The Lo-enders understood the game and didn’t wait for misplaced sympathy. For them, charity was a long wait for a ride that never came. In the end they went about rebuilding with stoic perseverance.
An old woman, bent over from harsh years, struggled to carry small chunks one by one to a growing junk pile only a few meters distance. With each load she hauled, her decrepit bones ached. Her curled fingers quavered when put to work clutching objects of any size. Still, she performed the chore absent of pity.
For more than an hour, she worked until something unexpected happened. A Hi-riser girl voluntarily picked up a few broken bits and carried them in her bare arms to the pile. The thin slip of cloth she wore couldn’t protect her from the jagged points, causing her to suffer thin cuts and scratches.
The old woman stopped her with gentle persuasion, offering no words as she removed her long coat and draped it over the girl’s cold shoulders. They exchanged a mute gratitude before returning to the chore.
Elsewhere...
Two brigends came across the wreckage of a sleek aero-car buried inside a demolished storefront. Believing there might be survivors, they worked to pry open the twisted fuselage. With the shattered cover tossed, what they found inside caught them by surprise. They stared and then debated what to do next. It wasn’t everyday a pair of ex-soldiers had a chance to play rescuer to the President of the Interim American Council.
Battered, yet very much alive, James Orock looked up from the pilot’s seat. He was thankful for his salvation given how he narrowly escaped the Spire’s destruction. In hindsight, the two veterans considered themselves the unluckiest miscreants in the city. The idea of putting a couple of rounds in the politician’s head, thus avoiding the headache of dealing with him, did cross their minds. However, being incapable of committing a sin so unpleasant, they climbed inside the car and freed the injured man.
While Orock’s reluctant saviors pulled him out of the wreckage, two hooded men passed by without so much as a curious glimpse. One was a squat mature man known for his surliness; his younger and taller companion was a skilled pilot. Until recently, both were crewmen of an infamous frigate commanded by a renowned rebel general.
They went to great lengths sneaking undetected through the meandering lines of displaced peoples. They didn’t want to chance identification, so they skirted on the outer fringes as they traveled to the city’s central docking hub. If air traffic was in service, Minsk and Cob wanted to be on the next outbound flight.
Along the exodus route, they saw Zoe tending care to the worst of the victims at a makeshift relief post. Through a combination of donated and pilfered supplies, she had triage tents setup and food lines established — all manned by brigends.
Minsk had seen the collateral damage of war before in places like Narcissi and Prague, where beleaguered human beings were reduced to filthy animals. Here it was different. There was no anarchy. The people here worked in concord to help one another. In spite of the devastation, aid was available to everyone.
He once believed Americans were lazy and selfish, but this example of their persevering spirit changed that outlook.
Perhaps General Pavel was right. These Americans just might change the course of the war. What they need is the right leader to set them on the path.
Zoe stepped out of the medical tent for a much-deserved break. Stretching her sore limbs, she saw the impassive face of the Bandit’s chief staring at her from an alleyway. She saluted with a freshly mended arm. He returned the sign and cracked a smile before disappearing with Cob. She let them go; they obviously had their own mission.
With her breather over, she turned to go back inside. A fluttering light caught her eye. She investigated and found a small reflective object in the dirt. Picking it up, she saw it was an old coin, but, not just any old coin. It was the same one she had given Max.
What were the odds?
Dinx sat at the glossy workstation in a state of near tech-ecstasy. Accustomed to outdated hardware and slow network interfaces, this lab was his nirvana. Not only was every piece top-of-the-line, but it was at his disposal. Marta had bequeathed to him everything in her foster father’s lab to his boyish gluttony. Her only request, he had to work his digital magic on shielding Jaures Tower from the rest of the world. She could have done it herself, but she wanted to give her new friend something constructive to work on. Dinx didn’t have to think it over; he agreed without a second thought.
She left him to play with the new toys while she returned to the sterility of her chamber. Within its protective confines, she relaxed with only herself to keep her company. Here she sought convalescence in peace.
Baths offered the deepest meditation. She would immerse in the tub and allow the heat to overtake her cares. She never wanted to get out. It was a womb where she could feel protected.
Deprived of her physical self, she delved into other realms. Sometimes she dreamt of the lush field where she last saw her mother and real father, imagining again the grass under her bare feet, the warm sun on her face, and the cool breeze on her arms. When she tried to visualize their faces and feel their love, the fantasy would fade and leave her alone in an alien void. After that, she would linger in the bath until the water lost warmth and her fingers wrinkled.
Over the following weeks, she explored the empty halls. Although, the tower had been spared from destruction, it remained abandoned. She was grateful, for the isolation afforded her the opportunity to explore not only her home, but also her powers.
Sometimes she went barefooted, other times without clothing all together. She hungered for and actively sought out sources of energy. The more she absorbed, the stronger her need for it matured. She felt like a raw node, devoid of sentiency. Why she considered clothes an impediment to that insatiable desire, she couldn’t explain.
After a few nights of her jaunts, she sensed Dinx’s discomfort with her nudity. From then on, wherever she explored, she was mindful to blackout security feeds in those sectors. He was appreciative.
They spent time together, mostly at night in her chamber having dinner and laughing like teenagers should. She preferred not to read his mind, instead permitting him to talk at length about any and everything. The fun for her was in deciphering his coded speech and inconsistent sentence structures. She loved to hear him babble.
Later, he would return to his lab and she would seal herself inside and sleep late to the next morning. He was respectful, never waking her before noon.
One day Dinx chimed her earlier than usual. The unexpectedness of his page alarmed her. Is it something bad, she feared?
It wasn’t.
He only had to say one word — a name — to ease her worries. She bolted from her bed, wrapped in the sheet, and ran out into the hall.
He was standing by the large window. She said nothing as she ran to him and jumped into his arms. He pressed her against his body and they didn’t separate of their own accord.
Their unexplainable bond filled in the missing element her depression created. In his arms like this, she was happy. He was strength where she thought she had none.
The teenagers spent the day enjoying nonsensical activities, with each taking turns competing for his attention. Neither of them saw the change in him. They didn’t notice how quiet he was or how he avoided looking at them as they talked.
That night during dinner, while Dinx chattered on, Max’s hand found Marta’s. He wasn’t aware of it, but she was and enjoyed every sweet second of its gentleness.
As the evening wore on, she grew restless with Dinx’s company. With polite coaxing, she convinced him to leave.
Alone at last, Max lifted her in his arms. The boldness caught her off-guard. Of all the people she had encountered since her emancipation, his mind was the only one she couldn’t enter without consent. Now, she got the invitation she’d been hoping for. His passions were available to her and she received his generous gift eagerly.
The next morning, she woke to find him gone from the
bed. The sheet was warm, meaning he was not long from it. Marta didn’t fret over his absence. During their intimacy, she felt his sadness. It wasn’t for her, but for another. Raw and different, this other was the only one who could truly mend what was wrong.
She found him outside the chamber, standing by the window. The auburn sky illuminated his definition in amber glows. She went to him.
Her heart said, go to her.
To her amazement, he didn’t argue. Perhaps it’s why he returned. He needed her soul to agree with what his had already decided.
They stayed by the window and watched the clouds drifting by. His heat staved the chill inching up her legs from the cold marble floor. She chuckled. If only Dinx could see her and Max like this. His delicate disposition wouldn’t endure the shock.
Late in the day, Marta left Jaures to accompany Max on his trip. It would mark her first venture out among people.
Lacking proper clothes of her own, she wore a set of Dinx’s mismatched garments. The plainness of the attire had a pleasant quality, allowing her splendor to shine through.
They left the sanctuary by motorbike. As they rode his newest ill-gotten ride across the Hi-8, Hi-risers went about their daily routines without their past self-inflated pomposity. The Hi-8 was a society without an identity.
She studied the faces of her former slaves. Although the irremovable starbursts on their foreheads were docile, she could still feel traces of each person broadcasting to her. She feared they could receive her, too. Her paranoia imagined their condemnations.
She buried her face in the rough fabric of Max’s jacket. Running her hands under his shirt, she felt the tight ridges of his abdomen. There she hid inside the recesses of his core, feeling the pulse and tide of his diaphragm.
The survivors of Agarha were camped on the edge of Brooklyn’s waterfront in a series of rickety warehouses. It wasn’t an idyllic hideout, but it was the best Zoe and her soldiers could find to house her growing flock. Since the battle, their population had doubled with orphan children and the hodgepodge of lost adults looking for salvation. Thanks in part to Marta’s quiet influence, the encampment was shielded from Alliance patrols.
With the Old Man gone, Zoe inherited the mantle of leadership. It was a responsibility she didn’t want, but couldn’t run from either. She learned fast that being a soldier hadn’t prepared her for the daunting challenges associated with governing civilians. Food, water, medicine, childcare, and morale were commodities in short supply. Everyday brought new problems requiring her attention. Each night she fought to ease her restlessness so she could sleep. She prayed for New Agarha’s completion and the alleviation of the burdens it would bring.
The day started out the same as any other. She rose before most stirred from their cots. Tank, also prone to insomnia, was checking on his men. As the guard captain, everyone’s safety was his responsibility.
Over morning chow, they discussed hot issues while stomaching lukewarm food. His report was mundane, which should have been a good thing. But, the lack of enemy activity worried her. A complacent soldier is a lazy soldier and a weakness the Alliance wouldn’t hesitate to exploit if they ever chose to attack again. He vowed to keep the guardsmen trained and vigilant. She trusted him to see it done.
After breakfast, the real fun awaited. Because of the overpopulation, she had formed a governing committee to help her deal with the day-to-day problems. In theory, having more people shouldering the authority to implement operational decisions sounded like a good idea. In actuality, the three men and two women committee bickered excessively and were too ineffective to make decisions on their own. Every ten minutes they would hunt her down, begging for advice. By the end of each day, she found herself being in charge anyway.
This day was nothing new. The crisis needing her immediate attention? Sanitation. She couldn’t believe the council’s ineptness on that issue; two of the five council members had been Army engineers in the war. Zoe lost what little cool she possessed and Tank had to stop her from beating the offending supervisors with one of her boots.
As the day ticked on, she invented ways to keep out of sight and avoid the unyielding questions. The cleverest solution was for her to not be handy. Taking a small squad with her, she set out on foot to trek across Brooklyn and into Manhattan.
After the battle, Colonel Jessup and his brigend militia returned to completely liberate the U.R.C prison. Standing as a sizeable force, the freed veterans had been retrofitting the prison ship for its return to honorable service. The process was slow going, but after five weeks, they had completed three-quarters of the work. The warship returning to her past glory was an awe-inspiring picture to behold. Stenciled across her port bow, the name Independence was legible from a great distance.
Jessup, also a busy leader, could only confer briefly with her. She had hoped to persuade him to join her group. He respected her mission to reestablish a civilian community, but it wasn’t an avenue he would consider for himself or his men. He was a soldier. For as long as the war waged on, he needed to be on the frontlines. She valued his conviction, but also felt disappointed. She could have really used a commander like him.
As a parting gift, he gave her several crates of procured weapons and ammo. She accepted them graciously.
Zoe returned to the camp late in the evening, sneaking to her living quarters like a naughty child. When she threw open the flap to her tent, she saw Tank sitting on the ground, waiting for her.
“Don’t say it.”
“What?” His bemused smirk forgave her truancy.
While she sat on the footlocker and struggled with the laces of a sweaty boot, he played with the aqua ora. In his oversized palm, the crystal was a diminutive lump on a canvas of brown.
“You know who else had one of these?” he asked.
“I know.”
Tank handed the crystal to her and she placed it on the nearby crate that was her nightstand. There it served as a talisman for warding off bad dreams. With the tip of the other boot, she freed her foot from its oppressor.
From inside the crate/nightstand, she lifted the single metal dog tag by its long, thin chain. Placing the strand over her head and around her neck, she held it to where she could read the name stamped on its flat surface — Zander, John Robert. She kissed it.
“I miss Patti,” Tank admitted.
Zoe waited to respond. She missed the old woman, too, but she missed someone else more. “I miss Max.”
“Oh, really?” a haughty voice said. “I’m touched.”
The shock of hearing him made them jump. They looked at the opening where Max and Marta were standing.
Zoe went to her son, slow at first. She was afraid he would disappear if she moved too fast. Was he really there? A poke confirmed the obvious.
“And where have you been, mister?”
“Oh, you know me, here and there.”
Max offered himself for a hug. Her arms accepted.
If quizzed later on, Max would deny crying, but in truth — he did.
Zoe finally had her son with her. For nineteen years, she had prayed for another chance to hold him. Now, those years of loneliness were fading from memory.
He was home.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
To my wife Corina for being my sole encourager, cheerleader, and partner. Without you, I couldn’t have made it this far.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
photo courtesy of his wife
Russell Krone was born in Los Angeles, California to nomadic parents. Not long after his inconspicuous arrival, the elder Krones abandoned the transitory lifestyle and settled down.
Growing up in the pre-digital age, Russell spent most of his childhood playing in the great outdoors and getting into adventurous mischief. Lacking the bombardment of today’s entertainment, he was made to rely entirely on his adolescent imagination to keep him entertained.
By the time Russell entered middle school, he was reading at a college freshman level. Literature opened his eye
s to the world. Not satisfied with simply reading other people’s works, he began drafting juvenile screenplays with the hope of someday becoming an established writer. Unfortunately, life intervened.
Over the years, his interests and experiences have varied from art, to sciences, and everything in-between. He served in the U.S. Navy, studied Dramatic Theory in college, sold computers, trained in several Asian martial arts, did the stay-at-home father thing, and has worked for more than a decade as an E.M.T./FIREFIGHTER.
Currently, he resides in Northern California with his wife and three kids.
Life has once again intervened and now he has returned to his first love — writing.
Acta non Verba
www.russellkrone.blogspot.com
www.twitter.com/russellkrone
www.facebook.com/russellkrone.writer
coming soon...
The Brigend
Book Two of the Final War Series
Brigends (The Final War Series Book 1) Page 28