by Stu Jones
Inside the outermost edge of the camp, creeping from one point to another, there she is. A guard passes and Husniya strikes like a coiled snake, the edge of her hand landing hard across his neck. The man falters and she drags him to the ground. Another strike to the face sends him out. She hauls his body behind a nearby woodpile.
“Foolish girl,” I hiss. “She’s going to get herself killed.”
Ghofaun is already shrugging out of his heavy clothing. “I need a diversion,” he says without looking up.
My stomach roils. “I’ll go. Let me go.”
“No. It is a matter of honor. She’s my pupil. I will go after her. I won’t argue this.” He snugs his kukri blade into his belt and raises his hardened gaze to mine. “Give me a distraction.”
My teeth press together, the muscles of my jaw tightening. “I can do that,” I say, pulling the Draganov over.
A panicked shout from the camp. Dread crawls its way across the length of my body. One of the guards has raised the alarm. They’ve found the body.
“Ghofaun, we’ve got to—”
The monk is gone.
Sard it all. I scramble to the bottom of the rise and head for the main gate, the massive rifle in tow. Let’s do this.
Shouts fill the snow-laden air, hanging with the drifting flurries, as I step onto the road. The gate is open, held only by three men armed with rifles. Their attention is diverted to the ruckus inside the camp. One catches me in his peripheral and spins around, jabbering in his native tongue.
The Draganov snaps up, sights aligned. A bark of fire and the barrel blazes hot three times in succession. The heavy rounds do what warmongers manufactured them to do, tearing ragged red holes into the stupefied guards even as they fumble with their weapons. I keep my eyes up, away from the gasps and groans of the dying men, my feet carrying me through the gate and into the encampment.
They chose this side. If that means they have to die, so be it.
The heavy rifle swivels left and right, tracking with my line of sight. My mouth forms the words carved into the hidden corners of my heart. “Be here, Faruq. Be alive.”
Bullets streak overhead and whine past. I stumble, my momentum pitched forward into a roll that takes me to the kneeling position. There’s a sharp sting in my left forearm and thigh. Sard. Pivoting hard to the left, I brace the rifle and lock on a group of radicals trying to take potshots at me from behind a wooden platform. Idiots. The weapon I carry, their own equipment, is meant for busting light cover.
The long rifle gushes fire and the screams of my enemies sing in my ears as the jacketed rounds shred the barrier in a spray of splintered wood and blood. I strip the mag free and insert the second, whip the charging handle back and let it fly forward with a satisfying crack. I forge ahead, my head filled with the violence of war. Where are my allies? Know your target and what’s beyond, Mila. Don’t hit your friends by accident.
The men without firearms charge me with their blades. My arms shake, my back protesting as the rifle comes up again, hellfire pouring forth. They die like the others, tumbling into the shallow ditches that will be their frozen graves. But their numbers are too great. No time to reload. Damnation.
Releasing the bayonet, I flick it free and hear it snap into position. “Where is he? Where is Faruq?”
From the right, there’s a flash of movement. My heart soars as Ghofaun and Husniya, side by side, leap into the charging ranks of angry terrorists, creating a wild melee of furious screams and clanging blades. Ghofaun moves with the born grace of a dancer, feigning left and spinning right. The flying heel of his foot connects with the chins of three attackers in succession, knocking them back. At close range, the deadly curved kukri blade in his grasp is more formidable than all the bullets in the world. The warrior monk intercepts a blow meant for Husniya, lopping the attacker’s hand from his wrist with a single strike. Another swipe inside and he’s severed a man at the neck, blood issuing into the snow at their feet. He ducks and rises again, the blade flashing as he completes a handless cartwheel into a group of the men. Shrieks of mortal terror fill the air.
Beside him, young Husniya is no wallflower. Fighting tooth and nail, she dashes forward, intercepting a machete. She strips the weapon from the fighter’s grasp and sweeps the man’s legs out from under him—knocking his skull against the frozen earth, before leaping into the air—her whole body a battering ram as she crashes into the next man with a brutal double knee strike.
With a ragged scream, I launch into the fray, swinging the cumbersome Draganov rifle that now feels like lifting a plank of steel. Parry, dodge, duck. I drive toward my friends, shoving the sharpened bayonet spike into the chest of a wild-eyed fanatic. Blood spurts from his mouth. I kick him free and turn, ready for the next.
A gunshot like the sound of a cannon blasts into the air.
“Enough,” a heavily accented voice screams out ahead of us.
I tear the empty magazine from the Draganov, numb fingers fumbling with the last mag in my pocket. I yank it free and snap it into the well, charging the rifle’s action in one fluid movement. Together, backs to each other, Ghofaun, Husniya, and I face down the handful of remaining terrorists.
“Logosian!”
I turn, my rifle rising. Ahead is the maddened countenance of Kapka. My stomach contorts. Enclosed in the warlord’s fist is the dark shaggy hair of a disheveled man. Kapka holds an antique gold-plated revolver to his head. Though emaciated, there is no mistaking him. It’s Faruq. The angle of his jaw, the long nose, his eyes as dark as a winter river. His hands are bound in front and he’s clothed in a burlap sack. My heart cramps.
“Faruq!” I shout.
There is no response, not a single shred of recognition on his face.
Tears well.
“Faruq! It’s me, your sister!” Husniya shouts.
The fanatics gasp for breath, grunting curses as they plot their next move.
Kapka grins, his teeth a jumble of pale yellow and shimmering gold.
“I’ll kill you, monster.” I shake with the words.
“So, you’ve finally come for this traitor? Why now? You’ve wasted your pathetic lives.” He shuffles farther behind his hostage. “I’ll execute him and my men will finish you where you stand.”
My back muscles scream and my arms quiver under the weight of the long rifle. I can’t close the fingers of my left hand. Rivulets of blood drip from my forearm and off my elbow. Down the sights, the barrel wavers. No shot.
“Can you kill me from there before I do him? Are you that good?” He taps Faruq on the head with the barrel of the old wheel gun.
Husniya steps forward, her hands up, tears streaming down her face. “Faruq, it’s me. It’s Husniya. I’ve come for you, brother. Please. Look at me. I’m here.”
The scene stirs an earthquake of such fury in my chest, I feel I might explode.
“You are an utter disappointment to me, daughter, but I am glad you are here for this.” Kapka grins. “I wanted you here to see me finish this traitorous brother of yours.” He cocks the hammer on the pistol and presses it to Faruq’s temple.
“No!” Husniya shouts.
I’ve only got one shot. Any deviation and Faruq is dead. We all are. My body quakes with fear and adrenaline. I draw the sight picture and squeeze the trigger.
The Draganov round rips through Kapka’s arm.
Faruq explodes to life, grabbing the pistol in Kapka’s hand. He wrenches it from the warlord’s grasp.
The men around us converge. I bare my teeth and unload the full capacity of my magazine into them. Ghofaun and Husniya plow into the ranks of the few fighters that remain.
The big-bore revolver booms again, blasting a hole through Kapka’s groin. The tyrant shrieks and drops to his knees. Above him, Faruq levels the wheel gun at Kapka’s head and cocks the hammer.
The last of the fanatics falls to the ground, dead or too wounded to fight.
“Your stranglehold on my people”—Faruq can hardly form the
hoarse words with his cracked lips—“is over.”
Kapka begs, his bloodied hands full of the fragments of his own mangled genitals. His pleas for mercy are unheard. Faruq pulls the trigger. The blast strikes Kapka through the eye, the boom of the hand cannon exclaiming the final moment of the despot’s reign.
“Faruq!” I cry as Husniya and I run forward.
My emaciated friend turns toward us, the horrors he’s endured at the hands of his own people stitched like a permanent scar into his face. He raises the revolver and points it at my chest. His hate-filled stare never wavers.
I slow, stumble, and finally collapse. My knees hit the slush.
“Faruq? We searched for so long. We never lost hope, Husniya and I. You’re safe now.”
Husniya stands with her mouth open. “Faruq?”
His gaze sticks to me, penetrating. “You left me. You had the chance to save me once and you left me.”
Helpless, I raise my hands. “I couldn’t. I had to protect the children. I followed, tracking you for five days until the trail ended in the wilds of the Vapid, and I lost you ... again.” My head hangs, tears dripping from pinched eyes. “Please, come home.”
“I am home,” he says. “With my people is where I belong.”
“I know it’s hard, but you’re confused. Please,” I beg.
“Four long years you left me to rot in this hell.” He shakes his head. “Leave. You’re dead to me. Both of you.”
“Faruq.” My eyes flood. “They hid you from us. We did everything we coul—”
The revolver explodes, the bullet smashing into the ice before me. He points it at my chest again.
“Get out. Next time I won’t miss.”
Husniya breaks into a fit of sobbing. “How could you?”
Faruq says nothing. His face concealed in shadow, his weapon trained on us as the snow falls in clumps over the battlefield and covers the dead.
I can’t breathe. Deep inside, a light flutters and grows dark.
“Leave. I won’t ask again,” Faruq rasps.
After all we went through, this is how it ends? I give a slight bow of my head but cannot seem to find the words as I stand on shaking legs, cradling my oozing forearm. I put my good arm around Husniya and motion for Ghofaun to join us.
On our way to the gate, I give one last look toward the embattled Faruq who lowers his head and his weapon.
“I meant something to you, once,” I say, my voice trembling with emotion. Turning away and pulling a weeping Husniya along, we venture forth into the bleak, foreboding storm of unrelenting snow and ice.
Chapter Twenty-one
VEDMAK
The youth stumbles along, crying incessantly. The cobbled-together chain is not enough to choke her but still cuts into her soft flesh. The other end of the shackle is attached to the leather strap that usually holds my scythe, jangling against these ever-weakening legs. Just above her throat, the crackling plasma scythe hovers.
The Ripper women follow me like a herd of cattle, mewing for their offspring. It’s garnered the attention of the males, who have come out of hiding. A tribe of them—some thirty strong—encircle me but never approach. They keep their weapons trained, moving as I move, yet none have the fortitude to make their move. Who knew these creatures were so sentimental? The power of parenthood overpowers their animalistic nature. Pathetic. To think I once held a glimmer of respect for these goblins. If it were me, I would have taken the shot, and risked the whelp.
Not even Rippers are as evil as you Vedmak, you realize that? What does that make you?
Better. It makes me better.
A larger male, adorned in all manner of bones and leather—presumably made from Robust skin—makes a move toward me. My scythe coughs plasma, leaving black pockmarks on the child’s face. The girl wails again and the women shriek.
The male holds my gaze, his piercing blue eyes full of fury and fear. There’s no telling when my weapon will cease to function, the battery all used up. Now, it’s a game of poker. Who breaks first?
Just stay away. He’ll do it.
The Ripper backs off, but never breaks his stare. Coward.
Slowly, but steadily, I shuffle toward the large entranceway to the power station. The closer I become, the more distance the Rippers put between us. They waddle and squirm, chattering among themselves. Stepping backward to the door, I nearly trip over something. A brief stumble, but manage to regain balance. There in the grass is a dead Ripper, his skin pale, blistered and weeping. He’s not been eaten, his clothes still intact. Even his old revolver sits in a holster strapped to his chest.
Radiation poisoning. Gil said it was leaking. It’s why they won’t come closer. They know it makes them sick. It’ll be the end of us.
Did you not design this body to be strong, Gracile?
I didn’t design anything. And it is strong. It’s still standing isn’t it? But radiation poisoning is something different. It’ll kill us, eventually.
I can repair the damage once we are back at the lab.
If you make it back.
Some pursuits are worth the risk, boy.
Backing into the doorway, and keeping the child close, I use the stump of this mangled arm to wedge against the handle and pull the door open. My scythe coughs a final time and snuffs out. There’s a terrible moment of silence, all eyes on me. It feels like an eternity, as if I were once again trapped in the void. The Ripper who felt brave before now finds his courage and comes for me. I throw the scythe to the ground and dash forward. The child crashes down as well. In one smooth movement, I grab the handle of the dead Ripper’s wheel gun and slide it out. The gun barks and the Ripper’s thigh explodes. I spring to my feet, the gun pointed at the child’s head as I back into the doorway yet again. The Rippers scream and yell. Once again, using the cauterized stump I open the door.
Let the child go, they won’t follow us in. They’re too scared.
A quick glance at the sniveling child, then at the bawling Ripper women. I raise the gun and fire. The bullet shatters the makeshift chain, freeing the girl. In unison, the women give a screech of relief and the child begins to run toward her hysterical clan.
Thank you, Vedmak. Thank y—
The second shot strikes the back of the toddler’s skull and she falls, tumbling lifelessly into the grass. The anguished screams of the Rippers are deafening, at least until the door slams shut between us.
You sick, sarding, son of a bitch! Why? Why?
I need them suitably volatile, an appropriate welcoming committee for the so-called leader of Opor.
I hate you. I won’t let you live. I’ll kill us, I swear it to you.
Promises, promises, foolish boy. The bringer of death cannot be killed.
***
Navigating the inside of the station should be easy—but it’s not. With the convenient directional signage and knowledge of Soviet nuclear reactors sponged from Demitri’s consciousness, I should be able to move like a trained rat through a maze. Yet, my concentration wanes like the phases of the moon. I’m never fully in the light—in control. Without the Red Mist, the weakling in here with me fights, however feebly. His hatred for my deeds following the death of the child gives renewed resolve to his battle.
Sard off, Vedmak. You’re sick. A monster.
I try to block out his incessant nagging and focus on the task at hand: contact the Rat; contact Merodach; find the uranium. Covering one ear, as if it will block out his piercing voice, I trudge on. The corridors are wide with high ceilings and feel distinctly industrial. I pass lockers and shower rooms, all stark and functional. Overhead, pipes of different colors line the walls and mounted boxes flash their individual strobing lights, but nothing is superfluous. Everything in its place, and a place for everything.
Through a double set of doors is an enormous gallery humming with activity. It’s the Turbine Hall. The turbines sit in massive light-blue metal boxes, while the generator is the darker blue container next to them. The droning comes f
rom super-heated steam, driving the rotor in the electrical generator. Why do I give a sard about this?
This is your mind, boring kozel. Full of useless information. No wonder you never lay with a woman.
I spit on the floor in disgust.
Because of you, I have laid with a woman. And because of you, I never will again.
You really are a miserable whining child. Now quit your braying, the control room is ahead.
Inside is a sea of indicators and actuators. A bench of instruments forms an inner circle, leaving a walking space between it and the dial-covered walls. Several monitors and keypads have been affixed to the bench and seem to supplement the reactor controls. I meander to the nearest monitor playing the same few frames in grainy black and white over and over. It’s a camera feed from somewhere else. The entrance to Vel.
A few keystrokes, within increasingly itchy fingers, and the feed unfreezes. On the screen, the pressurized door to Vel pops open and through it streams a mass of panicked people, falling over one another like Siberian hamsters. I move closer, studying the pixilated video. No, not just people—Graciles.
Graciles? Graciles came to Vel?
The skinny addict said this was a Gracile facility. They probably fled for their sad little lives when the lillipads came down and this was the first place they thought of coming. Do you know any of these tragic wretches?
He refuses to reply.
A troop of Velian guards meet the Graciles, but the enhanced humans roll over the Robusts like a bovine stampede. They were scared of something. Seconds later, the mystery is revealed as hordes of Rippers pile in through the narrow gap behind the Graciles, crushing skulls, slicing bellies and breaking limbs. The damn fools left the door open, let the rabid animals in and sealed their own fate. In gritty flickering images, the slaughter of the Graciles and Velians plays out. The video skips back to the beginning and the massacre starts over.
There is nothing more to learn here. I turn away from the camera feed, searching the control panel. Demitri’s knowledge bleeds into my own, though he is attempting to stem the flow and hinder my understanding. The readouts become blurred. Must focus. These instruments show that the shutdown procedure was initiated but ... something went wrong. It didn’t complete. Internal radiation levels are at ten thousand rad. What does that mean?