The White Renegade (Viral Airwaves)

by Claudie Arseneault

  “We have gathered here to discuss the advance of the Union army,” Damian said, “and what we can do to help our conquered brothers.”

  No surprise there: war was the only topic since the Union’s first offensive. Their army had conquered the southern half of Regaria right away, cutting a path through it to get Altaer under their control. The city held hundreds of universities and professional schools, and it was a thriving center of technological advances. Radio news claimed they had surrendered a month ago. With the south and its capital taken, it seemed only a matter of time before the rest of the country followed. Yet the moment the army moved farther north, it had been met with a surge of resistance. The thick pine forests of the North served as ambush spots, and before long the soldiers’ advance had slowed to a crawl.

  They should’ve known the North would be harder. When the Union had asked Regaria to join their alliance of countries, a good part of the South had wanted in. Alex said his town didn’t look at all like conquered territory. The soldiers had stopped by one day, helped repair their rundown mill and painted some of the fences in exchange for food and hospitality, and when all that was done, they’d been on their way. There were rumors of less peaceful events—lots of arrests and the very rare shootout—but until Altaer’s conquest, Regaria had seemed ready to just give in. Too many families were still recovering from the Threstle Plague to fight back. The northern half of the country, however, had always been adamant about their refusal. And as the Union was now learning, this included taking arms and dying. Seraphin hadn’t quite understood why, but as the men and women gathered at the table spoke, it became clear.

  Tradition.

  Tradition was causing them to brace against the Union. They saw it as a threat to their ways, as a dishonor to their ancestors. Seraphin’s hands went to the skeptar at his wrist as he listened to them go on. Defend your country. Defend your traditions, your culture, your uniqueness. The Union would crush it all, they promised, envelop everyone in a blanket of blandness. His grip became tighter with every word. The red string seemed to burn him.

  By the time the seventh speaker finished, Seraphin’s jaw hurt from clenching so much.

  They were all so afraid of what was different. All they wanted was to keep to themselves. A blanket of blandness? Did they not see how they acted when someone new came along, when one of their own didn’t match their vision of the ideal Regarian? It hurt to hear them speak of Regaria in such glowing terms when they didn’t have the decency to respect him half the time. These strangers—this Union—had a lot to teach them about diversity.

  “All of this is bullshit.”

  He’d spoken without waiting his turn, interrupting Old Walt. The silence that followed could’ve choked a bull. It pressed heavily on Seraphin’s shoulders, but he stood anyway, not daring to look at his father. They all stared at him, expressions going from anger to astonishment to mockery.

  “Why would you think the Union would try to erase our traditions? Where is your proof? President Kurtmann already proved he cared for Regarians. Have you forgotten who gave us the antidote to the Threstle Plague when half this village was dying from it four years ago? The cure was discovered in Ferrys, by them, and they could’ve kept it to themselves or forced us to pay for it. They didn’t. They saved thousands of Regarian lives.”

  “Seraphin, sit down and shut up.” His father’s disapproving tone cut straight to his heart. The older man grabbed his arm to pull him down, but Seraphin shook out of his grasp. When he had entered this basement, he had meant to prove he could be one of them, that he was worthy of respect. But if this kind of belief was what it took, he’d rather stay alone and shunned.

  “No!” He glared at his father, then at the gathered men and women. He tried to hold onto pride and confidence, found he had almost none to lend him strength. Instead he fueled his stance with anger. “The only part of our culture at risk is this reactionary idea that anything strange and new coming our way will erase what we are! Our ancestors have adapted, and so will we. This Union is a great chance to do so, but instead of leading us into innovation, you sit back and convince one another it’s better to just stay the same, to never change anything. How incredibly revolutionary of you all.”

  “Seraphin!” This time Damian snapped, with the loud and angry voice that always came before punishment. A lump formed in Seraphin’s throat. He could feel the storm coming. He still turned to his father and met his gaze before finishing, his own voice suddenly tight and small.

  “This is too dangerous, Father. They’re a big army. You’re risking so many lives, and for all the wrong reasons.”

  “Your young one is full of ideas, Damian,” Old Walt commented.

  “Too full.” Damian tried to stare him down, but despite his sweaty palms and the growing malaise in his stomach, Seraphin held his gaze and refused to sit. He wasn’t going to apologize. Not when he was right. “Is your little rant done?”

  “I—”

  “What you mean to answer is ‘Yes, Father.’ By the ancestors, at your age I knew when to keep it shut and listen to my elders.” Damian Holt spread his hands on the table. “There is no such thing as a benevolent invader. Don’t gobble up their propaganda because your little friend from the south told you her life was cool.”

  “Their life.”

  Seraphin’s correction was received with a dismissive wave of Damian’s hand. “Their life, then. The Union army is playing nice because they haven’t met real resistance. But we’re not going to let them take another step in this land. Not if our lives depend on it.”

  “It will. You can’t stop them!”

  “Our ancestors died to protect Regaria, its people, and its culture. They watch over us as we follow in their steps and uphold their legacy. Your grandfather is looking at you, too.”

  Seraphin pressed his lips together. The skeptar’s rope itched under his sleeve, a constant reminder of his ancestors. Of their support and love. “You can’t know what they would do.”

  “Neither can you.”

  That much was true, and if there hadn’t been eleven pairs of eyes set on him, Seraphin might have given in. His anger at their hypocrisy had yet to cool down. He was lightheaded, dizzy. His hands tightened into fists. He threw everyone the most confident glare he could fake.

  “I’ll just have to believe I’m right, then.”

  Damian slammed his fist on the table so hard Seraphin jumped back. “What is it with you? When did I raise you to become so arrogant? You listen too much to that Alex. Different doesn’t make you better, son.”

  Different.

  The word hit Seraphin with staggering force—like a courtball slamming against his heart, like being buried under a ton of snow. For a moment he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Old Walt snickered, whispered ‘demonspawn’ again, and Seraphin’s mouth went dry. This wasn’t his first argument with his father. Never before had he used difference as a weapon. Seraphin stumbled back, not even certain the ground was still under his feet.

  He spun on his heels, his hands shaking, and left them all behind. He was who he was, hadn’t chosen it at all. But Alex had taught him one thing, at least: he didn’t have to apologize for it. He didn’t have to be ashamed.

  Though his father’s words ate at his heart, Seraphin strode out with his head high. He hurried up the stairs, past his mother carrying a tray of beers, and burst into the common room at an almost running pace. She’d given him a confused look, but Seraphin had no intention to stop for anyone—not even when Leanna called his name. His sister sat at the counter with her own watered beer, waiting as he had for so many years. He continued to plow forward through the crowd of chairs and patrons, hoping to be out before she could catch up to him.

  Her hand grabbed his wrist and before he could do anything about it, Leanna had wrapped her arms around him. At least he wasn’t completely alone. Seraphin wiped the first tears to roll down his cheeks and held the others back in.

  “What’s wrong, Seraph?�
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  Seraphin caressed his sister’s hair for a moment, then peeled her off him, one arm at a time. Everyone was staring at them. Tomorrow they would all know what had happened. He needed to escape.

  “I like being myself a little too much, it seems.”

  Seraphin didn’t give her time to ask for an explanation. He pushed the pub’s door opened and slipped into the howling winds, relishing the cold biting his skin. This resistance was a mistake, for Iswood and for Regaria. When the snowstorms stopped and fair weather returned, Seraphin intended to leave the town and join the very army they meant to stop.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A bright moon shone on the squad of soldiers as they spread around the Wet Lizard. Although summer wasn’t over yet, the night’s cool breeze hinted at the incoming fall. Damp and crisp, it pierced Seraphin’s clothes and chilled the already cold sweat running down his body. Twigs snapped under booted feet, men and women exchanged tense whispers, and General Vermen watched from the trees’ shadow, a few steps behind their line and to the right. His gaze always seemed to return to Seraphin, now in position next to Stern. Or perhaps it was all in Seraphin’s mind.

  He tried to remain calm, to make his face a mask, but it felt like everyone could read through it. He didn’t want to be here. They would know, would hear the silent prayer in his head, the desperate wish to see the soldiers pull back and leave Iswood alone. Surely his father wasn’t worth the trouble, he told himself. They should move on to more important opponents. But they had all heard General Vermen’s instructions. His orders did not lend themselves to clemency. It’s time to teach these filthy Regarians a lesson, he’d said, looking straight at Seraphin. The entire squad would have, too, if they’d been allowed to stare anywhere but straight ahead. Seraphin had ignored the look, grinding his teeth and waiting for the briefing to end.

  They had intel telling them when and where to strike. Someone had told the army a rebel cell met in the Wet Lizard’s basement every Tuesday, and had done so without fail for the last three years. Regarians were creatures of habit, and it seemed that in this case, it would be their doom.

  Seraphin took a deep breath and steadied himself. A part of him hoped for simple arrests. The foolish, optimistic part. You didn’t teach a lesson by arresting people, not when you were General Klaus Vermen. That much he had learned from their short time under his orders.

  The soldiers’ whispers became louder, and Seraphin noticed they were passing heavy-looking buckets. One for every two men, and his hands remained thankfully empty at the end. The acrid smell of strong alcohol attacked his nose as he leaned over Stern’s bucket. Why alcohol? No one was going to drink tonight.

  Then Seraphin saw the men stuff all kinds of detritus near the walls, careful to avoid the pub’s grime-covered windows. They were strangers, not from his squad, and he exchanged a confused glance with Stern. Soon the soldiers signaled to General Vermen. The man answered with a simple gesture: he tapped an empty bucket in his hand, then pointed at the establishment. High-pitched laughter drifted out of the Wet Lizard as the first soldiers threw alcohol on the wooden walls and material under. Seraphin’s heart clenched. That might’ve been Nanny Julia. He tried not to think of it as he watched the liquid roll down the walls and soak the flammable pile at its feet.

  They were going to torch the Wet Lizard.

  “Holy fathers,” Seraphin whispered.

  His fingers tightened around his rifle. He could feel General Vermen’s gaze on him, daring him to move or protest. Seraphin wanted to scream, to tell everyone to get out now, before it was too late. He stiffened and stayed put instead. Heavy bullets of sweat ran down his forehead. Stern came back with an empty bucket, set it down, and readied his gun again.

  “Are you okay?”

  Seraphin didn’t answer. He couldn’t get a word past the solid lump in his throat. A flame flicked to life next to General Vermen, at the edge of the Regarian’s vision. Damian Holt would be in this basement. His father. His mother too, most likely. Did Leanna still drink watered-down beer in the smoky common room, waiting for the secret meetings to be over? He squeezed his eyes shut, praying harder than he ever had.

  “Ready weapons!” General Vermen’s voice carried far, loud enough for his soldiers, but low enough not to be heard inside. “Shoot anyone who tries to flee. No exceptions.”

  Every soldier in his squad raised their rifle, pointing them at windows and doors. Seraphin didn’t move. Couldn’t move. His heart threatened to burst through his ribcage. Stern elbowed him hard.

  “He’s staring right at you,” he said.

  The reminder jolted him out of his daze. They would brand him a traitor if he didn’t follow orders. Slowly, Seraphin raised the rifle and took aim at the nearest window. He didn’t need to turn to imagine General Vermen’s satisfied smile. The man had spent so much time relishing painful training sessions in the last months, the entire squad knew that delighted expression by heart. He must be enjoying every second of this evening.

  “Stern … this is my hometown,” Seraphin whispered. “My family is in there.”

  He heard his friend’s strangled exclamation, and for a moment there was only a long silence. When Stern spoke again, he was making an obvious effort to keep his voice down. “I have a feeling my aim will be shit tonight.”

  Seraphin never had a chance to thank him. General Vermen raised his arm then brought it down quickly. Four men ran to the windows, smashed them with the cross of their rifles, then threw unpinned grenades inside. Alarmed cries turned into terror at the first explosion. The man next to Vermen threw his torch on the alcohol-soaked debris for added certainty. Great flames roared to life and sprinted across the walls, consuming the alcohol. A powerful wave of heat washed over Seraphin. He watched, petrified, as fire took hold of the wood.

  The screams from inside barely made it through the ringing in his ears. Inside, orders were given to splash water on the growing fire. Mist hissed to life and drifted out the windows, but it hadn’t rained in weeks. The Wet Lizard was doomed. Those trapped inside seemed to understand: four of them burst out the front door.

  Harold. Fred. Small Sam. Nanny Julia—he’d been right about her laughter.

  Gunshots punctuated Seraphin’s mental naming. The townsfolk dropped before they had taken five steps. Seraphin closed his eyes, but the image was burned on the back of his eyelids. Union soldiers were shooting down childhood memories.

  A second explosion shook the pub, and the eastern section collapsed on itself. Bright flames rose into the night sky as the fire ate through the alcohol reserve. Most soldiers took a few steps back to avoid the heat. Seraphin couldn’t move, couldn’t take his eyes off the destruction. Stern whispered his name again, and the Regarian glanced at General Vermen. In the flickering light, his smile seemed downright sadistic. There were more screams inside, and the shattering of glass.

  Amidst the wavering shadows created by the fire, Seraphin spotted one more solid than others. It crawled out, sleek, and a passing flame illuminated it. A ton of rock dropped at the bottom of Seraphin’s stomach, and for a moment he couldn’t think of anything but her name.

  Leanna.

  Her face was covered in soot, her dress torn by the glass. An adult couldn’t have escaped through that tiny basement window, but at fifteen, his sister was lean enough. Tears had struck clear lines in the grime on her visage, and she stumbled away from the pub, taking two steps before she fell back to her knees. Seraphin moved forward. It caught her attention, and for the briefest moment, their eyes met. Long enough for her surprise, fear, and anger to register.

  Then multiple rifles detonated. A bullet hit her shoulder, another her chest, and a third blew half her face away. One moment he was looking at his sister, the next there was blood and flesh and his brain refused to really understand. He stared until her body hit the ground, his mind a strange and empty buzz. Then his knees gave out.

  Stern caught him and wrapped his hands around Seraphin’s, on the Regarian’s r
ifle. It forced him to hold steady and remain standing.

  “Keep your cool,” Stern said. “Shoot. Miss. You have to get through this.”

  Seraphin didn’t know if he could. A strong nausea threatened to overtake him, and the gunshots made him flinch. Who were they aiming for? Who else had just been killed? And more than anything, was Alex in there? He noticed someone’s back as they tried to escape, aimed to the left, and shot. The knockback slammed into his shoulder. Seraphin welcomed the pain. It kept him awake, aware of what was happening. He was wearing the Union uniform, shooting at his people. His sister lay dead in the grass nearby. She had been fifteen. They had blown her face off.

  Smoke stung his eyes and filled his lungs. Seraphin’s mind hid in a dark corner, but he kept shooting. He couldn’t drop the act. He was a soldier and this was his duty. He shot, again and again, always missing, always faking. His hands and shoulders went numb, the shapes and bodies blurred before him, but the stench of charred flesh remained vivid. Flames leaked out of the basement’s window now. The screams had vanished.

  “You can stop,” Stern said.

  The order had been given at some point, and Seraphin hadn’t heard. The other soldiers were lowering their weapons. Some pulled back into the woods without a glance at the carnage, while others shared Seraphin’s daze. It had been a brutal extermination. The memories seared into his mind would follow him everywhere. General Vermen’s smile, in particular, came back to the forefront of his thoughts. He had enjoyed this. Had ordered it with great pleasure. This night was his doing, his wish.