“I HAVE TO GO. I HAVE to do this,” the man says.

“No, don’t.” I cry, grabbing at his jacket.

“We don’t have a choice.” He pushes my hand away. “Finish this, Mila.”

The bomb detonates, flashing everything white.

In the darkness that follows, he comes. At first, nothing but a shadow, an imposter claiming to be human—but he’s not. Fire burns in his eyes, and smoke stretches from his body in long snaking coils. He is the horseman—an ambassador of death. With agonizing slowness the image fades, and I’m alone again in the emptiness.

For what feels like forever, I hang there in the nothingness. Gradually the fear slips away, replaced by the warmth of better times—a time before the world went mad, a time when I still had people who loved me. I can see his face in this place. It’s always clearer here. Zevry.

“Don’t worry, Mil. I’m coming back. Don’t worry for me. Okay?”

“Zev, I don’t want you to go. I have a terrible feeling.”

“Mila.” My older brother looks at me with a scolding gaze. “You can’t worry. It changes nothing and serves no purpose but to make you miserable.”

“I can’t help it. Something terrible will happen to you down there, I know it.”

Zevry touches my cheek, dabbing away a tear with his scarf, his eyes twinkling like they always do. “Yeos will be with you, my sister. Do not fear.”

Zev has enough to worry about with the mines in the condition they are. He doesn’t need to concern himself with me.

“Okay, Zevry. I’ll try to be strong like you,” I say, casting my eyes down.

“I know you will, but what you don’t yet know is you’re already stronger than me, Mil. You’re stronger than all of us.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” he says, lifting my chin with a wink, then embraces me—the assurance of his arms comforting even through my layers of clothing.

“Zevry. Come back to me, brother.”

Silence. The hallucination fades. Then the distant cries of pain stretch out across the blackness and make their way into my ears. Trapped in a fog of discomfort and regret, my legs stir against a cold stone floor.

My eyes are open, but it’s still dark. The air reeks of old taji beans. Where am I? Baqir? My body is constrained, a thick rope cutting into my wrists. A heavy burlap sack rustles over my head. I’m not naked, but they must have stripped most of my clothes off.

I wriggle again. The struggle sends a fresh streak of pain into my skull and down my back. That sarding jackbag kicked me in the face. I slowly work my tongue across my teeth, counting each one. At least they’re all still in my head. I lick my lips, the flesh busted and swollen.

“I know what you’re thinking.” The voice is deep and menacing. “You’re wondering why I haven’t killed you yet.” The accent is Musul, but there’s something polished about the way he speaks. “Stand this groveler up.”

Groveler. The slur outsiders use to refer to followers of Yeos. The rough hands of men grab me, pulling me up and sending yet another spike of pain into the base of my skull.

“Stand.” The sack is jerked from my head, and I wince at the light in the room, however little there is.

The man in front of me is tall, with thick dark hair and a heavy black beard. He is dressed in an old-fashioned three-piece suit that clings to his muscles. He’s got to be boosting on a stim like Swole or Jakked. Shouldn’t that be against his religion?

The suited man nods to another at his side, a thin little goblin who is eagerly rubbing his hands. “That her?”

The jittery man bobs his head.

A twisted grin breaks across the bearded man’s face. “The whore from the bar. Truly unbelievable. Here I was thinking I’d have to tear Logos apart looking for you, but instead you delivered yourself into my hands.”

You’ve got to be kidding. The punk from the bar? I couldn’t have worse fortune.

“Do you know who I am?”

“Yes.” My mouth feels broken.

“And?”

“You’re Kapka.”

“And do you know what I am?” He waits for my answer with raised eyebrows.

“A religious fanatic who oppresses his own people? You make sex slaves of children, you brainwash men with opulence, power, and promises of heaven, and you murder others for the sheer enjoyment of it. Does that about cover it?”

“My dear, I’m a true believer. How many can say that about their faith?”

“Probably everyone who doesn’t senselessly murder others in the name of their god.”

“Well, at least we can skip the introductions.” Kapka waves dismissively. “You know who I am, and I know enough about you. You’re some filthy Logosian streetwalker, a groveling dog who believes she can cripple my men and move against my interests with impunity. Tell me,” he whispers, stepping closer. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

“I read a book on self-defense.”

He chuckles. “Of course you did. And did you come here to try and kill me with your self-defense skills, Logosian?”

“No, but it’s not a bad idea.”

“No?” he rasps. “You attacked my men.”

“You should keep your brainwashed animals on a tighter leash.”

The guards around me squirm.

“My brainwashed animals.” Kapka laughs. “I like you.” He pinches my cheek. I instinctively jerk away. “Spirited like a wild horse—an animal that should be broken. Perhaps we should start by reminding you of your place.”

The men laugh. Kapka leans in again, raising my chin with his finger. His eyes are remorseless—deep, black, and empty like those of a predator. He whispers as though telling me a secret. “Listen to me, woman. Listen closely. You should have minded your own business back at the bar. Before, I was only going to kill you. But now, entering my enclave? Attacking my men? For that—” He shakes his head, sucking air through his teeth. “You see, for that I’m going to ruin you, Logosian. Do you understand me? Do you know what it’s like to feel ruined?” He smiles wickedly, a single gold tooth glinting in the low light.

I turn my gaze to the floor. Please, Yeos, not again. Just let them kill me.

“Oh, Logosian, I wish I could tell you what I have in store—oh, not just for you, but for your people, for all the filthy kafirs. But for now, I simply want to look into your heathen eyes and tell you from my heart what it is I wish for you, inshallah.” He leans in close, whispering again. “And what I wish for you, Logosian, is a world of endless misery and loss—”

“Kapka.” a man cries, running into the room. “I could not stop him.”

Kapka wheels on him. “You worthless insect. What do I pay you for?”

“I couldn’t stop—ˮ the man pleads.

“Who?” Kapka snaps.

As if in answer, the young man’s eyes look to the entrance. They grow wide, and he stumbles back out of the way. A man enters the small room and shoves the stuttering Musul back to the right. Another man enters and moves left. They’re huge—so tall in fact that both of them have to duck to clear the lip of the doorway. Each carries a slick metallic weapon that hums and pulses with blue light—bizarre, advanced tech the likes of which I’ve never seen before.

“Stand back and drop your weapons,” they chant in perfect unison, their voices as cold and lifeless as their hazel eyes. Adorning these newcomers’ perfect frames is a complex exoskeleton camouflaged in blue, black, white, and gray, with armor extending over vital areas.

Kapka nods, and his men obey, dropping their weapons on the hard stone.

Who is this that can tell Kapka what to do? The taste of dusty saliva and coagulated blood sticks in my throat. What the hell is going on?

A third man ducks through the doorway into the dimly lit room. By any reasonable standard, he is utterly massive—a towering figure of lean, hard muscle. His clothing is crisp and utilitarian, his gray hair slicked back over his head. On his face he wears a small device with a rubber seal that attaches to his nose and covers his mouth.

Their movements are too perfect. All of them are too perfect—almost sterile. The soldiers must be robotic. Creed, perhaps? But that would make the one in the middle ... a Gracile? What is a Gracile doing in Baqir? And why would Kapka stand at attention like a well-trained dog?

Kapka bows dramatically. “To what honor do I owe a personal visit from the benevolent Leader?”

The towering figure steps forward, still flanked by his guards, a look of mild amusement on his face.

Kapka presses—the formality all but gone from his tone. “What do you want? What is so important that you feel you should storm into my house and interrupt my business?”

“Your problem, Mr. Kapka,” the silver-haired giant says with authority, “is you easily forget.”

“You insult me now?” Kapka fires back.

The Gracile cocks his head but does not reply. His focus darts from one person to another, until it lands on me. With a look of disgust, he touches the device wedged under his nose, adjusting the small translucent cup covering his mouth. What is that? An air filter of some sort?

“We should continue this conversation in private,” the Leader says, like he’s addressing a stubborn child.

“This is as private as you’re going to get. My men are loyal to the death.”

“And this creature?” The Leader flicks a sickened glance at me, nervously pressing the device against his face.

“She is my slave. She will never again walk freely in this world. Even if she wanted to talk, it might prove difficult after I’ve cut out her tongue.”

Yeos save me.

Apparently satisfied, the Leader gives a nearly imperceptible nod. “You received the instructions along with the last exchange?”

“Yes. It all went as planned,” Kapka replies. “Just as all of our business has gone.”

“And you read the attached information?”

“I said yes.”

“Then why”—the Leader’s voice suddenly rises in intensity—“has nothing been done?”

“What is it you want me to do? Drop my pants and lay it like a golden egg? It’s a secret data package, not some bit of information I can have my men collect like trash on the street.”

A secret data package. He can’t be talking about my job, can he?

“Then you’re not looking hard enough.”

“You pay me to keep Opor and the rest of the Robusts distracted, not to be your errand boy.”

“Mr. Kapka.” The Gracile’s tone takes on an icy edge. “The Robust resistance will be moving based on this information soon. I must know what they know, and I must know it now. If you cannot accomplish this simple task, then I will entrust it to someone who can.” The Leader shakes with the words, his intensity rattling through the clear respirator—no doubt as an extra measure to protect him from whatever diseases he fears we carry. “You still draw breath because I allow it, and you will do what I pay you for. The bombings are no longer enough, and I will not have my grand design corrupted by Opor’s meddling or your feeble-minded incompetence.”

The room shakes with the final word, a single strand of silver hair falling across the Leader’s furious brow. Everyone in the room stares at the two men.

By the look on Kapka’s face, he knows he has no recourse. He holds up his hands and bows his head but says nothing. The Leader takes a deep breath, adjusts the nosepiece, and smooths his hair back. Inside the cold, dank walls of this room, the only sound is the distant dripping of water against stone.

This is unbelievable. The Gracile Leader controlling Kapka? I don’t know which is worse—a gangster with no morals, or a Gracile with unlimited power controlling the gangster with no morals.

“Leader.” Kapka’s tone has changed significantly. “Maybe we can speak more of this in a more suitable setting. I’m sure we can come to an understanding.”

“We already have an understanding,” the Leader says, moving into the hallway. “Make it happen and notify me without delay, or else.”

“Of course.” Kapka seems withered. He rubs his hands over his face, breathing heavily through them. The Leader gone, Kapka jabs his finger at two guards. “You and you. Stay here with her and do as you’ve been instructed. The rest of you come with me.”

He storms out, followed by the rest of the guards. The sound of his footsteps retreats. The two men left with me stand motionless, looking lost.

A third, more authoritative Musul enters the room and shouts at the two others. They nod, turning back to me. The one in charge closes in, smiling greedily and rubbing his hands. He begins removing his clothes as the others look on with lust in their eyes. My heart slams against my ribcage. Every fiber of my being stands on edge, ready to lash out. They will not have me easily. The one in charge steps close and with his knife traces the existing scar from my forehead, down my face and back toward my ear.

Oh, Yeos, hear me.

“Hariq,” a panic-laden voice calls from down the hall. The men freeze, looking at one another. The voice continues to scream a cascade of Arabic I can’t understand, except for a single word: fire. The faintest smell of smoke reaches my nostrils. The guards freeze, partially undressed. More voices down the hall join in the screaming now.

“Hariq.”

“Hariq.”

The guards exchange terse words, and all but one flee the darkened cell. An instant later, a shadow enters and stops short, locking eyes with the last guard. Shouting, the guard grabs for his machete, but the shadow dashes forward and slams a dusty plank of wood across the side of my captor’s head. The guard folds, knocking his skull against the ground, unconscious.

“Quickly.” the shadow says to me. “You must come with me.” His accent is the same as my tormentors.

“No. I’ll find my own way out.”

“You’ll die.” He reaches for my arms to check the rope.

“Don’t you dare touch me, Musul.”

He grits his teeth. There’s a long pause. “If you do not accept my help, you will die. There is no other way.” The man stoops and grabs a machete. I recognize him now—he’s the young man from the alley, the one with the little girl.

“Why would you do this?”

He slices through my bonds. “Be quiet and get your things.” He flicks his head toward the corner where my bag and the rest of my clothing lie. “We don’t have much time before someone returns.”

“They’ll kill you.”

“They’ll kill us both if you don’t come with me. Now.”

Rubbing my wrists where the rope cut into them, I quickly slip back into my clothes and sling on my bag, occasionally stealing a glance at my rescuer, who scans the exit to the hallway. A quick check confirms the package is safe in my bag’s hidden compartment.

“Can you run?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Then follow me closely. The fire will only keep them occupied for so long.”

He slips through the door and veers hard to the right, taking one of three branching hallways. As we scurry close to the wall, a cry reaches out from the darkened hallway. It’s not a Musul voice. Kapka has other Robusts in here. My rescuer realizes I’m no longer trailing him and comes trudging back. Is that anger on his face?

He stops centimeters from me, his eyes wide. “What are you doing? Do you have a death wish, Logosian?”

“I’m not leaving yet.”

Another agonizing moan for help echoes in the dark corners of the madman’s dungeon.

The Musul understands now. His lips purse, and he leans in closer. “You can’t save everyone.”

“There are other Robusts in here. If we escape, Kapka will be furious. They’ll be tortured. I have to try.” Turning and moving with purpose down the old hallway, I lock on to the faint cries for help drifting out of the shadows. We dash deeper into Kapka’s fortress, at last descending an old stone staircase to the lowest level.

As the sobs grow louder, so do the pungent smells of urine and feces. Passing through a large archway, we come to the source of the wailing—at least ten prisoners chained to a rock wall wet with mold. They stir at our entrance, some coherent enough to recognize we’re not here to hurt them. A glimmer of hope forms in their eyes. Others lie oblivious, too weak or emaciated to raise their heads from the cold stone.

“The guard. The one you knocked out. He must have keys.”

The Musul keeps ducking out to search the hallway. “We don’t have time for this, Logosian. My life debt is for you.”

“Life debt?”

“Yes.”

“If that’s true, then I’m giving it to them.”

His gaze follows my outstretched arm to the prisoners. “Look at them. They’re already dead.”

“A fighting chance is better than no chance.”

He sighs. “You know we can’t move as one. We’ll be too obvious.”

“Then we scatter. I’m not changing my mind. Are you going to help me or not?”

He holds my stare, then without a word, disappears back out into the corridor.

“It’s okay,” I reassure the terrified hostages. “We’re going to get you out. But you have to be quiet.”

Wide eyes gawk back at me. These people are from different enclaves, though many appear to be Logosians. Part of me hopes to find Zevry here, but I’m equally grateful not to see his face among them. They’re probably traders and travelers, unfortunate enough to have been intercepted and captured by Kapka’s men.

“You are Logosian?” a shadow of a man rasps from the corner.

“I am.”

“Yeos has sent his angel here to save us.”

I’m no angel. They’re still probably going to die.

As if on cue, the Musul returns and tosses me the keys. “We must hurry, or we will not make it out of here alive.”

I start on the right side, quickly working my way around the room, removing the shackles of the prisoners. “We can’t guide you out. But we can give you a fighting chance. If you get out, run for the south gate of the enclave. Overpower the guards if you can and take your chances in the Vapid. Go to Fiori or Logos. They will give you shelter and aid.”

“Thank you, sweet angel of Yeos.”

“May He shield you from the enemy,” I whisper, more to myself than anyone else, as the shackles of the last feeble prisoner clang to the floor. “Now go, all of you. Run.”

A few gaunt bodies rise and shamble toward the door. Others just lie there, free to go but unable to move.

“There’s nothing we can do,” the Musul says urgently. “If you have any desire to live, Logosian, you will come with me now. There is no more time.” He tugs at my arm, pulling me into the corridor.

You’re not the Lightbringer, Mila. You can’t save them all.

With a heavy heart I follow him out, then down the half-lit hallway to the left. The prisoners flee to the right. Hopefully some of them will make it out. Back the way we came, the Musul runs the gauntlet of corridors, and I follow.

“Just up here, there is a door we can use to get out of this place,” he whispers. “The guards do not monitor it.”

Two more turns and we arrive out of breath at a heavy metal door. The Musul leans against it, cracking the icy seal. He anxiously surveys the immediate environment.

“What’s the holdup?”

He glances back, but quickly returns to scanning. “It is afternoon. There are still too many people walking the street. You will stand out.”

“I always stand out. Let’s go.”

He shakes his head. “No. There are too many people under Kapka’s thumb. When he comes looking for you, and he will, everyone will talk of having seen you with me and where we went. It is too risky.”

“What then?”

He reaches into his jacket and produces a robe and head covering.

“No.”

“Yes. It is the only way we get out of here.”

“No way. I’m not wearing that and casting my eyes down like a beaten animal.”

He squints at me. “Your views are distorted, Logosian.”

“I’d expect a Musul to say that.”

He shoves the garments into my arms. “Now is not the time for this. Put it on if you don’t want to end up back in Kapka’s dungeon, waiting for his men to have their way with you.”

It’s either my life or my principles, and I need to get out of this place.

Two minutes later I’m briskly walking down the main drag, eyes down, my companion close to me, gripping the back of my left arm like he’s securing a child in trouble.

Breathe through it, Mila. Do this and you survive.

Behind us a single thick column of smoke rises from Kapka’s stronghold. Bells ring and men yell. I chance a look over my shoulder and see a handful of hysterical half-naked slaves making a run for the south gate. Kapka’s men trail behind them, shouting.

As we approach the heavy, stylized door in the outer wall of the enclave, two guards step into our path. They eye us suspiciously. I want to drop the act and run in the opposite direction. My companion has a quick but dramatic exchange of words with the men, giving my arm another vigorous shake in the process.

Play the part, Mila, just a little while longer.

The men step aside and open the gate for us. A few seconds later we are through, and the gate shuts behind us with a clang, the crossbar sliding back into place. We shuffle off to the side, hidden in the shadow of the enclave wall.

I jerk my arm away and pull off my head covering. I should burn this oppressive trash. I take a deep breath, pull off the robe, and hand both garments to the Musul.

“You always keep a change of women’s clothes on you?”

“They belonged to my mother—when she was still alive. I fetched them before I came to get you.”

Well done, Mila. Change the subject. “What did you say to those guards?”

“I told them you, my wife, had brought shame and dishonor to our family by being unfaithful and that I was taking you outside the walls to stone you.”

“Your culture is backward. You don’t understand the strength of women.”

“Are all Logosians this ignorant?”

“Not all Logosians have been at the mercy of your kind, so spare me the lecture.” I turn away.

“Wait,” he says, his fingers grazing the outside of my arm.

“The last guy who touched me without my permission got his nose broken.”

He retracts his hand. “I apologize.”

“What is this? Why did you do this for me?”

“Not all of us are like Kapka. He may call himself a Musul, but he only lusts for power, for the ability to dominate and enslave. He is a monster and a terrorist. I am nothing like him.”

“You’re all the same to me.”

“If that were true, you would never have risked your life to save my sister,” he says, searching my eyes, “and in the process, save me, too. I owed you a debt for my life. I owe you a debt still, for hers—regardless of the ancient feud between our people. My name is Faruq, and I am a man of my word.”

“Words are cheap, Faruq, and yours aren’t enough to erase the things I’ve been through at the hands of your people.”

The Musul leans toward me. “Yes. I know. I’ve seen the atrocities this man has committed against my own family and against all of humanity—the men he brainwashes to die for him in the name of God, the women and children who are turned into sex slaves. He does not represent me, my people, or our faith. Please, it’s important you understand.”

I have no idea what to say to this man.

He just stares at me. Every step of the way, he’s carried himself as if he were perfectly at peace—calm and balanced.

I swallow my pride and dip my head. “I’m Mila.”

He nods. “Mila.”

“I feel like I should say, uh ...” Why is this so difficult? “Thank you, Faruq.”

“I still owe you, Mila the Logosian,” he says with a small bow. “We live in a dangerous world. Be careful.” He slips away, disappearing into the fading light of the afternoon.

Crouching in the shadow of the enclave wall, I reach into my bag, pull out my PED, and power it up. 05:37:16 flashes on the screen. Sard. No way I’m making it to Zopat and then Fiori in time. Maybe once I get to Zopat, I can bargain with Opor for more time. I’ll tell them that if they agree, I’ll also tell them what went down between Kapka and the Leader. They have to agree. Who else are they going to use? Nobody but a reckless idiot would take a job like this.