Queen of the Struggle

by Nik Korpon

  From some great distance, I hear Donael call my name.

  I reread the letter again to make sure I have it right. It’s almost too good to be true, that after years of fighting and scraping to survive, something is finally going our way. I’m seeing it more clearly now. There is no clean way out of this. I need to get us out of the country before anyone learns of my deal with Ødven. This will prove to be the longest day ever.

  Donael says my name again, but this time it’s not calling out: it’s screaming.

  I jump to my feet, the letter falling to the floor. Through the window, I see the boys standing stock-still in the yard, Donael shielding with his body. They’re staring out at the street with horror. I run to the door and only now I realize that all the noise I thought was inside my head is actually outside.

  I throw the door open and see Ragjarøn troops storming the neighborhood, streaming from three large transport vehicles idling in the middle of the street. Two of the soldiers smash the windows of Dyvik’s store. Two others kick in the door of Magnus’s bar. Another group rings around the front of a house two blocks down, getting into formation crouched down behind their riot shields. I pause for a second, wondering what they’re doing, then realize that Magnus lives there. The troops advance toward the house, but before they reach the door, a large chair crashes through the front window, catching two of the troops and knocking them to the ground. The other troops rush the door and even from two blocks away I can hear Magnus shouting and grunting inside, glass breaking and wood beams shattering. One of the troops flies out of the front door and tumbles into the street, but three more auxiliary troops rush inside.

  “Dad,” Donael screams behind me.

  I spin, fists ready to smash anyone who comes near my sons, but see they are blessedly alone.

  “What the hell is going on?” Donael yells, and I don’t have the energy to scold him.

  “Get inside,” I tell them.

  Donael flings his arms at the scene. “What is this? What’s happening?”

  “I don’t know, Donael.” I hurry over to them, then herd them toward the door. “But you need to get inside.”

  “Are they going to come here?” His voice sounds like it’s about to crack. Cobb clicks maniacally and wraps himself around my leg.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I tell them as authoritatively as I can.

  “How do you know? They taking everyone from Nyväg.”

  His words are a cold blade in my chest, knowing what’s on his jacket. “I’m not going anywhere,” I repeat. “Now get your asses inside and hide under your beds. Stay away from the windows.”

  I move them toward the door as a great roar erupts behind us. I shove them inside and yank the door closed, then spin around. Magnus breaches his front door with three Ragjarøn troops trying to restrain him, a fourth one close by. Magnus tries to pull his arm away but his energy is quickly draining. The extra troop yanks something from his weapons belt and sprays Magnus in the face. The big man takes two halting steps, then collapses face first on the street.

  I hear another man yell and his voice cuts through me like a garrote. Two troops have yoked up Dyvik’s arms, holding them high over his back in a restraining position. He tries to fight, but every time he struggles it puts more pressure on his shoulders. His face is bright red, as much from the screaming as from the blood after the troops beat him. As the troops maneuver him toward the transport vehicles, his eyes catch mine for an instant. I freeze in place, caught vulnerable, exposed for what I really am. I expect him to spit, to scream out traitor! as I’ve been called a thousand times before but know how much worse it would cut now because now it’s true. I truly am a traitor.

  But instead, his eyes hold mine tight and he mouths three words.

  Run.

  Hide.

  Fight.

  He doesn’t know. No one knows. Which is somehow, in some way, so much worse.

  The troops walk him to the transport vehicle and load him into the back while five others gather around Magnus and lift him.

  And then the front door of the vehicle opens, and out steps Slåtann. He surveys the scene, appraising his men’s work with a stoic expression, until his gaze falls on me. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips, though he doesn’t acknowledge me.

  He knows. My enemy knows me better than my compatriots do.

  I take three steps back, reach behind me and open the door, then retreat into our house.

  I close the door and the noise from outside dies. The house is deathly quiet. Too quiet. Unnervingly quiet. A hundred feet from where I stand, people are being ripped from their houses, families torn asunder, businesses destroyed. Yet here I stand, in this foreign land, safe. Protected even. I feel a ripple spread through my throat, a scream that has been building for years barreling up from the darkest, dankest, most roiling part of my gut, and I spin around and open my mouth to scream, to finally exorcise myself of everything I’ve done.

  And there stands Donael. Not under his bed, like I told him. In the middle of the living room, where he has a sightline right out the window, in full view of Slåtann’s transport vehicle.

  “He looked at you but didn’t shoot,” Donael says. His voice is strange, alien in its lack of affect. It’s like he’s not even my same boy.

  “He saw us on the boat.” My mouth moves though I don’t tell it to. I wonder if he also thinks I sound like an alien. “He knows who we are.”

  Donael starts to speak then cuts himself off when something passes over his face. His features settle, jaw clenched as if the last piece has finally clicked into place. In the space of two seconds, he has aged five years.

  It’s the look of realization.

  “Donael,” I say, but he turns around without a word and walks into Cobb’s room. I cringe preemptively, expecting the door to slam in anger, but there’s no noise at all, leaving me alone in the living room. A raid rages outside our quiet house, but somehow the silence is much, much worse.

  24.

  EMERÍANN

  I say goodbye to Brighid as I leave our compound and head in the direction of the work site. I take my normal route, the traffic lights synching in that uncanny way where, if you squinted, you could easily imagine that you’re reliving the same day over and over on an infinite feedback loop. Then, when I’m far enough away from the compound and anyone who might see me, I bust a hard left, my tires jumping the curb on the median, and head east, the opposite direction of the site. I push down the gas pedal and head to a bar called Render’s. It’s too early for a drink, but I have no idea where Lachlan’s living now, after everyone scattered. The one thing I do know, you want to run into Lachlan, you go to Render’s and wait.

  This would definitely not qualify as my type of bar, deep inside the winding shantytowns of Amergin. The floor is caked with scabs of dirt, the liquor is completely unorganized, and someone has actually set up a memory stand in the corner, complete with a lagonael booth. That it’s the complete opposite of any place I’d go makes it a great place for me to go right now, because I don’t want to be found.

  I know better than to take up space at a bar without giving them some money so I ask for a cup of coffee. The bartender looks familiar, but he’s a Brigu, and they share similar features. Know him or not, he still gives me a look that could flay skin when he hears my order.

  “OK then, how about you put some bourbon in it?” I say. This seems to do the trick.

  I wrap my hands around the cup and set my face over it, feel the steam waft up over my skin, the fumes of what is probably bathtub bourbon screech up my nostrils. Surprisingly, when I take a sip I barely notice the taste of the liquor, which immediately pisses me off because I think he gave me a soft pour. Then the alcohol kicks in.

  “You make this yourself?” I say to the bartender.

  He looks surprised that I asked. “Doesn’t everybody?” He has the faint Brigu accent common to the neighborhood, one that is as guttural as it is musical. He turns to tend to his ot
her customer, a man who apparently replaced his missing arm with spare parts he found in an alleyway.

  For all that is holy, Lachlan, get your ass in here.

  Two hours and two coffees later, the front door opens. My head feels slushy when I turn to look, but – praise be, Nahoeg – I finally recognize that silhouette. The bartender starts preparing his drink before he even saddles up to the bar.

  “That one’s trouble,” I say, though it comes out a little more slurred than it was in my head. I push the coffee aside. “Dunno if you want to serve him.”

  “Holy shit,” he says, coming over to me.

  “Lachlan Parnell, how the hell are you?”

  “When did you get here? What happened after the ceremony? Where are Henraek and the others?” His questions come rapid fire and I flinch a couple times, like I can physically dodge them. He cocks his head. “Are you drunk already?”

  “Only because your ass took so long to get here. Couldn’t be a punctual lush for once?”

  “I just got in from the border.”

  “Back to running jewels?” I shake my head. It’s dangerous work, and probably not worth the money.

  “Can’t stay in here to work, and me wee one still needs to eat.” He takes his drink from the bartender and asks him for a regular coffee for me – emphasis on regular – then sits down on the next stool. “What are you doing out here?”

  “It’s a long story but I have to tell it quick. I need to be somewhere.”

  I give him the short version: the raids, the first ambush, the squatters, the soul farm.

  When I finish, Lachlan lets out a low whistle and waves to the bartender for another drink. I slide him my coffee cup too. I need to sober up a bit more before I go to the work site. Showing up late is one thing. Showing up late and wasted is something else.

  “What are you going to do, then?” Lachlan says.

  “I’m going to take her down,” I say. “But I need help from you and your crew.”

  “My crew?” He barks out a laugh. “Shit. Your gal pal took care of most of me crew. Most of everyone’s crew.”

  I feel my stomach sink. I’m responsible for that too.

  “Some of them skipped town, went back to the hills to find work,” he says. “Some left just trying to stay alive. Most are dead or detained.”

  “How many people are left?”

  He shrugs. “Dozen. Maybe fifteen. Only half of them are in the city, though.” He looks at me over the top of his drink. “And none of them are going to be happy to see you, since you were with her so much.”

  “She forced me to go with her. I didn’t have a choice.”

  “I know that. And I understand being in a hard situation. Hell, running around with Forgall for years? All we got was hard situations. But not everyone else is so understanding.”

  “I thought...” I don’t even know how to explain what I thought. What I’d hoped for was to not be wrong, to think that Eitan finally, finally had better days ahead of it. Maybe I got caught up in that, in thinking that I could be the one to help bring those better days in. Maybe it was my ego that led to it. “I don’t know. It was a mistake to trust her in the first place. I take responsibility for that.”

  “Awful magnanimous of you, sweetheart, but some mistakes you never stop paying for. I’m not saying no one’s going to ride beside you, but don’t be surprised if no one’s keeping the streets empty for you.”

  “What do we do, then?”

  He takes a long drink. “What we always do,” he says. “We fight.”

  “Are you fighting with me?”

  “Much as I can.”

  “How much is that?”

  “I’ll ask around, see what I can do to help. But I can’t promise anything. I’m sorry, but I told you before that things are different now.”

  “Then I’d better plan on doing it on my own.”

  “I can help you, do whatever I can in the planning aspect.” He nods toward outside, what I’m assuming is his home. “But I’ve got me kid now. Not like during the Struggle when I could disappear for days on a whim. I can’t go getting myself killed any more.”

  “No, I know.” I pat his hand. He helped more during the uprising than he really should’ve, but once he starts, it’s hard to get him to stop. “I appreciate it.”

  “What I think the real question is,” he says, wagging his finger, his thinking motion, “what’s the nerve point? What’s the thing you hit that knocks down everything else?”

  I nod, running through options in my head.

  “And,” he says, “what can you do with one person?”

  “I’m so stupid,” I say. “That’s it.”

  “That’s what?”

  “I know how to stop her.” I clink my coffee cup against his drink. “But I’m going to need your help afterward.”

  “I just said I don’t know if I’ll be able to do much.”

  “I don’t need you to do anything,” I say. “I just need to use your name.”

  The work site is a flurry of activity when I arrive. As it should be, because it’s midday and I should’ve been here three hours ago.

  I park my truck and hop out, already barking out orders as I fire up the hologram device, checking what’s been accomplished against what’s scheduled so this will be finished within a few days. Electricians work frantically inside the central dome, while other workers hustle to assemble the curing pods. A cold chill settles over me as I’m walking to the central dome, like I can feel the residual pain people have endured in these machines. Ragjarøn and Brighid aren’t any better than the Tathadann. All of them have a total disregard for common suffering, thinking only about profits or statues or their inalienable right to seize whatever they deem appropriate. When I’m named Queen of the Struggle, I’ll change that all. Give the land and the power back to the people.

  The thought makes me laugh as soon as it passes through my head. Me being named to lead. I’m a goddamned pariah now, and the remaining rebels curse my name according to Lachlan. I suddenly have sympathy for Henraek, thinking about how much it hurt him, all those people calling him a traitor all the time. Not having the respect of those who I’ve fought alongside sucks pretty goddamned bad. The next time we meet, I’ll have to ask Lachlan exactly how bad it is.

  “Where have you been?”

  I startle as soon as I hear the voice and look up to find Brighid standing outside the central dome. It’s a good three times as tall as her, easily sixty feet in diameter. You could park two transport vehicles inside with room to spare.

  “Why, are you following me?” I say, because I can’t immediately think of a better response.

  “Following you? No, I came to check in and see if you needed help. But I’m more than happy to let you deal with all of this by yourself if you’re going to be a cunt about it.”

  Maybe the accusatory thing wasn’t helpful.

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t feeling well. It took me a bit to get here.”

  She approaches me warily, sizing me up with every step. “You were fine this morning when you left the compound.”

  I give a fake smile. “Do you want details on what it was like each time I had to stop on the side of the road, or will you take that it I had to stop a lot?”

  Still, she stares at me, her eyes probing inside my skull, trying to see what I’m thinking. Then she says, “You can be real disgusting sometimes, know that?”

  I shrug. “I asked which one you wanted. You could’ve chosen.”

  She shakes her head. “Why isn’t this finished yet?”

  “Because it’s a gigantic project.” I gesture to the field of people. “Everyone’s working their asses off. It’ll be done soon. What’s the rush?”

  “Because Eitan needs to see results. If we want them to trust us, to follow us, we need to give them something to believe in. We need to give them electricity and water. Now.” She considers me for a long moment. “Is there anything stopping us from doing that?”

  I
swallow, then shake my head.

  “OK,” she says, then starts off toward one of the smaller domes, but not before looking at me long enough to make me question whether I was found out.

  There’s no way she would know I met with Lachlan. Despite fighting with us for those six months, I doubt she even knows where that neighborhood is. It’s rare that I even go there.

  After all, to them I’m a traitor.

  I walk up to my room that evening with the hologram device in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, preparing to stay up all night studying these schematics and refining my plan. But when I open the door, I find something on my pillow again. From over here it looks like a snake. A dead snake.

  That goddamned woman. The mole. She knows where I am. She either followed me over here, or there are other moles in Brighid’s inner circle that have told that cunt where I lay my head. But that bitch is not going to scare me.

  I cross the room, ready to snatch up the snake so I can shove it in her mouth when I find her.

  I stop short as I get to the bed, my skin suddenly cold and clammy.

  It’s not a snake lying on my pillow. It’s a clutch of long brown hair, braided in three strands, from that poor little girl from the warehouse.

  A yellow flower tie holds one end together. A piece of scalp clings to the other.

  25.

  HENRAEK

  Donael forks idly at his dinner, more taking apart his fish flake by flake than trying to eat. He hasn’t said much for most of the evening, despite me trying to provoke conversation. Even Cobb has been subdued, and while I normally would savor any kind of peace and quiet in the house, this is just uncomfortable.

  It doesn’t help that a Ragjarøn soldier passes by our window every five minutes. They’ve been patrolling the streets after the raid. Three troops have been stationed by the labor farm to protect it.

  “When did you know you were going to join the Struggle?” Donael says.