by Eyal Kless
“When word came that the Oil Baron was advancing towards Heaven’s Retreat, my dad sent us all to my uncle, Evan, who works in the Middle Spires. He came to take us, and we had travel passes to the Long Tube, too, but as soon as we arrived at Regeneration my brother and I were taken into the militia. They said it was the only way for my mother and sisters to get to the city.”
“How old are you?” Galinak asked suddenly.
“Fifteen this coming summer, sir.”
Galinak and I exchanged a silent look. Three years of war without a resolute win for the City of Towers was a bad sign, and if they had to draft boys as young as Dorian things were going badly indeed.
“Is your brother among the dead?”
“No.” Dorian let out a sigh of relief. “He’s in a different unit, last I heard they sent him to guard the fields north of the city.” The boy smiled bitterly. “He was always the lucky one. I was left to keep guard in Regeneration, and they said I could keep my rifle, but then we were ordered to come here and ‘secure the supply line,’ that’s what Captain Rammon told us.”
“Then what happened?”
Dorian hesitated. “I don’t know, sir. We came here quiet enough, but the farmers, they were not happy to see us. They came out in arms and said they wouldn’t give away this much of their food, or they wouldn’t survive the winter. Captain Rammon told me to go scout the field with Corporal Mayar, to see that they ain’t trying to smuggle away food, and we did. Then we heard shots. Corporal Mayar said maybe Captain Rammon shot in the air to scare the farmers, because they were arguing real fierce-like, but then it all went to hell. We ran back and saw them, the Northerners, all in black uniform, they came from all sides and there was this huge machine with cannons . . . Corporal Mayar ran first when something shot his head off right from his shoulders. Then I . . . then I . . .”
“Then you ran away,” Galinak said, “and left your crew to fry. Don’t blame ya for it. Untrained, outgunned, surprised from all sides, I would have retreated as fast as my legs could carry me. The only question is why you came back, and why you shot at us.”
“I thought . . .” He hesitated. “I thought that maybe . . . if I came back . . . explained to the Captain what happened . . . then I saw you. I thought you were poachers.”
“Your captain can’t hear you now. He has the disadvantage of missing two of his ears and half of his head,” I said, “and if he were alive, he would have shot you for desertion, not to mention poorly maintaining your rifle.”
I bent down and stretched my hand out, and after a slight hesitation Dorian took it.
“So what now?” I asked after I helped him up.
Dorian hesitated. I saw the conflicting emotions on his face. On one hand, asking him about his future meant I was not planning on killing him. On the other hand, his future looked grim.
“I think if I went back to Regeneration and told them what happened—”
“You’re a rusting idiot,” Galinak snapped. “If you show up like this in Regeneration they’ll have you executed on the spot, or worse, promote you and send you out again as target practice for the Northerners.”
“You have family somewhere else?” I asked.
The boy shook his head. “They say Heaven’s Retreat is gone, sir, and my father, he never followed us. So, he must be dead now . . .”
I looked at Galinak, who slowly shook his head at me.
“You say your uncle lives in the Middle Plateau?”
The boy nodded.
“Fine. If we take you to him, will he give us a place to stay?”
Dorian’s eyes lit up with hope. “Would you do that, sir? It would be a kindness.”
Behind his back Galinak shrugged, pointed at the boy, and rolled his eyes at me.
“First thing. Find yourself some new clothes,” I said quickly. “Search the ruins or take them from the dead bodies, I don’t care. We are not running around with you wearing a uniform. Go.”
When Dorian left to look for alternative attire Galinak turned to me. “Twinkle Eyes, you’ve gone soft on me. This boy is just a hindrance.”
“Perhaps, but much has happened since we were last here, Galinak, and we need to find out as much as we can. We were running around in the wilderness, clueless to the fact that a whole rusting war is raging. Imagine us getting to Regeneration hoping to catch a Long Tube ride to the city only to get drafted into their militia. And besides, the boy has family in the city—they’ll be grateful for our bringing him back.” I made a motion with my fingers suggesting hard coin, although what I really wanted was information and perhaps a place to lay low until I figured out what was happening in my city.
“You’ve got a point, all right,” Galinak conceded. “The old Oil Baron was known to be a fierce cunt. His son I’ve never heard of, but running around conquering stuff with these things you call Tanks, killing Towerian Trolls? Now that’s new.”
I scratched the short hairs growing on my chin. “And the Northerners couldn’t just have gotten their hands on a few. Those machines eat serious power, and I bet they take training to handle.” I let my train of thought run even as I stopped talking. If the bloodthirsty Baron held a cache of pre-Catastrophe heavy weaponry and the knowledge to use it, why didn’t he just rush straight towards the city? Biding his time, sending shock troops to clear the fields around the city’s sphere of influence meant long-term planning and strategy. There was a serious shift of power going on here.
“Whatever.” Galinak pointed at me, breaking my line of thought. “Just saying this is your idea, so the boy is eating from your share of the nourishment pills. And besides, you need to figure out a way into the city, now that we can’t use the Long Tube.”
“We’ll go the long way,” I answered, “maybe buy a ride with a trucker. As for entering the City of Towers, remember how we got out of it the last time?”
“You mean the sewers?” Galinak paled a little. “You know I have sensitive sinuses.”
“There are only a few ways into the city that do not involve passing security, and that is the safest one I know. Besides, that was the old you.” I gestured at his body.
“Aye.” Galinak scratched his head, looking embarrassed. “You know, I got used to it, almost forgot it’s not really mine.”
He was right. My own earlier sense of detachment was gone. A part of me wanted to try and find out more about our state of being, but another part of me wanted to get away from this massacre as soon as we could.
“Let’s help find the boy something to wear which does not scream ‘deserter’ and then get the rust out of here,” I said.
“Fine.” Galinak lifted his power machine gun. “And the pup’s taking first watch, as soon as I teach him how to clean his rifle and shoot straight.”
Chapter 32
Mannes
“There is something in the sky.” Lieutenant Slava sounded nervous over the Comm.
Mannes glanced up and squinted. A soft flake of contaminated snow touched his cheek. He brushed it away. Yes, there was something up there. The cold wind momentarily died, and the unnatural buzzing could be clearly heard in the distance.
“Report your status.”
“Six trucks on their way towards you.” Slava’s voice filled Mannes’s earpiece once again. “Seventeen vans. All armed with light weaponry, three carrying antitank cannons. I detected some movement in the fields, probably commando. Total of a hundred combatants, probably more.”
And to think that he had actually believed that in five years he would already be in Tarakan. Mannes shook his head at his own folly as he watched Alikahn’s vehicles advance. It had taken him a whole year just to extract Norma and the shuttle’s medibots to the medical mobile unit he built. Without them he would have been dead already.
He had found and gathered some refugees around him. Kept them alive and formed them into a team, and when he judged he was ready he set out on his way home. He did not tell them his plans but they followed him anyway, hoping he could lead th
em to a better life. They were so very wrong. His original team was already long dead, but that was the least of his problems.
In the old days a leisure trip by land to the shores of Spain would have taken him two weeks, twice that if he decided to travel northeast, via the Bering Strait and across to Alaska. But Kazakhstan was not Kyrgyzstan, to say the least. There were no high mountains to protect the land from the fallout, and Kazakhstan was a far more strategic country in the world’s conflict and had suffered from Tarakan’s attention. This land was contaminated and ruined to the point of obliteration. All that was left of the cities were smoldering heaps of toxic ruins, destroyed roads, and collapsed bridges. Mannes had to keep backtracking and zigzagging to keep his growing army alive. Now he was stuck in a bloody war he had no way to circumvent.
Mannes turned to the merchant who was idling beside him.
“This had better be a straight deal or you’ll be the first to die,” he said in fluent Russian.
The merchant, to his credit, was not the timid kind. His steel blue eyes never wavered as he took a long drag from the small pipe sheltered in his palm.
“Alikhan has something you want, you have something he wants.” The man made a show of shrugging and blew the smoke above both of their heads. “Of course there’s a deal here.”
“Alikhan raided me twice this season alone. This could all be a trap.”
Mannes, at least, had foreseen the raids and prepared in advance, but the death toll was still in the dozens. In a barbaric move that the old Mannes would never have even contemplated, Mannes kept two of the captured raiders alive, put them on a pair of horses and sent them back, together with a sack full of decapitated heads from the rest of the raiders. In retrospect that action had caused more trouble than he anticipated, but he was angry and wanted to send a strong message in a language that perhaps the people of what was left of Kazakhstan spoke. Two months of bloody tit for tat had followed, with more and ever-growing atrocities committed by both sides. Now, just before winter, this warlord, Alikhan, was suddenly ready to parley.
“Commander”—it was Slava’s nervous voice over the Comm—“what do you want me to do about the flying thing?”
Mannes touched his earpiece. “Nothing, for the moment.”
“It could be a trap. You want me to shoot it down?”
He shook his head. What a stupid notion. His former lieutenant would have never asked this, but alas, he had to be disposed of. Now he was surrounded by fools. Bloodthirsty, trigger-happy fools.
“No, it’s just a reconnaissance drone. Stay alert and wait for my signal,” he answered over the Comm. Well . . . calling that thing a “drone” was probably stretching the word to its limit. From what he managed to see with his limited zooming ability and judging by the unsteady way it was flying, it was a kid’s toy of some sort with a camera mounted on it. To think, just half a decade ago, real combat drones, with independent AIs, were flying at almost space height and could tell if your toenails were dirty. This one was buzzing noisily a hundred metres or so above their heads, barely keeping itself in the air. Still, the drone changed things from a tactical point of view. They could detect his troops or even the hidden mobile clinic. He could be negotiating a deal with a murderous maniac while an auxiliary force surrounded and killed his ragtag army.
“They’re coming,” the merchant announced and pocketed his pipe.
They all saw the dust the convoy was raising.
Mannes turned to the man. “You sure about the terms?”
It was not the first time he had asked. A show of insecurity, he knew, like checking your cards too often at the poker table, but the merchant just shrugged and answered, “Yes. I’m positive. Alikhan himself told me this.”
Mannes tried not to betray his anxiety, but truth be told, he had several good reasons to be anxious. The numerous envoys he sent to Alikhan, the warlord who now controlled one of the only unravished lands of the region, had not returned—or, more correct, had not returned in one piece. Apparently, that was this warlord’s way of beginning delicate truce negotiations. To top that, Mannes felt a headache building up. The throb he was feeling right now was at the exact place the one-eyed brute had hit him with the pommel, back in Kyrgyzstan, leaving a dent in his skull that never truly healed. The light throbbing would soon develop into a blinding pain that would either leave him incapacitated or drugged out of his mind. He needed this to be over with quickly.
The merchant broke the silence, trying to reassure Mannes, or perhaps himself. “Alikahn attacked you, and you burned two of his villages and took out a guard post and a bridge. I say you’re even. You’ll get safe passage.” He blew smoke again, careful this time not to do so in the direction of Mannes. “Just remember my cut, and that you’ll still need me afterwards. I know the way on the other side of the mountains.”
Mannes nodded absentmindedly. He had no intention of double-crossing the man, as long as things went smoothly. But the whole business still didn’t make sense. True, he’d outmanoeuvred the warlord’s forces during the autumn season, and a big part of Alikhan’s army was now pinned down protecting key locations. But the warlord’s force was ten times the size of Mannes’s, which was also running out of provisions. Mannes admitted to himself that he would have had to raid those villages even if negotiations had progressed smoothly. What a bloodbath it turned out to be. Well . . . what’s done is done.
Turning back was not an option. Going around and through the mountains with such a large force as he had gathered was suicide. Abandoning his army and trying to cross alone was too risky. If Mannes was sure of one thing, it was that he was never going to be caught undefended again. He was never going to be tied up and feel urine on his face for as long as he lived. When the memory struck, Mannes could almost feel the hot piss still trickling down his face and neck. No, the army he had gathered was a problem right now, but Mannes was not going to abandon it. And when all seemed lost, this merchant had suddenly appeared and offered to be an honest broker—for a hefty cut, of course. Mannes had agreed. He had little faith, but nothing to lose, yet.
What the merchant had brought back was not a deal, it was a surrender. The only thing Alikhan insisted on was a face-to-face meeting. It all smelled like a trap, and probably was.
Mannes turned to the merchant. “Go to them now, and remember, I got snipers trained on you, specifically.”
Without another word, the merchant mounted and kick-started the hoverbike. He drove away in the direction of the convoy, the heat generated by the engine leaving a line of caked mud behind him.
As was agreed upon, the convoy stopped a hundred metres away from where Mannes stood. One truck continued driving at a slow pace, together with the merchant who turned and escorted them.
Mannes touched his earpiece. “Report.”
“No answer from the eastern and southeast units,” came the answer.
Shit.
“I got a mortar unit on the leading truck,” Slava said.
“Don’t fire without my signal. And Slava . . .”
“Yes, Commander?”
“I will personally harvest your organs while you are still conscious if you or any of your trigger-happy soldiers fire a single shot.”
Mannes turned off the Comm without waiting for an answer. He hoped that was enough to keep everyone in check. That last village raid turned into a bloody massacre as his troops got carried away with the looting and murdering. Mannes had to make an example, and consequently, Slava was promoted to the newly vacant lieutenant position. Things had been shaky ever since.
The truck stopped. Doors were opened and several armed men deployed in military fashion. The merchant did not wait for them and continued driving back, stopping his hoverbike in front of Mannes. For the first time, he looked nervous.
“It is Erasyl himself, the warlord’s blood brother, who came to talk to you.”
Mannes shrugged lightly, for show. “It means they are serious about making a deal, no?”
The merchant nodded but quickly added under his breath as the group of men approached, “Be careful. Erasyl might have orders to conclude the deal, but he is notoriously short-tempered. Sometimes he defies even his own brother.”
When the merchant dismounted and moved away the two groups were already facing each other.
Erasyl was not a man you could miss. There was not a part of him that was not tattooed with some sort of religious symbol. He sported a black ponytail and his bloodshot eyes spoke murder. On his belt were several old but well-maintained power pistols and a huge hunting knife. The warlord and his brother must have been criminals before the war, Mannes thought. Their brutality and cunning helped them carve a little kingdom for themselves.
Mannes raised his right hand, hoping it would not visibly shake. “Salem.” Hello. With his amp gone, Mannes had promised himself to study the elementary language of any land he ventured through.
Erasyl stared at him and then slowly leaned to his left and spat at the ground, never taking his eyes off Mannes.
He stepped toward Mannes, and it took all Mannes’s willpower not to step back. The men in both groups tensed. When Erasyl was at arm’s reach he stopped, looked into Mannes’s eyes, and said in a heavily accented but clear English, “I could kill you here and now.”
His head already throbbing, Mannes decided not to answer, just to meet the man’s gaze.
“You sent men to the eastern part of the valley.” Erasyl’s smile exposed metal teeth.
Mannes nodded.
“They’re dead now, all of them. Died like little girls, begging for their lives.”
Mannes stayed completely still. The man was testing him.
“We captured some more and killed them, too. Revenge for each head you sent back to us. Soon you will be surrounded. We could butcher you like sheep.”
Mannes nodded, calculating inwardly. Even after years of war, he would be the first to admit he was not a military expert. Mistakes were made, and mistakes cost lives. “I guess we’re even now,” he said.
