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VEDMAK
The youth stumbles along, crying incessantly. The cobbled-together chain is not enough to choke her but still cuts into her soft flesh. The other end of the shackle is attached to the leather strap that usually holds my scythe, jangling against these ever-weakening legs. Just above her throat, the crackling plasma scythe hovers.
The Ripper women follow me like a herd of cattle, mewing for their offspring. It’s garnered the attention of the males, who have come out of hiding. A tribe of them—some thirty strong—encircle me but never approach. They keep their weapons trained, moving as I move, yet none have the fortitude to make their move. Who knew these creatures were so sentimental? The power of parenthood overpowers their animalistic nature. Pathetic. To think I once held a glimmer of respect for these goblins. If it were me, I would have taken the shot, and risked the whelp.
Not even Rippers are as evil as you Vedmak, you realize that? What does that make you?
Better. It makes me better.
A larger male, adorned in all manner of bones and leather—presumably made from Robust skin—makes a move toward me. My scythe coughs plasma, leaving black pockmarks on the child’s face. The girl wails again and the women shriek.
The male holds my gaze, his piercing blue eyes full of fury and fear. There’s no telling when my weapon will cease to function, the battery all used up. Now, it’s a game of poker. Who breaks first?
Just stay away. He’ll do it.
The Ripper backs off, but never breaks his stare. Coward.
Slowly, but steadily, I shuffle toward the large entranceway to the power station. The closer I become, the more distance the Rippers put between us. They waddle and squirm, chattering among themselves. Stepping backward to the door, I nearly trip over something. A brief stumble, but manage to regain balance. There in the grass is a dead Ripper, his skin pale, blistered and weeping. He’s not been eaten, his clothes still intact. Even his old revolver sits in a holster strapped to his chest.
Radiation poisoning. Gil said it was leaking. It’s why they won’t come closer. They know it makes them sick. It’ll be the end of us.
Did you not design this body to be strong, Gracile?
I didn’t design anything. And it is strong. It’s still standing isn’t it? But radiation poisoning is something different. It’ll kill us, eventually.
I can repair the damage once we are back at the lab.
If you make it back.
Some pursuits are worth the risk, boy.
Backing into the doorway, and keeping the child close, I use the stump of this mangled arm to wedge against the handle and pull the door open. My scythe coughs a final time and snuffs out. There’s a terrible moment of silence, all eyes on me. It feels like an eternity, as if I were once again trapped in the void. The Ripper who felt brave before now finds his courage and comes for me. I throw the scythe to the ground and dash forward. The child crashes down as well. In one smooth movement, I grab the handle of the dead Ripper’s wheel gun and slide it out. The gun barks and the Ripper’s thigh explodes. I spring to my feet, the gun pointed at the child’s head as I back into the doorway yet again. The Rippers scream and yell. Once again, using the cauterized stump I open the door.
Let the child go, they won’t follow us in. They’re too scared.
A quick glance at the sniveling child, then at the bawling Ripper women. I raise the gun and fire. The bullet shatters the makeshift chain, freeing the girl. In unison, the women give a screech of relief and the child begins to run toward her hysterical clan.
Thank you, Vedmak. Thank y—
The second shot strikes the back of the toddler’s skull and she falls, tumbling lifelessly into the grass. The anguished screams of the Rippers are deafening, at least until the door slams shut between us.
You sick, sarding, son of a bitch! Why? Why?
I need them suitably volatile, an appropriate welcoming committee for the so-called leader of Opor.
I hate you. I won’t let you live. I’ll kill us, I swear it to you.
Promises, promises, foolish boy. The bringer of death cannot be killed.
***
Navigating the inside of the station should be easy—but it’s not. With the convenient directional signage and knowledge of Soviet nuclear reactors sponged from Demitri’s consciousness, I should be able to move like a trained rat through a maze. Yet, my concentration wanes like the phases of the moon. I’m never fully in the light—in control. Without the Red Mist, the weakling in here with me fights, however feebly. His hatred for my deeds following the death of the child gives renewed resolve to his battle.
Sard off, Vedmak. You’re sick. A monster.
I try to block out his incessant nagging and focus on the task at hand: contact the Rat; contact Merodach; find the uranium. Covering one ear, as if it will block out his piercing voice, I trudge on. The corridors are wide with high ceilings and feel distinctly industrial. I pass lockers and shower rooms, all stark and functional. Overhead, pipes of different colors line the walls and mounted boxes flash their individual strobing lights, but nothing is superfluous. Everything in its place, and a place for everything.
Through a double set of doors is an enormous gallery humming with activity. It’s the Turbine Hall. The turbines sit in massive light-blue metal boxes, while the generator is the darker blue container next to them. The droning comes from super-heated steam, driving the rotor in the electrical generator. Why do I give a sard about this?
This is your mind, boring kozel. Full of useless information. No wonder you never lay with a woman.
I spit on the floor in disgust.
Because of you, I have laid with a woman. And because of you, I never will again.
You really are a miserable whining child. Now quit your braying, the control room is ahead.
Inside is a sea of indicators and actuators. A bench of instruments forms an inner circle, leaving a walking space between it and the dial-covered walls. Several monitors and keypads have been affixed to the bench and seem to supplement the reactor controls. I meander to the nearest monitor playing the same few frames in grainy black and white over and over. It’s a camera feed from somewhere else. The entrance to Vel.
A few keystrokes, within increasingly itchy fingers, and the feed unfreezes. On the screen, the pressurized door to Vel pops open and through it streams a mass of panicked people, falling over one another like Siberian hamsters. I move closer, studying the pixilated video. No, not just people—Graciles.
Graciles? Graciles came to Vel?
The skinny addict said this was a Gracile facility. They probably fled for their sad little lives when the lillipads came down and this was the first place they thought of coming. Do you know any of these tragic wretches?
He refuses to reply.
A troop of Velian guards meet the Graciles, but the enhanced humans roll over the Robusts like a bovine stampede. They were scared of something. Seconds later, the mystery is revealed as hordes of Rippers pile in through the narrow gap behind the Graciles, crushing skulls, slicing bellies and breaking limbs. The damn fools left the door open, let the rabid animals in and sealed their own fate. In gritty flickering images, the slaughter of the Graciles and Velians plays out. The video skips back to the beginning and the massacre starts over.
There is nothing more to learn here. I turn away from the camera feed, searching the control panel. Demitri’s knowledge bleeds into my own, though he is attempting to stem the flow and hinder my understanding. The readouts become blurred. Must focus. These instruments show that the shutdown procedure was initiated but ... something went wrong. It didn’t complete. Internal radiation levels are at ten thousand rad. What does that mean?
It means we’re already dead. Two days, two weeks. But soon. Of course, that’s after our skin sloughs off, and we vomit and defecate ourselves into a dried-up husk.
The skin on the back of the only hand I have left is already reddening. Death is but an inconvenience to overcome. My lab can fix this body.
If we make it out alive.
There must be a way of reaching outside the enclave. A way the Graciles would have managed to communicate with the Velians. Think, must think. I need more stim to activate this brain ...
Brain, yes. A neural link.
You don’t have Merodach to act as your proxy.
No, but I have this.
A cord snakes out from the dash and hangs off the edge. I grab it up and bite down near the connecting end. I push up my sleeve with Demitri’s cauterized stump, and awkwardly shove the connector into the port near his elbow, saliva drooling all over it.
There’s a moment of nothing, but then my consciousness is alive. It’s like being on a stim, the neurons in this skull firing rapidly as the brain connects to the web. In here, our consciences are more separated. Demitri’s digital shadow, his skygge, the Graciles called it, stands before me—a glowing apparition set against a construct of hallways and portals no doubt designed to organize this digital world and prevent people from going crazy in a sea of information. This is why he was always afraid. Another Gracile seeing two digital shadows emanating from the same host. No one to worry about now. The neural-web is devoid of skygge. No other souls in here. After the lillipads fell, the Graciles abandoned it for fear of being located. Some Robusts jacked into it and became lost to the expanse, forever roaming until their biological bodies finally withered and died.
Opor still monitors for activity. They’ll know you’re here.
Not if I’m fast and use the backdoor.
I’ll make enough noise in here for Yeos Himself to hear.
No, you won’t. Your skygge is tied to mine—you’re unable to make your will known. I remember the feeling well, when our roles were reversed.
In unison both my and Demitri’s skygge place a hand on the nearest wall, which glows brightly with virtual neurons firing pulses back and forth. The cluster of digital cells around our fingers burns bright, until they migrate and reorder into a new rectangle—a new door. It flashes white and opens. We step through into the dark.
After a few moments, the gloom is burned away and our skygge fade, so that now we occupy a new host and see what he sees as if it were our body. The inner sanctum of Opor is before us.
“I am here, Rat,” I say.
[Vardøger? No, no, now is not good—you can’t be here].
The view darkens and only a rock-hewn wall greets me as the Rat hides in a corner.
“Where is the ugly sow?”
[She’s not here. She went after Husniya, and the Musul Faruq. They received intelligence on his whereabouts].
“She’s not on her way to Vel already? This actually works in my favor. Two chances to kill her. Now is the time to make your move. Remove the old man.”
[Now? I’m not sure he’s far enough along].
“Now, Rat. If fate is on my side, she’ll die looking for her Musul pet. If not, when she returns urge her to come to Vel. And when she does, I’ll be waiting. Make sure she brings a minimal party. She’ll die chasing a doomed operation and you’ll finally have Opor. Fail me on any of these points, and you’ll watch your gizzards empty onto your feet.”
[Yes ... yes Vardøger], he stutters.
A single thought to leave, and everything once again fades to black except for the doorway through which we came. Our skygge step through and we are once again in the corridor.
“Now to contact Merodach and bring my Einherjar here to collect our prize.”
And you think you’re going to be able to simply pull the uranium from the reactor?
Simple Demitri, your own consciousness has told me all I need to know. Lucky for us, the Soviets’ design is simple and allows removal without a complete shutdown. Merodach will come and take me and the payload back to operations.
This broken Gracile shell suddenly convulses. I hack hard, coughing blood onto the console.
Like I said. If we make it out.
