by Stu Jones
Slipping into the boiler room, I wink at Filly—the girl working the cauldron. She’s young and spirited like her name suggests. It’s here soiled and infected clothes are boiled for long periods to try to keep us clean and as healthy as reasonably possible. Filly talks about her mother, who works in the comms room, and hands me a bundle of fresh garments. She handpicks them, knowing by now the things I wouldn’t wear. She also gives me a jug of warm water, a packet of herbs and a clean cloth for bathing. I thank her, promising to drop my soiled clothes in the morning, and head back to my bunk.
The lone candle ignites, throwing jagged shadows on the wall. The prospect of sleep offers both welcome relief and a deep-seated dread. Will I dream? Will I have to hear Faruq’s screams as his captors drag him away? Will I have to bear witness as The Fourth Horseman steals Demitri’s body and invades my dreams again? My eyelids are so heavy, but I’m filthy. Though bathing won’t wash away the blood I’ve spilled—actions that stain my soul—I complete the ritual.
The candle nears the end of its life, brown wax spilling over the rim of the lid in which it sits. I slip out of my over-shirt, step out of my boots, then unfasten my cargo pants and let them slide to the floor, leaving me standing in my tank top and undergarments. I place a basin on the table beside my bed, crumble a handful of herbs into it, and pour it full of warm water that slides into it from the smooth ceramic jug. From the floor, I pick up a short plank of a clouded mirror. The smudged reflection of a survivor stares back. A person with so many more scars now. The oldest one running down my forehead and across my eye can almost be overlooked. Almost.
Wiping the mud and blood and grime from my face and body, the steaming herb-filled water reveals a woman hidden beneath the terrible remnants of war. A woman. What does that even mean? This vicious world doesn’t care if I am male or female. It will chew me up and spit me from its mouth all the same. An equal opportunity for each of us to find death waiting at the end of a gun or knife inside the next dark alley at the hands of an elitist, a fanatic or a savage.
The toned muscles of my body tense as I carelessly brush the cloth across the edges of an open wound. Damnation. I gingerly touch the cloth to it. The faded strip of material collects flecks of dried blood. It hurts, but it’s superficial. No one asked me if I wanted this wound, but I received it anyway. The same way I came into my position as a leader with this group. It just happened. Faruq, Demitri, and me, along with Mos and Ghofaun and Denni ... We were so full of energy and purpose in those days. By our passion alone, and guided by the hands of Yeos the creator, we won the war against the Leader of the Graciles. But the terrorist Kapka left his mark. Etyom, and the lillipads above, fell. Most of us lost something—or everything—for our efforts.
I drop the cloth into the bowl and return the mirror to the floor. I’m tired and my clouded reflection makes me think too much. Lying back, I pull the scratchy wool over my exposed skin and allow my eyes to fix upon one point in the stone ceiling—a dark patch like a bit of spilled ink.
“Yeos, merciful father,” the prayer begins. Faith is all that remains of the old Mila Solokoff who went to war and became a leader of the resistance. I’ve tried so hard to not stray from the path of the Lightbringer. Yet, with every decision made, with every life lost, His guiding voice becomes harder to discern. Sleep creeps upon me, a drifting blanket of warmth and exhaustion.
Don’t dream tonight, Mila.
I lean forward to the flame of the candle jumping from a wick grown too long and, with a puff of breath, darkness.
Chapter Four
DEMITRI
It’s black here, while he sleeps.
Behind the eyes once mine, I exist. In limbo. Alive, yet unliving. Watching from afar every single movement Vedmak—or the Vardøger, as he insists on being called—makes. Every breath he takes I experience it as if it were mine, yet I am not in control.
Here in the recess of my own mind, I am a prisoner. He relishes it, knowing it pains me to feel my own body do the things he commands. Especially to sweet Anastasia, his Robust pet. It’s the only reason he does it. Because he knows the torture it inflicts upon me. To feel her skin crawl, and see the absolute disgust in her eyes staring back, as Vedmak forces my body to penetrate her. I hate myself for being unable to stop him.
Next to me, here in the dark, I can hear her shallow breathing as she sleeps.
He used to take the mask off. To allow Anastasia to see my face, burned as it is. So she could despise me. It was a mistake. Without the stim, I was able to grasp control. She thought me, him, crazy—this body thrashing and crashing into the walls, arguing with seemingly no one, until I was victorious. Until I had control. She kicked and scratched as I released her bonds. I just kept repeating over and over that I was sorry, that it wasn’t me. It was Vedmak, and I was Demitri. That he made me do things. I told her to run, to escape. She chose to hit me in the head with the steel of her restraints. The shock, the injury, had the opposite effect of what she desired. It loosed my hold on my own body and allowed Vedmak back. In her eyes, I could see the horror as she watched my face change expression—one minute me, the next him.
That was three months after he first captured her, out in the Vapid. She’d been attacked by Rippers and some other unknown assailant. We found her shaking in the stripped cart, muttering the word ussuri over and over.
Occasionally, when Vedmak sleeps, she talks to me; calls softly to me, asking if I am here. If I can hear her. Telling me she knows I am strong. That I can save her. There are even moments when my will feels powerful and I can push words through the lips of my own sleeping body to her. I tell her that one day I will save her. But it is a lie. I can’t.
After my attempt to free her, Vedmak keeps the mask on. I try so hard to fight. Sometimes I prevail, holding back his body. Holding back his lust. But mostly I fail. Fail her. I’m not sure why it matters so much—this one girl, this one Robust. Perhaps it is because she looks like Mila. He cut her hair short and sliced a wound into her face, using his laser scythe, to match Mila’s scar. But Mila never searched my eyes as she does. Every time he punishes her, she searches for me—hoping against hope this time I will come to her rescue. In the three years he has kept her, I have grown to admire her strength, her resolve, but most of all her belief that there is still a good person somewhere in this engineered shell.
Perhaps what makes it worse is Vedmak doesn’t even want Anastasia. It’s Mila he wants to torture.
He knows hurting Mila would kill me. I’d probably fade away to nothing from the pain. But he can’t let her know his whereabouts—he’s not ready yet. She’s been searching for him. For me. There have been times she has been so close and didn’t know it. He’s sat in the dark, breathing heavily behind his mask, watching her march by with her band of resistance fighters. I even screamed out, but of course she couldn’t hear me.
The stim cocktail he’s created, based on the Red Mist, and used to keep me at bay has been modified so often. Every time I feel I’m overcoming it, he changes it. Lately, the dose has been so strong I seem to have been dissolved for days. When I return, chunks of his plan have jumped forward. But the stim is imperfect. His Gracile warriors, attached to demons like him, do as he bids most of the time, but they have fits—psychotic episodes—where they are uncontrollable. Vedmak’s workshop, the poisons lab he calls it, is dedicated to perfecting the stim, but so far he’s still dissatisfied. I’m no biochemist, and of no help. But he knows what I know. And so, tomorrow, when he wakes, he plans to travel to Zopat and find the Alchemist—the Robust woman who sold me Red Mist all those years ago. Destroying the leader also destroyed me, the pain stripping away my hold on my own body, leaving it open for Vedmak to take complete control. And he’s been in control now for four years. Busy the entire time. Plotting and scheming. Utilizing my knowledge to forge his plan—to continue what he started so many years ago in Revolution-torn Russia. He’s so close, yet so far. The process is slow and his target will be hard to achieve. It will
take many more years to fulfill what he plans to accomplish. Especially without the Tokamak.
This is what enrages my occupier most.
Many times I’ve tried to tell him. The process can’t be accelerated. Not with the resources we have. He abused Anastasia for a week straight, believing I was holding out on him. Trying to make me tell him a faster way. There is none. But even if I did know, I wouldn’t tell him. Even if he tortured her to death. Compared with what the Gracile Leader wanted, to create a black hole, the side effect alone of Vedmak’s plan is far worse. But he’s deaf to it. Thinks I’m only trying to dissuade him. I’m not. His plan is flawed. And if he’s successful today, tomorrow, or in fifty years it won’t matter.
Anastasia shuffles on the cold floor, the fingers of her bound hands brush against my back. She mumbles my name. If I had control of my own body, I know tears would now well and a stone would form in my throat.
Sweet Anastasia. Even if I could save you, we’re all going to die, anyway.
Chapter Five
MILA
The touch of cool fingers to my shoulder jerks me awake. I twist, knock the hand away, and produce a knife from beneath my pillow.
“Mila!”
The blade is effortlessly torn from my grip. I jump from my cot, heart racing, my mind pulled from dark dreams of death and apocalypse.
“Mila, it’s okay. It’s me.”
There’s a silhouette—short with muscled shoulders. Slowly, the smiling features of the Lawkshan monk appear.
“Ghofaun?”
“Maybe you’d like to put some clothes on?”
Blood rushes to my face. “I’m ... I was ... Give me a second.”
Without another word, he turns away. “I’m sorry, Mila. I only wanted to nudge you awake, not start a sparring match—with a knife, no less.”
I quickly pull on my clean garments, check them for fit and function, and snap the light switch. The room flickers to life, powered by the clanking fossil fuel generators at the end of the complex. “Sorry about the knife. I’m a little on edge these days. You can turn around.”
The monk turns toward me again, holding a tray in his hands. He’s brought me something to eat.
“Where did that come from?” I say, motioning to the tray as I sit and lace my boots.
“I’ve been holding it.”
The tray holds a plate of warm chiori with greens and a full steaming cup of krig, not a drop spilled. “You balanced a tray while standing on one leg and what? Used your foot to intercept the knife?”
He smiles.
“Incredible. You are something else.”
He extends the tray. “Breakfast?”
“Please.” I accept the tray, the smells of warm food and hot krig making my mouth water. It’s a pauper’s meal but it may as well be a feast. I tuck into the steaming food.
“How was Kahanga?”
“Well, Mos is a Kahangan prince,” I answer with a mouth full of greens. “Nazal was his brother. Stimmed-up Graciles have been trading guns for drugs there. We lost eleven fighters in the last few days. You know, just another day in paradise.”
Ghofaun nods. “Well, Mos wanting that mission so badly makes more sense now.”
“Mmm hmmm.” I take a sip of my krig.
“What’s that business with the Graciles in Kahanga?”
“I’ve got to do some more digging. Definitely not good.”
“I can tell. I passed Husniya in the hall. She has a black eye.”
“You should see the other guy. Twice her size. She did fine.”
Master Ghofaun gives a sage bow of approval.
“What about you? Where have you been?” I ask, chewing another mouthful of meat and greens.
He fingers the Lawkshan beads on his wrist, a symbol of a lifetime devoted to the ways of peace through the disciplined application of foot and fist. “I just returned from Zopat late last night. The plague is resurfacing there too.”
“Now that outbreaks have been reported in every sector of Etyom. It could get bad again. Real bad.”
Not one for too many words, my friend simply bobs his head.
“What about Faruq? Any word of him?”
Ghofaun’s lips tighten. “No, Mila. I’m sorry. There is nothing on Faruq. His trail has long since gone cold. We followed up on the rumor he was being kept in Alya by Kapka’s governor, but nothing came of it. I fear we are now chasing Chinese whispers.”
He’s trying to spare my feelings. He believes, like the others, my continued search for Faruq is in vain. But I can’t believe that—won’t believe it. “Okay, thank you. Anything else?”
“Yes, one thing. Giahi worries me. The man seems to undermine the authority of Opor’s leadership at every turn.” The monk pauses, considering his choice of words. “Just be careful, Mila. He would benefit greatly if something happened to you or Bilgi.”
“I appreciate that you care, my friend. Giahi is a big mouth and a coward, but I will keep your counsel in mind.”
“I am glad to hear it, Mila.” He turns to leave. “Will I see you for a sparring session later?”
“Oh? You haven’t had enough already?” I laugh, gathering my tray and my soiled garments.
“Never.” His eyes twinkle.
“Very well, Master Ghofaun. Husniya and I will join you later.”
“I’ll take your tray.” The monk gives a slight bow and glides from the room.
***
On the way to the Mort, past the cavernous main room, the sharp bark of Husniya’s young voice echoes off the walls. I pivot and move to the rusted door, pushing it open enough to hear the ongoing conversation in the large room beyond.
“We have to do something. Three of our people were murdered right outside our door. Doesn’t anyone care?” Husniya shouts.
“We don’t know anything about what happened,” another voice in the small crowd calls out. “What are we supposed to do?”
Squeezing through the door, I do my best to remain unseen in the shadowed rear of the cavernous space. In the center, Husniya is up on a box addressing a group of about fifteen people.
What’s she doing?
Giahi and a couple of his flunkies lean against an old piece of mining equipment. His face practically glows with amusement.
“We should send out scouts, start gathering information, root out the problem and neutralize it.” The girl waves her arms dramatically. “Anyone who wants to kill us—we must kill them first.”
The tone of the teenager’s words is disturbing. She sounds so angry. It’s easy to forget she’s the cast-out daughter of Kapka himself. Somewhere deep inside might lie the same lust for blood, the same madness.
“You’re just a girl,” someone says. “And a Musul.”
“Mos is Musul. You listen to him,” Husniya snaps back.
“Not a Musul like you,” says another. “We’ve heard enough. We need to know what we’re doing and who we’re looking for first—not run around out there chasing our tails.”
“We need to talk to Mila or Bilgi first,” says a woman near the back of the group.
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Get down, Musul.”
“Get down! Get down!” The group chants as a red-faced Husniya jabs an angry finger at them.
Enough of this.
Moving quickly forward, I reach up, grab her arm and pull her down from the box. The crowd laughs. Shame burns in the teenager’s face.
“Listen up.” I hold my hands up to quiet the crowd. “We’re working on it. We’ve already dispatched scouts to gain more information. When we know something we’ll take action, not before.” I cast a glance at the furious teenage girl next to me. “But for the record, being a Musul has nothing to do with anything. The next time I hear someone carelessly dropping racial slurs, you and I are going to get to know each other better. Got it?”
More grumbling.
“Good. Until then, let’s get back to work. We all have a part to play here.” I clap my hands. “L
et’s go. Back to work.”
The crowd complains but disperses, wandering out of the room back to their assignments. Giahi is the last to leave, a smirk plastered across his ugly mug.
I turn to Husniya. “Are you trying to start a riot?”
“I’m trying to take action. Which is more than anyone else is doing.”
“Now is not the time to play hero.”
“What is it time for, then?” she snaps. “We should be doing something, Mila. Not just sitting around.” She pinches her eyes shut. “No, I don’t need you. I’m fine,” she mumbles under her breath.
“No one is sitting around, Husniya.” I look at the girl long and hard. “We all have important jobs to do. We will act when the time is right. Leave the running of this group to the leadership.”
“Fine. You’re the boss, I guess.” She grabs her bag from the floor and storms through the heavy doors, disappearing into the main hallway beyond.
Adolescents. Think they know sarding everything.
Still, Husniya is different. No, I don’t need you. I’m fine.
It’s easy to forget she has a voice too—Margarida. Her voice wasn’t hostile in the way Vedmak was, but she’s done such a good job of hiding it, I thought perhaps the spirit had left her.
Need to speak with her about it once she’s calm.
***
The sealed door into the mort chamber pushes open and the stench of decay fills my throat. Don’t stay too long, Mila, or you’ll never get that smell out of your clothes. The portly attendant, who has dragged three large bundles to the edge of the chute, looks up. Covered in layers of heavy clothing smeared with filth, he wears gloves, goggles, and a mask over his face.
