Chapter 45 Chapter 44: Blood and Dust
I had never been close to mountains before. From a distance in picture-books, they had seemed majestic. Up close, they were oppressive. Their sheer, unforgiving size, their ancient, unyielding solidness, dwarfed me long before we even reached the border towns. They made a mockery of my personal anxieties, reducing them to the insignificant tremors of an insect against a continent.
The country we drove through now was nothing like the polished capital I came from. The air itself grew colder, carrying a gritty dust that seemed to coat everything. The people here looked as hard as the stone they mined from the unforgiving hills. Their faces were etched with a permanent squint, their postures stooped not from study, like Jode's, but from a lifetime of labour. They were the backbone of our society, fuelling our industry, yet they seemed to live in a state of grim, functional poverty. Their dwellings were simple, sturdy boxes of concrete and sheet metal, a stark contrast to the elegant marble of Dr. Norton's apartment block.
On top of this harsh reality were the fresh, ugly scars of the war. A great, blackened gash was carved out of a hillside where a stray missile had landed. A little further on, the skeleton of a warehouse stood, its roof blown off, its walls pockmarked with shrapnel. This wasn't history; it was a current event.
This was a hard, brutal place I never knew existed within our supposedly rich and unified society. Here, the polished lies of the politicians I now worked for were laid bare. The talk in the capital was of strategy and national pride, but here, you could see the truth buried in the scorched earth and the weary eyes of the people who bore the real cost.
As we neared the border, the landscape of hardship became a landscape of war. We began to see our troops. Not the parade-ground soldiers of the capital, but grim-faced Nates in battle-worn armour, manning checkpoints fortified with sandbags and razor wire. Their presence was a cold, final reminder: the world of diplomacy I was entering was a thin veneer over a reality of raw, violent power.
I saw them then, our men, our soldiers. They were not the proud, marching columns of propaganda posters. They were individuals and small clusters of humanity, brought to a complete stop by the road, seeking a moment's respite from the unending horror. Their uniforms were the colour of the earth, stained with things I dared not guess. And then we came, our motorcade, so clean it was obscene, the polished chrome and dark glass reflecting their broken forms back at them. They could not look away. And I, seated in my air-conditioned bubble, could not look away from them. What a sight we must have been. A parade of ghosts from the world of the living, intruding upon a landscape of blood and dust. In their eyes, I saw no hatred, only a vast, weary curiosity, and it shamed me more than any accusation ever could.
The evidence was in the numbers. The density of troops clustered by the roadside thickened with every mile, their faces grim and watchful. The sporadic jeeps and trucks of the front lines were now replaced by hulking armoured personnel carriers, their engines rumbling like restless beasts. It was a logistical tide, and it could mean only one thing: we were approaching the nerve centre, the final destination of our journey here in Polli-Nation. According to the brittle ceasefire deal, our current escort would soon hand us over to a new one at the border.
When we reached it, the border was not a simple line but a fortress of tension. We were ushered into a low-slung, concrete building that radiated an aura of severe security, its walls scarred and its windows narrow. Every move was tracked by the watchful eyes of soldiers stationed on rooftops and behind sandbags, their weapons held at a ready that felt anything but casual. Inside, under the hum of fluorescent lights, we were offered a stark but profound hospitality: warm, sweet berry leaf and the chance for a well-needed toilet break. It was a momentary pause in the sterile, anxious air, a final breath before our new escorts claimed us and we stepped into the unknown.
The bathroom was a grim, concrete box that smelled of stale antiseptic and damp. It was the first moment of true solitude I'd had in hours. Leaning against the chipped porcelain sink, I pulled out my com, my thumb hovering over Silver’s icon. The screen glared back at me: NO NETWORK. A cold knot tightened in my stomach. This was it; we were truly in the dead zone. Still, I typed the message out, a ritual against the isolation, and hit send. The icon spun uselessly, but I let it try. I needed to believe the words would find their way to her the second we crossed into a sliver of signal.
Just about to leave Polli-Natation, Love you.
I took a shaky breath, straightening the wrinkles from my travel-stained clothes. My reflection in the smeared metal sheet that served as a mirror looked pale and stretched thin. One last check, a futile attempt to reassemble my composure, and I pushed the heavy door open, stepping back into the reception area.
The air in the room was thick with a silence that felt more tense than the noise outside. And there, at its centre, was Lord Vincent, a predator holding court amidst our huddled entourage. His eyes, sharp and missing nothing, locked onto me the moment I appeared.
“Nanda, so good of you to join us,” he boomed, his voice a weapon of false cheer that shattered the quiet and made several people flinch. He gestured vaguely towards the window, beyond which shadowy figures of soldiers from both sides could be seen posturing. “It seems that our Nates and their Nates are having a few teething problems with our newfound peace. A pity, really. That one or two of them may be a little too zealous for a ceasefire.” He laughed then, a short, harsh sound that held no warmth, the kind of laugh you hear before a deal goes sour.
Before I could form a reply, he pivoted, his theatricality in full force. “Now, let me introduce you to the family,” he smirked, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. He clapped a hand on the shoulder of a slender man clutching a data pad. “You have met Jode. Amazing with numbers, can tell you the cost of a bullet down to the decimal. But dull as a fish, honestly.” Jode didn’t react; his gaze fixed on his screen as if Vincent’s comment was just another piece of data.
Vincent’s attention then swept to a broad-shouldered man standing with a deceptively relaxed posture. “And this is Ciel, my number two, who will be showing you the ropes. Ciel, political and cultural liaison.” Vincent rolled his eyes. “Sounds a bit like a fancy yogurt, doesn't it? And Saul,” he paused, feigning forgetfulness, “what is it you do for me, Saul?”
Saul´s gaze was level, his voice a low, steady rumble, devoid of emotion. “I am your military/security expert, sir.”
“Ah, yes! Saul the soldier,” Vincent declared, as if recalling a mildly amusing trivia fact. He turned back to me with a conspiratorial wink. “He thinks it’s his job to protect me.”
The air, already thick with tension, seemed to solidify as a high-ranking Officer carved a path through the room towards us. His polished boots clicked a sharp, urgent rhythm on the concrete floor. He stopped before Vincent, his posture rigid, a man braced to deliver unpleasant news.
“Lord Vincent, sir,” he began, his voice tight. “They are here. The delegation from the other side. They are ready for you.”
Lord Vincent didn't even look at the man, instead adjusting the cuff of his immaculate jacket. “Good show…” he drawled, the words dripping with casual indifference. “Let’s go then, Nates,” he announced to our entourage, before his gaze landed on me with a flicker of theatrical surprise. “Oh, and you of course, Nanda! No one wants to forget you, my dear. Wouldn't do to leave the guest of honour behind.” He flashed me a brilliant, insincere smile, then turned back to the Officer, flapping a hand. “Lead the way, brave sir,” he laughed, a sound that was all mockery and no warmth.
The Officer’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Lord Vincent… there’s a complication. They are not going to let our Nates come with you. They were… quite firm. They said that their security would suffice.”
For a heartbeat, the polished mask of amusement on Vincent’s face hardened. Then, it was back, smoother and more dangerous than ever. “No problem, Colonel,” he said, his voice a silken purr. “We expected this little display of… territorial insecurity. They must have their toys, mustn't they?” He then turned to Saul, and the shift in his tone was deliberate, a blade being unsheathed. The playful condescension vanished, replaced by a low, serious command. “We are ready, are we not, Saul?”
Saul, who had been observing the entire exchange like a statue, didn't move a muscle. His eyes, cold and assessing, were fixed on the door where the new escort waited.
“We are ready,” Saul said, his voice as cold and final as the cocking of a hammer.
“Then, lets follow the Colonel, lets follow him people.”