by Greg Hanks
Penelope stared. Her eyelid twitched. Her voice, hoarse. “What?”
“Your name?”
“I don’t know my real name. But you already knew that, didn’t you? I should’ve realized that, whoops.”
“Um . . .” Maora started, looking to Farin. “I am not with the Chalis Khor’Zon—I am not a Warlord. They sent me to the basement of the Chalis, and we escaped. Farin says that is how you escaped too. I wanted nothing to do with capturing humans.”
“Right,” Penelope said, nodding. “I know Khor’Zon. You know what my favorite characteristic of your kind is?”
Maora sighed. “Sure.”
“You all love to lie. It’s crazy how often you do it. It’s like it’s second nature to kutts.”
“You are right,” Maora said, nodding. “But, unfortunately, I am not lying today.”
“Penelope, she’s good,” said Farin. “We’ve already cleared her. Breckenridge cleared her.”
“I don’t give a shit about that,” Penelope said, agitated and a little dumbfounded. “You know what happened to me and you let this kutt live here? You eat with her? You protect her?”
Farin sighed and gave Penelope a dry look. “I’ll never forget what they did to you, trust me. But Maora’s people are defectors, Penelope. She’s helping us.”
Penelope was nodding, almost maniacally. “Always the soft-hearted one. The sympathizer.” She scoffed. “I remember you wanted to get those other kids out of Confinement. You’re still the same as you were then. Has this war done nothing for you?”
“Penelope, you’re not thinking straight,” Farin said. “You should be resting.”
“This kutt doesn’t get to live here.”
Farin scrunched her face, unsure of what to say.
Penelope continued. “You don’t get it, Farin. You weren’t beaten and shot and electrified and maimed like I was. You weren’t raped. Do you know what that’s like? Have you stopped to imagine it? I don’t care who’s side she’s on; she’s a goddamn kutt. She invaded our planet. She did this to us!”
People in the mess hall started to notice the commotion. Whispers garnered a small circle of onlookers.
“Farin, no need to argue for me,” Maora said. She looked at Penelope. “I would love nothing more than to leave this place. But your leaders want me here. Speak with them if you want me gone.”
“I don’t answer to them,” Penelope said, taking a bold step toward Maora.
Farin stood and grabbed Penelope’s arm.
Penelope punched Farin in the jaw.
Farin took Penelope’s wrist and pulled it down. She forced Penelope into the floor, pressing on her neck. Two quick successive movements and it was over before Farin felt the pain strike her face.
“Enough,” Farin said through gritted teeth.
Penelope caught Farin’s leg and reversed. They traded places.
Farin blocked the incoming blows with her free hands. She grasped the third punch, and used the momentum to throw Penelope off. Farin only deflected and parried. Trying to pin without blood. But anger was quickly replacing sympathy.
Penelope’s hands slipped through Farin’s defenses as they rolled across the floor. Cold fingers gripped Farin’s neck.
“You don’t know anything!” Penelope groaned in desperation and mania. “I never deserved it! You have no idea! You left me!” She slammed Farin’s upper body into the ground with her last phrase.
Farin wiggled her arms and legs, feeling Penelope’s grip slack. But before Farin could reverse, Penelope was ripped away and flung across the floor.
Farin coughed and sputtered, crawling to her knees and finding Rain standing above her.
“You okay?” he asked, hand on her shoulder.
Farin nodded. They both turned to the redhead.
People were parted like a zipper around Penelope. Their silence and lack of aid made her feel less than welcome. She stood with vengeance in her eyes.
“What’s wrong with you?” Rain yelled at her. “Are you seriously still blaming Farin for leaving you back at the canal? Get your shit together. This is war, goddamn it. Bad shit happens to everyone. Do you really think you’re the only one whose been tortured? Ask any of these people here what they’ve went through, hell, ask the Khor’Zon! You have been warped, Penelope. We don’t have time to cater to your messed-up vision of who’s fault you think this all is. Go back to medical, or I will drag you there myself. We don’t have time for this stupid shit.”
Farin had never seen Rain so furious. She watched in awe, seeing most of the people in the mess hall share her look of amazement.
Penelope shook her head. “Are you all just gonna let this kutt live with you?!” She scanned the circle of people. Most of them looking back at her without much attention. “You’re all cowards! You’re letting the enemy sit and eat with you! Pathetic.” She pushed through the crowds to leave.
Farin rubbed her neck. “I hate this.”
Rain grabbed her by the arms. “Are you sure you’re okay?” He looked around at the mingling crowds. “Why didn’t anyone help?”
“Probably ‘cause we’re Unborn.”
“Farin,” Maora said, as she and Roland approached. “I never wanted—”
“Just don’t go near her, okay?” Farin snapped.
“Okay. I won’t.”
“Don’t treat her like she’s to blame, Farin,” Roland said. “That’s bullshit.”
Farin wavered in place. She darted her eyes between Maora and the boy. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” A sigh of relief could not do this justice. It was like a beetle underneath her skin, itching and itching and itching.
Red hot blood propelled Penelope’s body through the tunnel.
Chait Peavey was leaning against the curve at the middle, a cigarette hanging from his lips. Penelope trudged past him.
“These people just dunnae know when evil’s sittin’ right in front of ‘em, eh?” he said.
Penelope stopped. “What?”
“I seen you out there. Shame more people here dunnae show the same support for humanity. The moment they let that kutt into the mines, we lost all security. Some might even say we lost all faith in our leadership.” He took a long drag and blew the smoke into her direction.
“And who the hell are you?”
“Chait Peavey.” He took another drag.
“If you’re against this kutt being here, why haven’t you done anything about it?”
He smirked, dropped his cigarette and stepped on it as he approached her. “Who says I’m against anythin’?” He was close enough that Penelope nearly gagged from his wet smoke scent. “But if I was . . . I’d wanna do some plannin’ before I did anythin’.”
“How many people here agree with us?”
“Few. But we dunnae need much to make a difference, right?”
“And why don’t you fall in line with orders?”
“Orders? No one asked me if I wanted the enemy here, did they? No one said anythin’ to me about it. It just happened. See, in my old group, this wouldnae a happened. It’s rubbish.”
Penelope stepped backward. “Are you telling me you want to get rid of this kutt, or not?”
Peavey grinned madly. “You Unborn are bloody blunt. Why dunnae we go for a little stroll?”
13
M
Ashes and embers fell upon V’delle’s back as she dragged Turlio’s body down the right staircase, took him by the head, and slammed his mouth into the sharp edge of a fallen wooden column. Blood and bone misted the air. She unstuck him and did it again, more forcefully. She wiped her mouth of spit as a cacophony of voices filled the room.
Ketterhagan had not given them EMPs.
Turlio’s men and women started picking themselves up, snarling, coughing, screaming. V’delle scanned the wreckage. Fires raged where the bomb had gone off, half the staircase bitten out. Debris amongst the floor like someone had dropped a ship’s wooden hull from a fifty-foot window. Chunks of marble and plaster. Lim
bs. Blood.
And V’delle stood tall amidst the whirlwind of flame and smoke, before inhaling toxic vapors and retching into her elbow. She ran to the front entrance. A two-by-four secured the double glass doors taped with cardboard to hide the outside. She lifted the board and tossed it. A heavy heel to the middle of the doors brought a blast of light into the lobby and an opening from which smoke could billow.
The right-side staircase poured people like a waterfall. They wiped their eyes, held their throats, grasped on to each other before being shoved away.
Without their leader, the future of this compound was a mirage of blood. V’delle needed to find Balien and get the hell out. If he were still alive. She turned to the epicenter of the bomb. The hallway door to the butcher’s room had been blasted off. A figure obscured by the moving smoke sat against the hallway’s wall. V’delle sprinted.
Through a veil of vapors, she found Balien holding his stomach, blood seeping through fingers. Spikes of fear and abandonment shot through her legs and arms, a lump of lead hanging in her gut. Despite her worry, she turned to blame. “What the hell happened?!” Her voice was dry and manic.
He looked at her with fury and wide eyes of pure, invasive shock. “You tell me! That was not an EMP!”
“No shit!” she exclaimed. After a quick once-over, she knelt and almost reached to touch his wounds. “Are you okay?”
“We need our gear,” he said, wincing as he braced the wall. V’delle helped him stand. “Why would your scientist try to kill us?” His voice has turned desperate and, for the first time since V’delle had met him, scared.
“I don’t know. C’mon.”
She helped him hobble to the butcher’s room to claim their supplies. As he sat against the cold metal door of the freezer, she cleaned and gelled a series of lacerations across his abdomen. He held his arms up as she wrapped another doily-like bandage around him.
“How did you get away from the blast?” V’delle asked.
“The fuse was still correct. I pressed the detonator and crept away. Five seconds later, I was blown into the hallway. My stomach hit the corner of the threshold.”
V’delle’s mind enclosed around itself, like an army of spearmen advancing slowly in a circle. The fuse time had still been correct. Ketterhagan had been insistent about that. Someone must have been forcing him, which meant Beliveilles wanted her dead. Feeling betrayed and violent with rage, she donned her Khor armor and compressed her shell to her back.
“We don’t have time to think about it,” she said, even though the idea of her allies betraying her was crippling her every thought. “We need to get the hell out of here.”
Wounded, yet medically satiated, the two Urholm Diplomats crossed the room, smoke and dirt on their faces, white-knuckled fists gripping the handles of their rifles. When they breached the lobby once more, a large group of Turlio’s followers stood in a circle around his body.
Atop the second-floor balcony, a wiry voice shot across the lobby.
“I’ve got ‘er!” he screamed, shoving Ferret forward, aiming his rifle into her back.
The circle of followers jeered and taunted Ferret, throwing piece of debris at her. A marble chunk struck her cheek, drawing blood.
“Hang her!” yelled a woman.
“Let the butcher have her!”
“She killed Turlio!” screamed a man so enraged, his voice cracked, and spit flew like a dog’s.
“Traitor!”
The chanting of “traitor” followed.
V’delle lifted her rifle to her sights and opened fire. The metallic blasts caused chaos, but the preemptive attack quickly ended any resistance. Her line of bullets cut the group in two. Balien’s added barrage finished off the stragglers. Like electricity through her right arm, the vibrations of the weapon filled V’delle with power and fulfilled her lust for revenge. It happened in two blinks of an eye, but to her, it felt slow enough to see each body drop, to see each bullet connect, to see the projectile blood cannon from their flesh.
When it was over, only Ferret remained. Clasping her hand to her bloodied cheek, eyes wide with fear and surprise.
V’delle and Balien crossed the room. Those that struggled to crawl away were smote upon the ground. V’delle looked up to Ferret.
“There,” she said, no emotion to her voice, only the dead, hollow tone of a woman with no self-perceived morals. “I kept my end of the bargain. Now keep yours.” The horror of murdering so many at one time grasped her heels like the ghost fingers of her victims, clawing at her calves, reaching up her legs. And then the Preen’ch “necessity” brought her back to consciousness, back to duty.
Ferret only stared in bewilderment. Balien coughed through the remnants of the smoke and staggered outside, dropping his weapon with distaste.
“Did you hear me?” V’delle shouted.
“I heard you,” Ferret muttered.
“Then take back your group and fix my goddamn bike.”
V’delle turned around and walked to the open light.
Ferret scrambled down the stairs.
“Wait, wait!” she yelled. “What the hell did you do? You lied to me!”
V’delle inhaled the fresh air like water to a dehydrated person. The afternoon light warmed her skin and brought metaphysical warmth to her chest. She’d taken sight for granted all these years. Openness brought her back to the concrete surface, back to Earth.
“Stop walking away from me!” Ferret continued. “Y-You . . . you’re more psycho than we are!”
V’delle turned around. “I’m done being here. Go find someone to repair our bike or I will find them myself.”
Ferret looked like she wanted to scream, her twitching mouth and eyes proof enough. She looked inside, to the smoldering furnace. “I . . . how am I supposed to salvage anyone now? How is anyone supposed to trust me, let alone follow me?”
“What are you talking about? We just eliminated your competition.”
“That’s not . . . I can’t just . . . there were leaders and organizers . . . I’d have to start from scratch.”
“Good!” V’delle yelled.
“Do you believe you can make a difference here?” Balien asked. His sudden appearance and calm voice was unexpected. V’delle scrunched her face.
Ferret seemed like she understood what he meant, but purposefully wanted to deflect. “Everything’s happening too fast. I don’t have any time to think!” She crouched and put her head in a vice.
Balien and V’delle looked at her disappointedly.
“Why did you become their leader in the first place?” Balien asked.
“Bashe wanted it,” she said, face buried. “He said . . . I would listen to them.”
“Did Turlio listen to them?”
“I don’t . . . no. I don’t think so. I dunno.”
“And is there anyone more qualified than you?”
Ferret inhaled, starting to get his point. She lifted her head. “There are people still in this place who are loyal to Turlio. The people you killed, those were just his soldiers—his gang. Behind those doors upstairs are hundreds of people. When Bashe died, it was easy. I kept everyone in the same positions. I didn’t change anything.”
“It’s simple,” V’delle interjected. “Show them Turlio’s mangled head and tell them you’re in charge now.”
“Show them a better way,” Balien proposed, his tone more tired than genuine. “What better time to show them your leadership skills than now?”
Ferret looked around, as if trying to find something that could solve this mess. Or maybe she was thinking of running. She ended back on Balien and V’delle, darting between the two, trying to find the right words. Finally, she stood. “Go get your bike. Meet me back here. I’ll keep my end of the deal.”
Balien nodded humbly.
“Finally, I thought you’d never decide,” V’delle said dully. She turned and walked away, swaying slightly, feeling the waves of battle simmer throughout her body. She didn’t know where she was
going exactly, but knew she needed to feel her legs moving.
——————
V’delle and Balien sat on the curb where they’d been ambushed. The bodies of the ambushers laid dormant upon the empty intersection, blood dried and brown. Late afternoon skies drifted above. The smell of smoke and burning wood wafted about. V’delle had been mesmerized by a behemoth cirrus, plumes a different shape or face every few seconds. But behind her eyes she was back inside. Mowing down dozens of men and women. Blood rocketing. Screams—hollow, serrated, visceral. What other choice did they have? Could they have successfully snuck out the front entrance while attention had been on Ferret? Was there a point to thinking of alternatives? Was she destined to be a murderer out of necessity?
“Is it not amazing?” Balien said. “Such calm atmosphere above all this carnage. Days pass one after another, while on the ground guns fire and people bleed and children scream. After days like these, I want to find the tallest building on this planet and live out the rest of my days alone, away from it all.”
V’delle had had similar thoughts after leaving the Chalis.
“Nature acts as if nothing’s happening,” she added. “I used to look at plants and become angry. I still do.”
“Nature lives and dies without retaliation, yet we must survive, must fight for our right to be. Maybe that’s what it means to truly be alive, to be conscious: the ability we have to fight back.”
Weeks ago, she would have resented such a conversation. How stupid were notions of inanimate objects? What a pointless observation. Her mind wasn’t meant to ponder, but to purge. It felt liberating, like the breeze through Berlin’s streets.
Their bike stood on its kick stand, the busted wheel being replaced by a stocky, pale man who hadn’t said a word to anyone. The wheel had taken more damage than expected, but luckily, he knew how to repair it. The sounds of his tinkering echoed between the buildings.
Crunching feet came down the street.
“Well?” Ferret asked, rounding the corner. “How’s it looking?”
She was still covered in layers of soot. Her brown eyes cut through the caked dust, the only purity amongst her caustic self. She slid her hand along her buzzed head.
