“Reformation?” Gotfrid asked, spitting blood out of his mouth. “You bastards are all insane.”
Gotfrid wrestled himself away from the tall man, and stomped back to his cot. A woman grabbed his arm, digging her fingers in.
“You need to learn some respect,” she told him. Gotfrid slapped her. The woman hardly flinched at the strike and grabbed his other arm. She pushed him through the rows of cots until he stumbled and fell backward.
“This one needs to learn respect!” she shouted at the other refugees.
Chaos erupted throughout the warehouse. Anya, Demyan, and Lilia exchanged worried glances. Alexi only sighed.
“Just keep your heads down,” Alexi said, still lying on his cot. “Don't draw attention.”
“Shouldn't someone help him?” Demyan asked.
“He deserves a good beating,” Igor said.
“He betrayed all of us,” Pyotr said. “I don't care what happens to him.” The boy crossed his arms, but the sad expression on his face betrayed his conflicted emotions.
A scream brought the group's attention back to the chaos. A young, emaciated man charged at Gotfrid with the waste bucket, and smashed him over the head. The contents of the bucket spewed out, drenching Gotfrid's head and torso.
Gotfrid screamed.
“You vile bastard!” he yelled. He grabbed the man by the throat and began to squeeze. The man gasped and clawed at Gotfrid's hands.
With a yelp, Gotfrid let go. He looked down to find a rusty blade sticking in his side. The elderly woman who had put it there pulled it out and jabbed it into his torso again. The other refugees cheered her on.
“Oh my god,” Lilia gasped. She rolled on to her back and pulled out Pavel's pendant. Closing her eyes, she gripped the pendant tight, willing her mind to focus on anything but what was happening in the warehouse.
A moment later, the warehouse was quiet again. Gotfrid's body lay limp on the floor, a pool of blood surrounding him.
“He's dead,” Anya said. “They…they just killed him.”
“Got what he deserved,” Igor said.
Anya's gaze darted around the room, her eyes wide with fright.
“Chameleon?” There was no answer.
“Why are you looking for chameleons?” Igor asked. Anya glared at him then turned to face Lilia.
Another refugee was talking to her and holding Pavel's necklace. Or was it another, identical necklace? Anya listened, but their voices were too low to hear. After a few moments, Lilia and the stranger hugged. There were tears in Lilia's eyes.
As the stranger stood, he looked at Anya and winked. Then he turned and left.
“Lilia,” Anya whispered. “Who was that?”
“He recognized Pavel's charm,” Lilia replied. “He follows the same religion. It's called Drevnih. He said he'd tell me about it.” A small smile formed on her lips.
“What was his name?” Anya asked.
“He said to call him Chameleon,” Lilia replied. “What an odd nickname.”
“Yes, it is.”
The night continued on in sleepless silence. The time dragged by, and the buzzing of bugs became progressively louder around the fresh dead body. Shortly before sunrise, Anya heard another sound. She sat up on her cot, trying to hear where it was coming from.
“Chameleon is here, Chameleon is ready,” Anya heard a voice whisper to her left. She turned, only to hear the words again, this time behind her. As Anya listened, she realized it wasn’t a single whisperer, but dozens throughout the warehouse. She smiled.
“Chameleon is here,” she whispered. “Chameleon is ready.”
After her friends were carted off to the refugee camp, Zoya was sent down to the holding cells. She spent the night alone, in silence, without food or water. She paced the cell all day, focusing on the stone and dirt beneath her feet to keep her thoughts from wandering to darker places. What waited for her friends in the refugee camp? Was Nikolai ok? Where is the gadget? What were they going to do to her?
Eventually, Zoya collapsed in a corner, unable to keep her hysterics at bay. She sobbed and hyperventilated, pounding the wall and floor with her fists until they were sore. Then, finally, she fell into a fitful sleep.
In the morning, two officers arrived to fetch her. Zoya was taken outside, surrounded by police officers, and placed inside a windowless carriage. The officers followed her then closed the door.
“Where are we going?” Zoya asked. None of the officers replied. The carriage started moving, and they traveled in silence. Zoya’s hands fidgeted as she gazed at the floor.
When the carriage stopped, the police pushed Zoya into another elaborate building. The lobby of this building was vast and open, with marble floors and statues between each of its tall windows. They led Zoya down a hallway, down two flights of stairs, and into a large bathroom. Three women stood in the bathroom, and the police handed Zoya over to them.
Without warning, the women stripped Zoya of her clothing. Zoya objected with a yelp as they threw her into a hot bathtub and began washing the soot and mud from her skin. Zoya cringed at the pain as they scrubbed bruises and scabs on her body. One woman dunked Zoya's head under the water. Zoya sputtered and spat when she came back up, wincing as the woman then combed tangles from her hair.
“What’s happening?” Zoya asked. The women ignored her.
The women then pulled Zoya out of the bath and wrapped her in a towel. She was dragged to an adjacent room, where a wardrobe was filled with dresses and gowns. One of the women picked a dress out: a teal gown with a golden-embroidered bodice and high collar. Another woman dressed Zoya in black stockings, drawers, a chemise, and a corset. The corset was pulled tight, squeezing painfully against Zoya's ribs. She could feel fresh bruises forming on her ribcage from the constriction. Over the underclothes, the women pulled a camisole and petticoat. Then, finally, they fastened the gown around her.
The women brought Zoya to a vanity, and pushed her down onto a seat. The women pulled her hair up, twisting and fastening it.
“What's going on?” Zoya finally asked. She felt lightheaded, her vision blurry. “What is all of this for?”
“You're to be presented before the High Council,” a decorated soldier announced as he entered the room. He turned to the women. “Is she ready?”
“Yes, sir,” one of the women replied, her gaze fixed on the ground.
“Good.” The soldier smiled and looked at Zoya. “Miss Orlova, I'm Colonel Truten. Won't you please follow me?”
Zoya glanced at the women who had dressed her then back at Colonel Truten. He held out his hand to Zoya. Taking a deep breath, unsure what else to do, she took it.
“This is certainly an exciting day,” he told her. “It's a great honor to be seen by the High Council.”
Colonel Truten led Zoya through magnificent halls and rooms with sparkling marble floors and walls covered in elaborate carvings. Paintings on the walls depicted notable people from Vernulaian history, some of whom Zoya recognized from textbooks.
Finally, Zoya and the colonel reached a grand wooden door in which a scene had been carved showing the rise of the Vernulaian state. It depicted images of agriculture, industrialization, war, and finally the glittering city of Mirgorod. Zoya and Colonel Truten stood in front of the door and waited.
“Why do they want to see me?” Zoya asked.
“By now you must realize how special you are,” Colonel Truten replied. “I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say more. But the Council will explain.”
The grand door opened, pulled by a boy in a bright blue uniform. Inside a large, open hall with stained glass windows that reached from the floor to the high ceiling. Zoya and the colonel stepped inside. Zoya's heart was racing, and she felt her face flushing.
At the back of the hall, thirteen men and women in fine clothing sat behind a long desk situated upon a dais.
“You must be Miss Zoya Orlova,” one of the women announced. “So pleased to meet you.”
Zoya looked to the colonel then at th
e Council.
“Thank you,” she said meekly.
“Come closer,” one of the men told her. “Some of us are hard of hearing or hard of sight.”
“Or both,” another man said.
The colonel ushered Zoya closer to the Council.
“Has Colonel Truten been kind to you?” another woman of the Council asked.
“Yes,” Zoya replied.
“Yes, what?” the woman asked, leaning forward on her desk.
“Yes…ma'am?” Zoya tried. The Council laughed.
“I'm sorry,” Zoya told them. “I'm not familiar with what sort of courtesies are expected. I didn't know—”
“Calm down, child,” the same woman said. “We know you are foreign. The proper way to address a member of the High Council is 'Your Righteousness'.”
“Yes, Your Righteousness,” Zoya said.
“Very good,” one of the men proclaimed. “I can tell you have a good attitude.”
“Yes,” a woman agreed. “You respect our authority. You're a smart girl, indeed.”
“A smart girl such as yourself is probably wondering why you're here,” a man stated.
“Yes, Your Righteousness,” Zoya replied.
The man who sat in the center of the desk pulled out the Bronnerush, placing it on a metal stand in front of him. “This is yours,” he stated.
“Yes, Your Righteousness,” Zoya replied.
“And you know what it does,” he continued.
Zoya glanced around at the members of the High Council. “No, Your Righteousness.”
“Now, Miss Orlova,” a woman said. “Smart girls do not lie. Especially to the High Council.”
Zoya's legs felt weak, and the corset made it difficult for her to breathe. “I don't,” Zoya started, thinking. “I don't know exactly what it does, Your Righteousness. But I saw it, felt it…” Zoya realized she didn't even know how to tell the truth if she wanted to.
“You've activated it before,” one of the men said.
“Yes, sir, Your Righteousness,” Zoya replied.
“And how did it feel?” he asked.
“It felt dangerous, Your Righteousness,” Zoya replied. She took a deep breath, remembering. “It felt…exciting, liberating.” She caught herself and glanced up at the High Council. “But it is very dangerous, Your Righteousness.”
Every member of the High Council was writing on the pieces of paper in front of them.
“If I may,” Zoya started, “could I ask: where are my friends? Your Righteousnesses?”
“The other people you were with?” a woman asked. “They've been sent to the refugee camp outside of the city. With any luck, they're as smart as you, and will prove their loyalty and usefulness to Vernulaia very quickly.”
“What does that mean?” Zoya asked before she could catch herself. “Your Righteousness.”
“Our fears are realized,” a woman whispered to the rest of the High Council. “This one is too bold.”
“An easy fix,” a man replied.
“Colonel Truten,” a woman called. “Please escort Zoya to the training facilities. She'll need to be conditioned before we can trust her with the gadget.”
“Conditioned?” Zoya asked as the colonel began to pull her away. “What do you mean conditioned?”
“You ask too many questions,” a man told her. “And you feel entitled to their answers. Such questioning is a danger to Vernulaia and to yourself. The fine men and women in our training facility will put your mind at ease.”
Torture, Zoya thought. Are they going to torture me?
Zoya struggled against the colonel, who held her tight.
“Let me go!” she shouted. “Please! Let me and my friends go! Just let us leave Vernulaia, we'll never come back! We won't cause any more trouble for you!”
“How rude,” one of the men grumbled.
“Sorry dear,” a woman called. “We need you.”
The colonel dragged Zoya out of the room, where a team of doctors in white lab coats stood ready to take custody of her. Zoya continued to struggle until a sharp pain hit her leg. Within seconds the room spun, dimmed, and turned black.
Down the hall from the underground tavern, radicals and revolutionaries gathered around a large table, speaking in frantic tones. Snezhana paced the room, skimming over all the maps, plans, and papers that hung on the walls. She turned to a large map of Mirgorod spread upon the table in front of her. She pointed to one corner.
“This is the refugee camp?” she asked. Boris glanced to where she pointed.
“Yes,” he said. “That's likely where they took their captives. Your crew, Zoya's friends, your nephew, your brother…”
“This tunnel,” Snezhana observed, tracing a line on the map with her finger. “Do you have access to it?”
“Yes,” Boris replied, “but we really must focus on rescuing Zoya first. Time is of the essence now that the government has her and her gadget.”
“Once we take her and the gadget, the government will retaliate,” Snezhana replied. “Won't they? They'll send out their troops to recapture the gadget and quash any sign of rebellion.” Boris glanced around at his comrades, who had all stopped speaking to listen to Snezhana.
“She has a point,” one man said. “Our effort may be for naught if we don't plan well enough.”
“So what are you suggesting, Snezhana?” Boris asked.
Snezhana smirked. “I think we need to free the refugees,” she said. “Your numbers are impressive, but not impressive enough. Setting the refugees free will give us more manpower and a distraction to split the government's forces.”
Boris nodded, looking at the map.
“Alright,” he said. “We'll have to work quickly. Perhaps a refugee rebellion will stall the government from unleashing the gadget's power, but we can't count on that.” He smiled at Snezhana. “I knew I liked having you around. You'll have a highly respected position in our ranks if you stay.”
“You know me,” Snezhana replied. “I can't stay put in one place for too long.” She winked. “But don't worry, I'll be sure to visit your new utopia to sell my loot.”
Lilia sat up, wiping sweat from her brow, making sure not to rest for too long. She glanced at the nearest supervisor, who was preoccupied by a group of new refugees walking into the site. Among them was Nikolai.
Lilia forgot herself and dropped her hammer. She rushed down from the scaffolding where she was working and sprinted to Nikolai.
“You're alive!” she shouted, wrapping her arms around him. Hard metal slammed into Lilia's armpit. She yelped in pain and stepped back, looking at Nikolai's arm. Metal and leather extended from his shoulder to his fingertips. Every joint was a metal hinge. Nikolai touched Lilia's face with his other arm.
“You're alright,” he said, smiling.
“What did they do to you?” Lilia asked, gesturing to his mechanical arm.
Nikolai sighed and glanced at it. His mechanical hand clenched and unclenched, hissing quietly as it did. “They had to amputate my arm,” Nikolai explained. “I remember arriving at the hospital and hearing someone mention infection. When I woke up, I had this.” Nikolai raised his arm, watching it. “I don't even know how it works. I can move it just like I'd move my real arm. But I can't feel it.”
“It’s like the mechanical hands Olya and Oleg had,” Lilia said. “Only yours is an entire arm.”
“Hey!” One of the supervisors pointed toward Lilia and Nikolai, raising a whip. “Get back to work. Now!”
Lilia glanced at Nikolai then back at the ship she’d been working on.
“I really need to go,” Lilia said. “They're very strict. I'm sorry.”
“It's alright,” Nikolai said. “We'll be alright.” He grabbed her hands. Lilia’s hand fidgeted in his metal grasp.
A supervisor approached quickly from behind Nikolai with what looked like a small dagger. He shoved the object into Nikolai's metal arm. Nikolai yelled out in pain, grabbing his shoulder. His mechanical arm went limp.
“Now you'll work all day without this arm,” the supervisor told Nikolai. “I'll reactivate it once you've earned that privilege.” Nikolai breathed heavily.
“Yes, sir,” he growled. He glanced toward Lilia, who was already running back to her work. Then he followed the supervisor to his own assignment.
Anya stopped working for a moment to wipe sweat from her brow. She looked over at Alexi and watched as he stretched and winced. The back of his new shirt was stained with blood.
Suddenly, the metal of the hull of the ship they were on vibrated as a loud boom sounded outside.
“What the hell was that?” one of the supervisors demanded. Alexi and Anya ran up and out of the ship. Smoke rose from a nearby building.
“What's going on?” Alexi asked Igor, who stood nearby.
“Damned if I know,” Igor replied. Another explosion went off, this time closer to the shipyard. Anya heard the sounds of yelling and screaming echoing through the air. A moment later, a flood of people rushed into the shipyard, attacking the supervisors.
“It's time to rebel,” Anya said, looking around.
“What did you just say?” Alexi asked with a forced laugh.
“It's time to rebel, just like Chameleon said! This is our chance. Come on!” She grabbed Alexi by the arm and started running down the ramp to the ground. Igor followed, obviously confused but unwilling to be left behind. When they reached the ground, Demyan and Pyotr ran to them.
“It's Snezhana!” Pyotr told them happily. “It must be. Snezhana and her rebel friends!”
“Rebel friends?” Igor questioned. “What rebel friends?”
“You never heard her mention Boris?” Pyotr asked.
“Her drunkard ex-lover?”
Pyotr frowned. “Yes, him. But he's a rebel leader, remember? The Order of the Chameleon?” Igor shrugged. Anya's mouth fell open as she tried to piece together the new information.
“We can figure out Snezhana's love life later,” Alexi said. “Now is the time to get the hell out of here.”
Igor looked toward the water where the freshly finished ship was docked. He looked at Pyotr and grinned.
“But we don't have Gotfrid,” Pyotr said sadly, eying the ship as well. “There's only two of us.”
Grigory's Gadget Page 22