by Marc Mulero
Farah swung her arm and shouted, "This way," making a sharp turn on to a residential block.
Each detached clay home they passed was a short two stories high and a body’s length apart from one another. Lesh took note of the layout, analyzing where they could hide if it came to that.
Robotic limbs shuffled around Farah’s backpack while she slowed her jog to a brisk walk. She then stepped into a wide-open work space, threw her bag onto the countertop, and started rustling through it.
"Set him on the table," Farah instructed as she continued to rummage.
Lesh looked around the improvised facility, noticing that there were no walls, just four clay pillars holding up the floor above them.
"Can we bring him upstairs and take care of this privately?" Lesh asked.
Farah shook her head. "Most of my tools are here and we don't have time to haul everything up there. He may go into septic shock any minute."
The Terra woman cursed before sprinting up the flight of stairs to gather everything needed for the procedure.
Lesh watched quizzically as Farah scurried up to the second floor, and then scouted the area to make sure the coast was still clear. No immediate danger found them, gifting her the brief time needed to address her own wounds. She lifted her combat wear and peered down to the thin wooden spikes causing her obliques to sting. One by one, she pinched the barbs and ripped them out, clenching her jaw to deal with the pain. She grunted, rolled her wear back down, and stepped to the shivering man sprawled out on a stone work station.
He sporadically twitched and kicked his legs, fighting to come back.
As soon as she removes his shirt, she'll realize that we're Sins. And so will anyone else who walks by…
Farah rushed back down with a slightly rusted prosthetic arm. "This is all I can find," she said while inspecting it. "Everything is in working order. All of the nerve connectors are in sufficient condition. It's just not that pretty."
With obviously no care about the arm’s aesthetics, Lesh motioned toward the twitching body on the table. "It's been a while since I spoke with a robotics engineer, but don't you need a medic with you?"
Farah sighed while laying the rusted arm down next to Morn. "No, we're all trained at a nurse’s level. We can do jobs solo, it's just not preferred."
The engineer ripped Morn's shirt open and struggled to get it off, prompting Lesh to quietly pull a knife from the bottom of her ring, just in case. As soon as the shirt was pulled from under him, she gasped, staring at his Cryos mark. "This man is a Sin…" she noted quietly, slowly.
Lesh stalked from behind, concealing her blade.
Farah turned to the assassin. "You're both Sins," she said in awe.
"He's a dead man if you don't intervene. Help him, and worry about class later. Don't they still teach common decency in nursing school?" she challenged.
"I… I could be hauled off to exile." Farah held up her hands and backed away from the patient.
Lesh rushed around the table and grabbed the woman’s arm. "Look at me! I'll owe you for this, in addition to the pay. And like I told you before, I'll protect you through the process. Just save him."
Farah battled with her conscience while looking into Lesh's fierce eyes. After what felt like an eternity, she bit down on her lip. "Okay… I'll do what I can."
She quickened her pace once her decision was made, while Lesh stiffened after spotting a Hiezer guard rounding the corner. His rifle was pointed downward, probably surveying the area in his cautious pace.
Someone must’ve reported suspicious activity.
"I'll secure the perimeter," Lesh said to Farah. "You won't be harmed or found out. I'll make sure of that."
Farah sighed, "Comforting."
As she began her hunt, Lesh could feel her instincts kicking in, and the wisdom of the Spade that had been woven into her skin like armor. Those times of training, years in the dark.
“A gun is a tool for a dull mind. But not you, good daughter… you are sharp,” the Chief whispered. “Find a Spade who would daresay a rifle is the most efficient weapon and I will hang myself for treason against the Hiezers.”
The room full of assassins snickered at their Chief’s jest, and then each clapped Lesh on the arm on their way out of the training room.
She focused upon her knife now like she did then, before bursting into a dash.
“Do you know how I pinned you?” the Chief asked rhetorically, swabbing a drop of blood off of her stomach. He held up the needle that stuck her minutes before. “Because you showed yourself to me. Only let them see you if they’re already dead,” his eyes spoke louder than his airy voice, “only after you’ve won.”
The guard stiffened upon spotting a bloody woman draped in black and gray. He attempted to raise his rifle, but a knife was already airborne, en route to cleave his throat. The gun fell when the blade opened the soft of his neck, and the gurgling stopped when a second knife split his skull.
She slid to the fresh corpse and ripped back what belonged to her. “Not a sound,” she whispered, shoving the blades back into her ring, and then hauling the body out of plain sight.
No place to dump him.
“Hmph,” she grunted, looking this way and that for a cranny. Nothing. So she decided to chuck the corpse under a set of open pillars, one clay house away from Farah’s. There was remorse for a split-second – the idea of an innocent citizen framed for murder - but then she thought better of it when the patter of another set of footsteps sounded around the bend. That’s when it became clear. By the end of it, they would know that a true enemy of the Hiezers was here.
Ten soundless steps got her back to the workshop, where Farah was digging a pick into Morn’s exposed wound like a seamstress sewing cloth, searching for nerves to connect the rusted metal arm.
She lifted her head at the interruption, pupils constricted, obviously pulled from focus to find Lesh breathing heavily in front of her. Her eyes were then drawn to the Cryos mark burning like it caught flame under the assassin’s sleeve.
“What is it?”
Lesh looked straight through Farah. No response, no acknowledgement. The engineer was just a live obstacle in her vision, one that couldn’t be touched, and so with the swing of her arm so fast that only a whipping blur of it could be seen, woosh, a knife whistled right past Farah’s ear, blowing caramel hair back and leaving nothing but shock upon her face. Then a gasp. The sound of a man screaming reverberated loud from behind her.
Farah was afraid to turn, but was compelled to when Lesh flipped over the operating table. Her shock morphed into terror when she watched a guard’s hands trembling to reach for the hilt sticking out of his eye. Just like that, the murderous woman jabbed another edge into his temple, and his reaching arms fell limp.
Lesh seized both weapons. "Time is against us. We have to hurry."
Frozen in place, Farah’s body tremored with fear.
The assassin flipped the wet blade in her hand, cuing for the engineer to keep pace.
"What the hell did I get dragged into?" Farah asked herself aloud, before refocusing on her patient.
The sound of weighty footsteps rushing from around the corner triggered Lesh to dive behind the pillars. She tumbled back to her feet and skidded into a hard turn, landing in between two buildings.
One, two, three sets of footsteps.
The graze of metal sounded from Lesh drawing three knives. She maneuvered them all to stack up in one hand, took two giant steps diagonally, and kicked into the air. Two strides up the wall gave her the momentum to push backward into a flip. Her feet touched the adjacent wall before kicking again, out from the crevice and high into the open street. Her body spun into descent, loosing all three blades in a fell swoop toward the first guard rounding the corner. The fan of knives projected - one finding a crack in the floor, second in the hefty guard’s stomach, and a third caught in his collar.
“And if you’re outnumbered,” the Chief of Spades whispered to Lesh, facing three
of the assassins charging him, “make an army of your own… out of your enemy.” He ducked a punch, grabbed an arm, and rolled it forward so one body crashed into the other two. “You see?” He turned and smiled, his handlebar moustache forming an M as he bowed.
Lesh landed and sped like a bolt of lightning, appearing at the end of the block with two hands clasped around the lodged weapons. She kicked the wounded guard back to release her knives and disrupt the oncoming backup, and then darted around the tumbling bodies. Disarray gave her a free punch, slash, and stab to silence the second guard. The third broke off and raised his gun, but the heel of Lesh’s foot knocked it to the side, sending a spray of bullets into the clay walls beside them. She tore off his mask and thrusted a knee into his stomach. The guard dropped his weapon and roared, hooking a punch toward her, but the assassin threw her shoulder into it and countered with one of her own. An uppercut augmented by a knife in between her fingers ended with a jabbed point entering the skin under the guard’s chin. She could see the shining tip of her blade splintering his tongue as his mouth stretched open to cry in agony. She finally wrenched the knife free, cracking his teeth and dropping him to the floor.
After the last body fell, more footsteps sounded from down the street, heading straight for Farah’s home.
They found the body. If they see her operating on a Sin, they’ll kill them both.
Her legs carried her back to the narrow alley in between buildings before she hopped to grasp at the first ledge. There she scaled silently, nothing but the scrape of her fingernails against sediment as her weight shifted, nothing but the feel of cool clay against skin to subdue the heat. She relished in none of the subtleties, however, for it was simply not in her being. One breath to draw from a seemingly endless pool of energy, and with it, a bursting flip over the top – onto the roof, where she dashed to the other end with knives already in hand. A quick peek told her they were close. Too close to those she promised to protect. Time for stealth had fleeted like a breeze in summer, and now came the storm.
Rain in the form of knives, each sent with a message: you’ve crossed the tripwire and have sprung the trap. She drew from her ring and rocketed her projectiles below in the same motion, loosed so quickly they appeared to fall in sync.
And down they went – two out of three – with small fountains of blood coming alive between their collar bones… and when one looked up in awe, the sun was blotted by a falling body, a calculated killer, one that grasped the handle of the protruding stuck blade in chest and dragged it down as she hit the floor like a knife through bread. An incision from breast to pelvic bone left the guard gutted just before the murder weapon was torn free and tossed underhand into the other wounded Hiezer’s heart.
It was a poetic performance until Lesh realized the attention of the third Hiezer hadn’t been caught. Instead, his rifle was drawn on Farah, and the assassin’s last knife was stuck under the weight of a tumbling body. She was out of time. The last thing she heard was a gunshot before feeling a shiver crawl up her spine. And then silence.
There was Farah, arm shaking with Morn's magnum smoking in hand.
Lesh slowly released the air she hadn't realized she was holding, watching the last guard fall.
"I was thinking of using this on you at first,” Farah’s voice shook. “I now see that I would’ve been a dead woman if I had."
"Do you take me for a savage?" Lesh asked, off to reclaim her bloodied knives.
Tears began to trickle down Farah's face, while she delicately placed the gun down next to Morn's coat.
"I've never used a gun before, let alone taken a life. What the fuck did you get me into?" Her emotions soared.
Having never been good at apologies, Lesh thought it best to avert. “You’re lucky that soaked gun even went off. Is it done?"
Remorse took its hold on Farah, leaving her to sob in place.
Knowing that more guards were probably on their way, Lesh stepped closer to Farah and warned, "The blood has already been spilt. You can prevent more pain if you keep your shit together."
Through wet eyes, Farah looked down at Morn. "The nerves are connected and the arm has been melded. It may not work perfectly, but this is the best model I had on site," her unsteady voice lowered.
Lesh seemed satisfied and covered the unconscious man with his damp coat. "Is he stable?" she checked his pulse.
"He'll be fine."
Lesh nodded. "And you?"
"I don't know," she replied, still staring at the man.
The assassin opened a flap on Morn's coat and removed a handful of his precious metals. "Take these for the job and your troubles. I know this can't repay the whole debt, so I'll give you a radio frequency. If you ever need me, for anything, reach out."
Farah meekly nodded, observing the goods placed into her palm. "This is a month's pay."
“Yeah, well… use it wisely.”
Farah closed her fist with the metals. "And what happens now?"
"None of the guards know you’re involved. I’ll take Morn to the second floor. When I leave, lock the door, and kick him out when he wakes up. You'll be fine once he's gone. Tell him to find his way back to base and that Hiezer guards are on alert for Sins. There's no time to waste on my end. I have to get back."
"The life of a Sin."
Lesh clenched her jaw and stared assuredly.
"I understand. Farewell, Lesh."
The assassin hoisted Morn up and made way for the staircase. "I’ll lead the Hiezers far away from your home. And I won't forget your blind leap of faith."
Biljin strolled out of a northern Icelandic cave, hands behind his back, eyes wandering above him. The crystalized shades of blue sparkled all around - reflective, shimmering, like an ocean wave had frozen over his head.
A true wonder of the world… enjoyed by such unworthy minds.
He reminded himself of the Culture Shift seminar that he had just walked out of, the one that kicked-off his Dactuar Retreat. His final assessment came with low marks for technical accuracy, high for morale and induction. The Champion had her talents, he supposed.
Each blink may as well have been a snapped picture – cracks in the ice, deep, giving the illusion of a broken mirror falling endlessly inward. Another mental snapshot developed and stored in that photographic mind of his – half to study his enemy, and half for himself. Then voices beside him forced his posture straight.
Who are you? And you?
He inspected the familiar faces from the dark auditorium at the Tribunal, and other new ones.
Hmph. Not important.
Interest was already lost. It turned out that the bitter cold was more rousing. He clapped his gloves together to create some heat, watching his breath turn to steam. Some vacation, he thought, wrapping himself tighter in his heavily insulated coat that hung low to his boots. With whiteish black fur sleekly padding the shoulders, double layers, and the like, it worked as a furnace amidst tundra. And of course there were emerald stones holding decorative straps in place. It matched everyone else’s. He looked like he finally belonged in the status-centric environment he had always dressed for.
The Dactuars raise the bar. Their organization and policy far exceed that of the Vacal. This is the beginning of the elite. Now I wonder, are they just lapdogs for the Hiezers? Executives, reporters, historians, judges, lawyers, editors, and financiers - all of these professions can serve as prime support for a dictatorship's agenda. Time will tell, I suppose.
Biljin was tantalized with stately ambiance, which was the purpose of this induction - to provide a sense of superiority and unique value. He relished in the Northern Lights, marveling at swirls of greenish purple streaks dancing to brighten the sky.
The sun declares war with missiles of charged particles, clashing against earth’s atoms. Our electrons transform to withstand the attack. But when the battle is over, secreted photons give us a show. I wonder if our war on ground will echo that of the sky’s in the end…
Many more swath
ed bodies stepped out from the cave, along with the seminar’s proctors.
Slow your thoughts, Biljin, the imbeciles are coming. Try not to confuse them.
"Biljin, ‘The Defiant,’" a woman's voice carried from behind.
Slowly, he turned around and answered, "Madam Brink."
The Champion of the Dactuars strutted regally, cloaked in a deep gray winter cover. Streaks of fur were twisted together, matching her braided brown hair. The soft layers trailed down her sleeves, complementing the huge battle-worn shield fastened onto her back.
She stopped and bowed contently with two arbitrators flanking her. An obvious distaste for Biljin shrouded Gulwin, his chin raised and turned away from the new Dactuar.
"Everyone else is getting to know each other, but here you are, in your own world. Used to being in solitude, I suspect?" Melissa presumed.
"I don't yearn to be off on my own. It just seems to be the nature of things. I'm not exactly standing here because of my years of noble service."
"People are intimidated by change. They'll warm up to you. Ironically, it just may take longer in your case." She walked closer to share the view with Biljin. "Being in a position of judgement, it's my duty to scout out individuals who have the potential to make us better as a whole. We are a symbol for the lower classes, after all. We're here because of our talents, however far in between the spectrum they may be. I'm excited to see what you will bring to the table."
She speaks genuinely, but follows blindly. A leader of humanity's higher tiers should have a greater picture in her mind.
"You won't be disappointed, I'm sure," Biljin’s arrogant tone flourished.
The Dactuars are more political than the Vacals, providing for an easier path to circumvent the ranks. Time to run circles around Gulwin's trivial mind.
Biljin finally addressed Reese with a polite nod before turning to Gulwin. "The rejections are in the public records. You were the only one who turned me down."