The White Renegade (Viral Airwaves) (3 page)

Right here with him. Seraphin’s breath caught in his throat. Alex would come all the way back to this minuscule town, where people gave them weird looks more often than hellos, for the sake of being with him. What else? It seemed impossible that Alex—funny, confident, talented Alex—would go to such lengths for him. Seraphin tried to think of something to say and found the words had escaped, leaving his mind empty. He was also very hot, despite the wind slipping through his jacket and pushing his hair about. They remained there, unmoving, Alex still holding Seraphin’s gaze. After several long seconds, Alex’s eyebrows shot up.

“You know, if you meant to kiss me, that was the exact moment you should have.”

An embarrassed flush rose to Seraphin’s cheeks. He fumbled for words, failed again, and Alex laughed. They rolled their eyes, grabbed the front of his shirt, and pulled him down. Before his muddled brain could quite follow the sequence of events, Alex’s lips were pressed against his, and Seraphin’s discomfiture gave way to a very different warmth. It snuggled in the pit of his belly, throbbing. The kiss didn’t last, however.

When Alex stepped back, Seraphin grinned.

“That wasn’t exactly romantic.”

“I don’t do romance. I …” Alex trailed off, and for the first time since Seraphin had known them, they seemed to hesitate. Doubts weren’t something they often displayed. “Look, don’t get the wrong idea. I don’t
love
-love you, that’s just not me. But you’re cute, and important. Really important, just not in that way? So I’ll be coming back.”

At first Seraphin only stared, confused. Alex had just kissed him. They’d promised to come back every summer and said he was really important. All actions that intensified the warmth in Seraphin’s body, and made him crave more. He wanted to ask what Alex meant by ‘not
love
-love’, to have them explain away the sharp pain the words had brought. When he noticed Alex tugging at the corners of their open red jacket, lips pressed and gaze down at the ground, Seraphin bit back his question. Another day, perhaps. Despite the early explanation, it had taken the whole summer for Seraphin to wrap his head around Alex’s lack of gender. If they came back, Seraphin would have time to wrap his head around this second anomaly, too.

“O-okay, then. I’ll remember.” Better to change the subject. He managed a smirk and added, “It took the whole summer, but I finally got you to admit I was cute.”

Alex returned his smile and pushed him back a little. “Well played.”

After that, Alex seemed to relax. Their conversation turned away from the twisted tree, to the long travel that awaited Seraphin’s friend. Iswood was way farther north than their hometown, and it sounded like the cross-country hike was quite the pain. As Alex retold some of the misadventures on their way up to Iswood, Seraphin realized just how much trouble Alex would be going through for the sake of spending another summer with him. Suddenly it didn’t quite matter as much, whether or not they
loved
him. He had been blessed with the truest of friends, and he would forever thank his ancestors for it.

CHAPTER THREE

Three years had passed since Alex’s first summer in Iswood, and as Seraphin’s squad stopped on the plateau overlooking his hometown, he prayed his friend had left town early this year. The hot season was drawing to a close, and there was a chance Alex hadn’t stuck around since Seraphin wasn’t there. It might help ease his nerves to know they wouldn’t see whatever was coming. Seraphin had no idea
what
it’d be, but he already sensed it wouldn’t be good.

Two weeks ago, General Vermen had given orders to march on this miniscule town, this little hamlet lost in Regaria’s tall pine forests, declaring he would make an example of it. What kind of example, no one could tell. The weight in Seraphin’s stomach had grown with every passing day, until he could no longer eat anything. He didn’t want to know. Vermen’s ruthless reputation conjured the worst fears to his mind. Sergeant Dresden had noticed and been kind enough to call this whole enterprise a routine operation, but Seraphin couldn’t shake the horror creeping up his spine whenever he thought about it.

Routine operations involved crackdowns on rebellious cells. At best, they meant a slew of violent arrests. Seraphin stared at his hometown, small houses huddled together, half hidden by the giant conifers, and his thumb rubbed against his
skeptar.
In Iswood, everyone knew everyone, and they all knew who was involved in the network of guerrilla fights against the Union army.

They all knew Damian Holt, Seraphin’s father, led them.

Seraphin turned away from the vista of his hometown. With every step, the red string around his wrist scratched him a little, a constant reminder of whose name he bore. He tried to ignore the nagging heirloom as he walked back to their military camp. The latter wasn’t all that big: five squads had converged in the area and set up tents. Seraphin’s squad was to take care of Iswood tonight, then the group would move to a bigger target under General Vermen’s orders. They had a few solar motorcycles at the edge, tied to a makeshift fence, ready to use for couriers. Then the soldiers’ tents rose on the left, all across the small plateau. On his right were the mess tent, the general’s bigger quarters, a command area, and part of the field that had been left empty for morning exercises. Seraphin tried to focus on the bustling soldiers still raising tents, but the scratchy
skeptar
wouldn’t let him forget who their next target was.

A part of him wanted to slip out of camp and warn everyone in town. What if they thought the army was only there in passing? Unless the Union forces knew about their little meetings in the tavern’s basement, there was no reason for soldiers to attack. Seraphin glanced in his hometown’s direction again, where green roofs repaired and maintained by Alex would glow tonight, peaceful. As he thought of the
Wet Lizard
, and of his last night in the pub eighteen months ago, anger crawled back in his throat. Seraphin straightened up, ground his teeth. He had
already
warned them that night. His father hadn’t listened, and now the army camped outside Iswood.

Seraphin hoped they wouldn’t resist. As he thought about the one night they had invited him to their meeting, however, his doubts began to rise.

*

Seraphin followed his father into the basement of the
Wet Lizard
, Iswood’s only pub. He straightened his back and forced as much dignity in his strides as he could. He was an adult now, and was no longer asked to wait in the common room with watered beer. He wished Alex could see it. Seraphin’s friend had never been allowed down either, despite being a year older. Too much of an outsider, even after two full summers living in Iswood. It wasn’t just about how long Alex had been around. They were too different for Iswood. The hamlet needed more time to digest their lack of gender, their taste for flashy clothes, and their refusal to apologize for any of it. Seraphin wasn’t sure the townsfolk would ever completely accept it. Until he reached the bottom of the basement staircase, he hadn’t believed his town would get past his albinism and bisexuality. Sometime in the last summer, Seraphin had dared to kiss Alex’s cheek in public, and since then their passage had brought wary whispers. After that they’d kept anything resembling intimate contact to the forest, just in case.

Yet the townsfolk
had
let him in, so perhaps one day it would be Alex’s turn. For now, however, Seraphin focused on controlling the butterflies in his stomach.

The basement was a small room, its walls the stone foundations of the tavern. Everyone else had arrived, and eleven men and women had turned to stare at him as he’d entered. The lacquered planks under his feet creaked as he moved forward, following his father. Seraphin pushed his glasses farther up his nose and met their gazes for a split second—long enough to be able to say he had. Then his gaze went to the single tiny window. A hole had been dug around it to allow some of the sunlight to filter in during the day. Right now it was the dull white of snow at night, in part obscured by the cold winds whipping up a storm outside. Everyone settled around the large table, Damian Holt at one end, Seraphin to his right. Everyone seemed so grave, Seraphin couldn’t help but wring his hands under the table. His father cleared his throat.

“We have gathered here to discuss the advance of the Union army,” Damian said, “and what we can do to help our conquered brothers.”

No surprise there: war was the only topic since the Union’s first offensive. Their army had conquered the southern half of Regaria right away, cutting a path through it to get Altaer under their control. The city held hundreds of universities and professional schools, and it was a thriving center of technological advances. Radio news claimed they had surrendered a month ago. With the south and its capital taken, it seemed only a matter of time before the rest of the country followed. Yet the moment the army moved farther north, it had been met with a surge of resistance. The thick pine forests of the North served as ambush spots, and before long the soldiers’ advance had slowed to a crawl.

They should’ve known the North would be harder. When the Union had asked Regaria to join their alliance of countries, a good part of the South had wanted in. Alex said his town didn’t look at all like conquered territory. The soldiers had stopped by one day, helped repair their rundown mill and painted some of the fences in exchange for food and hospitality, and when all that was done, they’d been on their way. There were rumors of less peaceful events—lots of arrests and the very rare shootout—but until Altaer’s conquest, Regaria had seemed ready to just give in. Too many families were still recovering from the Threstle Plague to fight back. The northern half of the country, however, had always been adamant about their refusal. And as the Union was now learning, this included taking arms and dying. Seraphin hadn’t quite understood why, but as the men and women gathered at the table spoke, it became clear.

Tradition.

Tradition was causing them to brace against the Union. They saw it as a threat to their ways, as a dishonor to their ancestors. Seraphin’s hands went to the
skeptar
at his wrist as he listened to them go on. Defend your country. Defend your traditions, your culture, your uniqueness. The Union would crush it all, they promised, envelop everyone in a blanket of blandness. His grip became tighter with every word. The red string seemed to burn him.

By the time the seventh speaker finished, Seraphin’s jaw hurt from clenching so much.

They were all so afraid of what was different. All they wanted was to keep to themselves. A blanket of blandness? Did they not see how they acted when someone new came along, when one of their own didn’t match their vision of the ideal Regarian? It hurt to hear them speak of Regaria in such glowing terms when they didn’t have the decency to respect him half the time. These strangers—this Union—had a lot to teach them about diversity.

“All of this is bullshit.”

He’d spoken without waiting his turn, interrupting Old Walt. The silence that followed could’ve choked a bull. It pressed heavily on Seraphin’s shoulders, but he stood anyway, not daring to look at his father. They all stared at him, expressions going from anger to astonishment to mockery.

“Why would you think the Union would try to erase our traditions? Where is your proof? President Kurtmann already proved he cared for Regarians. Have you forgotten who gave us the antidote to the Threstle Plague when half this village was dying from it four years ago? The cure was discovered in Ferrys, by them, and they could’ve kept it to themselves or forced us to pay for it. They didn’t. They saved thousands of Regarian lives.”

“Seraphin, sit down and shut up.” His father’s disapproving tone cut straight to his heart. The older man grabbed his arm to pull him down, but Seraphin shook out of his grasp. When he had entered this basement, he had meant to prove he could be one of them, that he was worthy of respect. But if this kind of belief was what it took, he’d rather stay alone and shunned.

“No!” He glared at his father, then at the gathered men and women. He tried to hold onto pride and confidence, found he had almost none to lend him strength. Instead he fueled his stance with anger. “The only part of our culture at risk is this reactionary idea that anything strange and new coming our way will erase what we are! Our ancestors have adapted, and so will we. This Union is a great chance to do so, but instead of leading us into innovation, you sit back and convince one another it’s better to just stay the same, to never change anything. How incredibly revolutionary of you all.”

“Seraphin!” This time Damian snapped, with the loud and angry voice that always came before punishment. A lump formed in Seraphin’s throat. He could feel the storm coming. He still turned to his father and met his gaze before finishing, his own voice suddenly tight and small.

“This is too dangerous, Father. They’re a big army. You’re risking so many lives, and for all the wrong reasons.”

“Your young one is full of ideas, Damian,” Old Walt commented.

“Too full.” Damian tried to stare him down, but despite his sweaty palms and the growing malaise in his stomach, Seraphin held his gaze and refused to sit. He wasn’t going to apologize. Not when he was right. “Is your little rant done?”

“I—”

“What you mean to answer is ‘Yes, Father.’ By the ancestors, at your age I knew when to keep it shut and listen to my elders.” Damian Holt spread his hands on the table. “There is no such thing as a benevolent invader. Don’t gobble up their propaganda because your little friend from the south told you her life was cool.”

“
Their
life.”

Seraphin’s correction was received with a dismissive wave of Damian’s hand. “Their life, then. The Union army is playing nice because they haven’t met real resistance. But we’re not going to let them take another step in this land. Not if our lives depend on it.”

“It will. You can’t stop them!”

“Our ancestors died to protect Regaria, its people, and its culture. They watch over us as we follow in their steps and uphold their legacy. Your grandfather is looking at you, too.”