by Nik Korpon
“Donael,” I say, trying to position myself to break his fall. I’m not quick enough and he slams against the floor, his hands restrained as well.
“Asshole,” he spits at them. Clicking follows, and Cobb is tossed in with us before they slam the door, sliding the bolt lock over to secure it.
I do my best to help Donael to his feet, slipping my legs beneath his chest and straightening them, trying to lever him upright.
“Are you OK?” I say when he’s up on his knees.
“My wrists hurt. My face hurts.”
“Turn around. Let me see if I can release your hands.”
The restraints look like ones I’ve seen before – simple steel ovals with a binder in the center – but there’s no keyhole. Instead, a red light pulses, indicating the lock function is activated.
“They’re remotely operated. You’re going to have to get used to them.” I turn around. “Are mine the same?”
“Yeah,” he says.
Cobb clicks at us from the floor. We turn our back to him, then crouch down and grab his arms, do our best to pull him upright. His skin scratches against my palms.
Once everyone is upright, Donael and I look out the back windows. Ragjarøn soldiers herd citizens into smaller, more manageable groups. Those who protest and swing pieces of wood are promptly subdued, some lethally. The stage is a good three hundred meters away, and from this orientation, I can’t tell where we are. As I scan the crowd, scouring faces, I can’t see Emeríann either.
“Dad,” Donael says, “what’s going on?”
“I don’t know.”
Cobb clicks.
“I thought they were supposed to help us. Isn’t that why they came?”
A soldier bashes his baton against the back of a protestor’s head, splitting it open. He wipes the blood off his uniform and flings it on the ground, then resumes watch over his group as if nothing has happened. The man lies limp, the blood from his skull seeping into the ground.
“I thought so.” I swallow hard. “It appears I was wrong.”
4.
EMERÍANN
The soldier amadan wraps his arm around my neck so tight I can barely breathe. I slam my heel on his foot as hard as I can. He doesn’t let go, but it shocks him enough to loosen his grip. That seems like a positive development until I look up and see Brighid take a sword from Ødven and then bring it down across her father’s neck. His head clomps against the stage floor and rolls, making eye contact with me on every revolution – accusing me – until it tumbles off the edge into the crowd.
My legs disappear. My body burns. We had it. We were so close. We were minutes from having the city be ours again.
And now it’s gone. It’s my fault. I planned the bombing. I started the uprising that called Daghda. Brighid wouldn’t have come without Daghda. Ødven wouldn’t have come without Daghda. Daghda wouldn’t have come without the bombing. The city is going to burn again and it’s all my fault.
Ødven picks up the microphone and I can barely hear what he says through the blood rushing in my ears, the anger pulsing through my arms. I go to smash my heel again but the soldier has gotten wise, so I throw my head backward, catching him on the cheek instead of the nose like I’d planned. The soldier squeezes tighter, breath rushing from my chest. He puts his mouth next to my ear and I smell old tobacco and raw meat.
“I don’t care what she says, I will gut you where you stand if you don’t stay still.”
I start to fight back until I feel a sharp point in my side.
Ødven announces that Brighid will oversee the city and that we are now property of Vårgmannskjør. Colonized again, and not even by a native. At least the Morrigans were ostensibly trying to make Ardu Oéann a stable country again. He’s just going to exploit us.
Across the stage, Henraek is hemmed up about the same as I am. Our eyes meet for a second; then his dart to the crowd. I turn mine too and see the boys in the front row.
I start to call out to Henraek that it will be OK, that we’ll figure out something and the boys will be safe, but they slide a black hood over his head and drag him off. I lunge forward to help him and feel a white line of heat in my side.
“I said stay still, you satkäring,” the soldier grunts. He leans back, yanking me off my feet, the sliced skin parting even farther, then whips me to the left and propels us forward through the people gathered at the side of the stage. Ragjarøn troops swarm in all directions with rifles slung across their shoulders, some holding back the crowd, others climbing up the scaffolding for a better shot while the remainder spreads out to cover the flanks. Watching them pull wartime maneuvers just minutes after we were supposed to take the city back is goddamned terrifying. In the middle of all the chaos, Daghda’s body lies on the stage, pumping out blood.
My feet finally touch the ground as the soldier slams me down, pushing me forward by poking a rifle into my back. I run through every move I know, every technique Henraek and Forgall taught me for disarming an attacker, but something tells me that not only is this bastard quick enough to shoot me dead before I make a decent attack, he’d goddamned enjoy it. Probably put a couple extra in me just for the hell of it. We wind through a mess of people, everyone scuttling like they’ve already been told their orders, which leads me to believe that Brighid and Ødven had been planning this for a while. How the hell were they able to keep it hidden from us for so long?
We come around the back of Clodhna when the soldier signals to one of the men standing by a door. He swipes a card and opens the secure entrance. My stomach drops. This is not good.
I plant my feet and the rifle jabs into me.
“I don’t think you understand how much trouble I’ll get in if I shoot you,” the soldier growls.
“I don’t think you understand how few shits I give.” I do my best to steel my voice. His hand lands on my shoulder but I expected it and softened my knees to stay in place. I hear him exhale really hard.
Then I feel both of his hands on my shoulders, pushing me forward. Which means his rifle is hanging freely from the strap.
I drop to a knee and kick out my right leg like a mule, connecting squarely with his kneecap. He grunts hard and doubles over so I swing my leg out and around like a hook punch, aiming my heel where his head should be. But he catches my foot, yanks it and twists. I flip over on my side, landing hard on my right hip, then stab my left leg out, hoping to land somewhere near his face. He tries to snatch it but misses, deflecting my leg. His rifle is hanging from its strap between his legs. I make a grab for it but the soldier has recovered. His fingers wrap around my wrist so hard I can feel the bones grinding against one another. He yanks my arm forward, bringing my face within inches of his.
“This is the last time I will say it.” He pushes the words through his teeth. “We are to bring you to a secure location. Unharmed. Those are our orders, with a severe punishment should we not follow them.” He squeezes even harder, and I didn’t think that was actually possible. The pain is so bad my field of vision narrows. “But I will deal with the consequences if it affords me the joy of gutting you on the steps and leaving you to bleed out. So, I will tell you one last time to knock this shit off. Next time you’ll be grabbing for your innards, not my gun. Do you understand?”
He doesn’t really ask it so much as he says it. And while it’s my instinct to push him, make him angry and get him to make a mistake, his thing about being given orders makes me hesitate. If I’m to be taken safely, does that mean Henraek is too? Where is he? Surely they know about the boys, so where are they? More important, if I cooperate, can I pry that information out of one of the lower-ranking soldiers?
“I understand,” I tell him.
“Good. Now get your ass up and go inside.”
I push myself to my feet with as much composure as I can muster and step into the cryptorium. The inside is completely marble, marble that used to be white before we bombed the shit out of the city and sent these roaches scattering, tracking soot and b
lood all over the place. The building has the eerie feeling of a tomb, like the temperature is just right to keep a body from spoiling. Despite racks of Ragjarøn troops scurrying around, the place is nearly goddamn silent.
The soldier leads me down the hallway to a solid metal doorway, where he scans a badge then veers off to the right.
That badge, man, it scares the shit out of me. Because this is the hub of the Tathadann, which means that in order for there to be so many Ragjarøn troops inside Clodhna – and to have access to so many places – they must have stripped Tathadann personnel of their badges several weeks ago. And all without us knowing. How long has that cunt Brighid been planning this? And to think that this whole time I’d been telling Henraek, No, relax, stop worrying, we’re all fighting for the same thing, that’s just residual paranoia from working under the Tathadann for too long.
If I ever see him again, I’ll never be able to tell him he was right. His head might explode. No, don’t talk like that, stupid woman. Of course you’ll see each other. We’ll get out of this somehow. We always have.
The soldier leads me down a hallway that seems to go halfway to forever, but every room we pass makes me more concerned. At first, they are small, like personalized waiting rooms. Then there are rooms with toilets and beds inside. Now, there are bars on each of them. This isn’t a waiting area: this is a detention center.
I stop walking for a second and am quickly greeted with a rifle barrel in my back.
“Did you forget what we talked about no more than five minutes ago?” the soldier says.
I mutter something about a pebble in my shoe then continue walking. How the hell am I supposed to get out of this? I don’t think I can take him out. He’s already proven he’s as quick if not quicker than me. Not to mention he’s trained for this for years, instead of picking up a couple things from his co-worker and boyfriend. And besides that, he gets off on shooting people. Talking him out of it won’t work.
As some vague notion of a plan starts to form in my head, he grabs my shoulder, grunts, “This one,” and stops me dead in my tracks.
He swipes his badge and the metal bars slide open. I can feel his frustration mounting with every second I don’t step into the cell.
“What do you expect me to–”
His hands land on my shoulders again, shoving me forward. Before I can spin around, the bars slam shut, locking me in.
He starts to walk away, then pauses and sets his face between the bars. “You have no idea how lucky you are, sweetheart.”
I feel something barreling up inside me, pushing through my legs and arms. But I tamp it down, keep myself under control. Instead, I cough a few times then spit it in his face.
“I’ve got a good idea.”
The spit drips off his nose, his rage barely contained by whatever threat Ødven has issued on behalf of Brighid to anyone who harms me. I’m tempted to push it further, but instead err on the side of caution. Never know how shitty his home life is and how much more relief he’d get from killing me.
“Just remember what I said.” He spins on his heels and stomps away.
I survey my new surroundings. A slab of wood juts out from the wall, an inch of torn padding on top of it. A metal bowl with a drainage hole in the center of it. A small window overlooking the street outside Clodhna.
God damn it.
I press my face against the window. Outside in the street, soldiers gun down protesters, shove people into pre-categorized groups, forcibly disperse the groups that might be able to rebel, batter anyone who dares stand tall.
This was supposed to be a new beginning, an opportunity for the people of Eitan to be responsible for our own future. To throw off the yoke of the Tathadann and revel in our freedom. And now look what we’ve done. Cold-blooded murder. Separation according to age, race, ability.
Things weren’t great under the Tathadann. They were really shitty.
But, I think as my forehead touches the warm, smeared glass of my window, they sure as hell weren’t this.
5.
HENRAEK
We’ve only been driving for twenty minutes when more slaps hit the side of the transport vehicle. As if from a receded memory, I recognize the sound, the pitch.
Heavy-gauge artillery and assorted projectiles, likely thick pieces of wood and metal.
The vehicle judders, wobbling from the smack of the shells and the driver’s swerving attempts to be more elusive. While he does succeed in not getting us blown to bits, he also tosses us around the back like ragdolls. I slam against the metal bench, the back of my head hitting the floor. Bright white points speckle my vision for a moment. When they clear, I see Donael and Cobb on the floor near me, their feet in the air and backs against the walls. I shuffle down to them, pulling myself along the grooved floor with the soles of my boots. The driver swerves again but this time he helps me roll closer to the boys. I stretch out my legs and catch them, pull them in close to me.
“Try to hold on,” I shout over the whine of the engine and thumps of artillery.
Donael says, “How?” and while it’s a reasonable question, I choose not to answer.
The vehicle cuts and weaves down the road – a road? Where are we? – and I clench my legs tighter to keep them safe, my muscles burning with every passing minute.
Before long, our path begins to straighten, and the threat passes. We cruise on at what feels like a good clip and I feel I can release my legs. My thighs burn from the exertion. The boys scoot out from our cocoon, but this time stay on the floor, leaning up against the bench.
I work my way up to my feet and look out the window. Despite the long slabs of wood and metal littering the road, I can’t see any people. I suppose out here they stay hidden as a matter of survival.
“What was that?” Donael says.
“I don’t know. I’ve heard stories about bands of scavengers who live out here, scraping by on whatever little bits they can find. Some of them set up shelters in the old resource company outposts. Repurpose whatever’s left.”
What I can see is mountains in the distance, beyond the scrubland of what might be Westhell County. I haven’t been outside Eitan in nearly twenty years. No one really comes out here as far as I know. Looking over the scorched fields, I can see why. Houses long abandoned poke out from the barren ground like rotten teeth in decomposing gums. Scattered over the vast nothing are the heavy-duty trucks resource companies used to scour the ground, though these ones were picked over for parts years ago, only the frames remaining like steel carrion skeletons. I see a single tree in the distance, seemingly towering above the scads of stumps, its black branches reaching for the sky, beseeching the heavens for rain. Its calls go as unheard as ours have for decades.
There’s a click, and my wrists feel looser. A second later, our restraints land with a clunk on the floor.
“Did they break?” Donael moves away from them as if they might become self-aware and reattach themselves.
“Remotely controlled.” I rub my wrists, working blood-flow back through my fingers. “I guess they’re not concerned about us escaping anymore.”
Looking outside, I have no idea where we’d go if we did escape.
Two hours later, the transport vehicle slows, then turns right. The boys fell asleep so hard that even two additional attacks from scavengers didn’t wake them, and I spent most of the time focusing on the feeling of Donael resting against me. But this change in speed rouses Cobb, his gnarled body nestled on my other side. He unleashes a great yawn. After a few minutes, the road becomes bumpier, jostling Donael awake.
“Where are we?” he says, blinking as he looks around.
“Don’t know.” I’m about to get up and check out the back window, but the vehicle comes to an abrupt stop, tossing us forward. We land on the floor again, and before we can even stand up the back doors open, the three of us grunting and covering our eyes from the sudden exposure.
“Get up,” one of the soldiers says.
“Where�
�s Emeríann? Is she safe? Where did you take her?”
“Get up. Your ride’s about to leave,” he says, now climbing inside and pulling us to our feet. I push him back, tell him to keep his hands off us. Then there’s the click of a baton. He rears back, ready to bash me across the face, when someone shouts out behind him.
“Stand down, soldier.”
Rage passes across the soldier’s face, but he duly lowers his baton.
“Apologies, Befälhavare Slåtann,” the soldier says. “Just keeping the prisoners in line.”
“They’re not prisoners,” Slåtann says. “They’re guests. Now help them out.”
The soldier is far from pleased by this but does it regardless.
“Henraek, I am Ibra Slåtann,” our host says, and I’m a little disconcerted that this man knows my name. “I assure you, Emeríann is safe. I guarantee no one will harm her.”
“You’re not surprised that I don’t believe a word you say, are you?”
“We haven’t killed you, have we?” He gestures absently. “So why would we kill her?”
I can think of several reasons but I don’t have much choice other than go along with what he says. When I step out of the vehicle, I feel an instant difference in the air. The land in the distance is scorched but greener where we are, and there’s a rushing, rhythmic noise under a mechanical drone. I step around the vehicle and see a long makeshift dock comprised of wooden shipping pallets and assorted planks. The dock leads to a nondescript boat, painted red below the midpoint and bright white on the top. Satellites and antennae jut out at angles, and each corner of the boat features a rotary gun that looks to fire shells the size of my fist.
Beyond the boat is water. Water that rushes, water that flows. Water that stretches until the horizon and then far beyond that.
My knees weaken and I nearly collapse. All the stories my father told me, about streams and rivers and oceans, about green hills and blue skies, about bright red birds and silvery scaled fish, stories I’d thought he’d made up for my benefit, to give me something to believe in: those stories were true.
