Children of Zero

by Andrew Calhoun

  “Ollan, what do you think?” She was looking at the front door, a slapped together mess of narrow wooden planks on metal hinges. “Will it go down, or shall we check the back?”

  “It’ll go down.”

  “You sure?”

  “Aye, I’m sure.”

  “Right then.”

  Ollan re-strapped the crossbow to his back and drew a long knife from his belt. He then stepped back to the edge of the top step and lined himself up facing the door. After directing a cheeky wink at Saeliko, the big man launched himself with surprising speed and buried his meaty right shoulder into the wooden planks. The hinges stayed in place, but the planks shattered and caved in, sending Ollan crashing though and disappearing into the house.

  Saeliko didn’t bother to check if the guards at the battery had spun around to see what was happening. She darted in through the hole left by Ollan’s sizeable body and immediately had to spin to her right to avoid her companion, who was picking himself off the floor. She thought she could hear him chortle. He had enjoyed that.

  It took a few precious seconds for her eyes to adjust. Dawn was trickling through the windows, but the front room was still draped in shadow. A candle flickered on a table, behind which stood a man wearing a clean white shirt rolled up to the elbows and untied at the collar. He wore black three-quarter breeches, though it was still too dark to make out his footwear. She could, however, make out the shocked gape on his dull face. In one of his hands, he held a small knife, not because he was preparing for a fight but because in his other hand he held a knobby loaf of Qomari bread.

  The house steward, she realized. In a proper colonial town with a gubernatorial mansion, there would be a dozen such stewards bustling about the kitchen preparing breakfast and performing chores. Here in Meshaltown, this unfortunate fellow probably represented the house staff in its entirety.

  Saeliko slid forward like a cutter shark coming in for the kill. The poor steward gave a miserable squeak, dropping the knife and the bread in terror and raising his palms in terrified submission. The qarlden of the Epoch went airborne in a lithe bounding motion. She landed easily on the top of the table and smashed the hilt of her scimitar into the man’s nose. His whole body shuddered and collapsed, sending him first onto his ass and then his back.

  A clanking sound echoed out from the back of the house. Something had fallen on the floor in one of the rooms. Saeliko surged forward again, slipping down from the table and leaving the fallen steward untouched where he lay. She could hear Ollan, Brenna and Jren behind her. The four of them moved quickly down a hallway leading away from the front room, weapons held ready. Saeliko passed a door to the right. She tapped it as she went by and called out, “Jren.” For the next door on the left, she gave the order to Brenna. Without looking back, she continued toward the back of the house where she knew the governess would be. “Ollan, you’re with me.” Before they reached their destination, she could hear Jren and Brenna charging into their assigned rooms, creating havoc. A scream belted out. Then another.

  Saeliko kicked open a flimsy door, revealing a modest bedroom with a fat lady standing in night clothes holding a cutlass out in front of her. She was as ugly as she was fat. Her white gown was stretched out at the belly and ended at the knee, leaving flabby calves and chunky ankles above bare feet. Her big breasts sagged low, thankfully hidden from sight. Saeliko counted three chins below swollen, protruding lips and a bulbous nose. Her eye sockets were too close together for the size of her head, giving her a spiteful appearance.

  The governess gawked at Saeliko, ignoring the bigger Ollan standing behind and to the side of the qarlden. She edged forward to get a better look at Saeliko’s face. “Your tattoo,” the governess said, pointing with her non-cutlass-wielding hand. Her voice was croaky and rough.

  An intricate pattern of lines, swirling and interlocking, ran down the left side of Saeliko’s face. The tattoo started at the hairline on her forehead and dropped down like liquid, cascading around her orbital bone, over her cheek and ending on her finely structured jaw line. Even in the dim light of the crummy bedroom, the governess could see the pattern and recognize its import.

  “You’re Saffisheen,” she hissed, beady eyes growing beadier. Then, realizing that she still held a cutlass in her hand, she let it go. The blade fell to the floor unceremoniously.

  “Governess Lammisari Gaemmil, I presume,” Saeliko acknowledged, bowing in sarcastic deference. “Representative of the fine government of the Concord of Mael. Pleased to meet you, though I suppose I should apologize for the circumstances.”

  “You’re a long way from home, Saffisheen.”

  “Aye, that I am.”

  “What are you doing here?” the governess asked bluntly.

  “You and I have some business to attend to.”

  As if on cue, an immense clamor of shouting and hollering erupted from the front room where Saeliko had dropped the steward. She could hear Brenna and Jren’s voices, as well as a racket of new, more baritone voices. It wasn’t necessary to pick out individual words from the obstinate yelling back and forth. She knew what was happening. “Ollan,” she motioned with her finger for her comrade to advance. “If you would be so kind.”

  “Aye.” He trod over to a chest and picked a garment off the top of the pile, a slightly stained blue shift with a bit of lace around the trim. With a few quick rotations of one hand, he twirled the shift until it was tightly wound and then grabbed the other end with his free hand. Governess Gaemmil obviously knew what was coming, for she held her hands out in front of her, wrists pushed together. When Ollan walked over to her and saw her hands, he shook his shaggy head. “Behind,” he mumbled. The governess gave a vexatious sigh and reoriented her arms from in front of her ample belly to the small of her back, resting her hands on the excess flesh at the top of her arse. Ollan wrapped the twisted shift around her wrists and pulled the cloth tight. Gaemmil grunted with discomfort but kept her eyes trained on Saeliko.

  Job done, Ollan directed the governess to start walking forward toward the ongoing cacophony taking place in the front room. As she lumbered forward, he followed close in behind her, drawing his knife and placing the sharp point to the side of her thick neck. Saeliko followed out behind the two of them.

  They came out to a scene of barely controlled chaos. Eight guards, some of them fully uniformed, others half-dressed, had managed to pile through the doorway and spread themselves out in a line. They held musket rifles in firing position, butts to shoulders, right index fingers poised over triggers and left hands gripping the barrel between the barrel bands. One of the men in full uniform was yelling orders to Brenna and Jren.

  Stocky Brenna had her thick arm wrapped around the neck of a young boy who looked to possibly be in his early teens. It was hard to judge by his face, which was turning red and puffy thanks to its position between the vice-like grip of Brenna’s bicep and forearm. In Brenna’s free hand, her cutlass was raised threateningly, portending the boy’s demise should events get out of hand.

  Jren, the taller of the two, held a young woman that was quite obviously Gaemmil’s daughter. She was wide-bodied, not to the same extent as her mother but still portly. Big lips, a wide nose and flabby cheeks testified to the filial relation. Like her brother, she was wearing her night clothes; Jren must have found her still in bed.

  “Don’t you hurt my daughter, you shites!” the governess screeched loudly, trying to make her own voice heard above the din. It wasn’t clear if she was talking to Jren or the soldiers. The governess briefly tried to struggle free and come to her daughter’s aid, but Ollan jerked her roughly back into control and guided her to a spot a few paces away from Jren.

  Saeliko walked into the center of the room and the noise abruptly ceased. Enough sun was now pouring through the windows and open door that the soldiers were able to have an unhindered view of the weaving, spiraling black lines on her face. She stood in front of them. It was obvious that this was the first time these men stationed
at the far corner of the world had ever seen a Saffisheen. She let them take a good long look. Her lips curled upward at the corners.

  Since she was a child, Saeliko had been very cognizant of the fact that her eyes were unusual. Most Maelians had dark brown eyes to match the hues of their skin and their chocolatey brown or black hair. Saeliko’s eyes were green. And while at first she had cursed the Sisters for making her aberrant, she had changed her mind when she learned that she could use an unblinking glare to throw men and women off guard. The tattoo had much the same effect, but the eyes amplified the perception of danger.

  “Which one of you is the captain of the guard?” she inquired.

  “I am.” A ninth soldier entered the doorway, a tall woman with narrow shoulders, a flat chest and short-cropped black hair. Only her face and voice gave her away as female. She was sweating and breathing heavily, probably from running up the hill. The bags under her eyes and bloodless pallor in her face made Saeliko guess that the captain of the guard had been drinking with the townsfolk during the night.

  “Welcome to the party.”

  The captain finally registered Saeliko’s tattoo. “Oh, Mysha take me,” she mumbled. In her hands, she was carrying a big, fat blunderbuss, which she now started to lift into a firing position.

  “That can be arranged,” Saeliko offered. The captain immediately lowered the gun.

  The governess piped up again, all rage and venom. “Captain! You keep that blunderbuss down, you miserable rentboy’s daughter!” Spittle fell out of her mouth. “Anything happens to my offspring and I’ll hack off what little teat you have and shove it up your arse with my axe.”

  Saeliko raised an eyebrow. She hadn’t had much experience with government officials, but she doubted this was how they spoke in the capital. She was beginning to see why Gaemmil had been sent to rule over Dyssal Main. In any case, the governess’ warning served Saeliko’s needs at the moment. The captain was motioning for the other soldiers to lower their weapons as well.

  “Right then. First thing’s first.” Saeliko took a step forward and extended her left hand out. “I’ll be taking that handsome weapon of yours.” The captain handed it over grip first. “Good. And the rest of you lot, you’ll be placing those rifles on the ground. Then when I tell you, you’re going to walk out the front door and line up outside.” As she was talking, she paced in front of them, looking for any potential troublemakers. They appeared sheepish enough.

  “Now let me make this perfectly clear,” she continued on, setting her eyes on each of them in turn. “I sense the least bit of mischief, and people are going to start bleeding, beginning with those kids back there.”

  “You pickled shites do exactly what she says,” the governess cried out.

  Saeliko smiled. “Everyone understand?” Nervous nods all around. “Good. Then let’s proceed outside, shall we?”

  Once all nine unarmed soldiers had exited the house, clambered down the stairs and assembled in the middle of the patchy, dirt strewn lawn, Saeliko singled out the captain. “Right, you listening?”

  “Aye, I’m listening.”

  “You’re going to take your company down to the battery, and you’re going to arm four of the cannons. Get them ready to fire out into the harbor.”

  “What’s our target?”

  “No target. Just the water,” she told her. “When all four cannons are ready, you fire the first one. The first one only. Got it?”

  “Aye, first one only.”

  “Then you count ten breaths. After ten breaths, you fire the second one. Then ten more breaths and the third. Ten more breaths and the fourth.”

  “Aye, and then?”

  “Then you get your arses back up here. Now, I’m going to be watching you. If I see even one of you sneak off, I give the order to start gutting the kids. Now go.”

  The nine of them moved briskly across to the battery. She watched them set themselves to their task. They were efficient, quickly loading the primer and projectile into the breech, driving the components home with rammers. When all was ready, the captain held the botefeux in place and the cannon fired. A resounding boom echoed out to sea and back across the isthmus. If the townsfolk weren’t awake yet, they sure as the Sisters were now, save perhaps a few comatose drunkards.

  When Saeliko counted eight and half breaths, the second cannon went off. The captain’s breathing was obviously running a bit fast. No matter. Once all four cannons had been fired, the captain and her crew made their way back to Saeliko.

  “Now what?”

  “Who’s your fastest runner?” Saeliko wondered. The captain pointed to a tall lad of about sixteen. Saeliko stepped in front of him and gently grabbed the kerchief tied around his neck. She pulled him closer. He looked extremely uncomfortable. “You’re going to run down to the docks,” she informed him. “When you get there, you’re to start yelling at those pathetic little sloops in the harbor.”

  “And what is . . . what do . . . I mean . . .”

  “You tell them that before long, a lovely three-masted beauty is going to be coming into harbor. And when it does, those men on the sloops had best greet my sistren with a smile and a wave, not a volley of cannon fire.” The boy nodded dumbly. She released her hold on him. “Well, off with you then.”

  She watched him go. He was fast enough. Telling the other soldiers to stay where they were, Saeliko went back inside to see the repugnant governess. She strode into the house, noting with satisfaction that everyone was still in the same positions. The son had tears rolling down his cheeks; the daughter had watery eyes and snot running out of her nose and down over her lips.

  “Sent out an all clear signal, did ya?” Gaemmil grumbled.

  Saeliko nodded. “And while we wait for the Epoch to arrive, you and I are going to have a friendly chat.”

  “About?”

  “Where’s the quickspice?”

  At this, Gaemmil snorted and then emitted a raspy chortle. Her chins quivered, even while being squeezed by Ollan’s big left arm. Her dark brown eyes looked up to meet Saeliko’s green eyes, and she let out a hearty “Ha!”

  “Something amuses you?” Saeliko asked

  “You’re a mite late,” she laughed. “It left two days ago.”

  1.3 KETTLE

  He got his transfer papers the next day.

  That stung. His face stung, too. It was hard for him to distinguish between the flesh under his left eye and the skin of an old mango. Not even one full day had passed, and the deep reddish and brown discoloration had already started. At least his eye wasn’t swollen shut. Silver linings and all.

  After Kettle’s heroic headbutt to Dallas’ fist, Jay had taken him home, but only after making sure Haley left on her own accord. The last thing Kettle remembered from the party was the snickering from the crowd behind his back when he left on shaky feet. Not an altogether successful outing.

  Now he had his rear end parked in a plastic chair between two palm trees on a slight rise near his living quarters in the part of the atoll they called Downtown. It was getting late in the afternoon and the heat of the day was just beginning to subside. Beside him sat a mini-cooler that he had found in the common area kitchen. Inside were an ice pack for his eye and a six-pack for his pride. From his chair, he commanded a nice view of Eclipse Point and the entrance channel to the main anchorage area. His plan was to sit, take in the scenery and get drunk.

  This plan was now being interrupted by his boss. It wasn’t a work day, but his boss had come in person to give Kettle details on the transfer. Doug Hammond was a large man with a gut nearly protruding out from the bottom of a light blue, sweat- and grease-stained shirt with World’s Greatest Dad written across the chest. A baggy pair of black and gold New Orleans Saints shorts came down to his knees and a ragged pair of tennis shoes covered his feet, leaving a meaty pair of calves to soak in the sun’s rays. Doug was sitting on the ground next to Kettle’s chair on the opposite side of the cooler. That was one of the things Kettle liked about hi
s boss; there was no heightened sense of entitlement. He was as down to Earth as they came and had no qualms about getting dirty. Kettle was well aware of how uncommon it was on an island full of soldiers that a higher ranking man sat on the dirt while a low-level employee sat on a chair. He also knew that Doug would have guffawed and shaken his head if Kettle had stood up to offer his place. Instead, Kettle had tugged a beer out of the cooler and handed it over. Doug grunted his thanks and cracked it open.

  “You’re telling me those transfer orders aren’t related to this?” Kettle asked, pointing to his black eye. “C’mon, tell me. Is Dallas’ dad an admiral or something?”

  “He the guy one gave you the shiner?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nah, the date on the orders is last Thursday. Besides, from what I heard, it was a one-punch fight. Don’t think he’ll be complaining to anyone.”

  “What’s the deal then? I’ve only been here a few months.”

  “No idea. All I know is that the company wants you out at Andersen by next week.” Doug was a man of few words.

  Andersen Air Force Base was on the northern tip of Guam. He definitely wouldn’t have to give up shorts and flip-flops. And even though Guam was a relatively small island, it was massive compared to Diego Garcia. It might be a good opportunity. Still, it didn’t change the fact that the company he worked for was jerking him around without giving any reasons.

  “Why Andersen?”

  “Maybe they’re short on good staff,” Doug suggested. “I gave you good evals.”

  Kettle sensed that there was no point in interrogating his boss over the transfer. Doug was telling the truth. He honestly didn’t know why one of his workers was being plucked away.

  “When am I leaving?”