Finding a row of public sanitation booths was an absolute blessing. Saketa finally emptied her bladder and colon both, then took her first shower in four days while all of her clothes went through a beam-cleaning.
The jet of water wasn’t terribly powerful, but it was scent-free, which she’d learned to appreciate as a bit of a luxury. Standing beneath it she thought about doing a formal ritual cleansing, after that bit of violence on the transport. But the shower charged by the minute, and she was low on money. There was no point, and no respect, in doing a rushed version of a very old rite. So she just closed her eyes and let the water flow over her ears, drowning the world out for a few moments.
The stall wind-dried her and she stepped out into the tiny space that held the toilet, the washer, and a shelf. She put on now-clean clothes, her bag and weapons, and ran a folding comb over her hair a few times.
Her hand went for the door, but for some reason she stopped and focused on her reflection. She met her own grey eyes, and wondered what she was looking for in them. What was it? What was that small quality that made the whole image seem so different?
She abandoned the fruitless, aimless search and stepped out.
From what she’d seen so far, the city had a love of pedestrian streets and thorough urban planning, rivalled only by a love of trees. The wide street she was on was split down into two lanes by a thin row of grass and trees, and there seemed to be a general agreement to only use each one for a single direction. The surrounding buildings generally topped off at three storeys, not counting the small trees that many had growing on the roof.
Under other circumstances she might have liked to take it all in as a rather pretty marriage of civilisation and the natural world. But the infection visible by the docking yard wasn’t isolated. There were tensions here. People would cluster in small groups, speaking in hushed but high-strung tones, sometimes arguing and sometimes, from what she could tell, simply sharing their worries.
A public street map guided her to an eatery that was advertised as reasonably priced and healthy, and as she crossed between lanes to reach it she saw three Purists coming down the wrong direction. They carried a defiantly angry air, seemingly directing it at the disgusted or fearful looks many gave them. Walking in exactly the opposite direction, headed for a collision, was a pair of men whose likes she’d glimpsed a couple of times already. They wore matching outfits that were mostly a dark yellow; loose pants and a tunic of sorts. Both wore fighting batons in their belts, a proud, calm demeanour, and the general look of warriors. Saketa had an eye for those, as well as for clothes designed for ease of movement.
Both groups fixed on one another, and Saketa sped her steps up a little to reach the eatery door before they could get too close to each other.
As could be expected of a strange, new world there were foods on display she didn’t know what to make of, but thankfully she also spotted some safely basic breads, vegetables, and meats. She carefully selected a meal for herself and painfully counted out physical currency. It generally wasn’t a good sign, she felt, when one could easily keep track of exactly how much money one had.
She turned around, plate in hand, at the sounds of violence. The sides had now met, and wasted very little time. She didn’t have a perfect view through the window, but the yellow warriors were clearly more skilled, perhaps enough so to make up the difference in numbers.
The whole scene attracted a certain amount of attention, but not much in the way of excited emotions. She turned to the saleswoman behind the counter.
“Tanga,” the woman said in heavily accented Larin. “Tanga warriors. Fight for streets. For control. Them...” She waved a hand towards the yellow-clad fighters, as they swung their batons at the other side. “Normal. Not other.”
Saketa nodded, and found herself a booth. She tucked herself in by the wall and unfastened the sword scabbard from her belt for the sake of it not getting in the way. Seeing several people openly wearing swords in the streets had made her feel a bit more secure. Granted, many of them were much better dressed than her, but still.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
She started eating in small bits, alternating between foodstuffs with each one. Once she was halfway through the meal she touched the table and brought up a display. Her finger hovered uncertainly for a few moments before she figured out how to switch the language to Larin, and accessed the city net.
It seemed that she would never get the hang of navigating these kinds of digital spiderwebs, but with a bit of patience she managed to skim through news relating to the capital specifically, in search of factors that might interfere with her hunt. There were the expected stories of unrest, threats of terrorism, refugees, accounts of the ongoing war, and discussions about salvaging that Alliance ship that had crashed into the ocean.
Saketa stopped at an image that some drone had captured as the ship was plunging through the atmosphere. It was an excellent image: Very dramatic, a good angle, and it was even taken at the moment some piece of machinery broke off from the friction.
This was almost certainly why things were as openly tense as they were. Nothing seemed to frazzle people’s nerves quite like uncertainty. And who would be next to bring over a ship, or a division, that the planet’s defences could do nothing about? Which of the two forces battling it out over the fate of the Nearer Fringe would be the first to spare the people and materials?
Saketa moved on, and after some fumbling she was able to access a plain map of the city. She carefully went over what natural features remained amidst city blocks, gardens and canals, and compared it to her sources. This was a delicate process, what with her main source being centuries old. But a particular hill eventually served as a seemingly reliable landmark, and from there she worked her way to the north, into a district on the very edge of the city itself.
She couldn’t be positive, but this seemed promising. Especially when she managed to look up some information on the district. It was poor, poorly policed, and had a history of violence. Offworld visitors were explicitly warned against going there. If he was here, this was where she would most likely find him.
Saketa found just the right amount of zoom to have the entire district in view, and nothing else. She took a deep breath, and felt one of her hands move to the sword.
She swallowed the last bite, and chased it with her last sip of water. Her hand moved to the bag and into one of its side-pockets. She felt foolish, but charged on with a certain irritation and brought out the little notebook she’d bought on impulse a while ago, as well as a pen.
Planet Yvenna. Local date: Twelve-Twelve. I only just arrived, but this might be it. I might finally have found him. That last lead seemed reliable, and this place offers an excellent atmosphere for his kind. This map I’m using says it will take me four hours to reach the old site on foot. It will be dark then, and the local law seem to have plenty on their hands as it is.
Saketa stopped, and noticed that her face had hardened. She put the pen to the paper again and wrote a single letter, then crossed it out. She started another one, and crossed that one out as well. Her thoughts wanted an exit, but they also didn’t want to be acknowledged. The dichotomy was maddening, and she finally just barrelled ahead, writing in a rushed, clumsy hand before she could get in her own way.
Do I have the strength? Am I in any state to face such a foe? Or has this all just been a rush towards destruction?
For a few seconds she looked at what she’d just written, then put the tip of the pen next to the final word. It would be so easy to just block it all out. With her other hand she peeked at some earlier entries. Erasing chunks of them had set a dangerous precedent. But the real reason she’d bought the notebook would not be easily denied. The rushed hand continued.
I don’t know. Quite possibly not. Probably not. But I have to. I have to kill them. I have to do what I can. I hate them. I hate the filth they carry and inflict on the rest of us. And I hate myself for hating.
She took a breath.
But maybe I can pull this off. There are no certainties in battle. Perhaps after tonight the galaxy will be a slightly better place.
Her pen stopped, held down hard enough to almost pierce through the page. This next part she was truly reluctant to bring out into the light, even if it was only her own light. But the inner pressure wasn’t quite released yet.
And then what?
Saketa let the pen fall from her fingers, and stared at the words for a period of time she didn’t keep track of. She had no answers. No matter how long she stared, nothing came. So eventually she picked up both the pen and the notebook and stuffed both back into her pack.
Then she left the eatery. The Purists were staggering away, bloodied and broken, while the two Tanga warriors were having a civil-looking conversation with a pair of police officers. Saketa ignored it all, and walked on to the north.
Her long hunt might end right here, on the planet of Yvenna.