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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.”
[Of course. I will accel—]
[What are you doing out here?] a female voice says, the owner sliding in front of the eyes of my traitor.
You. There you are. She rests arrogantly on one leg, her hands on her hips, staring with those beady little eyes.
Mila! Sard it all, my demon cries.
She cannot hear you, peacock. You only serve to give our infiltrator a headache.
The window to the inside of Opor swirls as the Rat shakes his head, attempting to make sense of all the voices.
[You should be in the training room with everyone else,] Mila says.
The Rat brings his head up and once again her hardened eyes stare back at us. The pink scar cutting its path across her face. Her nose and ears full of metal. A streak of purple in her short hair. Disgusting. Not even remotely arousing.
The eyes of the Rat swivel left, his gaze falling on the slender form of a female with long dark hair and eyes like krig. She’s younger than the frowning sow next to her, and there’s something exotic about her. Not bad. Now this one I could make use of.
Husniya! Demitri squawks.
Ahh, the Musul girl you cared for—unnaturally so, I might add. But look at her now. Ready for my use. Can you imagine? How delicious, to see the betrayal on her face as the Gracile who cared for her now chooses to steal her innocence.
You’re despicable, Vedmak, my demon cries. That’s a child you’re talking about. Does your depravity know no end?
Peacock, it runs deeper than you know. Now stop your endless braying.
[Well?] The disgusting sow asks again, prompting a response from the Rat.
[Yeah, I had to step out. I’m going back in now,] the Rat says. [Sorry].
Mila frowns. [Sorry? You hit your head or something? When are you ever sorry, Giahi?]
My demon’s panic can almost be felt in the heart beating in this Gracile chest. Giahi. He’s working with you?
“Don’t blow it, Rat,” I say, ignoring Demitri.
My spy seems to gather his senses. [Sard off, Mila. I said I’m going back in. Where are you two going all dressed up?”]
[If I thought you should know, I’d have told you. Now go. You can use the training. You’ve gotten sloppy lately,] Mila fires back.
[Whatever you say, your majesty]. The view tips downward in a mocking bow and whirls one hundred and eighty degrees as Giahi opens a door and slips inside. Then, he whispers a single word before disconnecting: [Soon].
The images fade away and are once again replaced by the snow-covered landscape before me.
You have Giahi on the inside? How did I not know this? Mila has to get out of there. What are you going to do?
“I have been perfecting the Red Mist. Silencing you completely is almost possible. One of the many reasons I need the Alchemist.”
Silence me?
Foolish boy, believing I need you.
A howl in the distance.
“Rippers,” Aeron says, patting his brother on the shoulder. “Time for some fun, brother?”
Merodach grunts his approval.
“No.” I scowl. “We move.”
***
For several kilometers, the Rippers track us. Zopat only having one entrance on its south side means we have to trek the perimeter to make it to the lillipad. Our length of stride has kept us ahead until now. In shadows of the snowdrifts and outcroppings, they slink along our trail, gaining pace and closing distance. A fleeting glimpse as they dart between points of cover, but never seem brave enough to face us.
“They follow us still,” Aeron says, throwing a glance over his shoulder.
“Keep moving. The snow is deep and we still have ground to cross before the Alchemist is secure,” I say. “These weasels are too afraid to come straight at us, but they will steal her from us for the meat alone, if they are able. Isn’t that right?” I shout to the swirling ice cloaking us in its frozen embrace.
The wind pulls at us, thrashing our tattered cloaks and cutting to the bone. The Alchemist groans, her frail body still hanging limply over my shoulder.
“The real horror is best left to those with the constitution to see it through. Don’t you agree?” I shout again, raising a fist as we trudge along. “But not you, pathetic wretches. You lost your nerve ever since I took the head of your chieftain. So be a pack of good dogs and go along now. That, or make your play.” My words disappear into the whipping of the growing storm. “See? What did I tell—”
The crack of a rifle is heard only an instant before the whining zip of flying lead buzzes past. I shrug the Alchemist from my shoulder, and she crumples to the ground with a grunt of pain. I drop low to the snow, eyes up, scanning. Aeron and Merodach follow suit.
Aeron groans. “I thought Rippers didn’t use firearms?” There is a tinge of fear in his voice.
We are biological perfection, but a chunk of lead traveling at more than seven hundred meters per second still has the ability to rend each of us lifeless.
Get out of here. They’re shooting at us! Demitri shouts, his shrill voice stoking the swarming feeling of total madness.
“I know that, fool. Just a single scavenged weapon. That was probably the only projectile they had anywa—”
Another crack echoes across the snow-swept landscape. A puff of crystalline powder pops from the ground between Merodach and my pilfered Gracile body, ice raining down and sliding into my collar. Sard. “Make for the lillipad. Do not stop for anything,” I say, grabbing a fistful of the Alchemist’s clothes and slinging the frail bag of bones over my shoulder again. In this powerful right fist, the unlit laser scythe stands ready.
Aeron and Merodach say nothing, rising and pulling their weapons from their thigh holsters.
“Run, but do not ignite. The glow of your weapons will make you easier to track in the storm.”
With a grunt, Merodach shoves forward, carving a trench in the fresh powder with his heavy boots. Aeron and I follow, the Alchemist on my shoulder. Another rifle cracks, the zip of the projectile coming far too close.
Cowards. Come closer and see what fate has in store for you.
“Less than a half kilometer,” Aeron shouts over his shoulder.
“Then get on with it,” I say. “You both are supposed to be the pinnacle of human achievement. Show me something.”
“Go, Merodach,” Aeron says to his brother. “Let us show the Vardøger what we can do.”
Merodach grunts, the grin on his face signaling his approval of the challenge ahead. With a movement built of sheer power, my titans blitz headfirst. I follow, forcing this body to its limit, these Gracile legs burning with the effort as they stab into the drifts.
Screams. They are coming for us.
Maybe there is war still in these pathetic savages. The Alchemist is all that matters. We do not need this fight right now. But I cannot help the grin that spreads across this face. Stop us if you can, urchins.
Something strikes Demitri’s jaw with the impact of a war hammer. A perfect shot. I pitch forward, stumbling, the voice of my Gracile demon ringing in my ears. Demitri’s body manages to right itself and struggles onward.
Another blunt impact strikes in the ribs and I spin around.
“Face me!” I scream.
A little masked gremlin covered in animal furs whoops and loads another rock in his sling as he tries to keep up. The rough projectile strikes me in the back with a spike of pain. Sarding primitives. I can’t stop to engage him.
Aeron slows, the savages nearly upon us. “Vardøger ...”
“I said stop for nothing. Form up and drive through them.”
“Yes, Vardøger,” Aeron says as he and Merodach step to the center a few meters ahead of me, creating an inverted wedge between the three of us.
“Let them feel your might,” I order.
Aeron lets lose a savage battle cry as he and Merodach plow into the line of howling Rippers.
Another bullet whines past, passing with a sting through the flesh of Demitri’s lower leg. This time I can see the shooter; a Ripper in a red mask with a painted skull covering his face, running away having taken the potshot.
My leg. They shot me! What are you doing? You’re going to get me killed.
“I’ll remember you, cave dweller,” I bawl, the rage boiling over inside this body.
Ahead, at full stride, Merodach knocks three of them back with a swing of his unlit mace. A howling savage leaps at Aeron, but my titan grabs it and flings it back, knocking down a swath of its comrades. We power through their pitiful onslaught, leaving them to scramble after us like a pack of deranged children.
“Aeron, the tear is ahead. Cover me with a distraction,” I call, these perfect lungs laboring for oxygen.
Reaching to his belt, Aeron spins off to the left, releasing a boomstick into the midst of our attackers. A deafening concussion echoes like the blast of a cannon across the hills, followed by the sustained strobing flash of its magnesium insert. The simple-minded kozels closest to the device fall prostrate in the deepening drifts. Others scramble over themselves, screaming of magic as they run for the hills.
I win. Again.
Merodach stomps off into the thickening wall of sleet that surrounds us, to find the fold in the cloaking material hanging over the entrance to the tunnel through the ice wall. A moment later, a sliver of light opens like a wound in the fabric of the atmosphere. Merodach’s massive silhouette fills the fluorescent tear. I adjust the woman on my shoulder and power on, through the gap and into the safety of the tunnel. Merodach waits for his brother to clear it, then drops the material once again, concealing the entrance.
The slamming heart in this magnificent body slows as I shrug the Alchemist to the ground and slap the shoulder plates of each of my standards.
Nothing can stop me now.
