Godling (Kairenz Jistora Book 1)

by Dusks, Rydre

  I felt I’d have to get used to his strange personality quirks, but I told myself to keep an open mind. Machinics were meant to be more than just lifelike, and all had the capacity to continue to become more human as time went on, learning more as they immersed themselves in human society. The more biological beings spent around a Machinic, the more the Machinic took hints on how to act like a human. They were designed to be nearly impossible to distinguish in a crowd.

  Ten seconds later I left the tent with him anyway, the both of us figuring the most we could do without getting in trouble was walk around and commune with the other prisoners. Most of them were cagey though and refused to even make eye contact.

  The half hour passed by faster than I expected. A human guard rounded up all the prisoners and forced us to stand in a single line again, just in front of the long rows of tents.

  "Listen up!" the guard barked. "When your name's called, walk forward and retrieve your schedule. Ya'll begin work immediately after all names're finished. There'll be no enterin' buildings 'less your job calls for it, and no wanderin'! Wanderers'll be shot dead. And should ya survive, there ain't any medical doctors 'round who'd care enough to treat the likes of you. Any questions?"

  There were not even any flinches from the guard's words. Someone raised his hand. "When do we eat?"

  "Dinner's served in two hours. Your instructors'll notify you of when, but all of ya should've received a watch from your kits. If ya didn't, I suggest ya go and get 'em after schedules're handed out."

  "Screw you all," an inmate two spaces away from me spoke up, gearing his words toward the guard. "I'm not working for you sons of bitches, and I don't deserve to be here."

  The guard looked at him sharply, and without a word lifted his rifle. He pointed and shot before the inmate had much of a chance to react, and I watched in horror as the bullet struck the man cleanly between the eyes. He doubled backward and fell in a sprawl, causing the two on either side of him to back away in complete shock.

  "Anyone else feelin' like they don't deserve to be here?" the guard questioned icily as he lifted the barrel of his gun to the sky like it was an offer.

  My body froze in place as I realized just how much power these guards really had. I had never thought that a single curse could cause a death. Perhaps I should be more careful about who I mock, I thought as I recalled my earlier confrontation with Stone.

  No one else spoke, frightened into complete silence, and so the guard began calling names. One by one, each prisoner walked up and took a small sheet of paper from another guard standing close to the one calling the names. Armed guards flanked the line. One of them had done the duty of dragging the newly dead prisoner away and behind a building, where the two of them disappeared.

  G'tavei rolled his eyes when he received his schedule a couple of minutes later but didn't say anything. When I took mine, I checked it over thoroughly.

  Duster

  Breakfast 6:00AM

  Work 7:00AM - 12:00PM

  Lunch 1:00PM

  Work 2:00PM - 6:00PM

  Dinner 7:00PM

  Curfew 9:00PM

  While wondering what the hell a duster was and how to read Souloran time, G'tavei looked at mine, then showed me his.

  Night Staff

  These had to be New Soul because I didn't understand their terms. I figured they would be answered eventually.

  After everyone was called, the guard read off where we would all be going.

  "Cooks and servers'll go to the kitchen. That's in the building right behind the warden's cabin. Dusters, ya'll find your meetin' place in the theater southeast o' here, catty-corner from the casino. Item counters, meet in front of the warden's cabin. Night staff, your job ain't startin' 'til after sunset, so in the meantime make yourselves useful and go tidy up the gallows northwest of here, got it?"

  "Charming..." G'tavei breathed.

  "Ya'll dismissed!"

  With that, the guards went their separate ways, and I was free to go back and get my watch. Once retrieved, I said goodbye to G'tavei and walked to the tent flap, but then stopped and turned sheepishly back toward him.

  "Um... G'tavei... I can't read Souloran time," I mentioned.

  He glanced up from his pile of new belongings. "Don't worry--I can. Show me your schedule." When I handed it over, his eyes scanned the lettering for a handful of seconds. "Souloran time is pretty similar to Iasona. Just apply about a half degree to every hour marked on here. So, their six a.m. would be our six-point-five degrees. Do the same with the p.m. evening times, but mark them a half hour after everything written. Make sense?"

  My mind swam with confusion, but I accepted the slip when he extended it back to me. "It'll take some time, but I'll get used to it. Oh, and... vasu es 'theater?'"

  G'tavei tilted his head. "New Soul sucks, doesn't it? Auditioma, my friend."

  The Iasona word for the same thing shook me out of my confusion quickly, and I recalled what type of building I needed to look for.

  "Thanks, G'tavei." I took a breath, the sound of the gunshot from earlier still loud in my head. "Hey... if I don't come back, just figure I got shot by a guard for opening my mouth, okay?"

  He frowned in disapproval. "Don't get too worried. That guy was causing trouble earlier. He was mouthing off and saying some nasty things toward the guards long before you even got out of the warden's cabin. He tried running for the open gates seconds after you went in. I saw him book it and get caught by the robots. So it was no wonder why they shot him. They were sick of him already."

  I left the tent and went back toward the ghost town, heading in the direction I was told to. Along the way guards watched me from their positions, their guns constantly at the ready. A couple of other prisoners were on their way to the theater as well, and it was not a hard building to spot. It was bigger than the neighboring buildings and read Auditorium across the front. I walked in, trying to blink dust out of my eyes, and let my breath catch for just a moment.

  The theater was dreamlike. I wasn't sure what it was about its messy, broken down state, but it had a charm. There were holes here and there in the ceiling, letting in broken splashes of light and illuminating the lazily floating dust clouds. The stage was lit with some low lights, and the rows of seats were ragged and ugly. Still, I was already falling in love. There was a sense of comfort here, especially since there was no guard outside the building like there were the others. A sense of silence... as if even in this horrible hell I'd been sent to, there was still a haven available.

  Someone sat on the edge of the stage. His hair was a dusky purple and stuck out in several areas in a strange, almost flattering bedhead look. He was small-framed, reminding me a little of Insidd, but this kid looked quite a big younger than Insidd. He was perhaps in his late teens, and almost immediately I could tell that he had been a thief. There was a rather lavish gold ring on his left middle finger paired with a smaller band on his pointer. Even from a distance, I saw a family crest imprinted on the front of the gold one, lined with a crust of tiny sparkling gems.

  "Welcome to the theater," said the kid as the three of us walked up toward him. "I'm your instructor--a veteran prisoner here in Roavo. You can call me Rook."

  "Now when you say veteran," started one of the other inmates, "you mean you've been here longer than anyone else?"

  Rook smirked. "Not just. I've survived two firing lines and three hangings." He lifted his neck to the light, and I noticed brutal scarring along the upper area of his throat. "I've been declared the luckiest sonovabitch to ever walk through Roavo's gates."

  "The warden must hate you," said the other inmate to the left of me, sitting down in one of the nearest seats and sending up a huge puff of dust.

  I eyed Rook closely. There was something certainly different about him. He gave off a strange feeling... almost electrifying. Rook must have noticed it too, because he looked at me in the same strange way.

  "Yeah... but he lets me get by now. He said, 'If I can't kill you, then I
can at least put you to use.'"

  "Vasu es it we do here?" I asked.

  "So glad you asked, buddy." Rook stood up. I noticed he wore some very dirty, ragged sneakers instead of his prison boots like the rest of us. His uniform hung around his skinny frame like curtains on a window. "We tidy things up. Some of the guards like to use these buildings as execution spots or mess halls. It changes every few months."

  "Great... Es just four of us?"

  "On the boy's side of camp, yes. All the previous dusters've either been transferred to another camp or executed. And the girls handle the other side."

  "There're girls here?" the inmate in the chair wondered with a hint of excitement.

  Rook wiggled a finger at him. "Don't be getting any ideas, friend. The guards have shot over fifty inmates for trying to sneak into the women's camp. And that's just from the six years that I've been here."

  Six years... That was a long time, and especially for a kid like him. I wondered if I would last my four years, or what my fate really was.

  Rook strode across the stage, carrying a confident air about himself. I didn't blame him for doing so. Cheating death five different times would do that to anyone.

  "Our job gets pretty messy. 'Duster' is a very general term. We handle cleaning up bodies and sprucing up the buildings mostly."

  "That's horrible," I couldn't help but utter, getting looks from the other two inmates.

  Rook gazed at me again. "I wouldn't say horrible. You grow desensitized to it after a short time, blackie."

  "That's easy for you to say when you're apparently immortal," said the one in the chair.

  Rook grinned again. "The key to surviving is to not fear death. Things may seem easy right now, but the warden likes to take random prisoners and torture them in front of others for his own sick fun. I'm serious--he gets off on it."

  I wanted to gag.

  "If you want to survive, you keep crazy confident," Rook continued, raising his forefinger to indicate severity. His ring gleamed in the light. "Dignity doesn't exist here--that's something you have to let go of. But your own sense of being... now that's something you never want to give up. You want to know what I said to the guards the second time they tried to kill me? I said, 'Get some balls and try harder next time.' I had four bullets in my gut and one between my ribs, and I still had the gall to stand up to them. Figuratively."

  How in the world could a scrawny little guy like Rook survive multiple bullets twice as well as escape death three times on the gallows… all without a doctor available? It was entirely unreal.

  "You're nuts," said the other inmate. "You've gotta be joking. No one survives that many executions."

  "Only me. I'd run through the details of each one and how I scraped by, but I'd rather not eat up the time," Rook replied softly. I could tell he was not lying. There was a certain lilt to his foreign accent when he spoke casually, but this time he'd dropped it as if to indicate seriousness.

  "Anyway, we better get to work before a guard hops in here and sees us slacking off. We'll start here in the theater for today." He pointed to the inmate on my left. "Since you're in the chair, I'll have you start on the seats." He looked at the other to my right. "You'll be working near the front by the exit. You'll all find supplies at your stations. Blackie, you'll be up with me behind the stage."

  As much as I didn't appreciate the nickname, I didn't mind it coming from Rook. The way he said it wasn't in a demeaning way, as if he didn't carry the typical Souloran hatred for other races. I climbed up onto the stage and followed him behind the curtain as the other inmates took off to their designated spots.

  "You don't look like you come from GreyCross, but you have a strong Iasona accent," said Rook.

  "I live there phoro seviet years," I replied, then paused and corrected myself. "Seviet... Seven. But I live in the Gasaidiatt until I tierne thirteen."

  "What made you move to a crappy place like GreyCross?"

  My thoughts drew back to the dream I’d had a few days ago. The feelings that coursed through me as I’d run to escape my murderous father in the Gasaidiatt were just as potent as they had been that harrowing day. My head and shoulders still felt the icy tingle of being forcefully pushed underwater. I tried not to shudder.

  “It was my only choice,” was my short answer.

  Rook stopped by a pile of rags and cleaning supplies. "You're definitely unique. I never seen a blackie before. At least one that wasn't Earth-descended. Earth's got a lot of them from what I hear. I was born in Lenta... in Maater City, Sheliaas. I moved to Souloroh to practice my art."

  He stowed away on a ship to Souloroh because he heard about how rich many Soulorans were, and he wanted some of that wealth, said a voice in my head.

  I shuddered a little, snapping to alertness and trying to focus.

  Sylvain? You can reach me this far? Send me help, please!

  And how is an emaciated, paper-thin creation like me supposed to take care of your situation? You must be patient, Crow Hightower. I can make someone go get you, but in my current situation, it will take some time.

  I need to find Stelliot... How did you know about Rook?

  Sylvain's tone turned sly. Rook is special. Just like you.

  The purple-haired prisoner stared at me oddly, bringing me back to reality.

  "You okay? You look like you just realized you left the oven on."

  I gave him an odd stare for a moment, unfamiliar with the phrase, but shook my head. "Just... you say something about Lenta. It strike a chord is all. I have always curiosity about it."

  I tried to connect with Sylvain for more information, hungry to know what was going on with him, with the Strejca... but nothing. What had he meant? Rook was special like me? Did he have an extra growth like Velzae, Sylvain, and I did? But how would Sylvain know something like that?

  Rook smirked and handed me a rag and a spray bottle full of solution. "It's definitely different from Va'lent. I think I prefer Va'lent though. Not so many loonies."

  "...'Loonies?'" I wondered as I sprayed a table and wiped it down.

  "Yeah, lunatics. Crazies. A lot of Shelians are starting to move up into Souloroh because they're paranoid about the Mirror Curse," Rook answered as he began sifting through a rack of spare guard uniforms. "Honestly, it's taken such a long time for the Mirror Curse to spread across the continent that I think it's silly."

  "Eso..." I didn't agree with him. Seventeen miles was a lot of land to stretch across every year. But I didn't have much to say about it for now. The Mirror Curse had always given me chills, because there was absolutely no way to stop it. But at the same time, there was almost a sense of calm to it. It was like a death... or perhaps a rebirth. The planet was beginning to wither away, but it wasn't necessarily a bad thing, at least in my lifetime. It'd taken three hundred years for it to get as far as it had, and would take perhaps another three to four hundred for it to finish with Lenta. And who was to say that the Mirror Curse would ever reach Va'lent anyway?

  The front doors opened, and someone shouted from outside the curtains. "Dusters! Get to the library! Now!"

  Rook straightened and dropped what he was doing, brushing a wild lock of hair from his eyes. "Looks like our services are needed. You didn't eat before you came in here, did you?" he asked me.

  "Vasu? Ano," I replied with a shake of my head.

  "Good. Follow me then."

  I walked behind Rook as he led me and the other two inmates out of the theater. I was a little sad to leave but figured I'd be back. Rook carried a bucket of soapy water with a few brushes and sponges floating in it and walked us further into the town, which wasn’t that far from the theater. He stepped in through the double doors to the big building reading Library and stalled, recoiling with a face of disgust. I didn't understand the expression until I came closer, then recognized a scent that I knew too well.

  It was blood. A lot of blood. That tangy, coppery aroma was hard to miss, and it had mixed with smoke and the scent of gunpowder.
As I and the other prisoners walked inside to join Rook we all gave our own reactions. Not just to the smell, but to the sight as well. What was most likely once a prisoner was now splattered across the floor in a chunky, disfigured mess. I would have been convinced that it had been any animal, except I recognized a piece of the unfortunate prisoner's hand near the doorway. One of the other inmates turned away and retched.

  "What in the holy realm of the Crei happened in here?" exclaimed the other one.

  Rook wasn't too fazed by the scene, as he dropped down to his knees and pulled out a scrub brush from the bucket, immediately getting to work. "The guards like to make sure some prisoners are completely unrecognizable. That way they won't get in trouble if some other authorities come into the camp looking for a specific prisoner to let out due to mistakes or bails. They don't do that to everyone who dies--normally just the ones who really, really piss them off. Like this poor bastard. It stops outside authorities from having evidence to hold against this shithouse of an asylum."

  I didn't even want to begin imagining how this scene came about. I tried to remember what Rook said about keeping confident, dropping dignity, and just living... and I stooped and picked up a brush as well, following his lead.

  I didn't eat dinner that night.

  7

  A Ferine Goodbye

  It was near dawn when G'tavei walked back into the tent and dropped himself heavily onto his cot. I wouldn't have awoken if it weren't for the obscenely loud crunch and thunk that followed. I opened my eyes to him having fallen across his collapsed bed, looking a little surprised.

  Despite the particular stress I was under, hysterics got the best of me and an unsteady laugh escaped my lungs. G’tavei took note of the ridiculous moment and joined me in the guffaw.

  “Shut up in there!” A guard beat against the outside of our tent, and we silenced a second after.

  "Guess you're a little too heavy," I mumbled, shifting further under my covers as my smile dissipated. Rook had said I'd receive some new clothes today, as mine were covered in bloodstains and reeking of dirt and death. After we'd cleaned up the library we had to drop the remains of the prisoner into a makeshift grave, which we had to dig ourselves. The blood had burned into my senses. Because the nights grew so cold in the desert, I was forced to sleep in my uniform. The scent had been so strong that it had infiltrated my dreams.