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MILA
The storm whips and pushes, snow and ice stinging my cheeks as I squint. My limbs went numb long ago, forgetting the hot blood flowing in these veins. I try to step forward but my body is locked, frozen, not from the cold but rapt with anxiety. Is that a man out there? Was he lost in the storm? I will myself to see through the blizzard. The man shambles forward, his shoulders slumped, like a thing destroyed. The long lank hair and dark hollow eyes, it can’t be Faruq ... can it?
Snow swirls around, obscuring my view the same way it had the last time I saw him. The world spins as the memory floods my brain, drowning it. Once again, it’s three years ago and I’m there. Always there. It plays out again, a lucid dream—a memory branded into my soul—I’m doomed to re-live over and over. My whole body is set aflame by a single thought.
It’s him.
***
“What is it you want? Do not go against us, woman,” the Musul guard says, his antique rifle poised at the ready.
They must not know who I am or they would have tried to claim my head already. Kapka’s generous bounty on me, dead or alive, should be more than enough to force their hand. My teeth are clenched so tight they feel as though they might crack.
There are six of them, all armed with old Soviet rifles. At their center is a haggard prisoner, draped in rags and wrapped in cloth. The bent posture, ice crystals clinging to his beard, those terrible hollow eyes. There is no longer any doubt.
“Release your captive,” I choke on the words.
The man raises his head, his face blistered red by the cold and his eyes near frozen shut. “Help me.”
It must be Faruq. It has to be. The sudden dire stakes of this chance encounter now made clear. We all stand there, staring, locked in an awful stalemate midway along the Vapid road between the enclaves of Fiori and Logos.
“You do not know this man. He is not your concern,” Kapka’s man calls out. “Let us pass or we will be forced to spill your blood in this snow and leave you for the Rippers.”
“Mila, let’s think about this,” Giahi says. “We’ve got nine orphans here and only five fighters to get them to the Vestals. Try to fight through these zealots and we’re all dead. There is no strategy to be had here.”
Eyeing the group, I try to find a way to do this that doesn’t involve everyone dying. There is none. A wave of sickness passes, and I swallow it back. Maybe it isn’t Faruq. Just another of Kapka’s prisoners. Though, does it make him any less important?
“Last chance,” the Musul transport guard calls out. “Clear the path, or die.”
My fighters huff and stare in frustration, their feet sliding in the slush, searching for sure footing.
“Please, help,” the captive groans.
“Mila, we can’t save him,” Giahi says.
“What if it’s him?”
“It’s not him. Faruq died Mila. On the platform, Kapka’s RPG blasted him into oblivion. We’re too few and you’re still carrying that damn beanbag launcher. We’re about to get a bunch of kids killed over one of Kapka’s slaves,” Giahi says, a hostile edge to his voice.
“Kapka survived,” I say.
“Kapka’s a cockroach.”
I eye the prisoner and breathe out slowly. “Okay.” Yeos forgive me for sacrificing this man.
“Good choice,” Giahi says, bumping my arm.
“Don’t talk to me,” I snap. “Get the kids off the road. Walk wide to the right. Give these Baqirian Musuls plenty of room.”
We herd the children off to the right and behind the concealment of a small snow bank, keeping the Musul transport group in sight. I lag behind, staring at the Musuls. Giahi and another fighter, Jape, shadow me.
The Baqirians start forward, shoving the withered shell of a man, his manacles clacking.
“Try anything and you’re dead,” the lead guard calls out. “The children too.”
I release my launcher and let it hang from the strap across my shoulders, my palms raised as the men pass, their weapons trained on me. As they near, a sob breaks from the captive, the pitiful keening sound of total desperation.
“Mila. Please don’t leave me,” he mumbles.
My skin tingles hot. “Faruq!” I scream, lunging forward.
Giahi locks both muscular arms around me. “You’re going to get us killed,” he shouts.
The Musuls jerk to life, weapons shaking.
Jape holds steady, his Kalashnikov locked on them. “Easy. Just take it easy.”
“It’s Faruq! He said my name!” I shriek, clawing at Giahi’s arms. “Faruq!”
“I don’t care if it is. You’re about to get us all killed. It’s not worth one man,” Giahi shouts.
“It is to me,” I cry, struggling against him.
Backing away from the standoff, the Musuls continue to hold us in their sights. Faruq moans as he’s dragged into the blizzard, a terrible wounded sound that cuts me to the bone. But, by the time I’ve struggled free of Giahi’s vise-like hold, the small band has disappeared into the swirling white.
I sink to my knees in the slush. “I will find you, Faruq. I swear it!” I scream, the sound of my voice lost in the storm. “I swear it.”
***
A hand grabs my jacket, jolting me back to the present.
“Mila, what is it?” Husniya asks.
“Uh.” I shake my head and watch as the old man I’d first seen emerging from the storm shuffles past with a grunt of acknowledgment. “Nothing. It’s nothing.” My teeth chatter from the severe cold. “Come on.”
Together, my party ducks beneath a few old planks of wood and follows the well-worn path below the surface to the entrance of the mine. I shamble forward, my feet numb and clumsy as though filled with lead. After what feels like an age, a heavy steel door looms out of the darkness.
The hollow sound of my knuckles rapping against steel resounds inside the torch-lit shaft of the abandoned mine. The cold has found its way inside me. It’s possible I may not feel anything again. Waiting, the fighters lagging behind slump against the walls of the secret tunnel hidden deep below the carcass of The Forgotten Jewel.
“Keep your strength. Don’t sit down. You may die here. They’re coming to let us in.” Again, I bang on the ancient door—the pattern jolting my memory back to a simpler time when I was just an information handler knocking on the door of my mentor. “Bilgi, open the door. The cold has nearly taken us,” I say to the flat, oxidized surface at my nose.
“Who is it?” The familiar, and annoying, voice is muffled through the door.
“You know who it is, Giahi. Let us in.”
“How many of our people did you get killed?”
Such a jackbag.
“Was the Kahanga mission a success?” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Did you save the Musuls there from themselves?”
Is he actually questioning me about this through the door? The cold flesh of my face tingles hot. “Let us in and I’m sure you’ll hear all about it if I don’t knock your teeth down your throat first.”
“Mmmhmm. Just as I thought.”
“We’re freezing to death and we have wounded out here, Giahi. Open the door, now. That’s an order.”
The door unbolts. “Temper, temper, Mila. A leader should have more discipline.”
I shoulder the door hard. Giahi stumbles back and raises his hands. Before he can adjust, I’ve grabbed his jacket and shoved him back again. “Sard off. If you weren’t such a sarding jackbag, you could have been part of the leadership by now. But you’re not. So help or get the hell out of my way.”
I turn and loop a wounded fighter’s arm over my shoulder. We hobble past the smoldering gaze of the now-silent doorman and into the torch-lit glow of the underground resistance headquarters. With a clang, the heavy door bars behind us.
Mercifully, the air is warmer here, thanks to the subterranean vents that provide us with our natural heat source. The torches placed at intervals cast a comfortable light throughout night without the generator. The inside of a long-abandoned mining complex shouldn’t feel so like home, but it does. People run to meet us now, hugging friends and helping the wounded to the well bay.
I hand off the fighter hanging on to me to someone who can treat the nasty gash across his thigh. He mumbles a thank you, groaning as his arm encircles the neck of another and he hobbles off. War is an ugly business, and we seem to have been at it for far too long now.
“Are you okay, Mila?” Husniya strolls up, dropping a rucksack laden with weapons.
“Go get some rest, Hus. You’ve earned it.”
“Hey, about what I said. About Faruq. I’m sorry—”
“Later. We’ll talk about it later.” I have no intention of talking to her about her brother, about my inability to rescue him. Persistent rumors of his being alive give Hus and me hope. But, after four years, my comrades grow tired of the search and my requests for help.
Husniya, whose face now seems childlike in the dim light, touches the sleeve of my jacket before she heads for her quarters. I’m not her mother or her sister. How should I know how to treat an orphaned Musul girl? Most days I don’t even know how to take care of myself.
Shrugging out of my heavy jacket, I make my way down the main corridor with the others to the command room. Inside is the old man, his left shirt sleeve rolled up and tied below the elbow, where the stump of his arm stops. He turns, leaning on his cane for support. A smile spreads across his wrinkled face. “Mila!”
“Bilgi,” I reply, and nod to the thin, hawkish faced man with long silver hair beside him. “Yuri. It’s good to see you both.”
Bilgi’s most trusted advisor looks at me over his twisted wire spectacles. “Nazal gave you a hard time?”
“I should think so, Yuri,” Bilgi interrupts. “Our people’s purpose was to unseat the man. Warlords are not typically agreeable to such action.”
Yuri inclines his head. “How many did we lose?”
It’s difficult to look him in the eyes. “Eleven.”
Bilgi grimaces. “That’s a lot.”
“I know. We had a tough time of it.”
“But the mission was a success?” Bilgi asks.
“It was, though there’s a lot more about all of that to tell.”
Bilgi’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh? But should I not exhaust you on the details at this moment?”
“I’ll tell you this—Mos is a Kahangan prince.”
Bilgi and Yuri look at each other, their faces a mixture of confusion and amusement.
“I know,” I say. “Supposedly, he’s the rightful heir to the ruling seat of Kahanga. Nazal was his brother.”
“Was?” Bilgi asks.
“Was.”
“I see.”
“That’s not the strangest part, though, Bilgi.” I ply my hands together. “Nazal was working with a Gracile, and when I say working I mean, they seemed to be exchanging arms and ammo for stims that made Nazal’s men psychotic. I think the Gracile was using the drug too. It’s bizarre. There’s more to it and I don’t like what it all could mean.”
“Agreed,” Bilgi says. “Yuri, dispatch runners across Etyom. Let’s find out if the streets have any information on a Gracile collecting weapons or stims.”
Yuri makes a note with a piece of sharpened charcoal.
Bilgi looks back to me. “You’ve had quite an interesting past few days, Mila. You must be exhausted. Take some food and rest. We will catch you up on what happened here when you wake.”
“No. I’ve come this far. I won’t be able to sleep without knowing. What is it?”
Bilgi gives me a look I know well. “I don’t believe you will sleep after finding out, either.”
“Tell me, Bil. It’s been a long day.”
“Very well.” The old man shrugs. “It was twenty-four hours ago. We lost all communications. Not a hiccup, mind you. Everything went completely dark. It was ... unusual.”
“Okay.”
“We initially thought it was an antenna failure. I sent three up to the surface to check it. They never came back,” Bilgi says.
“A comms specialist and two security,” Yuri adds. “As you well know, the antenna is hidden.”
“You guys are killing me.” I rub my face. “What happened?”
“The men we sent,” Bilgi casts a look at Yuri. “When we found them hours later, half-frozen in the blood-splattered snow. They appeared to have been butchered.”
“Butchered?” By manner of habit or some other frustration, I find my hands on my hips.
“Yes. Arms, legs, heads, all removed. Bodies flayed and gutted like fish.”
“For the love of Yeos. Rippers got into Fiori. Damn them,” I say.
“Maybe it is Rippers.” Bilgi adjusts his cane. “Maybe it isn’t.”
“Bil, I’m too tired for cryptic answers. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’m as perplexed as you, Mila. The attack was too precise, not reckless the way Ripper attacks are. Just when you get a chance, if you’ve got the stomach for it, look at the bodies. They’re in the Mort chamber, ready to be shunted.”
“Were the attack and the disruption related?”
“We assume so, but we don’t know.”
“So, we don’t know anything.”
“For now, girl. Just look into it when you can.”
“Are we okay otherwise? Where’s Ghofaun?”
“He’s on an intelligence mission. We just got word from him. He should be back by the time you wake.”
“Okay.”
“Mila.” My aging mentor winks at me. “I’m glad to have you back safe, girl.”
I manage a weak smile and push through the door. Its rusted hinges squeal.
***
The hour grows late and much of the daytime activity of the resistance hideout is now quiet. Through the twisting red stone hallway, I pass bundles of tattered fighters huddled together. Some play a game of Ozzut, trading cards and trinkets and passing a jug of shine, while others lay where they can, resting with empty stares on makeshift cots and pallets. They’ve been through much.
A woman dips her brow. “Paladyn,” she says with a look of admiration.
I force a smile and touch her shoulder but keep walking. Others raise their heads and murmur the word, gazing at me with hope in their eyes. Paladyn. A guardian. A defender of the people. The weight of the idea presses down, a sack of stones upon my shoulders that promises to bend my knees with each step. I just lost eleven of them. Eleven hopes and dreams snuffed out. I’m no guardian. I never wanted such a title or asked for any of this.
Slipping into the boiler room, I wink at Filly—the girl working the cauldron. She’s young and spirited like her name suggests. It’s here soiled and infected clothes are boiled for long periods to try to keep us clean and as healthy as reasonably possible. Filly talks about her mother, who works in the comms room, and hands me a bundle of fresh garments. She handpicks them, knowing by now the things I wouldn’t wear. She also gives me a jug of warm water, a packet of herbs and a clean cloth for bathing. I thank her, promising to drop my soiled clothes in the morning, and head back to my bunk.
The lone candle ignites, throwing jagged shadows on the wall. The prospect of sleep offers both welcome relief and a deep-seated dread. Will I dream? Will I have to hear Faruq’s screams as his captors drag him away? Will I have to bear witness as The Fourth Horseman steals Demitri’s body and invades my dreams again? My eyelids are so heavy, but I’m filthy. Though bathing won’t wash away the blood I’ve spilled—actions that stain my soul—I complete the ritual.
The candle nears the end of its life, brown wax spilling over the rim of the lid in which it sits. I slip out of my over-shirt, step out of my boots, then unfasten my cargo pants and let them slide to the floor, leaving me standing in my tank top and undergarments. I place a basin on the table beside my bed, crumble a handful of herbs into it, and pour it full of warm water that slides into it from the smooth ceramic jug. From the floor, I pick up a short plank of a clouded mirror. The smudged reflection of a survivor stares back. A person with so many more scars now. The oldest one running down my forehead and across my eye can almost be overlooked. Almost.
Wiping the mud and blood and grime from my face and body, the steaming herb-filled water reveals a woman hidden beneath the terrible remnants of war. A woman. What does that even mean? This vicious world doesn’t care if I am male or female. It will chew me up and spit me from its mouth all the same. An equal opportunity for each of us to find death waiting at the end of a gun or knife inside the next dark alley at the hands of an elitist, a fanatic or a savage.
The toned muscles of my body tense as I carelessly brush the cloth across the edges of an open wound. Damnation. I gingerly touch the cloth to it. The faded strip of material collects flecks of dried blood. It hurts, but it’s superficial. No one asked me if I wanted this wound, but I received it anyway. The same way I came into my position as a leader with this group. It just happened. Faruq, Demitri, and me, along with Mos and Ghofaun and Denni ... We were so full of energy and purpose in those days. By our passion alone, and guided by the hands of Yeos the creator, we won the war against the Leader of the Graciles. But the terrorist Kapka left his mark. Etyom, and the lillipads above, fell. Most of us lost something—or everything—for our efforts.
I drop the cloth into the bowl and return the mirror to the floor. I’m tired and my clouded reflection makes me think too much. Lying back, I pull the scratchy wool over my exposed skin and allow my eyes to fix upon one point in the stone ceiling—a dark patch like a bit of spilled ink.
“Yeos, merciful father,” the prayer begins. Faith is all that remains of the old Mila Solokoff who went to war and became a leader of the resistance. I’ve tried so hard to not stray from the path of the Lightbringer. Yet, with every decision made, with every life lost, His guiding voice becomes harder to discern. Sleep creeps upon me, a drifting blanket of warmth and exhaustion.
Don’t dream tonight, Mila.
I lean forward to the flame of the candle jumping from a wick grown too long and, with a puff of breath, darkness.
