Chapter 66 Part 5: Nanda The Changeling Chapter 65: "To Us!"
The metallic tang of adrenaline was still sharp in my mouth, my blood thrumming with a frantic, post-climax energy that had nowhere to go. My stomach felt hollow and sick, a tight knot of nerves and revulsion. A dark, morbid part of me desperately wanted to see what was happening back in the lounge, to witness the culmination of the brutal justice I had set in motion. But the scene inside the humming, armoured hopper was one of surreal tranquillity.
Ciel and Jode were already buried in their work, data pads and folders open on their laps, their quiet murmurs about trade quotas and embassy logistics a world away from the animalistic snarls and human screams we had just left behind. Lord Vincent was gazing out the reinforced window, actually humming, a soft, tuneless melody as the stark Sylvan landscape blurred past. They were all at ease, the tension of the past days sloughing off them like a discarded skin. The mission was accomplished; they were going home.
Everyone was at ease, except Saul.
He sat rigidly, his back not touching the seat, his eyes constantly scanning the passing terrain. He was a bird of prey perched high in a tree, his stillness not one of peace but of hyper-vigilance. Every scrubby bush, every rock outcrop, was assessed and catalogued as a potential threat. His silent watchfulness was a cold splash of reality on my fragile sense of relief.
The mountains, the natural border with Polli-Nation, grew ever larger on the horizon. With each passing kilometre, the oppressive weight of Sylva seemed to lighten a fraction. The air in the hopper felt easier to breathe. The tightness in my chest began to loosen.
Maybe, I thought, a desperate hope kindling inside me. Maybe we are actually going to make it, over the border. Maybe there will be no repercussions, no last-minute ambush.
The question hung in the quiet of the cabin, a fragile, trembling thing: Was I home free?
The hopper sped on, leaving the opulent heart of the empire behind and entering its scarred periphery. The landscape shifted from manicured order to a bleak, militarized zone. And then I saw them.
We began to pass soldiers. They were not the polished, silver-clad troops that had paraded in Sylva. These were hollow-faced Nates, their uniforms dust-stained and frayed, hanging loosely on frames grown thin and malnourished from long deployment and supply line failures. They stood listlessly at checkpoints or trudged along the roadside, their eyes holding a flat, weary emptiness that spoke of a war with no end in sight.
The sight was a punch to the gut, a stark reminder that the treaty we had just fought for was not merely a political abstraction. This ceasefire was for them. It was for these weary, forgotten souls on the edge of the empire. Right now, they knew nothing of the deal struck in the star-chamber. They didn't know that the relentless grind of war might soon be over.
But maybe, soon, the news would reach them. Maybe soon, the weight of the rifle could be lifted from their shoulders. They could go home. They could see mothers, wives, children. They could sit in a warm dining room, the sounds of conflict replaced by the simple, profound sounds of family. They could eat a warm, freshly prepared meal, tasting not just food, but the flavour of peace itself.
Seeing them, the hollowed-out reality of the conflict, made the risks we had taken feel more necessary, more real. It was no longer just about shipping lanes and political face; it was about giving these Nates their lives back.
The border checks were a long, tedious ordeal of scanned documents, biometric verification, and suspicious glances from Sylvan guards who seemed to take our departure as a personal insult. Finally, we were waved through the final gate, the official barrier between Sylva and the neutral zone now behind us. The air itself felt different, lighter, less oppressive.
A familiar sight awaited us: three sleek portys, their polished surfaces reflecting the harsh borderland sun. It was a mirror of our arrival, a lifetime ago. Ciel and Jode, ever the pragmatic scholars, offered friendly, professional farewells and, without ceremony, climbed into the first vehicle. I watched as Lord Vincent and Saul, sharing some unspoken understanding, moved in unison toward the second porty.
A familiar, lonely ache settled in my chest. Of course. The hierarchy reasserted itself. The Lord, his bodyguard, and then the aide, each in their own isolated pod. It made sense. With a quiet sigh, I turned and started heading towards the third, solitary porty, my single bag feeling suddenly heavy.
Just as my hand reached for the door, Lord Vincent's voice boomed across the tarmac, laced with familiar, theatrical exasperation.
"Nanda, you, halfwit! Where do you think you're going?"
I froze, turning to see him leaning out of the second porty's door, a broad, genuine smile cracking his stern facade.
"You're with us," he said, jerking his thumb toward the interior where Saul sat, a faint, long-suffering look, on his face that couldn't quite hide a glint of approval.
The simple invitation washed over me, dissolving the loneliness in an instant. It wasn't just a seating arrangement. It was an acknowledgment. After everything, the blood, the terror, the negotiations, the game I was no longer just an aide. I was one of them. Without another word, I changed course, a matching smile spreading across my own face as I walked toward my true place, not in a lonely pod, but with my team.
The porty hummed to life and began to pull away from the border complex. A strange, melancholic urge gripped me, a need to sear the image of that oppressive, gilded empire into my memory, a reminder of what we had survived. I leaned over Saul, my shoulder brushing against his solid arm, to get one last, proper look through the tinted window as the Sylva border receded.
BANG!
My head jerked back, smacking against the roof of the porty in a shock of pure, instinctual terror. We’re being shot at! My heart hammered, my body tensing for impact.
But instead of the shatter of glass or the whine of projectiles, I was met with the gleaming, triumphant face of Lord Vincent. He was holding a frothing, bubbling bottle of what could only be bubble-vin, a delicate glass in his other hand, and two more were comically squashed between his thighs. The "bang" had been the sound of the cork.
"I do miss a good drink," he declared, his voice rich with joy and relief as he expertly poured the golden, effervescent liquid into the three glasses, not spilling a drop despite the vehicle's motion. He handed one to a stoic-but-amused Saul, and then one to me, my own shock slowly melting into disbelieving laughter.
He raised his glass high. "To us!" he toasted, his eyes sparkling.
"Saviors of the Polli-Nation!" he laughed, the title both grandiose and, in this moment, perfectly fitting.
"To us!" Saul and I echoed in unison, our voices a blend of his gravel and my newfound baritone. I took a deep, long draft of the drink. The bubbles burst on my tongue, crisp and clean and celebratory, a taste of victory and freedom that was sweeter than anything I had ever known. It was the official end of the nightmare, and the beginning of whatever came next.
The bubble-vin bubbles were still dancing on my tongue, the sweet taste of victory and safe passage a tangible relief in my mouth. Just as I was sinking into that thought, allowing myself to believe the ordeal was truly over, Lord Vincent’s tone shifted. The boisterous, celebratory timbre vanished, replaced by a crisp, analytical clarity that cut through the fizz like a shard of ice.
“This, Nanda,” he said, gesturing with his glass between the three of us in the intimate confines of the porty, “is your unofficial debrief. The real one will come when we reach home, and believe me, the goons conducting that won’t be nearly as charming as our Saul here.” He barked that loud, sharp laugh again, but it held no real humour this time. “Oh, no. They’ll have you in a white room for hours, picking apart every comma of your story.”
He took a sip, his eyes fixed on me, the politician and strategist now fully restored. “But for now, between us… let’s go over what really happened in Sylva.” He leaned forward slightly, the bubble-vin flute looking suddenly like a prop in his hand. “Starting with last night.”