In the Shadow of a Valiant Moon

by Stu Jones

  It means we’re already dead. Two days, two weeks. But soon. Of course, that’s after our skin sloughs off, and we vomit and defecate ourselves into a dried-up husk.

  The skin on the back of the only hand I have left is already reddening. Death is but an inconvenience to overcome. My lab can fix this body.

  If we make it out alive.

  There must be a way of reaching outside the enclave. A way the Graciles would have managed to communicate with the Velians. Think, must think. I need more stim to activate this brain ...

  Brain, yes. A neural link.

  You don’t have Merodach to act as your proxy.

  No, but I have this.

  A cord snakes out from the dash and hangs off the edge. I grab it up and bite down near the connecting end. I push up my sleeve with Demitri’s cauterized stump, and awkwardly shove the connector into the port near his elbow, saliva drooling all over it.

  There’s a moment of nothing, but then my consciousness is alive. It’s like being on a stim, the neurons in this skull firing rapidly as the brain connects to the web. In here, our consciences are more separated. Demitri’s digital shadow, his skygge, the Graciles called it, stands before me—a glowing apparition set against a construct of hallways and portals no doubt designed to organize this digital world and prevent people from going crazy in a sea of information. This is why he was always afraid. Another Gracile seeing two digital shadows emanating from the same host. No one to worry about now. The neural-web is devoid of skygge. No other souls in here. After the lillipads fell, the Graciles abandoned it for fear of being located. Some Robusts jacked into it and became lost to the expanse, forever roaming until their biological bodies finally withered and died.

  Opor still monitors for activity. They’ll know you’re here.

  Not if I’m fast and use the backdoor.

  I’ll make enough noise in here for Yeos Himself to hear.

  No, you won’t. Your skygge is tied to mine—you’re unable to make your will known. I remember the feeling well, when our roles were reversed.

  In unison both my and Demitri’s skygge place a hand on the nearest wall, which glows brightly with virtual neurons firing pulses back and forth. The cluster of digital cells around our fingers burns bright, until they migrate and reorder into a new rectangle—a new door. It flashes white and opens. We step through into the dark.

  After a few moments, the gloom is burned away and our skygge fade, so that now we occupy a new host and see what he sees as if it were our body. The inner sanctum of Opor is before us.

  “I am here, Rat,” I say.

  [Vardøger? No, no, now is not good—you can’t be here].

  The view darkens and only a rock-hewn wall greets me as the Rat hides in a corner.

  “Where is the ugly sow?”

  [She’s not here. She went after Husniya, and the Musul Faruq. They received intelligence on his whereabouts].

  “She’s not on her way to Vel already? This actually works in my favor. Two chances to kill her. Now is the time to make your move. Remove the old man.”

  [Now? I’m not sure he’s far enough along].

  “Now, Rat. If fate is on my side, she’ll die looking for her Musul pet. If not, when she returns urge her to come to Vel. And when she does, I’ll be waiting. Make sure she brings a minimal party. She’ll die chasing a doomed operation and you’ll finally have Opor. Fail me on any of these points, and you’ll watch your gizzards empty onto your feet.”

  [Yes ... yes Vardøger], he stutters.

  A single thought to leave, and everything once again fades to black except for the doorway through which we came. Our skygge step through and we are once again in the corridor.

  “Now to contact Merodach and bring my Einherjar here to collect our prize.”

  And you think you’re going to be able to simply pull the uranium from the reactor?

  Simple Demitri, your own consciousness has told me all I need to know. Lucky for us, the Soviets’ design is simple and allows removal without a complete shutdown. Merodach will come and take me and the payload back to operations.

  This broken Gracile shell suddenly convulses. I hack hard, coughing blood onto the console.

  Like I said. If we make it out.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  MILA

  Dark descends like a bird of prey, in its talons a numbing cold that steals the last of the sun’s life-giving warmth. The Road of Death will be our grave after all. Yet, at this moment, death is not a flame-wreathed messenger of evil, but a release. It calls to me, promising eternal respite if I just lie down in the snow.

  “Come, Mila,” Ghofaun says. “Lay down here and you will never return to us.”

  I don’t respond or can’t. Not sure which.

  Ghofaun swivels in place, a shrunken Husniya wedged beneath his arm. “We have to find shelter or we’ll die out here. This way.”

  Ahead and away from the road, a swath of black stone sweeps up, pushing through the ice in the form of a knobby outcropping.

  Ghofaun points to it. “If we sit with our backs to the rock, that short overhang will provide a break from the falling snow.”

  “It won’t ... matter if this wind can still have at us,” I manage.

  Ghofaun wedges Husniya under the large, black rock and starts to rummage inside his pack. “That’s why I grabbed this.” The monk pulls a bundle of red canvas attached to interspersed wooden stakes.

  “A windbreak,” I mumble. We may live a while longer, though who knows if that’s a good thing.

  I grab one end and move in the opposite direction of Ghofaun, pulling the canvas break open. Ghofaun does the same. We jam the stakes into the hard ground with what little strength we have left.

  In the dark, I slump to the ground next to Husniya.

  “Stay with her.” Ghofaun pats my knee. “I’ll be right back.”

  Minutes pass, but it feels like an eternity. Unable to move, all I can do is watch the images behind my eyelids flicker like an old moving picture show. Memories I don’t want anymore. Faruq and little Husniya crying for help in that dingy Baqirian alley. The way my Musul friend had smiled when he was into some bit of mischief. How my face flushed when he held my hand ...

  “Here we are.” Ghofaun drops a pile of pitiful-looking sticks and dried dead brush. “It’s not much, but it may hold a flame.” The monk arranges a pad of dead moss and wiry scrub with a little tent of sticks over it.

  I want to help but can no longer move my limbs.

  From his pocket, he produces a single Draganov round and holds it up for me to see. Ghofaun pries the bullet open, pours the gunpowder onto the moss bed and braces the shell lip on a stick over it. Pressing the point of his knife to the primer, he manages the little balancing act for a moment before lightly striking the end of the knife with the latrine shovel.

  There’s a pop and a little shower of sparks from the bursting primer. With a whoosh the gunpowder takes. An involuntary gasp escapes my lips as I squint from the flash. Yet as quickly as it comes, the fire is gone, replaced by a smoldering pile of embers. Much like our brief time on this Earth—a flash of light, an opportunity for great good, immense evil, or worse, selfish nothingness. And just like that, our light too, for better or worse, goes out.

  The monk leans close, whispering to the flame with gentle breaths, coaxing the sparks to live again. A small finger of fire takes hold on the moss bed. Rebirth. Renewal. The light begins again, feeble but growing. It knows nothing else, only the perpetual act of pressing back against the darkness. That is its only purpose. It knows not of the endless cold in which it exists and will never overcome.

  Water drips away from my skin like thawing frozen meat. With great effort, I’m able to move my fingers again. Husniya sits unmoving, her eyes wide, hypnotized by the jumping and popping of the small fire. On the other side of the fire, the monk removes his wet overcoat and sets it aside to dry.

  Ghofaun pulls some items from his bag. In a small bowl, he pours some
almost-frozen water followed by a packet of medicinal herbs. Mixing furiously, the herbs soak up the water turning to a brownish paste. “Your arm,” he says.

  “It’s fine.” I pin the useless appendage to my body.

  “No, it is not.” Ghofaun levels his gaze at me. “The flesh will turn black and we will have to remove the limb. Let me see it.”

  Ghofaun gently pushes my sleeve back to the biceps. The wound is not large, but it does go all the way through.

  He grabs a small flask of sloop from his bag. Ghofaun holds it up. It’s not for drinking. A splash of sloop across the wound causes me to howl, fire coursing through my arm, my free hand clawing at the rock.

  “It’s okay, Mila. That’s all,” Ghofaun says, packing the wound with the paste. “You’re lucky it was only a piece of the copper jacket and not a whole bullet that hit you.” The monk finishes wrapping the wound with clean cloths, tying them tight and helping me back into my coat. “And your leg?”

  I shake my head.

  He eyes the bullet graze on my thigh and gives a slight bow, then takes a seat on the other side of Husniya.

  Must sleep. It doesn’t matter if I wake.

  ***

  Cold light bleeds between my half-closed eyelids. The fire smolders, smoke rising, the last of the warmth fading. Without it, the early morning chill has invaded our shelter with cunning stealth, nipping at my face and sinking into my heavy garments. I heave myself from the ground but don’t make it to my feet. Husniya still sleeps. But Ghofaun is already up, packing his belongings. Has he stood watch over us all night? Not that there’s anyone out here beyond the walls.

  I swing a bleary-eyed gaze across the horizon.

  Panic fills my chest, stopping my heart. There’s a man standing at the edge of the road, his long black robe lying in piles at his feet, a staff with a long sickle by his side. His heavy hood flops low, obscuring his face. His bony hand reaches out, beckoning me.

  “Ghofaun, there’s a man ...” I start, my voice trailing away as I look to my friend and back to where the robed man had been.

  “What is it, Mila?” Ghofaun says, his voice exhausted but full of patience.

  The road is empty. “Thought I saw something.”

  “How are you feeling?” he says, pushing the last few items into his shoulder bag.

  I grunt, checking the bandage on my forearm and flexing my fingers. “Still alive—thanks to you.”

  He says nothing.

  “You held watch for us all night?”

  Ghofaun dips his head. “I spent most of the night in the deepest levels of Chum Lawk meditation. It is not the same as sleep, but my chi allowed me to recover some while still remaining vigilant for threats.”

  “You joined in our fight, saved our lives from the elements, and watched over us as we slept.” I bow my head to the warrior monk. “You are one, at least, whose loyalty knows no end.”

  Ghofaun sets his pack aside. “What happened yesterday injured me. I can’t imagine how it wounded both of you.”

  His words are like a fresh slice into an unhealed wound, every ounce of pain newly remembered. There’s a throbbing in the pit of my stomach. I’d rather die than feel this.

  I can only grunt.

  “Give it time.” Ghofaun dips his head. “Time heals all wounds.”

  Not this wound. Need to change the subject. Turning, I place my hand on Husniya and give her a little shake. “Get up.”

  “I said I don’t need you to treat me like a baby,” she shouts, swiping my arm away.

  I sit back with my hands raised.

  The teen sits up, wiping the sleep from her eyes, her face becoming red in a deepening blush. “I’m ... that wasn’t for ... Damnation, just forget about it.” She starts to gather her things together.

  “Master Ghofaun saved our lives.”

  “Thank you, Master,” Husniya interrupts, blowing past both of us as she stomps her way down to the road.

  The snow has stopped for now, but the sky has darkened with heavy clouds. Through the gray half-light of the early morning, we take off down the Road of Death back in the direction of Etyom, all the way following the tracks of the ornery teen. It takes Ghofaun and me longer than expected to catch up with Husniya moving with anger-filled purpose.

  “Husniya, wait for us,” I call out.

  She continues to forge ahead.

  Sard it all. She’s going to walk right into a—

  The girl stops dead in her tracks, hands raised above her head. Ghofaun and I pick up the pace.

  Not far ahead is the female Gracile, Oksana, her Creed marching along with their weapons raised. The woman looks less than perfect. Her boots and cloak are muddy, her face so drained of life she almost resembles the troop of frozen Creed.

  “You people again.” I shake my head. “Don’t worry, Oksana, I’m using the term people loosely. No need for any of you to be offended.”

  The Gracile says nothing, her gaze cold and tired.

  “Lower your weapons,” Zaldov says. “Mila Solokoff and her friends are our allies.”

  Husniya starts off again, prompting me to grab a fist-full of her jacket. “Wait, Hus.”

  The girl spins into me, her jab coming right up the center nearly striking my chin. Before I can stop myself, the flat of my hand lands hard across her face. The slap knocks her to the ice. She grunts and flails, wide-eyed.

  My forearm throbs with waves of radiating pain. Ghofaun’s gentle pressure on my shoulder pulls me back to reality.

  “What is wrong with you?” I snap at the girl.

  Ghofaun helps Husniya up.

  My heart aches. Damnation, Mila. She’s been through enough already without you slapping her.

  “Me? What’s wrong with you? How come you never told me? You had a chance to rescue him and you didn’t.”

  Words fail to come.

  “I don’t need you. Any of you.” Husniya shrugs Ghofaun off, tears running down her face. She turns and continues stomping down the road.

  “Mila.” Oksana takes a step forward. “I need to speak with you. The game has changed.”

  “Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but as you can see, I’ve got my own problems right now.” I motion to Husniya.

  There’s an uncomfortable silence.

  “I will look after Husniya.” Zaldov’s sterile voice breaks the stillness.

  I stare at the strange Creed, then back at Oksana who nods.

  “I am incapable of harming those with whose care I’m charged, Mila Solokoff,” Zaldov says plainly.

  “Go then and let us talk,” Oksana commands.

  “Affirmative,” Zaldov echoes, marching away after Husniya.

  Ghofaun stands with his arms folded, observing with narrow untrusting eyes.

  “I take it you couldn’t get out ... again.” I motion to her mud-soaked cloak.

  The Gracile’s eyes narrow. “And I assume your attempt to rescue your friend was a failure, since he’s not with you?”

  Heat flows from my scalp down my face. The desire to reach out and slap this Gracile is almost more than I can bear. “If you want to say something, you’d better get on with it.”

  Oksana steps to the side, revealing a woman, a Robust woman, who looks strangely like me. The athletic even boyish body-type, the short dark hair. This woman even has a scar across her eye that leads back towards her ear. It’s like I’m looking at my reflection in a piece of cracked glass. But not a real reflection—there’s something dark and distorted about her, as though she’s been entangled with something evil for far too long.

  The questions tumble out. “What is this? Why does she look like me? Who are you?”

  “My name is Anastasia,” the woman replies. Her voice even sounds a little like mine.

  “I don’t like this. Somebody better tell me what’s going on. Right now.”

  “We encountered her on the road,” Oksana says. “She said she’d gotten lost trying to get to Fiori.”

  “And?�
�� I check the Robust woman over again. “Why did you care? Why should I?”

  “She says she has a message for you from Demitri Stasevich.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “It is,” Oksana says. “She wouldn’t reveal much to me, but what she did—it could be bad, Mila. You should hear her out.”

  A wave of dread passes through my insides. He’s coming. It takes me a moment to master myself. “Demitri isn’t in control. How did he give you a message?”

  “You are Mila?” Anastasia asks. Her voice is full of emotion, perhaps a longing to make sense of some madness her heart can’t reconcile. “He told me to find you.”

  “Demitri did? Or—” I start.

  “The Vardøger?” she offers. “He has two personalities, I know.”

  “Vardøger?” Oksana and I say in unison.

  “Don’t you mean Vedmak? Are you sure we’re talking about the same person?” I press.

  Anastasia looks confused. “That’s what he demands to be called. The Vardøger.”

  “But you spoke to Demitri? He regained control?”

  “For a time,” Anastasia replies. There seems to be pain in her eyes.

  She’s a bit slow, this one. “How did you know it was Demitri?”

  “Because Demitri is soft and kind and gentle. Nothing like Vedmak, or the Vardøger, however you wish to call him. He was—is—trapped inside. Tormented. He promised to save me,” she says, taking a moment to master herself. “He kept his promise. Vedmak was hurt. Demitri regained control. Cut off his own hand to free me.”

  Oksana looks to me for confirmation.

  “Stress and injury do seem to shift the balance in his head,” I say.

  “Whatever this Vedmak is does not align with the Creator’s work. Demitri is the angel sent to save me.”

  The Creator? “Are you Logosian?”

  She shakes her head, a frown creasing her forehead. “I would not associate with those self-righteous zealots. They believe their rituals are the only way to worship Yeos, but He is everywhere and in everything, and—”