In the Shadow of a Valiant Moon

by Stu Jones

  "What are you going to do?" I ask.

  "Wait for my call." Mos grins, revealing large, square, white teeth, then creeps away and seems to vanish into thin air.

  The cold seeps through my clothing, stealing the fading warmth of the sun. My scarred Kalashnikov rifle feels like a cold, lead weight. I exchanged my bean-bag propelling weapon for a death-dealing one some time ago. I don’t even remember when that happened. Like everything else in this forsaken city, it just sort of did. Yeos forgive me. I loose my canteen from my satchel and take a shaky swallow of the nearly frozen water.

  A bark, much like a wild dog.

  The signal. "Now!"

  I drop the canteen, roll to the left, and rise to one knee. Three more of my fighters appear and the air ignites with the sounds of war. Dust and stone billow around the sniper's nest. Our suppressive fire has the desired effect: he’s blinded by debris.

  "Ceasefire!" I kneel again, the Kalashnikov pressed into my shoulder, watching as the dust clears. “Stand ready."

  We wait in silence, a bitter wind snapping at our scarf-covered faces.

  Another flash of light from the roof.

  "Get down!" I flop into the muck.

  This time there is no report. No exploding clump of earth. A cry of terror fills the air, followed by the sounds of a struggle. I chance a glance. Mos is standing tall and proud on the roof.

  "Hold your fire!" I yell.

  My comrades lower their weapons. Mos reaches down and plucks up a skinny Kahangan who drops a long-barreled rifle. The little man screams, flailing madly against my friend's superior strength.

  "Traitor." Mos bellows loud enough to be heard, even from down here. With a single heave, the large Kahangan hurls the sniper over the edge. The man's hollow scream is cut short as he strikes the frozen ground some ten stories below.

  I force myself to peer down at his mangled corpse, twisted like a broken doll in the ice and mud below.

  The Kalashnikov drops to hang from its canvas strap across my chest. My people follow suit, relaxing their guard, their eyes glazed over in a mixture of relief and stress. They’re all good soldiers. Committed to the cause—peace in Etyom, the last city. The Kahangan civil war has been going on for too long. Kapka—who somehow managed to survive the RPG blast on the platform four years ago—continues his campaign against the followers of Yeos with renewed vigor, but has so far not managed to take this Musul faction. Instead, in this desolate place, power-hungry warlords fight over resources while the people suffer. Here, it’s not Kapka who reigns, but Nazal.

  Little is known of the origins of this despot. Some say, like all warlords, he simply rode to power on the broken backs of the Kahangan people. That there was nothing he wasn’t willing to do and no one he wasn’t willing to betray to claim the power he felt was owed to him. Others seem to whisper of his evil deeds like he’s some sort of phantom—a terrible consequence of our own divisiveness. Whatever the case, Nazal is a plague. He’s no Kapka, but the piles of corpses he’s left in his wake can no longer be overlooked. The resistance will stop him because someone must.

  The wind stabs at my cheeks. I hunch my shoulders to brace against the cold and trudge over to Mauricio’s body. His empty gaze is locked on the sky, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth.

  "He liked to sing." Husniya walks up, kneels, and places her hand on the body of the young man.

  "You okay, Hus?"

  A moment passes. She nods.

  "You were friends?"

  "Not really,” she replies. “But he was always happy, singing songs in Fiorian. I couldn't understand the words, but I listened anyway. It was beautiful."

  Husniya’s compassion belies her age. Now fourteen, she is a far cry from the frightened child Demitri rescued from the suicide bomber in Zopat. But she is still young and has much to learn. Squeezing her shoulder, I look back to the roof of the large, bullet-riddled building. Mos waves us over to a rusted, ice-encrusted ladder, which leads all the way up to where he stands.

  Sard, really?

  Exhausted, muscles aching, I reach the summit. The roof is littered with sandbags and sniper nests. "Nazal doesn't want to give this place up." Deep breaths of frigid air burn my lungs.

  "No. He does not," Mos replies. The bulky Kahangan raises his head, his eyes great brown pools. "Ugly things are happening here, Mila. Kahanga needs us."

  "Well, every warlord we take down brings us one step closer to peace,” I say. “Get everyone together. We’re not done yet. Nazal's forces will be waiting for us inside."

  Mos bobs his head and motions everyone forward.

  "Okay," I call out as the last few fighters make their way to the top of the precarious ice-covered ladder. "We’re going to sweep the interior. Secure your gear. I don't want any unnecessary noise. Stay focused and stay ready. Keep line of sight with each other. We move in teams of four."

  Everyone acknowledges, murmuring as they prepare for entry.

  Husniya slides up to me, tightens her belt, and rechecks her rifle. "I'm ready."

  "I know you are." I wink. "You stay with me."

  ***

  The Kahangan warlord's abode is cold; a strange mixture of gaudy opulence and empty spaces devoid of life or comfort. Improvised bunkers and weapon caches litter the halls, and old Soviet-marked crates filled with grease-covered rifles lay stacked against the bare walls of the former police station.

  Room by room, we clear the path. The resistance fighters follow my hand signals and silent direction. Their belief in me is strong but unwarranted. I’m simply emulating the tactics described in the war manuals I’ve read. Entry point, deep threat, clear corners, collapse sectors of fire. Repeat. Reading old-world instructions on tactics is no substitution for actual instruction, but it’s all I had, and it’s already saved a life or two, including mine.

  Ten floors and we’ve encountered no resistance. Can’t be good. Armories, food stores, sleeping quarters. He’s got enough here to stock an army—an army much bigger than his mercenary forces in Kahanga.

  What the hell is Nazal up to?

  Moving with caution, we clear through the stairwell and fan out onto the ground level.

  Husniya presses into my shoulder as she works off my movements, covering my back. The girl is tough as nails, and yet there's still so much fear harbored deep beneath her capable facade. She thinks no one sees it, but I do. I know all too well what it looks like.

  We move into the last room. From within the gloom, a man moans for death in a sharp Kahangan accent. As we move farther inside, it becomes clear this is the old jail. Inside a row of cages with thick steel bars, Kahangan occupants huddle together like corralled animals.

  "It's okay," Husniya says and lowers her rifle. "We won't hurt you."

  "Mos. Get in here," I call back to the main hall.

  Mos acknowledges and navigates with heavy footfalls to our position. As he turns the corner, several of the prisoners stand to their feet and grab the cage bars.

  A woman begins to sob. "Mosavva!"

  "Mosavva. Praise Ilah, it’s Mosavva!" the others chant.

  Mos strides forward and produces a large ring with iron keys jangling from it.

  "Mosavva?" I ask.

  “My given name,” Mos says and unlocks the doors. The people surround him, laying their hands upon him and calling out. The weeping woman is nearly inconsolable as she crashes into Mos' arms.

  "You have come. You have come to make things right," she cries.

  "I’m here, do not fear. Your troubles are over," Mos assures her. He looks to me. "Mila, this is my sister, Ayodele."

  Sister?

  Through the tears, she mumbles, "Mosavva is the rightful king of Kahanga. He has been gone from us for so long." From the safety of his arms, she looks up and touches his face.

  "I was exiled," Mos says to her. "I had to wait until the time was right to return to you."

  A sweet smile graces Husniya’s face. It’s infectious.

  "So, what now? M
os?" I ask.

  He looks to me, then Ayodele. "We must still confront Nazal. Where is he?"

  "In the lower levels," she says. "Be careful, brother. He has allowed himself to become ... deranged."

  "All of you will stay here until it’s safe. I’ll come back for you." Mos turns, his friends and family wishing him a safe return.

  We leave the freed captives with two of our men, who hand out rations and water as Mos and I move to the stairwell to gather with our forces.

  "Nazal is fortified in the subterranean levels. I'm sure of it, now." Mos checks the cylinder of his .44 magnum revolver, Svetlana, counting aloud five mismatched rounds.

  "Fortified?" I repeat.

  "Yes. Definitely."

  “For what purpose? What is he defending?” I ask.

  Mos shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  "And what’s your plan to un-fortify him?"

  Mos removes a bundle of red paper-covered rods from his shoulder bag.

  Dynamite? "You may be the one who’s deranged. Please don't blow us all up before we get there, okay?"

  "No promises. Don't bump into me."

  It shouldn’t be funny, but I have to stifle a laugh. "After you."

  Before long we stand, huddled together in a concrete stairwell, poised to enter the basement level and are faced with an old, thick, iron door. Mos shoves his bulk against it, but it doesn’t budge.

  "I don't like it," I say.

  "What about it?"

  "The books I read on tactics call this a fatal funnel. Even if we get this doorway open, one rocket-propelled grenade into this stairwell will end us all."

  "Okay, what do you suggest?" Mos asks.

  "Let me find another way in. I'll open the door for you."

  "I'm coming with you,” Husniya says.

  A few of the fighters chuckle.

  "What? I'm every bit as capable as any of you.” She stares the men down. "I also happen to be a lot less stupid and undisciplined. Traits that come in handy when sneaking and fighting, if you didn't know."

  Their laughs turn to scowls. Now it's my turn to chuckle. She's been around me too much.

  "Fair enough, Hus. You come with me. The rest of you, stand by and wait for the door." We unsling our rifles and hand them over. Where we're going, they're not worth their bulk or the risk of knocking them against everything.

  "Take this." Mos hands me the dynamite bundle and a small torch. "You might need it."

  Without argument, I gingerly slip the bundle into my sling bag.

  Back up the stairs and onto the ground-floor we go. Dust motes dance in the air. Gray afternoon light bleeds in through the glistening teeth of a few shattered windows. I close my eyes, take a deep breath in through my nose, and listen.

  “What are we—”

  I silence Husniya with a raised hand, straining to hear past the slight tinnitus in my ears. "There." I point across the room.

  "I don't see anything," she says.

  “You aren't listening. Use all of your senses.” I move over to an ancient, padded sitting bench and slide it away, revealing a hatch in the wall. An old, long-since-used trash chute. I motion Husniya over, then crack the seal on the pull-down drawer. I'd bet anything it goes directly into the basement. We put our ears to the open hatch and from somewhere far below, hear the voices of men, Kahangan men, speaking in agitated tones.

  "See?" I say, looking down the hatch.

  She shrugs. "Sure."

  "Now, let's hope it's not blocked up. I'll go first. You follow me. Stay close and stay quiet. When it's time to fight, you fight like a trapped animal. Understand?"

  "Yeah." Husniya rubs her hands together in determination.

  She holds the hatch as I slip in and position myself. Digging my heels into the angled walls of the chute, I inch my way down.

  A clang above. It’s Husniya.

  She gasps, her boots squeaking on the walls, as she falls toward me.

  "Stop." I hiss, screwing my eyes shut. There’s no impact. I raise my head cautiously to find the toe of Husniya's boot a hair’s breadth from my face. "Don't be so careless." I say. Breathe it out, Mila. She’s still new at this. "It's okay, Hus. Just ... be careful."

  My legs quiver, the muscles shaking with adrenaline. A quick glance down and it appears to be clear, but there’s no view of the rest of the room or what I'll encounter when we drop in. Gathering my resolve, I muster my courage and release.

  My boots strike the floor and I pitch into a forward roll that carries me to concealment behind a stack of dust-covered crates. My hands fly to the sling bag, supporting the volatile explosive inside. After a few moments, breath held and chest frozen, it seems the dynamite won’t explode.

  In the square opening of the chute, the toe of Husniya’s boot appears. She’s ready to drop and waiting for my signal. I work my way to the edge of yet another tall stack of crates. They all have old, red Soviet markings—just like the ones on the upper floors.

  Where did Nazal get all this?

  Moving with extreme care, I peer around the stack in the direction of the voices. Ten men, maybe twelve. All of them are well armed and centered around one large Kahangan who appears to be giving the directives. Nazal.

  There’s a ruckus at the back of the storeroom. A huge man enters, barking orders with authority, and approaches the group.

  My breath catches in my chest. His size. Those eyes. A Gracile?

  Demitri ...? No, it’s not him.

  I haven’t thought about my gentle Gracile friend, or Vedmak, in so long. For more than a year, we searched for Demitri. Partly because I wanted to find my friend, but also because I was afraid of what Vedmak might do. My dreams, the omen, all pointed to him. Yet, in four years, the demon has not revealed himself. His potential threat has paled in the face of the very real Musul terrorist attacks, infighting between Robust gang members and Ripper assaults on trading caravans in the Vapid. Eventually, with no indication Demitri, or his demon, had even survived, my search fizzled out.

  Focus, Mila.

  I have another look. Who is this Gracile? We all assumed those who survived went into hiding, unable or unwilling to fight down here in the slums. This one is nothing like Demitri or any other Gracile for that matter. He has a wild, animalistic look about him; his hair long and eyes predatory. His armor has a medieval appearance. There’s a thick, snaking hose that leads from a small tank strapped to his back to a port in his arm.

  He storms past a PM M1910 Maxim gun, bolted to the floor and pointed at the door—the one Mos and the others are hiding behind—and barks some unintelligible command. Whoever he is, he’s learned to speak the Kahangan dialect.

  From their pockets, the Kahangans pull out auto-injectors, each containing a bright red liquid, and press them to their necks. They drop the empty tubes to the floor, groaning and grabbing at their throats. One man howls. Another beats his chest, screaming as if suddenly driven to the edge of sanity.

  A shiver of disgust streaks down my spine.

  “Now, Hus,” I whisper.

  She drops from the chute like a cat and slinks across in the shadows to my position. Her eyes grow wide as she sees the Gracile and the Kahangans mad with vigor.

  "Keep quiet and listen up," I whisper. "Make your way to the door, but stay hidden. On my signal, remove the cross bar and throw it open."

  "What's the signal?"

  "You'll know."

  The girl steals a glance at the men. "And then what?"

  "Then you find somewhere to take cover until everything blows over."

  "Take cover? You said I could fight.”

  I grab Husniya's chin and hold her gaze. "Listen to me, Hus. In the field, things change. When we were up against Robusts only, it was one thing. Now there’s a Gracile involved. And stims. I made a promise to your brother I'd try to keep you safe. That's what I'm doing."

  She jerks her face free. "Just like you promised you'd find him?"

  The old blade of helplessness cut
s deep.

  "I'm sorry Mila. I didn't mean—”

  "Just do what I ask of you," I snap.

  She says nothing more, stealing off in the direction of the door.

  I reach into the crate next to me and pull out an old Soviet papasha machine gun. The smell of oily metal and wood wax fills my nostrils. I take care to check the action as quietly as possible and draw a full drum magazine from the same crate.

  The artificial light, the sound of some old generator rattling in another room, the smell of ancient mold and rot. This oppressive place seeks to wound my resolve, to destroy the progress we've made. So much has happened since a simple information handler and a terrified Gracile led a woefully outmatched resistance against the tyranny of the Gracile Leader. But that was years ago.

  Could it have been so long? Are we better off now than we were then? I have to believe so.

  I touch at the edge of a faded photograph sticking from my breast pocket, and for an instant, remember the embrace of a mother, father, and brother. A reminder of those I've lost and of the hope that remains. Uttering a few words of an ancient catechism, I steel myself for the coming storm.

  I sling the papasha over my shoulder, dip into my bag and carefully secure the bundle of dynamite and the lighter. The single large fuse, twisted together from six others, flashes to life as the flame makes contact. It's burning quickly. I stand and fling the bundle toward the other end of the large room and drop back down, covering my ears and pinching my eyes shut. The men scurry about, shouting in Kahangan.

  Nothing. Sard. This would happen. Mos gave me bad dynamite.

  The stationary Maxim gun swings in my direction and opens up, bullets shredding the fibrous crates in front of me in a shower of debris.

  Crawling with the rifle, I charge the bolt and rise onto my elbows. "Now, Husniya. Now!"

  The girl pulls at the crossbar, but it doesn't move. Bullets streak down the wall and she throws herself to the ground. Crates explode. Straw and packing materials puff up, hanging in the air.

  Sard, gotta do something about that Maxim gun.

  I rise from behind the crates, but my breath catches as I come face-to-face with one of Nazal's soldiers. His hands close around my papasha. There’s an almost inhuman strength within him. He drives me back against the block wall. With a crazed look of furious confidence pouring from his features, he moves to tear the weapon from the grasp of what he surely believes is a defenseless woman.