by David Adams
“Good,” Pavlov said, stifling a yawn. He hadn’t realised how tired he was, but his legs ached from marching. “Right. Might be a job for the morning.”
“Sounds good,” said Dmitriev. “C’mon. Let’s get you all some quarters.”
CHAPTER 26
The Separatist camp
Syrene
THEY DISCUSSED MORE DETAILS OF the plan, just little things of small consequence, and then Ilyukhina and Chuchnova were given quarters—Pavlov made sure they were housed together—while he was billeted with Dmitriev. None of them were given their weapons back, but being allocated quarters in the same area was an interesting show of trust.
Pavlov saw Ilyukhina and Chuchnova to their rooms, then Dmitriev walked him away from the women’s barracks toward the men’s.
“How are you doing?” asked Dmitriev, handing him the metal flask. “Feeling better?”
Even just discussing it brought the memory of the gripping fear back in his head, but now he had his medicine back. “Yeah,” Pavlov said, unscrewing it and taking a chug. “A lot better now that I have this back. Thanks.”
“No worries,” said Dmitriev. “I used to have the same problem.”
“Used to,” Pavlov echoed, the tense of it drawing his attention. “Like, as a kid, or…”
“As in, two years ago.” Dmitriev led him down one of the winding tunnels that, for a brief moment, Pavlov thought eerily similar to the steel passageways of Hammerfall. “The cause is still pretty unknown, but they’re more common than most people imagine. The dizziness, the fainting, all of that—the biggest cause of those is hyperventilating. Deep breathing can often help, but that’s hard to keep in your head, especially since stress tends to bring them on. Fortunately, other treatment options exist.” He reached into a pocket of his uniform and pulled out a thin tube that narrowed to a point. “I haven’t used this in years,” he said, “but it’s a chemical dispenser that will help a lot. It injects a chemical which will oxygenate your blood for a few minutes. So you don’t even have to breathe. Kind of a buffer, so you can recover.”
He didn’t want drugs, but he also didn’t want to piss off someone he still considered his captor. After a moment’s hesitation, Pavlov took the small metal tube and slid it into his breast pocket, the metal clinking against the plates below the fabric. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll keep that in mind. For now, though, I got the vodka.”
“That’ll help,” said Dmitriev, “for a bit. But it’s only a psychological thing. And, you know, you wouldn’t want to fall too far down the neck of a bottle. We are Russians, comrade, but even we have our limits.”
“Limits should be pushed,” said Pavlov, grinning cheekily.
“Agreed,” said Dmitriev, giving a polite chuckle. “So. Tell me about your squad, mmm?”
He was probing them for information—actionable intelligence, really—but Pavlov knew the traps, and understood what to say and what not to. “We’re Pavlov’s Dogs,” he said.
Dmitriev snorted. “You pick that yourself?”
“Yup, from the list. It seemed fitting.”
“There’s a list?”
“Of course.”
Dmitriev seemed amused by that. “So they let you pick your squad name, but you have to pick from a pre-approved set of names. So when they promote someone, they are limited by having to pick someone who coincidentally has the same name as the person they’re replacing, or else, reform the unit.”
“It really is a terrible idea when you think about it,” said Pavlov.
“Just as a government program should be.”
“I guess that’s why you’re trying to overthrow them, right?” asked Pavlov, grin plastered right across his face.
For some reason, Dmitriev didn’t laugh. Instead, his face became stony. “Okay, so,” he said, “I’ve done you a bit of a favour now, so how about you do me one, too, mmm?”
That sounded reasonable. “Certainly,” said Pavlov.
“How did you know Hammerfall had cows on site? And about the mortar attack? No bullshit.”
Telling the truth was his decision to make, and Pavlov took a deep breath. “We weren’t reinforcements,” he said, carefully gauging Dmitriev’s reaction. “We—all three of us—were stationed at Hammerfall as part of its defenders. We were the ones who defended it against your attack.” He briefly looked away. “Sorry.”
For a moment, Dmitriev said nothing, then he just nodded curtly. “You did your job,” he said. “The nature of war is shifting alliances. Just ask the Italians. Or the Soviets in the Great Patriotic War. Stalin was one of the Big Three during the war, but the Allies forgot him fast. In the dying days of Russia’s bloodiest conflict, and as Soviet troops were marching through Berlin, the battle lines of a new, cold war were being drawn up.”
Something about the way Dmitriev said it all reminded him of Chuchnova, and of Minsky. Pavlov took another swig of the bottle. “Right, well, let me ask you something: are you a UE agent?”
That seemed to surprise him. Dmitriev said nothing for a moment, and then, almost imperceptibly, nodded. “Yes.”
“Thought so,” said Pavlov. “Most SAM batteries pose little threat to a modern spacecraft. Yet yours nearly killed us. I’m guessing the UE are arming the Separatists?”
Dmitriev held up his tattered, taped-together rifle. “Yeah, you’d think they’d do a better job at that.” He smiled. “How did you guess?”
“It was that or a neo-Communist. Although the idea you could be both was something I was considering, too.”
“Most of us are,” said Dmitriev. “Most Separatists are neo-Communists, I mean.” Pavlov barely noticed that they had arrived outside the men’s barracks. “Syrene is a small world, Petya, full of rural folk largely of Ukrainian extraction. Most of us remember the USSR fondly, some not so much, but that doesn’t matter now. We can learn from the past without mindlessly emulating it, taking the good and leaving the bad. All we want to do for the future is live without human greed, human weakness, human selfishness.”
“Chuchnova said the same thing,” said Pavlov. “I actually thought, for a moment, that meant she was crazy too.”
Dmitriev considered that, a playful smile drifting over his face. “Well, maybe we are a little crazy,” he said, rolling his shoulders. “The Separatist movement is made up of many disparate parts. The bulk of us are neo-Communists, but a non-insubstantial part are fascists, libertarians, anarchists, folks who just plain want to shoot people, and…the occasional UE plant trying to steer the breakaway Russian worlds into our fold. All we have in common, all we need in common, is a desire for freedom and independence from the Confederation.”
Pavlov considered that carefully. “You realise that if you win, you have a long road ahead of you. The pieces of your army won’t fit together nicely; each faction will claim they did the majority of the work, the fighting and the dying, and each will want a greater share of the power than what they are truly owed. And if your comrades discover that the UE is meddling in Syrene’s affairs, they won’t like it, especially being so inclined toward independence. They won’t be looking to replace one set of rulers with another.”
“Those are problems for another day.” Dmitriev inclined his head. “But your point is well taken. Assuming we can beat off the Confederation, Syrene’s period of war and strife is just beginning.”
Together they stood in silence for a moment.
“Maybe a joke,” said Dmitriev. “To lighten the mood.”
“Okay,” said Pavlov.
“A Confederation ship lands at Syrene’s spaceport.
‘Occupation?’ asks the guard.
‘No no no, just visiting!’”
Pavlov laughed. “Right. Well, I’m afraid my loyalties still lie with the evil occupying overlords.”
“Like I said,” said Dmitriev. “Disparate parts, all working together. As long as your guns are pointed to the victims of this madness, whatever it is, we are allies.”
“For now,” said P
avlov.
“For now,” said Dmitriev.
CHAPTER 27
The Separatist camp
Syrene
IN THE MORNING, AT ABOUT 05:00 hours, Pavlov, Chuchnova, Ilyukhina, Dmitriev and the rest of the Separatists set off toward Hammerfall with the rising sun at their backs.
Their weapons were returned to them. Pavlov took his rifle gratefully; its grip felt familiar in his hands, an old comrade now reunited. There were no blindfolds this time.
Their weapons were meagre, but they had a plan.
As they marched, Pavlov took stock of his allies of convenience. The Separatist weapons were truly pitiful, even worse than they’d had during the first attack. Apparently that was their best gear. The majority of them had repurposed farming equipment, and one of them—a tall blonde woman whom Pavlov felt truly small beside—carried a huge sword.
It was a fucking miracle that they had held out against the Confederation this long.
There was some good news amongst the depressing display of inadequate weaponry. The Separatists’ self-propelled SAM battery—the exact same one that had nearly killed them on the drop in—trundled along beside them, its onboard AI doing the driving. Five missiles remained, with one conspicuous gap on one side of the rail. It was strange to be casually marching alongside the machine that had tried to murder him.
* * *
Pavlov’s Cell
“Fucking SAMs,” said Chainsaw. “I hate those things.”
“I know, I know,” said Pavlov. “It nearly killed me too, remember?”
“Yeah, but I mean, you and me—we’re just meat. Just people. But Anarchy…she’s a beautiful soul, you know? She’s too beautiful to have her face marred by tread-heads with their missiles.”
Yanovna didn’t seem to be listening to what she was saying. Pavlov couldn’t help but laugh.
“It’s a ship,” said Pavlov. “A spaceship. If the highest aim of a pilot was to preserve their ship, they would leave it in the hangar forever.”
Chainsaw’s tone betrayed her offence. “It’s not like that,” she said. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Pilots.
* * *
Jungle surrounding Hammerfall
The blonde woman stared at him, hand resting on the hilt of her sword.
“Yes?” asked Pavlov, turning to walk sideways. “You got something to say?”
Anger flashed across her face, but it faded as quickly as it came. Instead of acting, she snorted dismissively. “Not to a Confederate. Cука блядь.”
Pavlov raised his visor, exposing his face. He always found that was helpful in diplomatic situations. “Yeah, well, I’m not exactly feeling chatty either.”
She said nothing, so Pavlov returned to walking straight, but the moment he did so, she spoke up again.
“Yeah. I’m sure it’s hard to take time out of your day to talk, so busy are you sending gunships over the jungle to massacre farmers trying to make a living.”
Pavlov chewed on the inside of his cheek, trying to keep his tongue inside his mouth where it belonged, but he unwisely let it waggle instead. “Yeah. Farmers trying to make a living? Right. That’s what you are. Tell me, did you shell Hammerfall with your caring and your charming, rural ways?” His tone turned acidic. “Did you kill Minsky with your kindness, you fucking neo-Communist?”
“We don’t exactly have the luxury of engaging you in a fair fight,” said the blonde woman, her voice equally venomous. “You think I haven’t lost people too? Must be easy for you: wake up, have your orange juice and cereal, go slaughter some poor Ukrainians, and then go home to your nice warm spaceship and count your pay?”
Cука блядь. “I don’t do it for the pay. I do it for the Confederation. For Russia.”
“Bullshit!” The woman’s anger seemed to only grow. “You Confederates fight for money. Just mercenaries. Hired thugs. We fight for our honour.”
“Each of us fights for what they lack most,” said Pavlov.
Her sword flew into her hands. Pavlov shrugged helplessly, stopped walking, and clicked the safety on his rifle off. She couldn’t possibly be serious, could she? He would end her before she took a step.
“Hey!” shouted Dmitriev, jogging over to the two of them. “Don’t you fucking animals have enough to worry about without this shit?” He spat onto the jungle floor. “What, too eager to fight? Can’t wait until we get to Hammerfall?”
It was a good point.
“She started it,” said Pavlov.
Dmitriev rolled his eyes. “What are you, twelve?”
“No,” said Pavlov. “I’m two. That’s twenty-four in dog years. Arf arf!”
“The fuck?” asked the woman. Dmitriev silenced her with a glare.
They walked for a minute or so, then Pavlov stepped over to her. “Hey, sorry about that.”
She said nothing and kept walking.
“Nice sword,” he said.
She said nothing and kept walking.
Pavlov drew his pistol, turned it around in his hand, and then offered it to her. “Here,” he said. “That can opener won’t do much against the armoured spetsnaz we’re going up against. This has high-velocity screamer rounds—if you hit them in the joint, visor, or from below, it’s got a good chance of getting through their armour. Just remember to keep shooting because these guys were tough even before their…change.”
She regarded the gift with a sceptical eye. “Why would you offer me this?”
“We all gotta get through this,” said Pavlov, the pistol dangling on his finger. “We might not like each other, but in this battle, we’re on the same side.”
The woman considered for a moment, and then took it. She removed the magazine, inspecting it with a critical eye. “I don’t want to shoot nobody,” she said. “I don’t want to fight a war for freedom, or honour, or money, or any other kind of reason.” She stepped over a large log.
“You might not be interested in war, but war is interested in you. Bullets don’t care if you want peace or war.”
“I actually don’t want peace either,” she said. “Actually, truth be told, I don’t really want to live at all. But, you know, dying is such a hassle, and…” She jammed the magazine back into the pistol. “Killing is easier.”
“Beep beep beep,” said Pavlov. “My bullshit detector is going crazy. Boop beep. Off the charts. Everyone wants to live.”
She looked at him sideways, with hollow eyes. “Not when you’ve seen the things I’ve seen.”
He’d seen that look before. “You’re deep in the Russian Circle,” he said. “Hard times create strong men. Strong men create good times. Good times create weak men. Weak men create hard times.” Pavlov tilted his head. “Men being the generic title for humans, of course.”
“Of course.” The woman looked away. “You ever love someone?”
It was a weird discussion to be having with a complete stranger, one who he’d threatened to shoot moments ago, but war brought out the strangeness in all of them. “Yeah,” he said. “Sort of. Maybe.”
The woman smiled, a strange smile that was both amused and sad. “Wow, a man with commitment problems. I’m shocked.”
“I don’t have problems with commitment. Minsky and I were…well, we were going all the way.”
“Mmm hmm. No, you’re right. It’s my experience that guys don’t tend to have problems with commitment, it’s following through on that commitment that’s the problem.”
It was so strange to talk about this stuff, about Minsky, without feeling his chest close in around him. The approaching battle must have done it. “Minsky…helped me breathe. Just being around him made my chest tight, but when he spoke, suddenly I was relaxed. I was happy.”
He realised Ilyukhina had been listening in. “That sounds poetic,” she said, raising a sceptical eyebrow, “but honestly, from what I remember of the two of you, you mostly argued the whole time. He would say something dumb, and you’d correct him, and then back and forth and back
and forth until finally one of you got sick of it. Or he said something else dumb.”
“Yeah,” said Pavlov, trying not to think about it too much. “I…I guess we expressed ourselves in a strange way.”
“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to upset you, sir.”
“Arf arf, but honestly, it’s okay. Talk about him, it’s good. I like being upset.” He took a breath, shallow, taking in some air. Gotta keep breathing. “I want to still be affected by this. I want to think that, in some way, he’s still here with me. I still have something. The day I think of him and feel nothing is the day he’s truly gone.”
“That’s nice,” she said, and Pavlov thought she actually meant it.
He wanted to say something else, something profound even, but whatever it was died in his mouth as he spotted a glint on the horizon. Then another right next to it. Then another. The glint of the rising sun off metal wings, banking toward them.
Incoming bombers.
CHAPTER 28
Jungle surrounding Hammerfall
LOOKED LIKE THE CRAZIES HAD fixed the communications array. Figured.
“Incoming!” Pavlov shouted into the jungle, which, apart from the occasional animal sound, was quiet and still. “Incoming air strike! Everyone—scatter!”
Chuchnova and the Separatists stood around, confused at his outburst, but Ilyukhina—her training kicking in—immediately began running, disappearing into the jungle.
Dmitriev reacted next. He turned and bolted a different way, barking commands to anyone who could hear.
There was nothing more he could do. Pavlov picked a third direction and, feet pounding through the mud, took off at a run.
He wasn’t sure how long he had before they struck. The bombers were some distance away but could close that distance quickly. They were low altitude, down in the weeds, trying to avoid anti-aircraft fire.