The Reprisal

by Kelly St Clare

  “Ha!” Phobos snorted. “She gave you the dumbed-down version.”

  A frown creased Deimos’s brow. “She did, too.” He grinned to himself.

  Romy stood and moved to sit beside Atlas. He gave her a tired smile and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Have you slept?” she asked.

  “No, I hoped to catch some sleep on the way there.”

  She bunched up her jacket and placed it on her shoulder. “Well, sleep then.”

  He was too exhausted to put up a fight. But he managed to say loudly, “I’m worried about enemy craft fire when we land.”

  Deimos and Phobos glanced over, and Deimos answered, “Should we get the bazookas out?”

  Atlas pursed his lips and then nodded, his eyes closed. He was fading fast. Romy smiled at her knotmates, saying, “Could you get them out? I don’t think Atlas will be conscious much longer.”

  The twins made their way to the trapdoor in the cargo area, which was located before the cockpit. The trapdoor led to the belly of the craft, where the heavier equipment was stored.

  Phobos pulled on the lever.

  “Don’t worry, it’s not real,” Atlas whispered.

  What?

  A Critamal exploded from the floor, launching at Phobos, and collecting Deimos on the way. A terrified scream lodged from Romy’s throat, but Atlas clamped down on her lap as the entire crowd in the craft launched to their feet, guns raised and shouting. The twins swung their arms frantically, yelling at each other as they both tried to fight off. . . .

  . . . The dead Critamal.

  “It’s not alive,” Deimos said after that fact became clear. He grabbed his chest. “It’s not alive.”

  A deep laugh rumbled in Atlas’s stomach and worked up through his throat, bursting out of his mouth. Romy looked down to see he was staring at the twins, head still resting on her shoulder.

  Phobos unwound his arms from where he’d been gripping around his twin’s waist to throw him out of danger. Deimos let the water canister he held drop to the floor.

  Then both of them turned to stare at Atlas, who now had tears streaming down his cheeks. Romy was unsuccessful at biting back the grin spreading across her face. She’d never seen Atlas laugh so hard.

  “He just . . . got us,” Deimos said.

  Phobos blinked. “Really good.” He shifted to look through the trapdoor. “Spring system. Ingenious.”

  Atlas’s chuckling began to trail off.

  The other occupants of the craft weren’t as forgiving. Elara was clutching her chest. “I almost had my freakin’ baby!”

  Deimos’s chest puffed out as he inspected the spring contraption beside his twin. “Taught him everything we know, don’t you think, Pho?”

  “We sure did. You picked a good one, Ro.” Phobos glanced back at her with a grave nod.

  They sat down, and Romy shared a long, confused look with Elara and Thrym, feeling as though some rite of passage had occurred, but she wasn’t entirely sure what it had meant, or why it had happened. Flinging a Critamal at the twins seemed to have earned Atlas their acceptance.

  Atlas wiped his eyes, and readjusted on her shoulder. “Sleep now.”

  “Okay,” Romy drew out. She sent weak smiles to the disgruntled members of the craft, hissing at Atlas, “You set me up.”

  There was no reply.

  Thrym began talking excitedly with Nancy. “They’re absorbing the Mandate’s army into our own, pardoning them because they moved to bring the Mandate in. Cronus is in charge; he knows pretty much all of the officers. The Amach bases will be emptied and the cities expanded to accommodate the civilians from the settlements and the Amach.”

  Nancy sighed. “It’s a good thing; who knows how long it will take to hunt the Critamal down. The cities are easier to protect.”

  “Work details will go out from the cities,” Atlas mumbled.

  Romy looked at his closed eyes and grinned.

  “Is he sleep talking?” Nancy asked her.

  She bit her lip. “Apparently. Making sleep plans.”

  Atlas sighed and shifted. “Equal resources and opportunity. Three-month ground plan to eradicate Critamal. Destroy cannons for good.”

  The others sniggered and Romy tried to still her shaking shoulders so she didn’t wake him. With a weary sigh, she glanced around the light faces, some still streaked with dirt and blood. Many of them appeared slightly bewildered, like they weren’t sure what they’d been through, and didn’t believe it was over.

  Over five hundred lives had been lost last night, most of them with the second cannon blast Houston managed before Romy killed him. It would be a few days before they knew what the total toll had been . . . but thousands could have died yesterday.

  Each of the deceased Amach fighters deserved to be here now, looking light and bewildered like the rest of them.

  One person in particular.

  Romy clamped down on her grief, knowing Tina would punch her in the gut for crying. There would be a time to remember her friend soon, but they had to consolidate their position first.

  There, Tina, you happy?

  “Hey,” Romy said to Phobos as the craft landed a couple of hours later. “Can you check if the Mandate is here yet? I don’t want to wake Atlas until I need to.”

  “I’ll come and get you when they’re close.” He winked and helped Elara down the ramp.

  Charlee had done a full body check. The baby was fine. None of the books said that going through a war was healthy for a baby, but Romy was inclined to think nothing the books said about pregnancy was true, except for the hole the baby came out of.

  She sat in the empty craft with Atlas snoring gently on her shoulder for another hour before Phobos reappeared.

  “They’re due in ten,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she mouthed.

  He blew her a kiss.

  “Atlas,” Romy said gently. She reached around and stroked his cheek. “Time to wake up.” His mouth tugged up in a smile and then relaxed again. After another few minutes of coaxing, his eyes were opening.

  He sat, rubbing his eyes. “Where’s everyone?”

  “I wanted to let you sleep until the Mandate were in sight. They’re five minutes off,” she continued, sensing his next question. His eyes were blinking, still half closed. His jet-black hair in an adorable mess.

  She unhooked her harness and went to him, straightening him up. Grabbing a canteen, she led him off the craft and waited while he splashed his face, drying it on the bottom of his black T-shirt and revealing a lot of bruised torso.

  “It’s over now,” Romy blurted suddenly.

  He replaced the cap on the canteen, echoing her. “It’s over now.”

  They stared at each other, eyes full of everything they felt but were unable to voice.

  She leaned in to kiss him. “Come on, they’ll be here in a couple of minutes.”

  The small crowd parted to let them through. The invitation had been opened to all of the Amach leaders. They hadn’t wanted to make a fanfare, but wanted a display of power. Atlas looked marginally more awake now. He weaved his way through the crowd, holding fast to Romy’s hand as he nodded and briefly clasped a shoulder here and there.

  “Mother,” he said, walking over to Gwenyth.

  The always-put-together woman burst into tears at the sight of her son. “You’re safe,” she said. “It’s finally done.”

  He pulled her into his arms, and said, “We did it, Mum.”

  “You did it,” she said, holding a hand up to his cheek.

  He shook his head, saying in a vehement tone, “No, we did it. You, me, and Dad.”

  “He’d be so proud of you,” she whispered, hands shaking. “So proud.”

  “You have no idea what it means to hear you say that,” he said. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too, my boy.”

  Atlas drew Romy forward, still holding her hand and with no sign of letting go anytime soon.

  “Romy,” Gwenyth said uncertainly. �
��I’m so glad you’re safe.”

  That sounded entirely sincere. A few seconds went by as Romy absorbed that startling fact. “I am, and I’m happy to see you well, Gwenyth.”

  “Please,” she replied. “Call me Gwen.”

  Romy smiled. “I’ll do that. Would you like to come to the front and watch with us?”

  The older woman dabbed underneath her eyes. “Of course. I don’t want to miss a single second of seeing those fuckers locked away.”

  Atlas lifted a brow, glancing back.

  “What?” Gwen said defensively. “They are.”

  He pursed his lips and she did the same.

  They arrived at the front of the procession, nearest to the prison entrance. When Romy had imagined Madagascar, she’d thought it would be small, but the island was massive and the building on it was huge as well. “Didn’t Houston empty this place?” she asked.

  “And now we’ve filled it up again,” Cronus said cheerfully, coming up on Gwenyth’s other side and taking her hand.

  Atlas inhaled and cut a look at Romy, who nearly burst out laughing at his horror.

  “Here they are,” Cronus said, jerking his head.

  A large craft was coming in to land.

  The crowd roared, stamping and hugging one another. Romy felt her knot come up behind her, and relaxed inside at their silent and strong presence.

  How had Knot 27 made it through this war intact? She shivered at just how easily this all could’ve been different. One push of a button a second earlier; a single stray bullet. She could’ve lost her mind. Deimos could’ve stayed with Houston. Elara could’ve fallen inside the fifty-metre radius of the cannon.

  But somehow, they were still here.

  The craft came to a halt in front of Atlas, and the cargo door lowered. The crowd surged forward, trying to look inside. The cameras were at work, one tracking the Mandate, one on Atlas and her, and the others on the crowd.

  The Mandate shuffled out in a row, their hands and feet chained.

  They weren’t dressed in white anymore, or rather, their clothes had been white once, but were now covered in dirt and grease. A loud booing broke out from the Amach. Romy glanced at Atlas, but he didn’t seem bothered by it. These people had waited generations for this moment. Booing was tame, in comparison to what many of them wanted to do.

  The guards stopped the six dishevelled Mandate members in front of their group.

  Mandate Tony’s eyes swept across them and landed on Romy.

  She tilted her head to the side, feeling blood rushing to her head. She wanted to end this man’s life. Romy wanted to exact revenge on this man for everything he’d done to humanity, to her knot, and to her personally. She wanted to take her gun and hold it right to his forehead as she shot.

  “Looks like you won,” Tony said.

  If there was anything she’d learned since her time on Earth, it was that there were more important things than revenge. As much as she wanted to put a bullet in every person who had done her harm, war didn’t work like that. The end of a war wasn’t neat; its threads weren’t trim and tidy. Romy could waste her energy being angry that this man wasn’t dead at her feet, or she could accept that he would never see the light of day again. She held his brown gaze. There was so much she could say to him. He’d torn her life apart. She might not have existed but for a bit of luck. If she’d fallen into the Mandate’s hands she would’ve been tested on and tortured for the rest of her days. Her knot would be dead. She would be Feral Romy.

  But she wasn’t. She’d beaten all of that. She’d beaten them, and she hadn’t become them to do so. Her family was safe. The world would be safe, too. This man no longer had any power.

  If she’d met him in battle, if he’d been the one holding the remote, things would be different. But it had been Houston, not Mandate Tony.

  “Looks like I did,” she replied mildly.

  “Look at you.” He eyed her hair in disdain and, no doubt, took in the array of scratches and bruises covering her.

  Romy tilted her chin. “That’s the point, Tony. I can look at myself.”

  Something flickered deep in his hard eyes, and Romy let her lips curve, holding his gaze until he dropped his.

  Atlas addressed the six fallen Mandate members. “At a critical time in our history, you chose to betray Earth’s people. Thousands were killed on your orders. On behalf of the Amach, I hereby sentence you to prison for life.”

  “How many have you killed, Commander Atlas?” Mandate Tony spat. The red dot on the camera blinked and Romy’s stomach churned with fury at the question.

  Someone shifted behind her and Romy turned to look back at Deimos. His eyes were fixed on the Mandate. Her gaze dropped to the grip he had on his holstered gun, and she tensed.

  Deimos stared at the Mandate, jaw clenched, unbreathing.

  He blinked after a few seconds and released his grip on the gun, shoulders relaxing. He caught Romy watching. She reached back and squeezed his hand, and he gave her a sad smile in return.

  “Too many,” Atlas said in a straightforward voice that didn’t fully cover the rawness underneath. “I remember each and every one of them, every person who has died so that the world may finally have the peace it deserves. Do you remember the people you’ve killed, Tony?”

  His brows raised in faint astonishment. “Of course not.”

  Atlas smiled without humour. “That is the difference between you and I.” He gave the guards a nod and the Mandate were escorted away.

  The crowd continued to cheer as the Mandate were led into the single-level concrete prison.

  They cheered for a long time after.

  “Romy.” Gwenyth had moved to stand beside her. “My son deserves a break now.”

  “Gwen,” she replied, “I couldn’t agree more.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  One year later. . .

  “Wait for me,” Atlas called.

  Romy ran ahead of him up the narrow and steep path. “Not my fault you’re slow. You’ve gotten slack.”

  ‘Slack’ wasn’t a word anyone would apply to Atlas. She turned and spotted him coming around the next corner in a white T-shirt and black sport shorts and sneakers. As broad-shouldered and toned as ever. He had sunglasses on and a backpack slung over one bronzed and muscled arm.

  “What is this place again?” he asked.

  “Machu Picchu. A fifteenth-century citadel.”

  He reached her and she started off again.

  He called after her, “Why is it on a hill? The other places weren’t on a hill; Niagara Falls, the Taj Mahal, the Colosseum, and the Great Wall were all flat.”

  “The Great Wall wasn’t flat.”

  “Flatter,” he muttered.

  They reached the top and stood overlooking the ancient remains of the citadel.

  Atlas whistled, eyes wide. “That’s some view.”

  “Yes,” Romy started, throwing her long braid back. Her platinum hair reached to the bottom of her shoulder blades now. “Northwest of here we have New Cusco, the Urubamba rivers border us on three sides, and the mountain at our backs is almost impassable. It’s interesting to note that while. . . .” She trailed off, catching Atlas pursing his lips.

  He coughed. “Never mind.”

  “I’m informative,” she said with a hand on her hip.

  He laughed and closed in on her, pressing a kiss to her lips. “It’s damn cute is what it is,” he disagreed.

  “Informative,” she repeated.

  “Whatever you say, darling.”

  Three months after removing the Renegades and the Mandate from power, Atlas had decided to take an indefinite break from his work, and he and Romy had disappeared the next day. They took a craft—with permission, though Atlas had fooled her into believing it was stolen for a full week—and set off. Romy guesstimated they could have her list completed in another three years if they kept up this pace, though she kept adding more destinations with each stop.

  By the time they reach
ed their craft again, the sun was low in the sky.

  Atlas threw himself down on the mattress set up in the back. Inside, it looked nothing like it had a year ago. Their wardrobe was on one side of the cargo area, and a kitchenette was set up on the other side with various pots, pans, torches, cards, matches, and camping equipment shoved into every available space. They’d converted the craft into a mobile home.

  Romy jumped on top of him and he caught her, pulling her in close. His stubble scratched at her cheek and she giggled.

  “Want to watch Bridget Jones’s Diary?”

  He grimaced. “You know I hate rom-coms. What about Remember the Titans.”

  “How many times have you watched that now?”

  “I like it. You should make those cucumber avocado snacks.”

  Atlas had taken it as a personal challenge to get to know himself, now that he had the time. He had a very decisive list of what he did and did not like: he did like sport movies, he didn’t like hills, he did like orange chocolate, he didn’t like curly pasta. He hadn’t made peace with his past entirely, but he was working on it.

  “We could play strip poker again,” Romy said, rolling to the side and propping up on an elbow.

  He snorted. “You want to play that every night.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Do I want to be tortured for hours before I get all your clothes off?”

  Her mouth dropped. “You don’t always win.” She felt her temper begin to rise.

  He lay flat, staring at the craft’s ceiling. “Depends how you look at it,” he said with a small grin. “As long as we end up in bed, that’s a win.”

  Her irritation disappeared and she grinned back.

  “But,” he said, “I would think you’d be wanting to start back to Jimboomba tonight.”

  She stilled. “We aren’t leaving until tomorrow morning.”

  “You don’t want to see your knot a day earlier? Silly me.” He clambered to his feet. “I’ll get the cards.”

  See her knot? A month had passed since their last get-together.

  Romy scrambled to her knees. “No, I do want to see them a day early,” she said. “Unless you really want to play cards?”

  Atlas threw the cards away and picked her up, wrapping her legs around his hips. “Leave in an hour?”