Estranged

Forward

Men started to walk past her side and to the space in front of her, carrying long, heavy-looking planks of wood. They set them gently onto the floor some fifteen feet away from her and returned to where they came from, walking out of her view. When they came back, they carried pieces of metallic parts now: rods, gears, chords, and…

…and one long, thin, razor-sharp sheet of steel that gleamed as it reflected the sunlight.

When they were done, a man came. He was old, wearing an apron, goggles, and thick boots, with a large box in his hand. He pointed at a spot next to the pile of materials on the floor. “You may set it there,” he said. Two men brought in a long worktable, placing it where the man had pointed and leaving immediately. The old man dropped the toolbox onto the table with an ominous thud.

Aliyah felt Haylon’s breath against her neck.

“Wilda says it will be good for you to watch,” the guard whispered.

And so Aliyah watched, unable to turn her head away, as the old man joined piece to piece—sawing and welding and hammering and beating and sweating and filing and grunting—till the instrument of her execution was fully constructed.

***

It was eight o’clock. In just three hours since Gringe had given them their directives and dismissed them, Jebba was already seeing off the last batch of personnel leaving RoseField. Any moment now, her own contingent would be evacuating as well, leaving behind an entirely dead and empty Sector. It would be convincing to anyone that they were evacuating because they actually were. But—and even though Jebba had no inkling of the rest of Gringe’s plan—she knew Wilda would not think the matter done. Jebba desperately hoped that Gringe had some ace down his sleeve because Wilda was a formidable foe, protected in the heart of her territory, not to talk of—

“Hey, Aunt Jebba.”

Jebba looked up to see Layney approaching. When he reached her side, she pulled him into an embrace, his lean bony frame seeming a bit too frail for the upcoming mission. But Jebba knew that was only her mind wanting to second-guess her nephew’s inclusion. Delayne was ready for it, and they both knew it. “Be careful, boy. And keep your wits about you. There’s no Germaine, this time. No Blitz.”

“Yes, aunty,” Delayne responded, squeezing back. “I promise, we’ll bring her back.”

“There’s my boy.”

He pulled out from the hug to take a glance behind at the truck that was to transport him. A balding man waited in the driver’s seat, tapping his wrist twice. “I’ve got to go now.”

He would be fine, she was sure of it. She watched him throw her one last wave before he got into the truck and vanished up the road north in it. She returned to worrying. Worrying about Liya, about Delayne, and soon, Germai—

As if summoned by her thoughts, a voice teased to her right, “Jebba. You brood.” Germaine, the king of brooding stopped by her side.

“If ever there were a time to brood, wouldn’t it be now?” she replied, watching him saunter up to her, a packed drawstring bag slung over his thick shoulder.

“Hmm,” he grunted, taking an unusual position for him as he stopped just in front of her. “Stop trying to discern what he’s got up his sleeve. Just trust that it will work”

“That’s easier said than done,” she muttered, staring distractedly into space.

“Well, you better. My life may depend on it.”

She snapped her gaze toward him. “Fight like you’ve never fought,” she said. It was always like this—a terse affair—when they had to part ways without knowing if they would see each other again.

Germaine nodded, with determination like steel in his eyes. “We’ll bring her back, I promise.”

Jebba nodded back, confident of Germaine’s word. The last people trooped out the entrance of the headquarters building: Gringe, Praetor, and a troop of guards. It was time.

With their final words said Germaine went up to join Gringe and Praetor in their vehicle. While Jebba, escorted by her security detail, departed her sector, unsure if she would ever set foot in it again.

***

The boy shuffled forward, one of the seemingly endless crowd that was streaming slowly into the headquarters of Damij Sector. It was hot, humid, and very rowdy—not quite shoulder-to-shoulder and rump-to-crotch like a busy night on Revel Ave might have been, but it was a thick enough throng of people to be uncomfortable in. If he had to put a number to it, he would have guessed nearly a thousand people were trying to get into the headquarters. And every single one of them—on Wilda Damij’s invitation—was here to witness the execution. Excited chatter filled the air. Vendors peddled their wares somehow amidst the crowd. And children sat on the shoulders of their accompanying adults and observed the sheer number of people gathered with awe.

“Look up and ahead, walk through the scanners!” a voice shouted over the noise.

The boy had reached the entrance now, which was a row of seven detectors that looked like doorways. On either side of the detectors sat two security outposts, around which sprawled armed guards. Two of them stood on opposite sides of the detectors, issuing out instructions to each set of people as they approached to go through.

“Step up,” the guard on the left shouted.

There was no one in front of the boy anymore. He stepped forward, realizing his heart was racing. He forced himself to not sneak a glance at the guard, to not do such a foolish thing as to make himself conspicuous. He stared at the ground. He just focused on the ground and continued walking. The detector was only some steps away now.

“Have you not been listening, you HAREBRAINED s**t! the guard barked. “Oi! Oi! You boy there! I said look UP and AHEAD! What the hell are you staring at the ground fo—”