Halfblood Journey

by Rheaume, Laura

  “Were they civs?”

  “What?” Reave looked up from his report.

  “Were the ones attacked civilians?”

  “No, border patrol.”

  So.

  Scythe turned and headed out of the room, “I think I’ll tag along.”

  “If you like.”

  Scythe took the right passage leading out of the building that had served as temporary headquarters for their unit for the last two months. He quickly descended the wide, white stairs of the Kin settlement’s administrative offices and crossed the street to the bus stop. He stood against the wall of the coffee shop and waited. Without thinking, he watched: the people, the vehicles, the spaces between them, the time it took to move, to stop, to turn, the comparative distances. At the same time, he smelled the coffee beans and the machine oil and the sweat beneath the perfume; he listened to the chatter and the steps and the squeaking; he felt the vibration of the ground and the wind along the hairs of his neck; he tasted the air, not as bad as one would think in a town of that size. He also reached out for the thing that he never found, not in a Kin settlement; he always felt emptiness there.

  Most citizens walked right in front of him, because the majority of people were oblivious to the danger around them. A few more observant ones took a curved route around him; three crossed the street.

  As the bus pulled up to the stop, he pushed himself away from the building and strode through the widening gap to the sliding doors. As he stepped up, the scanner detected his authorization through his wristband and adjusted his account automatically, making only a minor beep for the driver to note, which he would have done, had he not long been desensitized to the sound. The driver waved him on without looking, his eye on the display in front of him.

  Scythe took a seat across from the mid section door, not reacting when the woman in the seat next to him got up and moved to the front. He waited until the doors closed before he surveyed the population of the entire cabin a second time, with exactly the same results as those from the first quick glance. He catalogued fourteen riders: their clothing, activities, physical conditions, relative positions, threat potential, and their assumed relationships to each other, if applicable. The only things of any interest to him were a pair of men and the lady two rows down who had drunk too much that morning, and was having trouble focusing her eyes and staying upright in her seat. Sniff. Whisky and pretzels.

  Fairly certain that he wasn’t going to be disturbed, he took a deep breath and proceeded to think about nothing. He kept his gaze forward, softened his focus, and let everything that was flowing into him pass by. Meditation was something that most Kin did to some degree; their heightened senses, while a gift in most ways, resulted in an overwhelming amount of information to process. Thus, they trained themselves to shut out, or greatly lesson the amount of input coming in. Some were so involved with desensitization that they functioned almost at the level of Humans.

  For Scythe, meditation was not optional. He remembered nearly everything he perceived and his mind constantly craved more information: it was such a glutton that if it had its way, he would spend all his time feeding it. However, living like that made it difficult for him to function, especially in view of the fact that he had inherited the strong senses of his Kin father. Years of self-control and training had allowed him to dampen the rabid drive to catalogue everything and use it as a tool only when he needed it. That condition alone was enough to overload him if he wasn't careful, but there was another reason why he had to hold himself quiet and still periodically. His body was infected with a virus that had a bad habit: it hungered for something that he didn’t usually want to give it. Meditation and processing information helped him to exercise control over that nastier side of himself.

  “What a freak,” a man in the back whispered, and his friend chuckled. Scythe considered ignoring him, but the man’s tone, remembered posture and the way his friend responded, indicated that he would probably only be encouraged. So, he turned his head and looked at the Kin. Inside of him anger flared, ready for a fight, but it didn’t show its face. Scythe didn’t let it out for little things like him.

  Eyes widened on that half of the bus, except for the drunken woman, who had already fallen asleep against the window. The man swallowed, pursed his lips and tipped his head down. He got off with his friend at the next stop, quickly stepping past Scythe on his way out.

  Three stops later, he got off the bus and headed toward one of his favorite shops.

  “How many of these do you need?” asked Hon, his hands hovering above a ratty box full of small, circular transmitters.

  “Eight, for now. They work better than the larger ones: longer range, very quiet, and more durable.”

  “Really? That’s good to know. I’ll have to charge more for them from now on, except to you, of course.”

  Scythe nodded, “It’d be nice if they were waterproof.” He added the small bag of devices to his mounting pile of purchases.

  “I’ll see what my guy can do. Anything else?”

  “You get in anything interesting?”

  “Let’s see. I’ve got some new ammo, really slick, but it’s only for the R-16s and you like them small. Besides, what you already have is the best I can get my hands on; your handgun is a masterpiece. All my regulars would give their left for it. What else? What else?” he mumbled to himself. “Ah! I know!” He shuffled over to the cabinet on the back wall, took a key from his pocket and used it to open the bottom door. He pushed everything aside and unlocked another hatch in the wall. He pulled out a small, blue box and carefully brought it over to Scythe.

  “This is only for special, long term customers like yourself, Scythe,” he said conspiratorially. He opened the lid and watched Scythe closely.

  Scythe took a long look and then raised his eyes to Hon, whose gaze darted away from the scars on his neck. “These are crazy illegal.”

  “Oh, yeah. You get caught with these, and you don’t know me. I certainly don’t know you. How many can I wrap up for you?”

  “I take it the green is the antidote?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the effectiveness is…?”

  “I’ve been told one hundred percent.”

  Scythe looked at the tiny label on the vial. “Syliera. Symptoms?”

  “Death.” At Scythe’s blank look, he added, “High fever, limb and then organ paralysis, and then the death. Five days, max.”

  “Antidote effective in?”

  “Within twenty-four hours or forget it.”

  “Contagious?”

  “Only through fluids.”

  “I’ll take two greens, with protective cases.”

  Hon raised his eyebrows in surprise, “No yellows?”

  “No. I don’t like that kind of bio.”

  “Ah, I didn’t know that. So sorry.”

  “That’s okay, but I do like to know where I can get antidotes, so that’s good. Got any more?”

  “Nope. Are you kidding? I had to sell my daughter to get this, but don’t worry. I’ll be able to buy her back with what you are going to give me for the greens.”

  “You sound like a Human, Hon.”

  “Do I? What a shame.”

  While his last item was readied and his bill was tallied, he took the three throwing blades that he had just picked out and practiced with them on the board that hung in the corner of the shop.

  “All ready,” Hon announced finally. “How do they feel?”

  “They are excellent, as usual. I really like this model.”

  “It’s not the model, it’s the maker. Everything I get from her is top quality.”

  “Does she take orders?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’m always looking for something small, maybe retractable, that has a fast draw. Something that a general search won’t find.”

  “Yeah, aren’t we all?” he laughed. “Well, I’ll give her your dream order, and we’ll see what she comes up with. Here is your total.”
He held the scanner up so that Scythe could see the amount due.

  Scythe looked down the list. The prices were on the high end, but the quality was very good and he wanted to maintain the excellent relationship he had with the shopkeeper, whose service was exemplary. “Fine.” He raised his wrist and the scanner took his information.

  By the time the sale was complete and everything was stowed in Scythe’s backpack, the shop owner was practically drunk with joy. “Thank you, sir! You are always welcome here. Please come back and see me very soon.”

  “Thank you, Hon.” He paused at the door. “You were joking about your daughter, right?”

  “Of course! What do you think I am!”

  “You are a man who sells things that kill people.” One who lies like a Human, smoothly and practically without noticing it.

  His eyes narrowed. “Ah, of course. I forgot. But, no, I didn’t sell my daughter, Scythe.”

  “Good. See you.” He paused in the act of opening the door when Hon’s strained voice reached him.

  “I am a man who sells weapons, but you are a halfblood who kills with them,” Hon accused, the attempted joke at odds with the distain in his eyes.

  Scythe nodded. “That’s why I don’t have a daughter.” He left the small shop and headed deeper into the market.

  Within a few minutes he was in an area that he didn’t like. The open market was very crowded, which brought people much closer to him than was safe. While many shoppers gave him space as soon as they spotted him, most people didn’t fall into the ‘alert’ category.

  Scythe didn’t like to have anyone too near to him; it made him feel closed in, and that brought out his aggressive side. The expression he wore when he started to feel that way motivated a good portion of the people around him to find another place to be for a short while.

  Two people came down the street toward him, chatting with their heads together and laughing. Scythe moved easily to the left to prevent a collision with them, but that put him right next to the flow of people walking by the booths, many of whom had just moved there to avoid him.

  Immediately, he felt it: a rising of pressure inside of him, and a corresponding rise in temperature. He tried to derail it by concentrating on what he could see, smell, hear, and feel, but the people were just too close. The quiet buzzing in the back of his head made him want to smack them away like flies. The part of him that reacted in a fight without thinking, the part that had saved his life many times and made him worth something to a people who otherwise ignored him, was itching, itching. He allowed himself to rest one hand on a sheath at his side. The gesture comforted him, but had the opposite effect on those around him, which was good because it gave him space.

  It had been this way for years, ever since he was made an unwilling test subject in a biological warfare experiment. Stress activated the virus, causing the release of aggressive agents into his system. Knowing that it was chemical and involuntary didn’t help him, so he did his best to manage the symptoms. He used to have a fairly effective treatment, but it had the drawback of a few nasty side effects. Then the virus mutated a second time some three years ago; it was a week, an extremely difficult seven days, before he realized that it had become resistant to any of the treatments he could get his hands on. Since then, he had become very good at coping and taking preventive measures to head off the virus' activation.

  A tall man ahead of him picked up his bag and backed away from the counter, smiling and bowing his head in thanks to the vendor. He turned and stepped right in front of Scythe, but froze in place when he saw him. The bag started to slip, which was a great relief to Scythe: focusing on the harmless bag stole some of the strength from the fire inside of him. Scythe slid to the right, his hand leaving his side to push the falling bag into the man’s chest, where it was grasped reflexively. That put Scythe exactly where he wanted to be: back in the relatively thinned out middle of the street.

  Then things got better when it started to rain lightly, and people plastered themselves to the sides of buildings, or headed inside shops to keep dry. Even with the rain clearing out a large portion of the crowd, he opted to avoid the streets that were so narrow that people had to bump against each other to get by. Tonight was not a good night for it. So, it took him longer than it should have to reach another little business he liked to visit when he was in town.

  “Ah, Scythe, come on in. It has been too long.”

  “I was here last week.”

  “And that is too long. Come, have a seat. I will bring you tea.”

  “Thank you, Gorthe. How is your family?”

  “Ah, very well. My youngest is finally apprenticed, a little late at fifteen, but I needed his help in the shop when my wife fell ill.”

  “That is natural and reflects well on his family. He is a good son. What area is he specializing in?”

  “Medicine,” the man boasted, his smile ridiculously wide on his narrow face.

  Scythe grinned and shook his hand. “Congratulations, Gorthe. That is good news.”

  “Very good. We are all encouraged by his dedication.”

  Scythe nodded and took a drink of his tea. It was a bitter brew, sweetened by honey and something else. “What is in this?”

  “Ah, you noticed! My Gardenia said that no one would drink it. Now I’ll have cause to gloat tonight. It’s mint, an herb I just found from a man who trades with a Human herbalist. Isn’t it fabulous?”

  “I’ve never had it before. It’s very good.”

  “Yes, well, most are put off by it, so I’m glad I found at least one who likes it. I bet it's because you are a halfblood. What do you think?”

  “Maybe,” Scythe commented with a shrug. Gorthe’s casual use of his heritage had only recently failed to startle him. For most Kin, ‘halfblood’ bordered on a curse word. For Gorthe, it was merely descriptive. They sat quietly for a moment, enjoying the aroma of Gorthe’s special brew and the gentle patter of rain on the sidewalk outside.

  “So, what brings you by today, Scythe?”

  “The usual. I’d like to continue with the medicine and the Human history, but I also need to add a little military protocol. Do you have any manuals for that?”

  “Protocol, like, distinguishing rank and following orders?”

  “No, like, what is the procedure for disciplinary actions, what are a soldier’s legal rights, what is the method of determining responsibility up the chain of command? That type of thing.”

  “Interesting, very interesting. Give me a few minutes, and I’ll show you what I have.”

  Scythe stood up and pulled a book off one of the shelves that lined every wall of the shop. Taking care to move the tea out of the way, he opened the book and started reading. His eyes flew over the pages, completing two chapters before the man returned.

  “I should have known you’d try to sneak in a freebie. What do you have there?” Gorthe dropped a stack of books on the table.

  “Fergen’s Law,” Scythe said, closing it and setting it aside.

  “I thought you read that one.”

  “Not this author. I don’t think this one was here last time.”

  Gorthe glanced at the wall of books behind him and then smiled, shaking his head, “You never cease to amaze, Scythe.”

  “What have you found?”

  “Well, I’ll give you these for your tablet, but you can look at them first. These are the standard operating procedures for the four main branches as well as for the royal guard. Here are the next two on the list we made for your study of pharmaceuticals and one I’m recommending for your Human history.”

  “The War for Independence? I’ve read a lot on that.”

  “Yes, but this one is particularly interesting. Notice the author?”

  Scythe frowned, “A Kin?” Only Humans referred to what was really a series of small wars as, “The War for Independence.” By the Kin, it was universally called, “The Great Human Rebellion.”

  “Yes, isn’t that rare? I think you’ll enjoy
that one. Unsurprisingly, it went out of print almost immediately, so it is extremely hard to find. I only have that one copy, no digital yet, sorry, so you’ll have to get it back to me when you are done, as usual.”

  “No problem. Do you have any Human military protocol?”

  “Ah, of course. I should have anticipated that. Let me check.”

  After another sip of tea, Scythe dove back into the book, quickly completing another chapter and a half.

  “The Human manuals are much harder to come by. All I have is this, and no digital.” He held up a tiny book labeled, “Field Book of Standard Operating Procedures.” It was so small that it would easily fit in a pocket.

  “This is a great little book,” Scythe said, admiring the leather cover. “I’ll take all of this. He pulled out his tablet and laid the small computer on the desk, flipping it on. Gorthe went to his display and sent the files over. In less than a minute, all the books were uploaded.

  “You know, Scythe, I can easily send this to you. Not that I don’t want you coming by for my tea, but you don’t really need to make the trip out here.”

  “You can’t send this to my tablet,” Scythe pointed out, holding up the tiny book.