In the Shadow of a Valiant Moon

by Stu Jones

  Fires? Is everything destroyed?

  I click off my scythe and stow it on my belt beneath my cloak, then pull on the thick door.

  What the hell?

  For once, the peacock and I are aligned.

  The passageway opens immediately into a flowing green hill that descends a kilometer or so in a gentle slope before leveling out into the floor of a U-shaped valley. At the gorge’s center is a lake, wide and clear. Scattered throughout the grassy hills are houses and small dwellings akin to those owned by the farmers of old. And in the middle of each cluster of homes, great white struts formed of triangular lattices stretch up and support a huge glass ceiling also comprised of wedge-shaped panels. A fake blue sky, complete with clouds, is projected in each of the ceiling panes—though some flicker on and off, while others have gone black. It’s as if Yahweh himself were controlling the heavens again. Slowly I step inside, inspecting the blades of green beneath these feet.

  A hologram? This can’t be real.

  “What is this?” I spit.

  The gaunt Robust sidles up. “It’s Vel.”

  I’ve never seen a lake before. This is incredible. Is it manmade or natural? And the sky is so blue, I’d forgotten how it looked. Been down here so long—

  Silence, peacock. Let me think. Everything still aches, and the stump of an arm throbs and burns. Must concentrate. I turn back to the emaciated Robust. “Don’t mock me, runt. All this green is real?”

  “Yes, it’s a biome,” he says, shutting the door behind us. It hisses as the seal is once again formed. “It is—was—one of the Gracile projects.”

  What is he talking about?

  I pluck grass from the soil. On closer inspection, it’s dry and beginning to brown. It doesn’t actually smell like grass. Not how I remember it, anyway. Synthetic. “Start talking, Velian, or lose your tongue.”

  Gil rubs his hands together. “When the migration first happened, when the plague first took hold, it was the rich who arrived first. Those who would be Graciles.” His gaze flits from one side of the valley to the next, his brow wet with worry. “We shouldn’t be out here.”

  “Spit it out, Kozel.”

  Never thought I’d say this, but for the love of Yeos, do as he says.

  “The story goes that Etyom as we know it, or knew it, wasn’t planned this way,” the Robust whispers. “The lillipads were never meant to be. The first people here tried to set up a power source and began building a biome, to escape the NBD. Vel was the first enclave built with the beginnings of the biome inside.” Gil licks his cracked lips. “It was never finished. The power source didn’t come online in time. Too many people arrived, mainly the poor. Those infected with the plague already. It’s why the Creed were used in the first place. To defend Vel. But with the biome a failure, the Graciles switched tactics. They began building the lillipads to escape the dying—using the Creed as a security force to ensure they weren’t interfered with. They sealed off Vel from the outside world, hoping one day to return to it. It forced the newcomers to build their own enclaves. The poor, the Robusts, chose to construct them around lillipads because they were promised trade agreements. They were lied to.”

  “The biome is working now, or was,” I say, motioning to the flickering fake sky above.

  How did no one find this? It’s entirely below ground level? But something overhead would have been able to see.

  He can’t hear you, idiot. Let me ask the questions.

  “They started with solar power, but eventually someone brought or invented two fusion reactors,” Gil says.

  Nikolaj and I worked on those.

  “The Graciles ensured they were used for whatever they wanted up in the sky,” the Robust continues. “But once they were done they immediately turned back to Vel to finish the biome. And armed with knowledge of the fusion reactors, were able to complete the power fission source in Vel.” Gil motions to a long, white, squarish building with two stacked chimneys banded in red, sat on the shore of the lake. Nearby is a small, but deep quarry with sizeable steps cut into it where machines have stripped away the precious metals.

  It’s not a stockpile—it’s a uranium-refining plant and power station.

  “Why a nuclear power plant? Why not use a fusion reactor down here?”

  Because the Leader was using them to power the lillipads, as well as my research.

  “Oh, you mean the research he used to create a black hole?”

  “What?” Gil says.

  I grab him by his tattered shirt. “What was this place for?”

  “Agriculture, mainly,” he splutters. “Food. Vegetables. For the Graciles. We gave them most of what we grew, and they let us keep our way of life.”

  He means haven. Imagine if the other Robusts found out?

  I don’t care about any of this. “Is the power plant functional? And where the hell are the Rippers you talked about? How did they even get in here? You better not be lying to me, you little snake.”

  “I don’t know,” Gil whimpers. “The Rippers are here, I swear. They killed almost everyone and took over like a bunch of damn squatters. I don’t know how they got in.”

  “And the plant?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “There’s some power because the sky is still on. But it looks damaged. No telling if it’s a problem in the grid or the plant.”

  “Then let’s find out.” I grab the Robust by the armpit and haul him to his feet with an audible groan. Pain shoots through this body and into my consciousness. “There must be a command center in here. Show it to me.”

  He points at the largest abode, which also happens to be the closest.

  Do you not think there’ll be Rippers in there? It’s the biggest building besides the plant. It’s suicide.

  Suicide? Make up your mind, peacock. First, you want us dead, then you want to live. Your lack of conviction is exhausting.

  The weakling is silent and it satisfies me greatly.

  ***

  Keeping low to the ground, we move silently toward the governor’s house. The constant fading and reappearance of parts of the heavens casts Vel into temporary shadow and impedes our progress. The further inside we venture, the more obvious it is that Rippers do inhabit this place. Patches of blood-stained grass and soil punctuate the otherwise picturesque landscape. Dried innards and connective tissue webs across distant shrubs. But no bodies. No attire. No weapons. The victims have been stripped of furnishings and flesh.

  Disgusting. I know it’s not possible, but I think I’m going to be sick.

  Don’t be so pathetic. It’s called survival. Dog eat dog. The way it’s always been and always will be.

  Gil rounds the corner of the low wall surrounding the house. Up close, it’s easy to see it’s been based on the old Soviet gosdachas—mansions for the rich and elite. Stalin himself had one, the filthy dog. This monstrosity was clearly built by new Russians with their new money. The ugly eclectic design in no way representing the grace of the original dachniks. Look at it. Can’t even decide what it is. Two floors, in a shape that makes no sense, built entirely of red brick. The bars across the white-framed windows did little, the glass all but broken and now barricaded with wood.

  “There’s a remote, control station in the annex,” Gil says. “Most is controlled from the plant itself, but in case there was a meltdown, this place could perform emergency tasks.”

  “How many Rippers are inside?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Take a guess, you little fool,” I hiss back.

  Gil is physically shaking. “Hey, you got those stims like you promised? Maybe some Easy, to take the edge off?”

  I wrap the only hand I have left around his feeble throat and squeeze. “How. Many?”

  “Maybe thirty?” he chokes out. “Rippers squat, and cram themselves in. But too many and they’ll in-fight. Please ...”

  I release him and he tumbles backward, wheezing and clutching at his scrawny neck.

  “We go in qui
etly, through the rear to the annex. If there are Rippers there, you get fed to them first. If not, you get your fix.”

  Gil’s eyes are wide, but he knows he cannot refuse. He climbs to his feet, and with the occasional shove in his back, we make it to the annex door.

  A light rattle of the old-fashioned handle and the portal clicks open. No security here.

  Inside, the décor clashes so much even these pompous Gracile eyes are offended. A mix of Soviet-style wallpaper and marble statues line the walls, while an array of technology is lumped on a table in the middle of the room—monitors and keyboards strewn over it.

  “Make it work,” I rasp. “Tell me if the grid or the plant is faulty.”

  The Robust does as instructed, all the while glancing up to check for danger.

  Vedmak, this doesn’t feel right. Where are the Rippers?

  Quiet, kozel. You should be grateful. Without the Rippers, I’ll have to rethink my strategy for dealing with that little suka you’re always crying about.

  You only want the power plant. You won’t even need to modify the tokamak. You can move your operation here. Just leave her be.

  Don’t try and placate me. You do not wish this to come to fruition. You fight me at every turn. Besides, killing your god-fearing friend is as important to me as the plan itself.

  But why?

  It’s chess, boy. Everyone needs a suitable opponent. You will never be it. But she, yes, she can present me with a challenge.

  “You’re not going to like this,” Gil whispers.

  “Spit it from your lips.”

  “It’s the reactor,” Gil says, rubbing frantically at his arms. “There’s a breach of some kind. It’s leaking radiation. Slowly, but it’s happening. It won’t melt down, but the emergency shutdown is in process. It takes a while, but it will happen. At least that’s what the readout says.”

  Guess you won’t be moving your operation here after all. Or laying a trap for Mila.

  You divide the pelt of a bear not yet killed, stupid child. I can still take the fuel, already purified in neat little packages directly from the core. And as for the bitch—

  The door at the other end of the room flies open. Gil hits the floor and in the same instant, my scythe is aflame. I coil in readiness. A Ripper child bounds in, hair in knots, clothed in a cut-up fabric likely stolen from the original residents of this gosdacha. It’s a female no more than five. She stands wide-eyed in front of me, staring up. Seconds later, two women rush in after her, gabbling something in a language I don’t understand.

  Ripper women and children? Is this a nursery or something? The men roam the Vapid, like hunter-gatherers. They must hide their women somewhere else normally ... but this place. This would have been perfect.

  One of the Ripper women grabs the child and drags her back into the fold of clucking females. She barks something at me in what sounds like garbled English.

  Need to get the attention of these chickens. “Gil, you have served me well. I believe there is no more you can do for me is there.”

  From his knelt position, the Robust stares at me with fearful eyes. “I have done what you asked, right? You’ll give you me my stim and release me?”

  “Release. Yes ... Debt is beautiful, but only after it is repaid.”

  “Wait—”

  Gil’s head leaves his shoulders and bounces across the floor, before coming to a rest at the feet of the savages. They shriek and kick it away. Apparently, they do not share their males’ obsession with bloodlust.

  “The greatest stim is the split second between life and death. An eternity in the most infinitesimal moments. Then, the great release. Everything I promised.”

  My scythe crackles and spits.

  You’re a bastard, Vedmak.

  Actually, I knew my father. Unlike you. Now, quiet your mouth.

  I wave my scythe in their direction, and then at the child. The horror in their eyes tells me they understand. These animals still fear for their young. They’ll do as they’re told.

  You can’t do this, Vedmak. I won’t let you.

  “Oh, but I can, and I will,” I say aloud. “I think it’s time we sent my Rat some more instructions, don’t you?”

  Giahi. I forgot about Giahi.

  “But first, to ensure safe passage to the power station.” I step forward, the overhead lights casting my shadow across the worried face of the grubby child. My scythe’s blade sputters white-hot plasma. The women pull her closer to them.

  Vedmak, no ...

  Chapter Twenty

  MILA

  Her tracks are long gone, lost in the deluge of snow. For a kilometer we’ve walked on anyway, hoping she didn’t deviate from Oksana’s instructions—find the Road of Death to the southeast; bear right at every fork. Up to the point where the teen’s tracks became too filled-in to follow, she had done just that.

  Damnation, it’s cold. The landscape is smothered in fresh powder, deep and crystelline. I hug my arms against my body. So focused on catching up to her before she got too far, I’d forgotten to put on enough layers. Movement means warmth. Keep moving, Mila.

  How did I miss she was so on edge? Husniya told Jape at the door she was running out on an errand. When we asked him about it, he told us she’d been fully geared up. Unbelievable, the nerve on that girl. What does she think she’s going to do alone against a troop of Kapka’s men, other than get herself killed—or worse—captured?

  “Why couldn’t she wait, for once?” I mutter, concern twisting with anger in my gut.

  “If she overheard our conversation, she knew where it was going. You did too, I think,” Ghofaun replies. “You never told her you’d seen Faruq once before and were unable to rescue him?”

  “No, I didn’t. And now to top it all off she’s found out anyway, gone off on her own, and forced us to defy Bilgi’s direct orders. The old man will have my head for this.”

  “All the more reason our mission must be a success,” Ghofaun says.

  Another kilometer disappears beneath our boots as we follow the desolate road that seems to lead nowhere. The Road of Death; the name is appropriate. We could lie down and be covered by the ever-falling snows, our bodies sinking into the eternal drifts, and there we’d remain, forgotten forever.

  Ahead another fork in the winding path.

  How many splits is this now? Five? Six? “Ghofaun, I don’t think we’re gonna find—”

  “Mila.” The monk grabs my jacket sleeve. “Look.”

  Beyond the gloom of gray and floating precipitation, a glow emanates from beyond the bend. Without a word, Ghofaun and I slink from the road, hiding in the frozen landscape. Out here, away from the decaying urban backdrop, my black leather jacket isn’t doing me any favors in the way of concealment. Maybe if I needed to I could crouch down and look like a rock. Yeah, right, Mila. Let’s not try that.

  Between the sparse, dead shrubbery, we skulk. A combination of low crawling and low running across danger areas keeps us out of sight. Ghofaun slides like a wraith from one point of concealment to another, visible yet invisible, a specter in human form. I feel clumsy in comparison.

  On either side of the road we wait, watching Kapka’s sentries at the forward barricade as they laugh over some vulgarity. A nod from Ghofaun and we move as one. My left arm snakes around the neck of the closer man, my right foot pressing flat on the back of his knee, buckling his legs. A muffled groan is all that escapes him as I twist the man to the ground and lock my arms down. A moment of vise-like pressure and he gurgles, his eyes rolling back, his body slumping to deadweight in my arms.

  “Goodnight.” I release him, and his head thumps against the icy road.

  The monk is standing over his felled guard, like he’s been waiting on me to finish. “Whenever you’re ready,” he says, just above a whisper.

  I grab the Draganov autoloading rifle from the ground where the sentry dropped it. Might come in handy. Missing its scope, the long rifle has iron-sights only, but otherwise, it’s in grea
t shape. Never shot one of these, but thankfully the action appears similar to the Kalashnikov. Tabbing the magazine free, it’s packed full of gleaming brass. What are the odds? Kapka must have found a sealed ammo cache. I pilfer two more loaded ten-round mags from the felled guard and shove them into the pockets of my jacket.

  Leaving the men where they lay, we advance on our hands and knees to the perimeter of the encampment. Lying prone with Ghofaun on my left, I take in the visible assets and movements of the enemy camp.

  “Damnation,” I say under my breath.

  Inside the perimeter of eight-foot-long wooden stakes jutting from the snow at angles designed to maim, there’s easily twenty-five fighters. At least half are armed with some sort of old-world firearm. And that’s only what we can see. There’s probably another ten who will come running as soon as the action kicks off.

  Where the hell is she? “Can you see Husniya?”

  Ghofaun shakes his head. “No. But the girl is as vulpine a creature as I’ve seen. She’s more than capable of remaining undetected. It’s her judgment I’m worried about.”

  “You can say that again.” What are you planning, Husniya?

  The larger tent must be Kapka’s personal quarters. Of course, the tyrant of Baqir won’t still be here. What reason would he have to remain? Yet, the tent looks occupied, complete with a small fire inside its heavy canvas walls. A shiver crawls up my spine at the thought of facing off with that maniac again.

  “If Faruq was here, where would they keep him? Any thoughts?” I ask.

  “Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe in the back near where that low awning is. Are those cages?” Ghofaun says.

  “I can’t tell from here. And can’t see a good way to do this.”

  “Which is why we shouldn’t.”

  “I agree, Ghofaun, but we’re here at an encampment that’s not supposed to exist. The information was good. Faruq could be here. We have to at least— ”

  “Oh no, Mila.” Ghofaun tosses his head toward my right, his eyes wide. “We’re too late.”