by Greg Hanks
“Archick?” V’delle said, shaking her head. “You realize he’s the guy who’s knuckle I broke in Contra Mare? You know he hates me. I wasn’t asking him, Naaman. I was asking you.”
Naaman gave her a consolation smile. “What can I say? You’ve got no support. You’re asking me to choose complicated ground war over easy nuclear war. We should be pooling all our resources on finding that nuke. Both options are good, but I believe the nuke’s the better option. The option most likely to succeed. By far.”
“But we still haven’t found any nuclear—.” She stopped herself. The conversation had been made clear many times. “I . . . understand. Do all your friends agree with you?”
“They do. I’m sorry, V’delle. You’re asking us to risk our lives to maybe find more soldiers. We don’t think there are any more to be found. At least close by.”
Part of her salivated at rebuttals, but she only nodded. “I get it. Just . . . please don’t forget the idea.”
“Good luck, V’delle.”
Naaman left V’delle in disappointing thought. He was her best shot at getting a lot of the better soldiers in Contra Mare on her side. Before leaving for the prison, she thought she’d given the best invitation of her life to Naaman. He had seemed so fired up. The more she thought about it, the more she wondered if someone had said something to him. She stood alone in the sea of moving parts. It was hard to gather her purpose again after that blow.
Medical, Residential, and the storage chambers were connected to different sides of the mess hall via small tunnels. V’delle found the tunnel to Medical, a short concrete corridor to a generous foyer. Two soldiers sat behind a desk, organizing information in filing cabinets.
V’delle didn’t see dreadlocks, beads, or piercings. “Where’s Hayla?”
“V’delle!” said one of the soldiers. “You made it back, thank God. Hayla’s with Breckenridge right now. Should be back soon.”
That couldn’t be good. “And Farin?”
“Corridor B. Last door on the left.”
“Thanks.”
“Wait, have you gotten screened yet?”
“Yeah,” she lied, halfway down the corridor.
A clipboard hung on the right side of the door to Farin’s room with the “patient’s name”:
UNBORN. UNKNOWN.
“Unknown?” V’delle muttered.
She pushed the door open. Sterilized aroma smacked her in the face. The room depressurized. Stuffy air rushed out. Farin sat on a stool next to the bed, black brace on her leg, knee joint locked at an angle. When Farin saw V’delle, her eyes widened, and she gripped the armrests.
“V’delle,” said Farin, rising gingerly. “You’re back.”
Another woman occupied the bed. Swollen eyes closed. Blue-bruised face partially bandaged, visible skin cut up and raw. Sprigs of short red hair peeked through white gauze.
V’delle looked confused. “Who’s this?”
Farin’s face drained. She looked at the sleeping woman. The words were hard to speak. “Penelope.”
“What?”
“It’s her. They found her.”
“How? When?” V’delle circled the bed frame and stood on the other side of the bandaged patient. “Are you sure?”
“I’m just as shocked as you. When I got back, Rain told me. He said he found her.”
“How long has she been here?”
Farin hesitated. “Not long . . .”
“What’s that look mean?”
“Rain said Breckenridge knew about her location for a week.”
V’delle looked at Penelope, consumed by confusion and rage.
“Why?” she asked, a low, demonic tone.
Farin shook her head. “He said it would have interfered with the prison mission.”
V’delle looked flabbergasted. “Peavey? Breckenridge didn’t tell us because of that prick? He knew we’ve been searching for her, goddamnit. Shit, he probably knew all the other soldiers at the prison were dead, too.”
“Trust me, I spent the last two days trying to figure out what he was thinking.”
“And?”
“Bottom line: she’s alive and here now.”
“What? No ‘bottom line,’ Farin. We both know you haven’t really tried talking to Breckenridge.”
“Screw you, I did,” Farin said, annoyed. “Do you really want to push our relationship with him? You’re not exactly in the best bargaining position, remember?”
V’delle bit her cheek. “I’m going to talk to him.”
Farin shook her head. “Of course you are.”
They stood in silence, listening to the heartbeat monitor. V’delle slowly approached the bedside, looking at the discarded woman lying in exposed defeat.
“What happened to her?” V’delle asked, but then realized that was a stupid question. “She doesn’t even look . . . I mean, her hair’s short.”
“Hayla had to cut it off.”
V’delle grimaced. “And . . . her face.”
“Multiple broken bones, internal bruising, signs of electric torture. Severe burns. Missing fingernails. The lining of her lungs is damaged. Her stomach was sutured like the Khor’Zon opened her up or something. And signs of rape.”
V’delle’s throat tightened. Bludgeoned in the gut by a two-by-four. What the hell were the Khor’Zon thinking? Rape? That was not characteristic of any Khor’Zon in the Chalis, no Preen’ch training or indoctrination. That was a learned trait. A trait emboldened by lack of purpose, a sure sign that Khor’Zon manipulation was not godly or miraculous or exemplary. She remembered what Seen’ai had told her about letting his Preen’ch do horrible things as he turned a blind eye. Wasn’t Penelope useful to the Khor’Zon? They wanted workers and soldiers, not corpses. Conversion would certainly not work on an Unborn. Was being an Unborn inside the Chalis better than being one outside? Was living after torture better than not living at all?
V’delle watched Farin’s eyes, gray and bright, as they searched Penelope for redemption. All the bruises, the burns, the damage—all of it stemmed from the ambush at the water treatment plant. The blame was clear.
“It’s so much worse than I thought,” V’delle said quietly, a voice constrained.
“What’re we going to say?” Farin asked.
Did they have to think about that? V’delle had been so focused on finding Penelope that she never wondered what she’d say once they did. “Sorry” wouldn’t cut it.
V’delle went for the door.
“Wait,” said Farin, limping after her. “Where are you going?”
“You know where,” V’delle called back.
“It’s not their fault she’s like this,” Farin called.
One of the soldiers at the reception desk tried to stop V’delle from leaving. “You were never checked, Unborn. You’re a hazard to the community!”
V’delle charged through the mess hall. Bodies and eyes intensified. Clusters parted, a wedge to wood. The tunnel, the doughnut chamber—all a concrete blur. Into the offices where the leaders held their meetings. Up the flight of stairs. A long hallway. One of Breckenridge’s aides backed against the wall as V’delle passed. A single steel door.
“T-They’re in a meeting right now,” the aide tried.
V’delle pushed the door open so hard it hit the wall. A great oval office with bookshelves for walls. Conference table front and center. Atop the table, a hologram pedestal. The see-through image of a factory floated above the apparatus. The factory was orange with rust, its pipes and vats intersecting. Three-story cylindrical containers, fifteen-foot walls. Through the image, the face of Breckenridge stared at V’delle.
Hayla jumped aside. V’delle stopped at the end of the table surrounded by Serafima Olensky, Étienne Voucard, Castaigne Möller, and Rain.
“Uh oh,” Rain mumbled.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” V’delle asked Breckenridge. “How could your piece of shit friend be more important than her?”
Breckenridge remai
ned hunched over the table. Arms spread. Brow down, one cocked. Blue eyes drowsy. Unsavory taste on his tongue.
He spoke in a neutral tone. “Welcome back, soldier.”
“You always interrupt us!” Étienne hissed at V’delle. His spectacles nearly fell off his nose. A wiry man, the slimmest in the room, with short hair parted down the middle that always looked either sweaty or greasy. His thin head looked like a pen’s tip on its end, even more so when he scrunched his face in disgust.
“Why didn’t you tell us, Breckenridge?” V’delle said. “It could have taken two seconds.”
“Yer provin’ my reasonin’ right now, I’m afraid,” Breckenridge said.
“Why would I forfeit a mission over something that would make me happy? For hell’s sake, my entire life up to this point has been about concealing emotion.”
“This is what concealed emotion looks like?” he asked. He pushed a button on the hologram pedestal, and the image disappeared. He stood with his hands in his pockets.
Her shoulders deflated. “Is this . . . are you still angry about Contra Mare?”
“V’delle, I think yer gettin’ ahead a yerself.”
The leader of Beliveilles. Gray hair growing into a mullet, ponytailed. Annoying curls hanging from his temples. He wore a lavender long-sleeved shirt with a stretched scoop collar that let a broad chest with silver hair peek. Black cargo pants tucked into dirty combat boots. Thinner than his Contra Mare self, as if all the mass that had once settled in his gut had been evenly distributed throughout his body.
“We are in middle of meeting, girl,” Olensky snapped, “do you have to do this now?”
“Apparently we couldn’t do this when he found Penelope, so yes, we do,” said V’delle.
Olensky was still unnaturally lean; her arms devoid of any fat. Her clothes draped her, a second thought. Circle glasses frames on the slide of her nose. Auburn hair in a wild bun. Eyes strict and pulsing. She had been known to make children cry on command. She reminded V’delle of the pensive, articulate Chalis Khor’Zon. But her intellect was diminished by feverish temperament. Hearing the Russian accent conjured a momentary flashback to the clearing and the defectors. Zelyony Pech.
“Do you realize what’s going to happen when she wakes up?” V’delle continued. “She’s going to think we abandoned her. She’s going to think we didn’t care to look for her.”
“Yer right, V’delle,” Breckenridge said. “I’m sorry. But I’m not the one who abandoned her, am I? I think that’s yer bigger problem. If it were me, I’d never forget that.”
V’delle hesitated. “Leave that to me and her. I just don’t understand. We’re here, Breckenridge—a hundred percent with you. Why would you do this?”
“I’d say seventy-five,” Étienne chimed.
“I made a judgment call,” Breckenridge said. “I wanted you and Farin to be completely focused durin’ yer raid. If you think I had some kinda ulterior motive behind this, then think away. I have a goddamn war to wage here, Unborn. Sometimes bein’ cautious has its consequences.”
“A few words,” said V’delle. “That’s all it would’ve taken.”
“You really believe you wouldn’t have abandoned every duty if Breckenridge had told you?” Étienne asked rudely. “That’s a hilarious joke.”
“Oh, shut up,” V’delle said. “When’s the last time you even left the compound? What do you even do here?”
Étienne looked ready to erupt, but Breckenridge silenced him with a hand.
“I’m sure yer friend’ll come around. I’ve got thousands of people to train, maintain, and keep fed, you’ll hafta ‘scuse me if I can’t grant the desires of every single one.”
“Where’d you find her?” V’delle asked.
“Southeast of Divask,” Rain said, eager to destress V’delle with sincerity. A no-nonsense, truthful voice. Rain was still as tan as mahogany wood. Jet black hair pulled into a low ponytail, a frayed mess. He’d grown his beard out fully. Sharp blue eyes cutting through the dark of his face, always the harbingers for his near perma-smile. “Bazek found some intel about an artillery depository that was housing prisoners. She was in a pit under one of the buildings. V’delle, I didn’t know it was her. Even when I pulled her out, she was so . . . I just couldn’t recognize her.” A nameless European accent hidden under English.
Breckenridge sighed, both palms on the edge of the table. “It’s a miracle she’s even alive. That’s what you should be thinkin’ about.”
“There were others, too,” Rain added, a reminder. “Most of them already dead. Another died on the way.”
Breckenridge took advantage of V’delle’s quiet surrender. “There anythin’ else I can do for you, V’delle? We gotta get back to it.”
She met eyes with Rain before turning. There would be one hell of a talk later.
“Oh, and V’delle?” Breckenridge added.
She stopped, cringing, feet burning holes in the concrete.
“Thanks for bringin’ Peavey back in one piece,” he finished.
V’delle slammed the door on her way out.
——————
She wanted murals. The chalk on her fingers. A handful of gluey paste. Concrete wall ready to be plastered. If she could create, this anxiety would fade.
Hayla leaned forward, dabbing at the laceration on V’delle’s cheek. Black dreadlocks in a quick bun. Beads and bangles and turquoise rings. Three piercings on her left eyebrow, one on the bottom lip. Whole black eyes, no color. Her medical coat was graying and stained, over a tank top and jeans. Cinnamon and mint perfume filled V’delle with memories of Contra Mare.
“Are you finished?” asked V’delle.
“If you hadn’t ran from Reve and Pyzac earlier, we wouldn’t be here, would we? I need another minute to sort the results of your blood test.”
“I didn’t step on anything rusty.”
“V’delle, we’re trying to avoid another Contra Mare situation.”
V’delle sighed and stared at the wall.
“Hey, I’m sorry about your friend. If I would’ve known, I would’ve told you the moment they brought her.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“At least she’s going to make it. I knew a few of the other soldiers they found in that pit. Good soldiers, them. Friends.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be an ass.”
“It’s just odd; I’ve never treated a tortured patient like her. I wonder why they’re doing that now, the buggers?”
“They’re getting desperate probably,” said V’delle. “Or bored. After all these years, the Calcitra are still here. I don’t think they expected that.” She saw Hayla’s distracted stare. “Don’t worry, I’m confident they didn’t talk. I know Penelope didn’t.”
“I wish I had the same optimism as you. I hope you’re right.” She used a small glue gun to seal V’delle’s cut, then placed a bandage over the top. “I’m gonna go nick that blood. Back in a flash.”
Her cheek burned. Her limbs ached. Bruises were starting to speak. Hunger in her belly. How could Breckenridge not tell them? Was he really still mad at V’delle for what happened at Contra Mare? It seemed too petty, even for Breckenridge. What was she missing?
The door opened, but instead of Hayla, Rosalie Fillion walked in. Bright-faced and caramel-haired. Tan pants and a roomy black sweater that reminded V’delle of the farmhouse in the woods. The smell of warm linen. A fresh rain. It was an older Rosalie. Face lines deeper. Lines of humor and sadness and concern. Almost an annoyance for her intrepid mettle, her confident happiness. The very same happiness that persuaded V’delle to cherish Rosalie’s company.
“Knock, knock,” Rosalie said, smiling.
“You’re not supposed to be back here. I could be contaminated.”
“I’ll survive. Will you?”
V’delle waved it off. “I’m fine.”
Rosalie leaned against the adjacent wall and watched V’delle for a moment. “I’m glad you’re ba
ck safe. I was getting a little worried there. Not that worried of course.”
“You should never—”
“‘—have to worry about you,’ yes I know. However, it is war, V’delle. And I’m not invincible to emotion.”
“Don’t let it distract you. I’m not worth it.”
Rosalie gave V’delle a flat look before resuming. “Have you seen Piers yet?” V’delle shook her head. “He’s been anxious to see you.”
“I’ll go find him. How’re your kids? I saw Roland earlier. Seems happy.”
“Then you’re all caught up on him. That boy couldn’t find sadness at the bottom of an acid pit. It’s . . . Celestiel I’m worried about.”
“Why’s that?”
Rosalie contemplated the answer.
“She’s having a hard time living here,” she said. “It’s a lot more confined than the farm. Dark, dusty, smells like coal.”
“I completely agree.”
“She’ll come around,” Rosalie said, hopeful.
“And what about you?”
Rosalie swallowed and pushed off the wall. “Oh, I’m fine.”
The door opened and Hayla entered, surprised. “Just because we don’t have police, doesn’t mean you can do whatever you want, Rose. If V’delle wasn’t negative, you’d be exposed.” She handed V’delle the results of the blood test and smiled.
“Somehow I already knew,” Rosalie said, beaming.
“Great,” V’delle said, hopping off the seat. “I thought I might have to start wearing one of those masks again.”
“Did you want a lolly, too?” Hayla asked.
“What?” V’delle asked.
“Pre-war.”
“How about I explain as we walk?” Rosalie offered.
V’delle left with Rosalie. Through Medical, across the mess hall, to Residential. A maze of spotless miners’ quarters zigzagged before them. Concrete corridors big enough for two people. Each room a rectangle. Stiff bed, cracked mirror, crooked dresser, a closet, and—most importantly—a door; more privacy than Contra Mare’s open-air nooks. Workers chugged down the halls, toting materials and debris in wheelbarrows and wide carts. Sledges pounded walls. Hammers tacked away. Whirring drills. A constant buzz like conversing machines.
