Rowen took a deep breath, dropping the spoon back into the pouch. Not sure what else to do, she did as he said, standing up slowly, cursing as the rest of her pouch spilled onto the grass.
The Russian wrinkled his nose, frowning at the fallen contents. If she wasn’t there, Rowen thought he might’ve eaten the brown chunks of beef right off the ground
“Where you get this?” he asked, accent thick and difficult to understand. He replaced his Ws with Vs, making it all the more confusing. Rowen was hesitant, not sure how much she should reveal.
“What, you mean the food? What, don’t they feed you guys?” she said, trying to deflect his question, cringing the moment the words left her mouth, sure that she was about to have a bullet put in her brain.
To her surprise, the soldier lowered his rifle slightly, frowning once again at the wasted food. “Our rations are not like this, they are more like, how you say, pasty cardboard, very bad.”
Watching him, Rowen could see peach fuzz above his lip, traces of lingering acne on his forehead and cheeks. He was young, probably around the same age as Jonah. Her parents complained constantly about how much her brother ate, so much so that they had threatened to put a lock on the kitchen door. “If you’re hungry, I have more.”
The soldier pursed his lips, his eyes darting back and forth from her to her pack. From his expression, she could tell he was conflicted between duty and his belly. Taking a deep breath, he raised his AK, aiming for her head. Rowen’s heart sank as her pulse quickened, her mouth going dry. “Turn around, quickly, your hands against the tree.”
Rowen’s breath came in fits and starts as she turned around and complied. She pressed her hands against the rough bark of the elm, waiting for the end.
To her surprise, she felt him quickly pat her down, easily finding her SIG and tossing it behind him before roughly turning her around, shouldering his rifle. Rowen closed her eyes, shuddering in relief. Hunger had won, it seemed. “Da, yes. Please, beef if you have.”
Rowen turned down her bottom lip before going to one knee and rummaging through her pack.
“Slowly,” he said, raising his AK once again as she began pulling out ration packs, tossing them onto the wet grass.
“Ok, let’s see, I have chicken teriyaki, ahh, here, beef stew. Oh, and this one is apple.”
“Yes, I take, eat now.”
Rowen cocked her head, surprised but not surprised, quickly punching the tabs on the meals, causing the pouches to begin to heat, the odors mingling together and making her salivate. Breathing deep the odor of the cooking, she shook her head, understanding what had happened. “Is that how you found me—the smell?”
“Da,” he said, folding his legs beneath him and sitting cross-legged in front of her. He lay his rifle across his lap and watched the pouch, fascinated. “One of your drones fell on my commander’s latrine. He was very upset, made me spend morning chasing after your little toys when I could have been at camp, warm.”
Rowen groaned inwardly. An entire day wasted, the few drones she had managed to place found by chance.
“How does it heat all by itself?” he asked, taking off his helmet and running a gloved hand through his dark hair. Rowen could finally get a good look at him. He had dark eyes, almond-shaped, with a tiny fold just above the eyelid. His wide mouth with thin lips and nose looked like someone had pounded his face flat.
Grabbing the pouch with the chicken in it, she turned the tab toward him. “When the tab here gets pressed, it activates a power supply. The whole pouch is like a tiny microwave... You don’t look very Russian, by the way.”
The soldier raised an eyebrow, cocking his head. “I am Siberian, not Russian,” he said with a hint of pride in his voice, “and you, your face, your father, he owe money to Bratva?”
Rowen was taken aback, her cheeks going red. Unconsciously she raised a hand to the scar that ran from the tip of her forehead to her chin. She had spent the last few months living without mirrors and had almost forgotten what she looked like. Before she could say anything, the Russian raised his hands, palms up in apology.
Just as she was about to say something, the tab on the pouches popped in sequence, indicating the meals were ready. With a nod from him, Rowen tore open the beef before handing it over. He inhaled deeply, the small smile on his face widening to a toothy grin after the first bite. “Sorry, these marks are normal in Siberia. Men, they borrow money from Bratva. If they can’t pay, Bratva cut their wives, daughters.”
“Bratva?”
The soldier closed one eye, scrunching up his face as he struggled to find the words. “Criminals long time ago, now they are mix between government, bank, and Mafia.”
Rowen nodded, not really understanding. She stood stock-still in front of him while he ate. Looking up from his meal, he eyeballed her for a moment before shrugging and motioning with his spoon for her to sit. “You take chicken, eat.”
Still hungry, Rowen didn’t hesitate, tearing open the pouch of chicken and plopping down on the wet grass, grateful that he hadn’t shot her yet.
They sat in silence while they ate, uncomfortably glancing at one another every few moments before quickly returning to their meals. “You are spy, correct,” he blurted suddenly, staring her down.
Rowen coughed uncomfortably, spitting up the stew in her mouth, fighting for breath.
His only response was to smile as he continued to eat, a small gleam in his eye. “If you are spy, you are not so good.”
For a moment Rowen forgot what was going on, that she was essentially living only at the whim of this hungry Siberian. “Are you going to shoot me or just sit here being an ass,” she said through gritted teeth, her face red with sudden anger.
The Russian’s almond eyes went wide, his flat face breaking out in a toothy grin. “You have fire in you, true spirit!” he said, taking another spoonful of beef, then lifting the pouch to see inside, scraping the sides.
Realizing what she had said, she slowly let out a breath, flexing and unflexing her hands, trying to calm herself, her eyes never leaving his.
“Your accent is strange, different from the fools who live in New York shithole,” said the Russian, reaching for the pouch with the apple pie, covering his mouth as he belched.
“Colorado. My family was on vacation the day you people invaded. I hate this place, just want to go home,” she finished with a shrug.
The Russian’s lips turned down as he nodded to her. “You are like me, stuck in hell.”
Rowen’s brows drew together, not understanding. “How are you in hell? You guys are winning, so you should be happy.”
Wolfing down the apple pie, he shook his head. “Not my war, not my choice to be here. One day I am butcher in my village, the next, I am forced to join Russian army. Idiot politicians in Moscow don’t want to do their own dirty work, they force my people to fight for, how you say, bullshit cause.”
Sitting on the damp grass, the cold seeping into her bones, Rowen wondered why he was telling her all this, why he wasn’t simply shooting her. Before she could ask the question, the Russian stood, dusting the crumbs from his pants. Thinking it was the end, she watched him through hooded eyes, defiant.
To her surprise, instead of shooting her, he shouldered his AK, reaching for her pack and rummaging around for a moment before pulling out a few more ration packs, stuffing a few of the smart devices in his pockets as well.
“Not my fight—not yours either,” he said, looking down at her as he put his helmet back on. “Why should we freeze and die for these old fuckers who sit warm drinking vodka, hmm?”
Rowen sat, her mouth agape, not sure what to say, thinking it was some sort of trick. It was only when he extended his hand that the reality hit her. “Timur.”
She hesitated only for a moment before taking his hand. “Rowen.”
Timur nodded, giving her a half smile. “I will give a few of these to my asshole commander. He is Russian. He will be happy, thinking problems is solved. The rest I put aro
und camp...but you must bring me more like today,” he said, patting his belly.
“You have a preference?” she asked, smiling, her hand still in his.
He again turned down his lips, shaking his head. “Nothing that taste like cardboard.”
Suddenly feeling bold, Rowen held on to his hand as he tried to pull away. “They don’t work all the time. Whatever is keeping the lights off makes them short out, useless.”
Looking down at her hand, Timur nodded. “True, but if you bring me dessert like pie, tomorrow, here. I will give you code to put into your little devices, make them work.”
With that he gave her a sly wink and walked off into the afternoon fog, leaving Rowen confused and just grateful to be alive.
Chapter 17: Fading After Midnight
April 2076
Arthur hated this place, with its white, sterile walls, and its sickening odor of antiseptic that turned his stomach. He wondered why he kept ending up here, he lost something every time he came, and now, he was about to lose Asahi.
His commander had never woken from the attack on the runway, and the doctors claimed he was alive by only the barest of threads, and Arthur couldn’t find any reason to doubt them. His frigid body looked more dead than alive, like a corpse, and his already pale skin had become near translucent, the rise and fall of his chest imperceptible. It was well past midnight, and they were alone except for an attending physician who dozed, snoring loudly at the nurses’ station.
The emergency flight back to base had been deathly quiet, with both Gwen and Komiko having stayed on in Boston, Gabriel as usual isolating himself with the pilots. From what he was told, their route had been complete, and the enemy having lost most of their attack forces, and fallen back to a carrier group somewhere out in the Atlantic, where they constructed drones and carried out attacks on what was left of Boston. Better still, they had managed to capture dozens of the enemy’s new drones, giving them ample tools for research. To Arthur himself it still felt like he was in a dream, lost in a haze with what he’d done, even after having controlled all those machines, he wasn’t quite sure what he’d done or how he did it.
Arthur scrubbed his hands through his hair, gritting his teeth, with just the thought of what he’d done in Boston the sensation of ants crawling on his skin returned, worse than before. It felt like they were on the inside of his skull, crawling over his chest. He dug a finger deep in his nostril, scraping hard; sure that one had made it into his nose.
Arthur was about to put his fist through the wall in a rage when he decided he’d had enough. The man dying beside him was a pillar of discipline and self-control, the image of what he wanted to be: calm, controlled. Rising to his feet Arthur began to take deep breaths, grinding his teeth while fighting the urge to scratch everywhere at once.
He imagined he was home in Cherry Hill, running around the fire hydrant in front of his family’s old tenement building. On summer days his father would open the valve, letting cool water gush out into the street, giving them a bit of relief from the staggering heat. He wasn’t sure if it was the memory or ignoring it, but the itch began to fade.
Arthur closed his eyes, letting his mind wandering to distant memories, feeling like he was sinking in deep dark water. His heartbeat, his breathing, everything pulsed in tune with his thoughts. The itching vanished, replaced by a sense of calm.
Arthur opened his eyes and blinked in wonder. The mundane cool, white tile of the infirmary had been overlaid with the fantastic; everywhere he looked he could see arcs of blue-streaking energy, waves of golden light washing over everything. The simple white tile looked to be in motion, vibrating like a hummingbird’s wings. Raising a hand to his face, a laugh escaped his mouth before he could stop it. His small hand was pure gold-encompassed sparks of amber. Looking closer he could almost make out the individual atoms that made up his arm, vibrating and spinning in unison.
His gaze shot over to Asahi’s body, and he understood. His commander’s body was like his, only dimmer, whereas Arthur glowed like the sun at midday, the old man’s form was a reflection of twilight, his spark faded to almost nothing. This is what he had done at the airport, witnessed the building blocks of matter and energy.
Arthur scanned the room, following the blue streaks, knowing they were the power cables hidden in the walls. Even the sleeping physician glowed, currents of blue electricity molded into the shape of a man by flesh and bone.
A sharp ear-piercing alarm called for Arthur’s urgent attention, drawing his focus back to Asahi. Watching his still form he could see twilight had passed, night was coming. One by one the muted, golden sparks went dark, like thousands of lights fading into nothingness.
The sleepy physician appeared like a ghost beside him, the tired doctor poking and prodding, scanning the holo projection of the old man’s vitals. “He’s gone,” the doctor said after a time, but Arthur had known. He had seen the life leave the old man. Arthur stood at his side for as long as they would let him, watching the faint traces of energy that existed in a body after death. Thankful that the old man had taught him one final lesson, even in death.
Chapter 18: The Guns of Battery Park
“So just like that, you trusted this Russian all willy-nilly,” said the captain, his face suddenly red. “How the hell do I know you’re not some spy they’ve sent to sabotage us? Your report definitely looks like that to my country ass.”
Rowen kept her face smooth, not taking the bait. “He was Siberian,” she corrected before continuing, “and he did everything he said he was going to do. We finally were able to start gathering intel. Our mission was suddenly on track because of one lucky break, and all it cost us were some rations that had spent decades sitting in a forgotten subway.”
The fat man’s frown returned as he shook his head, his jowls still moving after he finished shaking his head. “You didn’t answer the goddamn question. How the hell do I know it’s not all horseshit, that you’re not some kinda spy?”
Rowen took a deep breath that she slowly released, blinking in stunned silence. “Given what Arthur, Gwen, and I did in New York, that’s an insane question.”
“Ok, maybe y’all did some good, sure, but when I look at the mess we’re in now, I can’t help but wonder where it all went wrong.”
She looked away, flexing her jaw. “It went wrong when Cardinal Washington sent us help. We had it pretty decent: our militia was growing, we had scavenged enough to have a real base of operations, and then...well—” She paused, not sure if it was a good idea to lay blame on the very organization she was interviewing for.
“Spit it out, girl. I ain’t got all day.”
“Cardinal Washington finally sent reinforcements, members of Divinity Corps, and it ruined everything…”
March 2074
Rowen was about to die. She clawed at the filthy arm under her neck that was choking the life from her. She gouged and scratched, but he was too strong, unbendable, unbreakable. Spots began to appear as oxygen grew scarce, little dancing shadows in the corners of her vision... In her last seconds, the event replayed in her mind’s eye. Sitting alone in the once green park, now little more than gray concrete, hints of winter snow scattered around. Hiding beside an abandoned Ford that was more rust than metal, waiting for the soldiers Cardinal Washington had promised them.
Her father had done a good job finding the occasional recruit from the folks who were trapped with them in the city, mostly hard people who had nowhere else to go and refused to surrender their homes. But what they needed were experienced soldiers. Her father had demanded for months now that they be reinforced, supplied with weapons, armor, and tactical electronics. The cardinal had finally given in and agreed to send a small force with equipment and manpower. Today of all days they had received confirmation that they were on their way. The timing couldn’t have been worse. Her father was meeting with one of the few gangs left in the city, making peace, securing their safety. Rowen was the only one he trusted to be here, so she was here.
They had come upon her unseen, three filthy men moving like ghosts. She should have smelled them, but the icy wind blowing off the water masked the overpowering odor of unwashed bodies and rotting teeth. The tallest of them, their leader, materialized silently behind her, seeing only a small girl, easy meat. It all happened in an instant.
His weight behind her suddenly, the buttons of his jean jacket, winter-cold on her neck, the harsh bristles of his unshaved face scratching against her cheek, his forearm painfully under her neck. She should have been paying attention instead of staring out into the gray waters of the East River. She had gotten careless, and now she would pay with her life. She would never be the soldier she dreamed of; she would die a flat-chested virgin. Her dad and Gibbs—no one would know what had happened. She would be just another body in a city full of corpses. A waste of a short life.
That was when she had a moment of clarity and stopped fighting his fight. She would use the tools she had and not die like some stupid girl. Growling, she dug deep, clinging to the small embers of her rage that were always there, fanning them with desperation until her anger blossomed into an inferno of strength.
She gave up trying to claw at the man’s iron grip, instead fumbling in her waistband for her SIG, grateful that the weapon used an automatic firing pin safety, allowing her to fire immediately without having to flick off a switch. She didn’t bother aiming, simply pointing the gun at the ground and firing wildly, each pull of the trigger shattering the winter silence and echoing across the river.
Ascension: Children of The Spear: Book one Page 17
