An absolute downpour was smashing into Xam’Chi from the sea. Gales like a hurricane swept through the slum areas. Rooftops had been ripped off, flying randomly in this insane storm, and even a few poorly built buildings had tipped over and collapsed. Heavy trucks were moving of their own accord.
But none of this destruction was compared to what was going on in the concourse before Bein Taili market. Blaster fire steamed through the air and whizzed close to heads to the thirty-five Rangers making a break for the apartments. Their environmental ponchos flew behind them as they ran, stopping for nothing. Hark and Fennstrum were at the front, urging the men on and with a fire-team, crushed any infected that stood in their way.
Commander Farlorn at the back, shouting encouragement and leading the rear-guard. With the sudden flurry of activity, the infected had resumed their attack. He fired with his pistol into the shapes that were right on their tail, two dark shapes slammed over. Lieutenant Pradesh was suddenly at his side, firing randomly into the mist.
The apartment buildings seemed a hundred kilometers away across the rain-swept concourse as they ran. Tall imposing buildings that Farlorn for some reason felt were judging him. Judging him on his command and his adherence to his duty.
They were nearly there. So nearly there. A barrage of blaster bolts was unrelentingly pursuing them.
Pradesh suddenly stumbled a few steps and nearly fell over. He reached one of the cars and leaned on it as if he was catching his breath. His left shoulder sagged as his carbine fell from his hands, clattering onto the ground. He began to slide down the side.
“Come on!” Farlorn said as he blasted into the rapidly advancing horde. He grabbed Pradesh by his combat webbing and hoisted him up. The Lieutenant cried in pain as the Commander jostled him forward, shouting in his ear to keep going. He pushed Pradesh forward into the hands of corpsman Jantine who kept him moving.
The front of the advance, at last, reached the apartment building. Hark began firing at the front windows, smashing them into shards. Fennstrum quickly followed and, with his the butt of his blaster, began breaking any shards still in the window frame with the. The last thing they needed right now was a breach in their suits.
Loose shots were whining over their heads as they ran into the building, smacking into the facade of the building, creating black pockmarks or shattering windows. Some of the Rangers turned back and began to enact a field of fire to cover those still outside.
Farlorn was the last one through, clambering over the edge of a staring window and falling over onto the other side, breathing heavily. He looked around. The Rangers had set up a decent defense in the lobby area of the prefab apartments. It was a drab place where the lights were out and mildew was growing in droves on the water-stained walls. A trolley lay overturned, broken baggage spilling onto the grown. The faded red carpet was soggy under his feet.
Enemy fire was pattering off the front of the apartment. It was from a foe that could no longer see their foe and was instead firing random shots of anger at prey they could not claim. From above, there was the occasional stick-snapping sound of chosen shots from the more accurate Rangers, sure in their ability to predict the position of the foe from the sudden flashes in the mist.
“Keep up the fire,” Farlorn said as he walked up and down the line, “Don’t let them get too close.”
Fennstrum came onto the comms. “Commander, the first level is clear. No hostiles.”
“Upstairs?”
“Haven’t had a chance though Hark is covering the two staircases on the wings of the building.”
“Why aren't they attacking? They’re insane, they should keep attacking.”
“I don’t know Major, maybe there’s more to them than we suspected. Maybe-”
One of the men, manning the windows, moaned loudly.
“What’s wrong Menhil?” Pradesh said as he entered the room, his shoulder bandaged. He was holding out his side-arm while his rifle hung on its strap. “You hit?”
“I’m fine,” He answered, “You hear that? Hear that above the wind?”
Pradesh, Farlorn, and Fennstrum walked up to the sill beside him. For a moment, Farlorn couldn’t hear anything above the shrill wind, the snap and whine of blaster fire, and the incessant pitter-patter of the rain. Then he heard it. A great deep throaty rasp from somewhere in the roundabout. A great suction of air before a great consumptive roar.
“Isn’t that the sound a flamer makes?” Pradesh said softly. “Isn’t it that?”
“Who was on the list that we lost in the market? Who did we lose in the roundabout?”
“Oh, lord. We lost Falwase when we were retreating. I saw her go down, her tanks were too heavy.”
Fennstrum swore loudly. “Sounds like it’s getting closer. I give it a minute or two once it gets close. When that thing gets close they’ll burn us out like animals. We’ll have to retreat from this building.”
“No, we have to take the chance. Think about it, we have to take it out now. If we don’t, we’ll have to fight it in close range, not out in the open where it’s vulnerable.”
He peered out into the mist again. He still couldn’t see but the sound was now growing louder and louder so that everyone could hear it. It retched out as if it belonged to some great volcanic beast that often appeared in primitive stories. Some God of fire roaring in anger.
“Which of us is the best shot?” Farlorn asked. “Hark’s good but she’s not carrying her long-range rifle today.”
“He is,” Pradesh pointed to the man who had first heard the flamer. “Isn’t that right, Menhil?”
“Yeah,” Menhil’s hand curled around his Vyper rifle, “I can shoot pretty good.”
“Menhil, you’re with me. I didn’t give you that commendation for nothing. Fennstrum, keep up the sustained fire through the windows. They’ll likely be an attack that the flamer’s covering. Don’t let them get close.”
Farlorn and Menhil moved to the back of the lobby and took a right down a corridor, passing by disserviced lifts. They found two of the pathfinder covering one of the stairways at the end of the corridor.
“What’s up there?” Farlorn asked.
“Just a series of living blocks. Didn’t bother to hold it. Didn’t have the numbers to but it’s clear.” The pathfinder said.
The Commander and the Trooper ran up the stairs, three steps at once until they were on the third floor. Farlorn slowly opened the exit door and the pair found themselves in a derelict hallway with hab-units to the sides. It was nearly pitch black here but their lamps attached to the ends of their weapons shone the way.
Farlorn kicked in through one of the doors to an apartment. He strode over to the windows, it offered a dominating view of the entire open roundabout. Using the but of his blaster pistol, he broke one of the windows. Wind and rain swept right into the room, blowing loose leaves of papers off their tables. It howled at them. It screamed at them.
They settled in behind the window. The mist that plagued the entire city and roundabout had grown thicker, as though the discharge of their blaster was causing some chemical reaction in the air, disguising with greater effectiveness the enemy approach. Below, they saw the relentless blasts of the flamer, like the sun behind a cloud.
“The Flamer’s a really nasty weapon,” Menhil muttered.
“But, it is basically two cans of extremely flammable liquid.”
“Gonna be my shot-caller?
“We have to let it closer,” Farlorn said. “You see where it burps again like that?”
Another flash of amber radiance backlighted the fog in the roundabout below.
“Watch the way the glow moves. It’s moving out from the broom, maybe a bit for the fuel to ignite. The fuel tanks should just be about half a meter behind the origin point.”
“Got it,” Mehil said as he mounted his rifle onto the sill of the window and fit it snuggly into his shoulder.
“If you get this, I’ll be giving you the marksmen lanyard.”
“No thanks, commander. I like my common trooper, juuuust right. Get to be right next to Pradesh.”
“Your loss.”
“Gladly.”
The flamer roared again. A long curling rush of fire, like the leaf of a giant fern, emerged from the mist and barely grazed the front of the apartments. Farlorn heard Fennstrum curse loudly over the radio. “Get down! Get down!”
“It’s widening the aperture of the flamer,” Farlorn told Menhil. “They’re putting a bit of a reach on the flamer so he can scour the bottom floors. They’re trying to range us.”
Menhil grunted and shuffled, his eyes utterly trained through his sights.
“You have to make this shot or we’ll be forced to retreat deeper inside. We can’t afford to fight the flamer indoors.”
There was another popping cough and then another roar. This time, the curling arc of fire, reached up high, like the jet of a pressure hose. Farlorn grabbed Menhil and pulled him back as the fire blistered the third story windows. It spilled through the window space and shattered glass. It played across the ceiling, squirming and spasming like a shoal of yellow fish that had been brought on deck. The rain along the windowsill sizzled loudly.
Even though their enclosed uniforms and masks, the heat was intense. The air that came through their rebreathers was hot and stuffy, making their lungs ache. Air was scarce and made them gasp as the air was being consumed by the raging fires. The flames finally sucked out, leaving the window blackened around the upper frame and most of the ceiling blackened.
Farlorn recovered the rifle and checked it for any damage. He handed it back to Menhil as he got up, coughing loudly.
“Come on,” Farlorn hissed hoarsely, “It’s getting closer.”
As Menhil settled down back into position once again, Farlorn peered into the swirling mist. He narrowed his eyes, trying to pick up even the slightest movement. He considered giving ground now. The flamethrower almost had range now. One or two more ranging bursts and it would burn them out.
“There! There!” Farlorn pointed down as the flames jetted through the raging mist and rain.
Menhil fired the moment he swung his rifle around and saw the flames. Nothing happened.
“No, no, no.” He muttered as he took a moment for the cooling systems to catch up. He had emptied half a clip in a single shot. He reached forward and wiped water off his sights. He loosened his nearly ironclad grip on the grip.
“Next time, aim closer to the source. Add maybe a quarter of a meter to your shot.” Farlorn said. There would be no second chance. He was tapping his finger nervously on the sill of the window.
“Stop that,” Menhil snapped and Farlorn obeyed.
The flamethrower lighted up again, ripping fire through the facade of the apartments. Dribbling napalm stuck like glue onto the front, burning fiercely. Farlorn heard Fennstrum yelling through the comms, “Get back! Farlorn, we have to pull back now! Now!”
Menhil let out the breath he had been holding and fired again.
For a moment, nothing happened at all. Then the fuel tanks went up a terrifyingly sharp squeal that tore through the entire roundabout. A huge flower of fire ripped through the mist, rolling and coiling, white-hot and furious. Several molten pieces of broken metal soared through the air, on long streamers of flame, shrieking like parts of an exploding kettle.
Farlorn looked back down. He saw a dozen burning figures stumble blindly around in the flames, infected caught in that terrible blast. They kept moving for a solid minute before their bones crumbled into ash and they collapsed. They sizzled loudly in the rain.
“Good job.” Farlorn congratulated.
“Thank you,” Mehil gasped out. His heart was racing now.
The infected, despite the loss of their flamethrower, attacked the apartment once again. They were met by a brutal storm of blaster-bolts from the trapped platoon. Trooper Langdogen banged off multiple rockets into their ranks as they advanced from his launcher. Explosions ripped through them, tearing limb for limb and reducing many infected to nothing more than bloody chunks. Hark and came up onto the second story with five of her pathfinders and they laid down deadly accurate fire onto the heads of the infected. Against their horrific losses, they kept coming. But it was a futile deed without the support of their flamethrower and they were slowly chipped down.
Only two of them got to the windows and crawled through them. One had its brains evacuated through the back of his head by a blaster, leaving grey goo on the ceiling, while Fennstrum impaled the chest of the second one, Jantine finishing the deed with a thrust to the nape.
Farlorn and Menhil came down to the first floor. Troopers all around them were recovering from the second assault, checking their ammo count as others remained on station, wary of another attack.
“That was risky,” Major Fennstrum said as Farlorn appeared.
“It worked,” Farlorn responded as he gazed out the window and witnessed the ground before them littered with corpses. Some were still twitching but fire from the Pathfinder’s above put them down just in case. “What shape are we in, Major?”
“Fair.”
“No losses down here, yet?”
“Couple of close scratches, but Jantine’s on the job.” He paused. “What now?”
Farlorn took out his map chart of the area. “We have to drop back, now.”
“Not hold up here?”
“We’ve got another break at the moment and the mist isn’t helping visibility. There’s no way to know if they’ll bring more next time. We’ll drop back a few streets.”
“I can station some of my pathfinders on the flanks as we pull back, we could find out their numbers.” Hark said, seemingly appearing out of thin air. Farlorn nearly started by three years with her and had gotten him used to that sort of thing. Still, he never did figure how she managed such things.
“Good idea,” Farlorn said. “Now, Fennstrum, get Syna and give me a count of our current ammo levels. Pool it and distribute it evenly. After that, get the men ready to move.”
***
Ten minutes later, the Rangers slowly peeled away from the front of the apartment. But not without leaving several treats for any infected foes that may try to follow them. Their ammo count was starting to become dangerously low, the panicked full-auto madness of the roundabout and the infected assault on the apartments were rapidly gnawing away at their reserves. They all had four magazines left each, save for the ones already locked and loaded in their rifles. Once they were out, it was the bayonets.
Under Farlorn’s and Hark’s instruction, the platoon pulled back, exiting through the back of the apartments and out into the terrible freezing rain. Working as spotters on the flanks, the four pathfinders pushed the count of the foe up to a hundred and forty, rapidly growing. Their small isolated and trapped platoon was now almost outnumbered four to one. Fennstrum kept his mouth shut about how bad the situation was.
They reached a wide four-lane road and quickly crossed it as 1st squad provided overwatch. Menhil swore to Pradesh that he had seen distant shapes in the fogs. It was clear they were being shadowed now. The foe was closely watching them, searching and waiting for any moments of weakness they might exploit.
As if to confirm Farlorn's fear, behind them, they heard a dull, reverberating crump, carried their way by the baleful wind. In the fog, they saw an obstructed fireball erupt from where the apartments had been. It had only been five minutes since they had left, how close were they?
After the road, the platoon, almost all full sprint, quickly made their way through an industrial area. The Pathfinders at the rear were constantly revising their count of the foe. They were getting closer, that was certain.
Factories and warehouses loomed at them from all sides. Many had been long abandoned from some economic crash that had left the business that occupied them destitute. They were slowly rotting away. Several blocks were in piles of rubble from demolition attempts or age and lack of maintenance corroding away the supporting structures. Ahead of them, gunfire cracked and echoed through the along the forlorn walkways and corridors. Any infected in the path of the platoon was being quickly and ruthlessly dispatched by Fennstrum’s advance squad. Still, it was slowing them down.
“They’ll attack sooner or later,” said Hark as she came out of the rain. The Platoon was resting in the dry in an empty warehouse.
“We won’t outrun them, certainly sir,” Sneered Fennstrum.
“Then we’ll break down their numbers through a slower retreat. We’ve got a decent warren hole in this industrial area. Lot’s of hidey holes and ambush spots we can use.” He paused and turned around. “Bell! Any progress on re-connecting comms?”
“I’m getting something. It’s extremely faint, I can barely make it out. Rains are not helping at all. I think it might be Ranger communication judging by the band and frequency it’s on.”
“Can you estimate the distance to it from here?” Farlorn asked.
“Maybe, sir.”
“I don’t want any maybes, Bell. Only certainties. Get on it and tell me when you get an estimate.”
“What’s your plan, sir?”
“It’s still coming together, Hark. But ready me your best pathfinder.”
“That would be me,” Smiled Hark.
“No,” Farlorn chortled softly and shortly. “I need you here. Other than you?”
“That would be Pathfinder Gavin.”
“Good, now let’s get ready to cull these bastards,” Fennstrum said.
“Major, do remember that these are citizens of our great confederacy. It is a great shame that we must put them down but it is our duty to do it. To all of you, act with compassion for these were once people and that is why we must put them out of our misery.”
Fennstrum stalked away and switched off his comms for a moment. “Oh, Lord, you are an insufferable ass.”
***
The Forlorn waited for the foe to come. A period of silence hung over the entire industrial sector, as the infected closed in tighter, listening intently for any movement. The only noise was the downpour. Their entire environment is a source of noise: debris and rubble can be dislodged, kicked, disturbed, larger items of wreckage could be knocked over or bumped into. Damaged floors creaked and moaned. Old rusting doors and windows protested any attempt to move them. When a weapon is discharged, the echoes that bounce through the ruined and decrepit buildings are a great way of locating the point of origin.
And the infected made a lot of noise as they slowly inched their way into the industrial area.
The Carians are supremely good at this. This is their environment. This is their hunting ground. On several occasions, a Ranger would make a noise. The methods varied: a piece of rubble in a tin cup or stove to make a rattling noise, the activation of long-dead machinery, or just making piles of rubble tumble. The results were all the same, tempting random shots from the demented infected. As soon as a shot came, another Ranger would gauge the sound of the bouncing echo or the flash of light in the darkness and return fire with a lethal burst. Then, they would move to avoid the foe using the same trick on them.
The enemy was slowly becoming wise to their tricks. After dozens of losses, the infected pulled back, revealing to Farlorn that they at least had some intelligence in their addled minds. Unable to out-stalk the Carians, they instead called out to them from the darkness. It was unnerving. The voices were distant and pleading, carried on the wind. Little sense could be understood in terms of meaning, but the tone was very clear. It was misery. It was the voices of the damned and insane. The voice of the Forlorn, Farlorn pondered ironically and grimly.
“Ignore them,” Farlorn ordered on the wide-band. For some reason, the voices were giving him a headache. “We have to beat them in our minds first. Do not fear them.”
But the psychological assault continued for ten more minutes. The infected were holding back. Farlorn, curious to what was going on, had Hark send three of her pathfinders forward to scout. Meanwhile, Bellary was getting closer to locating the distance of the comms. They couldn’t send anything, though, but the comms-operator had estimated that the source of the communication was five hundred meters west. It matched up with where Farlorn had set his headquarters. It confirmed their location at least, the maps of the entire slum area were even at best unreliable.
The pathfinders returned. The foe was gathering in greater and greater numbers on the edge of the industrial area. They estimated at least eight hundred. Farlorn didn’t want to show to the men how nervous he was getting. This situation was getting worse and worse.
“They know they can’t beat us like this,” Fennstrum explained. “So this time they’re coming in with overwhelming numbers. I don’t care how good we are, we can’t stand against those numbers. Not with a platoon. We’ve got to warn the Regiment or they could be caught off guard by such numbers.”
“I think I’ve got a plan. Pathfinder Gavin!” Farlorn shouted.
A tall lean figure looked up from his firing position. His cloak was drawn over his head and he had smeared dirt over it to blend it more with his surroundings. He was a pathfinder in the true mold of Pathfinder-Master Hark, dour and terse. Hark had trained most of them personally.
“Yes, sir?” He muttered drly.
Farlorn got beside Gavin and took out a message pad along with his ball-point pen. He used a gridded sheet to draw up a simple expression of their planned route and layout of the city's industrial area, copying from his waterproof chart. Rain tapped on the sheet.
“I need you to take this back to the HQ,” Farlorn said as he wrote. “Five hundred meters east in that direction is where it should be. I need you to impress on Captain Killearn of our situation and position. Along with the current numbers of infected that could be a threat.”
Farlorn finished writing and placed his signature at the bottom, authorizing it with his rank. He handed it to Gavin who put it into his satchel. “Do you understand, Pathfinder?”
Gavin nodded.
“Am I to go on my own, sir?”
“I can’t afford to spare any more men. You’ll be faster than us alone and less detectable.”
“Even so, It’ll be hard to slip past them.”
“Don’t worry about that, pathfinder. I’ll handle that. Worry about your duty, which is to get this to Killearn. Got that.”
The Pathfinder looked at him, thinking about his objective. He never really did like Farlorn for what he did to his world and would never forgive him for what he did, many of Rangers were the same. Farlorn was quite the man, without doubt or hesitation, to order the death of troopers to achieve his goals and ambitions. Gavin understood that. Gavin understood, despite him being a pathfinder, that he was nothing more than an instrument, and that if he fails and dies, it’ll be no more to Farlorn that a shovel breaking in a ditch or a button coming off his shirt. Farlorn had no actual concern in Gavin’s life or the manner of his ending, only that he completed what was asked of him. Farlorn was the type of person, who although he cared for his troops, saw them for what they were: currency to spend in the name of the Confederacy; and he would spend them well.
Gavin pursed his lips and nodded. The Pathfinder got up, taking a last look at Farlorn, and then began to pick his way through the ruined factory lot behind them, keeping his head down low and his cape right around his body.
Farlorn watched as the pathfinder disappeared out of sight.
***
The Rangers pulled back three more blocks. Fennstrum and the advance section came across what seemed to be an actually functioning factory. Dragging open the large front doors, they swept and cleared the inside for the rest of the platoon behind them. This had once been a speeder manufacturing plant, with machinery and assembly plants to boot. The lights here were still on, blasting the factory floor with harsh white light. It was running on emergency power
A conveyor belt for an assembly line was still running and Fennstrum shut it down from a control pad. It was if all the workers had just left for lunch break and were just about to come back.
“At least it's somewhere dry.” Farlorn came in. He turned back and waved in more of the troopers out of the rain. The four pathfinders and Hark stayed outside, working as spotters.
“It’s the perfect spot. It’ll make lots of noise, sir.”
“Good, with the pathfinders will draw as many infected they can into his factory spot. It’s open and we’ll set up a killzone.”
“I’ll get out the lights, sir.” Fennstrum turned back to the control pad and pulled on a big red lever. With a series of loud bangs, the lights turned off, one section at a time before the whole factory was bathed in darkness. The only source of light was from the few skylights dotted on the ceiling.
Farlorn, working with Fennstrum, worked out the positions for the men.
“Hide!” The master of pathfinders hissed suddenly over the comms.
At once, the Rangers melted into the shadows, dragging their cloaks over them and finding refuge in the darkest spots. Farlorn found his cover behind a batch of burst flour sacks. Fennstrum smeared dark filth over his face and backed up against a stained wall, the only thing standing out being the frightening whites of his eyes. Pradesh and a fireteam waited above on a walkway. Hark couldn’t be found anywhere.
All of them had their silver bayonets attached to their rifles, though dulled down with soot and filth to hide their flash.
They made no sound at, not even breathing, keeping it shallow as much as they could. They didn’t fidget or squirm. Even they’re fingers didn’t even move. Still as statues, they watched the infected begin to inch their way onto the factory floor.
“I count at least fifty-eight.” He heard Pathfinder Gavin announce over the comms.
“Hold your fire until I say so,” Farlorn ordered.
They saw figures begin to walk on the wet manufacturing floor. They moved like jerking puppets, erratic and nonsensical. Their clothes were all ragged and bloody. Flies swarmed the figures as their flesh rotted. There was no mistake, they were infected. The commander of the Rangers waited until he counted fifty-three infected in the open and whispered into his mic. “Fire.”
The Rangers rose from their stealth spots, as if they appeared out of thin air like ghosts, and opened up. It was suddenly so bright it was as if the sun had come up. The noise was immense, echoing and bouncing back in the small enclosed factory. Farlorn saw at least five of the infected drop in their brutal opening salvo. He rose up and saw one of the foe reeling after a devastating chest wound. His blaster pistol banged loudly and the infected flopped backward violently.
“In the name of Caria, kill them!” Farlorn heard Fennstrum roar as he leaped forward. The Major speared one of the infected through the neck and fired, bursting the head like a ripe fruit. All around them, the Rangers quickly charged, pressing their advantage with furious determination.
Above, Pradesh and his team fired down into the exposed infected, cutting down about fifteen of them and forcing the rest into cover. One of the idle generators burst into flames as the stray fire hit it. The windows above shattered, dropping heavy lead glass shards down. Three of the infected were shredded to pieces by the shards. Rain began to sweep in.
Farlorn strode forward, shouting to his men through the roar of the intense combat and firing his heavy blaster pistol. The Rangers slaughtered more and more as they advanced. Hark’s pathfinders appeared from nowhere and cut more of them down, forcing the infected into a corner of the factory that once had been an assembly line.
They took their first loss here, one Trooper Soylon. An infected jumped at him from around a corner with a slugger scattergun, releasing a wide burst of incandescent fury. Soylon fell over with a loud scream that even drowned out the roar of blaster fire. Jantine, who had been right behind the fallen trooper, yelled in fury as he riddled the front of the offending infected with blaster bolts. He dove down to Soylon, the rest of the Rangers advancing without him, but he saw that it was clearly a mortal wound. The front of his eyes had been lost, his jaw shattered, and his face was masked with blood.
He held down the screaming and sobbing mess that was once Soylon. His blood was spilling all over Jantine’s uniform as he tried to hold him down. There was no use wasting medical supplies on someone this far gone.
But he could help. He could comfort him. It was the least that the corpsman could do It was his oath. His duty.. He struggled to remember his training and the rites.
“Be calm now, my good friend, for The Lord is rushing here to present you with the gift of peace you crave. Is there anything you wish to confess now?” Jantine tried to do his best soothing voice. He couldn’t tell if it was working on Soylon but he had stopped screaming. He didn’t reply.
“I have heard and now forgive you for any sins you may have committed. Know that The Lord hath blessed you and, though there is pain, it will end, as all pain ends, and you will ascend without the pain of the mortal world to his holy domain. These last rites I give you freely and in good faith.”
Soylon was struggling to say something. What used to be his mouth was making wet gurgling noises. Jantine leaned over and placed his hood’s audio receptors over his face.
“After I’m gone… they’ll die,” Soylon pleaded. “R-r-r-remember them or they’re gone forever. S-s-s-she’ll be so l-l-l-lonely...” His left hand clawed at the vest pocket of his tunic, trying to unbutton it.
Soylon’s bloody left hand still fumbled with the pocket fastening. Jantine reached over and undid the pocket for him, and took out what was inside. It was an old faded black-and-white picture of Soylon with a woman by his side, cradling a small child in her hands. It had been his beloved daughter and her grandson lost forever during the Fall. He had talked so much about them during the mobilization.
“I shall, I promise you that. Be now with them, Soylon, be happy with them.” Jantine whispered and looked back down. Soylon was gone.
Prennis Keeoli
Luna Terrik
|
Kyyrk
