by Justin Bell
"You're . . . Athelonian?" he asks, looking at me.
"That's what they tell me."
"Your arms?"
Still keeping my hands over my head I shrug. "Birth defect?"
"You're her aren't you? The one we've been hearing about?"
"I'm just a girl."
He glances to his left and right, looking at his partners on each side. "Keep your eyes on her. Do not let her out of your sight."
"I'm not going anywhere," I say calmly, a calm that is at odds with the thrashing in my head. One side effect to a brain that is always working and always searching for solutions to immediate problems, is that when a solution isn't imminent, the end result is throbbing skull pain.
I can't think. The agony in my head is a hot and sharp series of bee stings as if they're crawling all over the inside of my skull and attacking me.
"Call reinforcements," the lead Reblon says. "We'll keep them covered until backup arrives. We're taking no chances."
Turns out he didn't have the opportunity to take a chance.
I see the shot before I hear it. The Reblon's head jerks backwards by some invisible force, half a second before I hear the rolling boom echo over the sky above the motorcade.
A gun shot. A sniper shot.
Everything moves quickly. As the Reblon in the center of the trio tumbles backwards, the other two break away and the one on my left turns and opens fire. His shots go wide as I lurch to the left myself and a second sniper shot rips into the chest of the second Reblon, throwing him back against the door. I scramble to the ground as the last guard tracks me with his weapon, both barrels glaring at me from a short distance. I clench my fist, and my hand jumps back from the kick of the grapple gun.
The spear whips through the air and punches deep into the Reblon's torso with a dull whack and his eyes go wide as he stumbles, drops to his knees, then topples over onto his face.
That's three down. The roof's clear. I make a mental note to thank Drewsk and Loren. I'm sure their sharpshooting just saved our lives.
"Luxen, let's go!" I shout as I clamor to my feet and charge towards the door.
There are no footsteps following me.
"Luxen!" I spin.
I see him. Luxen lies on the gravel surface of the roof with his arms splayed out and his eyes closed. Dark wetness seeps through his uniform at his left armpit, soaking out over his chest and darkening the color of his vest.
That Reblon who shot at us . . . he missed me. He didn't miss Luxen.
"Luxen!" I shout again, charging over to him. I can hear the tinny whine of alarms cascading over the motorcade site. In the distance the small shapes of security drones grow larger. Those airborne anti-personnel vehicles will be here in seconds and will completely cut us off from any hope of escape.
Is he breathing? I think so, but I can't tell. I'm sure if I sat and thought about it hard enough my new brain would figure out a way to treat him, but the sad fact is I don't have time. With the breath clutched tight in my lungs I bend over to gather him up and sling him over one shoulder. The young, thin Bragdon boy feels so light and so fragile.
Pushing aside any thought of his well-being, I sprint towards the door, slam my way through with one shoulder, and hit the stairs running.
###
I lose track of how long I've been running. It's not even a run anymore. It's a slow, careful jog, weaving in and out of buildings. I'm still carrying Luxen, light and limp across my shoulder, even as the sun drifts from the sky and to cloak us under the deepening haze of dusk.
He stirs sometimes, a quiet, restless squirm, like he is remembering something important he wants to say. But for the past several minutes he's been quiet and still, a lifeless slab of meat over me, and I haven't dared stop to check on him.
I see the alley and, I know it's the right one. I'm late in getting back. I took several extra twists and turns on the way, afraid that a direct path might be overrun with security.
The streets are clear. I see no Reblons and hear no Crashers, so I make my way towards the mouth of the alley, cast in a pale light from the emergency strobes on the wall at each side.
I hear an engine behind me, a low, muffled hiss, and spin in time to see the pair of headlights whip around the corner, bathing me and the slumped form of Luxen in their bright cones of light. We're out in the open with nowhere to go.
"Brie!" a voice shouts. The vehicle isn't a grav car, it's a truck or a transport of some kind with an bed in back, bracketed by metal walls. I glance through the rolled down passenger window and see Drewsk leaning out.
"We've been looking for you," he says. "Hop in--"
His eyes widen as he spots the prone form on my shoulder.
"Is that--?"
"It's Luxen," I whisper back. "I don't know if . . . I don't know if he's alive."
Drewsk pushes open the passenger door, and jerks his head back towards the rear of the truck. "Get him on there. I was a medical officer for Iridium. I'll take a look."
With his help, we ease Luxen over and set him down in the bed of the pick up. To my surprise and relief he mumbles something as we place him down and starts to roll over.
"Looks like he's breathing at least," Drewsk says. "Come on." He places his hand on the bed and vaults up onto the back. I follow close behind. An arm reaches out from the cab and pulls the door closed, then the truck hums, lifts, and jolts forward.
Two more pairs of headlights swing around the corner behind us and fall into formation as we cruise past the alley, then ease right and press onward towards the edge of the city.
I hover over Drewsk who lowers himself down to Luxen, pressing an ear to his mouth.
"I'm no expert on Bragdon anatomy," he says, "but it feels like he's breathing. He's got a pulse, too."
He brings himself up into a kneeling posture and unzips Luxen's vest, peels it apart, and lifts his shirt up to his collar. I can see the grimy smear of dark, dried blood over his left side as Drewsk pokes around, searching for an entry wound.
"Found it," he replies. "Minor injury. Whatever round these savages used split the skin, then broke away. It hit just right to bleed like crazy, but I think he's going to be okay."
I exhale a long, deep breath that I've been holding for hours, and my every muscle feels like a shoelace untied, freeing me from a tightly wound bundle.
"Okay," I say. "Okay, okay."
Buildings drift past us, growing shorter and smaller as we move out of Von Grandeur towards the long-grass meadows of the surrounding plains. Uneven roads send the truck into jumping lurches as the grav jets below attempt to compensate for the dramatic shifts in landscape. Behind us the two trucks follow, all four headlights leaping up and down, going over the same bumps and rocks we are.
With the scattered pinprick lights of Von Grandeur fading behind us, our truck slows and the two trucks behind us drift apart, flanking us as all three of the vehicles park in a vacant stretch of grassy meadow. Engines cut and the night is deafening in its dark silence.
"Why are we stopping?" asks Drewsk, leaning over the side. Even before the other two vehicles come to full stops, he vaults out of the back and swings open the door.
"What's going on?"
"He wants to talk to her," replies a voice from inside the cab. I'm pretty sure it's Loren, the other Athelonian.
"Get me the med kit from the console," Drewsk replies. "Why does he want to talk to her?"
"You know why."
Drewsk drops his head and shakes it, sighing. He leans into the cab and retrieves a small case that Loren hands off to him.
"Catch," he says tossing it to me, and I snag it gracefully out of midair.
By the time I get it stable in my hands, he's leaped up into the truck next to me and is reaching for me to hand it back.
His fingers work fast, prying open the case's clasp, then slipping out some bandages and a liquid suture kit, then going to work on Luxen's wound.
"He wants to talk to you," he says without looking up.
"Who?"
"Who do you think? The Senator."
So he's a senator? I didn't even know he was a senator.
"Why?"
"Why else? Why do you think we asked you to be involved in this?"
"I have no clue, Drewsk. You haven't told me anything!"
He hesitates for a moment, pressing the gauze into the wound on Luxen's chest, then he looks up at me, his face carved in an impatient scowl.
"Look. Whether or not you are the Child of the Stars, there are people who believe you are. Sometimes that's more powerful than who you actually are. Senator Freejok is a believer."
"Is that why we abducted him?"
Drewsk smirks. "It had to look like an abduction. Like we said, he's been feeding us intel for years. Now, he's ready to spread the gospel of unification, but he will only do it with your support."
I push myself upright, then turn my back towards him, trying not to show my exasperation. "I'm tired of being on this pedestal, Drewsk. This isn't what I want."
"Millions of lives could be at stake, Brie," he replies. "Excuse me for saying so, but it doesn't much matter what you want."
A reply coats the tip of my tongue, but I hold it there. I hold it there because I know he's right. How does the selfish attitude of an eighteen-year-old Athelonian teenager compare to the life and death of millions of inhabitants of three worlds?
How can I even think that my own personal feelings and well-being compare to the scale of lives lost should these three planets fall into full scale intergalactic war?
There's no way to rationalize it. In no possible way can I justify my own safety, my own peace of mind, or my own selfish desires. The entire Yarda Quadrant hangs in the balance, and that fact brings a mixture of intense pressure and bizarre, satisfying clarity, as if I just remembered the name of a song that had been buzzing in my ears all day.
For a month I've been going back and forth between wanting my old life and the new. I have experienced a strong desire to retreat back to Athelon, bow to my parents' wishes, and slide back into my old life away from all of this. I realized that if I wasn't this strange mystical Child of the Stars, I would somehow disappoint an entire series of planets, and that I would be seen as a failure.
But, now, the truth hits me. It's not just the physical Child of the Stars that is important; it's the idea of it, or the legend behind it. This vague myth brought to some sort of life by the physical existence of a girl is powerful.
Mythology can be a powerful thing, even when it has no basis in reality. Here we have a Reblon senator, willing to risk his entire career . . . his entire life, because of who he believes I am. Whether I am that person or not, I owe it to these people to do my part and to play my role.
"Where is Senator Freejok?" I ask, looking out into the dusk of night.
"Third truck," Drewsk replies, pointing towards the pick up to my right.
I hop down and walk towards the vehicle, then vault up into the bed. The well-dressed Reblon is sitting in the bed with his back pressed to the cab. Thatches of white fur stick out from his head and stick up in tufts from his formerly neatly pressed blue suit. I can see that at one point today he was groomed and clean, but the events of the past few hours have undone much of that.
As I lower myself into a seated position, the trucks' engines kick on and I can feel the vehicle lift on the gravity generators below. The caravan begins moving forward, over the long-grass towards a destination I cannot see.
"You are her?" he asks, looking at me.
"That's what they tell me."
It's a conversation I need to learn how to have.
"I wasn't sure the legends were true."
"To be honest," I reply, "I'm not sure either. But something is happening, I can tell you that much."
He nods, then glances at my arms. "You were born with only two arms?"
"Yes."
"And you are . . . Athelonian?"
Am I? This seems to be the persistent question. I think I am . . . but lately the Bragdon skin has felt more natural.
"Honestly? I'm not sure. The parents I've known my whole life are Athelonian, for whatever that's worth."
He doesn't reply. He turns and looks out into the darkness as we drive.
"This is a brave thing you're doing," I say to break the silence more than anything else.
He shrugs. "What else am I supposed to do? Go about my daily life? Sign useless bills into laws while the entire Quadrant rests on the brink of annihilation?"
"That seems to be what most in your position are doing."
"They don't believe like I do. They think war is inevitable and nothing they do will stop it. They believe there is no hope for unification, and all we can hope for is to be strong, be victorious, and be the only planet left intact when it's all over."
"That's . . . horrible."
He shrugs again. "I imagine the same is true of Athelon and Braxis."
"I have no doubt about that."
He turns and looks into the darkness. I follow his gaze to see the vague shape of a building in the distance with a few faint squares of light where windows are. It looks like some kind of old farmhouse, a remote building out in the middle of nowhere. The structure is flanked by a thick forest. Trees stand side-by-side in a veritable wall all along the back side. The other three sides are flanked by more of the tall grass. Some stalks reach up at least three yards and shift in the low evening breeze.
"Is that our destination?" Senator Freejok asks.
"Your guess is as good as mine," I reply.
The lead truck eases to a halt, parking itself diagonally in front of the farmhouse, and the other two trucks repeat the motion. Engines cut and the night is quiet.
Up ahead, bathed in the pale light of headlights, I see Drewsk and Loren stepping out onto the grass. The farmhouse stands tall and proud, a relic of a bygone age, but defiantly protective of its heritage, unwilling to give in to more modern times.
It's a dark brown with an angular roof and a wide, square frame, with six separate windows staring out at us. Dim yellow light glows from each one.
"What is this place?" I ask in a hushed whisper.
Drewsk turns and glances back at me. "Its home."
There's a look in his eye that conveys a sense of calm and peace that I've not seen since first meeting him. I understand in that one short moment that this is a place of safety and serenity. It is a place where he can retreat and be at peace.
All at once, that peace is shattered. In the screen casts, this rolling bellow of orange light chased by soft plumes of smoke always happens in slow motion.
Here in reality, there are no camera tricks and no fancy effects or multiple takes to make sure the angle is right. Here in reality, the blast is sudden, abrupt, and deafening. Before all of our eyes, the farmhouse blows apart in a whipping fury of white light, yellow flame, and noise.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The heat blasts on my face like opening a furnace door when you're standing too close. It's not a gentle, soothing warmth, but a sudden and jolting fever blast of hotness that makes my eyes sting and sends smoke crawling down my throat with ragged claws.
Around me the world pauses in stunned silence. My ears ring with the aftershocks of the explosion, and my eyes fog with tears and heat. Broken and jagged shards of wood rain down around me, banging off of the pickup trucks, trailing smoke after them and leaving pock marks of burnt grass where they land. I see Drewsk jolting left and right, pointing fingers in wild gestures, and sending the people who are scattered in every direction charging back towards the parked vehicles.
He looks at me with his mouth jolting opened and closed, his arms waving, and his eyes wide and insistent. I can't hear a thing except the low level buzz and ringing from the sudden detonation.
My eyes roam to the left, trying to focus. Out of the corner of my eye I see Drewsk looking at me, his mouth moving and arms waving, but the buzzing is drilling deep into my skull. I want to close my eyes,
but he keeps flailing his four arms at me as if mocking me or something but I can't quite focus.
"Brie!"
The voice is low and muffled amid the rampant humming in my head. Drewsk is shouting.
"Brie can you hear me?"
His voice is a little clearer this time, and I nod out of reflex.
"We need to go!" he shouts, charging towards me and waving his two right hands.
I'm just steadying myself on the bed of the truck as it begins to rise on the grav jets, tilting to the left. The other two trucks are doing the same, rising at cockeyed angles, and between them I can barely make out the burning husk of what used to be the large farmhouse.