by Greg Hanks
V’delle sat on a concrete bench around the corner, legs crossed.
“How the hell do they get away with this?” Guillome said, setting up the ladder.
“There can’t be a drone for every block and every street, Gui,” said the first.
“But it’s way up there,” Guillome argued. “They’d have to be here for a while. I just don’t get it.”
“Stupid kids,” the third said.
“How d’you know it’s kids?” Guillome asked.
“Who else would do this shit?”
“Something happened to Myra the other day,” Guillome whispered. “About . . . you know. Them.”
“Shut up,” the first said. “We’re not discussing this.”
“What’d she hear?” the third said.
“Guys, stop. I’m not giving this up.”
“Two days ago a man came into Orothaea’s Peace. Myra said he gave her a bag, like a sack—”
“Give me the paint bucket,” the first said, climbing the ladder. “You’re going to get us all imprisoned.”
“What was in the sack?” the third asked.
“Well, the man told her to take it and put it in the kitchens, you know in the back of the church. He told her to just lay it on the counter. He didn’t say anything else.”
“So what was in it?” the third asked again.
“Myra said it was supplies. Food, medicine, and a pair of clothes.”
“That’s it?” the first said from atop the ladder. “That’s your story? You must be insane. People bring supplies to Orothaea’s Peace all the time, idiot.”
“Yeah, but he didn’t give her a name,” Guillome continued. “He told her where to put it: the kitchens. And he left right after she took the sack. It was something about his attitude, she said. Something about his mannerisms. It’s them. I know it is.”
“They’re all gone,” said the first, breathing hard from the work. “We all know it. Stop putting hope in bottomless things.”
“Wait,” the third said, “what does this have to do with kids putting these M’s everywhere?”
“Because,” Guillome said. “Go look for yourself. There’s an M on the right side of the chapel, in one of the alcoves. He put it there. Myra’s sure of it.”
“Oh, give me a break,” the first said. “And why didn’t you tell us about this sooner. We’ve got to get rid of it.”
“That won’t do anything,” Guillome said. “We can barely keep up with these. New ones just keep popping up.”
“Can we please just finish this?” the first said.
V’delle left her bench as they continued to bicker, striding with full purpose toward the church in the main courtyard.
The day cooled off as she emerged into the main square. Urholm was devious in its construction, with carefully placed shops and carts distracting her from her goal. Families tried to sell her trinkets, little wooden totems beautifully lathed and painted. The smell of warm pastries and bitter beer floated underneath her nose. She caught whiffs of butterscotch and citrus. Chocolate and raspberries. Hot bread and peach jam. But she never took anything. She couldn’t tell if it was her purposeful steps that rejected the offerings or her disappointment with the humans. It was hard for her to understand their individual plight. She tried to put herself in their situation—a father and mother accepting the Khor’Zon way of life in order to give their children food. But it wasn’t good enough. No matter how hard she fought her own sympathies, their reasons would never be good enough. If every civilian on Earth rebelled, the war would be over in half a day.
But Farin’s influence slowly crept upon her. Nothing was ever that simple. Most people didn’t know how to fight. She was seeing things from a soldier’s perspective. She needed to focus on the present objective and not dwell on her perception of Earth’s past.
The church towered over the square, shading half the area. Large oak entrance doors spanned the length of five people standing side-by-side. Beyond them, a cavernous chapel. The high, gabled ceilings reached all the way to the dome, not a single rafter obstructing her view of the murals above. A great obsidian statue to Orothaea sat atop the dais at the far end of the hall. The same symbol that hung from the church’s facade: the crescent and three-horned teardrop. The statue was thick and polished, standing on a trapezoidal pedestal. The original pews remained intact, but every other icon of pre-invasion worship had been removed. A few people sat in the rows, looking up to the statue. She saw one Preen’ch, one Khor’Zon, and four other humans. A woman in wrapped white linens approached her. It reminded her of the Lo’Zon.
“Welcome to Orothaea’s Peace,” she whispered, beaming. “We always appreciate one of the Lo’Zon’s chosen. You are most welcome. May I direct you to a room of solitude or would you prefer to sit in the congregation?”
V’delle’s eyes hadn’t stopped scouring the place. “I’m fine, thanks.”
The woman hesitated, but then nodded and stepped aside.
V’delle walked down the main aisle’s maroon carpet runner. A quiet hum throughout the air. Whispers drew her attention until new ones obfuscated them. She sat at the end of a pew. It creaked loudly.
The gorgeous walls of the chapel flew up either side of her, she followed the moldings, the chandeliers, the metal gratings, the painted murals cracking from age, the red velvet drapes, the marble columns and balustrades of the upper balcony. The minister’s loft, a marble cup with its own gilded finery hanging from its face. The pews, their wooden backs, the roughness of wear. The only M’s were the ones in her mind’s eye. She sat back and thought of Farin, the communicator burning a hole in her shell.
The all-encompassing grandeur of Urholm embraced her at once and her stomach cramped. Her whole life had been dedicated to solitude. The warmth of a solitary mind, a life without the fear of abandonment. A survivor and a hermit wrapped in plates of armor. But she had tasted the life-giving power of companionship and she had learned from her hate. If Farin was beside her, they’d figure out this entire mess in half the time.
The woman who had greeted V’delle swished with purpose along the edge of the chapel, back toward the entrance. V’delle watched the woman’s dress ripple. In the stone alcove behind her, a little white M was painted on its curved wall.
So it was true.
Her pew made a racket as she got up to leave. She didn’t bother to soften her footsteps as she pounded out of the chapel. A few heads turned as she left. It was time for some hard answers. Her feet took her to the Tavern she was supposed to report to an hour ago, nestled in the basement of the main hotel in the square. She walked down the cramped staircase, ducking underneath the metal sign emblazoned with neon green lettering depicting the name of the pub.
When she opened the door, the smell of hops and barley smacked her in the face. Low ceilings, a muggy atmosphere. Fuzzy orange lighting and a ragtag bunch of Preen’ch and civilians alike. Half the room dedicated to tables, chairs, and the bar, the other half a single billiards table. A small hallway separated the two sides of the room, leading to the kitchen and another office. Behind the bar, a man was filling a glass of white liquid into a small cup for a male Preen’ch. The bartender eyed V’delle, nodded as if she were a customer, and went to pull a drawer behind the bar.
“I’m Medrot,” V’delle said to him as she reached the bar.
“And I’m Ameiux.” A drawn face, as if pulled by imaginary hooks at the chin and forehead. Tight lips, gaunt cheeks, and straight, flat hair.
“Ye’lix assigned me here. Security.”
Ameiux looked at V’delle like she was a snail. “The Overseer assigned you here? Why?”
“Because he did. I don’t need a reason. Neither do you.”
He sighed. “Fine. You can do the dishes in the back.”
“No, I’m security.”
He scoffed and put his hands on the table. “I don’t give a shit what you do. I don’t need security. I don’t need a dish girl. You see all the Preen’ch? What’s to pro
tect?”
“I’m glad we agree, because I’m not going to stay here.”
“Perfect!” he said, exacerbated.
“But I need your help with something.”
“What?”
She sat on a barstool. “You ever see a white letter M around Urholm?”
Ameiux shrugged. “I don’t know.”
The Preen’ch sitting next to V’delle put his glass down. He wore black eyeshadow, making his neon blue eyes pop. Slicked blonde hair, not a single imperfection in its sweep. An industrial piercing bar through the bridge of his nose, notched on both sides by diamonds. When he spoke, V’delle saw his large, yellowing teeth.
“What M’s?” he asked, his tone something bordering sarcasm.
“Little M’s throughout the city. I’ve seen a handful already. Painters are going around covering them up.”
“Those discolored splotches of gray paint?”
V’delle gave him a hard look. “You know what they are?”
The man scoffed and tapped his glass for more. Ameiux obliged. He didn’t take the drink when Ameiux finished pouring. “They’ve been at it for months. Why are you asking now?”
“I was just transferred from Nilles.”
The man frowned and took his drink. “Sorry to hear.”
“Tell me about the M’s,” V’delle pushed, no emotion, a monotonous direction.
He held the empty glass near his mouth, looking into its distorted basin. “You know what they are.”
“They’re still here, aren’t they?” V’delle asked.
Ameiux stopped tidying up the bar. The Preen’ch scanned the room behind him. When he finished, he looked into V’delle’s eyes. The blue was cold, crisp, and combined with his eyeshadow, the irises pulled V’delle’s attention into them like whirlpools.
“We don’t know,” he said. “Right now it’s just the kids. Graffiti. That’s it.”
“Shouldn’t you know more?” Ameiux asked. “You’re an agent of the Lo’Zon’s Prosecution. Isn’t that why you’re here?”
V’delle frowned. Had she misheard? Feeling out of place for the first time around her destined peers, she inwardly cowered. Lo’Zon’s Prosecution?
The Preen’ch smiled. “The Prosecution doesn’t divulge information with barkeeps. My apologies, Barkeep.”
“I’m sorry,” V’delle said. “I must have been sleeping too long—Lo’Zon’s Prosecution?”
The Preen’ch gave her a side smile. “Don’t worry, it wasn’t part of your Departure debriefing.”
“They are newly appointed agents,” Ameiux answered for the Preen’ch. “The Lo’Zon’s special soldiers who—”
“Go into the back and sort your plates,” the Preen’ch said abruptly. His absent attitude had fled, leaving a solid, precise man whose blue eyes were now cutting holes.
Ameiux turned and left.
The Preen’ch looked at V’delle. “He didn’t tell you anything you shouldn’t have heard. I just hated the idea that he was part of this conversation.”
“So you’re one of the Lo’Zon’s best students? I guess the One Benefactor is finally getting tired of losing skirmishes.”
The man chuckled and drained his drink. “Wow, a sarcastic Preen’ch. Hard to come by. You jealous? Wanna join the Prosecution?”
“What does he have you doing?”
He was rotating the glass on its end, dragging out the silence. “We catch rats.”
The room became a little cooler. V’delle didn’t show any sign of hesitation. She continued to maintain eye contact.
“I want to catch rats, too,” she said, and she reached over the counter to grab herself a small glass. She pivoted the faucet over the bar and filled her glass with tap water.
The Preen’ch gave her a confused, intrigued look. “That whole wall is better than tap water. Let me pour you something good.”
“No, thanks,” she said curtly, crossing her legs on the stool and sipping her water. “Tell me where the rats are.”
He was halfway out of his stool before sitting back down. “We don’t share information with random Preen’ch, apologies.” He placed his arm on the bar and leaned into it, looking lazily at her.
“Fine. My name’s Medrot.”
The man narrowed his eyes, but his mouth twitched. “Rellic. Why’re you so interested?”
“Shouldn’t we all be interested?”
He scoffed. “I wish. But that’s why the Lo’Zon created the Prosecution.”
“How many of you are there?”
“Four right now. They’re not as friendly as me.”
“You’re the only one in Urholm?”
“Luckily.”
“Tell me about the Calcitra raid that happened here. I spoke with the Advisor at the barracks. He said Calcitra came and went without a trace. How’s that possible?”
He gave her a mischievous smile, something a friend would give another friend if they had said something indulgent; he enjoyed this. “Some say they came in with the help of civs. Seems to make sense. Someone here helped them inside, gave them quarter. And when the time was right, the Calcitra struck.”
“Hundreds of Calcitra, though?” said V’delle. “Never mind the drones, the cameras, the hundreds of Preen’ch, the giant wall.”
“There was probably another way in. It’s a big City. I do know they’d been planning for a long time. I hear it was like a sudden violent shark attack in an otherwise calm sea. And the precision with which they struck . . . I might even admire the little assault. I should be thankful; it’s part of the reason the Prosecution was created.” Every word was ushered with sultry undertones and snippets of sarcasm.
“The Lo’Zon wants to finally rein in the ants.”
“No. He wants to destroy the recusant.”
V’delle’s controlled demeanor jittered. Her stolid, soldier’s eyes dithered, if only for a split-second. A couple of fast double-blinks. She remembered her act of vandalism in Contra Mare, in the storeroom. On her Khor armor’s neck drape, writing the word the Khor’Zon had used for the rebellious and insubordinate: recusant. Her training in the Chalis never truly outlined such people as targets, as priority. It had always been a side note, a piece of lore in the Khor’Zon manuals. Once again V’delle was sitting face to face with someone who, upon discovering her identity, would try to kill her. Her disguise was airtight, though. No loudspeaker would be declaring her escape from any spacecrafts anytime soon. Still, the air around them seemed to tighten, as if the oxygen was being sucked from the bar.
“I want to show you something,” Rellic said, bringing her back to focus. “You up for a little walk?” He stood and waited.
“Where?”
“It’ll be a surprise. C’mon, you’re so invested in the Calcitra, you’ll enjoy it.”
His blue eyes circled her face as he waited for a response, the smoky eyeshadow making his soft lids even more droopy and relaxed. But he never looked incompetent. There was always an essence of stability and power in his voice, his mannerisms, his posture. V’delle knew this was someone she couldn’t toy with.
She nodded and followed him outside.
The narrow street was quiet. They walked back toward the barracks, but instead of turning into the cul-de-sac, they walked north, up the long street that went to the windmill hill. Halfway down the street they turned west and reached a large staging area for a three-story museum that spanned two blocks. The museum’s U-shape surrounded a square pond. Through the giant Museum doors they traversed polished hardwood floors, high-arched ceilings, and cavernous rooms. Glass cases and displays emptied and replaced with Khor’Zon history. A section called “Earth’s Destiny” showed the arrival of the Khor’Zon and the slow process of changing the planet. The exhibit left out any mention of nasty Calcitra or the lack of a foothold in the western continent.
Rellic led her down a dingy, spiral staircase, through a series of cramped brick rooms stuffed with covered museum exhibits and paintings. At last, they came to a d
oor where Rellic stopped.
“I told you I came to Urholm to catch rats,” he said, and opened the door.
It was a small janitorial closet. A shaking, bound, and gagged man was leaning against the inside wall, his raw eyes blinking away the light as he tried to bury himself into the brick. His feet kicked and pushed against the concrete floor. With his hands bound behind his back, V’delle remembered a time when she was also bound in a cage. She swallowed and looked at Rellic.
“Has he said anything?” she asked.
Rellic’s slight smile faded. He looked at the Calcitra with exhaustion. Then he slammed the door, and V’delle could hear the muffled cries from within.
“No. Hasn’t said a single goddamn thing. I don’t sound like it, but I am patient. I don’t do the whole cruelty thing, either. He might look deprived, but I feed him. Medrot, I brought you here to show you that the rats are indeed in Urholm. I just don’t have much else.”
“Where did you find him?”
They walked a few steps from the door. “Here.” He gestured nonchalantly to the room in which they stood.
“He was hiding? How did you know he was Calcitra?”
“No one comes down here, right?” Rellic began. “I was chosen for the Prosecution because I don’t think like other Preen’ch. I search and I search and I search. I have a knack for knowing how Calcitra work, how they live. I’ve raided enough of their hideouts, I should know. I’ve been in Urholm for months, gathering. I came down here once a day. Quietly. Secretly. I saw crumbs. I saw little details that didn’t add up. Pieces of fresh lint that didn’t belong. And so I waited. They’re smart, I’ll give them that. But I have all the authority and support I need from this City. These rats don’t. Eventually he revealed himself, probably out of starvation. No civ clothes, I mean, come on, how hard would it have been to secure some drab? I just knew, right? I knew he was a rat. His silence confirms it.”
“And he would obviously not be in the system,” V’delle thought aloud.
Rellic nodded. “Yes, I didn’t really think of that, I guess. Maybe thinking like other Preen’ch helps some.” He smiled to himself, unashamed.
“What will you do with him?”