Page 6 of Born for Silk
She looks at her father again. “God is in her heart, Daddy.” Her violet eyes well up. It is weak, but endearing, nonetheless. “That will not change.”
Further discussions fill the air between our circle, but I am not listening anymore.
Less than an hour passes, and we are once again on the road, parting the chaotic wind, tank tracks grinding southwards down the Red Decline.
Sitting back in the tank, my skin prickles against the corruption in the air.
We offered the Common community Trade men and supplies for the coming months. The aid, exchange, supplies… It seems all too philanthropic to me. Not the image of Turin I’ve had all these years growing up.
Then again, he gains a far superior prize for his visit to the raided community—fresh-faced babies for The Trade.
We are travelling through last-light toward The Neck when the tank stops abruptly—again.
Frowning, I peer through the periscope, the infrared light activating against the dim, to find we have parked within the skeletons of a city from long ago—Ruins S, I would wager. The echoes of civilisation fade into the desert winds.
Across from us is a once-white truck adorned with scars, windows painted with messy black strokes, and a bonnet showcasing a grill not unlike the mouth of a rabid dog. A true manifestation of the life lived in the desert.
“The fuck are we doing here?” I ask as Turin readies himself to climb through the hatch. I don’t know why I ask. I don’t expect an answer, so I press my eyes to the scope and search the outside, right and then left.
We are alone.
Can’t see the other tank.
Then I see them.
Movement through the Redwind catches my eye. I feel the unsettling crawl of eyes before I make out the shady figures of hooded men as they appear from behind the truck. Their bodies part the thick sand-filled air, wind waving their cloaks.
Endigos.
If Xin De became part beast during the Gene Age, then Endigos are the vultures. They’ll feed on anything without remorse. Teeth thin and flexible for filleting, and nails long and sheer, but there isn’t a great deal to feast on out here—except Common.
Turin approaches the truck, and one of the Endigos flings back the canopy, exposing the tray, the wind aiding, blasting the fabric backward.
On the metal bed, bodies are stacked in careless piles. I squint at the bloody mounds. Slim torsos. Short legs. A small arm swings free, flapping in the wind by the tyre. A female arm. Branded on her wrist is a purple flower-womb sigil.
A Silk Girl…
Turin leans over the tray, inspecting the bodies. Uncertainty builds inside my gut, too many questions firing at once, churning my blood.
Why is the king meeting with Endigos?
To what end?
Turin finally notices the woman at the bottom of the heavy stack of flesh and reaches for her arm. He inspects the tattoo. Showing no sign of emotion, as is the way of a king, he drops the arm and returns to the tank.
I frown at the truck.
“Boy?” Kong’s tone is deep with warning.
I sit back and stare blankly at him. “We knew about the raid.” My mind swims with thoughts. “Maybe even organised it. For her? Who was she?” It is a statement, but still implores an answer.
He deadpans. “I don’t get involved.”
“Or was it for the babies?”
“I don’t get involved in politics, boy. You’ll know soon enough, I am sure. Your father wanted you to see or else you wouldn’t be here. Must admit, one hell of a lesson for your first campaign as the heir.”
Chapter Two