Demyan, Lilia, Anya, and Alexi held hands as they looked at the warehouse they'd be sleeping in. Pyotr inched over, and Alexi offered his hand to him. The boy took it gladly.
Edmund scoffed. “Come on, the bunch of you. Let's go see what's in store for us.” Igor patted Pyotr on the back as everyone headed into the warehouse.
There were no other people in the warehouse when they entered, but the building was filled wall to wall with cots. Stairs led to the second and third floors that wrapped around the perimeter of the building, also filled with cots. Most of the cots were taken, as evidenced by undone sheets and stacks of books. Anya walked over to the nearest cot and picked up one of the books.
“'The History of Vernulaia: The Greatest Nation in the World',” she read aloud. She picked up another one, and another. All boasted of the power and superiority of Vernulaia.
“Propaganda,” Gotfrid said. He looked between Lilia, Anya, and Demyan. “I bet you've seen the same in Morozhia?”
“At least in Lodninsk we had proper apartments,” Demyan said.
“Hey, we'll figure this out,” Anya replied. “This is just a setback. It's temporary.”
“We need to get out of here,” Lilia said. “We need to find Zoya.”
“You're the new refugees?” A soldier entered the warehouse holding a clipboard.
“Yes, sir,” Pyotr said.
“Follow me,” the soldier told them. He led them out of the warehouse and down the dirt road toward the water. They walked through a shipyard, filled with metal, wood, and ship hulls in various stages of completion.
“This is where you will work,” the soldier said. “Gotfrid and Igor will report to Officer Brish. Pyotr and Demyan will report to Officer Sherikov. Anya, Lilia, Alexi, and Edmund will report to Officer Patsayeva.”
“Hurry up!” one of the officers shouted at the group. She wore an olive green jacket and matching pants. Her hair was tucked up into an unadorned hat. Anya assumed she was Officer Patsayeva, and that her identically dressed comrade beside her was Officer Sherikov. “You have work to do!”
Lilia, in spite of herself, ran to hug Demyan. The soldier grabbed her and shoved her forcefully back toward Anya, Alexi, and Edmund.
“Report to your supervisors, now!” the soldier said, displaying the pistol on his hip.
The group split up. Gotfrid and Igor were immediately sent to bring more lumber to the yard, while Pyotr and Demyan were directed to a near-complete ship by the water to begin welding its hull. The rest were handed hammers and screwdrivers, and instructed to work on the frame of another ship's hull.
“Get to work!” one of the supervisors demanded, pulling out a whip. He cracked it once in the air as a warning.
Anya and Alexi worked tirelessly in the shipyard, driven mercilessly by their supervisors.
Blisters formed on Anya’s hands as she worked, hammering nail after nail after nail into the ships’ frames. She put down the hammer, clenching and unclenching her fists. The hot sun burned her skin as well.
“Are you alright?” Alexi asked, moving toward her. His skin was flushed, his hair matted with sweat.
“I'm fine,” Anya replied with a weak smile. “Just tired.”
“Hey!” Officer Patsayeva shouted. “Back to work! No socializing!” Alexi's face turned redder than it already was.
“We need a break,” he shouted back at the supervisor. “We've been working nonstop for hours. We just need a rest.”
Patsayeva marched over to Alexi, staring at him angrily.
“You need to mind your place here, boy,” she warned. “You don't belong anywhere, but our great nation of Vernulaia has been generous enough to take you in. The least you can do is work dutifully for her.”
Alexi scoffed. “Generous?” he asked. “Have you seen where we've been assigned to sleep? I bet that building was condemned before your precious government decided to turn this area into a refugee camp.”
Officer Patsayeva punched Alexi in the face. Before Alexi could recover from the blow, he was dragged away by another group of supervisors.
“Alexi!” Anya shouted. Officer Patsayeva moved toward her, brandishing a whip. Anya picked her hammer back up and began working again. The supervisor nodded and smirked, turning to follow the other supervisors.
Anya looked up to see where Alexi was taken. She saw him strapped to a pole with his back to the supervisors. Officer Patsayeva walked toward him, raising her whip. Anya turned away, trying to focus on the sound of her hammer instead of Alexi's yells.
“You're new here?” Anya heard a low voice, just loud enough for her to hear. She looked up again, searching for its source.
“Put your head back down. Don't draw attention.”
Anya did as the voice commanded, pretending to adjust a nail.
“Yes, we're new,” she said. “Who are you?”
“My friends refer to me as Chameleon. We must be wary here, not everyone is a friend. Are you?”
“A friend?” Anya asked. “I suppose that depends. What makes a person qualify as a friend?”
“How do you feel about this nation, Vernulaia?”
“I think it's the most wretched place I've ever been,” Anya replied, “and I'm from Morozhia.”
“Good. Then you are a friend. I will refer to you as Cuttlefish until you are ready. We will speak more later.”
“Speak more about what? What do I need to be ready for?” The voice didn't respond. Anya looked up and around, catching the eye of another officer. Her face flushing, she returned to work.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“That's quite the adventure you've had, Snezhana,” Boris said as he sipped from a mug of grog. “I always knew that brother of yours was trouble. But you say the Bronnerush is real?” The two old friends sat in the middle of a tavern that was hidden away underground through a myriad of tunnels. A couple of Boris's comrades sat nearby, guarding the door. The walls were covered in maps of Mirgorod and other parts of Vernulaia.
“I saw it with my own eyes,” Snezhana said. “I even saw it in action. Boris, it's everything I was afraid it would be.”
“Well,” Boris replied, “you say your brother is in custody? If he's not hanged for piracy, he'll likely be sent to those so-called refugee camps. Seems to be a favorite punishment around here lately.”
“My brother isn't the only thing in custody,” Snezhana went on.
“Oh,” Boris replied, gulping down the rest of his grog. “Well, that is a problem.” He stood and poured himself another cup.
“Boris,” Snezhana started, “The last time I saw you, I asked you to look for Grigory Orlov's lab.”
“You said it might hold some secret to unlocking the Bronnerush's power,” Boris recalled.
“I think it also holds the secret to destroying it,” Snezhana said. “Please, Boris, have you found where it is?”
“Well, yes and no,” Boris replied. “I'm afraid this is all bad news. The government uncovered the lab last year. No one knows this, of course. Not officially, not publicly. But the government knows where the lab is, and has been keeping it under strict surveillance.”
“And now they have the Bronnerush, too.” Snezhana leaned back in her seat, sipping grog.
“The girl with purple hair, Zoya?” Boris started. “They're not going to send her to the camps.”
“Why do you say that?” Snezhana asked.
“Because they'll know exactly who she is,” Boris replied. “Haven't you ever heard why that family has purple hair?”
“Are you going on about genetics again?” Snezhana asked. “I never understood your fascination with alchemy.”
“It’s not alchemy, it’s science,” Boris said. “And genetics are why the trait passed on but not why it turned purple to begin with. Grigory Orlov, when he grew fearful of his gadget's power, created a safety so that no one could use it.”
Snezhana stared at Boris, waiting as he took a sip of grog.
“No one, except himself,” Boris went on.
“The rumor is that he created some sort of genetic lock on the device. In the process, the Bronnerush itself altered Grigory, and his hair began to grow purple.”
“Sounds like a load of bull to me,” Snezhana snorted. Boris shrugged.
“Some people hypothesize that the Bronnerush contains strange elements,” he said, “which changed Grigory's genes. Some say it's magic. Quite honestly, Snezhana, it doesn't matter what it is, or if it's true.”
“Because they have Zoya,” Snezhana stated. “They have their genetic key.”
“Exactly.”
Snezhana leaned on the table, smirking.
“Sounds like we need to perform a rescue operation,” she said.
Boris laughed. “Looks like our revolution will be coming early.”
“Finished,” Demyan announced, lifting his welding goggles. “I think that's the last one.” He stood and looked around. The other refugees had finished their welding as well and were heading up the stairs, out of the ship's hull. Demyan followed.
“Alright,” Officer Sherikov yelled. “Let's set her out to sea.”
The refugees obliged, grabbing ropes and beginning to pull the ship upon rows of logs. Demyan grabbed a rope next to Pyotr, whose arms were shaking.
“It's ok,” Demyan told the boy. “There are plenty of us pulling. Just hold the rope, give your arms a rest.”
Pyotr looked at Demyan and nodded. His grip on the rope loosened slightly, and he simply held on. His arms still shook, but less violently.
The ship began to roll toward the water slowly at first then more quickly. The refugees jogged to keep up with the ship.
“Pyotr, be careful,” Demyan warned, noticing the boy struggling to keep up. “Pyotr!”
The boy tripped, stumbling on the edge of a log. He didn't let go of the rope as he fell, and swung to and fro. His body slammed against the hull of the ship, knocking his grip free and sending him flying directly into the ship’s path. Pyotr fell to the ground, landing on the row of logs only a few feet in front of the ship.
“Pyotr!” Demyan shouted again. He let go of his rope and ran ahead of the rolling hull. Without thinking, he jumped and grabbed Pyotr, pulling the boy to his feet.
“Come on,” he urged. He pulled Pyotr to the side, jumping just out of the way of the ship.
“Thank you,” Pyotr gasped. He grabbed Demyan and hugged him, panting.
“You're welcome,” Demyan replied, hugging him back. “You're ok.”
Lilia worked furiously, driving nail after nail into the hull of the ship. She worked through the stinging pain of blisters. Her mind was a rush of emotion, and only the continuous hammering held back exasperated tears.
“You can probably take a break,” Edmund said, working next to her.
“No, I can't,” Lilia replied. “We can't take breaks unless we're told otherwise.”
“Relax, Lilia,” Edmund said. He waved his own hammer lazily in his hand. “What's the worst that can happen if you just rest for a minute? Now, I always appreciate hard work, but you need to pace yourself.”
“You!” Officer Patsayeva pointed her whip in Edmund's direction. “Back to work!”
Edmund grinned at Lilia then turned to face the officer.
“Or what?” he asked, placing his hands on his hips. “That's a mean looking whip you've got. Doubt you know how to use it.”
“Bring that worthless dog to me!” Officer Patsayeva shouted then turned her back and walked toward the pole on which Alexi had been whipped the day before.
“Who's going to bring me to you?” Edmund asked, raising his arms boastfully. “I'm sure everyone here hates you. No one is going to do your dirty work for you!”
Even as he spoke, a horde of refugees began moving in his direction. They grabbed him and pulled him off the ship hull, dragging him toward the whipping pole.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Edmund asked, kicking and writhing against the refugees. “Let me go!”
The refugees threw Edmund at the foot of Officer Patsayeva, who lifted him up and slammed him against the pole. As she stepped back and readied her whip, the refugees ripped the back of Edmund's shirt open.
Lilia felt a confused anger when she saw his back. She had expected to see scars, marks from where Edmund may have been whipped years ago, or from battle wounds. Instead, apart from a patch of hair near the top, Edmund's back hadn't a single blemish.
Then Officer Patsayeva cracked the whip.
Edmund cursed through a scream of pain, glancing back to glare at the officer. She cracked the whip again, this time dangerously close to Edmund's face. He turned back around, swearing again.
Lilia smiled and continued her work.
Anya worked deep within a ship, welding support beams. Tiny burns riddled her hands from flying sparks. There hadn't been any gloves for her to wear.
“Do you notice anything odd about these ships?”
Anya paused her welding and looked around.
“Chameleon?” she asked. A figure emerged from around the corner, its face shielded by a welding mask.
“One of many, Cuttlefish. Now, the ships?”
Anya examined the ship in which she stood. Much of its interior was unfinished, but its metal hull was complete. Steel beams framed the levels of the ship, outlining rooms and halls to be built.
“They're large,” Anya said, guessing. “I suppose they do seem a bit different than the ships I've been on. But I've only been on three in my entire life, and all within the past few weeks.”
The figure was silent. Anya frowned and glanced around. Then her breath caught in her throat.
“They're metal.”
“Yes, they're steel.”
“I've seen metal ships before,” Anya said, remembering. “On the horizon. They were warships.”
“Yes.”
“But Vernulaia isn't fighting in the war.”
“Not yet.”
Anya stood with a hand braced against the hull, her head spinning.
“We're building their fleet, so they can go to war,” she said. “To join Morozhia? Against Starzapad?”
“Yes.”
With a rush of anger, Anya threw down her welding torch and slammed her arms against the steel hull. Arms aching from the impact, Anya picked her torch up again and moved toward the wall. The Chameleon grabbed her by the arm.
“No. This is not how we rebel.”
“We have to do something,” Anya said. “Have you seen how many ships have been built, are being built? This fleet will be huge! The war would be over in an instant. I don't know much about Starzapad, but Morozhia must be on the wrong side of this war!”
“The time is coming. You will know when to act.”
“How?” Anya asked. The Chameleon didn't respond, instead turning and walking away, he left Anya alone in the hull of the warship.
The air was hot and humid in the warehouse, with large bugs zipping around between the cots. Some stung or bit, resulting in a near-constant echo of hands swatting skin.
“How is everyone doing?” Anya asked as she and her friends settled onto their cots.
“As good as can be expected,” Demyan said. He glanced at Edmund, who had curled up silently on his side. His back was covered in bloodied bandages. Alexi followed his gaze then muttered something unintelligible under his breath.
“We should get some sleep,” Lilia said, lying back.
“Why, so you can try one of your famous escape attempts?” Gotfrid asked, mocking.
“You're confusing me with Zoya,” Lilia said, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. “She's not here to formulate an escape plan.” Tears pushed their way into Lilia's eyes, but she fought them.
“To be fair, I don't think Zoya ever did a lot of formulating,” Anya said with a weak smile. “Her plans were more like whims.” She turned on to her side and reached over to Lilia. “Zoya will be ok. It's a good thing for her that she's not here. Right?”
Lilia nodded, but rolled to turn her back to Anya.
As exhausted as they were, the new refugees tossed and turned, unable to fall asleep in the uncomfortable warehouse. The other refugees around them coughed and wheezed, and many made regular trips to the so-called bathroom: a rusted bucket surrounded by a moldy curtain.
“This is ridiculous,” Gotfrid said, getting up from his cot. “I can't live like this.”
“Where do you think you're going?” Alexi asked him as he walked away. Gotfrid didn't answer.
As Gotfrid approached the door of the warehouse, two guards stood in his path.
“I just need some air,” Gotfrid said.
“No one leaves the sleeping quarters after lights out,” a guard said.
“Sleeping quarters?” Gotfrid replied. “Have you seen this place? Do you see anyone actually getting sleep in here?”
“Return to your cot,” the other guard demanded.
“Just return to your cot,” a nearby refugee shouted. “Sleep comes easier after a while.”
Gotfrid looked the man over. His skin was pale and streaked with sweat. His clothes were stained, likely with vomit and other bodily fluids.
“Your sickness is what's making sleep come more easily for you,” Gotfrid told him. “Why don't you just shut up and let yourself die? You'll be more comfortable then.”
“You think you're so tough?” Another refugee stood up from his cot, towering over Gotfrid. “Get back to your cot and shut up yourself, before I make you.” He was soon joined by other refugees, all glaring at Gotfrid.
“Why are you aiming your aggression at me?” Gotfrid asked. “If you think you're so big and tough, why don't you kill the guards and lead us all to freedom?”
The tall man punched Gotfrid in the face.
“Talk like that is what starts trouble,” he said, grabbing Gotfrid by the neck. The guards stood idly by, smiling.
“People have tried getting out of the camp,” a young man said, coughing. “You can't leave the camp before your reformation is complete.”
Grigory's Gadget Page 21
