One-hundred-and-four years ago, a decade after humanity’s victory over the Jugang, they went to war with each other. The Gerang Coalition against the Mors-Special-Supply-Party. The war across two continents, for a continent. The Transcontinental War, fought for the proprietorship of Sorissu Continent. A grueling war that was estimated to have caused more deaths than all the previous subjugation events and interspecies-conflicts combined. Captain Henrik Fowler, by then a promising captain of the aerial vanguard, made this statement when interviewed:
Everything’s a lesson. I learned this: once you’ve lost enough, you start to forget what you have lost and start focusing on what you couldn’t lose.
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Willard shuffled towards the door and heard the sweet, sizzling sound of meat through the polysteel surface. It smelled like bacon. Or smoked ham. Or maybe even Nierwhale sticks. He gulped down his saliva. The clock on the mounted screen beeped five times, signaling morning.
Willard was about to slide the door open when he heard Mia’s muffled voice behind it. Coupled with Willard’s bad ears, it sounded like she had three blankets wrapped around her head, barely audible. Willard pressed his left ear right onto the door.
“...yes, Mrs. Price, I’m sure it’s him.”
Are they talking about me?
Willard waved that thought away.
I’ve only been gone for three months.
Willard pressed his ears harder. He didn’t remember anything after he blacked out. Did Mia take him home on the Moose? But she wouldn’t know how. So she carried him. Or maybe she called an E.T.V. He shuddered at the thought of its service price. She didn’t know how things worked around here, not anymore. His neighbors would probably have opinions about him now for taking an E.T.V. Or maybe not, since most of them is dead anyway.
Willard heard mother’s voice. That familiar, velvety sound seemed to caress the ears and blow mellow steam onto his cheeks. A low tempo spoken in a calm cadence.
“Is that so......what does he look like?” She sounded a bit sad. Or perhaps just contemplative.
“What? But he’s your….I’m sorry......I didn’t...If I had come sooner, I could have followed him and—”
“It’s alright, dear.” Mother’s voice was warm. Willard could picture her face. A gentle smile, lips curled ever so slightly, with closed, slightly curved eyes. Her under-eye wrinkles would show, going down the side of her face like vague tear streaks that made her look more peaceful. Simply staring at her would have calmed anyone down. Willard heard another voice.
“What’s he look like?”
For a second, Willard couldn’t recognize Adrian’s voice. It was deeper than he remembered, but a bit of the childish shrillness still clung to it. He sounded like he was purposefully making his voice deeper, but couldn’t control his excitement as the childish cadence leaked out.
”You too?” Mia started, but then pulled back. Willard heard a pause. “Well…that’s just…concerning. Try to remember.”
“Ehhhhh.....”
Willard couldn’t picture father’s face either. That didn’t faze him too much, since he’d very much like to forget all about that man. So he shrugged it off.
Willard had expected him to retort, but Adrian was unexpectedly silent.
The aroma of food got heavier. Willard would have preferred to listen for a bit longer if not for the sudden, deep groan in his stomach, the yawn of a mighty beast, so loud the other room went silent. Willard silently cursed, put on his best face and pulled the sliding door aside.
It was a crudely remodeled corridor that spared enough space on its right for a small, round table with three chairs closely huddled around it, leaving the remaining corridor just loose enough to squeeze through. The corridor was narrow and short, its yellowish wallpaper peeling off at several intersections. At the end hung two tattered pieces of cloths that separated their room from the rest of the resident rooms.
Nine...no, eight. Eight steps. Eight steps to travel from the back of the sleeping room to the fabric curtains. Eight steps for everything Willard’s family owned.
The community kitchen’s lights were on, and he could see the legs of a stool from under the fabric hangings. He could hear someone there, humming to themselves in a strange tune that reminded Willard of the sea, even though he’s hardly been at sea before.
Then he saw his family. Mother, who did not seem to have aged, sat in her wheelchair, that gentle smile etched across her face. Mia had stood up with a look of surprise in her eyes, paired with a faint glint of relief. Though Willard wasn’t sure if he saw right.
“Oh. It’s him.”
Willard was taken aback by the coldness and flatness of the voice. A moment ago it had full of energy, and now it just seemed...dead. Adrian was sitting cross-legged on the chair next to the corner of the wall. His right leg was straight, tilting the chair until it reached a dangerous angle. His eyes were flat, hidden beneath his half-shut eyelids. His short, scruffy black hair pointed in all directions.
“You shouldn’t do that, Addy.” Willard stared at him.
He’s really alright. No scabs on his knee, no scratches on his hands, and no bruises on his face.
He didn’t write; he didn’t call, and he kept getting into fights. The only thing Willard could do was to ask about him through mother. And her words would always place a soft hand on his head, telling him that nothing was wrong. He believed her...but still, he had doubts. Maybe mother didn’t want to worry him at work.
It was a relief to see himself proved wrong.
“Don’t call me that.” Adrian looked away to hide his glare.
Ah. Yeah. He’s fourteen.
His little brother must have grown at least five centimeters since Willard last saw him. At this rate, he’d outgrow Willard in a year. For some reason, the realization made Willard a bit sad. A dozen or so years ago, he had been tiny enough to be held in his arms.
He’ll grow up, go to college, leave Sorissu behind, and start a new life.
Staring at him gave Willard a conflicted feeling, something that ate away at the edges of his love for his brother. Sitting there was the person behind all of his suffering. The reason for all his sacrifices. For all his dead dreams, all his abandoned aspirations. And in a cruel, twisted sense, the reason for his eventual death.
Willard waved the terrible notion away while shaking his head. Mia and Adrian stared at him, puzzled, but mother’s face remained the same. Willard wondered if she knew what was really going on with his condition but came to a solid conclusion that she didn’t. She couldn’t. He was good at hiding secrets. He turned to Adrian.
“Elder’s priveledge. I get to call you whatever I want.” Willard tapped the tip of his nose and stuck out his tongue, showing a little bit of the youthful playfulness he had left behind returned. It was something he reserved only for his brother after Mia had left.
Now Adrian was really getting angry. That coldness from before was replaced by a frustration too complicated to be put into words. It looked like he had so many insults he wanted to spit at him but had forgotten how they sounded.
“This is ridiculous.” Adrian finally said, his face red, pushing himself away from the table and the rest of them as he squeezed out of the tiny space. He stormed out of the corridor, threw the fabric curtain behind himself, and disappeared around the corner.
Should I be mad?
Willard glanced at the other two, staring at him with worried looks on their faces.
He stormed off without even looking at me.
Willard gathered that he probably should be mad but found himself grinning doltishly at the direction where his brother had gone.
That's fine. We'll have an entire week together.
Mother shook her head and held out her arms, pulling Willard into a sudden embrace.
“Ma?”
She was silent. Willard grinned and wrapped his own arms around her. Then he felt her shivering. And then he heard her restrained sobs. A miracle. It was by some miracle that he was still alive, and he smiled behind her back. It might be in the psyche of every child, but being cuddled in the warm arm of their mother made him temporarily forget all his worries.
As long a we’re together, everything’ll be fine.
A hopeful thought, he knew, but it was the one thing driving him on.
The two held onto each other for a long time, while Mia stood by one side, red in the face, not knowing what to do. Then mother extended an inviting hand to her, and she walked in and joined the embrace. For a moment Willard felt uneasy with her presence, but kept himself from wording it.
The faint aroma of meat that permeated the air became stronger and forced his attention back to his hunger. His stomach growled again. The sounds of flame stopped in the community kitchen.
Just then, the fabric curtains drew back, and in walked a stout man holding a grey plate.
Did that happen twice?
Just then, the fabric curtains drew back, and Willard turned to see a stout man walk in with a platter in his hands. There was something brown on it. Willard shook his head, dazed at the “deja-vu”.
"Ey, Will!" The man's rough voice pulled Willard out of his daze. "Y’look as if ya've seen a ghos’!"
"Oh. Yeah, no. All I saw was a very handsome grandpa." Willard shrugged.
The little man burst out laughing. Willard heard mother chuckle behind him.
Willard fixed his eyes on Old Samwell, his neighbor who lived on the top floor of their tiny complex. He was so short one would have mistaken him for a large midget. Several years earlier Willard had helped him repair a pipeline on the roof next to the Cargo-Container-Buildings that were once next to their complex. Willard had nearly fallen after slipping on the galvanized roof and rolling to the edge, being caught by Samwell just before he tumbled down. The man had been overly kind to him ever since.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Unlike mother, Samwell seemed to have aged an entire decade. His pitifully few strands of hair from a few months ago were gone, and several wrinkles had been added to his forehead. Willard noticed a particularly thick vein on the side of his head as he bent over to set the platter on the table, and then a patch of purple on his cheek.
“Samwell,” Willard pointed, careful to not touch it, “what happened there?”
“Wha…? Oh, ‘lis? ‘s nothin’. Buncha’ kids pokin’ fun, das’all.”
Mother seemed to have noticed it too.
“Kids? What kind of kid throws full-blown punches?” Mother rolled her wheelchair over to him to get a better look.
“Adrian does.” Samwell shrugged.
“You’d better get that fixed up,” she scoffed, rolled back, and disappeared into their room, “I’ll see if I still have some of that Prosch plaster.”
“’ere’s really no nee—oh well. She won’ listen, anyway.” Samwell nodded to himself. He looked down and saw the platter in his arms, and remembered what he was here for.
"Now then. ‘ere we go!" He lifted the cloche from the plate in such an exaggerated gesture his elbow toppled the chair beside him.
A waft of fried dough seemed to explode into the hall. Willard took in a deep breath, almost tasting the savory, seared meat. Then he saw it. Eight fuzzy golden brown rectangles neatly stacked on top of each other. They glistened with an oily sheen from the fat coated over them.
"I heard’cha ain't eatin' nothin' bu' canned beef down 'ere, Will. Unhealthy, thas’ what it is.” Old Samwell slapped Willard's back, and a flash of pain reverberated through his body. Funnily enough, though, the itching had gone along with it, leaving him a bit more comfortable than before.
"Elena an' I wen' flesh fishin’ righ' before dusk yes'erday." He made two finger guns and separated them until his thumbs were in line with his shoulders. "An' we got th' biggest chunk! Fresh from Krummlae’s hunt! You oughta' see how she bargained wi' Ol'Tim at the food dock! Hah! A beast!"
He burst out laughing again, chortling like a drunk who hadn't a worry in the world. Willard stared at him, amazed. Maybe it was his age, but Old Samwell had an even fiercer personality now. It seemed like he was partying with the short, remaining time that he had on this world. Willard wished he could do that himself.
Wait, Elena?
Willard turned and stared at the open door to their room. He never knew mother could bargain. She was an angel, sweet and gentle, never getting mad at anyone for anything. Not even father.
Willard gulped. He would be more surprised if he was less hungry.
"Sam, I'm sure it was quite a sight. That will give Will something to think about while he eats." Mia stepped in and calmly held Old Samwell's arm, who had bent over from all the wheezing. Willard shot a grateful glance at her. "Oh, yeah! Right...” Samwell took Willard by the shoulders and propped him against a chair. He was shorter than Willard, so he had to tip his toes to reach him. It was quite a comical sight.
Willard sat facing the fried lard, now suddenly hesitant to grab it. He had survived for such a long time on preserved foods that the dish in front of him appeared to be something out of his imagination.
"'s my new recipe! I'll teach ya at dinner!" Old Samwell looked rather proud.
“Sam. What really happened?” Willard stared intently at the old man. He knew he was ruining Samwell’s performance, but this held priority.
“’s really nothin’,” Samwell climbed onto a chair besides him and pulled another one out for Mia, “some Meeko kids mae’ fun o’ my height, Gulio got mad…blah blah blah, y’know th’ rest.”
“Gulio?” Willard remembered Samwell’s drinking buddy, that tempered old man who always seemed to be at Samwell’s side, “how’s he…”
“He’ll be…fine.” Samwell cast his gaze down. His didn’t seem sure.
“Sam! I’ve got it!” Mother rolled her wheelchair out the room with a small jam jar on her lap. Willard watched her dip her finger into the it and proceed to rub the salt white paste on the bruise.
“Who did this? Did you get a name?” Willard pushed.
“’s nothing, I’m tellin’ you!”
“It’s not nothing. Two more inches up and you’d have lost an eye.”
“But I didn’t, ‘cause it’s nothin’.” He tried to turn his head to face Willard but mother grabbed his chain and pulled him back into place.
“It’s unacceptable,” Willard muttered, then grew silent. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Mia’s head jolt up. Then she shook it, and went back to staring at the ground.
“Look, Will. I ‘preciate you lookin’ ou’ f’me, but i’s fine. Life goes on, see?” Samwell waved his arms around, “now eat, before i’ gets cold.”
“Lardsticks don’t get cold.” Willard scoffed, turned and picked one up. The crust felt hard, but just soft enough for the oil to seep out when he applied pressure to it. His hand slightly shaking, he popped the front half into his mouth and bit down. His teeth sank into the soft fat, an d a flood of hot umami flavor filled his mouth.
It wasn't before long when he realized there were none left. He glanced up apologetically and found all three of them grinning.
"Seems like you liked 'em." Samwell grinned, then put on a melodramatic face and spun around, the back of his hand on his forehead, "looks like this old man's still useful."
"Not anymore after I get this recipe." Willard chuckled, eying the now plastered wound on old Samwell’s cheek. Once again frustration brought by incompetence welled up his throat. Someone as close as family was hurt and he couldn’t do anything. Useless, useless, useless.
“You know, you should pick another booze buddy,” Willard came to his conclusion, “or better yet, stop drinking all together.”
Samwell chortled again, slapping Willard again across his back. That somehow brought the itching back.
"Nah, nah, my lil' man!" He flicked something off Willard's shoulder, "stuff’s water to me.”
Out of nowhere, a low rumble shook the room, sending a bit of dust down from the ceiling. Willard instinctively jumped to his feet but saw the others remain where they were. He cast a quizzical look at Old Samwell.
"Ah. Tha’." Samwell fished out a cigarette pack from his pocket. "The damn Meekos tryin' tah drill through th' screw."
He muttered something and pulled a flat, tin container from his pocket. He popped a red cylinder from it, and Willard mistook it as a preserved Marime-beatle jerky.
“Sam, we don’t smoke here.” Mother cut in as he put the cigarette to his mouth.
“Oh! Yes. Yes. S’rry.” He spat it out and stuffed it back into the box, giving Willard an apologetic look. “Bad habits, y’know?”
“Sam, why’re they drilling the shaft? It’s the only thing shielding Ferah from the blizzards.” As he spoke, Willard noticed a twitching on Mia’s left cheek. Their eyes met, but Mia quickly pulled away and grew a sudden interest in her bangs, curling them around her ring finger with her brow furrowed. Then she realized Willard knew this ‘cover-up’ look and quickly switched focus to her nails. It made him want to stand up and interrogate her even more.
That’s right. I’ll need to have a good, long talk with Mia today.
“Dunno. Something ‘bout Sibithian Stone, they say,” Samwell said, halfheartedly rubbing the spot between his thumb and index finger where the cigarette had been. “A load’a crap, if y’ask me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well...” Samwell scratched his chin. There was a red spot under the uneven stubble, and each time he scratched it pulled a bit of the stubble to one side, etching white streaks into the skin. That red patch looked so prickly, Willard wanted to scratch it himself.
“Mah guess is the Meekos wanna levy Ferah,” he said, still scratching.
Willard thought about it for a while and concluded it was a reasonable inference. There were already two harvest towns next to Ferah, A6 and B4. Combined with the current mobile Harvest Stations, converting Ferah into an industrial complex would make it the ideal fourth addition to the main Harvest Settlements. The only downside would be the place’s location. The monoliths on which Ferah was built were located in the middle of nowhere—in the center of the Eastern Wastelands.
“What would happen to us, then? We’ll probably need to move again.” Willard said, staring at the empty plate as if the rumbling just then had made it full again.
“Nothing.”
Willard jumped at Mia’s words. He spun around and saw her facing him, hands clasped together, her mouth stretched into an unnaturally large scowl. She was looking at her hands instead of them, and upon realizing this, quickly waved her arms around, as if to shoo-away what she had just said. That terrifying look from before vanished as abruptly as it came, and her face was beautiful once more.
“Eh...eh...wel-well...I mean...Ferah’s got quite some history....so...you know...it would be immoral to just push it down.......” She stammered, “plu-plus, if they move us....they’ll have to move Krummlae’s people, too!”
Willard stared at his plate. For some reason he had felt uncomfortable after hearing her say that.
Ah. She said ‘us’.
She didn’t act like them anymore; she didn’t have their accent anymore; and she hadn’t even come back once for the last eleven years, yet she was was referring to herself as a part of Willard’s family again, like nothing’s happened. Like the closeness was still there. Willard felt an unasked feeling creep through him. A feeling he can only describe as disapproval.
Maybe it was because the two of them were so close before. No. It was different. It was as if a stray dog he had fed a few times and allowed indoors had taken off, then returned after just enough time to make him keep his memories with it, and proceeded to roll around on his carpet like nothing had happened.
No no. You can’t just compare her to a dog.
Old Samwell looked at her for several seconds with a raised eyebrow, then shrugged.
“Welp, I sure hope nothin’ happens too, lil’ Mia. This ol’ man ain’t gonna survive anotha’ year if he’s forced to relocate again.” He pointed at himself and gave a hearty chuckle. Then his face darkened and his lips drew into a thin line. “Although…it’s very likely.”
“Why?”
“Didn’t Krummlae fill you in?”
“No. He told me to find you.”
“Oh. Lazy bastard,” Samwell shrugged, “bu’ I guess I do know more politics than ‘im.” He edged closer to Willard, and a look of mysterious self-importance came over his face. “I hear’ there’s gon’ be ‘nother war.”
Mia coughed. The two glanced up at her, but she had the back of her head to them and was looking out the window. Samwell shrugged, and continued.
”Hear’ from some Meeko a’ Vaharach, the end of Gerang’s lease here gon’ spark ‘nother war.”
“We haven’t had a war in…decades.”
“Welp, they’re callin’ it the Secon’ Transcon’inental War. Lott’a it ‘s just baseless musin’, bu’, I don’ thin’ the Gerang Coaltion’s gon’ just let go of Sorissu.”
“They need to, though. It’s written in the peace-charter with the M.S.S.P, right? One-hundred years of dominion, then proprietorship goes to Mors for another one-hundred.”
“Hah! Proprie’orship! Krummlae wouldn’t like that.” Samwell scratched the red spot on his chin, “but the charter’s bullshit.”
“Sam!” Mother coughed.
“Sorry, sorry,” he waved his hand at her with his head down, “bu’ think ‘bout it. ’s the Gerang Coalition agains’ th’ M.S.S.P. All th’ major settlemen’-nations on Bagiraek agains’ th’ two major settlemen’s o’ Mors. If you exclude ‘eaven Con’inent’s one port-city, that’s basically all there is to th’ human nations on Sibith.”
“So it’s just Mors against Bagiraek.”
“Righ’. There ain’t any third-parties. No regulators or any of that sh-…kind. Jus’ two o’ Sibith’s larges’ hounds bitin’ a’ each other. Used to have the Jugang ‘ere to regulate us, but, they’re gone now, for better or worse.”
“And there’s another war brewing?”
“Dunno, maybe,” Samwell yawned, “but there’s boun’ t’be complications in the transference process. The Coalition’s grown rich after owning us for so many years, an’ now they’re probably as powerful as the M.S.S.P i’self. Hell, maybe they’re plannin’ t’swallow the M.S.S.P whole.”
“And if that were to happen…” Willard put his fingers to his chain.
“All the expats an’ immigran’ workers would be forced back t’ Bagiraek.”
And the life I knew would cease to exist.
Another rumble shook the room, this time accompanied by a loud beeping in Samwell’s pocket. He took out an antique-looking thing. It was small, with a round dial in the middle and a rectangular protrusion. Samwell had told Willard it was something he had bought at the community market. He had done some tweaking and found that it was an old-world timer. Since then he claimed to have not activated his TimeScale timer even once.
“Anyways.” Samwell pretended to cough, but then choked on something and the coughs turned real. He wheezed for a while and finally regained the ability to speak.
“Gahh....I forgot I ‘ad an appoin’ment wi’ Krummlae.” He scratched the red spot on his chin again, this time consciously. “He wouldn’t like that.”
“You should go,” mother said, “and don’t make any excuses. Tell him you were with us.”
“Yer right.” He took the empty dish off the table. “I’ll go and humor that damn Sorkus .”
He gave her a quick smile and hurried down the corridor. Willard listened until the footsteps grew silent, then loud again.
“Will! Sorry, but you’ll ‘ave to learn m’ dish tomorrah!” Willard heard him shout through the fabric curtains. Then he listened as the footsteps grew quiet once more.
The life I knew would cease to exist.
And there’d be nothing I could do about it.