Firewind's Accord: The Khalif Migration, #1

CHAPTER ONE

Will this work? a low, gruff voice rumbled from Jordan’s right. His earbuds were in; a clear signal he was unavailable, and it wasn’t his job to be available. He made a show of adjusting his right earbud before pulling another dusty keyboard from the shelf. Each box he cast into the plastic tub was yet another casualty in the war on big-box stores. All were painted a funeral-black, then brightened up with stylized neon lettering, and all were coated in a thin film of dust. It seemed their combat-adjacent branding — words such as edge, dominate, and reflexes — did nothing to hold back the invading horde of online shopping. Jordan would’ve found the aggressive marketing of PC keyboards and mice laughable, if he thought he could muster a laugh to begin with.

On a normal day, he would be restocking these shelves instead of removing items from them. What would replace them, he had no idea, and he cared even less. A paycheck’s a paycheck. Well, a second paycheck, in his case.

Hey, the voice called again, this time louder and thrusting a computer mouse in front of his face with a meaty, green fist. Will this work?

Jordan pulled the earbud out and turned to meet the owner of the black-nailed green hand: a male orc, although they preferred their original name of Taruk, so named for their country on their homeworld of Khalif. With how Jordan had to crane his neck, the betusked alien was easily two heads taller than him, likely standing over seven feet tall. Another stood behind him, his tusks and utter disdain for Jordan peeking through his bushy beard.

He sighed his scripted answer over the pulsing bass from the neighboring speaker section: All new hardware is subject to a 10-day return policy. If the product is damaged, you may exchange it for a replacement or for store credit. Cash refunds are only available for unopened products.

I need no ‘return policy.’ I asked you if it will work, the clean-shaven Taruk growled.

I dunno. I just stock the shelves here. The truth was Jordan could’ve easily helped him, but he was two-thirds of the way done with his shift and three-thirds of the way done with life.

You think me stupid? You disrespect me? He reached for the collar of Jordan’s ocean-blue and mustard-stained polo with the store’s logo embroidered over his heart. His off-kilter nametag shook as the Taruk roughly yet effortlessly lifted him from the floor and pinned him against the dusty shelves. His earbud fell from his hand as his mind raced. On the one hand, this Taruk could offer the sweet, sweet release of death. The everyday struggle to find a reason to get out of bed would end, he’d never go to sleep again thinking about every mistake he’d ever made in his life, and his past, present, and future would be as ashes in the wind. On the other hand, the raw strength and fury of a Taruk would ensure the end would be an excruciating one.

It’ll only hurt at first, he heard from twin voices inside his head.

Hold, Ruz, said the Taruk’s bearded friend, or sibling, or lover; Jordan knew little and less about Taruk relationships and culture. Same went for the elf-like Fandorell and every other race once thought to belong in the realm of fantasy that had migrated from Khalif to Earth. He vaguely remembered the day their arrival was announced on every channel, forum, and news site. He barely cared. It’s not like it would give his life meaning.

The more-aggressive of the two Taruk slowly set Jordan down. Why? he asked his partner.

The humans here not settle issues with merchants with fists. No, they have passphrase to get what they want. It is, uh, what is it?

Ohhh, I think I know, said Ruz. Mingled with his foul breath, the Taruk’s heavy cologne overpowered Jordan’s senses before he felt his collar slacken in his grip. I want to — huh. I want to speak to your…

Manager? Jordan offered before cringing.

Yes! Thank you, tiny merchant. I want to speak to your manager!

Jordan closed his eyes and sighed. Turned out there were some fates worse than death by Taruk fist.

Thanks to Jordan’s manager taking the phrase the customer is always right literally, a long formal counseling on appropriate customer interaction was his punishment. During the lecture, he mentally switched himself to autopilot and remained that way until he arrived at his desk the following morning for his main job programming for Millicent Mutual, a mid-tier finance company.

He barely remembered coming home late, sleeping for four hours, feeding his cat, then driving to work. Yet, there he was, sitting in front of his workstation staring at the sterile, bland Millicent Mutual company logo on his green desktop wallpaper. The clock read 09:47 AM. Keyboards clacked from far away while someone laughed in their cubicle at some inane comment about the weather. He had been at his desk doing nothing for over an hour, and no one said a thing. If he thought himself capable of growing any more depressed, he would’ve found the lack of attention lonely and demoralizing. Instead, there was relief. And maybe a little hurt after all. But mainly relief.

Jordan, a woman’s voice called from his right. He closed his eyes, hoping she was speaking to another Jordan. Was there another Jordan here? he wondered. Whatever, it doesn’t matter. If there is, maybe he can take my place when I’m gone. Whenever that happens.

Jordan. Jordan Koyne, she called again, more urgently this time. A hand appeared in front of his face, the second one in the past twelve hours. Except this one snapped their slender, copper fingers to grab his attention instead of threatening to beat him to death.

He pulled his earbud out, allowing the hum of Millicent employees’ conversations and the clacking of their keyboards in. What’s up? he asked without turning his head.

What is your status with the integration you have been assigned? she asked. Her speech was heavily accented and halting in a voice hovering in the alto range and a timbre evoking crushed velvet. Jordan had never heard this voice around the office. Then again, he tuned out most every voice around him unless he was the one initiating conversation. Which was almost never.

He looked down at his heavily used and battered asphalt-gray keyboard as he spoke. I’m working on it. I’ll have it to you by Friday.

Jordan, this is the same answer you gave at the end of the last production sprint two weeks ago, and the sprint two weeks before that. For the same integration.

I know, I know. Friday. It’ll get done by Friday.

Jordan. She firmly pointed at the clock in the lower-right corner of his dim monitor. Today is Friday. The end of the sprint?

Shhhhhhhhhhit, he whispered as he pinched the bridge of his nose. He squeezed his eyes shut to block out just how much trouble he was in.

I am afraid you leave me no choice but to schedule a meeting with you, myself, and Kevin.

A meeting with his manager Kevin and this stranger. Jordan looked up at his empty PC desktop once more. The clock ticked over to the next minute, still proudly mocking him with the word Friday beneath it.

So, you wanna speak to my manager, then? He turned right, hoping he got some semblance of a reaction at his half-hearted reference to the previous night’s altercation. However, the stern voice had already left to set the meeting that would almost certainly get him fired.

Cool, he said to his sparsely decorated desk. He took stock of everything he would have to drop into an empty paper box, smirking at how little there was: a faded picture of his black cat Light from when he was still a kitten, printed on plain printer paper and taped to his monitor; a baseball signed by some player from the Chicago White Sox from the time his ex Jessica dragged him to a ballgame; and a small potted plant, long-since dead and falling apart. The only attention he ever paid that plant was whenever he remembered to sweep the fallen dead leaves into the small blue trashcan under his desk.

Well, might as well open up the inbox. Not that it matters anymore, he mused. He pulled open his email and chat clients, and sure enough, there at the top of his inbox was a meeting request with his boss. And it was in ten minutes.

Jordan hoped Kevin would at least make it quick and painless.

Muted green walls and drab gray carpeting welcomed Jordan to the hall holding Kevin’s office. The color scheme accurately reflected Jordan’s dread-induced nausea. The woman who scolded him before — he still hadn’t caught her name, despite it appearing in the meeting invite — was likely already waiting in Kevin’s office, already looking through résumés of candidates destined to replace him. It wouldn’t have surprised him if someone from HR was already standing at Jordan’s desk, waiting patiently with an empty printer paper box.

Jordan stopped next to the faux-wooden placard at the door that read Kevin McDowell, Software Development Lead. He looked down at his gray unzipped hoodie and black Dream Theater t-shirt and made the barest effort to wipe away whatever errant cat hair had found its way there. Might as well make himself presentable for his execution. And maybe after this I can finally be free.

Before stepping in, Jordan checked the time on his phone and found he had a missed call from Garbage Butt and one new voicemail. It was a nickname he had given his sister Heather when she was about seven years old.

You have one new voice message. First message, stated the robotic carrier of voice correspondence.

Hey turdface, just checkin’ in, seein’ if you wanted to meet for coffee and catch up. Gimme a call when you get the chance. Love you. Bye, said Heather. Jordan immediately pressed 7 to delete the message. The next was a voicemail from his mother.

Hi sweetie —

Sorry, Mom. Can’t deal with this right now. Jordan quickly hung up. His heart violently thrumming in his chest; it took three tries to stuff his phone back in his pocket just as Kevin’s voice called out.

Jordan, you out there? Would you come in, please?

He wiped his pale, sweaty palms on his blue jeans. Its belt loops were frayed, and the legs were faded from years of cycles in the washing machine. His fingers combed through his shoulder-length, greasy black hair. He wiped his hands one more time, took a couple deep breaths, and entered at last. The din of the production floor winked away as the door closed behind him.

Kevin’s office was a veritable shrine of gamer culture. Framed video game posters dotted the walls. The shelves behind him were crowded with figurines, many accurate representations of game characters classic and modern. Even the corners of his office cradled replica video game weapons and artifacts. There was a time once when Jordan wanted to make his own video games, and he would have found this nerdy pastiche exciting. Now it all felt so very meaningless. Even if he secretly wanted the Halo energy sword mounted on the wall behind his boss’s desk.

Go ahead and have a seat, Jordan, said Kevin, gesturing to the only other chair in the room. As it was currently occupied by a silver-haired, brown-skinned Fandorell woman, Kevin brusquely gestured for her to give Jordan her seat. She did so, turning to face Jordan with barely-concealed contempt, while Kevin leaned his portly frame back in his chair, hefting a coffee mug and scratching at his blond stubble.

Jordan sat and looked up at the Fandorell at last, although he didn’t have to look very far up. She was not a tall woman by any measure, but certainly taller than the dwarf-like Gurt from Khalif. Her gleaming gray hair hung long and straight in a ponytail, revealing her long, thin, tapered ears that threatened to touch the base of her skull. The races of Khalif had arrived just under a year ago, and yet this was the first time he had seen a Fandorell up close. If not for the glittering gold flecks in her onyx irises, Jordan would have noticed the ruby pendant around her neck that rose and fell with each steady, controlled breath.

Tyrlok, if you wouldn’t mind repeating for Jordan what you just told me?

Wait, this is Tyrlok? I mean, I knew the business analyst assigned to me was a Fandorell, but —

Yes, sir, she said, folding her hands behind the small of her back where her long-sleeved, button-down, flowy blue blouse met her black jeans. Those were tucked into what could be mistaken for black combat boots. "Jordan Koyne has now missed three connectative sprint deadlines, and I am no longer competent in his ability to perform the tasks assigned to him."

Jordan wasn’t sure if he had misheard or if she had indeed screwed up a couple of words there. Probably still learning English. Mom always complained how hard it was for her, he thought. However, he definitely didn’t mistake his boss covering a smirk with his Invader Zim coffee mug. Dude, you’re a high school dropout — and not even the good kind. You dropped out because you fucking sucked, not because you were too smart for it. You surround yourself with kids’ toys while drinking too-sweet coffee from a mug featuring a cartoon character no one unironically gives a shit about anymore. Who the hell do you think you’re laughing at? Also, you’re in liberal-ass Washington in the year 2028. How are you still this much of a bigot?

I see, said Kevin after a sip of coffee-splashed sugar. Anything else, Miss Skrillex?

It’s Skrlosh, sir. ‘Skr’ like ‘skirt’ and ‘losh’ like ‘loathe.’ And if I may, I would like to be assigned to another developer — one who actually cares about their job, if possible.

Hm. And you, Jordan? Do you have anything to say for yourself?

He looked down at his lap, his hair dangling before his eyes. No, he said in a half-whisper with a solemn, subtle shake of the head. Just get it over with, man. It’s time to go.

Kevin set his mug down and turned his beady blue eyes on Tyrlok. Well, Miss Scarlet, it seems you’ve left me no choice. Jordan held his breath while he listened for the whistle of the axeman’s blade dropping on his neck. I’m giving you one last chance to get Jordan here to start meeting deadlines again.

What? said Jordan and Tyrlok simultaneously.

Kevin looked back and forth between the pair. Did I stutter? Tyrlok, for the past three months it’s been your job as his business analyst to set Jordan’s priorities and assign him a reasonable amount of tasks for each sprint. Yet the way he’s looking at you, I’m guessing it’s the first time you’ve met in person, which to me is ineptitude of the highest order. You know what ineptitude means, Tyrlok? When she said nothing in answer, Kevin sighed, but only to conceal a smile. Look, if you don’t start setting him up for success — if he doesn’t meet the next deadline, I’ll have to fire you. Do you understand, or do I need to speak slower?

Tyrlok’s jaw clenched several times. No, sir. I understand.

Good. You may go. She turned to Jordan, locking eyes with him before he quickly retreated to his lap. "Don’t worry about him. Well, do worry about him, since your job depends on it. Now go." She did, briskly and silently. Once Kevin believed she was out of earshot, he said into his mug with a small, mocking laugh, Connectative.

What? asked Jordan, unsure if he was referring to her English mistakes. Kevin dismissed it with a wave of his hand. But what about me?

Hm? Oh, no no, I’m not gonna fire you over some alien’s mistakes, Jordan. Don’t worry about that. Now get to work.

Huh. Alright. He stood and slowly walked out, his boss’s words lingering in his head. Or rather, it was the words left unsaid after I’m not gonna fire you, Jordan.

But you’ll wish I had.

Tyrlok’s walk home from work was rain-free, although the winter winds still fought to make it uncomfortable nonetheless. She pulled her furred hood low and wrapped her long, black winter coat tight around her body with her hands firmly in its pockets. The full moon lit her way through the rows of abandoned shops and office buildings, guiding her safe passage home. A sinuous winged shape flew beneath the moon, casting a brief, reptilian shadow over her.

It was one of the adult dragons they had managed to ride out of Khalif. Only a select few were left with each migrant community that could build and support an aerie. And given how few they brought in the first place, only the most experienced among the Fandorell were allowed to ride them until enough of their clutches had successfully hatched. Even then, the new juvenile dragons would still have to be raised and trained. It would be years before Tyrlok and many of the other Fandorell could use them for transportation again.

The pale dragon veered right in the moonlight while black clouds moved to block it in its stead. Cold air stung her lungs, and she found herself longing for the muggy heat and soothing rains of Fandorell. Their traditional clothing was light yet strong, perfectly suited for defending their jungle home as well as for their ceremonial dances. Oh, how Tyrlok missed the dances! Her people’s most beautiful men and women celebrating life and the bounty of the Celestial Tree through rhythm and song, all while imbibing all manner of drink and mind-altering flora. But that was an entire planet ago. The closest she could get to reliving those days was the music playlist on her phone and the just-purchased cannabis resin cartridges in her pocket. But those weren’t for celebration. No, those were for keeping the nightmares at bay, which in turn would keep her from waking up screaming and subsequently vomiting in the toilet.

The pair of streetlights ahead of her winked out all at once, leaving an Olympic swimming pool of darkness in her path. Fundal, the Fandor curse softly fell from Tyrlok’s lips. Her breath quickened, the noise of traffic behind her grew sharper, and she kneeled down to pluck her dagger from inside her right boot. It didn’t make her feel as safe as her military-issue cloak would. If it were up to her people, they would wear their shimmering, mirage-like cloaks everywhere they went. Unfortunately, their human hosts found the garments unsettling, with some going so far as to accuse — and even assault, in some cases — any who wore them, believing they had something to hide.

Then again, their cloaks offered little protection in the face of the svwelon’sa, the shadowy horror that ravaged Khalif. Camouflage did nothing to fool their eyeless foe.

She edged closer to the sea of blackness before her. Home wasn’t far now, but she was only half-present, her mind now recalling the rows and rows of venom-filled teeth, the slithering smoke-like tendrils, and the screams. Some of them had been familiar, but she couldn’t bear to confirm her worst fears at the time. That had to wait until after they arrived on Earth, after they were certain the svwelon’sa couldn’t find them again.

Now smack in the middle of the temporary darkness, it felt as if a black spine-covered coil would spring from the shadows at any moment and pull her away to consume her whole, just like so many of her late comrades. Her eyes darted all around, trying to perform the impossible task of taking in all the details all at once. The surrounding buildings crowded her, threatening to curl down and crush her beneath stone and glass.

As the clouds parted, the moon cast a beam through Tyrlok’s hot, rapid, steamy breaths. Glass shattered to her left, drawing all of her combat-hardened focus. A drunken human stumbled from around the corner, and upon seeing the cloaked and armed Fandorell looking his way with murder in her eyes, immediately sobered up and ran back the way he came.

Ragged breaths continued to fall from Tyrlok, her eyes wide and searching. She needed to get home. Nothing could harm her there. Her friends were there. Her people were there. She could be safe again. Just two more blocks.

Ten feet later, she sat between two sparsely lit trash cans with her back against the wall and sobbed into her knees; her second panic attack in as many months. So much was lost on Khalif. She had been told time and time again it wasn’t anyone’s fault. Khalif was likely just the wrong planet at the wrong time. The sentiment was small comfort, though. The salve of absolution could never heal the wounds of loss.

The cartridges in her pocket eventually reminded her there were people waiting for their medicine. My self-indulgence can wait, she thought as her sleeve wiped her nose and mouth in a vain effort to wipe away the traumas of Khalif. With a shake of her head, she rose and walked the remaining two blocks home as though nothing had occurred.

The elevator doors squeaked open to a dizzying cacophony of distorted guitars and pounding, rapid-fire drums. It was the fourth floor’s usual greeting for Tyrlok when she came home from work, although the hall of every floor of the nine-story apartment building was much the same. Many of the doors were either open or missing, every light was on, and the dank aroma of cannabis and overcrowded rooms wafted out into the hallway.

She longed for the forest life of home. The fresh air, the bright golden sun in the partly cloudy sky, the sounds of leaves rustling in the soothing breeze. And the nights with her platoon where they would often unwind at one of the Great Houses by taking in a show, listening to soothing music, inhaling from a bowl of burning sentok, and finding a willing partner or two to bed for the evening. Those were some of the best moments in her century of life. Such wonderful memories, all made in a world long-gone with people long-since turned to cosmic dust.

She sniffed once as she yanked her keys from her coat pocket and pushed the thought away. Her unit was one of the few that had a door, but only because Tyrlok had gone out and bought one after using a curtain for their first six months. Even then, the door was too short for the frame, hanging a full two inches off the floor. Her roommates wanted to bring her back to the hardware store to kill the clerk who sold it to her, but she convinced them to stand down. After all, it still did the job.

The job. Right. Work. Jordan, she thought. It felt like every survivor of Khalif was counting on her to keep her job, to show that they were capable of sharing Earth with the humans. Recovering from the Fall of Khalif was hard enough; recovering from disappointing every Khalifiri on Earth would be impossible.

It wasn’t fair that her boss wanted to punish her for Jordan’s continued ineptitude, even if she had used a similar tactic in the past for sergeants with underperforming subordinates. Unlike Kevin, though, she maintained a certain level of respect for her people, and many did the same for her. Not all. But many.

She closed the front door behind her and hoped her eyes weren’t too red from crying. The others couldn’t see her affected by the horrors of Khalif. Two of her roommates had already unfolded their couch into a bed. Simal, in a thin shirt and pajama pants, was already asleep despite the noise in the hall, while her husband Jyntal scrolled shirtless through some social media app on his phone beside her, stroking her wavy, silver hair. Tyrlok pulled the vape cartridges from her pocket and hung her coat in the nearby closet. She then dropped a couple of the cartridges next to Jyntal’s arm on the foldout bed. He waved his appreciation.

Where is Lyrulah? she asked him, peering into the kitchen with its cracked and loose linoleum flooring.

I think in the bedroom, playing on her phone or something, he answered in their native tongue.

"English, halem Jyntal. You need to practice if you want to work here," she admonished. Tyrlok was one of a select few in the Washington settlement who had been granted permission to work amongst the Earthlings, namely due to her adaptability and quick learning. It also helped that not many volunteered in the first place.

He sighed. "But it is hard, bet’halem. Why can’t they learn Fandor?" Before coming to Earth, Tyrlok held the rank of bet’halem, or master sergeant. Given that the Fandorell army was no more, the ranks simply became terms of endearment, as well as occasional reminders of social hierarchy, something Tyrlok found herself conflicted by.

"When we allowed the Taruk to live in Fandorell, when we fought the svwelon’sa side by side, did you try learning their tongue?" she chided. Jyntal only answered with a sneer and went back to his phone. She switched back to Fandor: Just keep practicing here. Or better yet, try going out and meeting the locals. Could be fun, meeting new people.

He grumbled as she continued on to the lone bedroom. Stains from tenants long past marred the ragged carpeting, and Tyrlok had long ago stopped trying to identify them. She figured she was better off not knowing. She pulled open the curtain leading to the bedroom and found Lyrulah looking out the window, her long black curls all a-tangle over her button-up, floral-print pajamas.

Later than usual, said Lyrulah without turning.

Sorry. There was a delay. Had to do some shopping. She walked around the two twin beds and held out the cartridge next to Lyrulah’s face. She plucked it from Tyrlok’s hand and met her eyes at last.

What happened? You’ve been crying again? asked Lyrulah, noting the redness in Tyrlok’s eyes.

Bad day at work. It’s not a big deal. Don’t worry about it.

English! came the deep-voiced call from the living room. Tyrlok raised a few obscene fingers at the adjoining wall.

Are you sure it’s just work?

I’m fine, really. I’m home now. That’s what’s important. Tyrlok sat on the bed and invited her childhood friend to join her.

Okay then. So what happened at work that traumatized you so?

Nothing important. I just work with idiots and assholes.

I didn’t know there were Taruk and Gurt working with you.

Tyrlok rolled her eyes. Have you prayed yet? Lyrulah shook her head, no. Join me, then, she added with a smile. Lyrulah pulled up an app on her phone that offered an approximate location of Khalif’s sun. It was only an approximation, as the Khalifiri only knew which arm of the galaxy they were from, but could not be more precise than that. And their sun’s location was important, as all Fandorell believed the Celestial Tree, the source of their magic, eternally blossomed at the center of it.

They both stood at the foot of their beds, arms raised in V’s with hooked and tense fingers. As one, they started quietly singing their prayers in the direction of the Tree, fluidly moving their arms down across and around their own bodies, offering themselves and giving praise to their deity. Their fingers relaxed as they brought them up to their faces, lifting them up to the heavens in continued prayerful song. The focus, the repetition, the ritual, all brought Tyrlok a brief moment of serenity. She wished she could feel like this forever, to live only in the prayer, to feel connected with something far greater than her. Above all, it was the one connection to home that nothing could sever. She could take comfort in that, at the very least.

Lyrulah was the first to open her eyes. Will you sleep soon?

I think so, yes. Today truly was difficult. A thought came to her, recalling her time trying to lead Taruk and Gurt units against the svwelon’sa. Tell me, what do you think is the best way to inspire someone?

"You are plenty inspirational already, bet’halem."

Oh, shut up. I mean, I have someone at work who doesn’t really do anything he’s supposed to. He seems lazy, uninterested, indifferent. And if I can’t inspire him to do his job, I’ll lose mine.

Well, said Lyrulah, switching back to English. Have you spoken with him?

Through messages. Many times, she answered, before sheepishly adding, I only met him face-to-face today.

"Haaaay, bet’halem. What are you doing, ha?" said Lyrulah, batting Tyrlok’s arm. "You of all people should know