Viral Airwaves

by Claudie Arseneault

  “You’re missing Desmond and Lei,” he said.

  This time he expected the blow. Something heavy and metallic smashed against his hip, then the first bat smacked his knees. Vermen collapsed on the cold stone, shock and pain taking the legs from under him. Blood and saliva mixed in his mouth. He wanted to spit but it’d catch in the bag’s tissue. The captain rolled over, trying to ease his breathing despite the throbbing in his side. The ringing in his ear and the roaring waterfall buried the insults they threw at him. He did feel the boots connecting with his legs, then thighs, however, and as pain wracked his muscles Vermen fought to keep still, to keep silent. He refused to give them the pleasure of hearing him scream. He’d die here. They would beat him like a dog and shoot him out of his misery when he was bloodied and battered. What dignity he could retain by taking the blows in silence, he would. He was a captain of the Union army. He did not plead with criminals for mercy.

  “Enough,” a young voice said, the same who’d wanted to remove the bag. “Finish this.”

  This one didn’t approve. Vermen could almost like him for that. Almost.

  As they lifted him back to his feet he tried to turn in the boy’s direction, to get a glimpse through the bag. His head spun, his knees gave out, and he almost fell again. They caught him, made him kneel then pressed the shotgun against the back of his skull and pushed his head down. Too bad he’d never know who he should thank for the small reprieve. Vermen’s throat clamped down, his innards churned. At least he was outside. He tried to picture the landscape below.

  “Captain Hans Vermen, for your crimes against the rebels, we sentence you to death.”

  Klaus would’ve mocked their solemn declaration. He’d had no patience for fakes and despised ceremonies. Vermen shut his eyes. It was better to die his brother’s way. No warning, no ridiculous announcement. Just a man with a gun and the guts to hold your gaze as he pulled the trigger. Vermen took a deep breath. Sharp pain stabbed his side at the movement and he winced. The cold metal against his neck shifted ever so slightly.

  A gunshot rang. A dozen feet behind them. Not in his head.

  “Step back now!”

  Seraphin’s voice whipped the cool air. They all obeyed at once, dropping their weapons. Vermen started breathing again, a huge uncontrolled gulp. His heart hammered against his chest. He dared not move. What if Holt had decided this was a great idea but it should be him holding the gun? It’d still be better than these cowards.

  “What were you thinking? We do not execute prisoners, no matter who the prisoner is. And if it was to happen, ever, it would be my responsibility and I can guarantee he would not be kneeling on the ground, beaten. Now get inside. All of you.”

  “But Seraphin—”

  “I said go!”

  The depth of his anger surprised Vermen. Why did it tick him off so much? Had he not dreamed of doing this very thing? He’d threatened to shoot him in front of the noodle boy and the captain doubted he’d have hesitated. Vermen waited as they shuffled away, ill at ease with the thought Seraphin Holt had just ordered his men not to shoot him. This was backward. It should’ve been Andeal interrupting. Then maybe everything would’ve made sense.

  Once his men were gone Seraphin skipped across the rocks to reach the small platform. Vermen could hear the light steps and swallowed hard as he knelt by his side. He didn’t dare to move. What if it somehow changed Holt’s mind? When the Regarian loosened the bag and removed it, the captain lowered his head, averting his eyes from the sunlight and from the pale, piercing gaze. He should say something, but he could not bring himself to thank him. This was the White Renegade. The man who’d shot his brother.

  “Your men have no discipline.”

  Seraphin answered with a derisive snort, picked up the shotgun then helped Vermen back to his feet. Vermen struggled to stay upright despite the strain in his left knee, the hands tied behind his back, and the sharp pain in his side. Seraphin kept a hand on the captain’s shoulder to help him, and Vermen felt a distinct twinge of disappointment when the other man removed it. That was not a feeling Hans would ever allow to blossom.

  For a long moment, the Regarian studied him in silence, a hand shielding his eyes from the sun. Vermen looked wherever else he could. Not far from his feet, several streams connected into a larger one and the Delgian’s Fall plummeted off Mount Kairn. The summit. They’d brought him to the summit. The land sprawling before him formed a breathtaking vista, nearly enough to take his mind off the relentless scrutiny.

  “Why didn’t you do it?”

  Seraphin’s voice broke the charm. Emotion thickened his Regarian accent. Vermen did not need to ask what ‘it’ was. He forced himself to look back at Holt. Wind buffeted his long white hair about. Vermen’s gaze lingered on the Regarian’s wiry body, magnetized by it. Seraphin’s jaw line was taut and his fingers were clenched around his skeptar. He had no other weapon on him and Vermen realized belatedly that the gunshot interrupting his execution had come from the very weapon that had completed his brother’s. Acrid bile burnt his stomach.

  “Decency, a friend said.” Vermen straightened, ignoring his muscles’ protests at the movement. “One day justice will catch up to you and you’ll pay for your crime. It won’t be by my hands. There are laws. I know my place.”

  “That’s cute.”

  Vermen scowled at the mocking tone. It brought a thin smile to the Regarian’s lips.

  “No, really, I admire your faith in our corrupt system. It speaks volumes of your degree of brainwashing. Andeal must be wrong about you.”

  “How is he?”

  The question burst out before he could control his worried tone. Seraphin let another awkward silence slide by, walked around Vermen and untied his hands. Then he deigned to answer.

  “Feverish and paranoid. Yet somehow he got to his feet earlier, stumbled all the way to our meeting room, and made a desperate and useless plea for your safety.”

  “I don’t think useless is the right word.” Vermen gave a pointed look at the shotgun slung on Seraphin’s shoulder.

  “I never intended to kill you.”

  Another silence. The waterfall’s constant rumble filled the holes in their conversation. Vermen tried to enjoy the sun on his skin. Impossible. Not with Seraphin staring at him, detailing him, measuring him. Not when part of Hans hoped he liked what he saw.. The captain squared his shoulders as much as his wounds would allow. He did not want to appear as vulnerable as he felt.

  “Why not?” he asked.

  Holt had no answer ready for him. His slender fingers brushed against the skeptar’s hilt as he reflected on the question. There was something captivating about his thoughtful expression, as though it broadcasted his every emotion clearly—confusion, anger, relief, hesitation. It shouldn’t be so easy to read, and Hans found himself wishing he could understand every single one.

  “Where to start?” Seraphin said. “I have no need. I owe you for Andeal’s life. More than that, however…You’re not your brother. You didn’t kill my family. Yes, you are responsible for the deaths of fellow rebels but they are not part of my ancestry. I am not beholden to avenging them.”

  “That’s some stupid Regarian logic.”

  “Congratulations, then. You owe your life to some stupid Regarian logic.”

  An amused smile played on Seraphin’s features. Vermen felt an unspoken challenge to continue this banter. He refused to give the Renegade that pleasure.

  “What now?” he asked.

  “Andeal thinks you’ll work for me.”

  “Never. I’m not one of your outlaws.”

  “You’re an outlaw.”

  Vermen clenched his jaw. He’d defied orders to go after Seraphin and they’d labeled him a deserter. They were wrong. He hadn’t betrayed his oath to serve and protect. He only needed time to sort himself out and escape. Before the captain could deny the accusation, however, Seraphin brushed it aside with a dismissive wave of his hand.

  “In truth, you’d be wo
rking for Andeal. Moving crates about, doing manual tasks.”

  “I don’t want to contribute to whatever this is.”

  Seraphin shrugged. “Suit yourself. It’s the only way you’ll get out of that cell, however.”

  That struck a nerve. Vermen hated the cramped little cave. Andeal’s visits might help make it bearable but there was only so much he could do. The daily exercise kept his body in shape but the immobility grated on his mind. He licked his lips, considered the option. It would only be a temporary deal. He could discover more about the rebels, learn to navigate their headquarters, and find a way to escape that did not involve taking Andeal with him. Seraphin tilted his head to the side, studying him, perhaps trying to gauge his reaction.

  “Andeal’s on a short mission. When he returns, he’ll want an answer. Now come.”

  Seraphin signaled for him to follow and headed back into the mountain. Vermen took a first hesitant step, found a way to shift his weight as he walked to diminish some of the strain, then followed the Regarian.

  As the stuffy underground air enclosed Vermen once more, weighing on him, the captain knew then that when his friend returned, he would accept.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Henry opened another pack of instant noodles and threw them into the boiling water. His heart pinched a little. Kinsi might be gone, but eating the grocery stocks without paying felt like thieving anyway. Days of pilfering the edible goods had not diminished the guilt, yet he had to feed himself and there was nothing else left in Ferrea. He could always pay his friend once he saw him.

  He had left the rebels’ hideout the morning after his supper at the summit. He’d trekked all the way back to Ferrea and with every step away from Mount Kairn, his heart lifted. Free at last, he’d told himself. A pleasant breeze drifted through the leaves, caressing his skin. He no longer had to live underground. He could go home and build a life for himself. A tranquil, law-abiding life. Far from his father’s expectations.

  Henry had reached his hometown at sunset and strolled down the main street. His house squatted at the bottom of the hill, motionless and peaceful. Had anything changed while he was gone? It had felt like the village awaited his return, fixed in time. He’d smiled and hurried to his door.

  His broken door. It hung, destroyed by Captain Vermen, exactly how he’d left it. The kitchen, however, hadn’t been left untouched. Henry had stared at the open cupboards and thrown drawers, the stools scattered on the floor among the kitchen wares. The army had stormed his house, looking for its officer. Henry had taken a step back and torn his gaze away—not daring to enter and discover the full extent of the disaster. Besides, nothing remained there for him. Nothing but a message from his father he did not want to hear.

  He’d moved on, climbing the hill’s slope at a determined space. The empty town welcomed him. Every rooftop was black, devoid of the soft green hue emanating from working organic solar panels. Even Paul’s inn no longer produced any electricity. A quick investigation revealed the last three survivors had deserted Ferrea. Only Henry remained behind. He hid in Kinsi’s grocery, reluctant to abandon the quaint streets he’d always walked. Ten days had passed since his return. It had turned out far more difficult to give up on the village than it’d been to quit the rebels. Tia’s garden was in full bloom, he had supplies for a month, and he could relax in Ferrea’s quiet emptiness. Why would he leave?

  Henry turned off the stove and poured his instant noodles into a large bowl. He walked out to sit on the tiny stairs in front of Kinsi’s, ready to enjoy the last sunrays as he ate his dinner. Another peaceful evening, away from Andeal’s insistence and the oppressing weight of rocks above his head.

  His butt cheeks had barely touched the stairs when the low rumble of an engine and voices traveled up the street to him. They came from the south, from his house and the large camping grounds. Henry put down his bowl and stood. He recognized the voices, knew what they were doing. Andeal had finally come for his father’s balloon envelope.

  He should leave the rebels alone. Stay away, hidden in his perfect bubble. Yet Henry’s steps led him straight to Ferrea’s edge and the small road heading to his home. He set one foot in front of another, his body acting without his mind’s consent, until he stood at the top of the hill. A military truck waited before his door, pieces of vegetation stuck in its wheels and windows. Vermen’s car, Henry guessed. They must’ve found it on their way. No one kept watch outside.

  Henry sat down, setting his palms flat against the dusty road to keep his hands from shaking. He wished he’d brought the noodles with him now. Inside, a blue-skinned man unearthed his father’s last message. A man with the strength and will to do what was necessary. Andeal and Maniel were the best choice for this. They’d had Lenz’s trust and love. So why did it feel so wrong to be staying on top of this hill? Where was all his rightful anger at being used? He imagined Andeal removing the note demanding Henry care for the balloon’s envelope and opening the trunk. He couldn’t wrap his mind around the sight. That chest had remained locked for years. How many hours had Henry spent, staring at the mysterious message—the only one left by his father—wondering what was so special about the envelope? Now Andeal would find out. Not Henry.

  He pushed himself off the ground and dusted off his pants. At first he trudged down the hill, but his strides soon lengthened until his feet hit the ground at full speed. He ran to his house, skidding to a stop at his doorstep. His sweaty shirt stuck to his back and his breath had turned into short gasps. He hesitated before entering. A warm bowl of noodles waited for him at Kinsi’s. What he’d find inside his home remained unknown. Another risk. Another mistake, most likely.

  He crossed the threshold anyway, walked straight past the counter and to the shop section of the house. He almost slammed into Joshua, leaning against the closest shelf, whistling to himself as he touched an ugly bruise on his forehead. The man grabbed him just in time to avoid a full collision. His surprise quickly shifted to a large grin.

  “Hey, mate! What are you doing here?”

  Henry hushed him right away. His friend’s voice rang through the rows of old tourist gifts and made him wince.

  “I don’t know.”

  He left a confused Joshua behind and moved to the back store. The boxes had been pushed aside and the trapdoor lay open. Light surged from the basement. Henry set his foot on the first step and was greeted by their familiar creak. A sound that used to be a prelude to hours of silent questions, staring at a tiny bit of paper. Why the envelope? What had his father been up to? Perhaps today, the creaking would prelude answers to those very questions.

  He should run away from them. Turn around and return to his noodles. Leaving the rebels had given him such relief, so why was he here now? Common sense had abandoned him. He needed to know, though. He thought about the Lenz Balloon, about his father’s sacrifice, about how the man behind these things was so different than the one he’d known. He needed his answers. Henry walked down the stairs.

  Andeal sat in the middle of the basement floor, in front of the unopened chest. Relief flooded Henry. He let out a breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding and leaned a moment on the wall. He’d arrived in time, Andeal hadn’t read anything. Henry cleared his throat, as loud as he could. The engineer jumped and turned.

  “Henry?”

  “I’d like to do this. Alone.”

  “Of course!”

  Andeal scrambled to his feet, then winced at the sudden movement. Henry made a mental note to ask about their injuries while the overjoyed engineer stopped to give his forearm a solemn squeeze. Henry waited for his steps to disappear upstairs before approaching the ancient chest. He caressed the worn wood. The flaked blue and gold paint came off at his touch. Regarians passed symbolic tokens from one generation to the next. His family had kept this chest and his father had stored his most precious belongings in it. And in the envelope, he’d apparently hidden his deepest secret. Henry’s hands trembled as he clicked the simple lock and lifted
the lid.

  A waft of musty air choked him. Dust had gathered inside for a decade and Henry took a step back, coughing. During all those years watching over the balloon, he hadn’t dared open the chest. Now he grabbed the envelope and extracted it without ceremony. He spread the smooth fabric, covering as much surface as he could. The balloon was too large for his tiny basement.

  Henry crawled over the envelope on his knees and ran his hands over it. His boots left specks of dirt behind but he continued his tactile search. Stains could be cleaned later. Even so, it seemed wrong to smear the beautiful gold and purple envelope he should be caring for. He was so out of place here, crouched on this balloon, pursuing Lenz Schmitt’s intrigues. Yet somewhere in this sea of fabric was the recording and his last chance at answers.

  His fingers brushed against abnormal sewing lines. Henry stopped everything—moving, breathing, thinking. That was it. That had to be it.

  His heart sped as he traced the small pouch. Henry wiped his sweaty hands and retrieved a pocketknife. He slid the blade under the threads and cut them with caution, careful not to tear the fabric. A glassy disc slid out of the pocket, wrapped in folded papers and protected by an old plastic bag. His name was written on it. The handwriting was the same as his note, the same as Andeal’s bloodied message. Henry took a deep breath and started with the crumpled sheets. The first was an official letter, written with a typewriter. Signed by Galen Clarin, but not sent to his father. This looked like important correspondence. How had Lenz Schmitt acquired it? Henry browsed through the papers. All letters from either Galen Clarin or his brother, General Omar Clarin. Big people from the big circle. The kind of communications you don’t find sewn in a balloon’s envelope, hidden in a basement. Henry set them aside. None of this was addressed to him.