by Stu Jones
We are not the same, Graciles and Robusts, but we share the loneliness of Etyom. I reach out and touch her arm. “Hey look, I don’t know what lies ahead, but we’ll face it together. All right?”
She nods and wipes her face, the tears forming small icy trails on her perfectly sculpted cheekbones.
I motion to the hidden tunnel under the wreckage of the Forgotten Jewel. “I’m going to take Ghofaun and go make contact with Opor. You can come, but your Creed will need to wait outside. I don’t want to spook my people. Their experience with the Creed is less than favorable.”
“I understand,” Oksana says.
We march ahead through the ruins of the Jewel to the hidden entrance, an earthen ramp covered by rotting planks of wood descending into the dark.
“In there?” Oksana asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Come on.”
She mutters something about Robusts under her breath.
After her little speech? Really? You can take the Gracile out of the clouds ...
Pushing the planks aside, I step into the trench and start down. A silhouette waits in the shadows.
“Who’s that? Identify yourself.”
“It is I, Zaldov. I was asked to wait here by Husniya.”
Zaldov. Never thought I’d be happy to see a Creed. “Is she inside?”
“She is. I ensured her safety as promised.”
“Uh, yeah. Okay. I mean, thank you.”
“I was my pleasure to be of assistance,” Zaldov says, his movements a host of little clicks and whirrs.
Oksana greets Zaldov with a smile and touch. “Hold here on standby. Only activate upon my remote command.”
“Copy direct,” Zaldov says, turning to the Creed with us. “Standby until remote activation.”
Their postures all relax simultaneously.
Ahead, at the end of the dank tunnel, the heavy steel doors await. Ghofaun steps forward and knocks in the practiced manner. After a time, the door opens and we are met by Jape, who is still manning the door. A quick greeting and we’re in, the door bolting behind us. At the far end of the dimly lit cavern-like room, Giahi steps from the command center doorway.
“So you retrieved the girl, but where’s that Musul you can’t help yourself over?”
I can’t do this right now. “Where’s Bilgi?”
Giahi stands unmoving, arms crossed.
“Giahi, where is Bilgi?” I say, my heart pounding.
“Bilgi was sick. You saw it.”
“Was? You act like he’s dead. He had a little fever.” I step forward, unzipping my jacket.
“He was showing signs of the plague, Mila. I sent him away. Who’s with you?” He motions to Oksana.
“No, hang on a second.” I hold my hands up. “You don’t breeze over that. Where is he?”
“Did you bring another Gracile here?”
“Giahi, I swear, you better not have done something to Bilgi. Answer me.”
“I told you. I sent him away. He was going to infect all of us.”
Mos enters from the hall off to my right. His shirt is soaked; sweat glistens on his heavily muscled arms. He’s been working on something. “Mila, is everyone okay? Did you find Faruq?”
“Hey, Mos. We’re okay. Just hang on a second. Where’s Bilgi, Giahi?”
Mos sighs. “He looked terrible, Mila. Everyone in command agreed he could have had the plague. We had to send him away.”
My heart sinks. I look to Ghofaun, then back to Giahi. “Where did you send him? Tell me.”
Giahi shrugs. “Zopat. To the clinic.”
“The clinic? Giahi, that’s where people go to die,” I almost shout.
“He was old and sickly anyway. It was just a matter of time.”
A lightning bolt of hate courses through me. That little troll.
Mos moves to intercept me. “Hang on, Mila. It’s not going to help for us to fight amongst ourselves.”
“Yeah, well it might make me feel better.” I grit my teeth. Bilgi is gone. Cast out. What in creation do we do now? “Is Yuri here?”
Mos shakes his head. “You know how he is. We haven’t seen him in days.”
“What I want to know,” Giahi interrupts, arms still crossed, “is why you brought a Gracile here again. That’s a breach of our code.”
“She’s an ally. How is it a breach of our code?”
Giahi laughs. “An ally? You mean like the last Gracile you brought to us? The one who almost jeopardized our whole operation? Should I count the ways Graciles have wronged us?”
Oksana rocks her weight onto one leg, a hand on her hip.
“Giahi, I’ve got this. Thank you,” Mos says, his brow stern.
Giahi scoffs. “That’s all fine and good. But someone needs to keep Bilgi’s little loose cannon in check. Most of us don’t care to die for nothing just yet.”
I swear upon the grave of my brother ...
Mos gives my shoulder a squeeze, his attention still turned on Giahi. “I said I’ve got it.”
Giahi shrugs and turns. “Sure, Mos. Sure you do,” he says, and disappears into the dusty confines of the command center.
Mos forces a smile for me. “Don’t listen to him. It’s going to be okay. We’ll send people to Zopat to make sure Bilgi is taken care of.” He tosses his head at Oksana with a wink. “You going to introduce me, or what?”
“Uh, oh, yeah,” I say, trying to clear my tangled thoughts. “Mos, this is Oksana. She knew Demitri, back before everything. She wants to help.”
“Oksana.” Mos extends a meaty hand. “The pleasure is all mine.”
“Hello,” Oksana says, staring at the offered hand. “What’s that for?”
“Robusts shake hands in greeting. You guys don’t do this?”
“Ah no, I’m afraid not.” Oksana nervously wipes her hands on her jacket. “Doesn’t that promote the transfer of germs?”
Mos lowers his hand and lets loose a good-natured chuckle. “I suppose it does. What do Graciles do instead? I’m always open to new things.” He winks.
“Oh?” Oksana laughs nervously.
Mos, big for a Robust, is still a good bit shorter than Oksana, but he makes up for it by being more than twice as broad. That charmer has her so disarmed she’s actually flashing a brilliant smile at him now. Good grief, I don’t have time for this.
“Mos, a word?” I say, grabbing the Kahangan by the arm and pulling him from his eye-batting conversation with the Gracile. “Ghofaun, you too.”
“Mila,” Mos says, turning from Oksana. “Where did you find her? She’s incredible.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s not an accident. She’s engineered to look like that. Quit acting like a teenager. I need you to get your head right.”
“Okay, yeah, sorry. What’s up?” he says, his demeanor sobering.
“What’s up?” Don’t roll your eyes, Mila. “After we tried to rescue him, Faruq lost his mind and threatened our lives. It broke Husniya and it nearly broke me too. Now Bilgi has been sent away, and we learned Vedmak in Demitri’s body may be making a play to claim the nuclear weapon cache in Vel—and you wanna know what’s up?”
Mos motions for me to stop. “Wait, what?”
“It’s true,” Ghofaun says. “We are caught up in a most unfortunate turn of events.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m telling you, lughead.” I jab Mos in the chest. “Things are all messed up. So, I need you to stop fooling around.”
“Yeah, whatever you need, Mila. You know that.”
“Where’s Husniya?” I ask.
“Resting, I think. She was all out of sorts.” Mos rubs his chin. “I don’t like that she came by herself.”
“Look, I know. I tried to stop her. It wasn’t going to work.”
“The situation with her brother had a profound effect, no doubt,” Ghofaun says.
“Yeah, I don’t understand. Why would Faruq—” Mos starts.
“I can’t even deal with that right now. We need to focus on the real problem here. V
edmak and the nuclear threat in Vel. He’ll wipe us all out. He thinks he’s the bringer of the apocalypse.”
“The threat Vel conceals is unsurpassed,” Ghofaun says. “Even without Bilgi’s guidance, we need to act with all haste.”
“I’m with you,” Mos says. “In my absence, Kahanga is safe under the supervision of my sister, Ayodele. What do you need from me?”
I sigh. “I need you, Mos. You and Ghofaun. Now more than ever, I need your support.”
He places a heavy hand on my shoulder. “You shall have it.”
“How do you want to do this?” Ghofaun asks, fingering the Kukri blade tucked in his belt.
I inhale a deep breath of the musty underground air, the scent earthy and ancient. “We don’t know what’s going on in Vel. The last I heard was a message from Gil saying bad things were happening and that he needed my help.”
“Okay, so we move on Vel with a sizable force,” Mos says.
“Yes, logic would dictate. But we’ll have to move fast and be discreet—two things we will not be afforded with a large group,” I add.
“That, and Giahi will oppose our utilizing most of our people for this,” Ghofaun says. “We don’t need his approval, but there are those who are loyal to him. It will waste time trying to negotiate.”
Mos and Ghofaun eye me expectantly. I glance at perfect Oksana, who’s now fruitlessly trying to brush the grime from her jacket.
“There’s something I need to know,” Oksana says without looking up. The three of us turn, waiting. She glances at us. “Are you planning to kill Demitri? If so, a single bullet to the brain would end all of this. Demitri, Vedmak, as well as whatever madness he’s attempting.”
None of us respond. For the first time, I realize the terrible high stakes in this lethal game of cat-and-mouse. The easy path will require the killing of my Gracile friend in order to stop his demon.
I swallow hard. “I don’t know if I can pursue that course.”
Oksana gives a knowing look. “Then I will need to work on a suitable alternative.”
“Such as?”
“Trust me, it’s much more complicated than I can explain to you here. Suffice it to say using Husniya’s DNA, I’ll try to isolate the protein she and Demitri share. If I can do that, there may be a way to cure it and, in the process, slam the door on Vedmak, shutting him out of Demitri’s mind—this time for good.”
“Is that possible?” I ask.
“Entirely,” she replies. “But that will mean your mission is a rescue mission of sorts. I’ll need you to bring Demitri here.”
“Okay.” I look at my friends. “Handpick fifteen of our best. Anyone but Giahi. Get them fed and geared up. This is going to be a hard push. That plus the three of us gives us almost twenty good fighters.”
“And Husniya?” Ghofaun says.
“No.” I wave him off. “She’s been through enough already. Let her rest and assist Oksana with—”
“Now you’re trying to cut me out?” Husniya says, entering from the long hallway next to command. She’s geared up, her Mosin rifle propped over her shoulder. “This is my fight as much as yours. Demitri was my friend too.”
“Husniya—”
“No,” she says, pinching her eyes shut and tapping on her forehead, the way Demitri used to when trying to block out Vedmak. “No, you don’t understand what I’m trying to do. You haven’t understood for years.”
Everyone stares at the girl, unsure of her meaning. Her face turns three shades of crimson. “Stop staring at me.”
“Husniya, please listen. You’ve been under a lot of stress. Maybe you should—”
“This conversation is over and you aren’t going to treat me like a baby anymore.” She taps her forehead, harder now. “I’m ready to go. Will you all be coming or not?”
This is more than teenage angst. Margarida. That was the name of her voice. The soothing presence Husniya referred to as her childhood friend. She’s not gone. Husniya is fighting Margarida’s attempts to pacify her.
I take a deep breath and offer as gentle an expression as I can muster. “Of course we’re coming, Hus.”
“Good.” She looks to Oksana. “And I’m going to need Zaldov.”
What’s with her and the Geminoid? The scowl on her face tells me she’s not asking. Oksana shrugs. “He can go. At any rate, he’s sworn to protect you.”
“Good, it’s settled,” Husniya announces. “When are we leaving?”
How did she walk in here and start barking orders? I look the teen over; her countenance wavers, her composure a thing of glass. The others wait for me to answer. Even the chatter from the radio room grows quiet.
“Mos, Ghofaun. Get our people ready.” I lift my chin. “We all leave for Vel in the morning.”
Chapter Twenty-five
FARUQ
Morning breaks in a wash of soft gray light that slices through a gap in the tent flap. Shuffling to the edge of the bedding, I swing my feet to the floor and sit a moment, staring. The golden wheel gun lays on the floor where it fell. Like some holy saber, the weapon that took the life of the tyrant of Baqir, but refused to take mine, belongs to me now. Why am I still here? What can my miserable life be worth to anyone?
The attendant boy steps into the tent with a bow. “Sheikh Faruq, your breakfast.” He presents another bowl of taji stew with a hunk of dry yellow cake.
It takes me a moment to gather my words. “Set it on the table there.”
“Yes, Sheikh.”
“What is your name, boy?” I ask. He’s underfed and nervous.
“Baral.”
“Okay, Baral. Why are you serving me? Why bring me breakfast? I killed Kapka, and most of the men in this camp died at the hands of ...” I can’t bring myself to say her name. “Well, they died.”
“Ilah has sent you to save us,” Baral says without hesitation. “Why would I not serve the last prophet of Ilah?”
It’s as if I asked him why do you breathe? “I’m no prophet.”
“I disagree,” Baral says with a boyish innocence. “You have come to us in our time of need.”
“All I did was put a bullet in Kapka,” I retort.
“I do not refer to Kapka. He was always a pawn in the greater scheme. Used by those more powerful than him, and inflicting his own pain on others. Removing Kapka means you can now take your place as Prophet and lead us in the Judgment Day.”
“Judgment Day? Do you not believe this has come and passed? Long ago, when Etyom was formed?”
“No prophet came in that time to guide us. Instead, Kapka’s forbearers took our people. But now you are here. To lead us through the coming storm.”
“What storm?”
“Against the false god. Against the Vardøger. They say he has an army. They say he can’t be killed. But you can do it,” he says. His eyes are full of hope. It’s not something I’ve seen in a long time.
Vardøger. The name is familiar. I heard Kapka and his men talk about this man. Rumors and whispers of a demon. “You think this false god comes for us all?”
“A battle is coming,” Baral says. “He will not take sides. Everything will be laid bare before him.”
“If this Vardøger has an army, we stand little chance. Right now it’s you, me, and a few of the men and women who worked this camp.”
Baral bows low and, in a tone as respectful as he can, says, “I am sure Sheikh Faruq knows of the exploits of Mohammad. He was a warrior prophet. In less than ten years, his army grew from just three-hundred men at the Battle of Badr to ten thousand men marching on Mecca.”
Warrior prophet? No, I can’t let this happen. My people have suffered enough. Finally free of Kapka only to fight in someone else’s war? My miserable life might not be worth much, but the lives of my people are. This boy’s life is. If I must guide them, it will be to safety. Away from Opor, or this Vardøger, or anyone else who would do them harm.
“A group of Kapka’s reinforcements arrives today?” I ask.
�
��Yes. They are arriving now.”
I stand, supporting my weight. “See to it they are fed. You and the others as well. I will address everyone shortly.”
“Everyone is to eat?” the boy asks, eyes wide.
“That’s correct.”
“Yes, yes Sheikh Faruq. It will be done,” Baral says, disappearing through the flap into the cold.
Need to find something suitable to wear. The majority of Kapka’s clothing is a mixture of luxury and old-world sophistication. A simple off-white tunic stuffed into rugged slacks with suspenders will do. The expedition boots are too large but will suffice if I layer up on socks. I throw on a heavy fur-lined jacket. I’m far too skinny for this garb, but there’s no time to be picky.
I grab the wheel gun, break it open and eject all the empty casings—all but the misfired round. That one stays with me. I slip the token into my front pocket. Moving to the thick wooden dresser, I open it to reveal a crushed velvet-lined carrying case for the gun. Inside are rows and rows of large caliber, brass bullets with lead noses. I grab a handful, insert them into the cylinder and snap it closed, shoving the barrel into my waistband.
Here goes nothing.
Passing through the tent flap, the wind bites at the exposed areas of my flesh. I snug the jacket around me and walk past the groups of gathered men, newly arrived reinforcements requested by Kapka before his death. The attendants pass out bowls of taji stew, which the men hungrily accept. Their eyes dart back and forth, as the men chatter amongst themselves. Then they see me. Some say nothing, utterly confused, while others jabber and point dirty fingers at me. I’m sure I look like the risen dead.
With complete composure, drawn from some hidden reserve deep inside, I work my way past them, my chin up, my steps slow and surefooted. Secured in my left hand swings the large, blood-soaked cloth sack that contains my trophy. In a few steps, I’m up onto a short wooden platform. From here, I count about fifty men. They stare back, unknowing what transpired in this place.
Calm and discipline, Faruq. Be a rock. Hit them hard, then hold them fast. If you don’t fill this vacuum, someone else will.
“Kapka is dead.” The words rasp, hoarse and foreign across my vocal cords. “I killed him.” I toss the bag from the platform. It lands with a clunk against the icepack, the bag sliding open to reveal the side of the madman’s head.