Nova Byzantium

by Matthew Rivett

  The surging ocean had inundated the airfield’s tarmac, transforming it into a stagnant estuary overrun with strangler fig and mangrove. The monsoons kept the flies and mosquitoes subdued, but the humid heat made modest exertion misery. Uri ripped open a freshwater pouch and slurped it down, then untied the inflatable raft from the bomber’s crumpled landing strut.

  The dhow was anchored in Diego Garcia’s lagoon, patiently waiting for his return . . . or so Uri hoped. The gold paid for Uri’s passage to Diego Garcia but not a work crew. He’d propositioned the boys for a few quarter ingots, but Khalid would have none of it. Despite a cyclone predicted for the equatorial belts, the dhow’s captain was in no rush to speed Uri’s salvage.

  As the sun set, he walked the raft through the flooded jungle. Most of the atoll was in the process of reclamation by the Indian Ocean’s swollen seas. A few places not yet ruined by salinity, like the old military barracks and naval terminals, remained flush with the native ironwood and copra palms.

  Due to Diego Garcia’s remoteness—just a pinprick of sand in the vast gyre—the island had avoided pillage. He found it remarkable, considering the abundant salvage. The military installation was littered with capable military weaponry. Such overwrought firepower in the hands of the world’s fractured fiefdoms and barbarian warlords was sobering. Al Fadah Madina was doing mankind a favor, in a way. The last thing the battered world needed was access to one of its deadliest weapons.

  Tying the neoprene raft to a radio shack, Uri climbed a microwave tower. A cloud of fruit bats erupted from the nearby jungle—small creatures, just hearty enough to subsist on the atoll’s shriveled guava and mango. He unfolded his rifle and panned the twilight with the night scope. Through the evening mist, he saw the dhow’s lateen heading for the lagoon’s northern pass.

  Uri checked the time, 19:00. They were supposed to meet him for pickup; that was the plan at least. Zooming in, he hovered the crosshair’s faint glow over the target. The crew was frantically winching the sail, attempting a lethargic beat toward the outer reef. His raft had no outboard engine and no oars—even if it had, the warheads’ weight made catching the dhow impossible.

  “Fucking Thuggees.”

  During his daylong expedition exploring Diego Garcia’s scrap heaps, Uri had apparently missed the logistical pod’s splashdown. The dhow crew must have retrieved the capsule along with the ten ounces of gold payment. Khalid, deciding the archivist a diminishing investment, abandoned him to an island fate.

  Uri took a few moments to gain his wits.

  He loaded a high-powered round into the chamber and popped the bipod. After a few careful breaths, he fired a warning shot, barking the boat’s wood hull. The adolescent crew scrambled for cover, eyes wide as they searched the shore’s shadows for muzzle flash. Honing his aim, Uri targeted Khalid as he manned the tiller. He let loose a three-round burst and watched the man grab for his leg, a red trickle staining the hem of his dhoti. Another shot went through the top of his foot. Khalid fell and slithered behind a rain barrel. Rishi took over the tiller and throttled up the rattling diesel. The crosshairs hovered over the boy’s head. Uri wiped the sweat from his eyes and concentrated.

  He fingered the trigger but didn’t squeeze it. An acidic burp lapped at his lips. He was losing focus. Archivists’ lethal reputations preceded them, and Khalid should’ve known retribution would be swift. But now, with the enemy in his sights, Uri found himself incapable of finishing them. The kill switch of his clinical detachment—the engine of a mercenary heart—was broken, poisoned by revelation. The ruthless conditioning of his former life was a wound unhealed. Empathy, perceived as a liability, was no longer the sin it once was.

  He pulled away from the telescopic sight and folded the rifle. Uri had other alternatives for getting home, however unappealing.

  The Cyclone was dry-docked. With a few well-placed 7.62mms to the sponsons, the rusted scaffold sank into the lagoon’s squalor. Getting the diesels started was another matter. Two of its three Velentas were still functional. Freshly installed prior to the abandonment of Diego Garcia, the engines remained wrapped in factory plastic. Scrounging enough coolant, fuel, and oil was another matter.

  After a sweltering week, Uri managed to prep the vehicle for the Soqotra crossing, a trip of nineteen hundred kilometers to the northwest. He felt at home foraging through the rusted detritus and swamped outposts of the world’s forgotten empires; the archivist’s element. Unfortunately, Khalid had taken the entirety of the logistical drop, leaving him nothing but fish and breadfruit on which to subsist. A few weeks on the open ocean would be a digestive tribulation, but he was no stranger to survivorship.

  He recalled a miserable winter in Dagestan as an Alkonost mercenary—no vodka, no food, and no gold for barter. Nova Byzantium’s contract was under-funded, and Tiraspol was unwilling to subsidize their raggedy deployment. Deer hunting, theft, and scrounging were the only things that had kept him and his platoon alive. Uri knew parasitic existence all too well.

  The warheads, with some maneuvering and patience, came to rest in the boat’s waterline weapons bay through a hatch designed for commando teams. Uri only had to flood the bilge and push the small inflatable inside. A few nylon straps and the nuclear loads were ready for their transoceanic voyage. The Cyclone was more vessel than Uri could conceivably manage, but he didn’t have the fuel to throttle the aluminum ship’s forty-five meters to full speed, regardless.

  On a weather-free morning, he idled the patrol boat out of the disintegrating harbor. The lagoon was a ship’s graveyard, the scuttled flotilla reaching out from its watery tomb like ghouls clawing through rotted earth. Uri took one last look at the fading atoll, then headed out past the outer reef and into the open ocean.

  CHAPTER TWO

  November, 2163 C.E.

  A breach of contract resulted in the desperate crisis facing the citizens of Kharkivschyna. Tiraspol underestimated the cost of Operation Allied Saint, forcing Alkonost to pull their brigades from the province’s eastern regions. Word of this leaked onto the streets of Kharkov, and a mob assembled outside the gates of Morozov’s biologics institute. Nobody blamed them; Kharkivschyna’s citizens had been left to the mercy of the steppe hordes, their besieged viceroy impotent to stop the invaders.

  The mercenaries arrival wasn’t the clandestine operation they’d hoped, but this place—this site—was their last resort. Lieutenant Sava Valis and his squad were forced to land the Hind gunships inside the institute’s barricaded compound, a short pitch from Lenin Prospect. Morozov was the only corporation in Nova Byzantium capable of advanced anabolic prototyping. The secret lab allowed Morosov to work gray-market projects free of imperial meddling. With no questions asked, it was perfect for customers needing a low profile.

  Working as a fixer and nothing more, Sava had set up a contact between Alkonost’s Intelligence and Interrogation division and Morosov. He’d dealt with the corporation on previous occasions, trial testing and deploying experimental technology used for prisoner interrogations. The Alkonost client wanted to remain anonymous, however—anonymous even to those carrying out the mission, including Sava.

  Sava bribed a few administrators to ferret out the contract number, but nothing turned up. Someone had paid to subvert Tiraspol’s well-guarded nepotism.

  The Hind gunships flew in under cover of night. The surgical procedure was supposed to take twenty-four hours, but there were complications. Sava’s immune system was rejecting the treatment, and the high-dose compound of antihistamine-laced phenobarbital had put him into a coma. Sava was now slowly coming around, having lost a day to unconsciousness.

  The fluorescent lamps pulsed with his fluttering eyelids. Thuds of muffled violence and the soft clink of surgical instruments confused him. His forearms remained tightly strapped to the crucifix-shaped operating table, his veins inexpertly accessed by technicians who administered the last of the binding agent through cloudy tubing. The operating room was filthy, the place reeked of mold and d
ecay.

  This procedure was a mandate under the mission contract; the client demanded it. The job specs gave Sava pause, but work was tight with Nova Byzantium’s recent insolvency. He’d posted sentinel duty before, but never where the consignment was so potentially lethal. Command mentioned a biological component, a viral contagion capable of infecting the crew. The questionable procedure was supposed to inoculate against would-be pathogens; at least that’s what they told him.

  A few more ragged sutures, and the procedure was complete.

  Morosov’s techs helped him into a wheelchair and parked him in one of the institute’s recovery bays. Mach, his specialist, stood watch over him. Sava struggled to stand but was overwhelmed by nausea. An ocean of fiery prickles swarmed his joints, the inflammation a visible network of redness just under the skin. A belch of vomit dribbled from his chin onto his feet as he staggered. Mach leapt in to shoulder him.

  “You’ve got to stand,” Mach begged. “Time to evacuate. The gendarmes aren’t going to be able to hold back the riot. They brought a few armored personnel carriers, but . . . ”

  Sava limped to a sooty window and peered through the grime. Kharkov’s western outskirts were burning, a slow forest fire fueled by methane exhaled from the distant thaw of northern tundra. The blaze had consumed so much oxygen it now only smoldered, engulfing Kharkov in a blizzard of ash.

  “Can we take off?” Sava wondered, wincing as he buttoned his gray fatigues.

  “I think so. We can boost the manifold with the enricher. Not much ‘oh-two’ left in the tanks though. It’s going to be tight.”

  “Did you say something about APCs?” Sava’s voice was hoarse from the intubation.

  “Yeah. The provincial gendarmes, they’re protecting the institute,” Mach replied, his brow furrowed.

  “Not anymore. Look.”

  They both looked out the window toward the main gate. The paramilitaries were gone, abandoning the Morosov lab to the riot. Sava didn’t blame them; the audacity to show up in Kharkov after Alkonost’s retreat months before was insulting. The city’s angry denizens filled Freedom Square like swarming ants, pushing and pulling at the institute’s iron gate. It wouldn’t take long for the crowd to squeeze into the poorly defended compound.

  “Shit, they’ve got Molotovs.”

  “The helicopters,” croaked Sava.

  The Mi-24s sat exposed to the mob’s provisional missiles. Alkonost mercenaries flanked the idle machines, firing warning shots. Undeterred, the throng grew more enraged. Broken pieces of concrete sailed over the barricade, a few striking the gunships’ cockpits and rotor housings.

  “We need to get the hell out of here.”

  “Time for dust-off. Get everyone downstairs.”

  Still recovering from their own procedures, the squads were weak and impaired. Sava fumbled with his rifle as he headed outside and climbed into the Hind’s crew bay. The helicopters’ droopy blades disappeared as the slow whoops faded to a rhythmic clap, the vibration amplifying Sava’s queasiness. Closing his eyes, he tried to focus, but his skin burned and itched with every jostle. Shuddering, he wished he could molt and slither out of his skin.

  The pilot radioed back to the crew. The turboshaft’s carburetor was struggling, its air filters clogged with cinders. Oxygen levels were too low. For a few agonizing moments, they waited as the pilot blew the intake vents, until at last the Hind wobbled into the air.

  Two of the three helicopters floated up through the ash, but the third Hind failed to lift off. Through the murk, Sava saw the flicker of Molotovs flying over the gate, spreading fire over the tarmac like molten rain. The Kharkovian mob coalesced into a fleshy battering ram and crashed into the compound. The horde quickly ripped apart the idling helicopter and set the vehicle ablaze. From above, those airborne watched helplessly in horror as their comrades clambered from the vehicle to escape immolation, only to be truncheoned by the awaiting mob.

  The two surviving Mi-24s hovered over Schevchenko Park, the forward gunners itchy for revenge. Sava ordered them to hold fire. Mach looked at him, eyes filled with melancholy. Wasting a fusillade of rockets and Yak rounds on civilians was not in their best interest, despite the catharsis. Painfully, Sava ordered the pilots to circle and head out.

  Popping another antihistamine, he took a swig from his canteen and looked down at the bedlam below. Their route took them over smoking landscapes, dissolving forest steppe churned by industrial decay and meteorological rage. The vehicle hugged the terrain, the atmosphere too exhausted for high-altitude combustion. He poured water over his throbbing forearms and felt fleeting relief. Glancing at his squad, he noticed a faint, irregularly shaped rash emerging on the jaws and foreheads of the men.

  “Three hours until Kalinigrad. The Antonov is refueling now. Wilco’s got East Anglia on VHF. Command’s wondering about crew status,” Mach said, tapping his earpiece.

  “Crew status . . . functional.”

  “But what about the contract? They’ll have to contact the client.”

  “Let them,” Sava shrugged.

  “So what’re we going to tell them?”

  “Tell them the mission is not compromised. We’ll be able to fulfill our contract with the assets available.”

  Mach shook his head in doubt.

  “It’s sentinel duty, Mach, on a rock in the middle of the ocean, a thousand kilometers from nowhere. Who do you think’s going to attack us?”

  Mach shrugged.

  The clouds of ash coiled around the rotor blades and flowed into the crew compartment, stinging eyes and shredding lungs. Unable to bear the post-operative pain, Sava broke open a med pack for its morphine. He slid the syringe in between the ragged stitches, closed his eyes, and pinched its liquid bubble.

  Relief was instant.

  Disembodied, he drifted outside and shadowed the Hind’s thumping blades. A ghostly vision penetrated what he perceived as a temporal fog. Over the time horizon, he saw an undersea arcade filled with statues arranged in a circle. Ultramarine lights danced in the benthic arcade’s central brazier. Faces of chiseled marble gazed into the drowned fire, mesmerized. A lost civilization . . . Atlantis ? Sava was unsure. Awaiting rebirth, the revenants huddled to preserve the light.

  With a turbulent shudder, Sava felt the tear of nylon straps cut into his shoulder. The vision was gone. He sat up, tracers blurring the world’s drab. Remnants of the drug’s effect clung to his eyelids. A recruit fidgeted with his rifle next to him. Sava opened his mouth to confess his revelation but held back.

  The recruit, a young man named Yakiv, spoke instead. “Where’s this place, sir? The contract location.”

  “Jan Mayen,” Sava slurred. “It’s an island.”

  “What’s there? What’re we defending?”

  “Nothing. Everything. I don’t know.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  August 2163 C.E.

  Burnt sunlight filled the transom, illuminating the diwan with dappled rainbows. Uri opened the shutters, then knelt to light coals under the large floor hookah. Outside, a goat herder meandered through a grove of dragon blood and bulging bottle trees. Life here continued much as it had since the time of Mohammed. The Island of Soqotra provided an oasis from the chaos of the Post-Industrial Shock. Uri’s apartment was spacious but spartan. The traditional Yemeni tower houses Al’ Madina’s archivists shared were seldom occupied. He relaxed on a pile of floor cushions and chewed Qat leaf.

  Uri hadn’t slept much the past few weeks. The voyage from Diego Garcia left him drained: a combination of dehydration, poor nutrition, and sleep deprivation. To conserve fuel, he’d throttled back to an achingly slow cruising speed. Most of the boat’s batteries were dead and no longer rechargeable; piloting the craft was a tedious but exhausting manual affair. Soon, Uri would escort the procurement up the Burj Babil to Al Fadah Madina’s nexus, where he’d receive final payment, as was archivist custom.

  It would soon be dark, but Uri was not yet ready for sleep. His thoughts drifted to the
enigmatic mask he’d brought from Mumbai. The Qat’s cathinone was kicking in, and his curiosity swelled. Overcome by the urge to indulge it, he filled a silver teapot with hot water, broke one of the tea bars apart, and let the crumpled remnants dissolve. A sweet, earthen aroma filled the diwan. Pouring the infusion into a ceramic bowl, an oily sheen formed in the russet liquid.

  Uri plopped the mask into the tea mixture and watched it distend, the Mahakali’s arms waving and contorting. His guess was right. The artifact needed liquid to activate its bioengineered hydraulic “muscles.” It looked alive, its arms pantomiming Kali’s deadly dance. The motion pulsed in a mesmerizing and lulling rhythm.

  Uri poured himself a cup of the tea and took a sip. It filled his chest with a smooth burn, a slow fire that spread from his spine into his brain. Numbed, he reclined on a pillow and focused on the sun’s golden disc as it crawled into the crags of the Haghier Mountains. He picked up the writhing mask and held it near his face. Its ten arms sensed the warmth of his skin and reached out to him. Ruby irises glowed brightly and pulsed hypnotically.

  Unafraid, Uri donned the Thuggee mask and let its slimy hydrostats embrace his chin, cheeks, and forehead. The arms of the strange bio-machine throbbed with an electric heat. His synapses were alight as a psychic interface opened pathways into his cloudy cranium. With remote detachment, his paralyzed body fell away. The mask’s crimson glare merged with his own vision, and another world opened inside a disembodied reality, a new dimension alien yet familiar.

  Uri looked around.

  He was in the Caucasus Mountains. The range’s sharp peaks towered above a village of bleached buildings and onion-shaped domes. A sign in Cyrillic declared Tindi to be free of vice. With hands tied behind his back, he could barely move. A vicious crowd surrounded him, snarling like a pack of wolves.

  He felt small, physically. Looking down at his grimy feet, he saw a child’s toes wiggling in sandals. Next to him, he heard the shriek of a pre-adolescent girl. He glanced in her direction. Tears streaked the girl’s dusty cheeks, hair knotted by layers of filth. Behind he saw two pits, freshly dug by old men with leathery skin.