Outlanders

Epilogue

Sasachaquy sat in a dungeon, resting her head against the same spot on the grimy wall where she always did.

She had been dragged into this pit by the natives a year ago- by now, probably longer- for reasons she could only guess at. The dungeon guards never responded to her when she spoke, and she did not understand a word of their tongue. When she could go free was a mystery to her, but every night, she dreamed of her home in the misty valleys of the Tawantinsuyu.

She heard a sound above, not like anything she had heard here before. She stood up and leaned against the prison bars. For the first time since being taken here, her interest was piqued.

A woman skulked into view. She was dressed like a factory worker, but was not nearly as scruffy as the ones Sasachaquy had seen. A multicolored ribbon stood out on her lower leg, and- Sasachaquy could not believe it- she had the copper-tone skin of an Inti.

The visitor stepped up to the bars, producing a key ring. "I am Qasikay Ahuanarque," she said, in Inti. "I am here to rescue you. Can you run?"

Sasachaquy gaped back at her, not believing her ears. "Me?" she murmured. "Who are you? What are you wearing?"

"I was one of the other scouts sent over here from Tawantinsuyu. The Inti Empire is safe. Now I'm looking for the people we lost in these lands."

"Oh, thank the gods!"

Her voice dropped to a mumble. "No, thank me. The gods care only for the empire. You and I are on our own." She clicked open the door and held out a hand. For the first time, Sasachacuy noticed the bitter coldness in her eyes.

"Who are you really?" asked Sasachaquy. "I remember Qasikay, and she was a priestess. You don't talk like a priestess."

"I'm not a priestess anymore. I'm trying to atone for something terrible I've done. And I'm doing it away from the emperor's eyes."

"What? Then whose orders are you under?"

"No one's. I don't fight for flags or gods anymore. Now, I'm just doing what's right."

* * *

The thief kicked and snarled as a tall blond policeman pulled him through the dark hallways with insulting ease. Like a man emptying a chamber pot, the policeman shoved him into a small room and shut the heavy door with a metallic clang.

The room was windowless and empty, save for a small table and two chairs. A single candle on the table showed a slight, black-haired man sitting patiently in a chair across from him. He smiled, but there was a steely look in his eyes. The thief knew that look well- this man had seen his fair share of horrors in his life.

"So," the black-haired man began, interlocking his fingers, "I'm supposed to get some answers out of you about last night's trespassing."

The thief's eyes darted to a thick black book under the policeman's right hand. On the front cover, the thief made out the word 'necromancy.' He gasped. "You're going to torture me..."

"No. No, I am not. I'm an interrogator, but I'm not that kind."

"Well then... just who the hell are you?"

The interrogator grinned and said, "There was a time when I wouldn't have known how to answer that."

* * *

Private Jefferson hurried down the trench, his gait sloshing and heavy. Mud caked his boots and dripped from the trench walls, and the air was noxious with gunpowder and mustard gas. Biplanes roared through the sky above, answered by the angry crack of howitzers. He heard the pounding of Kyojin footsteps. They sounded like mark IVs, with maybe a mark V among them.

Private Jefferson did not think. Instead, he ran. He knew that enemy armor was coming and there was no help in sight. The enemy could have this ground. His only thoughts now were to hide.

Breathless and without his weapon, he ran down the trench into the subterranean bomb shelter at its end.

Inside, he fell to his knees, panting, slick with sweat beneath his thick, ruffled uniform. A single oil lamp glowed sadly on a hook in the corner, casting orange shadows across the tomblike shelter. As his eyes adjusted, Jefferson made out the form of a fellow soldier. He was of a generous, muscular build, with ghostly pale skin that had an odd texture to it.

When he caught sight of the soldier's face, Jefferson recoiled, realizing that he was a lupine. The lupine looked very old, with the contours of his skull showing on his wizened face and heterochromatic eyes steeped in both sadness and hope. His uniform showed the name of Corporal Leif Božek.

"Hey there," said Leif, his voice inappropriately calm. "I wondered when you'd notice me here. Come on, sit down. There's room."

Private Jefferson slumped heavily down in the moldy wooden bench beside Leif.

"Why did I sign up for this?" Jefferson moaned. "Why? They told me it was a fight for freedom! For justice. But there's nothing out here but death. I swear, if I ever leave this pit, I'll never entertain such childish notions again."

"Ah," said Leif, smiling, "another hero down on his spirits. Listen, boy. You shouldn't give up. People giving up is part of how things got this bad in the first place."

"What do you know abou- someone's coming!"

"Relax, she's one of ours."

"How can you tell?"

"I recognize the scent."

As he said this, a hulk of a woman lumbered to a stop inside the shelter, panting through gritted teeth. In the lamplight, the woman looked ancient, even though she was fortified with musculature. She carried a machine gun in her hands like it was a rifle, its bipod dangling idly beneath the thick barrel. She and Leif exchanged a nod.

"Zoltána?" Jefferson repeated, staring at the name on her uniform. "I've heard that name before... my god, it's you! You were the first High Secretary of Textile Town!" His face fell. "And... you were the last one, before the city turned bad."

"Pah," Zoltána huffed, her voice raspy. "After I won the election, they all wanted a perfect world. And when they didn't get it, they said it had gone bad. But look at this." Digging into her pouches, she drew out a mangled photograph of a city street, showing an electric streetcar sitting under a web of telegraph wires. "Look at that," she said. "Infrastructure. When I was a girl, no one even knew the meaning of the word."

Leif nodded sagely- smugly, Jefferson thought. "Maybe this war really is a lost cause. But the world's not made of stone. Try to change it, and it will move, even if it doesn't go far. And one day, you'll wake up and realize that the biggest change wasn't the one you gave to the world. The biggest change..."

Leif put his hand over Jefferson's heart.

"... happened in here. There's good in the world already. The more good you do, the more it'll find you."

Jefferson sat back, trying to remember how long it had been since he had seen optimism.

The ground rumbled with an explosion several times bigger than anything a biplane could deliver.

"That came from our side," said Zoltána. "Come on, honey, we'd better check it out."

Leifstood up and followed his wife to the door. "Just remember," he saidback to Jefferson, "Don't give up. This world's not worth giving upon."