Renegade Reprisal (The Renegade Series)

by J. C. Fiske

  “You’ve never had guilt when it came to eating,” Grandfield said.

  “Neither have you, tubbo,” Groggo said.

  “I don’t see how a whale can call a cow tubbo, doesn’t seem right to me,” Grandfield said.

  “Now hey! Don’t make me kick your fat little ass before the fight begins!” Groggo said. He laughed. “Ah, who am I kiddin’, I love ya, son, more than anything in this world. I’d gladly never eat another crumb of donut for the rest of my days, even those maple ones Joe makes up during fall, mhmmm, especially when he . . .” He paused. “Sorry, getting sidetracked,” Groggo said. “What I’m trying to say is, come back to me, kid, I’ll miss ya too much otherwise. Stay close to your buddies in this, and you’ll come out all right. I’d stay close to that Gisbo, too, if I were you. An appetite like his, you can do worse than stick beside him, my boy. Try to keep that scrawny Knob in front of ya, I don’t trust people that skinny . . .”

  “Will do, Dad. I’ll be back, I swear it,” Grandfield said.

  “I won’t lie to you, kid. Things are pretty bad here. This darkness all around? It even snuffs out our dwarf suns. People aren’t going to make it much longer, not with their sanity, anyhow. People weren’t meant to live in darkness. ‘Tis unnatural. I’m starting to believe some of them are just praying for that explosion to hit to relieve them from it, but not me. Never me. One thing about us guys with big appetites, we know what it means to perservere. If we can stretch the lining in our stomachs, there’s no telling what we can do!” Groggo said.

  “I think you stand alone in that opinion, Dad,” Grandfield said.

  “Oh, hush up. There’s a small part in that gut of yours that agrees with me,” Groggo said. “Come back to me, son, I love ya.”

  “I love you too, Dad,” Grandfield said.

  “Now, don’t go giving me any hugs. I’m already snug as a hippo in a bathtub in this jumpsuit of mine; any more pressure and that might be the end . . . of my suit,” Groggo said, fighting back tears, wincing as if he just devoured a lemon. Grandfield hugged him anyway.

  “Fight like a demon out there, my boy! Fight like you’ve never fought before! We’re all counting on you!” Groggo wailed in a spray of tears. “Aw, come now, boy, you’re getting my damn dream doughnut all wet . . .”

  Whip Miley sensed something different around him, opened his eyes, but it was no different. Everything was dark as usual. Still, what he smelled made his heart leap. It was sweet mango tango tabaccoo, a smell associated with his father’s presence.

  “Hey, Dad,” Whip said.

  “Hey, son,” Miley said. “So, this is it, eh, ol’ buddy? The crossroads?”

  “I guess so,” Whip said.

  “You GUESS so? What kinda talk is that?” Miley asked.

  “Well, I’m being positive and excited for everyone else around me. But I’m downright scared, Dad,” Whip said. He felt his father place two hands on each of his shoulders and felt his hot breath in his face.

  “And what exactly do you have to be scared about?” Miley said.

  “I . . .” Whip started.

  “You can’t fear what you can’t see, but you can fear what you feel. As long as you tell yourself you don’t feel scared, what exactly do you have to worry about?” Miley asked.

  “I guess you’re right in a roundabout way,” Whip said.

  “I figured you’d be used to that by now. I’ll tell you what, though, I’m getting a sneak preview of what it’s like to be you, to be enveloped in darkness. You are a far braver man than I’ll ever be and that is what sets me at ease in all of this,” Miley said. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been on the battlefield, but it is something that will never leave you. I’d much rather be relaxing by the sea, a freshly rolled cigar plopped in my mouth and my board by my side. But, to enjoy such things, you need peace. And to get peace, it must be fought for. Peace can’t exist with evil men out there who want to crap on everything and spread their filth. The crap needs cleaning up.”

  “What was it like, when you fought?” Whip asked.

  “Like? It was like a dream, a bad one, more than anything else. You prepare for this war to come and that’s all you think about. It drags on, hours feeling like years before it begins. And then, it starts. Everything moves slow, your mind questions whether what you are doing is actually real as your body and instincts take over. Instinct and skill. Those will keep you alive, son, that and your brothers and sisters beside you. And you, my boy, with your loss of sight, have gained instinct far past anyone I know. You will sense things before they happen, feel things coming, and you will intercept it and save not only yourself, but everyone here. And best of all, you’ll stomp a rightfully-placed boot in the face of evil itself,” Miley said.

  “I . . . kinda enjoy the sound of that,” Whip said.

  “Of course you do, you’re my son, and there is one thing else I should say, other than I love you with everything I am,” Miley said.

  “What’s that, Dad?” Whip asked.

  “That through it all, when you look death in the face, head on, you feel more alive than you ever will again. Surfing your board will never feel the same after this. The fact is, after it was all over, I liked it . . .” Miley said, “. . . and you will, too, but only if your brothers and sisters are alive at the end of the day. Keep them safe.”

  “I will, Dad,” Whip said.

  “Now, come give your old man one more hug,” Miley said.

  Glinda Bicknell opened her eyes to find herself with her mother in the study of her treehouse where they stayed up late over tea and coffee, just talking the night away, catching up on the past years they were without each other. Glinda enjoyed talking with her mother, because if there was anyone on the planet who thought the way she did, it was her, and her mother felt the same way. Together, they embraced each other and built up their confidence. Like an audible pep rally for each other’s goals, even though men usually dominated the topic of their conversations.

  “I know it’s been hard on you, Glindy, I know. After your father, that scumbag, left me high and dry with you, it killed me to send you away. It did. I wanted to have a father figure in your life by the time you got back, but, you know my luck,” Bicknill said.

  “I think you try too hard, Mom. They say the one comes when you’re not looking. And don’t worry about me; I do just fine on my own because you do,” Glinda said.

  “You can say that all you want, at least to make others think you are in total control of yourself, an independent woman. But tell me, how do you really feel, dear?” Bicknill said.

  “I’m terrified. I feel alone and, really, all I want is to just . . . have Rake look my way, just once, before this is all over. I feel almost unnatural, that I’m trying so hard to be someone I’m not, strong, stern, independent, and really, deep down, I know I’m not any of those things. For me, I feel I can never truly be myself because . . . I’ll be vulnerable and my pride as a woman in a man’s world won’t let me,” Glinda said. “That’s why, Mom, I need you in my life. You are the only person I can let my guard down with and relax, breathe. I . . . I could never imagine my life without you again. It’s so hard. I’m terrified I might die out there and not . . . not . . .” Glinda said.

  “Come here, dear, come sit beside me,” Bicknill said. “We are women in a man’s world, no doubt about that. The fact that you can stand side by side out there with a man is a wonderful thing. You will fight with honor, with beauty, and tenacity. A woman warrior, your emotions make you strong. Embrace them instead of stuffing them down. If anything, your fear has made you stronger, made you want to overcome. Your fear of being vulnerable has made you compensate. It is a gift. And it is a gift to have men in this world, my dear. As much as we blame them for most problems out there, they will always come to your aid and protect you. You know why?”

  “No,” Glinda sniffled.

  “Because you are a woman. Because, without you, what need do men have to fight? You complete them. Your bea
uty inspires them. This is why men carry pictures of their ladies to war, why they paint their ships with beautiful women, give them beautiful names. And you will do that for every boy you fight beside. If you stop trying to be a man, that is, and embrace yourself as a woman. And you, my dear, are a special kind of woman. You know why?” Bicknill asked.

  Glinda shook her head.

  “Not only are you beautiful, but you are a Renegade. You can fight and inspire. With you by a man’s side, what do they have to fear?” Bicknill asked.

  “Thanks, Mom, I’ll try to be a little less stern and . . . well, bitchy,” Glinda said.

  “If you are going to come back to me alive, you must inspire those you fight with. Use your beauty and drop the charade. And believe me, it’s not as easy as it sounds. Look at me, I’ve been trying for years . . .” Bicknill said, “ . . . and that rascal, Falcon, looks right on past me.”

  Crass Bastio opened his eyes to the sight of the beautiful pond within Heaven’s Shelter on the farthest side of the courtyard. His dad was there, and they were both fishing. He and his dad did not have many interests in common, but they bonded over fishing. He remembered that was the first thing he and his dad did on the day he came to Heaven’s Shelter to break the ice. And he never forgot what it felt like to have that feeling of a father, someone who instructed him in all the ways of being a man. Plus, his father, Bastio, found time to complain about just about everything, like his son, Crass, except he had nothing to complain about Crass himself.

  “The fishing is terrible here . . .” Bastio grunted.

  “It always has been . . .” Crass said. “You think it’d be different this time, old man?”

  “Those little craps are just too damn smart after being here all these years. Little snots,” Bastio said.

  “Yup, little snots,” Crass said.

  “Don’t you go sassin’ me, boy. I know sarcasm when I hear it; it was my first language,” Bastio said.

  “I thought you spoke asshole first,” Crass said.

  “That was my second,” Bastio said, grinning. “So, about this war thing. We could all die, huh? Just like that?”

  “So they say, unless we do something about it,” Crass said.

  “Well, you better. You’ve always been lazy. ‘Bout time you do something worthwhile,” Bastio grunted.

  “Hmph,” Crass said.

  “You know what, this is a dream, right? Or something like that, Shax told me so. So, I’ve always wanted to try something. Be right back,” Bastio said.

  “Don’t take too long; we’re on a time limit here, Dad,” Crass said.

  “What, you getting all sentimental on me now? I thought you were a man,” Bastio said as he got up and left the edge of the pond for a moment.

  “I . . . old bastard, he’s gone,” Crass said. He didn’t have to wait long, though, as he soon returned holding what looked like a long pike that was snapped off of something.

  “What the hell’s that?” Crass asked.

  “What does it look like? It’s that thing on top of one of the towers that captures ozone during thunderstorms,” Bastio said.

  “And you . . .” Crass said.

  “Yup, snapped it off,” Bastio said.

  “Why?” Crass asked.

  “To do this . . .” Bastio said, as he flicked something on the snapped pole and it erupted into furious electricity. He tossed it in the air and the spike hit the water with a splash, sending out a wave of electricity in a loud ZAP, followed by the smell of smoke. Crass was about to ask why on Thera he always wanted to do something like that when dozens upon dozens of fish floated up to the surface, all dead.

  “Now that’s fishin’ . . .” Bastio said with a grin.

  “And you call me lazy . . .” Crass said.

  “You’re lazy, I’m impatient, there’s a difference,” Bastio said. “See, look at all these fish, dead, just like that. In the end, we’re all fish, aren’t we, just waiting for some asshole to fire down lightning on us.”

  “That’s . . . that’s so encouraging to hear right before I go off to battle, Dad. Thanks,” Crass said.

  “Look at those fish, son, all their eyes bugging out of their heads like popped zits. Look at ‘em good because we’re these fish, damn it. Stuck in this pond, here in Heaven’s Shelter. Do you want your old man cooked like a fish?” Bastio asked.

  “I . . .” Crass started.

  “Of course, you don’t! You know why? Because you love your dear old dad, emphasis on the old, more than anything, don’t ya? And you wouldn’t want anything to happen to him, or anyone else here, right?” Bastio said.

  “Sure,” Crass said.

  “Hah, ‘sure,’ he says. Where’d you get that attitude of yours? Who am I kiddin’, prolly from your mother. All I’m trying to say is, don’t go gettin’ your lazy ass killed out there, okay?” Bastio said.

  “Why? You love me or somethin’?” Crass asked.

  “I didn’t raise you to be no fairy princess. Get goin’, would ya? Do what men do and fight. Make it snappy, too; you know how impatient I am,” Bastio said.

  “Yeah, Dad, I will,” Crass said. He got up from the pond and walked away. He reached the clearing when he heard his father call from behind him.

  “Son . . .” Bastio yelled.

  “Yeah, Dad?” Crass asked, not turning around.

  “I love ya, boy,” Bastio said. Crass smiled.

  “I love you too, Dad,” Crass said.

  The group of Renegades, who were once Renegaras just a few days ago, sat in silence, lost in their own minds after receiving their final goodbyes from their loved ones. Rake Lokin, however, sat loneliest of all, doing his best to kill away the creeping feeling of destitude within his heart. He had no one. No family. No final words. He would never, ever, admit such, but it hurt him deeply. Having a father such as his, so two-faced, great in the vicinity of others, but ruthless, abusive, and uncaring to his own son in private, left its mark. He gazed at Kennis, with her head lowered. He saw Shaved, walking back and forth, kicking at the rubble within the cave. He saw his synergy mates, Crass and Whip, leaning up against the cave wall, arms folded to their chests.

  And lastly, he saw Glinda Bicknill, always staring at him and cocking her head in a violent spin away every time he looked her way. It wasn’t that he found her unattractive. It was her personality and tone of voice that irked him to no end. He sighed heavily and moved closer to the shadow against the wall, meaning to hide himself further. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “Hey . . .” Gisbo said. Rake shrugged off Gisbo’s hand, but didn’t ignore him.

  “Hey,” Rake said. There was silence for a long moment, and then Gisbo spoke again.

  “Remember that time I punched you in the face?” Gisbo asked. Rake raised his head up, disbelieving Gisbo’s bluntness.

  “What of it?” Rake asked.

  “I’m sorry about that, is all,” Gisbo said.

  “You already apologized,” Rake said.

  “I know, but . . . I just don’t want to leave things awkward before everything goes down. It may be my last shot,” Gisbo said.

  “Hmph,” Rake said, indifferent.

  “What do you fight for, Rake?” Gisbo asked plainly. Rake raised his head up to the question. “I mean, once you lose everything, what do you find to grab hold of? To make you push on and be as strong as you are?”

  Rake was completely taken aback as he found his mouth open, but no words came out. Did Gisbo just call him strong? The word echoed in his mind, bouncing. He was silent for a moment as he thought. Then slowly, he found words coming forth.

  “To exist, to be. Partially to silence my father’s voice within my mind. It’s because of his existence that I exist. I’m bound by it. And until I end that existence myself, I will never know what makes me . . . me,” Rake said.

  “So, it’s a vendetta?” Gisbo asked.

  “It’s far too complicated to be confined to a word. Far more personal than I wish to share. You wouldn
’t get it, anyway,” Rake said.

  “Believe me, I’m not trying to,” Gisbo said. “Just know that, what you told me earlier, that killers recognize killers. You were right about me. I . . . I feel something stirring in me, something I don’t like, but at the same time, I know if I can harness it, control it, I can use it to not only protect myself, but my friends.”

  “You wish to fight for others . . .” Rake said.

  “I suppose,” Gisbo said.

  “Why do you wish to keep people alive in a world as cruel as this one? Aren’t you prolonging their suffering? Wouldn’t death, the silence of it all, be sweeter?” Rake asked.

  “I used to think like that. But, if anything, Heaven’s Shelter showed me that life has two sides. The world has a good power as much as a bad one and I, we, I feel, have always lay somewhere between. Some are instinctively drawn to one side. People like Rolce, they just bleed goodness without trying. I envy them. Or even on the other side, people like . . .” Gisbo started, trying to find an example.

  “My father . . .” Rake said.

  “Well, I didn’t want to be the one to say it, but sure. At least they know where they stand. They hear one voice. I hear two, and I feel like I’m being torn apart from the inside sometimes in this tug-of-war. War is all it is. It’s not enough we have one physically ahead of us, let alone the one inside,” Gisbo said.

  “I . . . can relate to that,” Rake said.

  “I thought you could. I wanted to know that,” Gisbo said.

  “Why?” Rake asked.

  “To know I’m not alone in this. We’re not alone. What I’m saying is, Rake, I’ll be honored to be by your side, to fight with you, and help you to face whatever you want out of your life. I mean that,” Gisbo said. As he stretched out a hand to Rake, Rake stared at the open hand, offered once again. He remembered seeing it last time. It wasn’t just a hand, it was an invitation, to either betrayal, like his father’s, which lead to more pain, or trust, which could lead to something else Rake never had.

  Rake shook Gisbo’s hand and looked him in the eye.