by Brian Bakos
But she holds animosity against the partisans, too. Is there some way I can turn that to my benefit? I reenter the barn. Bel has left his post at the door and is sprawled out in the straw.
“What are you going to do with them?” he asks.
“I don’t know yet.”
“Well, don’t spend too much time worrying about them,” Bel says. “They’re just slobes.”
I turn on him.
“Why don’t you knock that off, already?”
“You’re not going soft on us, are you Dytran?”
“My butt’s as hard as yours,” I shoot back.
“Glad to hear that,” Bel says. “As long as you don’t get too sentimental about the inferior races.”
The sympathetic intimacy we’d experienced only minutes before is gone now.
“Do you still believe that nonsense?” I say. “In case you haven’t noticed, these ‘inferior people’ just rolled right over us!”
“Of course I believe it,” Bel says.
“Why?”
“Because I’ve got nothing else,” Bel says without hesitation. “Just my race and my flying ability.”
I’m too astonished to reply.
43. Alliance Attempt
Common sense and the Party line direct me to shoot the slobe kids and move on. But I’m disgusted with such common sense, and following the Party line has only led us to disaster. Besides, Katella seems to like the girl, judging by the way he acts around her – unless my perception of such things has been totally extinguished.
Beltran’s remark still rings in my ears as I walk toward the house. Actually, it makes a kind of warped sense. At least he has some sort of belief to hang onto in all this lunacy. Bel has always been an NSP loyalist, and faith in our ‘racial superiority’ is the central tenet. Any contrary evidence is battered down with slogans and hysteria. Yet I’ve never heard anyone make such a justification before.
But who am I to judge? Wasn’t I as much of a pea brain with the ‘mystical awaking’ I experienced as the Magleiter gazed into my eyes? The recollection of that spooky incident makes me shudder now.
And how would the world look to me in Bel’s place – raised in orphanages, no family, no girl? I can’t imagine how I would have turned out were it not for Mama and Stilikan. Even Papa was a great teacher in his way, showing me the type of man that I would never want to be.
But I have more pressing concerns. The Homeland is far off, and we are adrift in enemy seas like bits of wreckage from a torpedoed ship. I cannot afford to delude myself – our chances of getting back on our own are near zero. Sooner or later, the enemy will pick us up. I pray it’s their regular army that finds us and not some stray partisan group. There must be men of honor within their army’s ranks, men who will treat prisoners decently. At least, I hope so.
If Bel’s analysis is correct, and I have no reason to doubt it, peace will soon be declared. The slobes have enhanced their negotiating position with this offensive, but they will need to transfer their main forces east before long. Our side will be desperate to end hostilities, at almost any price. Then will come prisoner of war exchanges. I can only hope that we are among the survivors.
But I must complete my mission before I can even think about getting home.
Katella is in the basement with the two slobes. He’s fired up his little solid-fuel burner and heated some rations which the kids are devouring. Everyone freezes when I appear on the stairs.
“As you were,” I say.
I descend the steps amid total silence, as if I am some demonic presence intruding into the world of humanity. As I cross the dirt floor, the boy stares at me with wide-eyed terror. I follow his gaze down to the NSP badge stitched to my jacket. I notice that Katella has removed the badge from his own jacket.
“That’s not a bad idea,” I say. “Lend me your pocket knife, Katella.”
He hands over the blade. I peal off my jacket and begin working at the badge’s stitches. They are tough but widely spaced and give way quickly to the knife point. The slobes go warily back to their meals.
The girl is rather pretty beneath her grimy exterior, I can see now. The nutrition Katella provided has brought some color to her cheeks. The boy is part of the universal slobe lad – like the two earlier ones who were slain.
“So, how do you know their language, anyway?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“My heritage, sir,” Katella replies. “There are slobes among my ancestors, and the language got passed down.”
“Oh ... I see.”
Katella examines my face, looking for some indication of disapproval, I think. I keep my eyes fixed on my work.
“There are a lot of people like me,” he says. “It wasn’t a big deal until the NSP took over.”
Things begin to fall into place in my mind.
“Is this why you dislike Bel so much?” I ask.
“Yes,” Katella says. “That smug little NSP lap dog! If he had his way, ‘racially defiled’ people like me would be shot.”
I want to defend Bel, but I can’t really deny the truth of Katella’s statement. He peers into the stove flame, chewing on his anger.
“It’s bad enough I have to conceal my background without him rubbing the Party line into my face all the time,” he says.
This is dangerous territory, issues that we cannot afford to confront under the present circumstances. A change of subject is urgent.
“So, what do you think we should do with our captives?” I ask.
“What does Bel think?”
“I haven’t asked him,” I say, “but it’s likely he’ll favor harsh measures.”
Katella’s hand moves reflexively toward his machine pistol.
“You can tell ‘His Honor’ that if he tries to hurt either one of them, he deals with me,” Katella says. “And it won’t be a fair fight this time.”
Back into lethal territory. I sidestep again.
“You haven’t answered my question, Katella. What should we do with the captives?”
“We leave them alone,” he says. “We clear out. Don’t you think we’ve harmed these people enough, already?”
“They’ll inform on us to the enemy troops. You know that, don’t you?”
“What are they going to say?” Katella snaps. “There are some Mags headed west? The enemy knows that already, for God’s sake.”
“I tend to agree with you, Katella.”
My NSP badge is free from the stitches now. I squat down and place it in the flame. It flares up, popping sparks. The slobes jerk back in surprise. I feel oddly unmoved by my heresy.
“Inform Trynka that I know the man who killed their mother,” I say.
It’s Katella’s turn to jerk back with surprise.
“That doesn’t seem like a smart move, Dytran.”
“Go on, tell her, word for word.”
Katella wipes a hand across his mouth, then he begins speaking. His words are like an electric shock to the girl. Her lips curl back in a snarl. She tries to rise, but Katella restrains her. She spits on the floor.
“Now tell her this,” I say. “When I find him, I will punish him severely.”
Katella translates. A torrent of angry words issues from the girl.
“She asks why you’d to that,” Katella says.
“Because he injured me, and because I want to benefit her.”
Katella appears baffled. I lean in close.
“Listen, Katella, you know me better than anybody. You know I never talk b.s. Try to get that through to her.”
“Yes, sir.”
Another exchange. Katella talks at length, the girl makes a brief reply.
“She doesn’t believe you,” he says.
“Can’t blame her for that,” I say. “But I’ve got something more immediate she can believe in.”
“What’s that, sir?”
I glance around the wretched little room. With it’s dirt floor and walls, it’s more like a grave than a basement. An apt setti
ng for what I am about to propose.
“I want her to help me find the man who killed her father. I suspect he’s the same one who murdered my brother. We will take revenge on him together.”
“The partisans killed Stilikan?” Katella gasps. “I didn’t know that.”
“You know it now,” I say. “Translate, please!”
I’m having trouble controlling my emotions and raise my voice louder than I wanted to.
Katella speaks; the girl remains silent and wary. Then she looks me over with a new thoughtfulness, as if regarding me for the first time as something other than just a Mag savage. Then she gives a sharp nod.
“She agrees,” Katella says.
“Good,” I say. “But before we decide on anything definite, I want to hear her story – all of it.”
44. Trynka’s Story
Trynka’s family had lived on the same land for generations. She did not know anything else besides the neighboring farms and villages. The same routines went on year after year, until the war came. Then the atmosphere became electric with news of invasion and desperate battles. Some of the young men in the area were drafted into the army. Many others disappeared into the woods so as to avoid military service.
Many spoke with favor about the ‘liberators’ coming from the west, certain that the oppressions of the current regime would finally be thrown off. But as the war ground on and reports of Mag atrocities came filtering back, such talk ceased, replaced by a bitter determination to oppose the invaders.
A huge battle raged nearby in which an entire slobe army was wiped out. The flash of artillery fire turned night into day, and the sky blackened with smoke from burning tanks and incinerated corpses. The ground shook, and a horrible stench of death covered the land. Aircraft screamed overhead, like demons from hell, spitting destruction.
Finally the battle ended, and the invaders continued eastward, sweeping the remnants of the slobe army before them. All that remained behind was a vast wasteland where nothing could survive any longer, a horrid place that everyone avoided. “The Barren,” as it came to be known – ZOD.
Things settled into a new routine. Occupation troops set up shop, and a Mag airfield was constructed where an old army base used to be. For a while, it seemed as if things might actually improve.
Then the killings started.
Any pretext was sufficient – troops murdering farmers for not handing over their food stocks quickly enough, commando units gunning down anyone who looked like a “terrorist,” soldiers violating local women and shooting them afterwards. Then came the “punishment actions” that wiped out whole villages in retaliation for real or imagined resistance.
The young men hiding in the woods emerged to link up with the regular army, or else they joined the myriad partisan bands springing up across the occupied territory. These partisans evolved into heavily armed, disciplined units that wrested large areas from our control. Most of them were under the direct command of army HQ, but some retained their independence. One such freelance group was the “Omzbak Avengers.”
Omzbak hailed from a village somewhere north of the Barren, and he enjoyed a fearsome reputation. His band was small but far-ranging – and totally ruthless. Six of the Avengers, including Omzbak and a female partisan, visited Trynka’s house one evening. They turned a pleasant dinner hour into a nightmare.
Omzbak was a large, brutal-looking man who exactly matched the description of the partisan leader I’d seen when I was shot down. He spoke the indictment to Trynka’s father:
“You’re under arrest for suspicion of collaborating with the enemy!”
“How have I collaborated?” the father protested. “The Mags come, they take food – what can I do about it?”
“That’s for the People’s Court to decide,” Omzbak said.
Two partisans yanked Trynka’s father to his feet and began dragging him toward the door.
“No!” the mother shouted.
She rushed to her husband’s side; the female partisan seized her.
“Shut up, bitch, or you’re coming with us, too!”
She slapped the mother hard, and the poor woman fell sprawling. Then the partisans dragged Trynka’s father out into the night.
Her mother lay wailing on the floor, Pomi cringed in a corner. A vision of hell had visited the little family.
“Be brave, Pomi,” Trynka told the little boy. “Watch out for Mama.”
Then, without thinking about consequences, she took off after her father’s abductors.
She followed them for many kilometers across countryside shrouded in damp, misty moonlight – always keeping just far enough behind to elude their notice. They were not expecting anyone to follow them, she reckoned, which aided her efforts.
Finally, after a trek of some hours, they reached the Barren.
Trynka’s nerve almost failed at this point, but she steeled herself to keep going. She flattened herself in the underbrush and observed the others enter the blasted zone. They were approaching an indistinct area that seemed to glimmer oddly in the starlight and moon beams. Trynka dared not follow, as the open ground offered no chance of concealment.
An extraordinary thing happened next. Two partisans seized Trynka’s father by the arms and rushed with him toward the blurry spot, stepping in a complex zigzag pattern.
The three of them abruptly disappeared! Trynka could not believe her eyes. But then another partisan did the same maneuver, and another – each vanishing in turn. Finally, Omzbak himself entered the mysterious blur.
Trynka was now alone with the sinister Barren sprawling before her. She wanted nothing more than to run for home. But what was at home? Just a woman driven mad and a broken family stripped of its head. She approached the spot where the others had begun their zigzag and repeated their maneuvers ...
She found herself in a confused state, wandering through an area that seemed to be tilting at crazy angles. Papa had once taken them to a fun house at a carnival in the district main town, and she had experienced a similar disorientation wandering its confines. But that had only been a game, this was deadly real.
Normal laws of space and time seemed altered, she could not be sure of which direction she was going, or if she was even moving at all. She heard voices, but they could be coming from anywhere – or nowhere.
Help! her mind screamed, but there was no one to help. Blind panic groped for her.
Trynka clamped her eyes shut. Papa had taught her that in times of great stress, always to do three things: stop, get control, act.
Papa! Papa!
She didn’t know how much time passed. The darkness helped to ground her in this terrifying new world; the panic beats of her heart slowed. Finally, she opened her eyes.
She was in an underground passage of some kind, though the exact location of the walls could not be determined. They might be just beyond her touch or a long distance off. The voices seemed to be coming from directly ahead now, and she walked toward them.
She could not clearly see the path, but she could detect a firm surface under her feet. She moved cautiously along, trusting that the ground would not suddenly give way. She seemed to be viewing only the shadows of reality.
Then she found herself staring into a large room. It’s appearance was so sudden that she almost cried out. Inside the chamber was her father and the partisans who had brought him to this evil place. Other people, who must also have been partisans, stood about. Two men were facing her father and talking in turn.
She recognized them! Both were shiftless bums who had once worked at their farm. Father had dismissed them because of their laziness and because they were stealing things. Now they were bearing false witness against him.
The allegations made Trynka’s ears burn. The men were accusing her father of conspiring with Mag agents, of selling information to the enemy and betraying loyal patriots. They said he had profited from selling food to the invaders.
It was all lies!
Her fathe
r was an honorable man. He had good relations with everyone from the common people to high government officials. But the common people had been driven off, along with the government officials, leaving only the scum of the earth behind – like these two. They had guns now, and membership in the most feared partisan band; they could do whatever they liked.
Trynka could no longer bear such injustice. She opened her mouth to speak, but at the same moment, her father turned his head and looked directly at her. His eyes bore incredible agony, they widened when they saw her.
His mind screamed a voiceless warning: “Run!”
The she was running. Headlong through the passageway with no idea of where she was going. Somehow she got outside the nightmare world and kept running, running ...
The following day, her father’s body was discovered lying in a field with a bullet through the head. A sign hung around his neck: “I collaborated with the enemy.”
Trynka’s mother was completely broken by these events. She remained in a fog of madness, mumbling to herself and staring off into space with haunted eyes. She never spoke a coherent word again. Trynka and Pomi cared for her as best they could during her final months of insanity as the farm declined and starvation began to set in.
Then the Death Storm commandos arrived last week. After setting fire to the house, they shot Trynka’s mother in cold blood, laughing like hyenas as they riddled her body. Considering the woman’s tragic state, it was almost an act of mercy.
***
The basement is silent now; Trynka’s words soak into its clammy walls and disappear. I feel a chill running through me, as if a ghostly hand is tickling my spine. How could this slip of a girl endure so much tragedy? Everything that’s happened to me since I’ve got here seems like a Sunday picnic in comparison.
I think of Mama. How could I possibly bear to see her murdered before my eyes? The rage I feel against the commandos and the partisans nearly chokes me.
“There you have it, Dytran,” Katella says. “Are you satisfied?”
“Yes ...”
Katella gets to his feet. He appears oversized in the cramped little space. His head nearly reaches the ceiling.
“Well, since you’re both going out there to deal with this Omzbak fellow,” he says, “count me in.”
45. Departure
We are all prepared to move out, knapsacks on our backs, weapons in hand. Katella, Trynka, and Pomi stand with me on one side of the farm yard. Across from us, Bel sits in a little pushcart with his submachine gun cradled in his arms. His eyes are narrow and suspicious. Grushon and Sipren flank him.
