Daughters is a sci-fi action-adventure novel, set somewhere in Eastern Europe 2067. Twenty years ago, an alien race called the Khor'Zon landed on Earth and abducted children to be their indoctrinated soldiers. V'delle is one of these soldiers, now a 25-year-old woman on the run.
This section of the novel takes place in the back half of the book, after V'delle and her current companion Piers escape a resistance compound. A central theme of the novel is identity, and V'delle's longing to understand who she really is. She is surly and a bit of an asshole, but underneath it all is a girl who never had a real childhood.
Once the meat had been cut and the fire started, V’delle found a massive windowsill on the north end of the foyer, sitting with one leg pushed against the wall and the other dangling. The dirty glass reminded her of the Observatory in the Chalis. Through a small patch of clarity, she watched the fields that stretched for miles outside the tiny village. The reaches of darkness hadn’t claimed the sky yet, and V’delle figured they still had a few good hours of afternoon to kill.
The circle of gray dots—Beliveilles—it couldn’t be much farther. She remembered there had been another city that preceded Beliveilles, one much larger and encompassing, but she couldn’t recall the name. Maybe finding that city was their next step.
Once Farin had recovered from the stun bolt, she relocated to a small office on the second floor. She never said anything to anyone and hadn’t come out since. Piers kept shooting glances at V’delle, but she wouldn’t respond to the situation. If Farin wanted to seclude herself, that was fine by V’delle.
Ketterhagan was resting behind the kiosk, lying on a small mat Piers had brought from Contra Mare. Piers had cleaned the scientist’s pummeled face of blood, bandaging Ketterhagan’s head and applying some of Contra Mare’s antiseptic gel as needed. V’delle was glad they got Ketterhagan out, but now that she was finished with Contra Mare, she wasn’t sure what to do with him. She sure as hell didn’t want to drag his ass around. Maybe Farin would take over.
Piers stepped through the front door with the last batch of supplies under one arm. “Remember anything?” She shook her head, watching him take out three plates from the backpacks. “If we stay on this road, maybe we’ll see something you’ll remember. You said it was close, right?”
V’delle looked back outside. “Yeah. I’ll remember something.” Her voice lowered so that the pane of glass was her only listener. “I have to.”
Piers collected the pieces of cooked meat and fashioned their meager dinner. He pulled crinkled bottles of clear water from the packs. In the next moment, he was offering her a plate with two cuts of shriveled, maroon venison, and a bottle.
“Thank you,” she said. Her mouth watered. The meat smelled like mild vinegar, and the whole room was baking in acidic fumes. “I would’ve burned it. Or not cooked it enough. I was never good at cooking—I mean, we didn’t cook much anyways.” He grinned and went back to claim his own meal. After a moment of watching her food, she set the plate on the windowsill. “Piers?”
“Hm?”
“Do you regret coming with me?”
He stopped everything and looked up with a troubled brow. “What do you mean?”
“It’s a simple question.”
He put his plate on the floor. “V’delle, I promised I would come with you.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
“I’ve had plenty of chances to go my own way. I knew how dangerous it would be to come with you. I don’t regret it. Maybe I will.”
“Then why did you come?” she asked. “Let’s face it; this world isn’t exactly bound by morality.” He shifted weight and took a bite of his meat. “Piers?”
“Maybe the world isn’t bound by morality. But I made a deal to get my family to safety, so I’m fulfilling my end of the deal.”
V’delle squinted. “I’m no expert on having a family . . . but wouldn’t you want to make absolutely sure they were safe? Even if you need to keep your word, you’re still not rushing or anything. You seem so . . . calm. I think you’re lying.”
“What do you want me to say? I guess I want to help you.”
“Why?”
Their rigid gaze was bolstered by the flames that separated them. V’delle sat still, neutrality in her face, waiting for Piers to speak words that she felt she already knew he would speak—words she unconsciously hoped he would speak. About his daughter, Danielle. About his willingness to forgive V’delle, to let go of his family in order to travel with her.
“I don’t break my promises,” he said firmly. “I’m doing this because if I didn’t, how could I ever look my wife in the eyes without feeling guilty? She would ask how I was able to get them back. She would eventually figure it out. Rosalie would want me to do this. If our places were switched—if I was back at the farm—she’d be here with you, too.”
V’delle deflated, taking her plate and sitting across from him. His answer wasn’t satisfying and seemed half true. No matter how much she wanted to pry, she decided to drop it. “Well, don’t get mad at me when we start running in circles trying to find my home.”
Piers smirked. As he chewed, he looked around. “There might be a map here, you know. Place looks like a government building or something.”
“Already checked.” She examined her meat and picked one of the pieces. “But . . . we’ll look through the rest of the town tomorrow.”
The portions were gone in minutes; she closed her eyes to the smoky flavor. They tasted much better than they smelled. She licked her fingers after each morsel, savoring the juices. Her stomach thanked her graciously for the sustenance; her weakness abated, her attentiveness mustered. She allowed a few gulps of water, trying to ration as much as possible. Their supplies weren’t going to last them for more than a few days, and she wanted to make sure everyone else had their equal share; she was definitely indifferent about many things, but she wasn’t a total asshole. They ate in silence as the light outside became dimmer with each snore from Ketterhagan.
“So how exactly would you know where your home is?” Piers asked. “If we found a map, I mean. You remember that stuff?”
“I . . . don’t really remember.” She watched his vacant reaction. “I feel something—unmistakable. Back in Divask, before we met, I saw this map that made me feel something I’d never felt before. It was . . . burning almost, this burning in my chest—no, more like my body was being consumed by a wool blanket. It’s like I’d seen it a thousand times before. I would get these little jabs of memory, smells, sensations. And I just knew it meant something important. Something familiar that I couldn’t deny.”
He accepted her alibi and didn’t push the question further. V’delle felt as if any normal response would be hesitation, disbelief, or refutation, but Piers remained calm.
“Must be hard,” he said. “I couldn’t imagine not knowing my place, not knowing where I came from. Those things are so important to your identity, in a way.”
“It’s like I have no right to be in this world if I didn’t originate from anywhere. And sometimes I wonder if the Chalis really is my origin point. That’s all I know, right? That’s where I learned everything that made me who I am now. But now that I’m a ‘traitor’ . . . it starts to mess with your head; I feel like I don’t belong in either place. Earth or the Chalis.”
Piers rubbed his chin stubble. “But . . .” It looked like he wanted to say more, but conceded. “We’ll find something. We will.”
V’delle avoided eye contact. “Yeah.” Her throat started to feel tight, something that happened whenever she got too sentimental. It made her angry, and then somehow lackadaisical. It was getting clearer how many things made her mad. This was the first time it ever made her tired.
Piers listened to the fire. After a few minutes, he looked up to the second floor. “Guess I should take some up to Farin, too.”
V’delle drew a laborious breath. “She has ears. She has a nose. You’re not her servant.”
Piers cleaned his plate and stifled a burp. “Well, she hasn’t exactly recovered from your fight.” His stare lingered. “Remember? The only reason she was stunned is because she fainted right as we reached the garage.” It wasn’t an accusation or blame. It was a friendly reminder, keeping V’delle in check just as she liked to call people out on their bullshit. He paused, remembering the incident. “God, you missed quite the display. I must have looked insane. Me trying to catch Farin while shooting my own stun at that soldier. Then making sure Ketterhagan was still alive. I had Farin on one arm, Ketterhagan on the other. Getting them into the truck was a nightmare.” He was shaking his head in disbelief. “I mean, his head kept sticking to my chest . . . all that blood . . . I was worried I was hurting him more each time his head slumped back. And I had laid Farin on the garage floor to deal with him first, so I was worried about her the whole time. Once Ketterhagan was in, I had to try and get her into the back seat, but Ketterhagan would keep sliding out of the passenger seat. Luckily, the seatbelt would catch him. It was—”
V’delle made a noise. Like a surprise burp, quiet laughter discharged from her mouth. Her body jiggled, her eyes creased. Her mirthful laughs filled the foyer, little gasps of pure enjoyment.
Piers tried not to smile. “Yes, keep laughing. It was ridiculous. I felt like I was the only nurse in a hospice full of dying patients.”
V’delle caught her breath. “Sorry . . .”
Piers leaned back on his palms, shaking his head. “When’s the last time you laughed like that, fille?”
Her lazy high dissolved into a neutral, quiet gaze. “I can’t remember.”
The room became stagnant. Farin’s footsteps creaked. Ketterhagan’s snoring dominated the air.
Piers licked his teeth clean. “Well, it was a little too gamey, I think. But that’s what you get with a young one like this.”
“What?”
“I know, it sounds petty of me to say. But my . . . Rosalie used to make the best venison.” He leaned on his side, propped up by his elbow. “She would make these sausages . . . you know what those are? Sausages?” She shook her head. He began playing with the edge of his plate, smiling. “You grind up the meat and mix it with a bunch of different spices—er—tiny ingredients that make it taste better. After it’s all done and solid, you can cut it into these little slices that taste unbelievable with cheese and crackers.” He sighed, fantasizing about his wife’s cooking. “It was . . . those were good times . . .”
V’delle thought about Rosalie, Aluin, Roland, and Celestiel. She wondered what Danielle had been like. The thought of a happy family only saddened her, but she couldn’t resist. “What else would she cook?”
Surprised at her inquiry, he raised his eyes to sift through more memories. “Bread. She would make bread so incredibly addicting that everyone fought for the last piece. It was so crispy on the outside and fluffy on the inside. And it was always warm; the butter would melt right off the knife as you spread it. And the taste . . . God . . .”
Salivating for more than food, V’delle eagerly leaned forward. “What was life like before the war?”
The quiet of the afternoon built a gap between them.
“Carefree,” he said, with emphasis, smiling into the flames. “I remember a trip we took a long time ago, to this famous beach in la France called Côte d’Argent. Very different to the Coast you know. It was one of the clearest days I can remember. A blue I haven’t seen since. I was building sand castles with Danielle. She was so adamant on making a moat; it always ended up collapsing our towers. I can see Rosalie—she’s reading one of her favorite novels under the shade of our old parasol. We stayed until the sun melted into the sky—just the three of us. You could literally look into the sun without hurting your eyes.” He crossed his legs, and his voice got quieter. “V’delle, you would’ve loved it. There was so much beauty. So much life. Now that I see the difference . . . there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to get it back.”
V’delle only saw her Coast—dry, misty, and cold. A road paved with dead teenagers and burning lighthouses. She hungered for a life free of worrying about when to find cover, or how many bullets were left in her mag. “That sounds nice.”
Piers must have seen the emptiness of her eyes, the hollow look of longing mixed with depression. “Don’t get me wrong, things weren’t perfect. You know people; we don’t always get along.”
She glanced up at Farin’s door. “I can believe that.”
He sighed and leaned forward. “Believe it or not, there were wars. There were evil things happening daily. People stole, cheated, lied, killed. But it was . . . different—it was contained, for the most part. There were laws and rules in place. You could still go on a Sunday drive in the country with your family without having to worry about drones. You could go to your job and then come home to play with your kids. You could go to movies, eat at restaurants when the evening was still warm and glowing. You could . . . swim at the beach, build sandcastles. You could be free.”
V’delle’s heart was stuck between her throat and chest. “Do you think I’ll ever get to see it like that?”
Piers pondered, looking into her eyes with honesty. “I hope so. We might have to die for it.”
With warmth forming in her eyes, she sat straight. “I’m not afraid to die.” Her heart was exposed in all its vulnerable, timid glory.
They watched the flames smolder.
Thinking of Piers’ family and the old world conjured up images of the female Warlord who’d shot Farin and killed Aluin. V’delle wasn’t sure how the Warlord connected to their conversation, but it seemed appropriate, as if discussing the Warlord would move them closer to a world where building sandcastles could happen again. She breathed out the name, barely audible. “Naon.”
Piers sat up. “Huh?”
“The Khor’Zon who . . . killed your son. Her name is Naon.”
Piers adjusted to the information, taking a moment. “And how did you figure this out?”
“Soldiers at Vippa told me. I thought you’d wanna know.”
Piers contemplated, then nodded. “I do.”
“Do you want to kill her?”
He looked at her differently, as if she had asked something illegal. Then he sighed. “I don’t know.”
V’delle crossed her face. “What? Why? I thought you’d be happy.”
“Happy?”
“Okay, bad word choice. You know what I meant.”
He shrugged. “What good would come from trying to track her down? To go through so much trouble just to find and kill someone?”
V’delle recoiled, as if she were being duped. “You’d get to kill the Khor’Zon who murdered your son.”
“And you think that would make me feel better?”
“You’re damn right it would. We could find her. I would help you. She needs to pay for what she did to your family.”
“V’delle . . .” He seemed like he had a heavy question to ask but refrained. The tiniest sounds of the room’s ambience amplified tenfold. It looked like he was trying to figure out the best way to produce his next sentence, his next string of thoughts. “After Danielle died . . . I became . . . saturated in rage. Your oldest child is also your first baby, your first moment holding this delicate being in your arms. And she was at the age where we could talk as adults—she had become my scavenging buddy, a strong, capable woman who never complained. When she died, it felt as if my entire body was full of hot water, constantly directing me toward brash decisions. My relationship with Rosalie drowned in this boiling anger I had toward the Khor’Zon. I wouldn’t talk to her. I wouldn’t talk to my other kids. They all reminded me of her. I avoided all contact with everyone because I would always end up throwing something, breaking something. That rage sat at the surface of my skin for a long time. You saw some of it.”
He sat cross-legged, lacing his fingers together, resting them in his lap. V’delle had an idea where he was going with this story, but her intrigue ruled out her impatience.
“One night . . . I left the place where we were holed up. Just me. I took a rifle, and a few supplies, and I just left. I honestly didn’t know if I was going to return. I didn’t tell Rosalie where I was going. For three days I hunted packs of Preen’ch and Khor’Zon. I tracked their patrols to small encampments. I . . .” He looked into the fire, his eyes slowly lifting to V’delle. “I killed fourteen Preen’ch and two Khor’Zon. I slit their throats. I carved out their stomachs. I made the Khor’Zon watch as I mutilated their soldiers. I became so soaked in blood that it started drying in layers, becoming a second skin. The point I’m trying to make here, is that when I returned home . . . after everything I had just done . . . I felt nothing. I didn’t feel empowered. I didn’t feel like Danielle had been brought back in any way. She was still gone. And the hole that she left had only deepened. It changed nothing, V’delle. The pain of her loss stayed.”
V’delle didn’t know what to say. She initially disagreed, but it started to make sense. Killing Naon would feel good, sure, and it would be good for the overall war effort, but it would never bring anyone back. V’delle knew that, but killing Naon seemed better than doing nothing and letting the bitch continue slaughtering innocent people.
Piers shook his head. “I’m not moralizing here. I don’t mean to tell you how to live. It’s not like I will forget what that Khor’Zon did to my son. I don’t want to forget. But . . . it’s so much easier to hold onto that rage than to let it go. And frankly, I’m not going to put my family through another experience like that. My kids count on their father to be their goddamn father, not some red-faced, walking temper tantrum.”
“What was Danielle like?”
He looked genuinely surprised. “Really?”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“No, no. It’s fine.” He puffed some air. “Danielle was happy. She always made us laugh. I never expected one of my kids to keep Rosalie and me smiling when things got really bad. I mean, she wasn’t perfect; she had her moments of anger and sadness. But she was nearly impervious. I’m also biased. Her smile . . . it made everything better—instantly better. The room always seemed warmer and brighter when she came in. It’s been a few years now . . . and it gets harder to see her face. Sometimes I forget what she looks like. Sometimes I must picture a young Rosalie.”
“I’m sorry, Piers,” she said. “I’m sorry for everything.”
He nodded solemnly. After a few moments accompanied by crackling flames, he grabbed another plate and started to load it with meat. “I know what you said, but I’m still going to take this to Farin.”
V’delle leaned back on her arms. “Do what you want.”
When Piers’ boots clomped up the stairs, V’delle became restless. She’d had enough of her thoughts. She stood and paced the room, stretching her arms over her head, stopping in the patch of warm light entering through a board crack. There was an endless field outside, a runway between tall forests without any Khor’Zon corruption. If she really wanted to, could she drop everything and run forever through fields like that? It sounded so promising, so tantalizing, the idea of ripping away her Khor’Zon armor and running until her lungs exploded through her throat. So many conflicting identities were trying to pin her feet to the floor. Was she supposed to be upset for caring about Piers, his family, his reasons for coming with her? Was she supposed to care? Was she supposed to be harsher than this? Should she have rejected Piers’ proposition to come with her? Why wasn’t she telling everyone to screw off, especially now that she had ended up with Farin and Ketterhagan?
V’delle reached the window and stuck her head into the sill’s corner, trying to be absorbed into the wall, into the glass. She just wanted to be free from her thoughts for one second. There was some rustling behind her, but she toned it out.
“Is everything all right?” came an elderly German voice from behind the kiosk.
V’delle turned, startled. “Ketterhagan?”
The scientist was bracing his wobbly body on the corner of the kiosk, one eye watching her through a lens of involuntary tear build-up, the other covered in browning bandage. One side of his head sprouted his signature thinned, spiked white hair, more flared from his sleep than ever before.
His voice gurgled at first but cleared up when he coughed. “Should I be worried?”
V’delle frowned. “Huh? About what?”
He pointed to the window. “Your hand . . .”
She looked. Her metal fingers had been digging so hard into the window nook that she’d begun to peel back shavings of drywall. She let go.
Comments