by C. C. Ekeke
“Wow!” Liliana spun about in amazement. “No wonder the Farooqua don’t tell anyone about...oh hi!” The doctor’s enthusiasm drained away as she took in the scene.
Tyris looked Cortes up and down. “Did you jump into a river?”
Habraum did a double take, as did all of Liliana’s teammates. The doctor was soaked from head to toe, her cropped and spiky hair plastered to her face and head. She turned brick red and muttered, “No.”
All Byzlar could offer was a befuddled shrug as inquiring stares turned his way.
How and why she got drenched was a worry for later. “Cortes,” the Cerc drew Liliana’s attention to the current matter. “Marguliese told us a Ghebrekh infiltrated Qiidr Ol-Chaeda?”
The doctor exchanged a look with Byzlar. Behind the pair stood the Quud warrior Kyas’argiid had sent to monitor them. At his feet lay the tattooed, obsidian-skinned body of a Ghebrekh.
Habraum’s eyes widened. Not that he ever doubted Marguliese, but seeing the body had a weight even her words hadn’t carried. But if Habraum had thought Marguliese’s statement really upset the crowd, the horrified cries from every Quud viewing the Ghebrekh corpse dwarfed that. Kyas’argiid reacted with a small, barely noticeable shiver, which must have been all the high chief could muster up in light of his son’s betrayal.
Yet the Cerc’s major concern came from how CT-1 was no longer safe here. The Ghebrekh had infiltrated and infected the Quud Nation. How much was anyone’s guess.
V’Korram padded forward to inspect the corpse, green-flecked eyes narrowed. The Kintarian sat on his haunches, thoroughly sniffing the Ghebrekh. “Killed less than five macroms ago. Originally Gajj by his scent.” The Kintarian rolled the body onto its stomach, revealing a dagger buried in the back of the corpse’s neck. “Hmmph.” He turned to Marguliese.
The Cybernarr was unrepentant. “He attacked. I retaliated,” she stated, still signing to the Quud.
“The Ghebrekh threw a knife at her,” Byzlar marveled, as Marguliese translated. “She ‘returned to sender’!”
Cortes snorted out a laugh. “Sorry,” she quickly muttered at Habraum’s furious look.
Khal gazed lustfully at the Cybernarr. “I want one,” he gushed to Tyris, who just side-eyed him.
Habraum motioned at Marguliese to approach. The Cybernarr strode toward Star Brigade in her typical regal fashion. “There’s your proof, Kyas’argiid.” Tosh’logiid and his guard sat alone amid countless wary looks.
“[They’re wrong, Tosh’logiid,]” Mhir’ujiid pleaded to her brother in Quud kineticabulary, which Marguliese was translating vocally. “[You have not betrayed us!]”
Habraum, so engrossed in the unfolding events, started at Marguliese’s voice laced with cadences not her own. He wasn’t alone; Kyas’argiid glanced at the Cybernarr in surprise.
“She’s translating for us,” the Cerc explained.
Tosh’logiid pulled himself up, grimacing as he cradled his stump of a wrist. By his huskier build and darker golden pelt, he was a younger version of his father, minus the facial scars. “[I deny nothing, Sister,]” the Quud gestured. He shot a cool eye at Marguliese, who continued verbally translating. “[I am Ghebrekh and proud of it. As is Dera’japood.]” He pointed to the Quud guard at his side.
More groans of disbelief rumbled from the vast Quud crowd, now at more than several hundred from Habraum’s rough guess. Not sure how this would end, the Cerc’s thoughts stayed on his team and the mission.
Mhir’ujiid fell to her knees in horror. Kyas’argiid, however, didn’t even blink at his son’s announcement.
After a long moment, the Quud leader waved his left hand in a sharp, upward chop. Immediately, the Quud warriors at hand turned to the ground and made the same motion multiple times. With that, the crowd dispersed back to their dwellings. A few lingered to glimpse what the high chief would do, only to be shooed away by Kyas’argiid’s guards. The Quud Screecher, dazed from Khrome’s chokehold, was dragged off by its handler.
Macroms later, only Star Brigade and half a dozen Quud warriors remained, as well as Mhir’ujiid and the two traitors. Khrome and Khal relaxed their stances. But Tyris, Fiyan, and V’Korram remained at the ready. However, the Kintarian sheathed his scaphe daggers. Kyas’argiid had yet to look away from his son as he coldly spoke in Standard, “Go back home. Tell mother and siblings what occurred, and what I must do.”
Mhir’ujiid planted herself firmly between her father and Tosh’logiid, shaking her green-haired head indignantly. Signing at her father, she said, “[I’m not leaving. You will not go through this alone!]”
The Quud High Chief did not bother dealing with her stubbornness. A few head gestures later, two nearby guards seized Mhir’ujiid by the arms. The Quud gaped at her father.
“Father?!” she cried out in Standard as the guards dragged her away. “FATHER, PLEASE!”
Habraum felt sick as the scene stilled, save for the buffeting winds howling across the night. Despite the good that Marguliese had done, the damage to the high chief’s family would no doubt be crippling. He quickly assessed his team, seeing no issue until he gazed upon Liliana.
The doctor hugged herself to stop from shivering. Her clothes weren’t drying fast enough in the chilly air, even with the nanoclothe fabric’s embedded evaporation function. Her breath came out in cold clouds.
V’Korram moved behind the doctor in three long strides and began gently rubbing up and down her arms. The surprising chivalry left Liliana stunned and rather put off at first. But as V’Korram’s body heat began warming her, Cortes’s face softened as she stopped shivering. “Thanks,” was her stiff reply.
Kyas’argiid faced his son’s co-conspirator. “Are you also a traitor to your tribe?” Dera’japood looked overwhelmed in the presence of the Tribal nation’s high chief, but managed to nod feebly.
The high chief took this admission blankly and stepped back. “[Spare your kin the shame,]” he mandated with firm gestures. “[Seek forgiveness through the Zenith Point and sacrifice your life, your Propa.]”
Kyas’argiid nodded at a tall, chiseled warrior who then handed the turncoat a notched short sword.
Dera’japood took the sword, quivering as he searched for a courage presently eluding him. Habraum almost felt sorry for the lad. He’s so young.
“[Don’t, Dera,]” Tosh’logiid signed to him. “[You owe him and the Quud nothi—]”
That earned him a backhand to the jaw from the tall warrior. Tosh’logiid staggered back but didn’t fall.
Habraum’s wariness spiked at Marguliese’s translation and Dera’japood’s action. Kyas’argiid wants this Dera’japood to off himself?
Dera’japood blew out another breath—and drove the sword up through his own chin. There was a sickening crack of bone and soft tissue shredding. Yet the Quud never made a sound as the blade point exploded out from his forehead with a spray of frothy pink blood.
Habraum’s stomach twisted into knots, but he couldn’t stop watching. Liliana groaned and buried her face in V’Korram’s furry chest. The Kintarian himself looked on with a slack jaw. Everyone reacted with varying degrees of shock, except Marguliese, who merely arched an eyebrow at the death.
The dead Quud sank to his knees, spilling blood from his chin. Two of the remaining Quud quickly took Dera’japood’s body by the limbs and removed it from the scene.
“[You shame this tribe, Tosh’logiid, and your family,]” Kyas’argiid signed tersely. A female warrior approached and handed the traitor a notched short sword. “[Seek mercy through the Zenith Point with your life, your Propa.]”
Tosh’logiid looked at the blade and stuck it between his feet. He clutched at his stump, making terse gestures. Marguliese translated, “[Kill me yourself, Father. I make no apologies.]”
A brief horror rippled over the high chief’s scarred face. He turned away then from the sword and his son.
“[Go ahead, Kyas’argiid,]” the young Quud taunted. “[Regain honor for our oh-so-special family.]�
�
After a long moment, the high chief made no move toward the sword, nor did he look at his son. Habraum didn’t need a translator to understand how agonizing this dilemma had become. Placing the duty to serve the greater good over one’s own child? That was Habraum’s life.
Tosh’logiid looked down at the untouched sword. He then glared up in disgust at his father, gesturing furiously with one hand. “You cannot even kill a traitor to this tribe!”
Tosh’logiid gestured angrily at his father while Marguliese translated. “[You have grown weak, Father—and this tribe with you! Negotiating with those that want our race obliterated instead of rescuing your daughter, catering to these outsiders!” Tosh’logiid jabbed his wrist stump in Star Brigade’s direction with a pained grimace. “[That is not the mighty Kyas’argiid I used to love. Who are you?!]”
With a furious roar, the high chief snatched up the sword and swung in a backward slash. Pinkish blood sprayed everywhere, splattering onto Habraum’s armor and Khrome’s face.
Tosh’logiid grasped at the huge gaping tear in his throat with his remaining hand. Cherry-red blood gushed out of the wound, bubbling through the boy’s fingers and down his chest in frothy sheets.
Habraum definitely felt no pity, but the grisliness of it still forced him to look skyward.
“About time,” Khrome muttered, wiping the blood off his face. Habraum was this close to blowing the little bastard to kingdom come himself.
Kyas’argiid looked on as his son bled out, no pity finding purchase in his stoic expression. “I am Kyas’argiid, High Chief of the Quud,” he hissed in quiet fury. “And you, traitor...are no longer my son.”
The turncoat collapsed, spasming as the life burbled from his body in cherry-red rivers. A few macroms later, Tosh’logiid son of Kyas’argiid lay dead in a pool of his own blood.
“[Take the body and burn it,]” Kyas’argiid signed to one of his warriors, Marguliese translating.
As the bleeding body was dragged away, the high chief spun about to address Habraum and his team. “You will be led back to where you sleep tonight. And you still get your information.”
Habraum nodded cordially, despite wanting to voice something. Better I keep my mouth shut.
A lithe, ropy female—Kyas’argiid’s remaining warrior on the scene—began leading the way.
Tyris furrowed his hairless brow questioningly at Habraum. “We’re not taking the pillar transport?”
Kyas’argiid shook his head. “Place is close.” By his stance, the high chief clearly was staying put.
Liliana untwined herself from V’Korram and strode away hastily, eager to leave this scene. The Kintarian watched her go with an unreadable look before following her. Marguliese brushed blood flecks off her person apathetically and walked away with the rest of CT-1, Habraum taking the rear. Tonight’s actions had tainted this ancient city’s beauty. The sooner CT-1 dealt with Ghuj’aega, the better.
The procession led by the Quud female cleared the city square.
Habraum stopped to watch Kyas’argiid, who had not moved from the pool of blood where he killed his dead son.
In view of no one else, the high chief of the largest Farooqua tribe sank to his knees in the frothy, pink puddle. The silent sobs began then, wracking his wiry frame so violently the grief more resembled a seizure. Kyas’argiid’s grief was so awful, so private, Habraum suddenly felt immense guilt for eavesdropping. He quickly looked away, turning back to join his team.
Chapter 52
Splotches of crimson light stained the darkness in the eastern horizon, heralding dawn’s arrival. The last dawn Taorr son of Maorridius Magnus would ever know. He had spent the entire night on Kakencha Beach under constant guard. The Ghebrekh had made camp there, some resting inside makeshift tents, others out completing random tasks. No sign of Ghuj’aega.
During his time here, Taorr slept in fitful spurts, taking the edge off his fatigue but never fully refreshing him. Pebbles digging into his body where he lay didn’t help—neither did his imminent death. Between the short dozes, Taorr would gaze up at the stars and reflect on the many regrets of his short life: years wasted on partying, failing to bring peace between Faroor’s two species, anyone killed or maimed because of him, his fractured family…and so much else…
That last regret impaled Taorr through the gut with dizzying force every time. Dawn advanced more quickly, those tiny crimson splotches stretching into vivid cherry streaks, right as two Ghebrekh guards seized him roughly. He put up no fight. By the time they had dragged him away from the beach’s edge up a steep slope, Taorr felt only numbness.
Once over the hill, Taorr spied Ghuj’aega to his far left, the Ghebrekh’s eyes closed as he floated above the ground cross-legged. His white angular tattoos burned brightly, like floodlights. Something potent seemed to flow around him, overwhelming Taorr’s senses to the point that he had to look away.
The Ttaunz frowned. He wanted it over already. The Ghebrekh tossed Taorr through the mouth of a small, round tent. He landed on pebbly earth in a sprawl, unable to see anything. As the Ttaunz jerked his head up, he noticed a tall, shrouded figure standing in the opposite corner of the tent. The extraordinarily long neck and small head told him it was a Kudoban.
Taorr pushed up to his knees as Zojje strode out of the darkness. Good to see you, child. Zojje’s thoughts were warm, genuine. A narrow shaft of cherry dawnlight streamed through the tent’s opening, illuminating the Kudoban’s wrinkled and grubby robes.
He looked uninjured…
…except for the bandaged stump where his right forearm once was.
Taorr’s guts twisted up, remembering how Ghuj’aega tossed that severed forearm at him…as food. He gasped, realizing that Zojje saw all his memories…and him picking those forearm bones clean, lost in hunger.
Zojje was momentarily staggered, but quickly regained his calm. Taorr quaked at the sight of the stump, but forced himself to look at the Kudoban—to feel every iota of guilt.
Zojje’s affection flowed through Taorr’s turbulent mind like a placid stream. I would give you my other forearm if it meant you could live.
Taorr’s eyes watered the moment he tried to speak, and something inside him broke. Zojje rushed forward. Taorr, all sobs and anguish, tried to back away. “I’m sorry,” he moaned, his revulsion rising with each breath. “I’m so sorry!”
Zojje wrapped his good arm around the Ttaunz. “You did nothing wrong,” Zojje spoke in that serene, tripled voice.
Finally, Taorr let himself sink into the Kudoban’s comfort. His anguish came out in a low, anguished wail—like a wounded beast. Underneath it all, Taorr realized he wasn’t actually ready to go.
“I know, Taorr.” Zojje hugged him like a parent consoling a distressed child. Ultimately, this changed nothing. Tomorrow, Taorr would die.
Chapter 53
Wanna go downstairs? Sam remembered the low and throaty urgency in her own voice when asking. She just couldn’t recall whom she’d asked with this darkness swaddling her in a mind-numbing embrace. Sam reached out, feeling nothing but weightless bliss. She looked around, seeing only pitch-black everywhere like a starless sky.
That was the simple beauty of Pure O, the purest version of the narcotic Oblivion. Sorrows were forgotten, inhibitions of morality fell silent, leaving a towering carnal appetite flooding Sam’s bones.
A lanky and wiry shadow resembling Jan’Hax reached out from the dark, traveling down the length of her torso and belly with a tongue of pitch-black, familiar yet prickly against Sam’s skin. Her face contorted as the tongue slithered between her thighs, going to work. Before long, an excruciating bliss shuddered through her…
…and jolted Sam awake with a gasp. Her eyes fluttered open. She was lying on her back, staring up at darkness. For a moment, Sam hoped she was still deep in a Pure O blackout.
The fuzzy brain and achy muscles, however, told her otherwise. Judging by her surroundings, she was in some random dwelling on the Star Brigade Living Qu
arters’ third level. Downstairs.
With the Brigade’s roster so small, this level had been vacant for over a year.
Sam had no memory of coming here, getting naked, or whom she had asked to meet here. Memory holes during a blackout, one of Pure O’s caveats.
Sam pushed messy tangles of hair from her face and tried sitting up, but couldn’t. At this point, she finally noticed the uncomfortable weight on her torso, and saw the problem.
Jan’Hax was using Sam’s breasts for pillows, his gangly green body draped across her. In the darkness, she saw he also lacked clothes.
Soooo. That happened. Chunks of patchwork memories began filtering through—calling Jan’Hax to meet here, both Brigadiers taking eye drops of Pure O. The foggier stretch that followed grew clearer, particularly Jan’Hax’s duckbilled face burrowing between her thighs.
Sam grimaced, waiting for the gut punch of guilt, just like with their rendezvous after CT-1’s departure.
She felt nothing…except relief. Why should I feel bad? Maybe it was the Oblivion talking. Or maybe because Sam had known she and Habraum were done even before the actual split.
She twisted right, pushing Jan’Hax off. He slid to the side in a floppy, long-limbed heap. Not caring to linger, Sam climbed to her feet slowly and tiptoed around the dimly lit apartment for her clothes. All she found not belonging to Jan’Hax was a rumpled grey magnezipped hoodie too large for her.
The AeroFleet emblem on the back and lettering across the front indicated its owner, a former AeroFleet pilot. Sam had “borrowed” it months ago after spending more time at his place than her own.
Was that all I wore? Nearby, Jan’Hax began stirring. Her mouth twisted bitterly as she slipped on the hoodie, which reached mid-thigh in length, and scurried away.
Returning to her vacant quarters, Sam’s sole objective was to drown in an ocean of alcohol. Morning was several orvs away, leaving plenty of time.
