Queen of the Struggle

by Nik Korpon

  Hearing Henraek’s name makes me as sad as it makes me angry, especially with this stupid woman waxing nostalgic after she shipped my only remaining family up to the great white north and ruined everything I’d based my life on. “Did you drag me out here so we could gab and braid each other’s hair?”

  She glances over at me, then returns to the road. She says something to the driver I can’t understand and the car slows, pulling to a stop in front of a boarded-up café.

  “This was it,” she says. “This was where you entered the tunnels. Henraek was nearly giddy showing them off.”

  “He does favor the theatric.” I remember that ecstatic look on his face, contrasted with the disappointment when, ten minutes later, we hit the end of the route. He was sure we’d find the rest of the tunnels if we’d only kept searching.

  “And showing how smart he is.”

  “There is that.” I don’t like agreeing with her but she’s not wrong.

  “It’s not surprising. Both of you are walking reference guides. You both always seem to know who is aligned with whom and where they fight best. It’s really impressive. You’re natural leaders.” She pauses, maybe trying to let the compliments get to my head, which they do, a little. “We met up with Lachlan’s squad here, right?”

  The engine tries to idle but mostly coughs and rumbles.

  “No. Lachlan was positioned in the southeast quarter. Speider held this quarter. Speider Stachae.”

  “That’s right.” She nods. “He used to play that little whistle thing all the time.”

  “Tin whistle.” I let out a long breath. “Look, is there some reason we’re out here? What the hell are we doing?”

  “Do you have someplace you need to be?” she says. “Maybe locked back in your room?”

  I glare at her, doing my best to channel Donael’s teenage disgust. Pasted to a brick wall across the street is a faded and torn poster from early in the uprising. It’s the silhouette of Fannae Morrigan, except there’s a skeleton face where her features should be, one of our slogans in block printing underneath. Better Dead Than A Slave. Two young kids hurry down the sidewalk on our side. The dirtier one of them carries something beneath his jacket. At first I think it’s a loaf of bread, until I see the fabric of his jacket writhe. I look away.

  “I heard Speider deserted his squad. No one has seen him in two weeks.”

  “Speider? No way. He’d never abandon them. He’s probably taking care of his mother. She’s got cancer or something.”

  “She’s up in Fomora with the rest of them, right?”

  I laugh at the thought of Speider in Fomora, dressed in all black with that wide-brimmed hat he’s so fond of, walking around with all the Tathadann blue hairs and their pancake makeup. “None of ours can afford Fomora. She’s in the north end of Amergin, near the border.”

  “Right, by that bakery that separates them,” she says.

  “Sure. I don’t know.”

  The car starts forward, pulling a U-turn in the middle of the street and narrowly avoiding hitting a woman walking down the sidewalk.

  We drive for a few minutes, Brighid with her eyes on the road and me staring off to the side, watching buildings pass by. Every other street holds some kind of memory, whether ducking beneath a wall with Henraek and being pinned down by Tathadann fire or stopping at a corner store and picking out candy with my mother. In none of them would I ever have imagined riding in the back of a truck with a woman like Brighid. It makes me second-guess myself, wonder if I should’ve listened to Henraek and tried to overthrow the Tathadann by ourselves. But something Brighid said the other day keeps picking at me, that there was a Tathadann defector who had already been in contact with Ødven – the mystery man with one eye – that makes me wonder if he was Forgall’s source. It might be a stretch, but it wouldn’t be a surprise either. It would also mean that this takeover was already in motion while Forgall and I were discussing the uprising.

  I turn to Brighid to ask about the one-eyed man and see her point to something up ahead, a bakery on the corner, another all-terrain vehicle like ours parked diagonally across the street. These buildings, the shanties, the lumbering masses crowded on the sidewalk.

  “What are we doing in Amergin? They hate the rebels as much as they hate the Tathadann.”

  But before anyone answers, the car stops. Brighid and one of the soldiers jump out. Three soldiers from the other vehicle join them as they take position in front of a door flaking off red paint, next to the bakery.

  And then it crashes down on me. She’s showing me how much she knows.

  “Brighid, no,” I shout; but the sounds of the door splintering and the soldiers shouting spill across the street. A group of children stop and stare at the commotion before their mothers usher them away, tucking them inside their shanties. There’s the noise inside the house of chairs and tables flipped, lamps thrown, glasses shattered. Then I hear a man scream, then a gunshot, followed by rifles unloading.

  Then the street is silent.

  My breath catches in my throat. My arms quiver. Speider and his mother are dead and I couldn’t protect them.

  A minute later, the window shutters on the second floor open. Grey-sleeved arms poke out then disappear. Then a huge lump flies through the glass, catching on a rope and slamming against the side of the house. Speider’s punctured body hangs on display for all the neighborhood to see. A warning to rebels against fighting. A warning to the neighborhood against shielding or conspiring.

  Before my brain can process the thought, my legs are moving, vaulting my body up and out of the car. The soldier behind me shouts to stop but my legs don’t give a shit. All they want is to put as much distance between me and that car. I glance back and see the soldier raising his rifle. I swerve wildly left and right, waiting for the bullets to chew up my back, then look again and he’s lowered it. He shouts for someone to stop that rebel. They can’t shoot me. Brighid needs me. If I can get far enough away–

  My face grates against the asphalt as I tumble across the street. My palms burn. When I roll over, I see a kid who can’t be older than Donael. He points at Speider’s body and mouths I’m sorry, then runs away.

  I can’t even push myself up before the Ragjarøn soldier is looming over me. “Stupid bitch,” he says as he yanks me up by my arm and shoves me back toward the truck. People on the sidewalk pass by as if this is an everyday occurrence, nothing unusual here, but no one will meet my eye.

  They heft me back into the car. A tiny smile plays across Brighid’s lips.

  “That’s part of the reason you’re such a good warrior,” she says. “You never know when it’s over.”

  As we pull away, blood falls from Speider’s corpse like rain from a swollen cloud.

  When the car arrives back at the house, I have the brief thought of running. But my knees are still sore from eating the asphalt, and the last couple escape attempts have just ended with me getting beat to hell, so I figure maybe it’s better if I wait for an opportunity to arise instead of forcing it.

  I climb out and feel the soldier’s rifle poke against my back, prodding me forward. A dozen other soldiers mill around, some patrolling, some posted up by the doors of the house. It seems like overkill, given that I could easily throw a ball across the property. But what the hell do I know? Regardless, I need to get a message to Henraek.

  In all the commotion of executing Speider and my trying to run, they forgot to put the blanket over my head. Or maybe they don’t care if I know where we’re staying anymore, them being confident enough in their operation. Neither reason matters, though: I still have no idea where the hell we are. Some small neighborhood south of Macha, the center city area that was formerly a Tathadann stronghold. The place doesn’t look like Macha, though. Modest is the best word that comes to mind. Houses that could fit a family of four comfortably, if a little tight. Siding that could be replaced but isn’t falling apart. Lawns that are various shades of brown – no fancy landscaping here – but severa
l trees dotting the area. I’m curious as to why they chose this house, whether it belonged to someone in particular or was just a house that was easily commandeered. A breeze slips through the yard and shakes the branch of a tree; the positioning of it makes it look like something falling from the window, and I flinch.

  One of the soldiers walking a beat turns when I reach the steps and goddamn if I don’t recognize him. Younger guy, Melein. He’d been in Lachlan’s squad for a while, and I think Lachlan was grooming him to take over his own squad. So, what the hell is he doing here? He catches my eye and a wash of fear passes over his face. He turns away quickly and continues on his loop around the south side of the house. That wasn’t fear he’d been found out by us, though; that was fear of them knowing we know each other. I want to chase him down and talk to him but the soldier jabs me in the back. I walk up the steps and inside to my room. They close the door and lock it. They know one small lock couldn’t really contain anyone, which is why they have a soldier stationed outside my room.

  I wait quietly for a few minutes, letting everyone settle back into their routine, then begin searching the room. The lights flicker then dim, but I get lucky and none of them go out. I don’t know that I’d be able to see using only the light from outside. There’s nothing in the dresser except a few pieces of clothing they brought for me – which, out of principle, I’ve ignored so far. Nothing in the night table either, although the tacky floral drawer liner does make me laugh. Maybe this was a grandmother’s house. I run my fingers along the edges of the carpet, pricking my finger on a tack nail sticking out of the subfloor. As I suck on my fingertip, I tip the mirror forward, checking the back, but find nothing there either.

  There has to be something in here I can use, but aside from pulling up the carpet, there’s no place else to look. No closet, no bathroom, no other doors.

  Then I think, of course you can’t pull up the carpet but…

  I slide open the drawer in the night table, shake my hand free of blood, then pick at the edge of the drawer liner with my fingernail. It pills at the end, lifts up, but then turns into a sharp tear. I pick at the other side, making a long line of pilling, then as that piece begins to lift, grab it with both hands’ fingertips, spreading out the force as much as I can. Little by little the liner pulls free, until, at a hand’s length, it rips.

  Close enough.

  I crouch back down on the floor and run my fingers along the carpet edge until the tack pricks me again, and in the same goddamn spot. I bite my bottom lip to keep myself from making noise. I grab the nail with my other hand and shimmy it back and forth. It takes a few minutes, but eventually it works free. I lean back against the wall and let out a long breath. That was the easy part.

  I picture myself now and almost start laughing. I’m living in a city that has made unparalleled technological advances. We can create food from nothing. We have cars that drive themselves. We can reconstruct full memories using only a liquid. Despite all of that, the future of our rebellion, of our city, of our people, all relies on a carpet tack and a strip of drawer liner. Maybe it proves that all our technology is worthless and analogue is the way to go, or maybe it proves that everything is meaningless. Regardless, if that’s not a kick in the balls, I don’t know what is.

  Before I start, I press my ear against the door, making sure no one is coming in. I sit on the bed and lay the drawer liner on the table, the plain bottom facing up. Then I take a deep breath, prick my finger with the nail again, and goddamn if it isn’t twice as bad every time I do it. A bead of blood forms on my fingertip, and I roll the tip of the nail in it, then start scratching out a letter on the drawer liner.

  Brighid is killing us.

  Please help.

  I love you all.

  When the letter is done and four of my fingertips are throbbing, I prick the last one, smear my blood on my lips, then press them against the liner.

  I set the paper beneath the bed, hiding it while it dries.

  Someone knocks on the door, announces that he has my dinner. I sit on my bloodied and bruised hand, tell him he can come in.

  He sets another sandwich on the night table and leaves without saying anything else. I wait until the lock latches before moving off my hand and grabbing the sandwich. It looks like salami but sure as hell doesn’t smell like it, and part of me thinks this is some kind of message from Brighid. Mess with me, I’ll mess with you worse. I’ve survived the last however-many years on food worse than this, but, despite my growling stomach, it’s a matter of principle, so I leave the sandwich on its plate.

  Forty-five minutes later, I fold the drawer liner into quarters and slip it inside my underwear, then knock on the door.

  “I need to use the restroom,” I say to the soldier.

  I can hear him waffling outside, mumbling to someone else.

  “Seriously, I’m ready to burst. You want to squeegee this carpet?” He mutters something. “Then open the damn door.”

  The lock clicks and doorknob turns. The rifle barrel is the first thing that enters.

  “Come on,” I say to him. “Don’t you know you never point a loaded weapon at a loaded weapon?”

  He lowers the rifle, flicks his head. “Go down the steps. It’s the second door on the left.” I start to totter down the steps when he calls out. “I know you’re not going to try anything.” He leaves the threat dangling in the air.

  I exaggerate my steps as I head downstairs, making it look like I’m within an inch of pissing myself. The soldier on the first floor looks at me. Really gotta go, I mouth to him, and he turns away like he’s embarrassed. When I hear the front door shut, I stand in place, listening hard. The soldier upstairs is in the same position, and there are no other sounds in the house. Close as I’ll ever get.

  I pad past the bathroom and into the sitting room, then crouch by one of the chairs in a position that gives me a sightline out the window facing south but keeps me out of view of anyone coming in the front door, silently pleading Melein to walk past. The floor above me creaks and I hold my breath, but it’s only the soldier shifting his weight. I move from one foot to the other, keeping the blood flowing through my legs. Outside, I hear a woman with a low, gravelly voice talking to a man with a soft Brigu accent about dinner for that evening. Their voices disappear around the corner.

  After what feels like an hour but was probably only a minute, Melein’s head appears in the window. I rush over and tap on the glass with my fingernail. He stops in place, looking around to find the noise. I dig my fingers into the old wood frame and crack the window open.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he says in a harsh whisper.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I say back. “What about Lachlan?”

  He glances around then shuffles up close to the window. “They raided us. They’ve been raiding everyone. Any squad that doesn’t comply is imprisoned or executed on the spot.”

  My skin goes cold. “Lachlan is dead?”

  “Hell no. He took out a dozen of their soldiers then blew up half a building to create a distraction. Got away with about ten of ours.”

  That makes me feel a little better. “Why are you here?”

  He looks around, visibly more nervous than a minute ago. “They were going to kill me. What else was I supposed to do?”

  I purse my lips and nod, commiserating with him the best I can.

  He leans in and lowers his voice. “They’re using you. She knows where most of the rebel cells are and needs you to confirm the rest.”

  “I know. She got Speider this afternoon.” The mental image of his body careening out the window, the snap at the end of the rope chills me all over again.

  “We’ve all done things we’re not proud of,” he says.

  “Make sure you tell everyone I’m not here by choice. I don’t want people to see me next to her, get the wrong idea and start aiming for me instead. I’m not with them.”

  “No one thinks that. But you need to keep her happy while we figur
e something out. If that means giving up more cells…”

  He lets me fill in the blanks but the thought of more rebels dying at my hands sends blood pounding through my limbs.

  “To hell with that. I won’t give up my people.”

  “Emeríann, if you’re gone, and Lachlan gets caught, then…” He pauses, either grasping for words or not able to bring himself to speak them. “Then we’re done. All of us. What happens then?”

  I check behind me to make sure no one’s come into the room, then reach into my underwear and pull out the drawer liner.

  “Get this to someone who can get it to Henraek.” I slip him the paper. He hesitates to take it but I shove it at him. “He’s in Vårgmannskjør. Ødven needs him for, I don’t know, advising or something. But that means he’s alive. Maybe he can talk to Ødven, reason with him.”

  “How am I supposed to get it to him?”

  “You’ll find a way.” I pull my hand back. “If you don’t, then you’re right. We’re probably done.”

  Melein glances to the side. Fortunately, he doesn’t see the same irony in the situation that I do because he slips the paper into a breast pocket then hurries away without a word. Nahoeg help us all if this doesn’t work.

  I start to close the window when I hear the front door open, two voices carrying inside. The bathroom is too far away and too exposed for me to make it there. Instead, I hop forward and duck behind the farthest chair, hoping to all hell that they don’t look down.

  They pass through the room, carrying on the conversation from outside. One of them pauses a second outside the bathroom door and I think my heart stops. He’s either listening – in which case he’s a pervert – or he’s about to knock, in which case I’m going to get my ass beat. Maybe Melein’s too. Then the other soldier nudges his arm.

  “You know they take forever. Probably fixing her makeup.”

  “She don’t need makeup,” he says. “I’d take anything right about now.”

  My jaw clenches so tight I can feel it in my ear. Deep breaths, woman. Just relax, and remember his face when the revolution comes.