by Stu Jones
It seems to me, you should have stayed where you came from, Vedmak, Demitri chides. Not that it matters now. You’ve caused a rift in space-time. A VME is all but inevitable. We’re not even going to Hell. Who knows what will happen when it tips over the edge and devours everything at the speed of light.
Hold your tongue, boy. Can I not finish a thought without the intrusion of your whining voice?
Why should I let you? What did you ever do for me? Besides, these will likely be the last moments I get to say anything at all, before that bubble swallows everything.
I can control this. I am one with the universe.
No, you’re one with me. And you’re exhausted, Vedmak. Weary to the core. You should rest. Take some much-needed sleep. My Gracile demon’s voice is dripping with sarcasm.
He knows I can’t sleep. The Red Mist the Alchemist created, more powerful than anything before, is the only thing keeping the whining kozel at bay and from seizing this body back. The Alchemist is still working on something stronger, if the old goat doesn’t die first. No, sleep is not an option. I cannot rest until my task is complete. The Logosian will come soon with her band of misfits. And I will be ready.
Oh, she’ll come. It was a mistake to raid the Vestal temple and take Husniya. Now you’ve given Mila purpose, Demitri says. And even if I can’t kill you, I’ll make sure she gets the chance.
I ignore my demon and turn to face what is left of the cage-filled dungeon. Where once terrified Graciles huddled, there is only the ever-growing green dome. It matters not. My legion of Gracile warriors, all endowed with a dushi like mine and controlled by the Alchemist’s stim, will die for me. Several hundred Gracile adults and perhaps fifty more adolescent warriors. Still, I need more.
“Where are we on the youngling warriors, Sergei?” I ask, approaching the trolley on which lays a Gracile boy just fourteen years in biological age.
The cowardly Gracile servant scurries back and forth from the trolley to his desk. He’s dragged half his equipment from the Poisons Lab into the dungeons to finish my army.
“It’s still not optimal, Vardøger,” he whimpers. “The ratio of souls you want to souls you don’t is still too low. And even when we do find one, the Gracile child we’ve rapidly grown has to be developed enough to bind with it. Most don’t have the mental capacity. We’re running out of specimens.”
“Then start attaching dushi to the Rippers too. I need as many as I can get.”
“I can’t guarantee the transplantation will take in the Rippers.”
I grab the sniveling man by his throat. “Did I ask for your opinion?”
He shakes his head, a stream of urine soaking his clothing.
Leave him alone, Vedmak.
My grip involuntarily weakens and Sergei slips against the trolley, which clangs and clatters into the wall, spilling surgical instruments to the ground.
Damn you, Gracile.
I turn to Sergei. “Get the last of the cells. Put them in the Rippers. Only keep the violent ones. Understand?”
Merodach bursts into the room, shoving the female Gracile engineers forward. They nearly tumble to their knees, but manage to keep their balance. There is true fear in their eyes. They know something.
“Spit it out, sheep.”
“The reactor, it’s unstable,” Alyona says.
Told you, Vedmak.
“Speak up. What are you whining about?”
“The reactor,” Nadezhda interjects. “It’s not built for what you’re trying to do. We ... we had to patch it together based on an old submarine reactor from the mid-twentieth century. The power conversion is too low. There wasn’t enough shielding and it’s spewing radiation. If it doesn’t melt down, we’ll die of gamma radiation poisoning anyway.”
I tried to warn you, but you wouldn’t listen. You’ve doomed us all.
“How close are we?” I spit.
“The plasma rifles are fully charged, but the gunships are not at full capacity,” Alyona says, her eyes downcast.
“Your embryo room is taking up too much power,” Nadezhda adds.
Not to mention you’ve triggered a VME which you can’t control and will swallow us whole. Nice work. Death by nuclear meltdown, radiation poisoning or being converted into nothing by a VME. Or maybe Mila will come and kill us first. What to choose, what to choose?
“Shut up, shut up!” This Gracile voice reverberates off the rock-hewn walls.
The women cower.
I step to Alyona. “I need those gunships ready before the little suka gets here, do you understand?”
She understands, it’s you who doesn’t.
“Yes, yes Vardøger. It’s just there’s not enough liquid water to cool the reactor and—”
“Merodach.”
The lumbering mute warrior steps forward and runs her through with an efficient thrust of his dagger upward and into the chest cavity. She struggles with little gasps for a moment before slumping to the ground, her lifeless eyes lolling back in her skull.
Are you insane, you sarding fool? You just had one of your engineers murdered. You never think ahead, Vedmak, and it’s going to be your downfall. She’s dead, and for what? Now you’re down a valuable asset. What happened to the great strategist?
You want to see strategy, puppet? Let me show you.
I already know what you’re doing, Vedmak.
It’s one thing to know—it’s another to taste.
Always with the words and the riddles. But come on. Let’s go. Show me what your inferior mind has cooked up. Impress me.
The Gracile releases his relentless hold over these muscles, allowing me to roam a little more freely. I push past Merodach, but stop in front of Nadezhda long enough to instruct her to push the reactor as hard as it will go, then march up into the lillipad proper, through the white halls and sterile foyer out into the bitter cold.
Wind and sleet bite at this skin and sting these eyes, but I don’t even bother pulling on my mask or wrapping my cloak around. Only my unignited scythe helps push this body toward the glassy ice battlement ahead. I grab one of the rope ladders nailed to the inside of the ice wall and climb, hand over frozen hand until I reach the summit. From here to my rear, I can see the whole lillipad and the dome of green fire consuming the rear half of the structure.
I make my way along the wall, through the pressing wind, to an outcropping of pure ice protruding from the top of the battlement. Affixed to it by ropes and iron nails, spread-eagle for the world to see, is the Musul girl. She’s clad in thick furs, the skin on her face blistered and red from the cold. At her feet is the Alchemist. The old woman’s tiny frame barely withstands the weather; a tether holds her to the ice lest she blew away like the twig in the wind.
Husniya, I’m so sorry.
“Is she ready, wench?” I shout over the growing storm. “It is installed?”
The Alchemist looks up, her lips blue and quivering. “She ... she’s ready.”
“And she won’t die of the cold or her injuries?”
The woman shakes her head. “She’s st-stimmed up good. Between that and the f-fur, she won’t freeze.”
I peer over the edge of the twenty-meter-high ice wall to my soldiers, who stand in regiments, wearing roughly hewn armor. Unflinching. Uncomplaining. I can’t see from here, but know their almond-shaped Gracile eyes are filled with hate and an unparalleled lust for blood. On either flank are several gunships, charging their cells for the final confrontation. And of course, rows upon rows of stimmed-up Rippers driven to madness through liberal application of the Alchemist’s cocktail. Yes, this battle will be glorious.
“Good,” I say, turning back to the old woman. “Can’t have her dying now, can we?”
“N-no,” the woman stutters through chattering teeth.
“And the final stim for me? You have it?”
The woman looks up and deep into these eyes, as if searching for the Gracile that hides inside. Holding my gaze, she fishes around in her pocket, extending a bony h
and clutching a glass cylinder filled with sloshing crimson liquid. “Here,” she whimpers. “It is complete, as you asked.”
“Oh, I’m aware it is, you old bag of bones. Did you think I would take an untested stim?”
She bows her head, “Vardøger, I would never—”
“Sabotage me? Of course you would.” I snort. “Which was why I had Merodach test it first. Just to be sure.”
I’ll never let you get that anywhere near my body.
No, but you can’t stop her from doing it.
“You attach it,” I say.
My demon fights for control, but our wills are equal, neither being able to make a single muscle move. Our internal battle rages, hot and vicious, the sinewy fibers of this body straining to breaking point as the withered crone slowly climbs to her feet. She approaches, her steps unsteady on the ice, then unscrews the casing to the vial that will deliver the stim. She clips in the vial and twists on the casing.
“The mask,” I say.
She pulls the mask from my belt and slips it over my head and attaches the hose. One last hopeful gaze through the round windows and into these eyes, and she opens the valve. Thick reddish mist hisses inside and I feel my control of this body coming back, like blood returning to a limb.
A massive inhale and a forceful exhale. Yes!
Damn you, Vedmak. I’ll stop you.
Try and stop this, boy.
“You have been useful, Alchemist,” I say, turning to the old Robust woman. “This is simply your finest work.”
There’s a moment of pride in her eyes that is quickly replaced by the fear of realization.
“But I’m afraid if you have reached your zenith, you have also outlived your usefulness.”
Stop!
These Gracile hands, more powerful than ever, grasp her by the throat. She’s lifted into the air with ease, flapping in the wind like a flag at half-mast. Without another word, I fling her screaming from the battlement, her wail fading into the storm until not even the impact of her frail body on the icy ground below is heard. I grunt in satisfaction, stomping with renewed energy and confidence to the unconscious, splayed Musul girl. I lean in close so the mask is touching her ear.
“Let the daughter of the star breather come,” I whisper. “You and I have a little surprise for her.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
MILA
Standing on the side of an ancient ramshackle abode, snow-laced crossbeams jutting from the first floor through the fallen in roof, I survey the entrance to Opor. At least six guards with old, long-rifles are visible; three occupying the entrance while another three patrol the ruins of the Forgotten Jewel on foot.
“Patrols everywhere. That’s Giahi, for you. Never one to do anything subtly,” I say.
“What is it you plan to do?” Zaldov asks in a hushed tone.
I hunch my shoulders and zip up my jacket to my throat. “I’m going to walk right in the front door.”
“Oh.” Zaldov’s parts whir as he searches the snow-covered landscape. “Do you think that is a good plan?”
“Yeah. I’ll go straight for Giahi. They’ll be so focused on me you can do your part. You can wake the other Creed remotely, can’t you?”
“Once I’m within thirty meters.”
“Good. Focus on freeing Oksana. If you encounter trouble, try not to kill anyone. These are our fighters after all.”
“Understood,” Zaldov says.
“You have the captured audio ready for delivery?”
“Yes.”
“Good. That’s our ace. Be ready when I call for it.”
“I understand, Mila Solokoff. Good luck.”
I wink. “Luck’s got nothing to do with it.”
Breathe it out, Mila. They’re not guards at an enemy outpost. They’re your people. They don’t want to be working for Giahi—they’re just stuck and have to go with whoever is in charge.
I step from the shadow, clutching my ribs, and head for the hidden entrance to the hideout of Etyom’s ever-volatile resistance group.
A few crunching steps across the hard-packed ice and they see me. Immediately, they tense, rifles raised.
“Who is that? State your business,” one of the men says.
It’s Gustov, the machinist. On his left is Elene from the armory. The third man I don’t recall. Damnation. How do I not know his name?
“Gustov, it’s me,” I call out.
“Mila?” He lowers the rifle. “Where’ve you been?”
“It’s a long story. Escort me inside, please.”
He fires a worried glance at Elene. “We’ve been given orders to shoot you on sight if you ever returned.”
“The others too,” Elene says, lowering her weapon.
The third man continues to cover me with his rifle. Probably one of Giahi’s loyalists. I lock stares with him.
“Okay, do it,” I say.
No one makes a move.
Gustov licks his lips and shrugs like a kid in trouble. “Mila, we don’t want that.”
“Good, me either,” I say, still locked on the third man. “But, what about this guy?”
“Me?” the third guard says, his voice wavering.
Time to double down.
“No,” I say through clenched teeth, “the other jackbag still holding me at gunpoint.” With two steps, I walk into the end of his weapon, the cold steel of the muzzle burying in my chest. “Locate your potatoes and pull the trigger or get out of my way.”
Don’t make me do this.
His eyes grow wide. He adjusts his hold on the rifle and jabs me. “I’ll do it. I will. Get back.”
“You’re one of Giahi’s idiots, huh?” I say.
“Don’t do it, Alexei,” presses Gustov.
“You always were a stuck up bitch,” Alexei fires back.
He shoves again. I slip to the side, redirect the barrel up and yank the weapon from his grasp. The steel muzzle whips across his face, breaking his front teeth in half.
The man lets loose a childlike cry and falls back.
“Eewe sarging bitssh.” He gurgles.
Handing the weapon to Gustov, I lean in toward the bleeding man. “You chose the wrong side, doughboy. Here’s some free advice. Don’t point a weapon at someone who’s got deeper resolve than you do. That’s a good way to get hurt.”
Alexei cries, blood running between his fingers.
“Listen close.” I rap my knuckles on the top of his head. “You don’t want to still be here when I come back out. Do we understand each other?”
He whimpers and gives a feeble nod.
I look to Gustov and Elene. “Are you guys with me?”
“We’re with you, Mila,” Elene pipes up, checking the action on her weapon.
“Good. Don’t kill anyone. These people are our friends. We’re taking back what belongs to us. Now tie my hands loosely behind my back and escort me in to see Giahi. Make it real.”
After a few moments, with my hands behind my back and looped with rope, we head into the tunnel leading down beneath the wreckage of the old miner’s dive. At the door, Gustov bangs his fist against the riveted steel in a rhythmic pattern.
“Who is it?” a muffled voice says from behind the door.
“Gustov and Elene. We’ve got a priority prisoner. Giahi is gonna want to see this.”
“What prisoner?”
“Just open up and you’ll see,” Gustov says and looks to me, his eyebrows raised.
“Shove me inside when the door opens,” I whisper.
The rusted steel of the latch unbars from the other side and the door squeals open. A widening shaft of light enters the tunnel. As the portal opens, Gustov shoves me into the room.
The doorman, another of Giahi’s goons, hocks a laugh. “You weren't kidding. Didn’t you have orders to shoot her?”
Gustov gives me another push. “Yeah, but she has information Giahi needs to hear.”
“Suit yourself,” the man says, turning to the door. “He’s going to
be ripe when he sees her—”
A fist snaps through the closing gap in the door, catches the guard across the chin—knocking him unconscious. But the guard doesn’t hit the ground. With lightning speed, the hand grasps him by the tunic and drags him back into the tunnel. A moment later, Zaldov tiptoes through, then shuts and bolts the door behind him.
I stifle a chuckle.
Gustov and Elene glance at each other but say nothing.
“Keep going,” I say. “The charade’s not over yet.”
Zaldov steps back into a nearby shadow and an instant later, he’s gone.
***
Gustov jerks me this way and that making a good show of my capture. A few of my people are standing in the corridor. Their faces slacken at my coming and they part, pushing their backs against the rock-hewn walls. Their murmuring draws more people into the passage. My gut knots at the thought of their hating me. Yet, as Gustov shoves me past, some of them whisper: Paladyn.
Never thought I’d be happy to hear that word again. Keep your face hard, Mila. Sell it.
As we near the double doors, my gaze lands on Filly, the girl who always takes care of my clothes. There’s a hint of desperation in her gaunt face.
“Mila?” she says longingly as I approach.
I wink but say nothing, trudging forward, my boots crunching on the gravel floor of the walkway.
“Right here.” Gustov gives a firm jerk on my bonds.
The doors to the command center swing wide and Giahi steps out, shaking his jug head, his thick forearms crossed across his chest. “Well, well, well. Even with additional security, the rats still get in.”
“Speaking of rats, Giahi, what’s the meaning of—”
Without warning, he lunges forward and slugs me in the stomach. The impact knocks the wind from me and I fold in half. Wheezing on my knees, I struggle for breath.
“Get her up,” he orders.
I gasp as Gustov hauls me to my feet.
Giahi leans in close. “That was for speaking out of turn. Do it again and see what happens.”
“Nice.” I take another breath. “Taking cheap shots while I’m tied up. I was worried you might have developed a spine while I was gone. Glad to see that’s not the case.”