by Stu Jones
What’s his name, again?
“Hang on a second, uh ...” I say, holding up my hand.
“Beran,” he says. “I was about to shunt these three.”
He doesn’t get many visitors in here, and for good reason.
“Yeah, hang on for a second, Beran. I need to look them over.”
He scrunches up his face. “But I just got them bundled and they’re starting to stink.”
I gaze at the fat man until he gets I’m serious.
“Ugh. Okay,” he says, grabbing the first bundle. “Hold on to your breakfast. It’s bad.”
Such an odd fellow. My eyes follow him as he works. “Do you like this? The bodies, I mean?”
“No. Feel like I could catch the plague at any moment.”
“Were you told to do this job?”
“I volunteered. I don’t have a trade and I hate violence.” He works on untying the first bundle. "This keeps me out of the fighting.”
“And instead has you dealing with the mess that follows.” I peer into the body chute. A mine shaft leading down into some unknown chasm below.
“I suppose so.” He unties the sheet and drapes it open, sending a fresh wave of the stench in my direction. I flinch, my eyes watering at the powerful odor of death, and bury my face into the crease of my elbow. He quickly unwraps the other two blood-soaked bundles and throws the sheets open.
“Sweet Moses,” I gasp, trying not to turn away, unable to pull my arm from my face.
The remains can hardly be identified as human. I crouch to get a closer look, gazing upon the grizzly piles, searching for what I’m supposed to see here when Beran speaks up.
“Want to know what I think is strange?”
“Please.” My words are muffled by the sleeve across my mouth and nose.
“Look at this here and here.” He points to a neck no longer supporting a head. “A wild animal would tear it off. Even Rippers hacking with their weapons would leave a jagged cut. But on each of these, the line is straight, the wound bubbled over and smooth.”
“What would do that, Beran?” I take a step back.
“Maybe a flaming blade, hot from the forge?”
“Out in a blizzard? That makes no sense.”
“I don’t know, Mila. I can only tell you what it’s not. It’s not an animal attack, and it’s not a normal wound inflicted by the sort of weapons we use.”
“Yeah.” I cough. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Chapter Six
VEDMAK
Before me, the ornate enclave gates loom from the swirling cold. Zopat—such a stupid name for an enclave. From where did the infantile Robusts gather such nonsensical nomenclature? Piteous fools. The huge double doors with iron banding tower even above this Gracile body. Why such waste and grandeur? The rodents that dwell here are short of stature. Despite professing to hate the Graciles, they attempt to emulate them—idolizing false gods. There are no gods. There is only me, the Vardøger.
I rap on the door with my cane, the hollow sound echoing through the thick walls of the enclave. A moment later, a slot in the door—perhaps large enough to allow a sizeable package through—shunks open.
“What you want, la?” a whiny voice asks.
“I want to enter, of course,” I reply, my voice stifled by my mask. I glance back to my twin bodyguards.
“You have ID, huh? You have pass?”
Ah yes, the pass. I unglove a hand and shove it through the portal. There’s a moment of silence as the guard inspects the skin.
“No pass here, la. You no come in.”
“No pass? Oh, I must have shown you the wrong hand.”
“No pas—”
I grab him by his tunic and pull. The guard’s forehead smacks against the inside of the door. He manages a juvenile cry as he strikes the wood a second time. Repeatedly, I yank on the sad little man, smashing his distorted skull over and over. The smack of pulverized meat and breaking bone is satisfying.
That’s enough, already, my Gracile demon begs.
Have you learned nothing, peacock? To protest only feeds my desire to make you squirm. I release the tunic but push through the slot to the shoulder so I can slip my arm around the guard’s back. With a snarl, I pull with all the strength this body will allow. The semi-conscious guard folds in two, a gurgle escaping his lips. There’s a satisfying snap, his final scream—brief. One last jerk and I drag his entire body through the portal like a crumpled piece of human origami. The edges of the hole are adorned with chunks of bloodied flesh. The Zopatian’s corpse drops to the snow and lies like a broken doll at my feet.
Merodach and Aeron laugh.
I hate you.
Not for much longer, Gracile.
I slide a hand back through the portal again and feel for the bolt. A quick flick and it’s loose. The huge door creaks ajar. I push it open and storm with purpose along the path the peacock had taken those years earlier.
Now to find her.
The streets of Zopat are not as I remember them. The fluorescent lights are gone. Reveling commoners, alcohol in their hands, no longer line the streets. In fact, the ramshackle constructions appear more deserted than ever. It’s reminiscent of Orel, a Russian city of old—potholed roads, doors to the aging buildings missing, plastic buckets lining the crumbling walls to collect what little rain falls. But she will still be here. The Alchemist.
Approaching the main drag, her dilapidated abode comes into view. The unlit electric sign that says shop hangs off-kilter, broken like everything else in this place. I look to the twins. They grunt their acknowledgment and storm the entrance. Calmly, I follow.
Inside, there is nothing but the stale air. Light streams through the cracks in the boards lining the only window. It illuminates the swirls of dust and particles that puff up as my Gracile warriors begin their search. Aeron flips the makeshift counter clean off the floor. Merodach disappears through a ragged curtain into a back room. There’s a throttled scream and a moment later he returns, his face full of pride like a hunting dog that has fetched its master’s prey. In his grasp is the arm of a Robust, though it’s been dislocated at the shoulder and the crying man swivels about its loose axis.
The chest of this biological engine fills with pride. “Put him down, Merodach.”
Merodach drops the Robust to the floor.
The skinny, rodent-like man rises to his knees, clutching at his limp arm, his eyes downcast.
“Where is the Alchemist?” I ask.
“Not know Al-keim-est, mah. You go now,” the little man whimpers.
My exhausted sigh is enough for Merodach, who clamps a firm hand on the Zopatian’s mangled shoulder. He lets out a blood-curdling scream as my soldier twists in the dislocated socket. A wave of a finger and Merodach releases his hold. The man slumps to the floor, sobbing.
“Where. Is. The. Alchemist?” I ask again. “The woman who worked in this place. Selling stims.”
The Robust looks up with tear-filled eyes. Is that hope? He knows something.
“You, you mean Zlata.” He shuffles back onto his knees. “She no here. Moved for safety, lah. Afraid of Musuls and Rippers after lillipads fall down.”
Musuls? Rippers? She should be afraid of me. I drop to my haunches, my mask now inches from his face. “Where did she go?”
“Kon-is-teeva,” he replies, his head bobbing with fervor.
“How poetic,” I reply.
“I take you, and you let me live, mah,” the skinny man offers.
“There is no need for an escort. I know the way.”
I rise and turn away. Demitri remains silent this time. He knows his protests are of no consequence. As I push through the door, another brief scream fills the shop. Aeron and Merodach trot up behind, wiping their gore-stained hands on the walls and snow as we make our way along the ice-covered streets that lead us to the old factory.
The morning sky above is a dark gray, and snow begins to fall in large, heavy flakes that stick to the lenses of my
disguise. Before long, guided by a sense of deja vu, I stand before the familiar façade of the ancient building. Where it all began.
Mila ...
What have I told you about using her name? Cultivate your silence, or you will regret it later.
No more words come from the Gracile.
Where in this corpse of the old world could the Alchemist be hiding? The Creed destroyed it with their gunship. The bare scaffolding and crumbling concrete are all that’s left. Only one corner of the derelict facility remains, surrounded by ancient mining equipment. A poor attempt at a perimeter, no doubt.
From within the dark gaps between the ancient contraptions, Robusts—with white hair and electric blue eyes—appear. Their coordinated clothing suggests some sort of gang affiliation. One by one, they creep toward us with caution and distrust in their eyes. Each holds an ax-like weapon. Is it fear or insanity that propels them to their doom?
“What you want, Gracile?” the lead Robust says. “You no welcome here.”
“We’re here for the Zlata, the Alchemist,” I reply. This Gracile’s voice is too soft. Too affable. Only the mask endows it with any form of menace.
“Who asking, lah?” the Robust fires back.
Aeron snarls. “This is the Vardøger, Robust pig. You will show respect.”
Another of the white-haired gang waves his ax. “Why you want the Alchemist, Vaaar-dogger?”
“That’s none of your concern,” Aeron spits.
“Is our concern, Gracile. Zlata pay us good money for pro-tec-shun. You gostun, Gracile. Time to leave if you want all your parts.”
Merodach steps forward, his hand already placed on the personalized weapon I gave him.
“You want to know why I am called the Vardøger, you ignorant zalupa?”
Vedmak, don’t.
My demon fights for control, pulling at limbs that were once his, but he has not the strength for it. Wretched dog. The appetite comes with eating.
“We no care, mask man,” a gang member says. “You go. Last time.”
“The astounding thing about the Gracile body is its ability to be reprogrammed,” I continue.
No, please no. The stim. It’s too strong. I can’t stop you.
“While many years of tinkering have made this biological machine near perfect, there are still things to be learned from other creatures. Like the humble fly.” A mere thought switches on the neural-web link—the connection between the special lenses in my mask and the optical nerve in Demitri’s head snaps on. Energy surges into the muscles of this body’s limbs. I take a small step forward. “The fly can see many times faster than even a Gracile. The very hands of a clock tick leisurely. Time itself is slower.”
The world before me moves in strange flickers, like a motion picture with too few frames. Each movement the Robusts take is slow and disjointed with the next.
“The stories tell that people feel they know of the Vardøger’s arrival before they see him,” I say. “A glimpse, a smell, a breeze.”
“No more. Kill them,” the lead Robust screams and launches at me, his ax held high.
Between his clumsy swing, I move with ease. A single frame in time captures the mask of horror on his face at discovering I am no longer standing in front of him. Catapulting forward beyond his comprehension of space and time, my laser scythe shrieks into life and slices him from balls to brains. His two halves separate and flop against the snow-covered ground. Spinning left, I strike the next one. He doesn’t realize the top half of his head has left him and flown into the air until it’s too late. By the time the third falls to the ground with a severed torso, I’ve already crashed into the fourth simpleton and slit his throat, the flesh hanging open like a great yawning mouth.
The neural link clicks off and the world returns to normal. Warm blood trickles from the left nostril of my Gracile host.
The remaining members of the Robust gang scream, falling over each other in terror. My scythe hums and crackles, the blue plasma flame lighting the dim corner of the warehouse.
“Kill them,” I hiss.
The twins jerk to life, pulling weapons from holsters on their thighs.
Aeron’s plasma broadsword bursts forth in a flash of blue-white light, dropping hard on the nearest Robust. The blade slices across his head and severs the right arm at the elbow in a flash of cauterized flesh.
Glorious. The heart in this chest beats fiercely with my pride.
Merodach swings a chain above his head, igniting the cannon-ball-sized plasma mace. The fiery sphere flies through the air and catches a Robust in his slant-eyed face. The impact disintegrates his features in a flash, vaporizing his skull into a mist of fluid and bone.
“Otlichno!” I cry.
Something flees from behind an old drill.
The Alchemist.
As fast as her tired old legs will carry her, she makes for the road. Aeron has already locked on to his prey. A powerful war cry and he pushes off into a sprint. In seconds, he’s on her and with a backfist across her withered jaw, he’s knocked her to the icy ground. Merodach joins his brother and delivers a brutal kick to her stomach. The twins howl in glee.
“Fools, I need her alive,” I scream.
But they pay no heed.
Merodach pulls back for another kick.
The neural link clicks on. The world flickers and again adrenaline surges into the muscles of my Gracile shell. Before my warrior can strike, I’ve already intercepted him, grabbed his face, and shoved him back. Twisting, I drive a shoulder into Aeron’s plexus and he buckles, confused. I stand, wide-legged and coiled—the laser-scythe crackling and spitting plasma—between the Alchemist and my creations. The scythe snaps off and the darkness returns.
“Simple minded kozels. I need her alive.”
The twins stare back, genuine fear of my wrath in their eyes. Aeron mumbles, chattering nonsense under his breath.
I turn to the Alchemist, who lies in the slush—shivering, but breathing. “This is why I need you, old woman. This is why you are alive.”
She lifts her head and pries her eyes open. “Who ... who are you?”
The mask unclips and slides off, the Red Mist hissing from the nozzle inside.
Her pupils dilate as she recognizes this Gracile’s face—Demitri’s face.
I’m sorry, it’s not me ... Please, it’s not me.
Oh, but it is, little peacock. But it is.
Chapter Seven
MILA
The unusual technique catches me by surprise. I’m only able to take a stumbling step out of the leg sweep when he plants both palms on my chest and shoves me back. Reeling, I struggle to regain my balance as the man seems to levitate, his fists above his head, his elbows tucked close. The spin wheel kick catches me across the jaw. A flash of stars breaks across my vison, and I tumble to the ground.
I roll to the side as his foot stomps where I was just a moment before. Rolling to my back, a shadow darkens the single light in the ceiling. The pressure in the air changes as the blow moves toward my face. At the last second, I intercept the strike meant for my nose with my forearm. A second punch lands against my cheek, followed by a third and a fourth. All composure gone, I gasp, arms flailing, as I lay on my back in the crunched position, the single dusty bulb above flashing as the shadow moves and strikes. The fifth punch slows and comes to rest gently against the sore spot on my face where the others landed.
“Why have you stopped defending?” Ghofaun pulls his fist back and crouches to look me in the eyes.
“I ...” The words won’t come. “I don’t know. After I fell ... I lost you and the light—"
“Do you need to see me to fight me?” His narrow eyes slim further.
He offers me a hand. I ignore it and stand for myself. “I have to see you to defend against your attack.”
“Do you?” His question isn’t a question. “Let me ask you this,” he says. “How did you intercept my first strike once you hit the ground? Did you see it?”
“No, I ...”
His eyebrows raise. “Yes?”
“I felt it,” I say with a sigh.
“Exactly, Mila,” Ghofaun says. “Trust your fighting instincts. When the eyes deceive, the body remains true.”
“You never cease to amaze, Master Ghofaun,” I say, touching my tender cheek. “What was that anyway? The series of movements where you first caught me off guard?”
The little warrior monk winks. “I call it the sparrow hawk.”
I huff out a laugh. “Figures you’d kick my tail with a technique you named after me.”
There’s a shuffle by the ancient rust-covered door to the training room. Husniya enters and tosses her bag by the entrance.
“Husniya.” Ghofaun spreads his arms. “Come in. We were just finishing.”
The teen offers a small bow for her teacher, then cuts her eyes at me. Still miffed about being embarrassed earlier, no doubt.
“Thanks for joining us, Hus.” I roll up my sleeves.
“What are we working on today, Master Ghofaun?” she asks.
“Fundamentals.”
She lets out a sigh. “But master, we always work fundamentals. Why can’t—”
Ghofaun holds up a single finger, drawing silence from his pupil. A stillness descends upon the room. He lets it grow bloated before he speaks, his tone even. “Fundamentals are everything. Master them and you shall master yourself, and thus, the art of Chum Lawk. There is no quick path to the top of the mountain. You must gain its summit with each and every well-placed and careful application of your body. Disregard this advice at your own peril.”
Husniya stands still, listening to the words of her teacher. She doesn’t have to like what he says to know he’s right.
“Do we have an understanding?” he says, his voice firm.
“Yes, Master Ghofaun,” Husniya replies.
“Good. Fundamentals. You will warm your core and limbs with a slow application of Mak Tow Chujin.”
Husniya looks up, her mouth opens to protest. The monk shoots up a finger, causing her to swallow her words.
A little smirk forms on my lips. Chujin is painfully slow to start with and he’s going to slow her down even more. Just what she needs. I wait, arms folded, watching as Husniya composes herself and begins the form with long sweeping movements and deep stances. As she moves, Ghofaun swats her limbs with a short cane correcting her form.
