Neeka Featherstone

by R. J. Lucas

  Not me, though. I’ve entertained them before. I won’t do it again. I plan to survive today. I plan to survive the Dread Wastes, and I plan to return to Eden.

  “I’ll see you soon.” The words blurt out of my mouth before being properly processed. Otherwise, I would have kept my lips tight.

  The butt of a long-barrel blunderbuss comes down hard across the side of my head, knocking me to the ground. My vision goes blurry, and an incessant ringing sound is all I hear for a few seconds followed by the muddled yelling of the protector that just clobbered me. I have no idea what he is saying. His words are blurred together like that of a slobbering drunk.

  As my sight becomes clear, I can see blood oozing through the cracks of the wooden floor in front of me. I’m pretty sure it’s mine. I feel the side of my head and look at my fingers. Yep, it’s mine. With some difficulty, I manage to raise myself from the floor and sit up on my knees, my mechanical feet folded under me.

  Lord Solomon kneels in front of me and wipes the blood from the gash in my head with his thumb. If I didn’t know better, I might would think he actually cares for my wellbeing. It’s all for show though, part of his role as being the Merciful Lord.

  “Mend the wound,” he tells one of his handmaids. He always has at least three of them with him. His personal servants or Royal Flowers, as he likes to call them. They don’t all come from the Royals, some are Middlers or Plebs, but they are all beautiful. They are always available to assist him with anything he requires…or desires.

  The handmaid rushes over to me and applies some type of salve to my head. It stings at first, but a soothing relief quickly follows. I don’t know what type of ointment it is, but it’s certainly not something we have in Coghaven. Of course, there are a lot of herbs and remedies in Fairebourne that are not accessible to Middlers and Plebs.

  “Neeka Featherstone.” Lord Solomon speaks my name as if announcing my presence. “The only person to ever step foot on the Sacred Platform of the Holy Charter and live to tell the tale.” He smiles and turns to the group of Royals. “Well…that is the only person other than me.”

  Everyone believes he can walk across the Sacred Platform unharmed because the Great Creator granted him divine abilities. That’s what he wants everyone to think anyway, but it’s all bobblegash if you ask me. I don’t trust him. Never have, at least not since the day I stepped onto the platform.

  He turns back to me and rubs his hand across my hair as the handmaid continues applying the dressing to my wound.

  “Ahh, dear Neeka…I can only imagine how thankful you must be that the Great Creator permitted you to keep your life.” Kneeling in front of me, he cups my chin in the palm of his hand and lifts my head to make eye contact with him. “Is it possible your life will be spared once again? Do you think you will be the only person, other than myself of course, to survive the Dread Wastes?”

  He exhales a contemplative sigh and turns my face to the side. His fingers move down my neck, across my collar bone and along the side of my breast with a slow, attentive pace. I can only imagine how difficult it must be for Papa to contain his anger as this plugtail gropes me in front of his captive audience. I imagine Papa reaching over and snapping his neck. I’m thankful Papa is smarter than that.

  Lord Solomon’s hand reaches my leg and slides across the metal thigh plate. “Such an exquisite, young thing you are. You could have had everything, been one of my private handmaids. Such a waste the Great Creator took those beautiful legs of yours.”

  Too bad I can’t slit your throat with my boot knife. I think to myself.

  “A pity…he took your brother,” he adds, his voice softening as he stares into my eyes.

  It takes all I have to control the desire to rip off his head. I consider the likely success of pulling my knife and driving it through his heart. Of course, I would be killed by the protectors, but it would be worth it. The only problem is he would become immortalized by the people of Eden. A leader who gave his life for his people. No! That’s not going to happen. I must expose him first and destroy the divine throne he has built. Then…I’ll kill him.

  I stare hard into his eyes. My voice assured.

  “I’ll be Eden’s hero.”

  Silence.

  The only sound that can be heard is the breeze slithering across the surface of the ship, blowing coattails and canvasses. Not a single person says a word. My eyes are entwined with his in a silent battle of wills. Royals, protectors and transgressors still themselves like statues waiting for a response from Lord Solomon.

  “I’m sure you will,” he says with a half-smile full of disguised hate. “I’m sure you will.”

  He stands and turns to one of his handmaids.

  “Bring it!” he commands.

  Her long black hair wafts in the breeze as the handmaid steps forth. She holds a large brown basket pressed firmly against her stomach. I’m not sure if the purpose of the basket is to hold the water pouches inside or for catching her breast in case they fall out of her blouse. The leather, under bust corset makes them look larger than they really are. Lord Solomon clearly doesn't mind.

  He smiles and brushes the back of his hand across the top half of her exposed breast, before reaching into the basket and taking a water pouch. One by one, he hands a pouch to each of us. The hard leather vessel is large enough to hold about a liter of water.

  Handing one to Papa, he speaks in a soft, almost caring tone. “And you my old friend…you could have been my right hand. If only things had worked out differently between us.”

  Papa takes the small pouch without saying a word. His face expressionless. His eyes locked with Lord Solomon’s.

  One liter of water? I can only assume his intentions are death, because one liter of water isn’t enough to even matter. However, it will probably be a nice addition to the forthcoming battle. Not only will there be a fight for the water and weapons dropped from the airship, but also a fight to keep the small pouches we now have.

  Lord Solomon stands and stretches his arms out from his side. He turns in a slow circle addressing everyone on board.

  “Am I not merciful?” he shouts.

  “Thou art merciful!” the Royals and protectors chant in return.

  The response from those of us on our knees is barely audible.

  “Am I not merciful?” he shouts again. I guess the first response wasn’t enough to soothe his thirst for adulation.

  “Thou art merciful!” The return chant is much louder this time, even from the group of transgressors. I refuse but keep my head low, so no one notices. I’m rebellious, not stupid.

  Lord Solomon seems satisfied with the response and he turns to Commander Atwood. “The ship is yours.”

  “Transgressors!” Atwood shouts. “Prepare to disembark!”

  3 - A Single Bullet

  Aside from Papa and Old Man Ambrose, I have no clue who the other transgressors are. We stand stoic, most of us with one hand on the railing for support as Lord Solomon’s airship lurches closer to the ground. It’s not the first time I’ve been surrounded by deadpan faces, dying to know what’s lurking behind their eyes, that resemble chips of desert stone. But these transgressors are tougher than most. There is only one woman, other than myself, and she doesn’t look like some tight-laced housewife. Tattoos emblazon her nut-brown skin, and a scar on her cheek pulls one side of her mouth up into a perpetual unnerving grin.

  I wonder what she did to be banished to the Wastes. Did she kill someone? Steal from Lord Solomon? The woman glances at me. Her eyes are hard with an effortless, almost instinctive glare—and I look away.

  I might not know any of them, but I’m sure some of them know me. My double proths are somewhat of a rarity in Coghaven; they make me stand out from the crowd. And if someone doesn’t notice me for the proths alone, they will when they catch a glimpse of the ever-changing artwork on the thigh plates. I’ve always been good at hiding their enhancements, though. Papa said no one should ever find out about my abilities.


  Not that being well-known means anything out here, I think grimly as the airship’s engines wind down. Nothing matters in the Dread Wastes except physical prowess and pure, remorseless brutality.

  The airship shudders as it comes to a halt, hovering just above the sunbaked earth. I turn my face away and try to hold my breath as gusts of sand billow into the air. I still manage to inhale the grit, despite my efforts. Papa pats my back as I cough.

  “Stay close,” he mutters. “And stick to what we talked about.”

  I nod and wipe grit from my eyes as Atwood shoves a gangly transgressor down the ramp.

  “Let’s go!” he roars, motioning the rest of us forward. “Move it! Everyone out!”

  I steal surreptitious glances at the faces of the other transgressors as we shuffle forward. None of them look as afraid as I feel. Hidden amidst the press of our sweating, stinking bodies, Papa finds my hand and squeezes it. A ghostly smile flickers across my face. It will end well, I promise myself. It must end well.

  Of all thirteen of us, Papa and one other man are the only ones who haven’t lost any limbs. No proths or missing proths. The rest are a mismatched bunch, some with mechanical arms…others with mechanical legs.

  Old Man Ambrose and another fellow…a short, plump man who’s been red-faced and sweating for the past hour…are the only ones aside from myself who wear leg proths. Unfortunately, they’ve had theirs removed by the protectors. Watching them hobble down the ramp, arms cartwheeling in the air for balance, I feel incredibly lucky to still have both my proths. It will probably mean the difference between death and life for me.

  Just as the first transgressor steps from the ramp onto the scorched sand, the ship jolts and lists to one side. Ambrose and the plump fellow are still only halfway down the ramp. With the sudden movement, they lose their footing and tumble to the sand, landing in a tangled heap. The rest of us inside the ship yelp and cling to the railing for support.

  The ship steadies itself, hovering six hands high above the ground. Laughter ripples up and down the length of the balcony railing above us. Teeth clenched, I glare at the Royals who lounge up there, sipping their kiju and enjoying the anticipation of grisly entertainment. I hate Royals. Entitled, self-righteous plugtails who think life’s a game and plebs, their pawns. If Atwood didn’t have a loaded blunderbuss resting idly in his hands I’d be up there in a heartbeat, drowning them in their own cursed kiju.

  “Keep moving!” Atwood bellows, shoving another transgressor forward. “Solomon’s mercy, we don’t have all day!”

  Grabbing Papa’s hand, I jump from the airship. We land together in the sand. It’s hotter than I expect and burns my hands. Cursing, I stagger to my feet and pull Papa away from the ship as it starts to lurch again. Behind us, the rest of the transgressors either jump or fall into the sand.

  “Remember,” Atwood shouts, brandishing his blunderbuss, “if anyone moves before I give the signal, I put a bullet in his head!” He grins brazenly. “Or her head, for y’two gentle-ladies.”

  I glower at him as the ship lifts away from us, but a nudge from Papa reminds me there are more immediate concerns than hating the Royals. Right. This is it. The Dread Waste—eat or be eaten.

  Papa hurries over to Old Man Ambrose and grabs him under the arm, helping him to his feet. Together they stumble away from the jumble of transgressors picking themselves up from the sand. The three of us back off from the rest. Walking backwards, I study my adversaries.

  Except for one hulking bruiser who stands well over twenty hands high, they’re all relatively average in size. Which means bigger than me. They don’t frighten me too much, though. I know I can outrun any of them, and if it comes down to it, I can probably defeat any of them in hand-to-hand combat, too.

  Can, I think to myself, but must not. If I must fight, I’ll be forced to reveal my proth enhancements, and that’s something I must avoid at all costs. At least in front of a dozen armed protectors. If they discover my abilities, they’ll have me riddled with bullets before I can blink. Besides, I refuse to submit to their gruesome idea of entertainment.

  Regardless, it’s still important to know who I’m up against. By the time the airship leaves for Eden, less than half of us will be standing. Whoever survives might come after Papa, Ambrose, and me. If they do, I’ll be ready.

  The bruiser, I decide, is the most dangerous of the lot. He has a jaw like a brick and fists that look like they could beat the bloody life out of a baldagaar. His formidability is more than that, though. His eyes are filled with enough cockiness for ten men, and it’s not an empty arrogance, either. It’s clear he has fought before and knows how to handle himself.

  Next to him, danger-wise, are two men who look like brothers. They aren’t big, but there’s a perilous strength to their squat physiques that I want to stay away from. They laugh and jostle each other as they pick themselves up from the sand. Fighting together, they’ll be a force to reckon with.

  If they fight together, that is. Watching them, it seems like they will. They grin and slap each other around in a friendly, familiar way. They’re close, I decide. They won’t turn on each other. That makes them dangerous.

  Then there’s a man with a narrow face and furtive eyes…the first transgressor off the airship. He’s tall but lanky. In a fistfight he’ll probably go down first, but his eyes are unmistakably intelligent. I tuck him away in my mind as someone who will probably surprise me by how long he survives.

  Other than those four, the transgressors don’t seem much like a particularly seasoned lot. Sure, some are strong, and others look like they were born to bully, but I don’t think they’re killers. At least not yet.

  The airship glides a short distance away and pauses again, hovering above the ground. Afraid of Atwood’s threat, all thirteen transgressors…including Papa, Old Man Ambrose, and myself…haven’t made any moves yet. We shift nervously from foot to foot as the wind whips our hair into playful strands, irreverent of the moment’s tension.

  Four tankards and four weapons are tossed over the airship’s railing. They land in the sand and are cloaked in shimmering heat waves, but I get a good enough look at them as they fall to guess: three rusty metal blades, just short of a foot, and one mean-looking wooden mallet. Licking my already parched lips, I glance at Papa and Ambrose. We’ve already agreed not to go for the weapons. It will be a mad scramble and none of us will survive, certainly not Old Man Ambrose with his missing leg.

  Papa nods, as if trying to reassure me everything is going to be okay, but I see the sweat beading on his forehead. Just the heat? I don’t think so. He’s afraid, too. Probably more afraid for me than for himself.

  “Transgressors!” My eyes switch to Protector Atwood, waving from the deck of the airship. “You know the rules! When I fire a shot, the game is on! Do whatever is necessary to ensure your survival. Nothing is illegal. Do you understand me? You each have the water pouch Lord Solomon gave you, extravagantly merciful as always.”

  Scowling, I nonetheless clutch the battered water pouch tighter. Let the Dread Waste swallow Lord Solomon and his thrice-blasted mercy. When I make it back to Eden and expose him for the fraud he is, he’ll be begging for my mercy.

  “Other than your water pouches,” Atwood goes on, “these weapons and tankards are the only assistance you have!” He points to the jumble laying in the sand below the airship. “They are what separates life from death out here, so take whatever you can! Remember, the deaths of those around you mean your own survival! So, forget mercy. Let it stay with Lord Solomon in Eden! In the Dread Wastes, mercy does not exist!” His words, sharp as the steel blade of a knife, cut through the heat waves and pierce the dazzling air. “So, fight! Fight like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do…because for most of you, it is the last thing you’ll ever do!”

  The Royals on the airship balcony cheer, thumping fists to chests and clapping their hands. My hate for them resurges. It boils through my veins, a fierce, acrid melody beating in sync with my hea
rt. I wish they were the ones down here. I wish it were them I could kill, not these strangers.

  Among the transgressors, fear starts bubbling over into aggression. They jostle and shove each other, jockeying for the best position. As soon as Atwood fires his weapon into the sky, the fight is on. They know every step matters. One step ahead of the others could mean they’re the one with the blade in their hand. The blade in their hand could mean they’re the one who walks away from here still alive, not bloodied in the sand.

  It’s hard for me to hold myself back. Every scrap of instinct is screaming for me to shoulder my way to the front of the pack, to prepare to fight instead of run.

  But no, I must not. We have an agreement, Papa, Old Man Ambrose, and me. If I fight, either I die, or they do. Hissing under my breath with fear and nervousness, but mostly irritation—I stay my ground.

  Moving slowly to avoid unwanted attention, Papa and I help Old Man Ambrose a little further from the crowd of transgressors. No one else is moving away; it looks like they all intend to go for the supplies. The Royals will enjoy the show, I guess.

  “One last thing!” Atwood stands at a gap in the railing, his blunderbuss held above his head like it’s an object to be worshipped. “For the last transgressor left standing here below the ship, Lord Solomon has declared one final mercy: this blunderbuss, with a single bullet in the chamber! To whomever this goes, use it as you see fit. But remember, you only have one bullet. So, choose wisely.” He pauses, apparently to add more drama to his speech. “You can use it on a baldagaar or save it for yourself.” He ends his announcement with a bloodthirsty smile.

  His eyes sweep out across the vast emptiness of the wasteland. To the north a ragged line of mountains rises from the undulating expanse of heat waves. In all other directions there is nothing but shimmering sand and rock, desolate valleys, and the white line of the horizon wavering in between.

  Atwood lowers his voice. “In a few days, you may be begging for a swift and painless end.”