by Russ Linton
MOTHERLAND
Table of Contents
Title Page
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Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
CRIMSON SON 3: ASHES PREVIEW
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Prologue
DUST TRICKLED FROM the mud and timber ceiling. The last incoming mortar had been close but maintained a predictable distance all the same. Sergei's two escorts eyed him warily. In their loose-fitting linens and mushroom-colored pakols, they couldn't be told apart from the Mujahideen raining fire from the mountain heights. Proper uniforms had never taken hold in this backwater. Sergei tried to ignore the two men as he continued to concentrate.
"They are persistent today," said one of the escorts in Pashto. Sergei preferred it to their attempts at Russian. It pained him to hear his native tongue brutalized by allies of convenience.
His hastily assigned escort likely didn't know he spoke Pashto and thirty other languages. There was a lot his Afghan comrades didn't know about him or his mission. All they understood was he could lead them to the source of the broadcast where their sworn enemies defied the Peoples' might with calls to prayer and fiery rhetoric. Barring an exact location, he could silence the lies with a mere thought.
"It will be over soon," replied the other, his back to the mud-brick wall and his eyes on the hazy dawn peering blearily through the open window.
Another mortar shell pummeled the city. Close enough to rattle the timbers, far enough away even stray shrapnel avoided the squat hilltop dwelling where they sheltered. Sergei had a suspicion the man was wrong.
The transceiver squawked to life, and a call of urgency and devotion drowned out the receding rumble of the impact. Sergei knew propaganda well. Hunting across the globe on a wireless safari for Mother Russia, he'd become an apex predator. But this simple, monotonous call defied him. No more controllable than the phases of the moon, this superstition connected an entire world of believers more powerfully than the brotherhood of work and toil.
Yet he'd learned religion was oppression. A masterpiece of propaganda in its own right. So Sergei would reach out into the undulating disturbance of particles and cut the chains, one link at a time. Settling in on a confiscated prayer rug, he began his own ritual.
Closing his eyes, he felt for the subtle vibrations like a plucked violin string or a piano chord struck and stretched. Naming the note named the frequency and from this came the nuances of direction, distance. The GRU had intelligence indicating this transmitter was manned by Soviet dissidents. How dissidents could still claim to be fighting for the People yet fallen under the sway of such a lie, Sergei didn't understand. They owed their loyalty to Mother Russia, not a false god.
The Afghan KHAD had demanded these broadcasts stop long ago. But the message driven by religious zeal had proved too powerful to silence. Local forces had been routed in the face of it. Nearly ten years of fighting and even the mighty Soviet war machine had ground to a halt. Confronted with a mobile enemy reinforced from outside their own borders and able to cross east and west to seek shelter within other sovereign nations of believers, Russian Hinds, cluster bombs, and unrivaled air support had failed to root out this singular infestation in the mountain valleys and in the people's hearts.
How could they not see their devotion was ultimately to man? Man, who created their prayers and their books? Why would they not simply accept the Soviet way and remove the shackles? Be welcome into Mother's arms?
Before Sergei's comrades thundered home in their tanks and APCs with a gaggle of fanatics in pursuit, he would have this one final victory. He would tear the needle of religion from their arm if only for one brief, shining moment. During the sudden shock of withdrawal, perhaps some would find the truth. Man makes religion, and it is man's decision to subjugate himself to it or not.
Another whistling scream and Sergei pinpointed where this latest mortar round would strike even as his escort cowered. It fell close enough to flare out the nascent sunlight. This time, shrapnel did rattle against the brick. He put the calls to prayer and war out of his mind and sought the signal.
There'd been a time when the hail of death scared the devil out of him. Anymore, he didn't feel he could work without it. He'd lost count of the engagements, the deployments. Always intended to be support, behind the lines, those lines had a habit of inching forward, and his quarry always wormed its way deeper and deeper.
Even if this time the lines had collapsed. If his normal Spetsnaz escort had been reassigned. Even though the incoming fire had begun as soon as he set foot in the makeshift observation post.
He couldn't dwell on the mistakes. That's indeed what these were—mistakes. Nothing else.
Static crackled over the transceiver and Sergei exalted in his power. With the familiar resonance filling his mind he strove to isolate the signal's wavelength. The cacophony would soon draw into a single, recognizable note. This time, those traitorous scum wouldn't be able to relocate fast enough.
Tracers streamed in the twilight. The heavy rumble of return fire from the Afghan security forces had finally begun, but slow and lethargic. Meanwhile, the assault from the valley walls maintained a relentless pace. Too concentrated for the normal hit and run tactics, none of the shells had come close since the last one wandered near the hilltop building. They should have dialed in by now. Reduced the place to rubble.
The air compressed and warmth spattered Sergei's cheeks. Shards of brick sprayed onto the prayer blanket, and a high caliber round tore through the back wall. Sergei's eyes popped open to see daylight pouring through a fist-sized hole in the chest of the man beside the window right before he crumpled.
"Noor?" The remaining escort slung his Kalashnikov over his shoulder and dropped to his knees.
Indirect artillery fire would never strike this position, Sergei realized. His last-minute escort on this mission, this secret mission, had been dispatched with an unerring accuracy.
The escort muttered a prayer under the continuing recitations from the transceiver. As the plea to his false god left his lips, the wall shattered, exploding inward. His head became a shower of fragments—mud,
brick, hair, bone.
No, these were not mistakes. He'd been lured here. Betrayed.
Sergei stared into the white brilliance which had punched through the brittle shell of the building. He imagined he could see beyond and to the horizon where a man lay astride a rocky outcropping peering through a high-powered scope. Light glaring off the lens, the man beyond became the sun. All the power was in his hands.
Until now, Sergei had only believed himself to be free of another's orbit. Like the incessant call to prayer, he'd followed his own orders issued from an onion dome held aloft by the sickle and hammer. He'd come here for the people, the worker, to bring freedom from the false idols of churches and banks. He knew the propaganda well.
He closed his eyes once more and slid along the hum of that chord in his mind. He sought not to break the chain but explore the breadth of it. Worldwide, this precise plea issued from hundreds, thousands of speakers. A masterful composition on a scale which crossed borders and ignored nationality. Timeless work comparable to Tchaikovsky or even Shostakovich, patriots who often fought to keep their music, their talents, relevant under the state's restrictions. Restrictions which under the burning intensity of dawn seemed not so different from heeding a call to prayer carried onward to all corners of the world, connecting each and every believer through the gift of modern technology.
The door burst open. His first thought was that another rifle round had penetrated the wall and his mission was at an end. Blinded, Sergei whipped out his service pistol and leveled it. Shadows flickered against the featureless scene and men formed ranks flanking the doorway, their rifles raised. Outside, the artillery bombardment stuttered to a halt, and the crack of small arms fire filled the streets.
Unarmed and with a sweeping confidence, a man strode out of the smoke and violence. He wore a black tunic and a tightly wound turban. Eyebrows coal smudges, his graying cheeks became lost in the glare only to outline the ebony shock of beard prominent on his chin. He grew closer, and Sergei felt his gun slip.
"Your people want you dead, but I believe you will come with us," said the man, his breath peppery and floral. He stared into the barrel of Sergei's pistol with indifference.
This place had always been at war. Conflicts spurred by other nations had pumped it full of arms. Men and their sons sold captured weapons and homemade rifles in stands on the roadside as commonly as Kvass vendors. Death meant little. And even then, they had their false beliefs to keep them company beyond the grave. He had no God, only his Motherland. Betrayed and disowned by his countrymen, who exactly would mourn his death?
He lowered his weapon. Beside him, the transceiver sang triumphant.
Allāhu akbar!
Lā ilāha illā-Allāh!
"Good. You perhaps weren't a complete waste of money." The man knelt and placed his hand on Sergei's pistol removing it easily from his grip, his impassive eyes never once looking away. Threat contained, he signaled to his men, and they too touched their knees to the dirt.
With a firm hand, the man urged Sergei to face the far wall where twin holes peered out into the back alley, their perimeter spattered with droplets of blood. Around him, the prayers began.
Chapter 1
NARCISSISTIC PERSONALITY disorder is diagnosed between two percent and sixteen percent of the population in clinical settings. Most narcissists are men and the diagnosis is often co-morbid with other disorders..."
Fuck, I'm hearing it again. That "wa-wa" sound replacing the professor's voice. I widen my eyes and try to stay awake. A quiet life of books and papers was exactly what I wanted. Some time for research and maybe a breakthrough on the age-old mind-body problem.
Emily has spies in the library, though. She's making sure I'm not "obsessing." Almost two years ago, I made a promise I haven't even come close to fulfilling.
Probably need to cool it for a while. Ever since her narc caught me sleeping in the stacks, she's been extra vigilant. Never thought of Eau de Book as an insomnia cure. Fine. Aren't the Giants playing tonight? I've got a paper due in Intro to Philosophy, but I can manage a few thousand words of bullshit while I watch the guys pick blades of Astroturf in the outfield. Probably be another no-hitter.
"Buzz-buzz...disorder...buzz-buzz..."
Wait. That's my phone.
When Professor Ingram turns to scrawl whatever hieroglyphics he's putting on the white board, I sneak my phone from my bag. It vibrates again. Incoming text.
One good thing about these auditorium seats is the solid sheet of metal wrapping in front of the rows. Ingram hates cell phones. Pretty sure he still uses a rotary in his office. The screen shows an incoming text from a user named 3n1g|/|4. Eric.
What up jint!
I haven't heard from him since Killcreek. I'm not sure what else to call it in my head. I'd use the "Happening," but that's already been taken, and the little twist it put in my life was decidedly more interesting than apocalyptic shrubbery.
Class. Learning about Dad, I reply.
History?
Psych.
Yeah? How's the major?
You'd better be referring to leagues.
No hitter! The Doc is definitely an Augment.
Okay, so the pitcher this season is a beast. Some seven-foot guy named Hu out of a province in China. The nicknames had been relentless and "The Doctor" finally stuck. He'd been leading the Giants to one scoreless game after another, but he wasn't an augment. Or was he? When Eric of all people said stuff like that, you had to listen.
Augment, really?
Naw, I'm shittin' ya.
The guy in the seat directly to my right raises his hand and asks a question. A whole auditorium and this dude can't leave a buffer seat. I look up from the phone and stroke my chin to indicate I'm in on whatever profound statement he's made.
"Funny you should use that terminology, Peter," says Professor Ingram. "A personality disorder is a mental disorder, but there are loads of questions regarding whether that should be the case." He says "loads" and stretches out the vowels like he's been watching too much BBC. "What do you think Mr. Alexander?"
The professor's wiry eyebrows knit behind the wire-rimmed specs. I've been made. Ingram's homed in on me, and I have this No-Personal-Space Peter guy to thank for it.
"I think if you're messed up, I'm not sure debating the terminology matters," I say.
"I'd prefer we didn't use the term 'messed up' to refer to those with psychological disorders."
The phone vibrates in my palm. I press the damn thing into my thigh to try and muffle the sound. I'm sure it isn't near as loud as I think it is, but the prof has that look in his eye that usually proceeds his favorite activity, above even the whole teaching thing. I heard he grabbed a freshman's phone mid-text and spiked it, game-winning touchdown style. I'd rather not have that happen to my Qualfor Unity 5 Delta. Not only would I lose the recording of this lecture I haven't been listening to but I'd have to reload six months’ worth of apps and hacks.
He goes back to talking about the mentally disordered in the most mind-numbing way possible. More vibrations against my leg. I check the screen.
Hey, something's up—Man, it's important—You there?
I want to say, no. Of course, Eric has probably already dismantled any security on my phone, dialed in on my exact GPS coordinates, and has control of the camera, the screen...
"Spence?"
...and the speaker. My crotch is talking mid-lecture. Nice.
Only Peter seems to have heard. The rest of the class is verging on comatose, and Ingram just hit his stride with a rousing discussion on anger management issues associated with some other disorder. My guess is he won't be mentioning his phone spiking credentials.
In class. STFU, I type. I subtly flip-off the camera for good measure.
More important than school? I know that statement will translate into sarcasm over the monotone rantings of the net, but I'm serious.
Way more.
/>
Augment stuff?
Yep.
I told you, I'm out. Me normal. Me live normal life.
It's about your mom.
I'm dumbstruck by the words. Or thumbstruck. Mom? How could there be anything to do with her? I'd left her on a beach in some psychic freak show's idea of a family playground. And I do mean freak show no matter how insensitive Professor Ingram might find the term.
A hand snatches the phone.
Ingram has managed a sneak attack despite those god-awful, swishing, corduroy pants. I see a glint of triumph in his eyes. He twists the phone under the pale flood lights as though he's inspecting a precious gemstone.
"You know, Mister Alexander," he purrs as he walks away, "I don't allow phones during class. Texting. Twerking. Vineing. Faceing. Whatever it is you do. I find it highly disrespectful."
Slow breaths. Must restrain myself from a twerking demonstration. Eric had mentioned Mom. He wouldn't be joking about her. Maybe I should've been listening to the anger management stuff though because I can feel veins throbbing in my temple.
"I'm sorry," I say, though the sincerity is missing. "It was an emergency call. If you'll just give it back, I can take it outside."
"An emergency? Hmmm," says Ingram. He reaches the podium and props an elbow on the lectern. Pushing his glasses up his nose, he begins thumbing across the screen. "Ahh yes, the Giants. Major emergency." He smiles at what he thinks is a joke.
This is about the point where I wish I'd been given superpowers. Augmented, like my Dad. I don't think anyone would grab his phone. An undersized college freshman who constantly gets asked if he graduated high school early? Sure. But not a six-and-a-half-foot tangle of muscle who looks more CGI than real and who can take a tank shell to the chest and live to throw the offending weapon into orbit. No. He keeps his phone.
"Augment stuff," says Professor Ingram, reading from the phone.
"Look, Prof, I'm sorry."
He raises his arm.
I'm out of my seat before I even know it. "Don't you dare..."
"It's cool, I backed you up," comes Eric's voice. "Phone's toast soon anyway."
