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.
