Godling (Kairenz Jistora Book 1)

by Dusks, Rydre

  "R-Rook," I continued. "Can y-you do something... else phoro me?"

  Rook leaned in some, and I whispered to him what I wanted him to do.

  "Oi."

  I opened my eyes from the voice.

  "Anli."

  I twisted my aching head toward the mouth of the pit. I recognized the short blond hair and proud standing figure on the edge.

  "The dusters at the theater say ya know how to fix bots. Last night five o' the ones at the dividin' line crashed."

  I held back a wan grin.

  Class C model robots, the type the guards are, have a major sight bug in their systems. They can only see as far as five hundred feet ahead of them with no peripheral vision. Sneak up to a major group and slam a rock at the base of their skulls. Their sight will short out.

  Rook had saluted me yesterday after receiving the info and had scaled the pit wall to set to work immediately.

  "Stone's willin' to let ya out if ya fix 'em."

  "Phoro how long?" I asked weakly.

  Jules shrugged one shoulder. "Long. As long as ya don't try escapin' again."

  It was as I'd thought. The only person in Roavo who knew anything about robots was the token Strejc, and chances were that Stone had kept me alive this long for when something like this was needed. He probably thought I'd have broken if I agreed to work with my enemy and fix his robots.

  "Deal," I answered him, and Jules left to fetch more guards to help me out.

  9

  Blank

  The cooler days came and went. It had just begun to grow warmer outside again when my life finally pulled out of the blender and reformed into solid events. I'd been a good boy and had refrained from attempting another escape. After hearing how scared Rook had been after breaking out, forcing him to turn back around and run right back into Roavo, I knew it wouldn't be a one-man job.

  Every week or so I received some sort of punishment from Stone. Although he'd left me alone after I'd fixed his robots, he still picked me as his favorite punching bag. If it wasn't whippings, which was the most common, it was a bizarre form of twisted entertainment for the sick man. Twice I rewired a couple of his guards to get back at him for the things he did. His workable guards began to drop like flies again, and of course that only fueled his desire to issue more punishments on me. Not once did he try to kill me, although I knew he badly wished to.

  After six months I was a ragged rebel--always bleeding, always seething, always plotting. In the beginning of the spring I walked back to my tent to discover that it had been destroyed. Panicking, I searched through the mess for my things, but only managed to find my boots and a couple extra pairs of uniforms. I wasn't worried about losing G'tavei's pieces, as Rook had given them to me to wear tucked under my clothes. It was a bad sign, as all my first aid supplies was now missing. It would be a hell of a time trying to find another tent where someone would accept me. There were ninety-six tents total and a lot of room to explore, but most prisoners saw me as bad luck.

  Every tent I entered already looked packed with supplies and unable to fit anyone else inside. I walked along the lines twice, finally finding a cleaner, larger looking one located just in front of the last most eastern row. I'd seen this tent when I had first arrived at Roavo but had suspected it to be a guard tent. Since then I'd forgotten about it. I rapped on the outside flap before stepping inside.

  A small gasp came from the corner, and I looked over to where a vanity was located. A girl sat in a chair there, a brush halfway through her deep blue hair. Her matching, sky-toned eyes were on me through her mirror, and she turned, immediately hurling her brush my way. I dodged it just in time, clutching my boots and uniforms to my chest in surprise. It'd been such a long time since I'd seen or heard a woman that I wasn't sure what to do. For what seemed like forever I just stood there and stared at her stupidly. Then my senses kicked back in, and I began backing out of the tent.

  "I-I'm so sorry. I didn't realize--"

  "Get out!" she shouted as she stood from her chair. "Get out of my tent!"

  I leapt back into the sun's heat as she stormed toward the flap to close it.

  "Wait," I pleaded. "C'mon, I'm just looking for someone to help me out." My accent was still thick, but at least I caught on to many new phrases and understood with new clarity.

  Her shock of blue hair emerged from the flap, and she stepped halfway out to leer at me. "Oh, is that so? Can't get help from any of the fifteen guards stationed around the prisoner tents, huh? Got to come to the sole woman on the men's side to badger her for 'help,' do you?"

  I didn't understand her abrasive nature. As she glowered at me I inspected her. Her face was so fair and almost model-like. For all the unsightly things I'd seen for the last few months, she was the biggest breath of fresh air I could have hoped for.

  "What the hell are you staring at? Get away from my tent!" she demanded, but I barely flinched.

  "I'm sorry, but... who are you?" I had to ask. The girls were clear on the other side of the camp, completely closed off from the men. What in the world was a woman doing on the men's side?

  "Why do all the inmates think they can come to the warden's daughter for help? Just... go, please."

  I bit my lip after absorbing the information, feeling my hackles raise from her front. "I was just looking for someone to help me get my stuff back. My tent's a wreck, and a lot of my personal items were stolen."

  She rolled her eyes. "Go get a guard to help you. I don't deal with prisoners."

  I opened my mouth, but she shut the flap to leave me standing awkwardly in the aisle, feeling bewildered and chastised for little reason.

  I continued my search for a few minutes, knowing any attempt at asking one of the guards would probably result in me being cuffed in the face. It wasn't until I spotted Rook headed back toward the tents covered in grime that my hopes lifted.

  "Hey, Rook. You have a spare cot in your tent?" I called as he approached.

  He stopped for a moment, blinked, then shook his head. "No. Why?" Then he made the connection after staring at my spare uniforms in my arms, and said, "Oh, of course. Gimme a sec."

  I watched him race to his tent and slip inside, so I waited. A minute later he emerged in a better pair of clothes and gave a heavy sigh. "Okay, cot's all made up, and there's room for your things."

  I raised an eyebrow. "Were you storing your treasures there, Rook?"

  He only grinned. "Point is there's room now. You okay, blackie? You look like someone ran over your dog."

  I ducked into his tent and took note of a massive pile of stored items beside his cot. I dropped my clothes on the clean resting place and sat down. "I just got my head chewed off by a woman."

  Rook blinked before suddenly bursting into laughter. It was shrill, and caused one of the guards to check in on us for a moment. Rook waved him off before answering me. "You must have run into Blanca Stone. She's quite something, isn't she?"

  I didn't understand his enthusiasm. "What's she doing on the men's side?"

  "She's Stone's only child and she's forced to work for him. So she has to be on this side to manage whatever he throws at her."

  The confrontation had made me feel a bit sicker about everything. The taste in my mouth was sour.

  Although Rook's spare cot was comfortable, that night was restless. I had vivid, horrendous dreams. For a while now I'd come to terms with Stelliot's fate. He was either dead or still being held by Velzae. For the first couple of months in camp, I'd attempted to connect with Sylvain again after giving up on my escaping, but no matter how much I called out through my mind, I received no answer. I hoped the Strejca hadn't gone ahead with plans and killed him. I'd wanted to ask Sylvain so many things... about whether he'd gained any new information about Stelliot or Velzae, or the Strejca.

  My dreams involved not only Stelliot, but myself. Repeatedly I fought to protect him from harm, continuously failing, or getting tugged in the opposite direction and having massive Roavo gates slammed in my face
. It was a constant reminder that there was absolutely nothing I could do.

  In the middle of the night my eyes snapped open to focus solely on a pair of pale blue irises beside me. I blinked, and they were gone before I could make sense of what it was that I'd just witnessed. It was no mistake that those eyes belonged to Velzae, but it could have just been remnants of my recurring dreams.

  I soon found new distractions, however. As the days drifted along I found myself experimenting with more simple pleasures. Rook managed to confiscate another pack of cigarettes, and we spent the day acting like rebellious teenagers. My contact with Blanca had been fleeting. We went our separate ways after that, but since Rook had confirmed that Blanca was his mystery friend who worked in the kitchens, I spent every breakfast, lunch, and dinner looking for her blue hair up at the serving line. I wasn't even certain why I did. She clearly didn't like me, but for some reason I felt a strong need to know her better. There had to be something softer underneath that hard outer shell.

  "If I were you, I'd give up the chase," Rook commented one night as we lay in our cots. "Blank's not exactly friendly to just anyone."

  "'Blank?' What kind of a nickname is that?"

  "Don't knock it. It's what she prefers."

  "So how did you get on her good side?" I inquired.

  Even in the darkness I could almost hear Rook smirking. "I think she has a soft spot for the purple hair, coz hers is blue."

  I rolled my eyes.

  Crow.

  I snapped to attention at Sylvain's voice. Even after six months, I still recognized it. But of course I recognized it--I'd been waiting for it. I just about sat up, but I remained where I was instead, not wishing to catch Rook's suspicion.

  Where the hell have you been? I demanded.

  It's been very busy here, Crow Hightower. I have been very ill and close to death. This body does not support my powerful soul that well.

  Where is Velzae? Stelliot? Did the Strejca ever find him? Are you with them still?

  Slow the questions, and I will let you know everything that I know, Crow. Velzae is most definitely still outside of city limits. I cannot sense his presence, nor can I sense your child's presence, but I would guess that Stelliot is still with Velzae somewhere. As for the Strejca, they are still present in GreyCross, but Allan Dentrin is not happy with how things have turned out. He wishes you back, and requested to bail you out of there, but the leader of Roavo will not allow it. And unfortunately, as Roavo is in Souloroh and my father is in Iason, there is not much he can do. If you would like, I can at least assure the others that you are alive.

  I swallowed. Anything. Just let them know I haven't forgotten about them. I want to get out of here.

  Have patience, brother.

  I didn’t understand the term of endearment coming from him. I didn’t see Sylvain as someone close to me, nor did I see him as any sort of family.

  I'm tired of being patient, Sylvain! I'm tired of being treated like shit and trodden on! I've lost count of the times I've been beaten, had nightmares, and watched people die right in front of me.

  Sylvain's voice turned silky. Crow... You are very special. Not just to Saydea, you realize. Use what skills you have learned in GreyCross to show Roavo that it cannot dominate you forever. And after you have become king of the desert, prove to me that you are ready to leave, and I will do what I can.

  I didn't like this. King of what? What did he mean by that? I knew it was useless to ask, because his presence had already faded.

  "You know you have these looks on your face sometimes that make you seem like you're recollecting all of your past mistakes in your life simultaneously."

  I snapped to attention and turned my head fully toward Rook. "What? I'm... I'm fine. I was just thinking about something."

  "Yeah, I can tell."

  After you have become king...

  "Blackie?" Rook wondered.

  I kept my eyes on the top of the tent. "I'm learning what it's like to hunt a different kind of machine, Rook," I answered.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Something ugly and diabolic... and instead of using guns, I'm going to use teeth and claws."

  Rook still seemed confused, but caught on to a portion of it. "If you're thinking of getting Stone back for some things, I would understand why you want to, but that's a really stupid idea."

  "Yeah, there's only one of me, and dozens of his guards. But I don't have to be direct. This is something that will take time, and I want Stone to see every bit of my actions."

  I have the skills to dominate Roavo. So how will I do it? I didn't want to ignore Rook's warning. He was right, honestly. I'd seen more prisoners killed in the past six months than the amount of living ones I'd seen riding with me on the shuttle. Still, I was an Iasona Strejc... born in the Gasaidiatt as a pure-blooded Anli with the ferocity of an unchained predator. Roavo itself had taught me that I could endure anything. Why couldn't I show it what I'd learned?

  My next few days were planned carefully. In the mess hall I watched which prisoners seemed the most aggressive. The brawny, angry ones normally collected in groups. I wanted to speak to them, but I was more interested in the prisoners who were outcast. They sat in the corners of the hall, keeping to themselves and shunning the company of the larger inmates.

  Rook was helpful with my endeavor. He'd collected several old sheets of paper with schedules on them and brought them back to the tent. He had torn them up, writing down a meeting place and time on each with charcoal. These were distributed subtly to inmates he deemed “trustworthy,” although sometimes I had my doubts about Rook’s judgment. The last time I asked him to talk with another inmate, it ended up in a scuffle.

  The robotic guards’ processors were too simple to track what we were doing. If everything was going to flow smoothly, I needed to be aware of how far I could push my luck. So far I was making some accurate assumptions. Several times I’d tricked guards into chasing after objects I’d thrown to make noise. Another time had Rook and I rolling with laughter, as I’d managed to have a guard chasing the wrong inmate after I’d snuck out of the theater to avoid my duster duties. In Rook's words, the guards were "effing stupid,” and I found myself concurring.

  After dinner, I met Rook in the theater and waited for our audience. Some of them were slow to trickle in, but eventually we held in front of us an auditorium crowded with curious prisoners near the stage. Not everyone showed up, and a couple, after seeing me, turned and walked right back out the door.

  "What's this all about?" one of the inmates questioned.

  I had taken a moment to count everyone, but I paused to answer. "Why? You need to run somewhere?"

  "I just wanna know what the hell is going on."

  Rook, his upfront and never-give-a-shit self, decided to reply as I finished counting. "There're toilets behind the stage if you're in that much of a hurry."

  The prisoner gritted his teeth but said nothing more, giving me the chance to straighten from my sitting position on the stage and address the crowd.

  "I have to make this quick since the guards will catch on soon that we're not at the tents. For a while now, I've heard people questioning who it was about six months ago who destroyed three of the guards in the middle of the night single-handedly. I know a handful of you at least know what I'm talking about. That was my doing."

  "Yeah, Stone suspected you," said another prisoner. "Didn't you get thrown in a pit shortly after?"

  I shrugged. "Point is, I took down three guards by myself, and I want to know who wants to see it happen again."

  "Depends. Do we get to join you this time?" questioned one of them off to the right.

  Before I could answer, a deeper voice spoke up. It belonged to a well-known inmate who stood at least seven inches taller than me. His name was Donothan Weiss, and was a proud descendant from Earth. Everyone around camp broke into a habit of calling him Scarface, though, as the left half of his complexion was disfigured with burn scars. He liked to use
his appearance to his advantage and intimidate other inmates.

  "What are ya tryin' to start, Anli?" he demanded, coming closer to the stage.

  "I want to start what everyone wants. Revenge, right? Don't we all crave it?" I directed my query to the group, but it was Scarface who answered me.

  "I know what this is. Ya lookin' to set yourself on a throne here in camp, ain't ya? You from Iason, so ya got this thought that you's all higher than everyone else."

  "Oh, please," I started, rolling my eyes. "I'm tired of being beaten down by this place and its corrupt warden. Am I higher than any of you? No."

  Scarface climbed up on the stage, eyes focused on me. "I don't like that tone of voice you got. Here's the deal, Anli. I ain't gonna follow under a black Streck. Not unless you can prove to me you deserve to be on top."

  I was going to try reasoning, but the stance that he was in said nothing other than the desire to fight. Rook leapt out of the way as Scar charged forward, barreling into me and knocking me down. He was a big man, and although I'd built muscle and agility mostly as a Strejc, he had most definitely built his through heavier, weightier means. He'd knocked the wind out of me, but I wasn't about to give in to a single tackle. I scrambled back up and dodged a heavy swing at my face, immediately rebounding with a kick to my attacker's stomach. My blows were powerful--I'd taken out three guards using nothing more than leg swings and blunt force. Scar wasn't a robot, though. He had much swifter reflexes and had already premeditated what I was about to do. He seized a hold of my leg and flipped me into the air. I hit the ground hard and rolled, righting myself and aiming to flee before anything else could happen, but the moment I was on my feet he slammed a fist into me, sending me back with an explosion of light across my vision. I staggered, and he wasn't finished. He hit me again, and this time I fell to the stage once more. I heard Rook shouting, and other people clambering onto the stage to help either Scarface or me. Fists and feet met my body as well as everyone else's, and although I fought to regain myself by throwing my own swings and kicks, I was lost in a crowd of riled prisoners.