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MILA
Back out in the frigid wind, I shudder and push the temple door closed behind Husniya. The storm has subsided for the moment and I can almost make out the blue sky beyond the wisps of threaded clouds. Down the uneven snow-draped rock steps, Husniya and I do our best to not slip on a patch of ice and tumble to our deaths. The journey is precarious and slow. I’ve only just reached the bottom of the stairs when a young boy runs toward us from across the way. Not older than ten years, he’s disheveled and scrawny. It’s all too familiar. Criminals use kids like this to distract—right before a guy with an iron bar lays you out and lightens you of your belongings.
Eyes up, Mila.
The market, the entrance to the mines, the men gathered around a nearby burn barrel. All clear. I scan the boy for an explosive belt, guilt in my chest rising over deeming him a possible terrorist threat.
Husniya, oblivious, talks without reservation.
“Hang on, Hus,” I say, holding up my hand. “Be ready.”
“For wha—”
“Just be ready.”
The boy pulls his hand from his jacket. In his grasp is a small folded piece of paper.
“You’re Mila?” he says, his breath huffing out in small clouds of steam.
“No, you’ve got the wrong person, kid.”
He stands there, bewildered, hand outstretched. “But she said Mila would be coming out from the Vestal sanctuary. She described you.”
“Who’s she?” I pluck the note from his little fingers.
“The beautiful lady. She gave me three copper coins to run the note to you. That’s all. Honest.”
I unroll the bit of parchment, brow knitted.
Outside the East entrance.
Turn left. Five minutes.
Tell no one.
The intrigue alone has me, but there’s no way I’m going. Not like this. I crumple the parchment and drop it to the ground. The sour look on the kid’s mug deepens.
“Go find this beautiful lady and tell her I don’t do clandestine.”
“Clay—what?”
“Just tell her I’m not coming, okay?”
The kid squirms. “No way lady. I’m not going back outside the wall.”
I pull a wad of old soggy dollars from my pocket and refold them. “No?”
The kid’s eyes widen and he rubs his hands nervously. “Um, yes, I mean. I can try to find her for you.”
“I don’t want to trouble you.”
“Oh no, you’re not troubling me, honest.” The kid licks his lips, no doubt thinking of all he could have to eat for a single Etyom dollar.
“Then make it happen.” I unfold two dollars and extend them.
He grabs for the cash. “Yes. I mean, yes, miss. I’ll take care of it. Thank you, miss.” He runs off, little shoes stabbing into the snow and slipping on the ice.
“Let’s go, Hus. We’re being watched. Keep your eyes forward. We’re just two people leaving town.”
We trudge through the ramshackle streets full of garbage and ruin, past the rows of fragile shanties, until nearing the main gate I veer left, pulling Husniya down a cramped alleyway.
“What?” she protests.
“Just be quiet and follow me.”
At the end of the alley is an abandoned two-story sloop bar. For a moment, I’m back at Clief’s place, bouncing drunken miners or helping the old man wipe down the tables. It wasn’t much but it felt like family, like I belonged somewhere—for a while.
This one has been closed for some time.
“What is this place?” Husniya says, following me to the door. “It looks terrible.”
“It’s a sloop dive—or was.”
“What’s sloop?”
I jiggle the doorknob. “Fermented mash of beetroot and midget potatoes. Dangerous stuff if you don’t make it just right.” The door jerks open with a sharp shove from my shoulder. The mustiness of the dank interior seeps out. I slip in and make a beeline for the stairs and traverse them one rickety step at a time. At the top and down a dust-laden corridor is a wooden window hatch looking over the East side of the outer wall. We prop it open. Below, where the note said to meet, a small armed contingent waits. They seem to be led by a woman. She has a familiar aura, standing tall and regal, her arms crossed.
“A trap. I knew it,” I say, searching for other threats.
But there’s something different about this little militia. The realization like a slap in the face. She’s a sarding Gracile. The others aren’t though. They’re so frozen in place it’s unnatural. I’ve seen that before as well. Creed.
“That’s a Gracile isn’t it?” Husniya’s voice is only a whisper.
“Yep.”
“And Creed soldiers,” she says, shaking her head in disbelief. “Tell me we’re not going down there, Mila. I don’t want anything to do with them.”
I say nothing and analyze the small group. The tall woman with the proud face and sweeping garments is the leader. But who is she? Nothing makes any sense since the lillipads came down. It used to be for better or worse everyone knew their place and what they could expect from certain factions. The falling of New Etyom and my meeting Demitri changed all that. Now I don’t know what to expect from anyone, much less a Gracile.
When was the last time anyone even saw a Gracile—or Creed for that matter?
The messenger boy rounds the edge of the wall. The Creed’s plasma rifles rise from under their cloaks. The boy slows, his eyes wide with fear. The woman raises a hand and the sentries lower their weapons. She motions the boy closer. He comes to a stop, looking like a baby’s doll compared with the massive soldiers around him. The woman bends and they exchange words, the boy shaking his head as he tells her I’m not coming. She takes it in, saying nothing, then stands. Her shoulders slumped, she motions for the boy to leave. Needing no further inspiration, the little lad spins and flees in the opposite direction, back to the relative safety of the enclave.
That wasn’t annoyance. She was disappointed. But why?
“Husniya, do you have any rifle rounds left?”
“Just one,” she grabs a fistful of my jacket sleeve.
“What?”
There’s fear in the girl’s face. “Mila, I don’t want to kill anyone else. Please.”
I meet her tearful gaze and give her a pat on the back. “If everything goes right, you won’t have to. Just let them see you up here when I point.”
“They could kill you,” she says as I pull a Makarov pistol from my sling bag and shove it in my waistband.
I turn from the window with a shrug. “Yeah, they could.”
***
My hands are in the air as I round the enclave wall. The Creed notice me first, their bulbous metallic plasma rifles leveling in my direction. In sync, their hollow robotic voices call out.
“Identify Robust—Mila Solokoff, resistance leader, dissident. Female is armed with a semi-automatic small caliber pistol and may have hostile intentions. Standing by for orders to initiate deconstruction.”
Deconstruction. Hearing the word spoken by a Creed this many years later still gives me the creeps.
“Not at this time. Thank you,” the tall Gracile woman says.
The Creed drop their rifles to a low ready, but I’m no fool. They’re still locked on me. Any sudden moves and poof, I’m pixie dust.
“Not at this time? When then? In thirty seconds when I don’t like what you have to say?” I lower my hands slowly.
“That depends on how you choose to behave,” the woman says.
“One might say that lane goes both directions,” I reply, motioning to the open window. The woman shifts to see Husniya two stories up, supporting a long-bolt action rifle. Half of the Creed contingent raise their rifles toward Husniya.
“Identify Robust—Unknown Musul female, possible resistance member, armed with a—”
“Yes, I can see her. Standby,” the Gracile female says, irritated.
The Creed soldiers stand fast.
“Deconstruct me if you wish. But you’re the one who called me out. You’ll never learn what you needed to know, and your Creed won’t be able to stop my sniper before she blasts the contents of your skull into the snow.”
A moment passes. The Gracile woman gives a wave of her hand, and the Creed lower their rifles.
“How poetic. Spoken like a true survivor,” she says.
The Gracile puts one hand on her hip, shifting her weight to one foot. Just beneath the hood of her heavy cloak, picturesque chocolate-colored ringlets of hair encapsulate the perfect features of her face. The overly long legs, the flawless feminine features. Did I always hate Gracile women this much?
Get on with it, Mila. “What do you want? I’m a busy person.”
“I need to speak with you. I need to know something.” Her face is cold and calculating, but her voice seems earnest.
“Let me stop you right there.” I raise a gloved hand. Graciles are all the same. Always speaking in florid riddles. “Whatever you’ve got to say, say it. Stop wasting my time and get to the point.”
The wind picks up, whipping dusty waves of snow across the Vapid.
“My name is Oksana. I need to find my mate’s neo-brother, Demitri. I understand you knew him before the fall.”
In an instant, the entire tone of the meeting shifts. The skin of my neck tingles with a chill. I hold up my fist and from the corner of my eye see Husniya lower her rifle. Casting a glance over each shoulder, I turn back to the Gracile woman.
“Why should I help you find Demitri? For all I know, you want to kill him. Just like every other Gracile did.”
She eyes me, confusion etched into her face. “I need to know what happened. I need to know why Nikolaj died. Demitri can tell me. The word is you were the last person to see him alive before everything fell. In exchange, I have information you might be interested in.”
“What could you know that I would care about?”
“I hear you’re looking for a Musul Robust, a man by the name Faruq?”
The already cold air seems to freeze solid. My breathing stops and my heart falters. Could she know something? Can’t risk losing this lead. “We should discuss this in a more secure location.”
“I agree,” Oksana says with a slight bow.
“I know a place. Follow me and keep out of sight.”
