The Recusant

by Greg Hanks

  A scruffy, genial voice said, “Good evening.” Piers sat at the other end of the table, smirking.

  She shuffled the maps and tablets and stacks of folders to find the clock. She knocked some loose documents to the floor and grasped the small analog box.

  9:07 p.m.

  “Good hell,” she mumbled, rubbing an itch out of her nose. She caught wind of the smell coming from her armpit and grimaced.

  “I would have woken you,” Piers said, “but you just seemed so tired. Thought I’d give your body a break from you.”

  “How long was I out?” she asked, slightly annoyed.

  “Only an hour or so.” With furtive eyes over his manifest page, he watched her stretch. “You never told me how the prison went.”

  V’delle yawned and sat back, scoffing. “Well, you’ve seen what we brought back.”

  “Was he really all that was left? I thought there were supposed to be others?”

  “There were. Wish we’d gotten there sooner.”

  There was a brief silence as Piers poured himself another mug of coffee.

  “You know, this reminds me of that place we stayed at after Contra Mare, you know, the truck, the deer.” His eyes widened with realization. “Not what happened after.”

  V’delle narrowed her eyes. “Venison?”

  Piers chuckled, relieved. “Yes, venison.” He sat forward, arms over his work. He searched the table, his eyes showing signs of fatigue despite the coffee. “It’s odd. Having good memories like that when everything else around it seems so dark and unthinkable.”

  V’delle could feel one of Piers’ classic introspective discussions coming on. Her stomach rumbled. She weighed the importance of each.

  “Not sure I have the same overall feelings about that time,” V’delle said. “No offense.”

  “Right, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up those memories.”

  “What did we talk about?”

  Piers smiled. “I think . . . you asked me about life. Before the invasion. And then food.”

  “And then that led to you telling me to get married.”

  He laughed. “Did I say ‘married?’”

  “No,” she said, smiling, reaching for the coffee pot.

  “Do you still think about that?”

  “What? Marriage? Are you insane?”

  “No, no. Sorry. I meant about life. Remember, you asked me if this world could ever go back to the way it was.”

  “Oh,” she said. If she was honest, she hadn’t given those thoughts much power lately. Perhaps it was the constant stream of assignments keeping her busy. “You don’t give me any time to wake up before you jump in, huh? I don’t know. I guess I still have those questions. But since then I’ve gotten a lot of answers to those things.” She made a small noise of curious acknowledgement.

  “You know, with Urholm coming up and all this new information . . . I get thinking about all sorts of things. Family. Meaning. Since we might not see each other for a while, I hope you know that Rosalie and I . . . we care about you, V’delle.”

  V’delle’s prior thoughts of food and sarcasm faded. She felt guilty, and a little angry, for not allowing herself to properly show gratitude, to show how she cared. As she was about to express herself, the word “meaning” kept echoing, giving her pause. And slowly that pause became boiling frustration.

  “I know, I know,” he started, “you don’t like hearing these kinds of things—”

  “Piers . . . what’s the point of relationships if they’re just going to be taken away from us? What’s the point of loving someone, especially in a time like this? Sorry, that sounded like it was directed at you. I just . . . when you said ‘meaning,’ it sort of brought together a lot of my thoughts recently. The closer we get to others, the harder it is to lose them. Is this what life was like before the invasion?”

  Piers took his time, sitting back. “It’s what life will always be like, no matter the circumstance we find ourselves in. Love’s all about the experience, V’delle. We risk loss for the great reward of love.”

  “It just frustrates me. I don’t get why it has to be double sided like that.”

  “I’ve lost two children. My parents, my siblings. I . . .” He stopped, trying to find the right words. When he configured a response, he sat forward, gesticulating. “There are moments in our lives, maybe a handful, that are razor sharp avalanches. They shake the past and threaten everything else into nonexistence. They scream into your ears, telling you it’s all meaningless.

  “But love is the meaning, V’delle. Even if it’s a few years. A month. A moment. If all of us shut ourselves inside our homes and never interacted with anyone, never opened ourselves up, we’d be . . . we’d be . . . meaningless.”

  “But finding more Calcitra, getting rid of Khor’Zon—I can find meaning in that without losing people I care about.”

  “But why are you finding more Calcitra? Why are you doing it all?”

  “To . . . try and stop suffering. To free the planet.”

  “V’delle,” Piers said, “love is a unique human experience. It is a precipice on the highest peak. But, yes, it comes with the risk of loss. You’ll never reach that peak if you let the fear of loss keep you grounded. Love is a motivator. You want to find more Calcitra because you care about this planet, its inhabitants.”

  “Hate is a motivator, too.”

  “You’re right. Hate motivated me to abandon my family to kill all those Preen’ch after Danielle died. Hate motivated me to nearly kill you. I’ve let hate fuel those awful moments of loss. And each time, I didn’t come out happier or more fulfilled.”

  “Maybe if we avoided love, we could avoid hate, too.”

  “Look at the people you know who’ve avoided love. Seen’ai. Peavey, probably. Are they good models of success?”

  V’delle raised her eyebrows, conceding. “Good point.”

  Piers gave her a sad smile. “I can’t speak for everyone, but when so much around us is truly devoid of life, I’ll fight for another moment to hug my kids or kiss my wife. Or care about you and Farin. We’re always thinking about ‘what’s next’ or ‘when it’s over.’ But I don’t have time to wait. V’delle, you want to know what life was like before the invasion? You don’t have to wait until the Khor’Zon are gone to find out.” He gave her a small smile. “When one of those moments hits you, I know you’ll come out better than I did.”

  V’delle registered the warmth in her chest and let herself accept it. “ I don’t know. I feel like I would handle any of those moments much worse than you.”

  “Nonsense,” he said. “You don’t give yourself enough credit. A lot has changed in three months. And I’m sorry if I came off as preachy. I’m really not trying to tell you how to live. I just enjoy our conversations.”

  “Me too, Piers.” She pondered for another minute before pushing herself up. “I should probably shower.”

  “Get some food, too. Bodies need more than coffee.”

  Before V’delle left, she turned around and said, “I care about you and Rosalie, too.”

  Piers sat back, wearing a look of relief and happiness.

  The late hour provided her an empty locker room. The old mine system had two large bathroom facilities for its workers, each with ten shower stalls. Back then there wasn’t an entire group of refugees trying to keep underground indefinitely, so twenty stalls might have seemed appropriate. Unless you showered late at night, the place was packed.

  Once she showered and put on clean clothes—a plain cerulean t-shirt, trim gray pants, and an old pair of combat boots she’d found in a Polish residence during one of her scavenging raids—She made for the mess hall to get something to eat. Piers was right, she’d had too much coffee. Not that dried fruit, nuts, and oatmeal were much better. She was craving some peanut butter.

  At the far end of the hall, segregated from the rest of the few milling Calcitra members, Maora and Balien sat across from each other at a table, their own plates licked cl
ean. Once V’delle got her tray, she approached them. The closer she got, her smile broke into a laugh; Balien wore a fitted red and blue t-shirt, and Maora wore one of Rosalie’s camisole and cardigan combos.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing Khor’Zon here,” she said, taking a seat next to Maora. “But I’ll never get used to Khor’Zon wearing human clothes.”

  “They are just a little tight,” Balien said, annoyed.

  “You sure you want to ruin your reputation by sitting next to us?” Maora asked.

  V’delle scoffed. She stuffed her mouth with cold oatmeal. “What reputation? Everyone already knows me as the ‘unstable’ girl working for a lost cause.” She swallowed. “Besides, place is empty. Surprised to see you two still awake.”

  “Lost cause?” Maora asked.

  “She is trying to unite other Calcitra members,” Balien answered.

  “Why would that be a lost cause?” Maora asked.

  “Well,” started V’delle, pondering before taking a bite, “one might say because a large group of Khor’Zon won’t rally with us . . .” She took the spoonful. “And another might say our leader only wants to blow shit up.”

  Maora and Balien shared an awkward glance. Their restraint, their quiet creased mouths, their unexcitable eyes—despite not being beaten, it was clear they did not want to stay in Beliveilles.

  V’delle let go of the sarcasm for now and set down her spoon. “What could I do to convince your leader to join us? What if—”

  “No,” Balien said. “Would not work. I have already told you.”

  “Can I just finish—”

  “They have had twenty years to develop a set of laws and morals,” said Maora. “No one would give you an audience with the Sage. For one, you are human. He would not hear you. I am telling you as someone who does not agree with it. I want this war to be over. I am sick of sneaking around out there. But Zexl . . . he is stubborn—”

  “He is rude,” Balien said. “Incredibly smart, but rude.”

  “So?” V’delle said. “I’m rude, too. Maybe we’ll hit it off.”

  “I am sorry, V’delle. For us to take you there. It would be suicide.”

  She cannoned a handful of peanuts into her mouth. “If your planet was under siege, wouldn’t you try everything possible to get it back?”

  The two Khor’Zon defectors remained silent. Balien bowed his head a little and played with his spoon and bowl.

  Maora gave V’delle a side-smile. “We will help here as much as we can.”

  Farin entered the mess hall from the main doughnut chamber and approached their table. She wore all black, from her high-top lace combat boots to t-shirt. Her bright blonde hair contrasted the image, popcorn amongst the crowd. “You two look . . . comfortable. Was wondering if I could borrow V’delle?”

  Balien offered his hand. Maora rested her elbows on the table and laced her fingers.

  V’delle looked down at her half-empty plate. “Sorry to cut our riveting conversation short. Here you go.” She pushed Maora’s tray down the table with her own. “Or give it to some kid.”

  “V’delle?” Maora asked. She lowered her voice. “Are we . . . safe here?”

  “No, you’re definitely not,” she said slowly. “Just don’t provoke anyone.”

  Maora tightened her jaw.

  “Just stick with Piers,” V’delle called back, following Farin into the doughnut chamber. “He’ll keep you safe.”

  V’delle caught up with Farin, passing a few straggling soldiers on the way to their rooms.

  “They seem good?” Farin asked, keeping their pace brisk.

  “I think so. We’ll see.” When they passed underneath the massive tunnel to the doughnut chamber, she stopped. “Wait, where are we going?”

  “I need to show you something.”

  “I think I’m still supposed to be mad that you’re not coming to Urholm with me. I haven’t decided yet.”

  “That’s why we need to do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “It’s a secret.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Trust me, you’re gonna actually like this one.”

  Farin led V’delle to the base of the Beliveilles elevator.

  “We’re going topside?” V’delle asked. “I’m definitely not dressed for this. I don’t even have a weapon.”

  “Relax,” Farin said, smiling. “You’re dressed perfectly. We’re not going far. It’s just a few blocks away. And I’ve already let Orenne know we’ll be up there.”

  “In the city?”

  Farin nodded and stepped inside the elevator. The ride up was silent. V’delle was trying to figure out where they were going. Maybe Farin would crack under the constant gaze of V’delle’s crooked brow.

  “I don’t understand why you’re not coming—”

  “Just . . .” Farin interjected. “Let’s just save that, okay?”

  V’delle shrugged and put her back to the wall, thinking of all the things Piers had told her.

  Once the elevator reached the top, they scampered out into the darkness of Beliveilles. Farin led V’delle to the southern side of the concrete staging ground where a rope dangled down from the top level. They climbed up and started traversing the streets of Beliveilles, silent and careful about their shadows. The fresh air was welcome and chilly. They came to the backside of a department store. A dumpster was pushed against the white brick wall, a few pallets and piled garbage nearby. The darkness made everything slightly deranged, but V’delle had never known popular culture references that would have made her frightened. She was simply annoyed that her vision was limited.

  “Help me,” Farin said, placing her hands on the dumpster.

  V’delle got up next to Farin and the women heaved the rusty dumpster aside, revealing a set of two doors. Farin pushed and propped open one door with a doorstop, then told V’delle to help move the dumpster back in place. They used a steel pipe attached to the back of the dumpster to pull it against the doors.

  “Where are we?” V’delle asked. “I don’t remember this place.”

  “Orenne and I searched this side of the district, remember?” said Farin.

  V’delle remained cautious as they walked down pitch-black halls using the walls as their guide. Farin’s voice informed V’delle of a small room to their right.

  “Go straight through those doors and wait for me, okay?” Farin said.

  “I can’t see anything,” V’delle argued.

  “Just do it. It’s me, V’delle; it’s safe.”

  “This better be worth it.”

  V’delle waved her hands in front of her until they hit cold metal. She felt for the door release and pushed. A cold breeze escaped the room, and a sudden smell of ancient linen filled her nostrils. As her eyes began adjusting to the darkness, she caught a massive wall of black in front of her, and little reflections dotting what appeared to be a giant chamber.

  “I know this isn’t going to make up for wanting to stay behind,” Farin called out from the small room. “But I hope it helps.”

  There was a hollow clank, a suctioned mechanical sound that echoed throughout the building. V’delle’s room burst with light. It was a warehouse filled with furniture and decoration. Shelves of rugs, carpets, lamps, bedding, tables and bins full of miscellaneous fabrics and mattings. There were two walkways on either end of the shelves, running at least a fifty yards from her. She stood in front of a wall of shelving, three times her size. The ceiling was full of open metal rafters and exposed ventilation. After the awe passed, she was reminded of the harsh reality in which they lived.

  “Farin,” V’delle scolded. “I’m guessing you made sure no light’s escaping—”

  “I’ve got every window and crack sealed,” Farin said, joining V’delle’s side.

  V’delle took another twirl to make sure. “You’re positive?”

  “V’delle, we’re good. What do you think?” She folded her arms and repressed a triumphant smile.

>   “It’s . . . I mean, yeah it’s a warehouse,” V’delle said, grazing the threads of a rug sticking out of a collection of thirty. She wandered toward the front of the store. “This is your ‘secret?’”

  Farin caught up and passed V’delle. “Quit being a drag. C’mon.”

  They emerged from the aisle into the front of the warehouse, where rows of checkout stations lined the space. The entire front facade of the store was covered by rows of furniture, pillows, drapes, and blankets. She tried to find one but could not locate a single door frame or windowsill. They walked down the main runway, toward the other end of the chamber, passing eight large tables where people could work on fabric sizes and shapes. One table had an old boombox set up on its corner.

  Farin walked over to the boombox and turned to V’delle. “So . . . I’ve been working on this place for quite some time now.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because I wanted it to be surprise, of course.”

  “I just don’t get it.”

  Farin sighed out of frustration. “Remember when we were sitting against the cottage after . . . y’know, Prism? And you asked me if I could do anything in the world, what would it be?”

  “Of all the things you could have done, you chose dancing.”

  “Right. Well, this place isn’t just for you, V’delle. I’m a little selfish that way. I come up here sometimes because I don’t have the cottage like you do.”

  “What do you mean?” V’delle asked. “That cottage is just as much yours as it is—”

  “No. Not really. Everything you’ve done to the cottage, that’s all you. I don’t feel much there. And that’s fine. Look, I just wanted someplace where I could be alone.”

  “Okay. I get it.”

  “V’delle, this might be our last night together. We need to have one last night where we can just be ourselves.”

  V’delle raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know what that means.”

  Farin smiled and pressed “play” on the boombox. V’delle jumped. A round of trumpets and snare popped to life, a fanfare introduction to a groovy, upbeat disco song. Soon, a female started singing. Farin threw V’delle the CD case. It was a clear case with a handwritten track list inserted on the inside cover. In big, chicken scratch lettering, the title read: “Hugo’s Summer Disco Dance Mix!”