by Justin Bell
An ornate lace brimmed hat tips down over her head, covering her face in shadow, but even in a brief glimpse I can see that something is wrong with her eyes. They’re a strange milky white, pupils tiny and floating in a vast pond like rafts with no clear destination.
“My name is Viktosh,” she says to me as her hand presses my lower back and guides me inside. The warm yellow light of a fuel lamp greets me. The house is sparsely furnished with only a scattering of places to sit, no screen, and no modern appliances that I can see.
Luxen walks up behind me with the long barreled weapon he used to shoot those two beasts held in the crook of his arm. As he steps into the room, he eases the door shut behind him and latches it, his yellow eyes snapping back and forth, scanning the room and lingering on me.
“I’m Brie,” I reply to the elderly Bragdon woman, respectfully.
“Brie. That’s a lovely name,” she says, taking a step towards me. She extends her gray hand and touches my face with all four fingers in a gentle caress. Lizard hands touching me would normally creep me the heck out, but it’s tough to get squirrelly about this cute old lady. She reminds me of my grandmother, doting on me buying me cute frilly things to wear in spite of my angry father’s wishes.
“Thanks,” I reply.
“You have noble features, my dear. You come from pure blood. Royalty?”
I glance over towards Luxen and he smirks, almost looking embarrassed. He shrugs his narrow shoulders and leans over, setting his weapon down in a nearby corner by the front door.
“I’m from Athelon,” I reply. “Yes it is a noble family, but it’s an Athelonian one.”
The blind woman closes her eyes, even though keeping them open does her no good. “Is that so?” She pats my left arm and nods. “Interesting.”
What the heck does that mean? Interesting?
Viktosh turns away and hobbles towards a torn couch that looks flat and hard. It is a very plain, functional seat with no throw cushions and no floral print.It reminds me of Athelon in a way, with everything put together for function and with no real concern for form or design. No one seems to care about beauty. On Athelon, the work is most important. If something in the home doesn't support the work, there is simply no place for it.
I love beautiful colors and shapes. One more thing separates me from my family. That work ethic thing . . . I can't get my head around it. I'd like to think most teenagers have that issue, though on Athelon I stand out a bit, even among my friends. Countless times I'm told that I look different on the outside,which is true enough, but even more importantly, I feel different on the inside, like I'm not assembled in quite the same way.
“You were born on Athelon?” Viktosh asks from the couch, lifting her head as if looking at me, even though I know she can’t see.
I nod for a moment before realizing I’m being stupid, then speak out loud. “Yes, I was.” My voice is harsh and brittle, a sharpened edge to it.
“It’s late,” Luxen says, stepping close. “We have a guest room. Down the hall. You should sleep.”
My eyes follow his hand and I see the narrow hallway leading to a small door. Nodding, I pull apart and walk towards whatever might pass for a bed in this civilization. I hope it’s softer than a curved rock.
He leads me down towards the bedroom and once we get a few steps down the hall, I turn towards him.
“Luxen, can I ask you something?”
“Yeah,” he replies.
“Is... is there a launch pad around here anywhere? Any sort of jump ship port?”
His eyes narrow as he looks at me, then they flick away and he turns to look back down the hall towards his living room.
“Why?” he asks, turning back to face me. “Are you in trouble?”
“I’m from Athelon,” I say. “In the middle of a Braxis swamp. Isn’t that kind of assumed?”
“What sort of trouble?” he asks.
“Wish I knew.”
Luxen doesn’t like that answer, I can tell, but he doesn’t keep pressing. “There’s a shuttle service from the surface to Moon Two about two bog lengths from here. Short range jump ships, probably not a lot of security.”
How far is a bog length for crying out loud?
“Thank you,” I say instead. “Where is it? Is that close by?”
“We can talk about it in the morning,” Luxen whispers, his eyes still darting. “You should go to bed. We’ll deal with everything else then, okay?”
“Please, Luxen,” I say, trying not to sound too beggy, but coming pretty close to the line. “I need to get off planet. To get back home.”
He nods. “Okay. Tomorrow. It’s too late now anyway, there will be Horaks all over the place.”
Here I am stranded in the middle of a strange planet with wet air that I can barely breathe, surrounded by stinky swamp water and mad mud demons, and this kid won't tell me where the nearest stupid ship is. I think I may scream!
“All right,” I force myself to say through clenched lips. “All right. Tomorrow.”
He nods, his yellow eyes still darting, then steps away as I retreat into the dark room, quite certain I will not sleep a single minute tonight.
AM I ASLEEP?
I can’t tell, but I must be. In the darkness I see the inside of the shuttle taking me and my friends to generational school. Everything seems normal. The spacecraft hums through the atmosphere, heading towards the moon that houses the school which instructs Athelonians in how they can focus their lives in labor; how they can use their skills to work hard, not for status or personal gain, but for the sake of working hard.
My friend stands by my side, and my fingers touch her arm. For a moment her arm shimmers from flesh to green, then mottled gray. I whip my head up and her snapping yellow eyes shift back to the warm blue eyes I recognize.
There are dark corners everywhere. That's where the Bragdons are. There are four of them there, bunched together, beckoning me to come closer, and asking me if I'm ready.
Ready? Ready for what?
I’m not ready for anything.
They draw me in, trying to convince me that it's time, but time for what? I have no idea. I push back. The shuttle continues its trek.
I'm running. Purple plasma is chasing me. Fire is surrounding me. The shuttle is burning and alarms are sounding. I see my friend, but then she's not my friend. She's a Bragdon, but then she's my friend again.
Squeezing myself into the jettison pod, reptiles chase me, but I slam the door in their face and punch the launch button.
Everything is fire.
THE FIRST THING THAT comes to mind when I feel the deep slamming in the back of my head is well, what do you know? I did fall asleep.
Through a thick cloud of slumber I glance over towards the door to the bedroom, and I still hear the pounding on the other side, a furious rapid hammering of fists.
“Brie!” a shrill voice echoes from the other side. “Brie! Get up! They’re here!”
“Who’s here?” I mumble as I roll over, groping to figure out how to get out of this uncomfortable hunk of weird tree that I passed out cold in last night. I must have been more tired than I thought.
“Bragdon Enforcers! They’re coming this way on their swamp skids. Moving fast!”
“The heck are swamp skids?” I ask as I swing my legs out of bed and reach around in the darkness for those cool boots I stole from the dead guy.
‘How was your first day at school, Brie?’
‘Great, stole some boots from a dead guy.’
What am I even doing?
My fingers touch the cool rubber surface and I retrieve the footwear, sliding them over my feet, feeling them suction against my lower legs, then I’m up and running towards the bedroom door.
I swing it open and Luxen steps back in surprise.
“Where are they?” I ask.
He stuffs a clenched fist at me, a folded piece of parchment pinched inside. “Take this!” he hisses at me. “The space port!”
I place a
hand against his slick arm and take the parchment with my other hand, stuffing it into the pocket of my jumpsuit.
“Thank you, Luxen,” I say. “Thank you.”
More rapid fire slamming echoes in the small house, this time from the front door. “Security!” the gravel voice barrels from outside. “Open the door!”
“I’ll lead them away!” I say as I charge forward down the hall.
“Brie, don’t!” he shouts after me, but I’m not listening. There’s no other option. I’m not going to let this family get hurt because they tried to help me. I duck low and dash past the front door. I swing around and push my back against the wall, then reach out my fingers out to loop them around the handle of the door.
Did it open in or out?
With a tug, the door does open, swinging inside, and I move, because in this new world where I'm some weird super spy, that's what I do. The two Bragdons don't expect to see me and freeze for a moment, leaving their weapons sheathed. I slam a foot into the stomach of one Enforcer, sending him crashing back down the steps. The second Enforcer steps forward, reaching for his holster. As he pull out a strange, sleek pistol, I lash out with my left hand, follow up with a second strike, and spin the gun up into the air. I step into him, lock my leg behind him, and swing my arm back up in a tight circle, drilling him underneath his lizard chin. His feet leave the steps as he slams backwards, flips head-over-heels, and lands face-first.
In three seconds I've knocked out two well-trained Bragdon Enforcers. That's going on the resume. You know, when I graduate generational school and try to get a job. If I can ever get there without my shuttle exploding.
“Look out!” comes the scream behind me. It has that odd combination of gravel and frail old age. As I start to turn, I already feel the narrow body of Viktosh striking me in the back, knocking me to the floor. The blinding flash of light and acrid smell of fired plasma seems too close, far too close, and I glance left seeing another Bragdon operative moving in from my blind spot, his pistol smoldering.
“No!” comes the shout behind me this time, and I turn again, my breath catching in my throat.
Luxen lurches towards his mother, the old blind Bragdon woman who couldn't hurt a fly. A thick fist of smoke extends from the chest of her frilly dress. Her blank eyes are wide and her mouth gaping as Luxen catches her and gently lowers her to the floor.
She saved my life. She pushed me out of the way and took the laser shot from the Bragdon I didn’t see.
He turns towards me, leveling his weapon, but I leap toward him from the porch, my mouth splitting open into a snarl. He fires another shot just as I land on him, but it soars off into the night. I jump to my feet, jerk the Enforcer up by the front of his uniform, and use the momentum to slam him into one of the pylons supporting the house. My fingers clutch the fabric to keep hold of him as I lift his head away from the pylon then drill it back again. A third time, I repeat this horrific motion, then a fourth.
“Stop it!” Luxen shouts from inside. I look over and see him kneeling over his mother, her arm splayed beside her and her mouth agape, long pink tongue dangling out.
“You need to go. Now,” he whispers, though he’s looking at the prone form of his mother, not even looking me in the eye. “She gave herself up for you,” he continues. “Don’t waste it.”
I glance out over the swamp water and see approaching blobs of light, close to the ground. I kneel, scooping up the pistol from wet mud, then stuff it into my waistband. Back in the house one last time I see Luxen lurking over Viktosh, not speaking, not even seeming to believe what he’s witnessing. Luxen has his arms around her, but pulls one free and waves me off.
“Go!” he shouts, mouthing the words.
I nod, but don’t reply, realizing that any response would be insignificant. At the corner of the structure I see a small, sleek vehicle with a contoured nose, embedded seat, and four thrusters, two on each side. To my left, the incoming lights are bobbing faster and closer. I pick up speed, throw myself into the air, twist, and land on the seat of what can only be the swamp skid Luxen mentioned. It sinks into the mud from the impact. I wrap my fingers around the twin handles, torque them towards me, and fire up the quad thruster engines which sputter, rev, and whir as the small vehicle surges upwards, nose first.
Leaning forward to balance the vehicle, I twist again, and the skid leaps forward, accelerating, a wake of mud splitting behind me as I race forward, leaning down low to the seat. Out of the corner of my eye I see the floating blobs shift and twist towards me, falling into pursuit formation. I wonder if these things have weapons?
An orange streak screams by to my left, carving a trench of muck next to my two left thrusters, which answers that question in spades.
The wet wind beats at me as I continue, controlling the craft with one hand as I reach into my jumpsuit pocket with the other, pulling out the crumpled parchment. I unfold it in my teeth as I lie low to the seat, a second orange spear zipping above my head, smelling of ozone and plasma. On the paper is a roughly drawn map with a square marked with a circle which I imagine signifies the house that I left. Towards the horizon another square stretches out, four separate squares, in the shape of a cluster of buildings, and a line connecting the two proclaims the words “two bog lengths”.
Helpful.
But at least I know I’m going in the right direction.
Two more swift streaks of orange slam past me. I twist, hauling the skid to the right, but when I lean too far, the thrusters dig into mud and choke. I lurch forward, almost flipping over the handlebars. I correct by leaning left, kick the swamp skid back flat, and head forward once again.
I glance over my shoulder at the two other skids following close behind. Another laser blast from the nose of the leading skid glances off the left flank of my vehicle, shoving it roughly to the right and turning it sideways.
As I decelerate, I slide the pistol from my waist band, point the weapon towards the nearest swamp skid, and fire four times. The skid jerks, dips, and plunges nose first into the thick mud. The rider catapults as the skid flips end-over-end, leaving behind metal debris with each impact. Throttling my skid, I take off, veering right back on track as the second skid cruises close behind me, trying to course correct and head me off.
Up ahead I can see tall posts casting a vague white light down on what looks to be a metal grid fence protecting something concealed within... it must be the space port I’m looking for.
Apparently two bog lengths is a really short distance. Learn something new every day.
To my right, the other skid catches up and matches my pace, leaping over rocks, dipping close enough to spray me with mud, and skipping away again to press onward.
Crossing my arm over my chest I fire twice more, but the Enforcer brakes, falls back, and returns fire. One shot smashes into the nose of the swamp skid throwing me at a slight angle. As I work to bring the skid back in line, his second shot punches into my right leg. It sears my flesh like a hot, pointed stick.
I hold back my scream, instead biting down on my lip so hard I taste blood. I almost lose control of the swamp skid. It dips forward and the laser pistol flies from my hand, vanishing into the night.
As I regain control, I press the palm of my hand to the wound on my leg, and I'm relieved that it's not bleeding. The hot plasma cauterized the wound, leaving me with a dull, throbbing ache, but no gushing blood. I guess that’s a good thing?
My right leg is numb, and I’m having trouble controlling the throttle as the skid comes at me from an angle and moves to cut me off. He’s a better driver than I am, far better, and it looks like I’m outmaneuvered.
But I’ve got one advantage.
I have no idea what the heck I’m doing.
With my shoulders leaning right, I twist the control sticks, sending the swamp skid into a tight right hand turn. It digs down into the mud and swerves into the path of the other vehicle. I can only imagine the expression on his face hidden under the helmet.
&
nbsp; He pounds on the brakes, and the nose of his skid dives, burying itself deeper in the mud as the vehicle continues forward. He hits my skid broadside, pushing me left, but his craft jerks upward. The rear end shoots towards the sky and ejects the rider in a lazy sprawl. He crashes down into the muck on the other side of my vehicle. The second skid settles down into the swamp, sinking inch by inch, as brown water creeps up the sides, tugging it towards its demise.
I glance over at the Bragdon, trying to climb to his feet and snap off a clearly Athelonian salute, then rev the throttle and send the swamp skid hurtling forward towards the space port ahead.
Chapter Seven
The pattern doesn’t make sense at first, thick woven metal in some strange cross hatch crawling up into the night time sky. Thick muck tugs at the bottom of the metal, burying it deep, swarming in between the gaps of thatched grid work, holding the fence tall and firm.
To the right I ease the clunking swamp skid to a stop, the engine stuttering, trying to recover from the small collision that saved my bacon. Better the swamp skid than me although I’ve got a bum skid myself.
I swing my right leg off of the narrow seat and crouch in the mud behind the vehicle, favoring that leg. Pain still resonates throughout the thigh muscle like a deep and angry bone bruise. It feels as if a knife has been stabbed deep in my muscle and broken off, leaving the jagged blade embedded inside.
My pistol is gone, my ride is almost shot, and these fences look at least two stories tall, with no easy access. There's no way I'm scaling it with this bum wheel. Ignoring the pain in my leg, I duck-walk towards the fence. Staying close to the fence, I move forward, step by cautious step.
Up ahead, I see a pair of towers that stand even taller than the fence itself. Shadowy figure behind squares of glass indicate the presence of guards. Search lights mounted on the top drift across the ground a good distance ahead of where I am. Have I already found a gate?
One of the search lights swivels, scanning the mud to my right. My heart lodges in my throat as I look back and see the abandoned swamp skid sitting right in its path. If they see that . . .
