Queen of the Struggle

by Nik Korpon

  Cobb and I both stop eating at the same time. The air tightens around me.

  “What?”

  Donael sets down his fork, any pretense of eating now gone. “You heard me.”

  “First off, I don’t appreciate that tone. Second, I don’t know what that has to do with anything.”

  “I’m just curious. Don’t I have a right to know about important things in your life? You are my dad.”

  I flinch slightly, try to gauge any sharp edges in that last phrase.

  “Is this about you thinking you’d be allowed to join Nyväg’s youth brigade?” I watch him carefully, but he doesn’t give any reaction. “What’s it called, the ungdømstrüpper?”

  “What are you talking about?” he says.

  “Donael.” I set my fork down. “I’m not stupid. I saw the pin on your jacket.”

  “Why were you snooping around my room?”

  “I wasn’t snooping around your room. I managed to stay alive all these years because I’m pretty damn good at observing things.” I clear my throat. “It doesn’t hurt that the both of you are physically incapable of putting away your belongings.”

  He mutters something I can’t hear.

  “So,” I say, “is that what this is about?”

  “What do you mean ‘think I’m allowed’? I can’t make my own decisions?”

  “About that? No. No, you can’t. You’re too young to understand what revolution entails.”

  “How? I lived through it, didn’t I? With you and Mom during the beginning, then with Walleus during all that crap afterward. I saw what happened. I saw what it did to people.”

  “Then you should understand why I’m saying no.” Cobb leans away from me, back into his seat. I close my eyes and take a breath to calm myself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. But this is not something I’m negotiating on.”

  Donael picks up his fork and resumes fussing with his food. Cobb waits a minute then follows suit. A soldier walks past our window again. I’ve seen them more often this evening than earlier in the day, almost as if they’re keeping an eye on our house. It makes me wonder if Ødven told them to protect us, or if he said to watch us and report anything suspicious. It’s hard enough to determine the line between caution and distrust, even more so when you’re an outsider and prone to question people’s motives as a matter of course.

  “Are you afraid?” Donael says, quiet enough that he can pretend he didn’t say anything but loud enough to know I’ll hear him. I start to answer Yes, of course I’m afraid, I’m afraid for you every minute of every day because people get killed just walking down the street when an iron beam is knocked loose from a building, and that’s without purposely putting yourself into harm’s way by signing up for a well-intentioned revolution that is more like a mission to become martyrs. But before I can say anything, I hear the rest of the sentence: “That I’ll become a traitor like Walleus?”

  And in an instant, my whole body changes, intense, conflicting feelings thrumming through me. Cold fury coils inside my arms while righteous indignation stalks inside my chest. As if he knew anything, as if he’d experienced any of what war is truly about, anything to think that he feels he has the right to lecture me about it.

  Throughout all that though, slipping between the cracks, there is the vicious, vibrating feeling of shame. Because my son has marked Walleus a traitor, as I had many times before, and I know that I am no better than Walleus. So my son will eventually think I am a traitor.

  But does he know?

  I keep my jaw tight as I respond, mostly as a way to focus my anger but also to keep myself from screaming and scaring them.

  “You have no right to judge anyone for their choices until you understand what they were going through when they made that choice.” I’m not sure if I’m saying this for his benefit or my own.

  “But you said he was the reason the Struggle failed. If he–”

  I slam my palm on the table, the impact knocking off my fork, which tinks on the wooden floor.

  Tense silence sifts down over the room, punctuated only by the trill of the phone. Our breath courses in and out. The phone trills again.

  “You have no right, Donael.”

  I stand and grab the phone before the third ring, don’t ask who it is, just pick it up.

  At the table, I can see Donael’s chin trembling, the muscles of his jaw writhing. When he was younger, this was the prelude to one of his famous tantrums, where he’d throw himself on the ground and scream and cry and flail his limbs around like an octopus, trying to hit any- and everything within his range. But now it just houses bright, burning anger.

  “Tomorrow morning.” I recognize Slåtann’s voice on the phone. “Take the early train to Vårgmannskjør. I’ll be waiting for you at the harbor. Pier twelve.”

  He hangs up without waiting for a response.

  When I sit down at the table, the expression on Donael’s face is gone, as if he just flipped a mental switch and said No, I’m not angry any longer, I’m fine now. His face is blank, impassive.

  “I’m sorry. That was over the line.” His voice is as atonal as his expression. “It’s probably better not to talk about some things.”

  “Donael…” I start, then trail off.

  “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.” He retreats to his room, Cobb falling in line as always. The door closes, lock clicks.

  Just make it to tomorrow morning. Less than twelve hours to get through.

  The soldier passes our window, looking in this time. His eyes meet mine and it appears he’s trying to impart some sort of message, some understanding, but I don’t get it and then he’s gone and I’m sitting in the empty room and the air has a different quality to it. It’s not silence; it’s the echo of nothing. I go to the cabinet and grab the bottle of liquor that’s been left here, the local drink I had in Ødven’s office. Not my favorite but right now anything will do. I take a swig from the bottle and it makes my hair stand up. I take another drink then drop the bottle on the table, bend down, and pick up the fork even though I’m not hungry. The sunlight glints off the prongs, and, for a second, I imagine what it would be like to grip the handle tight, raise it high, then plunge the sharp tongs deep into my thigh.

  I wonder if it would hurt. I wonder if it would be a relief.

  26.

  EMERÍANN

  The first thing I see when I wake is the crack in the ceiling above my bed. I trace it with my eyes from the spot near my head down into the corner, where it disappears into the wall. It’s not a small crack in the plaster, like something that would happen over the years of the house shifting and settling, but more of a fracture, which makes me wonder what caused it. A concussive blast from a bomb. A tree limb ripped loose during a storm.

  My next thought is: I opened my eyes.

  Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit.

  I spring up in bed, the hologram device clattering to the floor. Goddammit, I fell asleep. I’d been up most of the night studying schematics of the power system and I must have drifted off at some point.

  I’m late. I’m so late. And I’m in such deep shit.

  I yank on pants and a shirt, snatch the hologram device from the floor, and grab two takeaway cups of coffee for the road, then sprint out to my truck, hoping I can still pull this off.

  I arrive at the labor farm, sucking down the last of the coffee and wishing I’d grabbed a third cup. My body should still be buzzing with caffeine after drinking several cups last night to stay awake while going over the plans, analyzing and re-analyzing and trying to learn in a few hours what should take months and months… but hours are all I have. Hell, hours are all we have. I hurry toward the central dome.

  The sky is a muddy brown out here, even with full morning coming almost four hours ago. Only a handful of the workers are around right now, since most of the main work has been done. I’ve had to kick some asses to get it finished and made a couple enemies, but they made it happen. One worker inspects the exterior of the
central dome, which is set up and wired, ready for its first testing later today. The curing pods have been assembled, half of them wired up and ready to test, electricians getting the others prepared. The rest of the people are working on the conveyance mechanisms, which will transport the power from this plant into the city. I think they’re retrofitting a facility in Findchoem to handle, store, and disperse all of this, but that’s not part of my instructions.

  Brighid is supposed to be out here after lunchtime, which is when we’re scheduled to do the test. I was supposed to arrive here at least three hours before that, to give myself extra time, but apparently I shot that plan to shit. Right now, I’ve got about an hour to work and get everything ready. You would think that reversing and rerouting the flow of energy shouldn’t be that hard – basically turning a lever the opposite way – but I’m not an engineer. So I hope like hell this works.

  I don’t know why it took me so long to think of this. It seems so obvious in retrospect. What better way to save Eitan from Brighid’s plans than to destroy the very thing that she threatens us with? Because the energy that comes with harvesting the soul is stored in one central unit before shuttling it out to the pods, reversing the energy flow will essentially overheat that central unit. As it overheats, the seals that connect the tubes will begin to degrade, which makes them prone to rupturing. And when they rupture, you want to make sure your ass is far away and behind something that will act as a heat shield because it’s going to be a big goddamned boom.

  Now I only have to hope my half-cocked plan works and will reverse that power.

  I’m booting up the hologram device to get moving on these wires when I glance up and see the worker is no longer inspecting the dome. They’re looking at me. And they’re not just any worker.

  It’s that bitch with the long brown ponytail.

  “You bastard,” I say as I approach her.

  “Shut your mouth, traitor,” she spits. “You gave us all hope that we could be our own country again. All you two wanted was the power for yourselves, and now you sleep under the same roof as the enemy.”

  “I am trying to help. That’s all I’ve been doing for the last two years.”

  “And look at you now,” she says. “You’re lucky Henraek and his boys were taken by Ødven. He’d sooner cut all of their throats than be seen with you.”

  You cunt.

  I drop the hologram device and charge her, bending down and driving my shoulder into her gut. We slam back against the outside of the dome. I swing at her head, trying to smack it against the metal, but she shifts to the side, throwing me off-balance, then puts her feet on my chest and mule kicks. I fall to the ground, crushing the hologram device as I roll away. The device crackles and fizzles, throwing hot electric sparks on the dry wheat field. That is not going to be good.

  I’m about to stomp out the device when something crashes against my face, spinning me around. My left cheek is on fire, and when I run my hand across it, it comes back dark red. I glance down at the ground and see a spanner wrench flecked with my blood. I hear her feet pawing at the ground as she bounds toward me, and in one motion I bend to grab the spanner and swing up and out, catching her right in the jaw. I can hear the crack of bone splitting. She crouches down, her hand cupping her fractured jaw, exposing the back of her head.

  I grip the spanner tight. She’s down. She’s defenseless. She’s practically begging for it. But echoing in my skull is the sound that poor girl in the water distribution plant made just before I shot her. That pitiful, completely vulnerable sound at knowing she was about to die, either by my gun or by the plant collapsing on her. That girl was part of the Tathadann and we were at war.

  This woman, this is murder. They tried to murder us. I am not them.

  I don’t even see her lash out. I only see the explosion of white dots as her foot connects with the side of my knee, buckling my leg. The pain is so bright I can taste it. I fall to the ground, bringing my injury beside me to protect it, then feel it light up again as I roll away when she tries to stomp my wounded knee. She raises her leg again, ready to fully tear the ligaments inside my knee and render me lame, but I scream and straighten my leg as hard as I can, my heel plowing straight into her kneecap. Even through my boots, I can feel it slip aside and I shudder as the bones crumple on impact. She falls backward, roaring like a wounded animal.

  As she lands on the ground, I see the halo behind her head. Flames lick at the sky, nearly three feet tall.

  Oh shit.

  I push myself to my feet, favoring my good leg. The fire covers a good forty square yards, but it’s spreading like water. This whole field is dry grass, ready to burn, and within twenty minutes, it will be one giant lake of fire.

  And that bitch is now immobile in the middle of it.

  Goddammit.

  I hobble over to her, doing my best to crouch down so I can get my hands under her armpits.

  A finger of smoke brushes against my nose, the heat already warming my face. She swings at me but it’s half-hearted at best. She’s in too much pain and contorted at too-awkward an angle.

  “Cut the shit or I’m leaving your ass here,” I tell her.

  “I’m going to kill you when we get out of this,” she says, her voice hoarse.

  “The same thought crossed my mind.”

  I’m able to drag her five feet closer to the car when I hear someone yell my name.

  I drop the woman and pivot on my good leg, only to see Brighid racing across the field, her truck parked at an odd angle, hanging half-off the street. What the hell is she doing here so early?

  “They got here too?” she shouts.

  “Who?”

  “The rebels. Cantonae’s people.” She pulls up to me, breathing hard. “They bombed three sites in Eitan.”

  “What? How do you know who it was?”

  “They were coordinated. A pipe-bomb at a bar, three pulse charges to free the captured ones in the high rises, and they just set fire to a home.” She looks past me at the field, the fire spreading faster and faster. “The city’s burning again.”

  Oh shit. It’s not the insurgents. It’s Lachlan.

  Brighid looks down at the woman at my feet. Her face shifts, recognition setting in.

  “The ponytail,” she says.

  And before I can tell her no, we need to leave, before I can open my mouth and push out a single word, she reaches behind her, aims her pistol at the woman, and fires once. The woman’s head snaps back, a single red hole in the middle of her forehead as she flops backward. Blood leaks from her skull into the dirt beneath her, the flames making it bubble and sizzle within seconds.

  The bottom of my stomach drops away. Another person killed because of me. She could have been saved. This is not how we’ll rebuild. This is not what Eitan deserves. This ends now.

  Brighid yanks at my arm and I suddenly feel the heat of the flames anew.

  “Let’s go,” she says. “Now.”

  “Why did you come here?”

  “What?” she says, half-turned and completely confused. “Seriously, let’s go now.”

  “Why did you come here? To Eitan? To this field?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  A small container left in the field explodes, throwing a shower of sparks into the air. I duck on instinct and feel the pain, electric blue and shimmering, spread through my knee.

  “I came here to save you,” she says, and there’s something in her voice that I can’t isolate, almost like she’s wounded by me even asking.

  “No, you didn’t.” I try to keep my voice level but it’s a wild animal, out of my control and rising quickly. “Don’t you dare say that. You have done nothing but lie to me since you got here.”

  “Do you have smoke inhalation or something?”

  I push her hard, and she stumbles back a few feet before steadying, her hands reflexively protecting herself.

  “What the hell is your problem?” She points at the fire raging all aro
und us. My eyes begin to water. “You want to die here? Fine. Stay and die. I came to make sure you were safe.”

  “No, you didn’t,” I scream at her, swinging a hand wildly and catching her on the cheek. “All you’ve done is manipulate me to do what you want! This machine is going to use our souls like firewood.”

  “Acceptable sacrifice, you stupid bitch.” She swings back but I’m expecting it. I duck beneath it, lash out with a rabbit punch to her ribs and connect once, twice, then she grabs my arm and wrenches it backward. “Daghda always thought he was so goddamned smart, but he never led Ardu Oéann to be anything more than an afterthought to other countries.”

  She pulls up on my arm, sending a storm of electricity through my shoulders. It’s enough to almost make me puke.

  “Under me, we will step outside of Ødven’s shadow and we will be bigger and more prosperous than ever before. We won’t be a country.” She puts her lips beside my ear, which lets me get my foot positioned between her legs. “We’ll be an example to every other country. And everyone will know the name Tobeigh.”

  “You’re willing to sacrifice everyone just so people know your name,” I spit. “You are insane.”

  “No, I’m not,” she said. “I’m ready.”

  You bitch.

  I swing my foot up as hard as I can, catching her right between the legs. I can actually hear the sound of breath leaving her, and I swing around as soon as she lets go of my hand and charge at her, my hands going for her throat. But even then, she somehow grabs my wrist and spins me around, pushing me toward the central dome. I scramble to break loose, but she’s cinched me into a hold. My heels leave ditches in the dirt beneath us. I try to flail my arms, do anything to get free of her hold. She just guides me forward, swearing in some language I don’t speak.

  We’re five feet from the central dome, the metal heated enough from the surrounding fire that I can feel it radiate at this distance. She’s going to push me in and leave me. I’m going to die in the middle of this potter’s field.

  And then it hits me.

  I dig my heels in as hard as I can, pushing back on her with every ounce of strength in my body. She pushes forward just as hard, and because she’s stronger than me, she moves me. One foot. Two feet. Three.