Variant Exchange

by Fox J Wilde

  “Why?” Marcus asked. “Why would you put Lena and Vivika through that? Haven’t they suffered enough?”

  “I have all the faith that you can make it work.”

  “...you know this isn’t my style, right?” Marcus raised an eyebrow.

  “In this situation, it has to be.” William said with a note of finality.

  “Very well. You better be thinking this one through.”

  “I am.” William smiled.

  “So, what is left, then? What terms have we to discuss?”

  “I think we’ve covered everything.” William said as he reached over, grabbed the irritating pawn that had so rankled Marcus for years and replaced it back on Marcus’s side. “Let me play my part...then you may have the board.”

  “Are you certain?” Marcus asked seriously. “One last time, are you certain?”

  “This is the best chance we have, my dear friend.” William smiled with admiration. “We’ve finally found the pawn—two, actually. Now is the time to queen them.”

  “If that is your decision,” Marcus replied as he replaced William’s pawn with his taken queen, “I’ll see it through.”

  “See that you do.” William replied, standing up and offering his hand.

  The two stood there, hand clasped in hand, shaking in a genuine substitute for embrace. Neither would admit to it, but they truly hoped one day to forego appearances, to replace the handshake with a hug. “One day,” Marcus thought to himself, “One day.” Then the two turned around and walked back to their respective soldiers to make their way into the night.

  “Archangel on the move.” one of the soldiers whispered into his wrist, and the protective formation wrapped around him.

  “Oh, one more thing!” Marcus called from across the room. “What were you going to be doing with your remaining knight?”

  “Move it into check, of course.” William called back, grinning.

  “Well, then…” Marcus called back as his soldiers led him through the door and into the outside world, “rook takes pawn—checkmate!”

  “I…you…” William thought about it for a second, before punching the side of the barn as hard as he could, and shouting at the top of his lungs, “God damnit, you little prick! I hope it takes you three hours to pee tonight!”

  Epilog

  The morning air was damp with mist and the floor wet with dew as the sun inched higher off the horizon. Long tree-shaped shadows, cast across barely rustling grass, grew shorter by the second as the blues of the distant mountains grew brighter with light. Birds sang, keeping company with the steps of the delegation, as they walked through pass-ways and over paths. Two women and two men marched together, all clad in bland city garb so as not to attract detection. They had one mission. Once complete, many wrongs would be righted. And they would successfully part ways, washing their hands of the future they might have earlier earned.

  The one woman, tall and statuesque, with eyes like a dragon, but covered with cuts, bruises, and walking with a slight limp, seemed the dominant force of the delegation as she led them towards the meeting place. The younger woman, with bruises on her face and injuries unseen walked as far left of the group as her situation would allow. One younger man, also covered with cuts and bruises, walked with a limp far more pronounced than even the tall woman. He was visibly avoiding the younger woman’s glances, as he was far from her friend. This man seemed equally inclined even further from the tall woman than the other—his vile tormentor who hazarded a sadistic grin in his direction.

  The only other companion, a young man with wan, prison-tinted skin and hollow eyes, seemed oblivious to the unspoken exchange of hatred that filled the air about him. He knew nothing of his future—only that it wasn’t his past. Had his past been a more amiable thing, he might have viewed the future with more excitement than trepidation; what with the promise of freedom filling his chest the way a good meal might soon fill his belly. Yet after months on end of hearing the tortured screams of his fellow prisoners, he had learned the hard way: nothing was ever as it seemed, and trust was a fool’s game. Best to plan for the worst and stave off the feelings of pleasant surprise if, in the place of the stick, a nice fat carrot sat begging to be eaten. Such rewards were soaked in poison, and fat only with agenda.

  As the old barn came into view, so too did the opposing delegation, clad equally in bland city attire. An older man with a demeanor of leadership, a younger man equal parts cheek and focus, and a younger woman who looked like she would be far better served in a studded-leather jacket than the drab trench coat she wore. City attire didn’t suit this one and her unpredictability. Yet, so few things seemed suitable or predictable anymore. This was the new way and the new reality—the only path forward that didn’t lead to a mass casualty of personhood.

  Hans Schmidt?” the older man shouted.

  Yes sir!” the pale boy called back in a strong, yet ragged voice.

  Vivika?” he called out again, and the young woman responded in kind.

  Seeming somewhat left out of the exchange, the other young man in the German delegation felt his new benefactors remiss in their attendance. They were to spend much of the following years together, after all; they may as well let bygones be bygones. It had been arranged by powerful forces. He was protected. He had been assured of it. Grandfather had promised that all rights would be wronged, and the past forgotten—if not entirely forgiven.

  “Ahem,” Patrick said, as he drew within handshake-distance of the American delegation.

  “I don’t talk to dead men.” Mr. Collins said, ignoring the reaction as he faced the statuesque woman. “Are you the Dragon Lady?”

  “That’s what they call me. But you may call me...”

  “Dragon Lady is just fine. I have no need of your life story. Your reputation precedes you.”

  “And what reputation is that?” she demanded, snidely.

  “Vivika and Hans,” Mr. Collins addressed, ignoring her, “Have you two been treated fairly on the journey?”

  “Yes, Mr. Collins.” Vivika replied awkwardly. She had…but she hadn’t, of course.

  “Yes, Sir.” Hans replied. “I’m sorry I failed you.”

  “There’s time enough to figure all of that nasty business out.” he replied. “For now, let’s consider our accounts settled, you and I. We’ll get you a nice meal with some beer and a good night’s sleep. Then we can discuss your bright future with us.”

  Despite his dismal countenance, the boy brightened measurably.

  “Matt,” Mr. Collins continued, turning to his younger companion, “I trust that you know your own way into the bowels of the GDR, and whom you are to be introduced to?”

  “Yes, Sir. I do.” he responded. “Shall I make my way there?”

  “I am to escort him...” Dragon Lady attempted, before being cut off by Mr. Collins.

  “I think my agent is more than capable of seeing this through.”

  Casually, so as not to provoke a hurried response, Matt and Mr. Collins reached into their waistbands, before drawing two suppressed pistols. Matt levied his pistol towards the surprised face of Patrick, while Mr. Collins pointed his at Dragon Lady. She made a face that almost seemed to border on surprise.

  “Matt,” Mr. Collins said, “Please inform the dead man that justice will be done on his behalf.”

  “Patrick,” Matt began, “You’re...”

  “I fucking heard him!” Patrick seethed. He knew very well where this was going.

  A loud pop, like the sound of an air compressor off-valving, echoed off of the walls of the nearby barn as Dragon Lady’s head snapped back forcefully. She hit the ground like a sack of dry meat, and not a word was spoken in her defense. Yet Mr. Collins did not appear satisfied, yet.

  Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

  Round after round was squeezed into her twitching corpse until his magazine wa
s emptied. This magazine was dropped, only to be instantaneously replaced by another quickly emptying one.

  Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

  The rounds fired faster this time, causing her to dance near-comically before the horrified spectators—all but Patrick, who stared with wretched approval. Blood poured out onto the ground below her punctured body, with her face twisted in the only appropriate emotion anyone had ever seen on it. It looked like she had just received a new car for her birthday; but anyone that knew her knew it was as close to the feeling of betrayal that her kind would ever feel.

  “Is your account settled?” Mr. Collins asked, turning to Patrick.

  “Yes…yes, Sir. Yes Sir, it is.” Patrick said acidly, with his eyes glistening. “But before you...”

  Pop!

  The same sound of an air-compressor off-valving echoed off of the wall of the barn again, as Matt pulled the trigger. Patrick’s head snapped-back sickeningly quick as his face struggled to grasp the violence of hydrostatic shock. By the time his body hit the ground, the bullet had bounced around in his skull a thousand times, but he likely didn’t even comprehend the first. Fully satisfied, Matt holstered his pistol as Mr. Collins turned to Vivika.

  “Is your account settled?” he asked her.

  “Almost.” she said, staring hatefully at the corpse. The look of gratification was plainly displayed on her face as she stared—not even the slightest hint of forgiveness was anywhere to be seen. She savored a few extra seconds, with no one in the vicinity making a sound. After the moment seemed complete, however, she turned slowly, sighing to herself. Methodically, she walked over to Matt York who began shifting uncomfortably. Step after step brought her closer, with the newfound, reddish hues on his face darkening, until the two stood mere inches from each other. For awkward seconds, the two stared at each other. Hundreds, if not thousands of emotions passed between them, with very few possessing a positive bouquet. Yet the emotions were complicated enough—a casual passerby might chance to see the look of forgiveness, if not forgetting wrought on the face of the woman.

  “Matt?”

  “Yes Vivika?” Matt responding, swallowing.

  “You’re an idiot.”

  “I know I am.”

  With that, the young woman stood up on her tippy-toes and kissed him lightly on his cheek. Not sparing even the slightest second more on him or whatever emotions he may have felt in response, she turned on her heels and walked back to the corpse of Patrick. The young woman hovered over him, staring right down at his face. She sucked air in violently, welling up as much saliva as possible in the back of her throat. Then, with a complete lack of pomp and circumstance, she spat a very unladylike loogie directly into his eye.

  “Now.” she said firmly, standing to look at Mr. Collins, “Now my account is settled.”

  “Good.” he responded as if nothing out of the ordinary had transpired. “Now that that’s all settled, let’s get to it. We’ve a long walk ahead of us.”

  With that, they parted ways, with Matt going one direction, and the remainder of the group walking in the opposite. The sun continued to rise inches off the horizon, with the shadows shorter for the onset of late-morning. The crispness remained, and the dew still clung to blades of grass as if daring the sun to penetrate the chill more than it already had. Yet one could taste the varied amounts of warmth on the wind, as the currents meandered about in tufts and breezes that felt pleasant on the faces of the travelers. These faces all bore smiles at the promise of adventure to come, yet not a word slipped through. No words need be said, after all, nor any more observations described.

  Except for noting, perhaps, a pair of binoculars gripped in the wizened mitts of an elderly case officer far off in the distance, nodding at the appropriate end to the story. He didn’t smile, but he approved all the same.

  Dear Reader

  I wish to extend a heartfelt thank you for giving my writing a shot. This has been a hell of a process! This book has taken hundreds of hours of studying and interviewing, and the following books (one of which is currently being written!) have already required far more. I strive to put everything I have into doing something fresh and new by breathing real life and genuine complexity into the final products. It’s how I ensure that I’m earning your money.

  I don’t accept donations or offer subscription services, and I never will. I don’t look down on my fellow artists that do; rather, I cheer their successes and wish them the best. But in order for me to know that my art is truly worth it in your eyes, I want every penny you spend on me to have gone towards a product you can put on a shelf.

  So with that said, if you genuinely enjoyed my humble offering, would you do me a huge favor and rate my book on Amazon?

  For those who wish to know, there are some folks out there in the authoring business that market books by giving self-published authors like myself bad ratings in order to game the system. By you giving me a fair rating, it will go a long way to combating these sorts of nefarious tactics.

  Thank you, and much love!

  —Fox J. Wilde

  www.foxjwilde.com