by Gregg Vann
The Alpha appeared somewhat amused by Barent, and there wasn’t a trace of fear in his voice. In Astok’s mind, he had already won this fight. What followed was merely going through the motions.
“Where are you from?” he asked. Astok indicated Barent’s white skin. “You are clearly not Olin.”
“I am from the Le’sant.”
“Ahhh,” the Exile replied. “That explains much. Then you are a madman. I should have realized—”
Astok lunged forward without warning, and once again Barent sidestepped his lumbering charge. But this time, the Exile managed to grab a piece of Barent’s jacket as he sailed by, pulling them both down into the snow. Barent stabbed at Astok’s face as he tried to roll away, but the Exile slapped the blade with one of his bulky hands—smacking it hard enough to send the weapon flying over the heads of the assembled spectators and out well beyond the circle. Barent tried to gain some distance from the Exile, but Astok grabbed his sleeve and yanked him back again, slashing at him with his longblade. Barent spun around just in time to see the attack and dove inside the arc of Astok’s swing, elbowing the Exile in the face, and then kicking him away with all his might. The impact of the blow sent them both back down to the ground.
As they got back up again, Astok smiled. “I’m glad to see this won’t be too easy.”
The Exile lunged forward, performing a direct thrust with his longblade. But Barent pivoted off to the side to avoid it, spinning all the way around to end up standing behind Astok. Before the Alpha could turn to face him Barent hopped up on his back, trying to lock his arms together in a chokehold so he could clamp down on Astok’s throat. The Exile knew the danger he was in and fought hard to dislodge Barent, throwing his elbows up high to strike him repeatedly. During the violent struggle Barent was able to kick Astok’s longblade from his hand. It immediately disappeared in the snow—trampled underfoot as the Alpha continued his efforts to sling Barent off of him.
It was a small victory, but one Barent couldn’t exploit. The sheer size of the Exile, and the bulkiness of his thickly furred clothing, made getting a good position on Astok’s neck difficult—rendering a chokehold nearly impossible. And as Barent worked unsuccessfully to get a solid grip around the Exile’s throat, the giant bent forward and threw him over his shoulder. Barent struck the ground hard, landing on his back, and then Astok hopped on top of him, using both of his massive fists to pummel Barent’s face mercilessly.
Barent tried raising his arms to defend himself but Astok had them pinned under his knees. Then he tried heaving the Exile off by lurching his torso up from the ground, but Astok was too heavy to even budge, and the effort was wasted.
The Alpha continued pounding away at Barent’s face, and he felt the blood gushing from his nose. Barent’s eyes were beginning to swell shut as well, and Astok’s feral grin was growing blurry. The two fists relentlessly hammering him dominated Barent’s vision, and they appeared to be moving in slow motion now—each strike producing a dull, muffled thud that increasingly hurt less and less. The pain was beginning to drift away, Barent realized, right along with his consciousness.
And somewhere, far away, he could hear Tana pleading with Astok.
“Stop it! Please! Stop it! Don’t…”
Her voice kept receding further into the distance…like Tana was leaving. But Barent knew that he was the only one going somewhere.
And it was a one-way trip.
Just before Barent blacked out, Astok stopped hitting him long enough to lean in and gloat.
“She’s small. But I bet your woman is going to be a lot of fun. For as long as she lasts, anyway.”
Barent smirked, and Astok wondered at the expression.
You just fucked up.
Barent launched his head forward with tremendous force, striking Astok squarely in the face. He heard a sharp crack and felt bone give way as Astok staggered backward, falling into a seated position. Barent painfully scrambled to his feet and jumped on the Alpha, pulling him down into the snow.
He wrapped his legs around Astok’s neck this time instead of his arms, hoping their greater length would allow him to latch on tightly. And then Barent squeezed against the Exile’s throat with every last ounce of remaining strength, fighting to hold on as Astok struck out at him in a frenzied rage. But between the shattered nose sending blood down his throat and Barent’s chokehold, Astok couldn’t draw a useful breath. He weakened rapidly, and in a few short moments the Exile stopped moving altogether. Barent unlocked his legs and pushed Astok off of him, noting that the Alpha was still semi-conscious, and then he unsteadily knelt down beside him. Barent leaned forward to whisper in Astok’s ear.
“You should have never gotten close enough to give me a chance.”
Then he grabbed the giant’s head with both hands and twisted his neck sharply to the side, snapping Astok’s spine with a sickening crack. Barent dropped the Alpha’s head back into the snow where it lay at an unnatural angle.
“And you should have never threatened her,” he added.
Barent struggled to his feet and wiped the blood from his face, and then he fished Astok’s longblade from the snow and held it high above his head.
The Exiles in the circle began chanting first.
“Alpha!”
“Alpha!”
“Alpha!”
Then all around the camp, the other Exiles took up the chant as well, and they started disengaging from the battle. The Olin stood back—taking the welcome opportunity to regroup as the Exiles began congregating near the circle where the fight had taken place. And within minutes, several thousand Exiles were kneeling down before Barent, all holding their longblades out in front of them in open palms. Barent saw a man at the front of the crowd hesitate, refusing to join the others. He could tell from the Exile’s face that he was wracked by fury and indecision—unsure what to do. And while the others continued to chant loudly, the man glowered at Barent, clearly struggling with a difficult decision. He began striding toward the circle with his longblade held out at his side, but when he got there, the man paused to look out at the sea of his fellow Exiles. Then he reluctantly dropped to one knee as well.
They released Tana and she ran to Barent’s side, placing her palm on one of his cheeks and examining his face. She saw several deep cuts in the swollen tissue, and large bruises already beginning to form around his eyes.
“Are you okay?” she asked him.
“I will be.”
Then Tana turned around and looked out at the camp, observing the faces of the Olin warriors as they shared in her confusion. “What is all of this?” she asked.
Thousands of Exiles continued to kneel, with more coming forward to join them by the minute. They were all just staring at Barent…and waiting.
He spit out a thickening glob of blood from his mouth, spewing the brilliant red fluid across the muddy snow at his feet, and then Barent stood up as straight as he could manage.
“This,” he said to Tana, “is my new army. When I killed Astok, I became the Alpha of the Exiles.”
“I lead them now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Sending a Message
Sergeant Dura casually glanced over his shoulder to make sure the others were getting into position. He had no doubt that they would follow his orders to the letter—both were Wardens, after all, and they knew their jobs well. But now that he was in charge of what remained of the tightly knit group, it was Dura’s job to double-check every aspect of this mission, whether it was necessary or not.
Their disguises were perfect. So good, in fact, that it took Dura a few seconds to pick his people out from among the horde of downtrodden moving down the street—a wide and meandering thoroughfare that ran the full circumference of the Outland, extending all the way up to the northern part of the ring where Le’sant’s incinerators, water treatment, and recycling facilities were located.
It seemed like the entire population of downtrodden were using the street at the moment; hun
dreds, if not thousands of them, coming and going through the dozens of alleyways intersecting the main road. The scene was disordered and chaotic, and the cacophony of sound produced by so many people—everything from whispered deceits, to screams of pain—joined a plethora of unpleasant smells in an attempt to overwhelm Dura’s senses. Yet in the middle of all the madness he still managed to spot his Wardens.
Kina was mimicking a very convincing limp, and frequently wiping her nose on her sleeves, as if fighting a perpetual cold that refused to give her a moment’s peace. Corporal Vane was trailing a little behind her on the opposite side of the street, and he’d caked mud down the front of his torn jacket, soaking his hair in filthy water as well. Vane looked like he’d just woken up in a trash-filled gutter, and then crawled out of it to shuffle aimlessly down the road. The pair were completely indistinguishable from the people swarming all around them, the actual residents of the Outland. And so was Sergeant Dura.
Just ahead of the Wardens was the small squad of soldiers they’d been trailing for the past half-hour—and the floating billboard those Collective troops had been tasked to protect. The message it repeated was also being broadcast across Le’sant’s datanet, on every possible channel. But few of the downtrodden had links implanted, or even access to public terminals. So the Collective were using the electronic billboards—propaganda platforms, really—to reach from one end of the Outland to the other. They were determined that everyone in the city saw the message.
Dura was close enough now to examine the three-dimensional hologram in detail—a life-size image of Minister Golen, projected almost a meter above the floating platform. Golen was fully decked out in the regalia of state, and his expression gravely serious; as if he were profoundly troubled by the news he had to share.
He’s quite an actor, Dura thought to himself. But I guess politicians need to be.
The platform came to a sudden halt, and then the soldiers sent to keep the downtrodden from stealing it stopped as well, spreading out protectively to surround the metal disk. The electronic billboard started to rotate slowly, and then it rose up higher in the air so it could be seen from a greater distance. Golen’s image spread its arms out wide in an empty embrace and began to speak; the voice was loud, yet deceptively humble.
“People of Le’sant.
“Our greatest hero has been subjected to a terrible affront. The Wardens have defiled the Tomb of the Great Betrayer! We still don’t know the full extent of their heinous actions, but we believe they intend to present an impostor of Sergeant Barent to the people—as part of an attempt to overthrow the government.
“Your government.
“The Wardens have betrayed their sacred trust to protect Sergeant Barent’s memory, and have conspired to destroy everything we’ve built together since the Pardon War.
“Stand up for what’s right! Stand up for the Great Betrayer!
“We’ve captured most of the criminals responsible for this atrocity but some managed to elude us. If you know anything regarding the whereabouts of the Wardens, or their doppelganger, please, contact the Collective. We understand and appreciate that you would do so solely to protect our shared heritage, and the exalted memory of Sergeant Barent, but we believe that such a vital service to the people of Le’sant deserves a reward.
“A large sum of money has been set aside for disbursement to those who help us bring these criminals to justice—an amount commiserate with the great service rendered to the city and its people. In addition, several apartments have been allotted in the Middle District for anyone who aids us in this desperate time, dwellings nice enough to improve anyone’s standard of living.
“We implore you to help us protect our history and secure the city’s future. To defend Le’sant by turning in those who would see it destroyed.
“Turn in the Wardens.
“Protect the legacy of the Great Betrayer!
“Protect us all.”
Sergeant Dura smiled. The speech was a little heavy on hyperbole, both in delivery and content, but not bad as far as Collective propaganda went. He felt the part about protecting the government was wasted, though. No one cared about that, especially around here. Golen should have gone straight to the reward, since that’s all anyone was really concerned with.
Dura wasn’t sure what people would think about the allegation that Barent was an imposter. In the three inner rings, where Le’sant’s citizens enjoyed a much higher level of education, they would probably recognize the claim for what it was: a complete fabrication, engineered by the government for their own secretive purposes. But here in the Outland, planting seeds of distrust often bore fruit. The people loved Barent’s memory without question, but they loved conspiracy theories and unfounded rumors almost as much.
Simple minds are easily distracted by the meaningless allure of scandal. And Dura knew the Collective were masters at exploiting that weakness—they had been doing it successfully for centuries. The tendency of an uneducated populace to weigh truth and rumor equally has always been a great source of strength for corrupt governments. And restricting the free-flow of information, and carefully crafting the language of what was disseminated, was often the key to maintaining power. As a military man, Sergeant Dura understood that armies might be able to subjugate the masses with guns and bullets, but it was always the words that actually controlled them.
He looked out into the crowd and noticed that quite a few of the downtrodden seemed interested in Golen’s offer, and were animatedly discussing it among themselves. But Dura wasn't angry with them; if his situation were as dire as theirs, he might have considered it himself. Nor did he begrudge any of their other less-considered choices, or opinions about what to believe. There were no proper schools in the Outland, or access to independent news sources. These people were simply products of the horrendous environment in which they’d been reared, and doing the best they could just to survive. The downtrodden were the victims here, and Dura knew that he—that no one—had any right to judge them.
As Golen’s image finished speaking the platform sank back down to its normal height. And then it began reconfiguring itself for travel to the next broadcast location.
It was time.
Dura gave Kina the signal and she snapped up straight, all traces of infirmity gone. He watched as she moved in closer to the five soldiers guarding the platform, admiring Kina’s gait as she effortlessly wound her way through the crowd. He knew that she was an avid dancer, and constantly practiced the craft during her off-hours. But Kina had always tried to keep that part of her life separate, distinct from her identity as a Warden. Dura had snuck into one of her performances once, and he was struck by how delicate Kina was when she danced. She was beautiful on the stage, and almost a different person entirely. The other Wardens knew about her pastime, of course, and delighted in teasing Kina about it. But every single one of them also understood how lethal she was, and respected Kina as a competent warrior. Dura was damn glad to have her along on this particular mission.
Kina’s movements were clipped and precise as she steadily closed the gap to her targets. But despite the change in her mannerisms, she hadn’t done anything that would make her stand out from the crowd or draw attention to herself. Dura thought it must have been difficult to erase all of that graceful training on an op like this—where Kina was forced to blend in with the ambling and lethargic movements of the people surrounding her. But somehow, she managed.
Dura and Vane were in motion as well, moving in from opposite sides of the squad as Kina went straight in at them. And by the time the Collective soldiers realized what was happening, it was already too late. Knives flashed in the hands of all three Wardens, and the Collective troops dropped to the ground in seconds.
Kina was the purest killer with a blade that Dura had ever seen, and she’d taken out two of the guards before he’d even finished with his first. She was already moving toward Dura’s second target as he took him down, and Kina just smiled and backed away. Van
e dispatched the lone soldier at the front of the platform and then walked over to join them.
Sergeant Dura took a quick look around at the scene, relieved to see that everything had gone exactly as planned. Using guns would have been much safer for them, and certainly made the job easier. But then they would have run the risk of hitting civilians, or destroying the communications platform they were trying to steal. Knives were infinitely riskier, but it had been the right call to make.
Dura pointed at the floating platform—where Golen’s image continued to stare out at the crowd. “Shut it down,” he ordered Vane.
“Yes, sir.”
Vane opened up a small panel on the side of the disk, while Dura and Kina kept an eye out for more Collective forces. He flipped a switch inside the machine and Golen’s image vanished, and after a quick inspection of the controls Vane shot a look over at Dura.
“Without the codes, the only way I can kill the pre-programmed route is to shut down the entire propulsion system and reboot it. It’ll take a couple of minutes.”
“The fewer the better,” Dura replied.
“Understood.”
The downtrodden had begun to gather all around them, and Dura heard a few correctly speculate about their identity.
“Don’t believe the Collective’s lies,” he told them. “There is no better life for you in the Middle District, not unless you take it for yourselves. The Great Betrayer has returned. And soon, he will remove the Collective and deliver you from this place.”
The crowd parted and an old woman came up to Sergeant Dura. Despite her disheveled appearance, there was an air of power and importance about her, and it was obvious that she commanded the respect of the other downtrodden.
“What would you have us do, Warden?”
“Strip these soldiers of anything you can use, especially the weapons. Distribute the guns to people who know how to use them, and then throw the bodies into the city’s incinerators, so the Collective can’t sniff them out.”