41 Epilogue: Book 2

Father Philippe heard the great doors creak open from his office and went to see who would come to visit the church on a Tuesday morning.  A small crowd stood in the Narthex, blinking in the relative darkness after the brilliant bright day outside.  They were well dressed and similarly but yet struck Father Philippe as an odd mix.  There was a massive, striped, regal looking fellow with a tiny woman who reminded him of a nun, and a child gazing in wonder at the cathedral like it was the first time she had ever been in one; who was tenderly leading a terribly scarred, blind man.

“Grace and Peace,” he greeted them, “I am Father Philippe, rector here, how may I be of service to you?  Did I hear one of you say something about tomes and books?”

“A tomb with books is what my companion said,” the great big fellow indicted the blind man with a wry smile.

“Oh, well, we have many fine examples of both here, what were you hoping to find?”

“A description of the smell,” the blind man said.

“Ah, not a fan of churches, I’d wager.”

“Wouldn’t have taken you for a gambling man, Padre.”

“A sure thing isn’t gambling though, is it?”

“Oh, I like him.  He’s quick. My name is Ch’Byartha,” The man stuck out a gnarled paw that was short a few fingers.  Philippe shook it warmly with both hands. 

“I’m going to assume that’s not the name your parents gave you, Son of Failure?”

“It is the name they would have given had they been more honest with themselves.”

“I see, and who is your lovely assistant?”

“This,” the man said with some relish, like a father with great pride and affection for his only child, though clearly she was not his by birth, “is Akondro.”  She timidly gave her hand and Philippe asked, “Did he name you?” leaning his head to indicate Ch’Byartha.  She nodded.  “I thought as much.  Welcome child.  I hope you come to love the church and your time in them more than your warden here.”

“Who is the warden and who is the ward when one must needs be led by the hand like a child by a child?  Yahweh has done much to humble me these last few years; i assure you Father, my feelings for the community of God are much more malleable than in my youth.”  The large one cleared his throat.  “So.  The furry wall there is Amisbhake,” Ch’Byartha continued the introductions, “Lord High Counselor to Chofa the Mysteriously Hard to Locate These Days,” Philippe shook his paw, which enveloped his own, “Charmed,” the great man rumbled.  “And her dispassionateness is none other than Ch’loi, Ambassador of the Kingdom of the Dawn.”

“Ah, so… OH!  It is you!  You’ve come!”

“Well, you did send for us.”

“Please forgive me for not knowing you straight away, I had no idea what to expect!  Thank you ever so much for coming!  Please, follow me.”  He led them outside and to the adjacent building next door.  “I am so thankful you have come.  They just started showing up here soon after the Union nuked Aedlin.  I didn’t know what to do!  I know what society would have me do.  I know what our neighbors would tell me to do but i could not bring myself to do it, you see.  They are living, thinking beings no matter their appearance or… diet”  They went through a door and began descending some old steps cut directly into the stone.  “They obviously wanted help and chose me, they came to me directly you see.  Not to cause harm or mischief but just an insistent but wordless plea for help.”

“How do you know that?”

Father Philippe laughed, “Because I am not dead!  If they were behaving in the way we have come to expect from them, I would be a raisin and the Union would be nuking Zanzibar!  Jael came first.  Just stood in the doorway one night when the church was empty.  I had no way of communicating with her you understand but my compassion was touched by them all the same.  I found something for her to eat and she left.  The next night she came again.  The following night, she brought Hagar with her.  The next night Ruth and so on.  They are in such obvious need!  I had to help them, I am compelled by grace to help them!  So I have hid them here and fed them but this can not go on indefinitely!  I have to send them on or they will be discovered.”  He reached the bottom of the stairs and turned, “Now, they are a little…disconcerting, I feel I would be remiss if I did not try to warn you about their appearance and what it’s like being so near them….”

Ch’Byartha put a hand on his shoulder.  “Trust us, Father, we know.”

“I do not know how that could be.  I have worked with starving communities, communities ravaged by war and plague and nothing, rien, has ever prepared me for this!”

“Preaching to the choir.”

He looked at each of them, shrugged, “Alright, if you’re sure?”

“We are.”

“Alright,” he unlocked the door, “that’s not to keep them in, you understand, I doubt I could even if I wanted to.  It is to keep others from accidentally stumbling upon them.  It is for their protection.”  He pushed it open and called into the darkness, “Rahab, Ruth, Jael, Hagar… visitors to see you.  He took a lamp from the wall and lit it.  Spindly shadows like giant spiders lowered themselves from the ceiling, raised up from the corners and came forward in a shy huddle of rags and clicking eye shutters.

“You named them?”  

“I could not very well ask them their own names, so yes.”

“They’re all women’s names.”

“Something about them struck me as feminine, yes.”

“You celibate, Father?” Ch’Byartha asked.

“Oui.”

“Figured.”

Philippe was going to ask what he meant but Jael, always first, came forward but not to Philippe.  She went straight to and stood before Ch’loi, her posture erect but not defiant.  As if she were presenting herself before a superior.  She did some sort of pantomime and Ch’loi made a hand gesture in return.  “You understand her?”

“Yes.”

“You..know her?”

“One has met before, yes.  What does the Reverend call this one?”

“Jael.”

“The wife of Heber, who drove the stake through Sisera.”

“Yes, but I was not thinking of that specifically, more searching Scripture for names of women associated with the people of God but not actually of them.”

“It is appropriate.”

Father Philippe did not know what she meant by that and she did not offer to explain.  What he asked instead is what was truly on his heart, “Can you.. will you help them?”

Ch’loi looked at him, her face was unreadable, stoic as stone, dour, the rigid mask of a woman who had known much heartbreak and little to no joy in her life.  But her eyes now were fierce and bright as if something inside was waking up and though her voice was small, quiet, meek, Philippe would have said it spoke with iron, “It is One’s Purpose.”

40: The Reunion Begins

Conscious thought was a novel new country.  Ch’Byartha had existed, barely, for some time now—part of the nature of which was not knowing how time passed within its borders—in a semi-dreamlike state, drifting in and out of bizarre worlds of pain and fear.  He knew not which parts were real, which were complete fantasy and which were a terrible bleeding together of both.  Fever dreams filled with monsters and misery and a pressing need to tell people dreadfully important things he could not remember.  It frustrated him to desperation  This aching need to communicate vital things, life changing things, life saving things his mind was convinced it knew yet never found opportunity to express, or indeed, even remember exactly what they were.  All it could remember was the terrible pressing urge to convey them.  

And now he was awake, aware of reality, such as it was, and the feeling bled away like the shadows of night before a sunny Spring morning in the Western Savannah.  Or was it only wearing a mask now?  Had it disguised itself as a half-forgotten dream?  Was he forgetting something?  Did he care?  The sun was warm on his face, he could hear countless birds.  The oxcart he rode in was not terribly bumpy as the highways here were smooth and well made.  His pain was moderate but familiar.  The child had lived, they had escaped Aedlin as he promised.  The fact that it was by no feat of his did not distress him.  He had never truly known how they were going to get out.  The world was as pleasant as it could be, and he was quite inclined to enjoy its hospitality.  

“And din Ch’loi busted you outta box and din she busted up the Army guy and din we hid inna bottom of a wagon dat hadda secret closet!  And din we hid inna house with dese nice people only dey wasn’t so nice afta dere baby died and dey left us to rot inna city!”  The child was filling in some of his blanks, in her way.

“Seems I missed a great deal of adventure and derring do,” Ch’Byartha lamented.

“You was dere,” she told him.

“In body, yes, love, my mind and spirit however were off wandering and wondering where my body had gotten to.”

“Ch’loi carried you.”

“She did, didn’t she.  One wonders why she would go through so much trouble for a simple guide she had found so easy to leave behind before.”  He deliberately baited these conversational hooks every hour or so, so far, no bites.  The child didn’t seem to mind them but for all of the response he got from Ch’loi, she might as well not be on the wagon with them.

The driver, a man named Mowosa, said, “Over that rise then, mistress.  T’would expect to meet a sentry of a sort before we reach it.”

Sure enough, not long after a distant voice hailed them, “That’s far enough then!”  To Ch’Byartha’s ears, it echoed not just off the surrounding hills but off a nagging, horribly mangled memory.  Mowosa brought his team up, “Ho there, Bezzie.  Ho there Blue,” and the cart stopped.  Noises settled similarly to dust, Ch’Byartha thought.  It took them a moment to clear but eventually there was a silence of sorts.  Since going blind, Ch’Byartha never ceased to be amazed at how many sounds he had never even noticed when sighted.  The silence stretched out.  Then, “Who goes there?” a new voice, “State your intent.”

“That you, Glynn?  It’s Mowosa Beka!  Bringing wares and provisions and passengers from the capital.”  

“Hey Mo!  What kind of passengers?”

“Those seeking an audience with the Saree.”

“Someone is sneaking up behind us,” Ch’Byartha told them.

“Your ears have grown sharp, Mr. Din Allorowro.”

“Or your steps have grown clumsy with age and fatness.  Amis!  I embarrass and shame my vocabulary and wit with my inability to express to you how painfully delightful it is to hear your voice again!  Why aren’t you dead?  Or are we dead?  Was this cart more than just metaphor for the passage into the bosom of the Almighty?  Mowosa, you scoundrel!  Are you Charon?  Why didn’t you tell us you were the ferryman of Styx?”  Ch’Byartha held his weak hands in the air, where massive, powerful ones gripped them with honest affection.  

“You are not dead, O garrulous one,” the deep rumble of Amisbhake’s voice chuckled, “and that surprises me as much as my presence does you, rumors and gossip are all I’ve had of you since we parted and they alone curl my tail and lay my ears flat.”

“Seems then there are tales to tell but that is thirsty work and best done over a hearty meal and something warm to drink!  What are we standing around in the road for like a rafter of turkeys gobbling and gabbling?  Take us to Chofa!  Let’s the reunion begin in earnest!”

“Peace, Kurga, or is it Ch’Byartha now?  There is much to speak of, true, but there is also much to do and I’m afraid the reunion will have to wait.”

“One very much desires to see the Primary,” Ch’loi finally spoke.

“And he very much desires to see you as well, your highness, but he is not here.  As I said, there is much work to be done and he is off about it.  As we shall soon be.  But come, there is time for food.”

“Thank Yah for that!” Ch’Byartha exclaimed.  “Oh, Amis, this is Ch’loi, Ch’loi, this is Amisbhake, he’s the loyal servant and bodyguard you traded for a worthless, zombie people-sucker and then left to die, you might remember.”

Silence.

Amis broke it just before Ch’Byartha exploded in real anger, “And who is this rare desert flower?”  Ch’Byartha, so intent upon his rage and hurt, mentally stumbled over Amis’ question.  Then he finally remember the child.

“Oh!  Oh, my gram would have my knuckles for my rudeness!  Dear child, please forgive me,” he couldn’t yet help emphasizing every word, please, forgive, me!  As if he could teach them to Ch’loi.  “This is the High Counselor of the Court of Chofa the Wise and Benevolent, former master of the Western Pastures, Amisbhake the Muscularity!  Amis, while waiting many a moon on the meager streets of the doomed city of Aedlin for one unworthy friend, Yah gave me a far more charitable one.  We found each other’s company more agreeable than our loneliness and it took much of the bitter edge off of my sojourn there.  But alas and alack, what her dear, departed mother named her none can say, for she has survived by her wit and the grace of Yahweh since weaned.”

“You have no name, child?”

“Nossir.”

“What do people call you?”

“Lotta dings.”

“What do the people who care about you call you?”

“Who dey?”

Ch’Byartha had faced Monotooth, nearly died of fever, lived as a beggar on the streets for months, been tortured and in a coma for he knew not how long and nothing of that cut his soul deeper than this one honest question from the child.  He let go of Amis and reached out and found the young orphan.  Once again he said, “Child, please forgive me!”

This time he meant it.

39: Of Sorts

Brumbow strode his way through the flow of foot traffic at the busy city gate and entered the Servatori gatehouse off to the side.  The buzz and stomp was instantly muffled by the heavy iron door.  Part holding cell, part lounge for the guard, the inside was homey but sparse.  Most of the detachment for this gate seemed to be inside.  Those sitting stood when he entered.

“Watchcaptain,” the Sergeant-at-arms greeted him.

“Alain.  What seems to be the hullabaloo?”  Alain bobbed his head towards a corner of the room and Brumbow noticed the little woman and child sitting next to what appeared to be a very sick panthera.  “Oh.”  The woman looked up at him, “OH!”  Brumbow looked back at Alain.  Alain nodded.  “OH!  Okay.  Um, yeah, it’s good to see you again…your majesty!”

“One is very glad to be..home," Ch'loi said, as if tripping over the last word.

“Ah good, you know.  This could have been very awkward otherwise.”

“Hella awkward as it is,” one of his brother Servatori said.  Brumbow believed his name was D'farah.

“Understatement of the year,” Alain agreed.  “What do we do?”

“We get her the hell out of here is what we do!  How many know she’s here?”  Brumbow asked.

“All of us, Macklin, Boboli and Hiro outside, and about fifty to a hundred people who were in the gate when she was processed.”

“Who are now scattered about the entire city," D'farah added.

“We couldn’t have detained them all.  As soon as we recognized her we just tried to casually direct her in here without drawing any attention,” Alain reported.

“You did good, best thing you could have done.  Did anyone seem to recognize her?”

“Not in any obvious way but who knows?”

“Best to assume they did and by now the palace knows.  Couldn’t have happened on a Sunday when everyone would still have been in bed?  Right?  Or the middle of the night.  Damn.  Alright, we’re just going to have to commandeer an outgoing cart of some sort, hope the driver is a loyalist and sneak them back out that way.  Get them down to Kiriath Arba where maybe they can find a guide.”

“We could escort them,” Alain suggested.

“Too obvious.  We don’t exactly blend in.  An apple cart with a Servatori escort?”

“Reckon not.”

Ch’loi finally spoke.  “One’s guide is in need of medical assistance.”

“Well, at least you’re bringing us the bodies alive this time,” Brumbow said.  “Sorry, that’s in poor taste.  We’ll do what we can, your majesty but time is of the essence and we cannot wait.”

“One does not understand.  It would seem the Servatori are trying to remove one from the city?”

“That’s exactly what we’re trying to do, your majesty.”

“One wishes to see the Primary.”

“That would not be a good idea.”

The sick man stirred and moaned something.

“One objects.  One is very concerned for the health of one’s guide and has brought it here to receive medical treatment.  One feels the Primary would be pleased to see one and do this thing.”

“Yeah, well, one would think so but that’s probably not the case.  So we’re gonna try and smuggle you back out of the city and contact someone who can help.”

“One wishes to see the Primary.”

“I can’t stop you if insist, but I won’t help you either.”

“One wishes to see the Primary.  One wishes to see one’s kin.  One wishes to see Chofa.”

Brumbow looked at Alain.  “Uh..?”

Alain said, “She doesn’t know,” and to Ch’loi, “Your majesty..um..”

At that moment the sick man put out a hand and gripped Ch’loi’s arm, “Been…been…meaning to tell..you, Chofa… isn’t… he isn’t Viceroy anymore.”  Ch'loi stiffened but otherwise did not react.

Brumbow sighed.  “Your majesty, there’s been a coup.  Of sorts.”

38: And Hades Followed After...

They rode in roaring darkness.  There were no windows, no lights in the cargo hold of the Legion machine.  There was only noise and the violent shaking of flight punctuated by sickening drops which left one’s insides feeling more shook than one’s outsides.  It was impossible to know how long.  It was impossible to speak to the child and be heard.  Though the harvester now known as Ch’loi was uncomfortable with touch, one held the child to calm its fears.  It slept now in one’s lap.  The Legion had taken the guide to a different container where they assured one the guide would receive medical attention.

The pitch in the noise changed.  The sickening drop feeling persisted.  The container tipped over.  The child awoke and clutched one.  One gripped the nearest secure point, a pile of crates chained to the floor with one hand and secured the child with the other.  The pitching increased, the noise became a whine, then a shriek and at last, as one thought of prayers to commit one’s spirit to Yahweh, the container leveled again and with one last plunge, slammed down upon something solid.  The noise decreased and finally, blessedly, thankfully stopped.  One welcomed the silence as oppressive as the dark.  Small sounds returned.  Pings.  Clunks.  Metal contracted, settled.  Somewhere outside a weight thumped and thumped and thumped again.  

The motors ground and the rear doors pulled apart and the container opened its maw as light, yellow and white, forced its way around them to burn one’s eyes.  Gradually other colors formed shapes.  The light diminished and a smell reached one’s senses: GRASS!  Moist earth!  Green, a color one had not seen since leaving … the word, ‘home,’ leapt into one’s mind and one’s breathing stopped.  One had involuntarily thought of the Western Paschimi as home.  A place of belonging.  One belonged.  One suddenly longed to return in a way one had not been conscious of before.  The thought was as painful and beautiful as the first ones the Firemaker had placed in one’s head so long ago at the beginning.  One took the child’s hand and led it to the door.

Outside.  Fields.  Hills.  Green.  The Legionnaire known as Major Nakba stood with its hands behind its back.  At its feet, the guide, fresh blankets and an intravenous stand, lay upon a stretcher.  One looked about.  

“Just you and me, Ch’loi.  Soon to be just you,” Major Nakba walked a wide circle around one and the child.

“One is not detaining one further?”

“No, Ch’loi, I’m not.  Frankly, I don’t want to waste another minute on you.”

“What will the Legion do about the impending swarm?”

“That matter has been addressed.”

“In what manner has the Legion addressed the swarm?”

He stopped mid way up the ramp of the Legion vehicle one had just exited.  “In an ultimate and final way.  You know Ch’loi, i’m glad to be rid of you but i’ll be nervous and looking over my shoulder for some time.”

“One does not understand.”

The engines of the machine roared to life again, the Major yelled above them, “The Westvale.  The Caravanserai.  Aedlin.  Everywhere you go, death and slaughter follow.  You are the ultimate kiss of bad luck!  You are the harbinger of Armageddon, Ch’loi!  You are plague!  And I bid you, Good Day!”  He chopped the air with his hand, a angry wave of sorts, a dismissal, but it reminded one of a harvester’s hand signal.  The Legion container leapt up, tilted and flew away like a fat insect, the rear doors still in the process of closing, the one known as Major Nakba still staring at one until it was too small to see.

37: The Worthy Protectors

“His Imperial Majesty, the Lord of Lords, the King of Kings, the Master of all he surveys, and all his servants survey, the bringer of Life, Joy, Hope and Peace to all who kneel before his name, Savoy the Ascendant,” the herald proclaimed.  None of the soldiers knelt.  “Has sent his royal consort and chief steward to examine what business concerns the realm and bring report to his majesty.”  

The herald stepped back and Rizzlethop sloughed forward and addressed the Legionnaire commander.  “Well met, protector of the realm.”  

Rizzlethop knew people’s faces well enough to recognize one biting off the first and maybe the second thing it wanted to say before settling on, “Well met, sir.  What can we do for you today?”

“The Empire and the Emperor himself are always delighted to host their worthy guardians and allies from the far lands beyond the horizon.  When they invited you to stay here, they offered you the choicest lands from among the fertile, abundant holdings of all Aedlin, blessed by the gods.”  The commander’s eyebrow went up at, ‘invited’.  “His majesty gave you and your men your every desire up to half his kingdom.  His majesty put every resource at your disposal.  His majesty made known to you every mystery.  His majesty withheld nothing from his worthy protectors but freely gave as you had need.”  Rizzlethop collected himself.  He stood a few inches less than the Union commander even drawn up to his full height.  He held his tail firmly in check to not give away his agitation.  “Yet, His Majesty finds himself grossly uninformed as to the mystery of this night and day’s activity.”

“Is there a question in there, sir?”

The impudence!  “What is the meaning of this?”

“This?”

Rizzlethop waved his hands taking in the soldiers, the walking machines which lumbered all over the city, the massive trucks which cracked the paving stones, the electric birds, electric bugs, electric horses and mules and dogs which seemed to be everywhere like a plague of locusts and frogs together.  “This!  All of this!”  The commander, Nakba, Rizzlethop reminded himself, looked around as if seeing all of ‘this’ for the first time.

“Maneuvers.”

“Maneuvers.”

“Yes,” the commander said, “maneuvers.”

“This is all some,” Rizzlethop struggled to find the right military jargon, “training…thing?”

“Sure.”

“Sure.”

“Look, your excellency, I’m a busy guy, gotta empire to protect.  If we’re just going to stand here in the street and repeat what each other say…”

“What have you done to our children!?”

“Your..I’m sorry, what?”

“What is happening to our children?”  Rizzlethop rephrased the question and lowered his voice.  There wasn’t much chance of them being overheard by passerby with the soldiers keeping everyone at a distance with their raucous machinery but even royal guards have ears, and families, and those families have mouths which reach other ears…

“I’m afraid I don’t know what your asking.  Please tell me what has happened.”

Rizzlethop stepped back next to the palanquin and listened.  He nodded, stepped forward to prominence again, “Some of our children have taken ill.”

“I fail to see how that’s any doing of ours.”

“It is…an unusual illness.”

“And?”

Rizzlethop was called back to the palanquin.  The commander stepped toward them and he jumped back in the way to head the barbarian off.  “Mummified, commandant protector!  They have been mummified in a single night.”

“Wrapped up?  What are we talking about here?”

A voice, shrill and angry, burst from behind Rizzlethop, he bowed his head and moved to the side.  “Desiccated, O Worthy Protector!  Desiccated in a single night!”

“Savoy the Eminent.  I’m sorry, Ascendant.  I did not realize you had come yourself.  What are you telling me?  How many children?”

“Does it matter?  One is too many!  Especially when that one is the heir!”

“Your heir, was..?”

“Sucked.  Dry.”

Nakba stood very still.  Or at least his feet did not move, which were all Rizzlethop could see of them from his obeisant position.  The silence between them held.  Rizzlethop stole a peek, the commander’s face was grim, dire grim.  The face of one who has seen the first muddy water pulled from the well and knows that the next one or the next after that will pull no water at all, but only sand and cobwebs.

When the commander sprung to life it was jarring and instant like a restarted machine at full throttle.  “I’m deeply sorry, Your Imperial Majesty!  You have my deepest condolences and the condolences of my masters, your servants!  We shall do everything within our power to end this as quickly as possible and will remove our threatening presence from your blessed valley this instant!”  He did something to his helmet, “Ops, give me full command override, now.  Now!  All units, the Sea is Red.  Repeat, the Sea is Red.  Over.  Ops: repeat that command until you have confirmation from everyone…. everyone.”  He took two steps back, bowed, “Your excellency, please know this is being taken care of.  You have nothing to fear.”  He turned on his heel, did not wait for his retinue to fall in with him and boarded one of the now roaring trucks.  They, the walking machines, the electric locusts and the electric frogs all leapt up and flew away in a cloud of dust and engine smog.

Savoy looked around him.  Blinked in the dusty and deafened aftermath.  Looked at Rizzlethop, “Well, what the very hell is going on, Steward?”

36: Sparrows Before Bulls

The command vehicle stopped.

“Major,” his driver said.  

“Yes?”

“Got a sitch up here.”

Nakba looked up at his wall of screens, his eyes climbing to the driver’s and gunner’s viewcams.  There in the early morning light, blocking the armored column like sparrows before bulls, stood a blurry but familiar trio.  He tried to focus the image some but it didn’t get any better.  

“Looks like our girl has decided to come home on her own,” said a radio operator, Nakba couldn’t remember her name.  He fumbled some painkillers out of his vest pouch and washed them down with cold coffee.  “Do we call off the search, Major?”

“Not yet,” he croaked.  His voice lower due to lack of sleep.  Loss of consciousness didn’t count as sleep.  “Let them keep looking.”

“For what?”

“For whatever they find,” he keyed up the column command frequency, “D and D; cordon the area but do not engage and do not pressure the subjects.  Just keep everybody else out and them in…” he toggled off, “..hopefully.”  He watched them watch the soldiers disembark and disperse a moment.  He tried and failed to gauge the threat.  The woman betrayed as much as the sand above a buried scorpion.  The child looked nervous, shifting feet and hiding behind Ch’loi.  The former camp cook was probably another pint away from being a corpse.  “Nothing, absolutely nothing,” he muttered.

“Sir?”

He pulled his helmet on and even cinched it down tight.  He tested the com, “Fourth quarter, game’s on the line.”  The operators gave him a thumb’s up and so he punched the hatch and picked up his bodyguard waiting for him outside.  He added to their numbers as they walked down the line to the lead vehicle, gathering nearly a full platoon before they walked through the forest of legs of the walking-tanks.  Overhead a flock of drones kept long range watch.  In between their orbit and the ground, a swarm of gnat-drones flew in and out in seeming random patterns.  It was all a ridiculously impressive response for one tiny female, a street urchin and dying blind guy.  The platoon fanned out.  Nakba stepped into the ring.  He locked eyes with Ch’loi.

“What?”

She cocked her head, “One has not spoken yet?”

“What-do you want?  i’m busy so make it quick.”

“One desires safe passage for One’s companions and self.”

“Oh, we’re running a taxi service now?”  She said nothing.  “Why would we take you anywhere?”

“One has information the Major requires.”

“Nope, nope.  Nope.  Don’t care anymore.”  He turned to walk away, only a little unsteady.

“One has come to warn the Major.”

He was glad to have a reason to stop.  His body came to a halt but the world swayed a little.  “Warn away.”

“A Swarm is imminent.”

“A swarm?”  He took a deep breath to settle his stomach.

“A-“ but whatever she was about to say was drowned out at that moment by a fanfare of trumpets and a radio operator in Nakba’s headset saying, “Major, there’s a local delegation moving our way from the South.  Picket is asking for orders and rules of engagement.”

“Ah joy.  Tell them to let them through, and then shut the door behind them.  Fire only if fired upon.”  He suppressed a sigh and a desire to lean against something, he was nauseated and his head ached, even with the painkillers but indecision and weakness were nothing to show the enemy or for that matter, his own men.  What to do with Our Lady of Oneness and her mission of mercy?  Couldn’t have them talking to the Grand Poo-bah, Mucky-muck, vizier, whatever these desert vermin called their chief.  Corrupt, is what they should call them.  Whatever he wanted, he didn’t need his attention split between them or the Mucky-muck finding a new ally.  “You wanna lift?”  She cocked her head.  “A ride.  You want us to take you back to the mainland?”

“One would be grateful.”

“Swell.  Sargent!”

“Sir.”

“Load her Gratefulness and her luggage on carrier three and have your squad keep them company there.”  The man nodded and turned to go, “Oh, Sarge!”

“Sir?”

“They are our guests, you understand?” he held the Sargent’s gaze, Sergeants didn’t become NCO’s by being dumb and oblivious to nuance.  At least he hoped this one hadn’t.

“Sir.”

“That’ll be all then," as they were safely dealt with Nakba caught his first glimpse of what appeared to be a royal procession, bloody palanquin and gold plated honor guard and all.  “Alright, what does this moron want?”

35: The Last Boat Out

A blur of feathers and shadow startled the child.  It swooped over their heads and onto a unlit lamp post.   In fact, no light shone anywhere in this grubby part of the city.  The weird lady made them walk down the middle of the street.  And though it was dark, the child felt horribly exposed.  As though the jackal buzzard were not the only predator sizing them up.  And as soon as she thought this shadows came out of the buildings and stood around them, shadows in the shape of men.

“Is it you?” one of them asked.

“Were it someone else,” the man with them answered.

“We were beginning to doubt you would make it.  Come, the Captain is anxious to be on the move well before dawn.”

“A minute,” the man’s wife stopped her husband and handed him their dead child.  Then she grabbed the weapon from one of the shadow men and pointed it at the lady.

“Laperte!” the husband yelled.  All of the other shadowmen pointed their guns now but no one quite knew where to point them.  The man stood between his wife and the lady.  The lady did not move.  She did not put down Ch’Byartha.  “Laperte!  Don’ do this!”

“Move.”

“Laperte, mon cher’, this is not our way!  This is not what we do!  It will not bring her back!”  He stayed between the gun and the lady, still cradling his baby.

“Her people killed my child!  She said so herself!  I will do this, a life for a life!”

“You of all people!  You are trained to save life, not take it!  It solves nothing!  They are under our care!  The laws..”

“What laws?  What laws?  Laws didn’t save my daughter!  What laws!”  

Their voices echoed.  The shadowmen shifted their feet.  Someone whispered to the man.  The child wanted to run but felt tied to Ch’Byartha.  Would they shoot her?  She knew names now, had seen faces.  She had run the streets long enough to know the underworld killed to protect secrets.   

“Laperte, lower your voice.  Lower the gun.  We must go.  We must not do this now.  We must not draw the attention.  We must leave.  Now.”

The gun did not waver.  The voice did lower, to a menacing whisper, “She does not go.”

“Laperte..”

“She does not go!”

The shoulders slumped, “she does not go, oui.”  The gun lowered, the woman, Laperte, took back the baby.  He turned to the lady, “I am very sorry.”

“One understands.”

“The child and the wounded one stay as well,” Laperte said over her shoulder.

“Bon Dieu!  Laperte, what?”

“They came together.  They brought l’Vampire.  They stay!”

One of the shadowmen said, “Les Consummateurs?”  The shadowmen moved away.  Their weapons focused on the lady, Ch’Byartha and the herself now.

The man sighed.  “Again.  I am sorry.”  They began disappearing back into the shadows.  Their weapons the last things to be seen.  After a while, even the jackal buzzard lifted off and flew away.  They stood alone in the dark until a small sound drew the child to the end of the street.  They were on outer wall of the city, she hadn’t realized till just now.  Between the iron pickets she could just make out a mule team pulling a sandboat away.  She could see nothing more but she knew it was the smugglers’ boat.  The man and the woman and her dead baby escaped on it.  The last boat out.  The last chance to go West.  Before her lay the Sand Sea which could drink a body dry in a week, behind the things that drank babies dry in a night.

She screamed.  She threw punches at the woman.  “Y’coulda stopped dem!  Ya lettem go!”  The woman said nothing.  After a while, the child collapsed against Ch’Byartha’s shrouded body.  He groaned something which almost sounded like words.  “He gunna die.  We gunna die.”

The lady said nothing.  She pulled one of the iron pickets loose and hurled it at the night sky.  A Legion machine fell nearby, skewered like a kabob.  The lady went over and looked at it.  “Those who carry illicit cargos are not the only ones with the means to leave the city.”