by Greg Hanks
Without looking, both V’delle and Balien gave grunts of acknowledgement.
“Vemmin’s the best at this stuff,” Ferret added. “Inn’ that right, Vem?”
The stocky man grunted, too.
“How did it go in there?” Balien asked.
“It’ll take some work, but . . . you two were right. Turlio’s head really helped.”
Balien looked a little disappointed.
“Told you,” V’delle said, standing to stretch.
Ferret dawdled for a minute. “So . . . who are you two?”
V’delle took out her map from her shell and began tracking their next route. “Calcitra.”
“But . . . you,” Ferret said, looking at Balien.
“I do not want to be here,” he said.
Ferret frowned. “Are you going to tell your people where we’re at?”
V’delle took one last glance at her map before stuffing it back into her shell. “What? Oh. No.” She looked up at the hotel. She remembered the people she’d killed on the top floor, as well as the reason they’d driven through Berlin in the first place. “Unless . . .”
Ferret lifted an eyebrow. “What?”
“I’ll only ask once,” V’delle said. “We’re gathering everyone who’s fighting for Earth into one giant army. We’re going to a City called Urholm to recruit the Calcitra there. I don’t know how many people you have, but anyone can make a difference. We need everyone, Ferret.”
Ferret registered the request for a moment, eyes darting. She shook her head. “No. We’ve got our own problems. You got your bike fixed. That’s the end of our deal. I’d have another mutiny if I forced everyone to pack up and fight kutts. That war’s been over for years. I hope you realize what you’re risking. Not that I care.”
V’delle grabbed her motorcycle helmet and slipped it on. “Fine. I hope the war doesn’t catch up to you.”
“Hasn’t so far,” Ferret said.
V’delle sat on the bike before Vemmin had finished tightening the nuts. He looked up at her begrudgingly.
“It will,” she said.
Vemmin finished the last few turns of his wench and stood up. Balien thanked him.
V’delle kicked the starter and the bike popped with whiny life.
Balien approached Ferret. “You will do what is best for them, but give it some thought.”
Ferret avoided eye contact, then nodded, stepping backward. “Sure thing. Kutt.”
Balien lingered, contemplating the insult. “I wonder if the next ‘kutt’ you meet saves your life, too.”
He pulled on his helmet and took his place, grabbing his little handlebars.
V’delle’s knuckle whitened as she held fast to the throttle. Berlin’s city center fell away, leaving behind the glass and the marble and the refraction of ancient sophistication. In its place, a dark green vibrance palpable enough to be in the air and breathed in. Suburban homes dominated the outskirts, rows of developments. Identical driveways and frames. The sun started to set. Though she wanted to get as far away from Berlin as possible, away from the death circle she instigated, from the tink tink tink of the cleaver, from the giggle in the darkness harrowing her soul like a viral infection—she knew they had originally planned to sleep here.
Before the highway started to become too singular, she pulled off into a quaint, distinct neighborhood teeming with uniqueness. Little white homes with red-shingled roofs lined the tiny streets. Squared lots protected by three-foot brick walls and flimsy black gates. Cracked asphalt streets blanketed in cherry blossoms. V’delle couldn’t think of anything else as they came to a stop at one of the homes. She cut the engine and took off her helmet, breathing in deeply.
“Seems like a good place,” Balien said, getting off. He paced around, trying to deem the best-looking house in terms of wear, water damage, and demolition. He turned back to V’delle, realizing how fast everything had happened. The orange sunset light was hitting her face, illuminating her smile. “You are . . . smiling?”
V’delle jerked her head to him. The smile dithered.
“What?” she asked, paying no attention. She got off the bike and chose one of the homes herself without asking Balien.
He was quick to catch her before she went for the door. “I saw you. What were you smiling about? I can hardly breathe.”
She leaned the bike against the home and sized the door. “I don’t really know why I was smiling.” She kicked the door near the knob and broke the latch. “Why don’t we just get some rest. I need to forget any of it happened.”
“I do not think I can do that. They almost severed me.”
“Yeah. They did.”
V’delle felt her way inside. A tight corridor opened to a high-ceiling family room. Floral upholstered furniture and glass cabinets, lit by the dying orange glow from a wide bay window. She lingered at the threshold, seeing a home with regular wear. No visible mold, no fungus, no heavy amounts of dirt or grime. The cracked wallpaper seemed almost natural. She felt drawn to the sofa, sat down, and rested her head back. The cradle of the cushions let her feel every ache in every muscle.
Balien stood in the entryway, watching her.
“I will, um, check for toxic growths,” he said quietly, marching down the hallway to scour the home.
Through the window she saw the street, empty, covered in dim pink, the sill guarded by two dwarf pines grown wild. The sun got farther away. Balien’s gentle creaking was all that remained. She closed her eyes and ran her hands across the sofa cushion’s velvet.
Half an hour later, Balien rejoined her. He set down his shell onto the glass coffee table. Jerky was in order. Grabbing two, he retired to one of the armchairs. Cold, dark blue had replaced the orange light. V’delle listened to Balien’s soft chewing.
“I almost forgot,” Balien said, his face hardening to anger. “We need to contact Beliveilles. Now.”
V’delle’s frame electrified with energy. She sat straight and detached her shell. Inside, the small, black communicator blinked red. Though she was supposed to want revenge, glee and relief shot through her legs at the prospect of hearing from Farin. She pressed the button and cycled through the channels. When she reached twelve, she waited.
“December 5th, 2049,” the recording spoke.
“December?” Balien asked.
V’delle gave him a frustrated look. “We never reconfigured it. Shh.”
The recording went on in Farin’s voice. “V’delle? Come in, V’delle. It’s your best friend in the whole world.” Her voice went quiet. “Is this thing even working?”
Rain’s voice shouted in the background. “Maybe try holding the button?”
“No, the light’s on,” Farin said. “I think it’s working. V’delle . . . answer me . . . soon!”
“End of recording.” There was a short pause. “December 5th, 2049.”
Farin’s voice was lighthearted. “V’delle. V’dellllllle. I need to know you’re alive.” She paused, then laughed. “I mean, it’s been like, four hours, but—”
“Farin, they’re drawing on me,” Rain’s voice said.
“Oh, I gotta go. The kids are drawing on Rain.”
The recording ended and another began.
“V’delle. Are you there? V’delle?” There was a sigh, and a few breaths. “I hope everything’s going okay. Probably better than it’s going here.” V’delle furrowed her brow. Balien sat straight. “It’s Penelope . . . she punched me today. In the mess hall. Okay, I’m horrible at telling stories. So, Penelope’s been up and walking, right? Well, I guess someone told her Maora was living here.” Balien’s interest increased. He and V’delle shared a concerned glance. “But, as you can probably imagine, that didn’t go over too well with her. She approached us in the mess hall and started being very passive-aggressive. It was nothing like the old Pen . . . or maybe . . . no. Well, things escalated. And she threw a punch.” V’delle could feel the exhaustion and deep regret in Farin’s voice. “Anyways, things are fine now.
Maora wasn’t hurt . . . not that that matters. I mean, if Balien’s listening, maybe he’ll care. Not that I want anyone to die or anything—not that anyone would die . . . now I’m annoying you, aren’t I?” V’delle exhaled, smiling. “So . . . I guess I’ll try and catch you later. Don’t worry about us here. We’ll get Pen back. Just . . . hurry, okay?” It sounded like Farin was done, but then the speaker scratched again. “Oh, and Roland says hi.”
“End of recording. No further recordings.”
“Roland?” Balien asked.
“Inside joke,” V’delle said.
The room seemed emptier. Definitely darker, but the warmth and the happiness that had come from Farin’s voice was gone now. V’delle pushed the talk button.
“Farin?” She waited. Her legs got prickly, so she stood and paced the room. “Farin? It’s V’delle. I got your messages, pick up.” She waited longer. Nothing. “Fine. If you’re still alive when you get this, you need to find a quiet place where no one is listening.” She gave the future Farin a few moments to move. “Ketterhagan sent us bombs. He told us they were EMP’s, but we nearly killed ourselves with it. You need to figure out who wants us dead. I have a hard time believing it’s him. Let me repeat, in case you are too confused to understand what I’m saying. Someone in Beliveilles wanted us dead on this trip. As long as you’re allies with me, you’re in danger, too.” She looked at Balien, who gave her stale eyes before turning to look out the window. “Please, Farin. If this is all Breckenridge . . . I dunno. Someone forced Ketterhagan to give us those bombs. Please contact me as soon as you get this.”
V’delle dropped her hand, the matte silicone of the communicator smooth and rubbery to her anxious thumb.
Balien’s voice startled her. “I hope all of this is not for nothing.”
Looking out the dark window, watching the last licks of light wither away, she ground her teeth. She assumed it was Breckenridge. Evidence didn’t matter. It had to be him and his cronies. Finding more Calcitra was just too big of a nuisance. But to kill her? One of his only Unborn?
“Here,” she said, lobbing the communicator to Balien. “Have a chat with your friend.”
She grabbed some jerky on her way back to the couch, and slumped.
“You should take the couch. Get some rest.”
V’delle chewed slowly. “I’m fine with the floor. Maybe there’s a bed.”
“No, really,” he said. “Just toss me one of the pillows and I will be fine.”
She shrugged and lobbed him one of the couch’s stale, decorative pillows.
When he left the room, she laid her head on the other pillow and listened to Balien’s deep, muffled voice until sleep took her.
Bright, blinding morning came the next instant. The first thing V’delle did was glance to the glass table. No blinking lights on the communicator. Anxiety wanted to take her down, but if Beliveilles had fully cut them off, then the Urholm Calcitra were their only hope. They couldn’t stop now, especially on account of the people who wanted them to be stopped permanently. The last thing she did before leaving was take the other silver bomb from her shell and place it on the couch.
They were back on the motorcycle before six-o-clock. Urholm was a six-and-a-half-hour drive from Berlin, fewer if the roads were clear. Their course took them over a single, cross-country highway stretching from Berlin to the west coast of the continent. More lush scenery, green brambles of forests that seemed to cover the lands to no end. Rural towns, farms with their acreage spread wide and fenced by depressing stumps and mangled wire. A few smaller cities, one providing some shelter for lunch.
V’delle’s eagerness and anticipation of Urholm had dispersed thoughts of Farin and the communicator. Even though her motivations for wanting to get to Urholm so quickly were staunched in desires to get back to Farin, Piers, and Rain, it was almost as if there was a mental barrier keeping V’delle away from the communicator. She’d told Farin she’d call today. But the black device hadn’t moved from the bottom of her shell.
Between the cyclical whine of the motorcycle, and her inner devotion to making sure she remembered every Preen’ch protocol, she didn’t feel Balien nudging her as they crossed a large bridge into a new countryside. When he pinched her, she nearly threw the bike off the road.
Skidding to a halt, she ratcheted her head around. “The hell are you doing?”
“The City, V’delle,” he said, his big arm pointing to the distant city marked by a massive Khor’Zon presidio wall surrounding its center.
“Urholm,” V’delle mouthed.
“Remind me who you are.”
“Medrot Despain. I haven’t forgotten everything.”
“I just wanted to be sure.”
“Don’t worry, Irrus, you’ll be back in Khor’Zon graces soon enough.”
“Remember, we are meeting up tonight in the barracks’ mess hall.”
“You’re relentless,” she said and turned the throttle. Gravel shot out of the back tire and Balien gripped the handlebars as they sped off toward Urholm.
It became clear that the Khor’Zon agenda wanted something beautiful, or clung to something once so. Oceans of red, yellow, and orange tulip fields undulated in the valley’s dainty wind. Windmills overlooked parts of the countryside, turning peacefully or still, their arms robbed of true canvas blades, calm and ancient. Obsidian spikes shot up through the farmlands surrounding the presidio wall, guard towers that put a watchful eye on the workers below. Drones were scarce, but visible, hovering around the towers, acting like movable surveillance.
V’delle’s first thought regarded the size of the city; the skyline continued either way for miles, and could only allude to a similar depth. Countless roadways and exits and ramps broke off from the main road, clipping behind precipices, sound walls, and housing. To the left of the main road, a lake shimmered against the morning light, draining through the city through small canals. Each canal like a mini fjord, bulwarked by four- to seven-story apartments practically smashed together until they were visibly severed by the sixty-foot-high Khor’Zon presidio wall. The farmhouses and suburbia surrounding the presidio were all kinds of shapes, mostly two-toned with bushes, hedges, and great trees supplying green life to its exterior. Each block a new interior of a snow globe. She saw some people carrying boxes into the homes, working their fields with manual equipment, or driving Khor’Zon hoverbikes through tall cornstalks.
The road came to a stop at the presidio’s southern gate. The immense black walls reminded V’delle of Flonneburg. The ghost of Seen’ai’s leash constricted her neck. Two Preen’ch in obsidian Yex armor mingled near the gate’s righthand side next to the small control station. V’delle waived. They continued their conversation while they activated the gate.
A drone came from the control station’s roof and zoomed over to V’delle and Balien. Its eye clicked. It beeped while hovering around them, stopping in front of V’delle’s face.
“Medrot Despain,” the drone spoke, a metallic woman’s voice, “an audience with Overseer Ye’lix has been requested in Quadrant Four, Vondelleg Avenue. Welcome to Urholm.” The drone floated to Balien and clicked its eye. “Overseer Cayl, your debriefing will be held with Warlord Maxore in thirty minutes at the Central Hub on Fuissen Hill. You will be serving Quadrant Two. Welcome to Urholm. Please remove yourselves from your vehicle and approach the gates.”
V’delle lifted her motorcycle helmet and quickly placed her hair into Medrot’s signature ponytail. She made sure the hanging braid was secure. They left their motorcycle to the two Preen’ch at the gate. The Preen’ch put their palms on their chests and greeted Balien first, apologizing for his travels. V’delle had to remind herself that Medrot and Irrus were supposed to be coming from the south after an attack. Balien nodded and maintained his silence.
The gates began their upward motions; three black shelves receded into each other, opening the way. V’delle and Balien walked slowly into the presidio, entering a cobbled, square courtyard. The heart of th
e city lay before them. Professionally unique in color, shape, and size. Each home like a whittled birdhouse, each complex and public building a seventeenth century spectacle. Gables, brick facades, rusty edifice lights and modest streetlamps—the city a new experience of flavor each turn of the head. V’delle saw faded purple a-frame homes, chocolate-colored squared condominiums, squat light blue and red structures with groomed surroundings like hedges and cute fences. It seemed like every window had intricate molding, every road had brick patterns, and every home a blossoming garden. The structures opening to the courtyard were mostly shops, ranging from Khor’Zon clothing, standardized restaurants, and farm implements. There were stores run by citizens, including woodworking stations for furniture and trinkets, quilting, and a bakery. A gargantuan church dominated the eastern side of the square. Domed steeple, a porous stonework. A rather large park centered the courtyard, filled-in with thick grass and beautiful, well-kept landscaping. Humans tended to the shrubs and edging with manual shears. A fountain gurgled for no one. Benches home to air. An empty, untouchable plot.
The population of Urholm, although jovial, was diverse in purpose and direction. The masses followed many divergent paths and roads. Kids filed behind an adult who stopped to present a structure and begin a lesson. Other children ran in packs. People old and young, moving with emotion, some wearing their Khor’Zon jumpsuits, others in casual clothing. Two Khor’Zon walked beside a few humans in what seemed like deep discussion. Armored Preen’ch popping in and out, their weapons drawn or snapped to their backs, a constant reminder of the menace and anxiety of a Khor’Zon-controlled City.
“It’s . . . ” V’delle started.
“Enormous,” Balien finished.
As soon as V’delle noticed the lavender work uniforms and the Preen’ch, all the other Khor’Zon architecture and upholstery stood out like the black obstructions they were. The Christian church had its main crosses removed from the top dome and above the entrance. A great symbol of Orothaea in their places, a fat crescent on its curved edge with a three-horned sphere floating above. Robot dogs trotted beside Preen’ch and Khor’Zon Overseers alike, drones emerged from obsidian kiosks planted in the ground, and, most importantly, monuments to the Lo’Zon stood resplendent, made of repurposed buildings or glassy black marble. Straight north, down the largest and most populated roads, a hill propped up the Central Hub, a monster windmill covered in black plating and glaring blue lights spearing into the sky. Its fan blades must have been as long as some of Urholm’s buildings.