möller joined the fray and caught Peavey, holding him back. Breckenridge and Rain followed.

  “Bitch!” Peavey yelled, spitting at V’delle. He wrested himself from Möller and caught his balance. “Yeh gonna let this kutt live, Breck?!”

  “Peavey,” Breckenridge said, “calm down, for hell’s sake. Yer a soldier, not a goddamn child.”

  “Bunch a roasters!” he yelled, being escorted out by Möller “This is how Chradec fell! Dunnae yeh remember, Breck? Dunnae yeh remember?!” They disappeared out of the other room, Peavey’s voice echoing. “Get off me, you veiny shite . . .”

  “Thanks for having us rescue that piece of shit,” V’delle said, eyes of blaming hatred.

  “Not now, Unborn,” Breckenridge snapped.

  Rain had helped Balien into a more comfortable position in the corner. V’delle detached her Khor armor’s flaccid mask and used it to dab at the blood on Balien’s face.

  Balien winced at V’delle’s less-than-gentle touch, raising a feeble arm. “D-Do not worry—”

  “Didja alert Medical?” said Breckenridge, hovering. His voice was tired, impatient.

  “Hayla’s coming,” Rain said. “Should be here soon.”

  Möller returned, face red. “Peavey said Balien didn’t talk.”

  “Of course he didn’t talk,” V’delle snarled, her neck like a springboard, “his face was getting caved-in!” When she registered her own words, hearing the shrillness against the cold concrete, she lost focus. So defensive. Her hand recoiled, as if someone had removed a drape from Balien’s head, revealing something horrifying.

  Breckenridge sighed. “You two, wait here with him. V’delle, with me.”

  V’delle stepped back. “Yeah . . . coming.” She handed Rain her dirtied mask without asking and followed Breckenridge out of the room.

  Breckenridge led V’delle down the adjoining corridor. “Peavey didn’t just react out of hatred, V’delle.” He stopped and faced her. “Preen’ch were spotted in Beliveilles.”

  She didn’t like how easy it was to lie, but for her life, all the unwanted traits came easy. “What? How many?”

  “Two Cocoons,” he said. “Emergency meetin’ upstairs, c’mon. Let Hayla take care a this.”

  One door down from Breckenridge’s office was a large conference room with a cluttered metal table. Two monitors hung on the back wall, their screens alight with maps of Beliveilles. Bazek Pavlin sat at the head of the table, clicking away on an old laptop. His orange beanie barely clung to his tuft of brown hair. He wore a stretched and stained white t-shirt that hung from his bony body like a poncho. Serafima and Étienne stood by the monitors, conversing in raised voices. Farin sat on the table with one leg over the other, finger to her ear, speaking to another Calcitra member off-base while looking at Bazek’s screen.

  V’delle followed Breckenridge inside.

  Serafima and Étienne both started speaking at Breckenridge, but he cut them off.

  “Twelve Preen’ch and a Khor’Zon were spotted near the freeway entrance to Beliveilles twenty minutes ago.” He was looking at V’delle. “This is the first time we’ve had company since we got here. We need to find out what went wrong, and if they’re mobilizin’. Bazek, whaddya got for me?”

  Bazek’s face was white from the screen’s light. “If they were onto us, we’d know by now.” He shook his head. “They’re roaming. That’s it. You can see it in their movement patterns.”

  Farin ended her quiet conversation and turned to Breckenridge. “Rotunda says they’re looking for something, but they’re not scavenging.”

  The government building in the center of Beliveilles was chosen and remodeled to completely seal off intruders or scavengers, later named the Rotunda. Orenne Faust and two other soldiers remained hunkered inside the top floor of the Rotunda, acting as Beliveilles’ watch tower. V’delle sometimes brought food and water to them.

  Breckenridge nodded. “What’s their goal?”

  “Orenne says they’re heading through the Government district. They’ll keep us posted.”

  “But what are they searching for?” Olensky snapped. “Obviously they’re looking for us.”

  “If we wait too long,” Étienne said, “it could cost us everything we’ve worked to build! We can’t flirt with risk here, Breckenridge!”

  “And you propose we just reveal ourselves?” Breckenridge asked. “Who else could be watchin’ them? What kind of trackin’ orbs do they have just waitin’ for us to make a move? Looks like a scoutin’ party to me. Looks like bait. We make one wrong move, and we’ll have Flonneburg breathin’ down our necks faster n’ you can say ‘peach pie.’”

  “I’m with Étienne,” Olensky said. “That is twelve more Preen’ch we don’t have to deal with. When will we ever get lucky like this again? Have Rotunda take them out. Like sprinkled fish food for piranhas.”

  “It sounds like bait to me,” Bazek agreed condescendingly, as if there was no other explanation.

  “We’ve covered our tracks,” Farin reminded everyone, hopping off the table. “There’s no reason for us to panic. They couldn’t find the entrance if it smacked them in the face. V’delle can attest to that. She helped build it.”

  “And we’re supposed to believe that kutt isn’t involved?” Olensky returned. “Just because he’s made friends among us?” She looked at V’delle. “Maybe Peavey was right to use force. He knew we don’t have time for talk.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” V’delle said sarcastically. “I totally forgot you spent the last few days with him. So you’re good to judge the situation perfectly. And how did you know what Peavey did?”

  Olensky gave V’delle an acidic look. “See? Some of us are kutt sympathizers.”

  “All right, enough,” said Breckenridge. “V’delle, I need you to tell us right now: can we trust him?”

  V’delle searched inward, trying to itemize everything she’d learned about Balien over the last few days. She resorted to a scoff of projected disavowal. “He wasn’t wearing any kind of armor we’ve ever seen; he gave us information about his home; and from what I could tell from last night and this morning, he really just wanted to see his brother’s grave. Defecting Khor’Zon isn’t the hardest concept to grasp, guys. Yeah, he tried to escape, but that didn’t have anything to do with these Preen’ch. Could he be lying? It’s obviously possible.”

  “And what about their attempted escape?” Étienne said. “Isn’t it a little suspicious that these Preen’ch happen to show up an hour after you bring back two Khor’Zon?”

  V’delle raised her eyebrow at him.

  Breckenridge caught on and turned to V’delle. “Are you absolutely certain they had nothin’ to do with this?”

  “I already told you what happened up there,” V’delle said. “Do I really need to repeat myself?”

  “It’s just some of us here are very accustomed to the art of lying,” Étienne said, sneering at her.

  The door opened. Piers Fillion entered. His tall, muscular appearance lurched into the room, tan, brick arms fitted through a denim short-sleeve with cuffs, a jawline of scruff, and a buzzed head of salt and pepper hair. V’delle saw him from across the room, his blue eyes like glow of an outdoor pool at night. A warmth propagated throughout her chest. He smiled at her, a quiet sigh escaping his mouth. His reaction made her frustrated she hadn’t stopped to see him before going out with Balien. Now their reunion was stuck in limbo during a conference meeting steeped in quicksand.

  “What did I miss?” Piers said, setting down a manila folder filled with a stack of papers. Eyes still on V’delle.

  “Nothing,” Étienne exhaled, shaking his head in disbelief. “You don’t even belong in this meeting, Fillion.”

  “Just the usual, Piers,�
� V’delle said. “Étienne thinks I lied.”

  “Don’t mind me,” Piers said to the group, slinking away to the back corner. “Just here to listen and learn.”

  “Look, V’delle,” Bazek said, leaning back, hands behind his head, “I gotta say, Étienne has grounds to be skeptical. I’m sorry, but we’ve never seen Preen’ch set foot inside Beliveilles. You bring back two unconscious ‘defecting’ Khor’Zon and suddenly two Cocoons stumble upon the city?”

  V’delle looked around. She saw the suspecting faces of her Calcitra “family.” Even Farin waited with curiosity.

  “I promise,” she lied. “Maora came to get Balien back. They tried to escape, but I stopped them. That’s it.”

  V’delle could feel Farin’s abrasive eyes. The monitors continued to hum in the background.

  “Bazek,” came Orenne’s voice through the laptop speakers. “They’re turning around. Chatter’s been mostly irrelevant. I think we dodged a bullet. Woop-woop. Time to celebrate.”

  V’delle’s chest deflated.

  “Breckenridge,” Étienne urged, “there are twelve healthy Preen’ch up there. Our enemy. We must remember who we are, what we’re doing here. We’re missing an opportunity!”

  “Screw yer head on straight,” Breckenridge said. “Bazek, watch ‘em ’til they leave. Farin, get with Orenne and tell her she can bring on a few more soldiers—her choice. We’ll remain vigilant until all signs of threat have ceased. ’Til they’re way past the forest line. Olensky, Étienne, I need an update on the Oleyt Outpost. Everyone else, back to work. We’ve got kids to train, maps to memorize, and Sanction sewers to decrypt.”

  “Not to mention two Khor’Zon defectors,” Bazek added.