In the Shadow of a Valiant Moon

by Stu Jones

  “Bend knee. Back straight. Breathe,” the warrior monk instructs.

  Husniya moves slowly, her lips tight in her concentration.

  “Straighten your back,” he says, lashing out again with the reed.

  “My back is straight, Master,” Husniya gripes, standing.

  Ghofaun looks to me.

  “May I?”

  He nods.

  “Take your guarding stance again, Husniya. Make sure you’re set.”

  She follows my direction.

  Without a word, I step forward and shove her with one arm at a forty-five-degree angle to her stance. The girl stumbles, her feet tripping over each other as she tries to keep her balance.

  “You see? The way you set up, you have no directional stability. Now set up again.”

  Husniya returns to her stance, clearly trying to master her frustration.

  “Widen your stance a few inches, bend your knees, and lock your back in position,” I correct her. “Now hold.” I shove into her from a different direction. This time the girl holds firm.

  “Good. Now, practice your form this way.” I step back, catching a wink from Ghofaun, who takes over her instruction swatting her again.

  She would never let me hit her with a cane like that, which is why Ghofaun is the one spearheading her instruction. Husniya has come a long way in the last few years—her body lean and strong, her mind more disciplined. At the end of the day, though, she’s still a hot-headed kid. I smirk at the similarities between us and how Bilgi used to slap me in the face when I lost my focus or dropped my guard. Pain is a good teacher.

  The thin cane snaps against Husniya’s thigh and she grits her teeth but says nothing, making a tiny adjustment to the depth of her stance.

  Good girl. I’ll leave them to it for now.

  ***

  The lights overhead flicker, a momentary reminder this place would be as dark as a tomb without the antiquated generators giving us what little electricity they can eek out. Our mechanics can repair them and have been doing so for many cycles, but we do not possess the materials to manufacture new machines. When the day comes, and the rattling junk that gives us our fleeting old-world resource does so for the last time, where will we be then? How will humanity take that next great and primitive step backward? Only time will tell.

  An exchange of voices. Something about the tone doesn’t sit right. I make my way toward the heavy steel doors at the front of the complex. Bilgi is speaking with a disheveled man, who has a rag draped over his nose and mouth.

  “So you’re going to kick me out, just like that?” the man says, the words muffled by the rag.

  “Valen, you misunderstand me,” Bilgi says, his voice calm. “We aren’t kicking you out.”

  “That’s what it feels like.” Valen’s quick breaths suck at the cloth.

  “Listen, you’re showing signs of infection. We can’t treat you here. The clinics in Zopat are much better suited for that. If you stay you only risk infecting everyone else.”

  “If I have the plague. You don’t know. It could be a cold.”

  “We can’t take the chance, Valen. You know that.” Bilgi’s gaze is firm.

  “You sarding son of a bitch. After all I’ve done for this resistance—”

  “Return when you are well. I will say no more.” Bilgi motions to the door.

  “You don’t have to worry about me returning. I’ll die out there alone,” Valen whimpers, the cloth trembling before his lips.

  Bilgi says nothing and continues to hold his hand toward the door.

  Valen hangs his head and steps forward. Bilgi stops him.

  “Do I need to remind you of the importance of maintaining the secrecy of this location and our operation, in spite of your anger?”

  The man shakes his head. “I know the rules. I’m not stupid.”

  “Farewell, Valen.”

  The man slips through the widening gap in the rusted steel barrier. It closes behind him with a clang and the crossbar is dropped back into place by a member of the security contingent.

  Bilgi walks toward me, shaking his head.

  “What was that about?”

  “Valen drew ill. We don’t know with what, but I feel like I need a bath just talking with him,” Bilgi says.

  “The plague is surging back stronger than I’ve seen it in my lifetime.” I let a moment pass. “What was that about the rules? He said, I know the rules when you asked if he could keep our operation a secret.”

  “Our people believe if they defect or move against us, not only will we take their lives, but also the lives of those they love. It’s a good incentive to stay silent.”

  My skin prickles at the words of my mentor. “Bilgi, you can’t be serious?”

  “I’m quite serious, my dear.”

  “They believe this because it’s what you’ve told them?”

  “Secrecy is of vital importance to our work.” He measures my reaction. “What? Don’t look at me like that. We’ve never had to kill anyone’s family, Mila.”

  “I’m not sure I like that answer.”

  Bilgi puts his good arm around me. “Listen, girl, our world is no longer black and white—maybe it never was. The point is, we do everything we do for a reason. Our resistance to tyranny didn’t end with the Leader. If we don’t keep our protocols and protect our interests, we will cease to exist. Kapka or some other maniac will see to it. We can’t afford for that to happen. We’re still the best chance the people of Etyom have at being free.”

  “And once the people are free, Opor won’t seize power and become the next tyrant?”

  “Mila. Would we do such a thing? Would we become the thing we hate?” Bilgi asks.

  “You and I would not, but someone else—someone like Giahi would.”

  “We will not allow such a thing to happen. Not as long as we draw breath.”

  “Yes, of course, you’re right, Bilgi,” I say and grab his wrist that hangs casually over my shoulder. “But in our effort to save Earth’s last city, I don’t want to lose sight of its people—or our humanity, for that matter.”

  My mentor squeezes me. “That’s exactly why we have you here, my dear.” He pauses. “By the way, did you get a chance to look at those bodies?”

  “I did.”

  “And?” he asks.

  “It’s curious to say the least.”

  “That’s one way to put it. Come, we received some information this morning you’ll want to hear.”

  Bilgi shoulders his way into the command center and I follow on his heels into the warmth of the busy control room full of squawking radio chatter and overworked intelligence officers recording static-smothered transmissions. There’s a sense of urgency here, the air abuzz with hushed whispers and relayed scraps of intel.

  “Kapka’s radicals are at it again. Just last night after you went to sleep, a group of his fanatics attacked the market district here in Fiori. Fourteen were killed, thirty-seven injured before one of our scouting patrols, aided by a few of the Fiorian guard, engaged them. Every last one of the bastards died for their cause.”

  I shake my head. “We freed ourselves from the Gracile’s oppression, only to stoke the hate between ourselves. Kapka must be stopped, Bilgi. We’ve allowed this to go on far too long.”

  “He’ll be stopped. Yuri and a small team have made their way to Zopat on an intelligence-gathering mission. I’ve got almost everyone else working to determine Kapka’s location. Everyone but Dervy.”

  Bilgi strides over to one of the dusty tables and motions to a hungry-looking man with gray skin and only one functioning eye. The dead one, clouded and useless, is fixed on us in an unnatural, unmoving gaze.

  “G’marnin’ Bilgi,” the man says in a musical accent. “Cun’aye dew far yah?”

  “Mila, this is Dervy. He’s one of our better radio operators.” Bilgi pats him on the shoulder.

  “Hello.” How is this man, with his almost incomprehensible speech, one of our best radio operators? “I d
on’t think we’ve met before.”

  The man snorts. “Dat’s a cousin I ain’t been round hair fer dat long.”

  Bilgi turns to me. “He means he was one of our best scouts until he lost his right eye. He asked for a transfer here to command to take a break from the danger. Right, Dervy?”

  “Datsa roit, Bilgi. Meh body ain’t whart it yeuse-da be. Tho I khan meek dew, when a purdy lady’s aboot.” He winks at me with his good eye.

  A wave of disgust crawls across my skin. I have no idea where on earth this crusty old skirt-sniffer is from, or has been, for that matter. “Bilgi, can we get to the message already?”

  Bilgi taps the table in front of the man. “Let’s not be so eager to lose your other eye, my friend.”

  The skinny man grunts and flashes me another look, this one appraising me with caution.

  “Tell us about the transmission you received from scouting party four this morning.” Bilgi pushes a hand-scrawled note on the table toward him.

  “Yah.” The man casts one last shifty glance at me before turning to his notes. “Roit, so thissun came in earleh this marnin’.”

  Bilgi takes a breath, then smirks at me. “Dervy, do you mind if I read it for Mila? Just to avoid any confusion.”

  “By awl means, Bilgi,” Dervy drawls, handing the note to him.

  Bilgi clears his throat and holds up the note. In response, the room seems to quiet, the hustle and bustle slowing in anticipation.

  “Go on,” I urge.

  “Scouting party four. Day six, third transmission: Logos was raided during the night.”

  “Logos,” I whisper, dread welling in my chest. “What was raided?”

  “Doesn’t say. Just says: Numerous dead. Bodies found dismembered in the snow. Ripper attack possible. End transmission.”

  “Bilgi ...” I mumble through fingers pressed to my lips.

  “Yes, sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

  “I want to check it out. See if it’s connected to what happened here.”

  “I was hoping so,” Bilgi says as I wheel for the door. “Mila,” Bilgi calls after me, stopping me as my hands touch the cold hinged steel. “Take someone with you. I don’t like the idea of you out there all alone.”

  “I’m not alone,” I say, touching the starchy photograph in my front pocket. “I’m a lot of things, Bilgi, but never that.”

  * * *

  sAfter a short walk, the silence of my bunkroom greets me. I stop at my cot, grab my PED, bundle of writings, and a few other basic necessities. Kneeling, I pull the old sack from beneath my bag and tease the opening apart. Inside, the contents reek of leather bindings and ancient paper. I pull the old tome from the sack and study it, my fingers tracing the flaking gold leaf lettering on the spine. The Holy Writ of Yeos. A gift from Demitri. An original copy of my people’s holy book—maybe the last copy. I’ve spent the last four years memorizing its every word, willing myself to understand the path of the Lightbringer. I pinch my eyes shut, utter a few sacred words, and tuck it into my satchel, taking great care to see it’s positioned in a safe manner. It’s time for me to return it to where it belongs, though it feels a little like giving up hope on my Gracile friend.

  Slinging my shoulder bag, I exit the bunk and catch a glimpse of Husniya and Ghofaun stepping into the dim hallway from the training area. “Get your stuff, guys. Let’s go.”

  “Sorry, Mila. Bilgi has another mission for me,” Ghofaun says.

  “Of course,” I reply. “Are you at liberty to say?”

  “Not at this time, Mila. It has something to do with your stimmed Gracile in Kahanga.”

  “I understand. Safe travels, Master Ghofaun.”

  “You two be careful,” the monk says, bowing to me and Husniya.

  “Where are we going?” Husniya asks, turning to me.

  I pull a heavy jacket off the wall and push it into her arms. “You wanted to do something about the attacks? This is your chance.”

  Chapter Eight

  VEDMAK

  The old woman can’t keep up—or won’t.

  She drags her clumsy feet, each step slowing our return to the poisons lab—risking our lives and my plan. Even with Aeron and Merodach alongside us, it is not safe here in the Vapid. The Rippers have become bold; their search for food and weapons, desperate. Forced to band together against the newly arrived Graciles from above and Robusts who have spilled out from their broken enclaves, the Rippers constantly in-fight like the animals they are. The spoils of their raids often destroyed in a spat between clan chiefs.

  The Alchemist crashes into the icy ground and lays there, unmoving. The cold wind snaps and bites at her thin body, like a ghostly pack of wolves.

  “Get up, old woman. Your attempts to delay us will only result in more pain,” Aeron says, raising his heavy boot to stomp on her.

  The fist of my stolen Gracile body catches him in the throat. He stumbles back, clutching at his neck, struggling to breathe.

  “Fool. You think a decrepit fossil such as this would recover from a smashed hip? Use your head, stupid goat.” I turn to the Alchemist and crouch to meet her gaze. “I may not break your bones here, but make no mistake, woman, I am capable of tortures that can last for days even on your wasted corpse.”

  Grasping her under the armpit, I pull her to her feet and sling her over one shoulder, before continuing the trek onward. It would be easier to use some of the vehicles I have restored over these short years, but the plan is too close to fruition. Can’t risk wasting the fuel. So, we walk.

  The wind howls as yet another storm closes in. With the lillipads fallen and the outer walls crumbled, there is little protection from Mother Russia’s might. Ice-laden gusts push against this muscular shell. The sting of the cold is transferred from the perfect skin into my consciousness. It’s a feeling long forgotten—physical pain. At least since the battle with the Ripper Chieftain at the launch pad some years ago. Before my Gracile demon’s last stand.

  Speaking of which, where are you, little puppet? You have been silent a long while.

  I’m here, Vedmak. Where could I go? His voice is almost imperceptible.

  There you are. It nearly felt lonely without your constant whining.

  Lonely?

  Who else can appreciate my greater plan? Who else understands the glory of being me? No one is as close, little Demitri. Our bond is special.

  The Gracile doesn’t respond immediately, but then says: you need me?

  Do not be soft in the head, kozel.

  Someone to understand. Someone to care about what you’re doing. Otherwise, why do it? His voice has a renewed confidence.

  Careful, peacock. Do not presume to abuse my good mood. I can still as easily pluck your feathers. Once more, and our pet will know pain like no other.

  She’s not your pet. She’s a human being, and she deserves better.

  Like you? You think she deserves you? Do not confuse a desperate whore’s desire for escape for any kind of emotion, Demitri. She does not care for you.

  It doesn’t matter if she cares about me.

  You forget, you cannot lie to me, little peacock. I can feel your pain. A hurt little puppy at the thought she is using you.

  You’re only frustrated because you can’t get to her. Get to Mila. For all your power, your sarding army, her resistance is too strong.

  Is that so? Bez truda ne vytaschish y rybku iz pruda.

  Always talking in riddles. Without effort, you can't pull a fish out of the pond? What is that meant to mean, Vedmak?

  Everything takes time. The plan is already in motion.

  Plan? What plan? Something more than what you’ve been plotting?

  Ah, naïve little Gracile. I was a master of deception long before your kind was grown in a glass egg.

  I drop the old woman to the floor, rest a boot on her back, and pull back the sleeve of my heavy wool coat, revealing a taut, muscular forearm. “Merodach, I wish to speak with the Rat.”

  What about Rippers? Do
we have time for this?

  To torture you? Always.

  You can’t even access the neural web down here. After the crash, the wireless chip in my brain was damaged. You have no range. You have to use a proxy, and that takes time.

  All good things, Gracile.

  My mute monstrosity lumbers over and kneels before me. His long hair parts between gloved fingers to reveal a cord. I pull on it slowly, allowing it to snake from the hole in the base of his skull. Then I grasp the end and force it through the skin in Demitri’s naked arm and into the port.

  Merodach twitches as our minds connect. In the recesses of the darkness, a voice—the former occupant of Merodach’s shell—whimpers, but instantly fades away to nothing.

  He is still in there ... in pain.

  You should be concentrating not on Merodach’s demon but on what comes next, Gracile. “Can you hear me, Rat?” I hiss.

  There’s a lasting silence until the image of a dimly lit underground cavern with rough rock-hewn walls illuminated by a few fire-lit torches comes into focus. As before, it is much like seeing the world displayed on one of the moving picture screens of old.

  [Vardøger], a voice says. [It’s not a good time].

  Who is that? Who are you talking to? What am I seeing? Demitri asks.

  “It is not for you to decide, Rat. You do as I command, or not only can you abandon all hope of ruling your pathetic band of misfits, but you can look forward only to evisceration at my hand.”

  [Yes, yes. My apologies, Vardøger], the voice replies.

  I know that voice, Demitri says.

  “Are things progressing?” I ask.

  [Yes, of course. It’s difficult, though. She has a loyal following. But I have a plan. Her attachment to Bilgi will be her downfall.]

  Bilgi. You’re talking about Mila?

  [Who else is there?] the Rat says.

  “None of your concern, Rat. Listen to me. Kahanga is lost. I have the Alchemist and the reactor. It’s broken, but I will find a way. It won’t be long now. It would be wise to be ready when the time comes.”