Confliction: Chapter 6

         It was stiflingly hot when Scramble stepped out of the palace.  The blue sky went on for miles, without a cloud to ruin the horizons perfection.  Off in the distance, the gates rippled from the rising heat, and a slightly salty smell of stone and the sea filled the air.  She exhaled sharply and walked towards the side gate.  There was a path leading from the main road directly to the front door of the palace, but it was barred by a guarded, electrified, steel gate that no one ever used, because there were always people gathered outside it hoping for a peak of a political celebrity.  Unless they brought their binoculars, they would never catch that glimpse here.  The side gate was smaller, and busy.  It was down a side street that wound several blocks around smaller featureless buildings that were used as temporary lodgings, meeting rooms, and multipurpose rooms.  Few people came to this gate except for one of these purposes or to work in the palace, and there were plenty of those.  The guards were kept busy checking identifications and licences, and a long yellow pole that blocked entry was constantly moving up and down, trying to push through a line of cars that stretched back at least ten either way.  But everyone was polite.  There was never a car horn, or a raised voice and the guests always had everything the guards asked for.  It was strange for a bunch of people that she knew were all in a hurry with more pressing business than most would ever be able to understand.
         She walked along the pathway, overtaking the long line of cheap, half broken down, four doors, belching exhaust her way.  The people in them looked tired.  She recognized some of them now, after three days in the palace.  Most of them were trapped behind desks all day at work as they were locked behind their steering wheels now.  Some had the job of passing orders from the higher ups to those on the battlefield, others needed to sign death certificates and still more had to calculate the incalculable damage that the war had cost.  It never ended.  And now, they had to go to a tiny home nearby in their tin can of a car just to sleep and wake up and do it all over again.  These people have the worst job of the war; so at the very least it should be cushy.
         She approached the gate (little more than a gap in the stone walls) where a guard stood.  There was no queue to get through.  She nodded to the guard, and although he obviously recognized her, he still asked for her identification before offering to call her a town-car and opening the gate for her.  She declined the town-car  As the gate closed with a clink behind her, she stood on the streets of Anoosa for the first time in months.  The night staff was lined up attempting to enter the building, and she cut her way between two cars and strolled lazily around the barricades in a parking lot that was unused.
         No one was watching for a queen to slip onto the street from behind some dumpsters.  They were too busy watching for one to march out the front gate with a fanfare.  She adjusted her dress and walked casually down main street, watching the people with binoculars peer through the metal bars of the palace yard.  There was something exciting about peering into such a drab workplace like the palace, and she could never quite understand what.  She crossed the street.  Several of the buildings here were new, the penultimate steps in their path of destruction through Anoosa.  The buildings had been expensively rebuilt, in a dark grey, and no preference seemed to be given to what sort of business resided in them.  One rebuilt was a jewellery boutique with a great lit up glass window, and a minimum price tag of four digits, and right next to it was a Sae Deon cuisine shop with fancy neon letters and an expensive, mahogany-coloured balcony where several couples were eating together in the warm air.  Some people were determined to maintain their old lives.  There was a small crowd outside a ration station and a police officer was arranging everyone into lines.  There was a shady overhang over the businesses that kept the crowds reasonably cool, but the air was stuffy, and the heat penetrating.
         Traffic was few and far between.  Most people seemed to be walking now, due to the vast numbers of refugees flooding the city now.  This part of the city seemed to be mostly clear of the refugee stations, and although tourism promotion wasn't top priority, they did seem to be trying to keep this area clean of the scum.  Buses went by often, carrying people all over the place.  Anoosa had been notorious for having a lousy public transportation system before the war, but had quickly taken up efforts to spread bus routes to all corners of the city in an attempt to keep traffic down and to help those who left their lives behind to adjust to the city.
         She cut down a well maintained alleyway and emerged onto a quiet street with very few pedestrians and no traffic at all.  The backs of the beautiful new buildings closed in on one side, and the back of a few more closed in on the other side.  It was full of dumpsters and garbage, where lazy street sweepers had pushed their haul.  Soggy papers were glued to the ground and a funky smell glided through like a ghost ship.  She let out a small prayer as she looked up and down the backstreet, full of dumpsters and barely big enough to fit a car.  Nestled between two black buildings was a little coffee shop, facing towards her with a sign that read: Beans.
         She had no idea how the place stayed in business.  It must have had a maximum capacity of about eight, but there were never more than two or three people inside and more often than not, much less.  It looked like the front of it had only been lightly licked by the flames, and the B on the sign was faded and peeled a little, although the rest of the letters maintained their sky blue complexion.  Not that it mattered, due to it's location, tucked away on some obscure back alley where the legions of tourists would simply walk past without ever noticing.  The owners were a kindly couple who spoke very little of the language but somehow recognized every face that walked through the doors, leading her to believe that the entire customer base consisted of regulars.  That in itself didn't surprise her, because they served the best coffee she had had on this planet.  There was something unusual about it, and she could never put her finger on it, but it was not an unusual she disliked.  It appealed to her, and apparently to a small but sufficient host of others that kept them in business.
         She smiled when she saw it, and walked towards the little glass door.  Upon walking inside, she was greeted by a wave of very cool air conditioning, the cheery wailing of a string instrument played by a man in the corner, and a massively accented 'hello' from the owners wife.  It was dark inside (part of the atmosphere she suspected), lit by four low watt bulbs spread evenly throughout and hanging low over the tables.  She smiled at the owners who recognized her immediately and bowed their heads before asking what she would like to drink.  She ordered something cold with a name she did not understand and stood leaning against the counter while the loud machines blended ice.
         The walls had a faded and peeled floral pattern to them, but were a dark blue and red colour that faded into the dark ambiance.  Every table was mesh patterned, under a glass top, and had beautifully ornate legs that stretched in three directions and seems to be holding tight to the tiled floor.  A lamp with a large shade sat in the corner at one table to read by, and two empty chairs stood facing the corner where the man was playing the instrument.  She looked at him, and he smiled.  His playing was not bad, but by no means excellent.  He had his case open in front of him with a few pennies in it that suggested that he was not an employee, but a panhandler.  She wasn't concerned.  The songs he was playing were nice, and he wasn't singing.
         There were two other people sitting in the shop.  One, sitting below a lamp looked to be an off duty officer.  A rifle was leaning against his table and his helmet was upside down in front of him, while he nursed his drink.  He had a small smile and his closed eyes showed he was daydreaming.  He hadn't started his drink.  The other was sitting in a dark corner and eyeing her.  She looked over at him and met his eyes.  He had black hair and was wearing brown cargo shorts.  His drink had hardly been touched either.  She kept eye contact with him, and when her drink was ready, she took it and walked over to him.
         “Well, if I didn't know you, I suppose I would be surprised to see you,” she said quietly to Zanez.  She leaned one hand on his table and took a deep sip from her drink.
         He looked back at her with grey eyes and moved them to the officer sitting in the corner and glaring at him.  He was unmoving and hard as ice.  She followed his gaze and taking her drink with her, she strolled over the table with the soldier.
         “Excuse me,” she said to him.  “Are you on duty?”
         He opened his eyes, still smiling.  “No, I'm on lunch, lady, could you give me forty five minutes?”
         “I'm afraid I can't.  You see, it's urgent.”
         “Why?  Did someone steal your purse?”  He closed his eyes again, showing he wasn't about to move.
         “Yes,” she replied loudly, angrily, and pointing.  “He is running that way.  Please, if you go now, you may catch him in time to get your fucking job back.”
         He opened his eyes quickly, studying her face.  A moment of realization hit him in the forehead and he stood up quickly grabbing his gun and standing at attention. “I'm sorry sir... I mean High General.  I didn't recognize you.”
         She glared at him as he stood there.
         “What can I do for you?  It would be my honour.”
         “Please go to the palace and fetch General Jerryanne.  Tell him I am here and I am waiting for him.  Deliver the message to him personally.  Don't talk to anyone else about it.  If you come back here without him I will have you working in a refugee camp before the sun goes down, is that clear?”
         “Yes, High General.  Right away.”  He picked up his helmet and his gun and ran out the door at full tilt.
         She walked back towards Zanez' table with a smirk and sat down, placing her drink in front of her gently.  His tension had eased slightly at the departure of the guard, but his eyes were still hidden under his brow in suspicion.  He was sought after, she knew.  Every guard knew his face and even those who didn't were performing more and more random civilian identifications.  Zanez was one retinal scan from a bullet in the head.
         “How long do I have before you meet that general?” Zanez asked.
         “A while yet.  I don't think my high school math tutor is even a general yet.”  She smiled leaning on her elbows and looking at him.  He leaned away and looked towards the door.  He was loosening up a bit.  “So how've you been?”
         His eyes narrowed slightly.  “Great.  Lot's of work to do, so that keeps me busy.”
         Scramble knew exactly what sort of work Zanez did, but had a hard time believing that it would be a busy season.  People had no need for a killer when such a large portion of the world was becoming victims of war.  “You have a lot of people asking for your services?”
         He seemed to anticipate the question, because it didn't phase him.  He took a long drag from his straw.  “Not those services.”
         He did other things as well, she knew, but she didn't entirely know the nature of them, and whatever she had known of him before the war had almost certainly changed since it.  Whatever Zanez was and whatever he did, it was anything but static. “Well whatever services are providing, I am glad to hear it is so lucrative.”
         “Lucrative wouldn't be my first choice of word...”
         “Damn, and here I was going to ask for an application,” she interrupted.
         He cocked his head and looked square in her eyes.  “What's the matter, Scramble?  Long day at the office?  You can't tell me you are still mad at me about that thing involving the twins.”
         “What? No, of course not.” She leaned back and crossed her arms in front of her chest.  “Dead is dead, I don't care who pulls the trigger.” 
         “It must be homesickness then,”  he said.  It was a mocking tone.
         “You're one to speak.  My home is still standing.”
         His eyes narrowed to slits and a very slight colour came to his normally pale cheeks.  “Don't worry, I know what it's wrong with you.  Rocac's plan for the defence of Anoosa is... questionable, am I right?”
         She leaned down and put her forehead on the glass of the table, drawing a glancing look from the owner.  It never stopped frustrating her how he seemed to know news before it even happened.  It had been like this as long as she had known him, and no matter what precautions were taken, he was never even slowed down.  It was a fact of life, it seemed.  Grass grows, people die, and Zanez knows.  “I just don't understand what he is thinking.”
         “I hear he hasn't been sleeping lately.  That can kill your judgement.” he said.
         “Rocac is no child, Zanez.  You know this as well as anyone.  He was making military decisions when I was still learning how to hold a gun,”  Scramble had immense respect for her friend, as he had taught her a great deal.  But Zanez and Rocac had butt heads for a long time.  Not that they could have ever been considered friends in the first place.  She wasn't entirely sure Zanez was capable of friendship.  “Rocac knows what he is talking about.”
         “And yet, you have doubts.”  He gave her the accusing stare that made her feel as if she were a child caught stealing a candy bar.  “A wall.  That's what it comes down to.”
         “It's more intricate than that.”
         “I know the details, Scramble.”
         There was no worry to Zanez having the details to the plan.  While he wasn't what anyone would call trustworthy, she had doubts that he would have any interest in seeing his homeland burning around him.  “It works well on paper,” she said.  She was still defending him, even though she knew Zanez was right.
         “What artists do looks better on paper.”  He was looking at the table, circling his finger round a ring of condensation left by his drink.
         She was getting fed up.  “I think he's taking suggestions.  There's a little box with a hole in the top set up at the front counter.  Why don't you walk in and give him your brilliant idea?  Because unless you can think of something, Anoosa is on the fast track to the fryer.”  She stared him down.
         He was matching her look, and gave a little roll of his eyes.  “You misunderstand me, Scramble...”
         “It seemed pretty clear.”
         He continued.  “I am pessimistic, yes.  But I'm not unwilling to help if there is a way.”  He spoke with such disdain, as if it hurt to spit out the words.
         Her eyes widened a little and she put both hands flat on the table.  “Are you offering your services?”  Zanez' services were beyond invaluable and there was no one else alive who could provide what he could. And yet something tickled at the back of her mind.
         “I don't think I have much choice.”  He shrugged and placed his drink firmly on the table. “I don't think there would be much work for me in a smoking wasteland.”
         She wondered if she could take his words at face value.  There must be more to it than that.  As far as she could tell, he had no need for money or work, and he certainly had connections elsewhere he could go.  She sipped the end of her drink, making a loud bubbly slurping sound, and watched his face for a sign, but saw nothing.
         “What?” he said, and she realized he had been watching her staring.
         “No, nothing.  I'm just trying to think about this.”  It was a deeper decision than it should have been.  “Rocac should know.”
         “Is that necessary?  Will he even be okay with that or will he turn me away in favour of more honourable means?”
         “I don't think there are any other means, honourable or no.”
         The sat and finished their drinks in silence.  The myriad of things she could ask of him ran through her head while he examined the wallpaper.  Zanez was a specialist if there ever was one, but his use was of questionable morality.  Even associating with him was a crime in most eyes and asking him to do anything was a risk that couldn't be taken lightly.
         “What needs doing?”  He broke the silence.
         “A lot of things need doing, Zanez.  I couldn't even begin to tell you.  But I really think you need to talk to Rocac.”
         He scowled.  “I know, I know.  I don't think he will stoop to my help though.”
         “Your help is invaluable.  He should be overjoyed to get it.”  She knew where he was coming from, however.  “Just the same, maybe you should bring him something when you go to see him.”
         “What does he want?”
         Scramble stood up and replaced her chair under the table.  Zanez followed her lead.  With a friendly nod to the owner, they walked out of the shop and into the muggy hot weather outside.  A breeze shot through the alley as they stood on the sidewalk, catching Zanez coat in it.  She thought how he must be uncomfortable in all that thick black.
         She turned and stood close to him.  Speaking softly she asked, “What do you know of the Teno forest?”
         He didn't flinch.  “I know that locals are calling it the Everburning Woods, because the inner forest has been on fire for close to a month.  Seems to be just another one of those smokestacks that the Pyromancers like to make.”
         “Rocac isn't so sure.” She walked slowly down the aisle with Zanez walking tightly beside her.  “Someone is working very hard to keep Anoosain scouts out of the area, so Rocac thinks it may be a base.
         “Of what sort?”
         “Of some sort.  We don't know.  It may be nothing.  It may be a short range missile silo.  Regardless, people are worried about the possibility of a base being so nearby the peninsula, and especially if we have no idea what's going on there.”
         He continued looking at her, but his eyes lost focus as he thought.
         “Scouts haven't been able to get in to the area,” she continued, and the smoke and heat has made imaging the area near impossible.”
         “And if I do come back to you with some information...?”
         She couldn't be certain whether this was him asking for payment or not.  “Oh, you won't come back to me.  I'm leaving back for Puritee soon. I've done everything I needed to do here.  You need to go to Rocac.  That info may help lubricate your transition into his employ.”
         He stopped walking.  “Oh no, this is not employment.  This is a favour, nothing else.”
         She stopped a few meters away and looked back at him.  “Of course.  Employing you would get him in trouble anyway.”
         “Alright.  As long as we are clear.”  He said.  He turned around and walked back towards the shop, making a right into a side-street just before he reached it.  She stood still for a while watching the spot where he had been standing for a few minutes before turning back towards the palace.