Hatred Day

by T S Pettibone

  Scenarios of Snofrid’s captivity pulsed through his head as he mingled with the columns of traffic on Albanus Bridge, a famous bowstring-arch bridge that led into Warburton, the humblest borough of Hollowstone. The ten-lane highway brimmed with electric cars, military tanks and tactical vehicles, all swerving, braking and honking as they fought to enter the west city gate. Armored skyline vessels sped toward aero-stations to unload passengers from confederate cities, and drones marshaled the skies, defending against Inborn airstrikes. Neko noticed three search and rescue helicopters darting in and out of the clouds and frowned. Since yesterday, authorities had been searching for the Chancellor of Hollowstone’s son, Remus. Apparently, he’d gone missing. But while the entire city made a fuss about it, Neko utterly disregarded the situation. Based on Remus’s track record, he was probably passed out from intoxication in some back alley.

  By the time the west gate emerged from the smog, Neko had worn himself ragged from foul imaginings of how Snofrid had been treated. Briefly, he debated making a wild U-turn and killing every man employed by the Oubliette Hotel. His military training helped him establish how he’d do it, what were his most strategic escape routes, and which gangs would come after him in retaliation. But his plans dissolved with the arrival of common sense. Gehenna wasn’t just a gaping hole of trash in the earth; it was a business investment for some very powerful humans.

  “Shades down,” Neko muttered. He guided the jeep into a checkpoint booth near the outer wall and shifted into park. Green light diffused through the glass, scanning the forged Tags on their wrists and identifying them as humans. Then an automated voice broadcasted from the sound system:

  Name: NEKO GRIMACE ABERTHOL

  Age: 33

  Occupation: FORENSIC PATHOLOGIST

  Residence: 123 GNOMON STREET

  Borough: WESTERBRIDGE / SECOND RING OF HOLLOWSTONE

  Clearance Level: 5

  Name: SNOFRID LORNA YAGAMI

  Age: 18

  Occupation: WAR LOBBY EMPLOYEE / STUDENT

  Residence: 4018 SUN PROMENADE PLAZA

  Borough: VANCASTLE / SECOND RING OF HOLLOWSTONE

  Clearance Level: 2

  Name: DESYA KEO YAGAMI

  Age: 21

  Occupation: EIGHTH STAR BLUECOAT

  Residence: 4018 SUN PROMENADE PLAZA

  Borough: VANCASTLE / SECOND RING OF HOLLOWSTONE

  Clearance Level: 6

  Neko’s heart raced when Snofrid suddenly brushed his shoulder. She had leaned over the console, her face colored with curiosity. “Why are you a policeman?” she asked Desya. “For humans, I mean.”

  “I do it for the intel. I’m a spy for the Hematic Cell in Hollowstone.”

  “Is being a spy as risky as it sounds?”

  “Yeah,” he granted. “But it’s worth it. And we all take risks.”

  “Some more than others,” Neko corrected. He hurled an accusing look at Desya. The downside to his bluecoat position was that it aimed the eye of the human law in their direction.

  Ignoring him, Desya offered Snofrid his canteen. “Don’t worry about it,” he said to her. “You’ll see that it’s not so bad after a while.”

  “Don’t let him reassure you of things he can’t promise, Snofrid,” Neko said.

  Desya jerked his chin at the road. “Not everyone’s a skeptic, Neko. Just drive.”

  “My skepticism is what’s kept me alive this long.” Crackling with irritation, he accelerated up a ramp and through a gleaming glass tunnel suspended above the city.

  Finally, they departed Warburton and entered Vancastle, the richest borough of Hollowstone City after the Golden Circle. For all of its beauty, Neko had few fond memories of it—though Snofrid seemed to have a different opinion. She stared out the window with a mixture of awe and relief. The booming metropolis appeared to strike her as familiar; either this, or she was merely happy to find that it didn’t resemble the slum.

  Stretching into the horizon, Vancastle’s buildings were a rare feat of modern majesty. The lead crystal domes, floating platforms, glass towers, ecological skyscrapers and green high-rises reflected the red glow of the sunset like a field of compact mirrors. In their midst lay thriving meadows and ecosystem gardens that nurtured curative plants and precious trees native to the West Coast. There were zoos with rainforest-like biospheres, all dedicated to protecting endangered animal species, and beautiful forested parks, blooming across floating arenas beneath the clouds. Higher up, freight crafts touched down on air stations where they unloaded cargo from overseas, and even higher up still, bullet trains raced across magnetized tracks, transporting civilians from office blocks to quiet suburbs; far outside the city limits, the environmental waste incinerators puffed smoke into the sky.

  “This is Sun Promenade Plaza,” Desya said, as they drove down a winding street framed by department stores. “It’s one of the most expensive shopping centers in Hollowstone, but it still gets a ton of business.”

  When Neko turned into a spacious flagstone courtyard fenced by mansions, Desya pointed to one: a two-story mansion with tiled roofs and broad eaves; an engawa corridor wrapped around the exterior wall like a porch, lavish with a hill-and-pond garden.

  Snofrid leaned over the console again, this time with a gasp. “That’s our house? How much does your informant job pay you?”

  “Not much,” Desya admitted. “Our friend, Lycidius, is actually the one who owns the house. He was looking for you up north, so you’ll see him in the morning.”

  She nodded, but Neko recognized the hesitation in her bearing as plainly as he’d recognize his surgical instruments: she was wondering why Lycidius allowed them to live with him, and possibly, what kind of friend he was. Neko was surprised to find himself actually pitying Lycidius, but only for an instant. If he failed to restore Snofrid’s memories, no previous relationship she’d ever had would be the same—especially the friendship, perilous though it was, that she’d had with Lycidius Heidrun. However, instead of tossing a few scraps to her curiosity, he decided it would be better to let her figure things out.

  Desya pointed to a hut beside the mansion with a sign that read: The War Lobby. “That’s our store. Well actually, you’re the one who runs it,” he explained. “But don’t worry about any of that right now. We’re just gonna focus on getting you better.”

  Snofrid faced Neko, her eyes painfully hopeful. “Do you really think you can fix my amnesia?”

  “I won’t know until I examine you,” he replied, his confidence swelling at the full comprehension of how much he was needed. Due to Snofrid’s healing ability, she’d never required a doctor before—more specifically, she’d never required him before. He sped into the mansion’s center garage and swiftly cut the engine, eager to begin. Just as he reached for the door handle, his beeper went off.

  “Tell me that’s not a first responder’s call,” Desya said.

  “I’ll need a second to verify,” Neko informed, and checked his beeper screen.

  Casualties: 7

  Priority: Blue, Red and Black.

  Location: 313 Willow Street, Eastwick

  “Damnation,” Neko muttered. While his first occupation was an Inborn trauma surgeon, he day-lighted as a human forensic pathologist. “I must leave.”

  Desya cracked his door. “It’s fine. You gotta go. Just swing by later.”

  “I don’t foresee that happening.” Neko’s eyes found Snofrid and darted away. He hated the regret in her face. “It would be better if you rested now anyway,” he advised. “I’ll examine you tomorrow evening.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said, climbing from the jeep. “Thank you for everything. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Neko wanted nothing more than to stay and see her now. He felt an ember of warmth and attacked the feeling, dowsing it with cold indifference. Then, as was customary between parting Inborns, he said, “May we meet again.”

  You don’t have a choice anymore, slave. My will is yours and you’ll submit to it
.”

  Snofrid, standing under the garage skylight, had resisted this command with her entire being—the first one uttered to her by Master Mookjai. The code had been her miserable, two-week life’s compass: obey or be subdued. The bruises she’d earned for resisting had long since faded, though she still felt the hot, needling pain of being smacked for each time she’d spit in Master Mookjai’s face, kicked her muddy water bowl at the door guards, or refused to obey the slave groomers.

  All of that was over now.

  Energetic and confident, she found reassurance in everything that she saw—the dusty tarp-covered cars, the paint-chipped yellow work lights, and the glistening metal shelves stacked with red toolboxes, racing gear, and oily car parts. The garage was cleaner and far more spacious than the basement she’d squatted in for the past two weeks. There was no hard dirt floor, insect-infested walls, moldy straw, stinking open sewers, or rusted chains. Without a doubt, she’d rather sleep beside a car engine here than return to that basement, not simply because of its distance from the slum, but because here, she hadn’t been forced to do anything.

  In the pocket of her tunic, she fisted a rock shard and rolled it around her palm, letting the notched edges scrape her skin until a blister had formed. She’d dug the rock from the basement wall and squeezed it like this many times before. The slight prick of pain grounded her in the moment, honed her focus and convinced her that the things she was experiencing were real. But she was careful to believe that she was truly free; if she embraced freedom too carelessly, it might disappear, and she’d wake once more in Oubliette. Her brother and the Inborn doctor seemed too kind. The way she’d been treated the past few days had been nothing short of savage. To suddenly be treated with kindness left her cautious.

  The Wrangler jeep backed suddenly from the garage, its engine rumbling like a factory, and its wheels skidded on the icy drive. Snofrid waved farewell to Neko, who gave her a curt nod before speeding from the house. She moved to help Desya close the garage when a grumbling sound stopped her. She cupped her stomach, suddenly dizzy with hunger, and her mouth watered at the thought of a giant bowl of miso ramen. Master Mookjai had only fed her potato peels. She waited until Desya had shut the garage before asking, “Would you mind if I made myself some food?”

  “Why don’t you let me make something for you, Sno,” he said. “You’ve been through enough and should take it easy.” He engaged the air-purifiers and then guided her across the garage.

  Snofrid, at first startled by his touch, gradually found herself at ease. He was so tall she felt like a child, though this wasn’t exactly unusual. All Hematics were giants. As she knew it, cold weather made them sluggish and moody. Along with telescopic vision, tremendous sprinting ability and contractile red claws, Hematics also had retractable fangs—an upper and lower set—packed with a deadly neurotoxin.

  Desya scanned his Tag on a titanium door at the edge of the garage and they passed into a genkan entry area with a smooth parquet floor and a sloshing bamboo fountain. Here, he took off his gasmask for the first time. He looked nothing like her. In fact, two people couldn’t have looked more unrelated.

  The olive tone of his skin was in stark contrast to her fair complexion. He had a full, sensuous mouth, the appeal of which made up for the thin white scars casing his jawline and neck, and well-defined cheekbones, which looked like they’d met with one too many knuckles. There was a softness in his otherwise spirited eyes, one that seemed present only when looking at her. His brown high-and-tight buzz cut seemed to be a requirement of his bluecoat position, and the way he stood, with his shoulders square and his chest open, projected confidence. A button was missing on his Henley shirt, even though it still bore the crisp look of new clothing, and grease stains spotted his jeans. Unlike his bedraggled clothes, his fingernails were trimmed, his chin was clean-shaven and his teeth were white.

  “Still don’t recognize me, do you?”

  “No,” she said, trading her muddy shoes for a pair of house slippers. The slippers were spotless and so soft that she had to resist the urge to push her hands into them. “But I recognized the city. Like I said, I’m pretty sure it’s just people I’ve forgotten.”

  “Yeah, I remember. I just figured you might have found something about me familiar.” As he stepped into a pair of scuffed house slippers, his face twitched. She sensed he was acting a lot calmer than he felt. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s eat.”

  “Wait, Desya—” She paused, surprised at how naturally his name rolled off her tongue. “You said we lived with a friend, Lycidius. Where are our parents?”

  Desya’s manner grew cautious. “Neko told me I shouldn’t dump too much on you too soon, but…” He stopped to consider his response. “We’re not blood related,” he finally told her. “We were both adopted by a man named Ryuki Yagami. Our Inborn parents died a while back, so he became our stepdad.”

  She frowned, not seeing how this made sense. “Our Houses didn’t come forward to claim us?”

  “No. My parents were executed for treason, so obviously no one wanted me after they were condemned. But after your parents died, you didn’t have family to go to.”

  She suddenly felt more unwanted than the dust on the floorboards. On her way to hang up her gasmask, she hurried to change the subject. “Ryuki Yagami sounds Japanese.”

  “It is. He was a Trojan Mortal. Do you remember the Trojans?”

  “I remember they want to help us. They think we can coexist and have been trying to persuade world leaders to negotiate peace.” She caught a flicker of cynicism in his face that reeled in her interest. “You don’t think peace is possible?”

  “I think peace is possible. Just not in this century.”

  She wanted to believe differently, but imagined her brother would think she was naïve. The crossing through the portal from their world, Armador, had transformed Earth’s atmosphere, mutating all the living organisms, and this was something the humans couldn’t forgive; it was why humans called the day that Inborns had arrived on earth, Hatred Day. “I remember we left Armador twenty-two years ago, but I can’t remember why,” she admitted. “Did we leave our world by choice?”

  “It’s a long story and it’s more to chew through. I’ll tell you about it later.” He shifted on his feet, then crossed his arms. “I know I asked you this before, but I want to make sure you’re not keeping quiet cause you don’t trust us…or even because you’re embarrassed. Did Mookjai’s guys hurt you, Snofrid?”

  “They punished us if we disobeyed, but that was all,” she assured.

  He uncrossed his arms, seeming convinced. “All right, let’s go.” He strode through a sliding, louvered door and into the drafty kitchen. “Heater on; lights on,” he called.

  Pendant lights floodlit the hardwood floors. When Snofrid stepped into the kitchen, her eyes prodded every fixture, hoping to unlock even the smallest glimmer of a memory.

  The mansion was styled in the Japanese fashion, complete with tatami mats, a soft-lit washitsu room, a zen garden basement, an irori hearth for cooking and an indoor courtyard. Everything registered as slightly familiar—like a blurry picture that wouldn’t come into focus—but, to her frustration, she felt no connection to any of it. The low chabudai table was furnished with zabuton cushions in place of chairs; it abutted a long counter, overhung with rows of mahogany cabinetry. On the walls hung ornate glass lanterns, decorative Japanese scrolls and Katana swords.

  While the house was picturesque and serene, Snofrid felt a tangible emptiness. Something was missing. Exactly what she couldn’t say; maybe it was a person.

  “That’s your room,” Desya said, pointing to a loft adjacent to the fireplace; a ladder led to the door with a plaque above it that read: Snofrid’s Tower. She hadn’t imagined she’d live somewhere so fancy, and the extravagance loaded her down with guilt after having just come from Gehenna. Due to the loft’s placement, she got the impression that it was built outside of the mansion’s original design. That someone might’
ve built it for her gave her a warm feeling.

  Desya served her a bowl of miso ramen and she scarfed it down. When the bowl was empty, her attention stalled on a holographic calendar above the genkan. The date read: November 1st, 2052.

  “Shoot,” she breathed. “Tomorrow is the anniversary of Hatred Day.”

  “Yeah,” he called from the refrigerator.

  “Hatred Day hasn’t changed since the crossing?”

  “No. It’s uh…it’s worse now than before actually. But don’t worry about it right now, Sno. We usually just stay indoors.” He shut the refrigerator, then headed toward the loft ladder, like he wanted to change the subject. “I’ll show you your room so you don’t have to spend an hour looking for your toothpaste.”

  Leaving her bowl on the table, she waited until his back was turned, before snatching a knife from the counter. Then she tailed him up the ladder, sliding the blade into her sleeve.

  “This isn’t all mine, is it?” she asked, looking around the bedroom in wonder. Strangely enough, it was the only room in the house that wasn’t the slightest bit familiar. Her emotions tugged back and forth, stretching her to the edge of tears. She’d never even dreamt that she could belong in a place like this.

  “Well it sure as heck isn’t mine,” Desya replied.

  The room was an intimidating kind of nice, so much that she didn’t want to touch anything for fear of breaking it. Soft tatami mats were rolled across the floors and Japanese lanterns cast elegant shadows on the walls. Fascinating treasures were tucked in the corner cubbies—apothecary chests, a floral uchiwa hand fan, a clay cross, pots of bamboo and bonsai, jars stuffed with colorful feathers, and a slew of red Daruma dolls, which were traditional amulets of good luck. A vase of orange lilies on the nightstand provided a splash of color to the muted shades; they matched a holographic television idle display above a lacquered desk.