The Recusant

by Greg Hanks

  She popped out. The noise of war erupted around her. She tapped underneath her chin and gasped as the helmet dissolved to her neck. Coughing and sputtering, she rolled off the shifting pile onto cobblestone. She looked up with drunken vision. Calcitra straddling Preen’ch. Skulls bashed by weapon stocks. Hollow screams and slaver flew. Lingering fires from Zealot oil and grenade blasts flickered their boots. V’delle tasted ash and smelled blood with its iron melodies and oily timbre.

  Hands grabbed V’delle and pulled her against the pile of bodies. It was Ceres. Her face was covered with black powder, her green eyes shining bright and bloodshot. She grabbed the sides of V’delle’s face. Her voice was muffled.

  Over the white noise of war came an ear-splitting shriek of rapid gunfire, too fast to distinguish bullet count. Someone had a turret. The gunfire cut through the crowds, not caring for Calcitra or Preen’ch. Balien appeared from the crowds and overshadowed both women with his big arms, using his back as protection. The tracer bullets from the turret passed overhead as the line of ballistics coursed through the crowds, splitting stomachs open and obliterating skulls. Red misted the air near V’delle’s open face, masking her skin in someone else’s blood. The turret stopped, but the last few bullets struck Balien in the back and he grimaced, taking the blows, his grip tightening around the women.

  “Balien!” V’delle shouted.

  “Okay!” he panted. “Okay . . . I am okay . . .”

  His grip released, and he slumped to one side. V’delle and Ceres helped him stand. They checked his back and found a blackened abrasion. The spine of his Khor’Zon armor had been wiped off as if it were paint. The raw, visible skin was beginning to seep blood.

  “I will be all right!” he grunted, sounding more like his deranged brother.

  “Where’s Farin?!” shouted V’delle. “And Penelope?!” But she realized it was a stupid question.

  The three of them looked around. Thousands of clamoring bodies, none of them sporting red or yellow hair. V’delle remembered those hands that had wrapped around her leg . . .

  A massive explosion rocked the courtyard, the plume of black and red rising to their left.

  “The Zealot!” Balien exclaimed.

  “Sedry!” screamed V’delle, taking off through the crowds.

  She didn’t care if she was running toward the podium, closer to the pink barriers with stationary Preen’ch. A few bullets whizzed around her, but the attention was on the mass of bodies. They reached the epicenter of the smoldering Zealot just as it exploded again, sending chunks of shrapnel everywhere. A piece struck V’delle in the thigh, flipping her. She hit the ground and rolled away, groaning. Her leg burned. She looked down to find a chunk of her suit had been ripped off. Tendrils of synthetic wires and flaps of fiber.

  “Sedry!” she cried from the ground, struggling to force the pain away.

  Ceres and Balien reached her side, helping her up.

  “We need to slow down!” Ceres scolded. “Maelle’s still back there!”

  “Sedry . . .” V’delle mumbled, her eyes wet.

  “Set me down, you bloody idiots!” came a voice from their left.

  V’delle scampered up, despite the burning in her leg, and ran toward the voice.

  On the other side of the Zealot’s billowing trail of smoke, two Calcitra soldiers were setting Machovec on the ground, her left leg bandaged and blood-soaked. She swiped at the soldiers and cursed at them.

  Balien ran to Machovec’s side, placing a hand on her back to help support her. “Tell me what is wrong?”

  “Blue!” she exclaimed, her voice airy and slurred. “You . . . found me. How sweet of you.”

  “Tell me,” he said angrily.

  “My . . . my leg’s hurt. It’s too much to stand.”

  Balien looked desperate, moving bodies to make a good space for her.

  “What happened?” V’delle asked.

  “The General drove the Zealot into a mountain of Preen’ch,” one of the soldiers said. “Three sticks of C4 inside.”

  Machovec shifted uncomfortably. “No, idiot, I’d be dead if I had driven it, wouldn’t I? Those things can drive themselves if you program it. I hardly did anything. Ouch! Careful, Blue!”

  Ceres grabbed V’delle’s arm in a squeeze and said, “Maelle.”

  V’delle nodded and knelt at Machovec’s side. “Balien, take care of her. We’re going back for Farin and Penelope. Stay here.”

  “Go,” Balien said.

  V’delle and Ceres jogged through the Zealot smoke and made their way back to the pile of bodies. Most of the Calcitra had broken through and were converging on the podium—the final push. The piles of bodies had thinned, making it easier to step through. V’delle wasn’t finding anyone lingering who wasn’t wounded, screaming, or dead. Her heart was pounding. Her throat was dry. She and Ceres fanned out, their eyes to the ground, keeping intermittent watch for residual threats.

  V’delle saw a face she wasn’t expecting. Sidral Yesk lay motionless atop a Preen’ch, his eyes placid, mouth agape. V’delle’s body clenched as she crouched, touching his head without reason. Another casualty of her agenda. Not the ones who had said no, but one of the few who had said yes. She silently mourned a man she hardly knew, thanking him for believing in her.

  “V’delle!” screamed Ceres a few yards away.

  V’delle closed Sidral’s eyes and ran toward her mother’s voice.

  Ceres was pulling a body from the pile. Blonde hair flashed. V’delle tripped as she clawed her way toward them. Farin was tranquil. Ceres laid the body on top of others, holding Farin’s head in her lap.

  “Farin!” V’delle exclaimed, shaking the limp body.

  “Try the chest,” Ceres said, her face devoid of emotion, someone who would not falter until there was nothing to be done. “With your knuckles. Up and down.”

  V’delle took her good hand and rubbed Farin’s sternum with her knuckles.

  Farin coughed and heaved back to life, instinctively grabbing hold of V’delle’s arm. V’delle swore in relief, holding Farin in an embrace tighter than the claustrophobic pile of bodies.

  “Fifille,” Ceres said, “let her breath.”

  V’delle sat back and held Farin steady.

  The blonde was sucking air, her eyes soaked, her body shaking. She hadn’t been out long. V’delle looked down at the direction of Farin’s coughs and saw glinting. She could have sworn something had come from Farin’s mouth, but it looked like blood from a dead body beneath them.

  “Are you okay?” V’delle kept asking.

  Farin was nodding, finally reaching controlled breaths. “I lost you. I lost everyone.”

  “I did too,” V’delle said.

  Ceres brought both girls into a tight embrace and they held onto each other for a while.

  Eventually, they all stood and made their way back to Machovec’s Zealot, preparing to make the final assault. Once they found the others, V’delle let forth an enormous breath, looking around with stinging eyes. She was exhausted to a limit she’d only experienced a few times in the Chalis. Her body felt cold, her muscles ached, her head throbbed. The smoke from the Zealot billowed behind them, shielding them from the rear. She hopelessly watched the section before the podium as Calcitra and Preen’ch rammed into each other, as more grenades flew and parted crowds, as short-range lines of fire dropped rows of bodies. The depth of carnage was unfathomable to V’delle, and it was stunning to watch. Tears tumbled down her cheeks, unchecked. It seemed the profundity of war had caught up with her.

  A thorn zoomed through the Zealot smoke and impaled one of Machovec’s soldiers. The tiny drone wiggled in the man’s chest, digging deeper. He fell to the ground, writhing in pain.

  Before V’delle could react, another thorn dug into her hip, causing her to slide to a knee. She caught the thorn before it could drill deeper and smashed its tip into the ground, shattering the metal. Ceres and Farin stooped to pull the drone from the soldier’s chest, blood spurting int
o the air.

  Out of the smoke came a shadowy, thin Khor’Zon, sprinting full speed. Naon tackled V’delle. They rolled toward the Zealot wreckage. Wrone appeared behind Naon, charging toward the others. Balien met him with his own body.

  Naon’s face hovered over V’delle’s, masked in dripping blood. The droplets fell onto V’delle’s face, onto her gritted teeth. V’delle tried to force Naon from her, but the Khor’Zon’s grip was tight.

  “I have been looking all over for you,” Naon panted, keeping V’delle’s face set on hers. “Been going through body after body to just find you.”

  They teetered on the ground, V’delle’s hip, thigh, and calf burning under the pressure. She wanted so badly to let go and give herself to war. Free from the ash and the blood and the pounding pain. But the same voice kept screaming in her head: Ceres must live. Ceres must live. Farin must live. Balien must live. Sedry must live. I must live.

  V’delle reversed the hold and kicked Naon off. V’delle grabbed a piece of Zealot shrapnel and flung it at the Warlord. Naon deflected and landed a sloppy haymaker, knocking V’delle back to the ground. V’delle patted around to find anything. Her fingers caught something sharp and she threw it. A piece of helmet, deflected again by Naon’s deftness. Naon continued to approach; V’delle continued to throw pieces of stray material.

  “You have your chance!” Naon screamed. “You wanted your fair fight!”

  V’delle flung an amputated arm, then exploded from the ground into Naon’s stomach. Naon held firm, grabbing V’delle’s sides and lifting, ready to drop V’delle neck-first into the ground. V’delle reversed upward, planted her legs around Naon’s neck, snapped to a sitting position, and started slamming both fists into Naon’s skull. Naon purposefully fell backward and V’delle dropped to her hands and knees, legs still wrapped around Naon’s head. This was it. Naon’s skull was under her power. It would only take a swift movement. V’delle tensed her knees and screamed.

  A force like a moving truck took V’delle from Naon’s body and flung her into the littered floor. V’delle looked up in shock, seeing Balien standing above Naon. Ceres had a gun to Wrone’s head. Farin was guarding Machovec, holding a damaged arm with a strained grimace and eyes full of terror.

  “What are you doing?!” V’delle screamed at Balien.

  He looked as shocked as she did. “No . . . I . . .”

  Naon crawled backward to the Zealot, astounded.

  V’delle stood and looked around for a weapon.

  “I will not let you do it, V’delle,” he said.

  “Ceres!” V’delle shouted. “Kill them! What are you waiting for?!”

  Ceres shifted between Balien and V’delle. Wrone struggled in her grip.

  “Balien, I’m going to kill her,” V’delle said, slowly moving toward them. “You can’t stop me.”

  “She is my responsibility,” he said.

  “Your responsibility?” Naon snapped, continuing to drag herself away. “You think I am glad you intervened?”

  “Naon, I—”

  “I do not need your protection from her,” Naon continued. “Let her come for me. Let me spare you the trouble, Balien.”

  “Kill them, Ceres!” screamed V’delle.

  The air began to vibrate. The Zealot mound rattled. A low rumble shook the ground beneath their feet. V’delle looked around, readying herself for another explosion, but the rumbling grew in strength and the air began to vibrate. The sounds of the skirmish started to diminish. The air around the destroyed Zealot picked up and fast winds smacked V’delle. Balien was knocked off balance. Before the vibrations took Ceres, she pistol-whipped Wrone.

  Appearing in disturbing majesty over the dense smoke of the defunct Zealot, a gigantic dropship flew overhead, shading everything in darkness and blue lights. The aircraft filled most of the courtyard’s length, a monumental, flat, diamond-shaped ship of pure black gloss. The rumbling started to tremble the ground, V’delle’s body shaking as if by an earthquake. The crowds, both Preen’ch and Calcitra, slowly began to look up as the shadow covered all.

  Then a siren blared from the ship, loud enough to prompt hands to close around ears. A deep, biting, hollow roar that continued for a few seconds.

  Next, a pulse came from the ship, a wave of physical power that began forcing people from the center of the courtyard. Bodies flew backward like beach parasols. The circle of free space reached the edge of the Zealot wreckage. V’delle dodged people as they fell at her sides. A moment of humming as the wind calmed.

  Another pulse, from the center of the ship, moving down, surrounding the courtyard. V’delle’s body constricted. Her muscles tightened. Little centipedes crawled all over her body, making everything completely stiff. The last things movable were her eyes. Everyone around her was frozen.

  Nanomachines.

  She watched as a bright light shone from the center of the dropship. A beam of white blue. She saw something blurry in the light, descending slowly. Legs. Arms. A chest. Billowing white robes. And when the body had landed, the light beam ceased.

  The Lo’Zon stood in the center of the clearing. White, faceless mask with silk triangles. White porcelain-like chestpiece over tight white linens. White pants tucked into white stealth socks. He wore a short white frock that opened at his front. The knot of his white cloth belt hung to his knees. He stood for a moment, face set on the crowds before him. Slowly, he turned his head, but only mere inches.

  He wandered for a few silent minutes. The hum of the spacecraft amplified V’delle’s beating chest, her anxiety. She urged every muscle to move, but it was real; the Lo’Zon had perfected nanomachines outside the Chalis. He stooped and V’delle squinted. A few bodies had remained after the dropship had forced the crowds away. He was checking one of the bodies, a Calcitra. His sigh was heard throughout the courtyard.

  “So,” he began, his voice deep and true, magnified through speakers under the dropship, “this is what my war has become.”

  What about the stragglers in the rest of Baudenhof? They needed to act! V’delle wiggled internally, knowing every second the Lo’Zon existed on the ground her chances of survival shrunk. Where were the rockets? The grenades? How far could this new technology spread? Surely it could not grip the entire City. And how long could it hold them? How would the Lo’Zon kill people? One by one? No, the he wouldn’t do that. His whole mission was to save humans, make them work for him. No. Not now. Not when they were so close.

  “This is what we have done to ourselves?” the Lo’Zon asked, a voice with such sincerity it could not be an act. “This is how you conduct wars?” He paced in a small circle, hands behind his back. He bowed his head and shook it, looking at all the wet pools of blood on the cobblestone. His voice became a whisper. “This is insanity.” V’delle thought she heard the Lo’Zon’s voice crack, but she must have misheard. “This is not my war.”

  No one could retaliate. No one could rebuttal. The entire courtyard was immobile. The Lo’Zon took his time, wandering the blood-soaked clearing, inching his way closer to the edges.

  “When I began this campaign,” he said, lifting his head to the sky, “I had every intention of giving our technology to all of you. I wanted to so badly. To see your race become elevated. But you know the story; your planet refused to let us lead. Why? It wasn’t my intention to start a war. It was always in me to be prepared for anything, so we were. But I did not want it. This pointless bloodshed. Each body a life of its own. Scattered now. So pointless. We could have elevated every one of you. We could have stopped poverty, starvation, sickness. You think this planet belongs to anyone? You grew from germs out of primordial waters. This planet belongs to no one, not even the Khor’Zon. It is a floating sphere of condensed rock in a universe full of other rocks. I came with glory and answers, and your leaders rejected me. This is not what I wanted. And now look at all of you. Bound and lost, so very lost!”

  The emotion had turned to anger now and V’delle feared what was coming next. She continue
d to try and move her limbs. How was this possible outside the Chalis?

  “Where are my officers?” the Lo’Zon asked, lifting his head to the crowd. “Come. Hurry now. I can’t bear to be here much longer.”

  Nothing happened for a while. V’delle’s eyes darted in every direction. She heard something rustling behind her.

  “I said hurry!” the Lo’Zon shouted.

  The movement behind her emerged at her side as Naon, who looked at V’delle with a fury that twitched her nose. She wound up and punched V’delle as hard as she could. A sledgehammer to the face. The immense force rippled through as her body fell to the ground in its contorted state. She landed to one side, able to see the lighted courtyard. Her eyes watered. Blood began to flow out her nose.

  Naon joined other Khor’Zon and Preen’ch as they stepped through and joined the Lo’Zon.

  “You Calcitra all thought the Khor’Zon have taken too long to succeed,” the Lo’Zon continued. “You thought this war has been too long, too exhaustive for us to sustain ourselves. You thought yourselves powerful and cunning enough to stop us at our weakest. But I would ask all of you to take a trip to Sanction. You pick at our outlying Cities with pride, while our precious Sanction builds monuments. Just look at what we have produced! Can you imagine what this technology could do for this planet if it wasn’t being used to constrict you?”

  “My Savior,” shouted Naon desperately, her voice almost far away enough to avoid detection. “If I might intrude. Our little bug is here.” Naon turned toward V’delle. “Our little distractor is here. The one who helped overthrow Urholm. Who was there at Flonneburg three months ago. Who escaped the Chalis. She is here, my Savior.”

  The Lo’Zon took a moment to gather the outburst. He swiveled. “Many of you have bugs like her. Bring them forward.”

  The tall Khor’Zon in the courtyard returned to the crowds. No one could scream. No one could move. V’delle felt hands surround her waist and lift. Wrone brought her forward through the edge and threw her into the cobblestone, her body still rigid.