The Recusant Page 4

  “Remember that campsite we found back on Khorsha, L’aurc?” the female Khor’Zon said to the male. They set V’delle on the ground.

  “Which one?” L’aurc asked.

  “Above Inex Lake. You remember.”

  “We knocked that huge boulder into the water,” he said chuckling.

  “And it almost hit me,” she said.

  L’aurc looked around at their new campsite. “Reminds you of home?”

  “Maybe a little,” she said.

  “That was when you told me you were leaving,” he said. “For Yexai.”

  The female prolonged rolling out her bedroll. “Yes. And you tried making a move.”

  “Well, I was young.”

  V’delle finally regurgitated her linen gag. “I like my covers tucked, thanks.”

  L’aurc paid her no attention. Calm lips, a kind brow. The entire left side of his face was stricken with burn marks. Rubbery and pink skin.

  The female removed her cowl and approached V’delle. “And what would you know about tucked covers, little one who spent her entire life in a spaceship?”

  V’delle recognized the face, and suddenly tasted sand. The rotting animal smell of the blighted canal tingled her nose. Green fuzz glazed on water’s surface. Mounds of mildew trash and flowing water. Memories of mysterious bloody Preen’ch with headshots, broken glass, and missing supplies. This was the Khor’Zon who had stolen her gear after the canal three months ago.

  V’delle sat up, her mouth agape. “You . . .”

  “Good to see you again, bug.”

  Three skull shelves fanned down the back of her head. Impure. A gaunt, angular face painted with three white streaks running diagonally. Orange pupils sat under a relaxed brow, giving V’delle mixed impressions. Under her cloak, a rusty metal chestpiece bore a white spray-painted stencil of a minimalistic purebred Khor’Zon head with a broken fin. All three of them wore the symbol, each one their own making.

  “The canal . . .” V’delle repeated, renewed and intrigued. She’d forgotten how rapt she’d been with the idea of a Khor’Zon that killed Preen’ch. A defector.

  “Can you believe it has been three months already?” said the alien, squatting. A growly undertone, as if a second voice spoke simultaneously. “When I saw that white hair, I knew we had to take you. Lightning does not strike again. Is that not the phrase?”

  “Twice, not again,” said L’aurc. “Of course lightning strikes again.”

  “And I suppose beef comes from chickens?” she asked facetiously, an inside jab.

  “One would think after twenty years I could learn what beef actually meant,” L’aurc conceded.

  “What are you?” V’delle asked.

  “You know what we are,” said Maora. “But maybe you are too afraid to say it. That is usually the case with people we have met like you.”

  L’aurc looked at V’delle, waiting for her answer. The third Khor’Zon remained reserved, back to V’delle, preparing his bedroll.

  “Were these people you met scared children?” V’delle asked sarcastically. “You’re obviously defectors.”

  Maora said: “Why are you out here?”

  “Why else would I be out here fighting Preen’ch? That’s a better question for you.”

  “You are the one tied up.”

  “And why’s that?” V’delle quizzed. “You’re not gonna kill me.”

  “Just because I saved you at the canal does not mean I know everything about you; we wanted to make sure you did not kill us if we tried to approach you. Calcitra disguised as Preen’ch—defector Khor’Zon in a war dominated by devout Khor’Zon; it has become a world without discernible sides.”

  “So you disarm me, gag me, and drag me through the mud?”

  “Well, you could be dangerous.”

  “You made me a bed.”

  Maora sighed. “I love banter as much as anyone, but this is not the time. Why are you out here?”

  “Untie me and give me my things,” V’delle said, “and I’ll tell you.”

  “Depends on what you tell me.”

  “Untie her, May,” said the third Khor’Zon. He’d started the fire. Spine to V’delle. His voice deep and articulate, a loftiness carrying a lilt of intellect, but also congenial and socially adept. “If she already knows what we are, there is no point in keeping her tied.”

  Maora shrugged, stepped behind V’delle, and cut the bands.

  “Wow, that was easy,” said V’delle, rubbing her wrists. She marked the area for something to use as a weapon.

  “We are much more generous than our Chalis counterparts,” Maora said.

  “Much nicer, too,” L’aurc added.

  V’delle scoffed.

  Both Maora and L’aurc rounded the fire and took seats across from each other. The three Khor’Zon had left V’delle to herself. It suddenly became colder far from the fire. A nakedness. A lonely, awkward stance.

  “Maora told me about the girl with the white hair,” said the third Khor’Zon, still facing the fire, sitting cross-legged. “And a hint of pink. Just fascinating.” There was something about his voice. About his mannerisms. The way he spoke. The tones. The air of intrigue. V’delle began stalking the circle toward to the empty spot. Leaves crunched; did they echo? “And here we are, out in the middle of nowhere, and who do we find?” V’delle kept moving, keeping her distance. His cowl kept his face shrouded. She stopped when she faced him. He removed his cowl, revealing soft, beige skin. A cerulean patch like a birth mark on his forehead. Under a strong hairless brow, bright red pupils centered in black eyes.

  V’delle’s body visibly tightened. She stepped back. How could he be here? She’d killed him. Shoved his own dagger in his throat. Watched him die against the cottage wall. Was this another apparition? A ghost created by her subconscious? Those red eyes like tracking lasers. But she couldn’t look away. Seen’ai’s voice echoed in her mind, his laughter, his singing.

  Rec’tora!

  “Everything all right?” Maora asked, exchanging concerned glances with her team.

  V’delle charged.

  The Khor’Zon jumped back. Maora caught V’delle and threw her to the ground.

  V’delle panted. Crab legs on the mushy scrub floor. Sweat drizzle masking her face. Seen’ai did not have a blue birthmark. But everything else . . .

  “See?” Maora told her red-eyed companion. “Dangerous.” She looked at V’delle. “What was that about?”

  “You’re surprised?” V’delle snapped, getting up. “You stole our shit at the canal. I don’t care if you’re defectors. It doesn’t make us allies.”

  “The way you looked at me . . .” said Red-Eyes. The altercation was old news. No sign of malice graced him. “Your reaction. You . . . thought I was someone else, did you not?”

  It was harder to look at him this time, knowing he was real.

  “I need my supplies back,” V’delle said.

  “You did think I was someone else,” he continued. He rounded L’aurc. A gentle, curious movement. “And since this is the first time you have seen deserters before, I’m assuming it was . . . a Warlord, perhaps? It could not have been a Khor’Zon from the Chalis, because you saw them every day; they would not give you that reaction, that hesitation. They would not flip a switch inside you like that . . .”

  “I said—”

  “This was someone particular . . . was it not?”

  “Balien . . .” said Maora through crimped lips, “what are you doing?” She looked at L’aurc. “Why does he get like this?” L’aurc rolled his eyes.

  Balien stepped forward. His face had changed. Confidence replaced by hunger.

  “Who do I remind you of?” he asked.

  Her muscles lost their tightness. Focus drifted. She’d been seeing Seen’ai more than ever lately, his bloody visage haunting her dreams, her missions, even during moments of respite—especially during moments of respite. And now this new Khor’Zon with red eyes appeared, strikingly like Seen’ai. V’del
le would never admit to the fear she felt, the fear she once silenced when she stuck Seen’ai’s knife through his throat. But the fear had taken a new form. It latched itself to her brain, feeding off her unstable Unborn mind.

  “Balien,” said Maora. “I know this is important to you, I really do, but it is not the information we came for.”

  “It was a Warlord,” Balien pressed, ignoring Maora.

  V’delle could hear a high buzzing. Those ember pupils emitted it. The dark trees grew darker. They closed around the clearing. Spindled fingers, sharp as knives. Encircling her. Gripping her rib cage. Crushing her.

  “Are you with us?” he asked. He gave his companions a leery look. “What is your name?”

  “Who do you think I saw?” she mumbled.

  Balien observed her. Hesitant eyes. “I believe you saw a Warlord named Seen’ai.”

  “How . . . do you know that?”

  “Because he is my brother.”

  V’delle let the air settle for a second, then felt dizzy. There was no answer to find.

  “You knew Seen’ai?” Maora asked V’delle abruptly. She looked at Balien with wide eyes and said something to him in their language. Breathy. Sharp. A mutual exasperation.

  “Where is he?” Balien asked, his eyes like arms reaching out to V’delle. “Do you know where he is?”

  V’delle’s eyes glazed over. A satisfactory sourness slithered down her tongue to her lips.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I know where he is.”

  Balien looked ready to receive a gift he’d been waiting years to claim. Polite hopefulness of a child.

  “I’ll tell you,” she continued. “When you tell me everything I need to know about your people.”

  “Are you serious?” Maora laughed. “I saved you from drowning. You owe us much more than words.”

  “Saved me?” V’delle said loudly. “You know what your race did to me. Words can’t even come close to describe what you owe me.”

  “Please,” Balien asked, giving Maora a stern look. “We will tell you everything, I do not care. Just tell me where my brother is.”

  “You want to know where your goddamned brother is? He’s a pile of ashes. I burned his body. Right after I stuck his own knife through his throat.”

  Balien blinked. His eyes lost their vitality.

  “He’s dead,” V’delle added.

  Maora struggled to speak. L’aurc lowered his weapon slightly and looked with concern toward Balien.

  “This is over,” V’delle said. “I don’t care what you’re up to. You obviously don’t give a shit about this war anyway. Give me my gear.”

  “Why?” Balien asked sincerely. “Why did you kill him?”

  “Stupidity must run in the family,” she said. “Why do you think I killed him, genius? He was trying to kill me.”

  Balien took a moment to gather his thoughts, stepping away without attention to anyone or anything.

  “Bale . . .” Maora said, trailing after him. She looked back at V’delle, trying to process the information.

  L’aurc didn’t know whom to attend to.

  “We come from an island,” Balien said quietly, his back still turned to V’delle.

  “Balien,” Maora complained. “Stop.”

  “There are thousands of us,” he continued, turning around. “We left the Chalis because the Lo’Zon’s agenda forced us to. We could not agree to it. I left because it was wrong.”

  V’delle acted like she was in deep thought. “So, thousands of you’ve been living on an island for twenty years while they took over. You don’t agree with it, but you didn’t do anything about it. Nice.”

  “Girl,” Balien said, with startling conviction, “I will tell you what you wish to know if you will please tell me more about my brother.”

  “Why haven’t you helped?” V’delle asked. “You call yourselves defectors, but why haven’t we seen you? Why don’t you fight?”

  Balien didn’t seem to expect an answer so quickly. He said: “Because it is not our war.”

  V’delle scoffed. “Really? If you want answers, buddy, you’re gonna have to give me more than that bullshit.”

  “We are neutral,” he said, the first time his eyes showed any darkness, an unforgiving glassiness. “Just like your race, we never asked for this war. So we choose to separate ourselves from it.”

  “Yeah, and I choose to live on a cloud with unlimited peanut butter. You can’t ‘choose to separate yourselves.’”

  “And why not?”

  “Because this is my planet, you idiot. You’re trespassing. You’re living on our property without paying for it. You wanna live here? You gotta earn it.”

  “We have managed for twenty years,” said Balien. “No one seems to mind us.”

  “Awesome,” V’delle said, shaking her head, “so you’re just a bunch of assholes. Great. You know, when we take back my planet, I’m going to come for your little community. And I am going to shove a metal rod up each of your asses.”

  Balien’s jaw clenched, but he eventually smiled. “Maora was right; you are unique.”

  “Where’s my gear?”

  “Wait,” he said. “My brother.”

  “Get me my things, and I’ll tell you.”

  Balien nodded to Maora. She was reluctant but went to rummage through their supplies. L’aurc remained vigilant.

  “What was he like?” Balien asked.

  V’delle rubbed her face and groaned in irritation. “I dunno. Annoying? He had so much blood in his mouth I couldn’t tell you what he was like.”

  “Why was he trying to kill you?”

  V’delle paused to remember. “He was on some demented crusade to kill me. I still couldn’t tell you why he was so obsessed with me. I guess he . . . had to prove something. What a piece of shit.”

  “Obsessed?”

  “He left his Warlord duties in Divask to find me halfway across the country.”

  Balien searched for an answer amongst the canopy. His reserved nature stumped V’delle; she kept waiting for an explosion of emotion. Her bait wasn’t working. The wariness from before diminished. The joy of goading Balien in the death of his brother deteriorated. In the back of her mind, behind all the barriers created from three months of war, lay a believing spirit who wanted reasons, answers, and conclusions about her captors.

  “Is that all?” V’delle asked.

  Maora brought V’delle her pistol, extra ammunition, and pouches.

  “You seem to have some form of resentment toward my brother,” said Balien. “Why was he more than just a Warlord to you?”

  V’delle tried to act unaffected as she told the story of her escape from the Chalis, her betrayal to Seen’ai, and the events that led to his destruction. She was quick, subtle. Details missing. Gore and emotional distress absent. A subconscious decision. “Bottom line: your brother was deranged. And he got killed because of it.”

  Balien pondered in the dimming light of the clearing. An orange sun descended over the horizon, cutting through the surrounding trees. The breeze of summer’s night crept forward. The silence was uncomfortable.

  “I knew one day he would die because of the war,” Balien said, stolen by a memory. “A few days before we came to Earth, I told him he would regret coming here. But he was stubborn. He has always been stubborn. I just . . . it is a different feeling knowing he is dead. I always thought I would see him once more before that.”

  V’delle holstered her pistol. “Why would he regret coming to Earth?”

  “There were just too few Khor’Zon. Fewer now. I knew the war would last a long time. I knew eventually . . . it would catch up to him.”

  V’delle thought she heard something in the bushes surrounding the camp. A swish of leaves. Too heavy to be wind. But her eyes couldn’t help. The Khor’Zon didn’t hear anything.

  Balien inhaled and pointed behind him. “That is north. I assume you know where you are going.”

  Quietly, a dagger flew.

  L’
aurc yelped. He collapsed into the fire pit. Knife in neck. Wriggling nerves. Maora screamed. Her pistol fired back. Metal on metal. A ricochet.

  V’delle rolled into tall grass.

  A Khor’Zon straggler from the prison, smeared in blood and soot, charged into the clearing. He tackled Maora and screamed, “Outcasts!”

  Balien stepped over to their heap and ripped the attacker’s neck around. The body fell into Maora. She kicked him off. A bullet struck Balien’s chestpiece. He staggered to a knee. Maora lunged forward and activated her bangle shield. Pink, electric, nebulous membrane. Bullets struck the shield. A Preen’ch hiding in the scrub.

  Balien took cover. He shot over her shoulder through the shield. They advanced to the edge of the clearing together. The fourth round was discharged and a pressurized lock burst; V’delle knew they’d killed the Preen’ch.

  She listened. The medallion leaves whispered again.

  The pink kinetic shield retracted. Glowing embers flying in its wake.

  “L’aurc . . .” Maora said, her voice cracking. She knelt at his burnt, bloody corpse and felt his face. She uttered whimpers. Lowered her head to his.

  The veins told V’delle to fight. The mind told her to watch. The heart . . . rejoiced at the sight of dead Khor’Zon.

  Balien put an arm around Maora. A tight squeeze. Rapid blinks. The clearing enclosed around them. A shrine.

  Maora sobbed a little, then wiped her eyes. “We need to bury him.”

  “We will,” Balien said. He looked at V’delle. “I am sorry we kept you so long. Thank you for telling me about my brother.”

  They were defectors. It was in his eyes. His tone. Horror and grief.

  “Tell me why you were out here,” V’delle said. “By the prison.”