Len Gilbert - The Furred Reich

Up ahead of them, a stone tower with white smoke floating heavenward heralded their approach to Deltia. The harbor was crowded with colored sails that road atop the boats they were masted to. From a distance he could see the expansive brown seawall that boxed off the city from any high tide.

Deltia was different from what he remembered ten years ago. The city was larger, with taller buildings, and more buildings spanning the shore. Dark blue clouds blocked much of the sunlight from bathing the city in warmth. Winter really was the best time of year in Deltia, at least for Kitsunes such as himself who were used to much colder weather.

As they landed, the Anubian Jackals streamed their way onto the boat and began roughly handling their living cargo. Hex bit his tongue as one of them put their paws on him.

“This fox doesn’t look like he’s worked a day in his life!”

The jackals laughed and shoved Hex into the line of furres, then marched that line all along the busy, golden-hued bricks that marked the arteries of the city. They passed the aqua water pools and toward the auction blocks further back. On the blocks, older children tended to fetch the highest bids, but the most able-bodied males were sought after on the blocks as well. Hex thumbed his nose as they bid him away for a piddling sum.

Hex’s buyer scowled as he came up to him.

“You’ll start on the road crew,” he said, “in five years you’ll be granted freedom if you work hard. Now what’s your name?”

“It’s Plebus, sir,” Hex replied.

“I only ask that you let me keep my belongings, sir.”

“That’s fine. You at least seem well-spoken. As long as you work hard you can keep that elegant bag of yours,” his generous new ‘master’ said. Within an hour they had taken him up through several residential districts crammed with bungalows and apartment blocks standing next to one another. He was quickly added to a road crew, handed a levered pick, and told to join in breaking up an old road that was being worked on.

Despite the winter season, Hex was panting in minutes from hammering away. The other slaves shook their heads at at the ‘foxen’ as he struggled to maintain their pace.

“Excuse me, sir. I’m new to here. Which housing prefect is this?”

The other slave, a lapine male, turned around.

“It’s eight-point hill.”

“Thank you.”

Hex immediately threw down the pick and sprinted through the bustling street. The foreman chased after Hex, but soon, the Kitsune was far down the road and weaving through the crowd. The foreman didn’t even bother to yell.

“Seriously? The new fox is seriously doing that. Stupid idiot won’t last more than a night,” the foreman growled.

“Issue a prefect report and pass his description to the trade gates and port authority.”

Hex sprinted until he could feel his pursuers slowing down and turning away. It was hard to go by his years-old understanding of the city, but, Deltia’s streets were all still there. He’d have to be out of sight by nightfall, but that wasn’t a problem. Already he was just minutes away from his safe haven. That haven was waiting for him just outside the palace district.

The building was just as he remembered it, a stately Deltian-styled courtyard building with two soldiers stationed outside. The working embassy of a defunct state. Hex caught his breath and made for the double-doors, ignoring the two soldiers and entering as if it were a daily occurrence. Inside, the embassy’s white walls and marbled floor greeted him just as they had years ago. Only this time, the foyer and halls were devoid of people. The house of Akhamnet was kind enough to keep the compound maintained, it seemed. Hex walked in toward the courtyard and to the service desks.

“What business do you have here?”

A voice called out down the hall. There were five counters. That voice came from the lone occupied desk on the far end.

“I need your help,” Hex said, walking toward the woman. Hex fixed his pant leg and let all three tails spring free. The fellow Kitsune across the desk stood there in shock for a moment.

“Oh, sorry. I don’t recognize your face. Are you a registered resident here?”

“No, I just got here. And I’m from one of the ruling houses.”

“Ah-Um, you’re from the House of—”

“Yes. That’s the one,” Hex cut her off.

“I need to see the ambassador and I also need for you to hide me here for awhile.”

“I-um-sure. How did you manage to get all the way here? Yes, come this way Ambassador Oden is in the back office. We’ll take care of you, Mr. Hex.”

She led him down a series of halls and through the courtyard. On the way, he saw only a handful of staff, but thankfully all were fellow Kitsune. That was a relief, because it meant everyone here could be trusted.

“The ambassador is right in here,” she said, opening the door.

The chair on the other side of the room turned around as they entered.

“Mayrose, has this man requested an audience?” The ambassador asked.

“Sir, it’s Hex. He’s here,” she replied.

Suddenly the ambassador looked at them like he had just eaten a lemon.

“Hex? Your Excellency! It’s such a burst of hope to see you. Of course, we will do everything we can for you. You said you needed some specific help from us?”

“Yes. One thing above all,” Hex replied.

“And what would that be?”

“Have you seen any sharp-faced humans wearing gray uniforms?”

Their spades barely scratched into the ground, but hard work gave Hans a chance to think about his situation. Unless Diefanthal was lying about the Americans killing surrenderees, it would be wise to stay here with the SS. Of course, he could just discard the Grossdeutschland armband, but—

“Don’t worry about Postel,” the mechanic Heinz Mertens chuckled and dug in to the hardened soil.

“It isn’t personal. Postel is actually the highest-ranking person in this whole cell, but the commander of this place doesn’t trust him, or anyone else that isn’t Leibstandarte.”

Postel had stormed off when Diefanthel ordered the Kompanie to dig a bunker for the SS officers and staff. The three of them, Mertens, Gustav and Hans, toiled away while keeping an eye on the American prisoner who sat in silence. Mertens seemed the most agreeable person there by far. His cheerful disposition was a stark contrast to the harsh hearts commanding all of them. The mechanic’s bright blonde hair and red cheeks only added to the personification.

“Can’t say I blame him, though. Postel, I mean. The aerodrome didn’t prepare me for these people’s unforgiving discipline, either.”

“So how’d you wind up here?” Hans asked. “Escaped a prisoner camp?”

Mertens laughed, “Heck no. I was in Crimea, in 1944. My pilot was the last man to evacuate when the Soviets came. There were three of us left, and only a single 109-E. You know, the fighter plane.”

“Right, but, isn’t that only a one-seater?”

“Yes! My pilot had to tear out the radio, then the cockpit armor plate. I crawled into the fuselage when my pilot fired up the plane. I could feel the engine lifting us with no difficulty. Then—”

“A white light? We’ve all seen it. Including myself,” a drawling voice retorted from behind them. It was the American prisoner.

“We can’t speak with you, prisoner,” Mertens retorted to Wheelis in a semi-official tone.

“…Not at least while the SS is watching,” the mechanic muttered out loud enough for Hans to hear and understand.

As the sun sank down beneath the evergreens and turned the sky pink, members of the Leibstandarte began making their way to the officer’s bunker. It was dinner time. General-major Postel put down his spade and unexpectedly shot orders at the Kompanie.