by Kyle Olson
“And what? If, when the war is over, you will return to your wealth, your companies?”
“Of course. Someone has to make the world a better place, help them pick up the pieces,” Tess said, sinking into her coat.
“It does not bother you to watch them slaughter one another?”
“Never said it doesn’t, but sometimes all a mother can do is tend to the injuries after the little shits beat each other half to death, seeing as how telling them not to get into fights has worked out so well.”
“This coming from someone participating in the war? Killing them?”
“Thought I’d see what it’s like being a Goddess of Mercy,” Tess smiled hollow.
More flashes, more rumbles. In the sky, a handful of sparks like fireflies bloomed and fell. Parachutes opened. Some were shot through.
“These past few days,” Sejit began, after lending some thought to the jackal’s words, “I have been thinking over my son’s request. At the time I agreed out of… emotion, but now I have decided he is correct.”
“Oh, and what might that be?”
“They are children in need of a parent.”
“Hah! And you intend to be that someone, Lady of Slaughter?”
“It will take time, but yes.”
She expected another sharp comeback from the jackal, but the black-furred goddess was silent. As the sparks and flashes fell away, peace came once again to the battlefield. Gentle snows did what they could to blanket the ruins and bodies, but the few flakes couldn’t hope to do more than outline the aftermath.
Tess cleared her throat and flicked away what remained of her smoke, where it sailed into a tiny pile of snow and went out.
“You probably have a small pile of treasure hidden away, yes?”
“I do. What are you getting at?”
“That’s simple. See, you’re going to need wealth if you hope to accomplish anything. Just so happens, I know someone with money to spare.”
Sejit, surprised, turned to face the jackal. “You would ally yourself with me?”
Tess stood, “Considering your response wasn’t ‘No,’ I’ll take that to mean you agree.”
I had not considered that detail, but then, I have not considered most of the details. She is correct. I would need appreciable capital to develop any influence. Accepting her aid might even allow me to accomplish my goals within a few decades.
Plus…
Sejit cast a stealthy, appraising look at Tess.
When I make waves, they will notice. They think nothing of her. Little do they know… She would be a powerful ally.
Sejit stuck out a hand, “Yes, I agree. Do you?”
To which Tess met it with her own. “Gakaka, I do.”
How we have all changed. Only days ago…
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Tarkit’s eyes fluttered open in the dark. He blinked at the ceiling. No unusual noises, no lights.
A nightmare? No…
Fleeting remnants of a dream lingered in memory from when he was younger, much younger, immediately after the war. An officer in uniform, a bonafide hero, and a barrel-chested man. He hadn’t much trouble picking up women back then, the way they threw themselves at him. If time couldn’t rewind, then at least let him return to the realm of dreams.
His eyes drooped shut once more, but something nagged in his gut, wouldn’t let his lids fall for more than a few seconds.
Maybe it was nerves or just old memories, dredged up by the old war stories he told Sophia. Memory sifted through its records for a while before it found the right cabinet.
When was the last time? Ah, just before combat, wasn’t it? Every sense came alive, and everything was so clear! I’d forgotten what it was like.
Granted, age had dulled the clarity, but other than the discomforting feeling, he appreciated the sensation he’d forgotten about in the century since then. This was evident when his mind finally overturned the stone marked “Why.” There were no enemies, no one shooting at him. No fights about to unfold.
He shot up and hurled himself from his bed. That had to be it.
But where, who?
Calloused hands ached for the cold steel of a firearm, or even the handle of a combat knife. His gut urged him on, warning of impending doom. First, he’d have to get to the gun safe a few rooms away.
Ears and eyes at their sharpest, he crept forward. And began to curse silently. Since when did the floorboards creak so much?
Every step, no matter how careful or light.
Creak. Creak. Creak.
But, other than noisy wood, the house was silent. The hallway was clear. He creaked towards the hobby room, as he called it, where he could arm himself.
Creak. Creak. Creeeeak.
A careful peek around the corner into the room, no one to be found. Funny, the black monolith of the safe had never seemed so out of place before, standing there against the wall in the middle of the room.
What a terrible spot! How come I never noticed that, to open it, I’d need to have my back to the door?
The dial spun as a whisper to the first number, then the second.
His brain sparked, instinct wresting control to bring his arm up just in time to block a strike. There, a shadow of a different shade from the other shadows. The hand that’d delivered the first blow seized his arm in an instant, rendering him vulnerable for the second strike.
Tarkit wheezed as a fist hammered his side, but age wasn’t going to let him go down that easy. He was still Tarkit, son of Sejit. Faking injury, he hunched over, luring the shadow closer. Then, he exploded in a ball of muscle, rushing his assailant and bowling him over with a shoulder charge.
From there, the rest was simple. Tarkit pinned them on their back with their chest between his knees, one hand to their neck and the other reared back to deliver a lights-out punch if needed.
“Who are you?” Tarkit hissed, “What are you doing here?”
Close up, and no longer having to concentrate on keeping himself alive, he got a look at the man, dressed up in dark grays rather than black, face painted to match the clothing. The man said nothing, nor did he struggle. No hatred or madness to his eye, either. Tarkit shifted his grip, feeling up and down the neck—there it was. A necklace, or rather, a band for a pair of tags.
Military? What nation? Or… “Mercenary?”
Still, the man said nothing. He was good. Most men got mouthy when they fucked up their ambush and were given a chance to say something.
“A professional, eh? Tell you what. You tell me why you’re here, and I won’t torture you. How about it?”
“Go ahead,” the man finally said, gruff with years of experience.
Go ahead? Hm. He’s not alone. Why doesn’t he struggle, alert his friends? Unless…
He had no time to waste, but options were slim. With no other choice he let his fist fly, knocking the man square on the jaw. Didn’t knock him out, but his moan let Tarkit know he’d dazed him. Given himself a few precious seconds to enter the last two numbers on the safe and throw it open. It wasn’t rope, but a pair of rifle slings would do the trick to bind the man.
“I’ll be back for you, don’t you worry,” Tarkit said as he cinched the knot on the second strap, ensuring the man wouldn’t be able to move. And, to keep the yelling to a minimum, stuffed a sock into his mouth. No one deserved to have that taste on their tongue for who knows how long, but war was hell.
Armed with a pistol and a spare magazine, Tarkit dashed from the room. No sooner did he make it three steps into the hall when a growl shook the walls. Just as he wondered where it’d come from, he heard Yf.
“Hydon, attack!”
Yf could defend herself, or rather, the tiger could defend her. Actually, it had enough defending to go around for everyone involved and then some.
A man screamed, the unmistakable sound of blood leaking through as gurgles in the cry. Gunfire erupted. With all pretense of stealth gone, that gunshot served as the signal for the invaders to attack at w
ill.
Each crack echoing across the wood, each burst and stomp of boot gave Tarkit something to count. There were easily ten of them, all coming from the same direction as Yf.
So they knew about Yf. What is… Wait.
Not every shot came from the same direction. In the din, one staccato was more distant, more muffled than the rest.
Sophia. He raced for the stairs and surged upwards, legs pumping like he was 30 again.
Halfway up the stairs to Sophia’s room, a figure appeared at the top. He brought his pistol up, finger on the trigger, but hesitated. Couldn’t make the figure out in the dim and they hadn’t lifted their arms in that tell-tale way.
Another shot came from beyond the stairs and the figure stumbled and ran—no, fell.
Running on instinct, Tarkit braced himself to arrest the person’s fall. A tiny thing with blonde hair crashed into him just as another figure, this one with a silhouette of a gun came into view at the top. Tarkit took aim and squeezed twice in rapid succession; the new man-shape yelped and stiffened before toppling out of sight.
“Sophia!” Tarkit shouted, tucking away the pistol and dragging the girl to her feet, “Are you all right?”
“T-tarkit,” Sophia said with a cough, voice racked by pain. Her breathing was shallow, sharp.
More sounds of tooth and claw and gunshots boomed up the stairwell. Tarkit scooped the girl up; the familiar slickness of blood coated the hand at her back. She was in dire need of aid, but there was nothing he could do until the invaders were dispatched.
“This is going to be a rough ride,” he said as he charged down the stairs in great leaps, reaching the ground floor in a handful of bounds. Sophia gasped and cried and coughed and hacked, but speed was more important than comfort. She’d understand that when this was all over.
At the end of the hallway he flicked on the lights, and so happened to catch out an intruder. The sudden burst of light disoriented him, giving Tarkit the time he needed to shift Sophia to a single arm and pull out his gun with the other. He squeezed off his first two shots too fast, missing completely. The intruder brought his carbine up and Tarkit feared the worst.
Yet, for some reason, the intruder didn’t fire. He was hesitating, or maybe he wanted to be sure of his aim. Seizing upon the chance, Tarkit steadied himself and let loose another double-tap, this one finding its mark to bring the man down.
Tarkit ran for Yf’s room, but as he came around a corner he slowed to a walk. Three mangled bodies lay in various awkward positions in the hall. In the room, there was Yf in her two-legged cat form and a bloodied Hydon, one massive paw each on the chests of two men. Yf was hunched over one of them, pressing a claw to his throat. He set Sophia down on the floor with her back propped against the wall.
“Not the most comfortable spot, I know, but we’ll get you help.”
“Bet, better than, you, you carrying me,” Sophia forced a weak smile, her breaths coming with the labor of someone who’d just run a marathon. She was going pale, cold.
There was no avoiding the blood soaked into his sleeve or coating his hand.
“Yf,” Tarkit said, “Don’t think anyone is behind me, but who knows how many more are lurking about. Or do you think they’re it?”
“Probably,” Yf said, speaking over the low growls of her tiger.
“Watch over Sophia. She needs first aid before I can take her to the hospital,” said Tarkit, glancing over the two men. He shared a look with each of them in turn, one he’d not shared with another man since the war. “We’ll ask them about this afterwards.”
Yf’s eyes darted towards the girl struggling to stay upright. Her cat features wrinkled slightly, but Tarkit couldn’t tell what she was thinking.
“No problem,” she said.
He dashed from the room, pistol drawn. The room with the gun safe also had a well-stocked medical kit with enough bandages, sutures, and painkillers for a platoon. Even had a pair of tongs for extracting bullets. It was one of those things he kept around not because he ever thought he’d need it or use it, but because he just didn’t feel right not having something around.
With the box in hand he returned, only to discover both men under the tiger were no longer alive and Yf was crouched next to Sophia. Hydon was cleaning himself, removing the shades of red from his paws one lick at a time.
“Why are they dead, Yf?” Tarkit said, voice tight and grim. He dropped the kit next to Sophia and popped it open.
“After you left, they got it in their heads to make one last attempt at… whatever it is they were trying to to do,” Yf said, “I’m not happy about it either.”
Sophia was struggling, though upon seeing Tarkit managed another weak smile. She’d long left pale behind. Her shirt was soaked through to the front.
“I… don’t want to die…” She said, cold sweat beading on her forehead.
“It’s okay,” Tarkit said in a comforting whisper, “It’s okay. Save your energy. We’ll get this taken care of… Yf.”
Tarkit eased Sophia onto her side and Yf placed the girl’s head on her lap, face down, running furred fingers through her hair. Rummaging in the kit he produced a set of sheers and cut away drenched shirt.
He clenched his eyes and bit a lip.
She’d been hit twice in the back. One round had to have gone through a lung, and the other, her liver. The lower of the wounds bled the fiercest.
“You’ll be okay,” he forced himself to say as he set to work, hands moving in a blur to douse the wounds with clotting powder and bandages. Seconds, maybe minutes passed.
“You’ll be okay, you’ll see.”
“Tarkit,” Yf said, softly.
He kept working. The first hole was just about sealed.
“You’ll be okay, see?”
“Tarkit,” she repeated.
He heard her, but didn’t.
“Tarkit!” She snapped.
“What? I’m trying to work!”
Yf pointed with her eyes; Tarkit finally noticed Sophia had stopped breathing. He all but threw her onto her back and began to blow into her mouth and compress her chest.
One round, two, “Breathe, damn it!”
Another three rounds of breaths and jamming into her chest so hard her ribs threatened to crack apart.
“Breathe!”
“Tarkit,” Yf said, placing a hand-paw at his back, “She’s gone. There’s nothing you can do.”
He swatted her paw away, then rested a palm on the small, bloody figure. During the war, and even before and after it, he’d seen countless lives pass on. Some of those lives he knew well, even considered them friends. Many he didn’t know at all, but that didn’t change his responsibility to them, nor did it make their passing any easier.
Sejit had charged him with her safety.
He closed Sophia’s eyes.
“I have failed,” he whispered, “I have failed.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sioun buzzed like a hive of energetic bees. Even though midnight had passed, most citizens were wide awake. Some had retreated to their homes to watch the events unfold on their televisions or computers or phones, but most were still in the thick of it, packing the streets around the capitol or the party headquarters of whomever they’d voted for.
The Future party had secured the largest convention center in the city, such as it was. One day there’d be a grand hall for all sorts of business and events, but, for now, the 5,000-person capacity center would have to do.
At the head of it all, on a raised platform one could barely call a stage, Sejit paced while assistants and supporters and other party members bustled.
Various news agencies reported on this and that, showing off live footage from each headquarters. If the election was based upon whoever had the biggest turnout on-screen, it wouldn’t be a stretch to say Jasmine Reith had the win, but the Laborer Union would give her a close race.
Meanwhile, the Traditionalists had a few senior attendees. It would have been difficult to find some
one under forty among their audience.
As the minutes ticked by, Sejit continued to pace, glancing at her phone every so often.
Newscasters gave updates as each polling station reported their tallies. Cheers would go up every so often, sometimes jeers. A neck and neck race played out on the infographic between the Future and the Union, the bars swapping leads with practically every update.
Sejit continued to gaze at her phone whenever she could dodge questions and well-wishers coming to offer words of support or early congratulations.
Two polling stations remained. The Futures had the lead, the crowd erupted into a furor.
One station left. The lead grew, the throng’s excitement grew as a great thunder.
Then, there were none left. The final votes came in.
Jasmine Reith was now the Marshal of Yosel.
The foundations of the city—no, the whole country—shook.
Handshakes all around, even hugs. People tried to congratulate one another, but it was utterly pointless. Against such a backdrop of pure noise, one could yell into someone’s ear and not be heard.
Considering she’d won, they’d expected her to be overjoyed, fists pumping and shouting and maybe even jumping. They’d allow jumping, even if normal political decorum dictated otherwise.
Instead, she kept her composed mien, save for a put-together smile as she slid her phone back into her pocket.
A few short words capped off a chain of messages and plotting stretching back weeks: Success. She’s awake.
She’d not been fond of her ploy, but she needed a leg up on Ifon and Daontys. Maybe even Tess, all things considered. They were still allies, for now, but the jackal still hadn’t said a word about the danger presented to her family. It wasn’t as if she could blame Tess for not trusting her completely, given their history. But still, they’d managed to work together despite it all, and for some time at that.
Despite the cacophony around her, she went over the plan in her mind, now with a check in the box on the first step. Her agent had performed his role wonderfully. The tool she’d acquired would take some time to learn how to use properly, but once she did, she’d have her edge. Soon, she’d take the lead in the race to expand her territory, to found a burgeoning empire.