Warpworld: Place of Others

By Joshua Simpson and Kristene Perron

From monsters they came, and monsters they became.

Hidden in the Deathlands, a tiny band of escaped slaves battles for survival. Cannibal tribes, toxic water, savage predators, and the unnatural Storm threaten the Others’ fragile safety but the biggest danger comes from within. 

Amid the swirling sands and lifeless wastes, Cur-Vijka tests her hope and good intentions against injustice and brutality. As the tribe of the Others grows, a deadly alliance forces Vijka to decide how far she is willing to go for freedom. 

Place of Others is the second shadow story in the Warpworld universe. www.warpworld.ca
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jokri Publishing
• Release date: Mar 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781519983886

Book preview

Place

of

Others

A WARPWORLD SHADOW STORY

JOSHUA SIMPSON

KRISTENE PERRON

©

2016 Kristene Perron & Joshua Simpson

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the authors.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

www.warpworld.ca

JoKri Publishing

PO Box 478

Gardendale, Texas 79758

Book Design by Miguel S. Kilantang Jr.

Contents

Mother

Majed

Gelsh

Ysshet

Epilogue

ePDF.pdf

Cur-Vijka pressed her finger into the moist soil and smiled. With the heavy Storm shutters slatted open, there was a pleasant blend of heat and cool in the room they had designated for the greenhouse. If she closed her eyes and inhaled the loamy scent of the garden, she could almost pretend she was home, lazing in the red-tinged fields of grass that stretched out behind the Cure Center where she had once worked.

As she tilted her head to catch the sun’s rays, however, the pinch of metal at the base of her skull reminded her of how far she was from that home. How far she would always be.

How long before we have a plant ready to test? she asked.

From the far side of the room, Hun-Bazzil looked up from his work. We have to wait for full maturation, at least another week, he said. He held a flask in his hand and poured a small stream of water across the leaves. If I’m right, the cross breeding will produce a plant that is both edible and resistant to the water’s toxin. Whether, by ingesting the plant, we too will be able neutralize the toxin is the final question.

Cur-Vijka wiped the dirt from her hands, careful to do so over the box that held the precious seedlings. She watched Hun-Bazzil, who fussed over the growing things as if they were his children.

Did you ever imagine presiding over a crop so small? she asked.

I was always happiest with my own garden, he said, sealed the flask, stroked the leaves one last time. Ag-Sec was too large, too impersonal. My area was ninety thousand units of land; there was barely time to get my hands properly dirty.

It suits you, she said, with a nod to his hands. I would be happier with a larger crop to tend. I miss patients with more complex complaints than heat stroke and malnutrition.

Such a privilege to be able to miss things. Or to speak freely. We have it good here, Vijka.

Her face flushed at the use of her name without the categorical prefix and the familiarity it implied. I didn’t mean to say… She shook her head, stood, and crossed to the small table where they kept their meager supplies. Of course we are lucky. I should leave the past where it belongs.

A loud, unpleasant buzz cut through the air. Hun-Bazzil rose from his crouch, wiping his hands on his trousers as he did. It seems our father is summoning you. You’d best go see what he needs.

Cur-Vijka would have smirked at the joke but the intrusion of the buzz left her too annoyed for humor. Hun-Bazzil could wax poetic about freedom all he wanted, she knew no such luxury.

Of course, she said. I’ll return as soon as I am able.

Before she could leave, Hun-Bazzil grasped her arm.

I worked for him for over a decade before we came to this place, he said. He can be what he is, but we need him.

I know. She was as surprised to hear her voice catch as she was by the way her body responded to Hun-Bazzil’s touch. I will take the highest care of him.

He let her go but she felt the heat of his fingers on her skin even at the end of the long corridor that led to her dwelling place. Her people had yet to clean and repair all of this old structure, that could take years, but no effort had been spared to create a clean, comfortable living space for their leader. In the block they shared, Nal-Eddu’s quarters were the largest, had the most secure Storm shutters, and the closest approximation to a bed they could piece together from salvaged goods.

Cur-Vijka steadied herself and painted on a smile as she entered the main room where her Patron spent most of his time.

You called for me, Eddu? she said.

He held up a shaking hand wrapped in yellowed linen. My dressings needed changing hours ago.

Nal-Eddu shifted in the frame of his support chair. Once a technological marvel, capable of independently hovering, the chair was now a hacked-up frame of metal, some of which had been torn away to make it transportable, some of which had later been removed for the needs of his people. The only functional device remaining was a solar-powered comp unit, crucial to the analysis and alteration of the plants they would need to survive in this place.

Forgive me, Cur-Vijka said. I should have tended to this earlier.

He would not forgive her. He never did. And he could have reminded her earlier but that would not have given him the satisfaction of summoning her like his pet.

We must take better care of you in the elements from now on, she said and rolled his chair over to the table where her scant curing supplies were laid out.

Yes, we must. We will meet with the Clidsk this afternoon. You will make yourself presentable for them. This man, Chotke, is vain and superficial but he and his tribe could be vital to our survival.

She unwrapped the dressing from his hand and arm and examined the skin beneath—still angry and red but at least the blisters were shrinking. A whiff of sour ointment, mingled with the musty air, suffocated the lingering pleasantness from the greenhouse.

"I will do my best to represent you well,