I give the order to set up camp after travelling a safe distance from Landing Green. We are close to victory. All of us are eager to find the sage and celebrate a new triumph. I keep the four of us disciplined by lessening our rations. Only Joyle complains. To remind him of his place, I order that he walk first guard and forfeit the remainder of his meal to me. I care not for the extra meat but authority has to be maintained. Toff has already gone to sleep by the time I finish my meal. I take extra time to review the map of the area. I did not expect to be joined by Moikya. She whispers for me to follow her away from camp. I tell her that I am on guard next and still need to finish with tomorrow’s plan. She pushes away the map and takes my hand. Tonight she wants to be mine. Her breath singes my skin.
Two days later we find a vagabond walking down the middle of a road wearing armor different than any I had seen before. His shoulder pads are decorated with orange stripes and he wears a yellow gas mask. A lone vagabond means one of two things—insanity or ambush. We take position and send Toff ahead to speak with him.
Toff has a way of speaking so all can understand. The squad covers her and I keep watch with the spyglass. I can’t make out the insignia on the vagabond’s satchel until Toff is standing right next to him. It is the insignia of a Regimental grenadier.
I signal Moikya. She has already read my concern and is preparing to move out. I watch her circle around behind Toff and the vagabond. She unsheathes her favorite stiletto and poises to strike. She knows I will never forgive her if Toff is hurt.
We hear laughter. Toff’s voice cuts through the dry air. She gives the sign that the vagabond isn’t a threat. Joyle looks grim with disappointment. He had readied his pike for action. Moikya remains hidden behind a large pile of rocks.
The vagabond denies conscription with the Regiment. He is alone. He tells Toff that he’d taken the satchel from one of their dead. I suspect treachery and tell him to remove his gas mask. He refuses. Joyle readies his pike but the vagabond doesn’t flinch. The vagabond calls out to Moikya’s position off the road. This man was not insane—he was born to be Peregrinus.
I let Toff explain that the vagabond is a Regulate. We had heard of his kind from out West. He had left his brigade and taken up a hermetic life. He had forsaken vows but his law meant nothing to us. However, if he left his tribe to wander, he could not be trusted to know our location.
I offer the tip of the pilum. The sharp end of my weapon awaits his move. The vagabond struggles to step back, but then he attacks rather than yield. We will give him a warrior’s death.
The hermit knocks my pilum back, yet Joyle and I advance. It doesn’t stop the vagabond from throwing rusted flak into my eyes. His charge overtakes me, causing the pikeholder to trip over my foot.
I feel the vagabond flip over my shoulder. He used my own movement against me. The strike from his elbow to the back of my head dulls my senses. I attempt to turn and fight, but he kicks my leg out from underneath me.
Joyle shoves hard, which throws the vagabond off balance. I see our foe twist and fall. His left hand drops a curved blade. It looks like a slicer’s stiletto. I thrust my pilum into his stomach and wait for blood to fill his mask.
Moikya says it’s best to not search the body. She recognizes the stench of infection. This Regulate was unclean, condemned to walk alone because of some malady. We had all seen the radiated, but this was different. This man had been expelled from his tribe because of Syndrome.
Crossing into the Wind Scale territory takes a week longer than we expect. We hadn’t foreseen Regimental activity this far on the edge of the beastly bowels but, for some reason, their scout-buggies and bikers are combing the area. We will have to be cautious not to start an open engagement. Peregrinus will always fight for respect, and we proudly decimate armies, even if outnumbered. Right now, though, we have a mission to accomplish. Fighting the Regiment would be a foolish distraction.
I scan the open road for signs of a trap. Moikya suggests we stay hidden until all Regiment mount machines are counted. We would be exposed and outmanned if we follow the road to the cavern of the Wind Scale sage. I listen to her advice but decide to proceed. We can stay off the road, but I’m not about to cower to scouts.
The battle ahead of us will mean facing down more armies with stronger equipment. Rusted mounts give false courage. All sixty Peregrinus are willing to die for their creed. Legend tells us our ancestors met a force six hundred strong at the Capital Standoff. The Peregrinus will be forever remembered as heroes for pushing back the oppressors and drowning the traitorous senators. My great-grandfather was pikeholder to the javelineer who decimated the prophet who poisoned the world. To have lived in those days would have been glorious! My greatest fight was at the Grand River Confrontation seven months ago. We routed one hundred seventy-five foes with a quarter of our squad’s resources and only fifteen stabbers. The enemy had taken Herd trade bridges, so the Peregrinus were summoned. I led the infamous death-charge into the main camp. I was rewarded with promotion and the knowledge of my brother’s death.
When I look at Moikya, I think back to the loss of my brother. She is so young and so willing to die. Her passion is admirable. Yet, as leader of this squad, I must be hardhearted. I must not let her find love—she is too effective as a slicer. Rex Venomious will bring us soundless victory. I will not let her recent attempts to seduce my skin distract from our purpose. She is of my squad and nothing more. I have already made my vow to another.
The sage must fall today. He stole women and water. The woman he keeps at his side is Simdi, our squad mate’s mother. My now-lover Toff chose this mission for the squad, for it is her mother who was stolen by this false shaman. Toff and I have a strong friendship and an even stronger bond. She knows of Moikya’s charms, but she trusts me. I have vowed to take no other into my arms. Only Toff’s hands and words will bring pleasure. I will never betray her heart.
I know Toff’s mother well. Simdi taught us that warriors could become family. I do not understand why the sage would take her. She is too old to bear children—why would she matter to him? Peregrinus are outsiders but we value family. Simdi is Peregrinus because Toff is Peregrinus. Did the sage not know we would come for one of our own? Our devotion makes us strong. We will take back what is ours.
* * *
We arrive midday at the Wind Scale sage’s cavern, following tracks from a nearby oasis. He has to be there. We want to see the false shaman shamed. We expect opposition but find only the quiet of the poorly hidden cave entrance.
Simdi greets us with rations. She wears a yellow silk robe and smiles like we are family. This is not a woman who has been stolen. She is happy for the reunion with her daughter.
Toff embraces her mother. Tears flow from both women’s eyes. It’s the first time I have seen Toff cry. It is beautiful.
Simdi speaks to us of her now-lover. This cavern is her home. The sage is her lost-love husband. They had always been Wind Scale. She explains how her time with the Herd was out of necessity for peace. The shaman of the Herd caravan was jealous of the love between Simdi and the sage. The Herd shaman made Simdi vow to stay with the caravan out of rivalry. She would only return to the sage if he could claim dominance over their former tribe. The Wind Scales had joined with the Herd many seasons back. Their belongings and ways were merged. The shaman was surprised when the sage left the safety of the caravan’s protection to wander alone into the beastly bowels. He was more surprised when the man returned with proof of a better life.
“Purgatory or Limbo. They’ve made winner, loser, and coward look the same,” said the sage.
The grayish face of the sage is older than I expected. He had joined our reunion without any of us noticing. He wears a long coat of brown leather. In each hand, he holds a pistol, pointed at the ground. Purgatory and Limbo—they are the biggest of their kind and shined in the lantern light.
“We are Peregrinus. You have stolen women and water. Today is the day of your death,” said Moikya.
<
br /> “Law is for the Regulate. You are in my home. This bunker is for my tribe. Don’t let it become your grave,” said the sage.
I raise my hand to slow Moikya. The slicer holds her position. The sage is our enemy. He will die, but only when I choose. I will allow bloodshed if the man acts foolishly. We are four to his one, yet I sense something is wrong. Where is the rest of his tribe?
“Is this my father?” asked Toff. “Can this be true?”
Simdi nods and smiles.
“You found us because I wanted you to. We have plenty to share with my daughter’s friends,” said the sage.
“You would have us share stolen water?” asked Moikya.
“We have medicine for your friend,” said Simdi.
“I took nothing from the caravan,” explained the sage. “The shaman gave his word that we could leave. We had nothing to offer his people. I found shelter and returned for my wife.”
“You have this cavern,” I said. “It belongs to the Herd.”
“You have my daughter,” said the sage. “She belongs with us.”
“The time for words is ending. You betrayed your people. You will face me in combat.”
“Why so many words?” asked the sage. “Do you doubt your purpose? I’ve lived twice your seasons and by the same code. I would already have killed you if I found any honor in the deed. Ask yourself, Where is what I took from the Herd? Where is my tribe?”
“We are a tribe of two,” said Simdi.
Moikya moves fast with her stiletto. The Rex Venomious slices at open air near the sage’s hands. The sounds of the guns Purgatory and Limbo boom as the scout assessor falls lifeless on the cavern floor. Moikya’s dark eyes meet mine one final time.
A lantern explodes, blinding the rest of us as it covers the room in flame. The sound of Joyle’s anguish is all I can hear. He had loved Moikya as more than a sister. I too felt my heart rage for vengeance.
Joyle is at my side. He lunges with his pike, guiding the sage into my path. I throw my pilum, striking the sage as he fires both guns. Joyle gurgles blood; his neck is half missing, thanks to Limbo. Purgatory’s blast removes the top of his skull. Joyle tries to hold himself upright with his pike before falling backward.
The echo of gunfire rings in my ears. Smoke fills my nostrils as I witness the carnage. Moikya and Joyle had died well. We will replace and remember them. As I turn to see Toff, her face is lined with tears.
“Be swift,” I say.
Toff raises her pilum high and runs past me, toward the sage. My now-lover is determined and impressive. She is true Peregrinus and will be named javelineer. Her weapon impales the man as another pistol sounds. Toff’s muscles stiffen. She tries to speak but no words come from her mouth. Her hands tighten around the pilum as she coughs blood. I watch as Toff collapses next to her father.
Simdi wails. In her hand she held a gun, large like Purgatory and Limbo. It had taken the life of her daughter. Her hands shake as she lowers the still-smoking weapon. Her world has ended with the loss of daughter and her lover. We stare at each other for what feels like a full season, before I remove her head with my blade.
I am Peregrinus. Third Javelin of Twenty-nine. I roam the beastly bowels of dust and fire. My squad is my life. We decimate the armies of the Worthless.
A Touch of Lemming
Alice M. Weyers
Editor: Man is one of the few animals that will overcrowd himself.
The results are left as an exercise for the reader.
Graeme Addison wanted to punch the bald-headed man in the mouth. He didn’t. It wouldn’t have been proper. It wasn’t safe. He pushed the thought away.
Hiding his clenched fist in his pocket, Graeme shuffled his feet and cleared his throat in the accepted manner. The bald-headed man backed away the required six inches. Graeme, his territory reestablished, still felt dissatisfied.
He wanted—really wanted—to use his fist. He wanted to fight. That thought, in itself, so scared him he reached for another Irenex. All around him, he heard the short warning coughs and scuffling sounds of discontent. Many hands held dispensers. He slipped the oval white tablet from his dispenser. As he bit down on the pill, the familiar mint flavor flooded his taste buds. Yes, he thought, they taste the same. They’re the same shape, same size, but they’re not the same. Something is missing. Something more than the green coloring. The white pills didn’t ease his anxieties, his anger. Only the green pills effectively quelled his agitation.
I must be careful, he admonished himself. What if the bald-headed guy is an anti-aggression cop? If the man is, then he could arrest me as a malcontent, a trouble-maker. I’d be exiled into slave labor on The Farm—or worse, forced out into the Wilderness where anarchy ruled. Graeme repressed a shudder at the thought. He cast a cautious glance at the bald man, but found no answer.
The tram-car, crammed with standing workers returning to the co-op Complex after a work day at City Center, rattled down the subway tracks. The men and women grasped the straps hung from the roof, swaying with the motion and being careful to maintain their privacy area from encroaching on fellow travelers.
Graeme clung to the hanging strap as he swayed with the motion of the tram. He gripped the strap tighter, felt his fingernails dig into the plastic surface. He gained a scant pleasure in releasing his hostilities on the inanimate object.
He attempted to distract his obsession with violence by studying the ads lining the space above the windows of the tram car.
BE A CONTENTED CITIZEN—USE IRENEX
GOVERNMENT APPROVED—GOVERNMENT ISSUED
SMILE—IRENEX WILL LET YOU
Each ad showed smiling men and women holding out government-stamped dispensers. He couldn’t remember when he’d last seen a genuine smile on anyone’s face.
The tram slowed to a stop, and Graeme filed out. Behind him the door sighed shut, encapsulating the fetid warmth of over-breathed air. Late again. Graeme fidgeted in the line that fed onto the escalators. Lines! Always lines. Seemed like he spent half his life waiting in lines. There must be some place, anyplace, free of crowds. Anger churned his empty stomach, and he fought a rising rage. The white pills were a sham. They didn’t work.
Careful, careful, he mentally warned himself as he struggled to keep a bland expression on his face.
Graeme stepped out onto the street. Buffeted by hordes of citizens bent on reaching the safety of their apartments, he experienced the rare enjoyment of rough physical contact. It brought the same exhilaration he felt as a toddler before adults had taught him politically correct behavior. He eyed the safety of smooth gray concrete walls and steel-barred windows of the fortress he knew as home, The Delphi Complex. A city within a city, it stretched for miles along the coast. Graeme glanced at the armored kiosk at the entrance. The sight of manned weapons reassured him and relaxed the hard knot of tension at the back of his neck. He joined the line leading to the kiosk. A fingerprint and retinal scan gained him admission inside the electrified fence that surrounded the seemingly endless interconnected apartment complexes. He was so close now. Down the street stood the welcoming doors leading inside the warren of his apartments.
One more short wait.
Shorter this time as many of the people left the river of humanity for other entrances farther down the street.
In the crowded elevator, the shuffling of feet and clearing of throats rasped on Graeme’s raw nerves. His heart began to pound and his hands tightened into fists. He closed his eyes and counted the stops. At the twenty-fifth floor, Graeme edged his way out and hurried down the hall to his home, his sanctuary. The door opened when he presented his palm print. He stepped inside. Only after locking the door behind him did Graeme relax.
Safe at last.
His wife Helen greeted him. “Dinner is going to be late. There was a power cut-off this afternoon.”
Graeme scowled. “Another one?”
“You sound upset.” Helen looked up, and Graeme noted the frown on her face. “Did you have a ba
d day?”
A bad day? Graeme closed his eyes as memory recalled the vivid images and painful sounds. The supply depot infiltrated and plundered. Four people hurt, two killed. Then a security failure in his own office. A bomb under his own desk, destroying files and supply orders that would take weeks to repair and recover. But, he couldn’t tell her. It wasn’t supposed to have happened. To mention it would be to admit security had failed. Unthinkable. To speak of it, even to his wife, Helen, could mean his job, or worse.
The lie fell from Graeme’s lips. “A bad day? Uh . . . no, no, not at all.”
“Well, aren’t you the lucky one.” She glared at him. “I’ve had a terrible one.” Her eyes flashed with anger. “The entire crèche overwhelmed with crying infants. Then the day care dropped the toddlers in our laps as well.” She gulped down a sob. “I couldn’t cope. I left. It’ll be on my record.” Tears filled her eyes.
He had to get away. Escape. He couldn’t handle this. Not right now. He held out his hand to Helen.
“I—uh, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I can’t help. I’m going to take a shower and then rest a bit before dinner.” He fled across the room into the sleeping area.
Inside the small bedroom, Graeme slipped a tablet from his dispenser into his mouth. White—white—white, he wanted a green one, just one. He almost sobbed in frustration. He bit down on the pill to release a minty dose of Irenex, the government-approved, government-issued answer to anxiety that didn’t work. He counted the remaining tablets. Running low. Better ration them. He supposed they were better than nothing.
Graeme turned on the shower, noting the thin trickle. He shrugged. Well, it’s not the first time.
He half-heartedly hummed when the two-minute buzzer sounded. Quickly, he finished washing and started to rinse the soap off. Thirty seconds before the automatic timer shut off the flow, a slash of cold water hit him. Damn. He never would get used to the shock of the cold spray. Some guys he knew found it invigorating, but it only left him breathless—and shivering. Graeme dried himself off, dressed, and lay down on the bed, basking in the almost solitude.
Enter the Rebirth (Enter the... Book 3) Page 5