The Recusant

by Greg Hanks

  Naon tilted her head as if she’d never expected such a statement. “Oh?”

  “Yeah, see, I’m due for a quarterly interview this weekend. And, if all goes well, I’ll be outta this place, onto better . . . responsibilities, like you said.”

  Naon nodded, savoring his pandering. “Sounds important.”

  “Of course it’s important or I wouldn’t be talking to you,” he said, hotly. He collected himself before continuing. “It can also be important to you.”

  “I am listening,” she said.

  “What if I told you I could get you out of this literal shit hole? I could speed up this whole process for you.”

  Naon glanced around, playing like she might think others would be listening. “How do I know this is not my true superior making sure I am not planning on doing anything too brazen?”

  He guffawed. “You don’t. You’re working in the sewers, not bringing the Lo’Zon his slippers.”

  Naon blinked and carried her eyes lazily as if she were filing her nails. “What did you have in mind?”

  His voice lowered to a whisper. It was a little hard to hear through his mask and his slur. “Well, it’s pretty simple, actually. Tell me how to get on well with the kutt—my Head Taskmaster. If I had some insight into your culture, your customs, I think I’d be well ahead of my other taskmasters. Do you understand?”

  Naon tilted an eyebrow. “And what would you do for me in return?”

  “I’d talk you up. I’d tell him how good you’ve been. How positive you’ve been. I’d make sure you’d be outta here the same day as me. Guaranteed.”

  “Guaranteed, huh?” she said. “That sounds wonderful, but . . . also a little too good to be true.” Her inauthentic voice made her own skin crawl.

  “No, it’s not. I’ve already built up a good enough relationship with him. It’s the reason I got you. They trust me already. And your information will be the final element to everything I’ve worked for.”

  Naon nodded happily. “I am deeply grateful then. I will help any way I can.”

  Tilliers’ squished, sweaty face burst into a grin. He calmed himself. “Okay. Before those other idiots get back, tell me what I need to know. How do I win him over?”

  Naon gave him a sultry look. “Well, the first thing you need to know about the Khor’Zon is how much we actually like humans.”

  Tilliers looked incredulous. “What?”

  “Why do you think we came to Earth?”

  Tilliers racked his brain back to his Chalis days. “Um. I thought the Lo’Zon—”

  “Exactly. The Lo’Zon knew Earth was the best option. Because of its inhabitants. Think about it. Why did we choose to train you? It was not just because we were short in number; we already had the drones to dismantle everything. We trained you because we knew how valuable you were.”

  “Okay . . . but usually Khor’Zon are—”

  “Mean? Rude? I know. It may seem like we hate you. But that is what Khor’Zon are like. That is another thing about our race you need to remember: we are primal by nature.”

  Tilliers was nodding, licking his lips, mentally retaining what he was hearing. “Okay. I guess that makes sense. So how does this play into what I say?”

  “Make sure you lead off with how much work you accomplished that day. Khor’Zon love to hear about others’ progress, especially when it is a human. We love to know our subordinates are cooperating.”

  “Lead off with my work, okay. Perfect. I’ve got plenty of that up my sleeve.”

  “Secondly, you need to make him feel comfortable enough to laugh. Do you know what really gets a Khor’Zon laughing?”

  “Um, I’m not sure,” he said, genuinely pondering. “Sex? No, it’s cripple jokes, retards.”

  Naon inwardly cringed. “Unfortunately, no. I love human jokes, but I am assuming this male Khor’Zon loves traditional humor. Physical humor.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When you say something worthy of a laugh, make a fist and pound his table. Khor’Zon love loud noises, loud voices. If you ever think you are going to win him over, you have got to be loud.”

  Tilliers paused, then his face sunk. He stepped back. “You’re lying to me. You stupid bitch, you’re lying!”

  “What are you talking about? I do not know my own race?”

  “This is a joke. You’re mocking me!” He reached for the shovel.

  “You have already agreed to help me,” Naon exclaimed, timid and wide-eyed. “Why would I do anything to harm that? I am telling you the truth. Do you think I want to stay in this place? I do not want to stay here another second.”

  Tilliers was huffing from the effort to move from the sludge pile. He was silent, trying to get through the scenario in his head. His blinks told Naon she’d got him. “K-Kutts really like that stuff? I don’t know . . .”

  “I promise,” she said fervently, gluing her eyes to his.

  He nodded. “Fine. Okay.”

  “We can talk more tomorrow. I think I hear them coming.”

  Hauter and Egrid returned, waiting for Tilliers to ascend the pipe. Tilliers gave Naon a rigid stare, then climbed the ladder and sloshed down the pipe toward the exit.

  “What did Tilly want?” Hauter said, once Tilliers was out of earshot.

  “To scold me,” Naon told them.

  “Typical,” Egrid said. “People, they loves to breathe fire, don’t’ay?” He was shaking his head. “Just typical.”

  “Apparently I am ‘waste’ and belong where waste gets stuck.”

  “Just unnecessary, really,” Hauter said. “What a git.”

  Naon set her shovel against the wall. She looked upon her two companions, waiting until they noticed her. “I have an idea that would make him proud of us—in fact, I have an idea that would make even the Head Task notice us.”

  Hauter looked skeptical, but Egrid tilted his head in interest.

  That evening, Naon waited for the light from the warehouse hole to dim. She climbed out of the drainage pipe, strode down the sewer tube toward the manhole, and waited at the base of the ladder. No noise from the warehouse. She poked her above the manhole for a moment, then returned and waited at the base of the ladder. Hauter’s tiny head could be seen peeking above the drainage pipe. She motioned for them to stay put, then gripped the rungs and ascended.

  The warehouse was quiet. A long rectangle consisting mainly of rubbery pavement for vehicles and other machinery. Along either side of the building were small offices. She crept toward one of the offices, sidling behind a parked Zealot, her back to the wall. She listened. Inside the office, voices. The muffled conversation carried on for a few minutes before slowly fading. A light from the office window turned off.

  Naon slipped into the office and found the drone post. She requisitioned a drone and it emerged from the post, blinking its eye and making a dull, beeping sound. She configured its protocols and permissions and turned off its automated defenses. It followed her back to the sewer on quiet propulsion.

  Hauter and Egrid’s eyes lit up as she approached.

  Egrid pointed at the drone. “W-What be you doin’?! That’s a drones, that is! Didn’t they sees you?”

  “Shh!” Hauter snapped. “Want the whole city knowing we gotta drone down here?”

  “Listen to me,” Naon said, her figure standing tall against their sinking frames. “Sanction’s security is based on the idea that everyone here is loyal to the Lo’Zon. No one saw me, there are no cameras save a few important locations and the Ovulith. I will just delete the drone manifest when I return it. We can use the drone to dissolve most of this shit quicker than anything these shovels can do in a week. The rest we will handle like usual. Then we will show them how thorough we have been.” She gave a command to the drone, and it began clearing away the muck with a blast of blue vapor. Hauter or Egrid stumbled into each other and hurried out of the pipe, breathless.

  “Now,” Naon began, “go stand watch for Tilliers. If he comes, we’ll bury the
drone in the filth.”

  Hauter looked like a skeleton in Naon’s bright countenance. They quickly nodded and rushed to the exit ladder.

  The next evening, while Naon sat in the common area reading a novel, footsteps approached from the dark corridor leading to the barracks. Naon’s body was illuminated by the orange breath of her lamp, but her face was shrouded. She lifted her head to greet the footsteps.

  Tilliers stood at the threshold, his eyes looking toward the other exits nervously. He licked his lips, wringing his hands slightly. “Been thinkin’ about what you said.”

  Naon lifted an eyebrow and closed her book. “Do tell.”

  He stepped into the light. “Makes sense. The human thing. It’s why they keep the slobs alive—in the Cities.”

  Naon nodded slowly, as if Tilliers was her child. “I am glad.”

  Tilliers walked over to sit in the other armchair. A nightstand separated them. “Well? Let’s hear it then. Let’s finish it.”

  She smiled and leaned on her knee. “I need to know my passage is secured.”

  Tilliers wiped his palms on his thighs. “I told you, I’m gonna give you a recommendation.”

  Naon sat back. “You are going to have to do better than that.”

  “I’m—” He lowered his voice. “—I’m throwing your two shit-wit companions into the shit.”

  Naon noticed how being in the sewer department for so long limited a person’s word choices.

  “You are?”

  “You’ll be much more noticeable. Get it?”

  Naon inhaled and tossed her eyes around the room. “All right. I can work with that.”

  “It’s the best I can do. But it’ll be more than enough to get you out of the sewers. Especially with my recommendation.”

  “Oh, I am sure it will be.”

  Tilliers looked to the exit corridor, tapping his boots on the floor. “We should hurry.”

  She leaned forward, her voice a near whisper. “All right, listen closely. This is the most important thing you will need to do. Are you listening?”

  “Yes,” he exclaimed, struggling to maintain a whisper.

  “You need to bring up an off-handed comment about Orothaea.”

  “What’s that?”

  Naon sighed. “Our God. Or-o-thay-ah.”

  “What’s ‘off-handed?’”

  “A joke, an insult, an insensitive remark,” Naon said, her jaw tight. “Trust me when I tell you something most of us would die before telling anyone: the majority of us do not believe in Orothaea.” Her voice was full of conviction. “He would feel relieved he can open up about that. If you mention a good joke about Orothaea, His worthlessness, or something like that, you are on your way to a cushy desk and an even cushier bed.”

  Tilliers had his mouth agape. He got up and started pacing. “You’re absolutely sure this is going to—” He caught sight of her annoyed stare and went silent.

  “These things are not widely known, Preen’ch. I am desperate to get my Warlord status back. I promise it will work. Now, you said you have a good relationship with him already. Why are you worried?”

  Tilliers’ nodding became more his own. “Okay. You’re right. This will work.”

  “Both our futures are on the line here; I need to know you are not going to choke. I know how intimidating we Khor’Zon can be.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” he said, gaining some whiffs of confidence, detailed in his rising voice. “Come tomorrow, we’re getting rid of this shit hole.”

  Naon let her eyes give the last remark of her acknowledgement. She picked up her book, crossed her legs, and started reading. Tilliers walked out of the room, his thumping steps echoing down the hallway until the metal door scraped open and shut.

  Naon set her book on the nightstand and crossed to the locker room. She could hear someone in the shower chamber on the other side of the wall washing their hands. She opened her locker and checked herself in her little mirror.

  The person washing their hands turned off the faucet. Footsteps walked into the locker room.

  “You look so nice in linens,” said a raspy, cold voice.

  Naon’s blood went sour, but she didn’t look. “Ghare? In a place such as this? I am truly astounded.”

  He stepped toward her and pulled open the locker door so it was flush with the others. Naon gave him some space and sat on the bench. Ghare peered inside the locker. He searched the contents, finding nothing but her shower sandals, a change of clothes, and his own reflection in her small mirror. He shut the locker. “I was hoping for something delightfully intriguing.”

  “I am going to bed,” Naon said, getting up.

  “I know you are up to something.”

  Her throat went cold. She turned around to face him. “I do not know what to say to you anymore.”

  “I know you have something planned.” He stepped toward her, hands behind his back. “Naon, the only purebred Warlord, would never find herself shoveling shit in the sewers if she could help it. Do you think the Lo’Zon and I are stupid? I know you are using others, plotting, playing off human desire. What are you up to?”

  Naon felt herself relax a little. Ghare was merely trying to bait her. “Are you afraid of me, Ghare?”

  “Why would a master be afraid of his pupil?”

  “All these years . . . twenty years and you are still holding a grudge against me. A true master would have been proud his pupil surpassed him. Even in her choice of lovers.”

  He nodded, indulging her. “Ah, yes. But look where we stand, pupil.”

  It was easy for her to consign herself to his servitude again, if it meant she would be free from him soon enough. “I am corrected. Let me do my work here. All I want is to become a Warlord again. You know this war cannot be won without me.”

  Ghare stared at her for a few seconds, his eyes scathing her body. “Do you remember your first years with me?”

  “I need to sleep, Ghare.”

  “Sparring on Yexai’s roof. Eating lunch on the outskirts of Oro’nath in that dingy little restaurant you loved. Meeting the Lo’Zon for the first time. Do you not remember cornering that group of second-years and showing them what a true warrior looked like?”

  “Stop.”

  He stepped close. “The first time you felt me. Do you remember that?”

  She was doing everything she could to keep her fist anchored to her side. She looked into his yellowing eyes. “Are you talking about when you raped me? How I was too afraid, too low in Yexai to say anything worth listening to? I am not affected by anything you say to me anymore. You will try to use that against me, make me feel like I was changed by you. But you will still be filth, and I will still be stronger than you. It is simple, really.”

  He moved his masked face inches from hers. “I am not denying your strength, Naon. I just wanted you to remember mine.” He left her and walked away.

  She did not follow him out of the room. Her ears traced his steps until they became obscured by the distance and the buzzing in her head. Flashes of their time spent together on Khorsha. She wanted to vomit but held back. She had spent more than twenty years cleaning up the scum of her past. When she remembered the rape, it still hurt, but it was easier now. Seen’ai had helped. Balien had . . .

  She left the locker room with reinvigorated resolve.

  The next day, the drone removed three-fourths of the blockage before Naon made it stop. Egrid stood at the top, watching wordlessly, his face confused. Naon paid no attention and climbed the ladder, the drone purring behind her.

  “Was this?” Egrid said. “Is almos’ finished, it is.” His body tightened, as if Naon had heard or seen something he hadn’t.

  Naon tipped her head in command.

  The drone jerked purposefully forward and sent two succinct stun bolts into Egrid, and then Hauter who was standing watch at the base of the exit ladder. Using its arms it brought the workers into a slouched position on one side of the tunnel. Naon grabbed the drone when it returned
to her and commanded it to erase its surveillance back to the day she procured it. She then deactivated the machine next to Hauter and folded his arms over his chest, tweaked his head, and left both of them in a sleeping position.

  She picked up her old shovel with one hand, grasped the hover barrow with the other, and descended again into the drainage pipe. It no longer mattered what they would say when they resurfaced from the stun. With Tilliers about to commit career suicide there would be no room for excuses from the humans, especially when Naon held the shovel. She flung heaps of discharge into the barrow, inhaling the fumes without flinching, utterly focused, picturing Ghare’s face in each new pile.

  10

  THE URHOLM DIPLOMATS

  A warm bread roll loaded with freeze-dried mashed potatoes, light on salt, heavy on syrup. Syrup on potatoes was a family recipe, he had said. Farin sprinkled a helping of peas and nuts onto the plate and thanked the server. She nabbed a packet of Khor’Zon energy juice and made her way across the mess hall. Through the arched tunnel, to the donut chamber. Through the offices, past the interrogation chambers, and down to an unfinished cellar where the generators couldn’t keep up with the earth’s chill. She pulled the drawstring bulb and a stairway lit up. She tapped her way down a spiral. Broken concrete, black rubber streaks on the walls, copper pipes following the curve of the ceiling, rust-green and kinked. Before the darkness of depth claimed the staircase again, a door at the bottom saved her. The boiler room, and Ketterhagan’s “office.” Two connected rooms, blinding with light from hanging lamps. Two tables pushed to become one in the first room, with boilers and pipes and vats at flank. The old German scientist sat in the second room: a shelved hoard of white papers and prototypes, a desk and cages of outdated electronic stations.

  “Stuffed and syruped,” Farin said, walking toward the end of the room. “As usual.”

  Ketterhagan was slouched in his swivel chair, back to Farin.

  She noticed his dejection and set the plate on his desk amidst copious scribbles and dissected folders.

  “Ketterhagan?” she asked. “Hello?”