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MILA
Dark descends like a bird of prey, in its talons a numbing cold that steals the last of the sun’s life-giving warmth. The Road of Death will be our grave after all. Yet, at this moment, death is not a flame-wreathed messenger of evil, but a release. It calls to me, promising eternal respite if I just lie down in the snow.
“Come, Mila,” Ghofaun says. “Lay down here and you will never return to us.”
I don’t respond or can’t. Not sure which.
Ghofaun swivels in place, a shrunken Husniya wedged beneath his arm. “We have to find shelter or we’ll die out here. This way.”
Ahead and away from the road, a swath of black stone sweeps up, pushing through the ice in the form of a knobby outcropping.
Ghofaun points to it. “If we sit with our backs to the rock, that short overhang will provide a break from the falling snow.”
“It won’t ... matter if this wind can still have at us,” I manage.
Ghofaun wedges Husniya under the large, black rock and starts to rummage inside his pack. “That’s why I grabbed this.” The monk pulls a bundle of red canvas attached to interspersed wooden stakes.
“A windbreak,” I mumble. We may live a while longer, though who knows if that’s a good thing.
I grab one end and move in the opposite direction of Ghofaun, pulling the canvas break open. Ghofaun does the same. We jam the stakes into the hard ground with what little strength we have left.
In the dark, I slump to the ground next to Husniya.
“Stay with her.” Ghofaun pats my knee. “I’ll be right back.”
Minutes pass, but it feels like an eternity. Unable to move, all I can do is watch the images behind my eyelids flicker like an old moving picture show. Memories I don’t want anymore. Faruq and little Husniya crying for help in that dingy Baqirian alley. The way my Musul friend had smiled when he was into some bit of mischief. How my face flushed when he held my hand ...
“Here we are.” Ghofaun drops a pile of pitiful-looking sticks and dried dead brush. “It’s not much, but it may hold a flame.” The monk arranges a pad of dead moss and wiry scrub with a little tent of sticks over it.
I want to help but can no longer move my limbs.
From his pocket, he produces a single Draganov round and holds it up for me to see. Ghofaun pries the bullet open, pours the gunpowder onto the moss bed and braces the shell lip on a stick over it. Pressing the point of his knife to the primer, he manages the little balancing act for a moment before lightly striking the end of the knife with the latrine shovel.
There’s a pop and a little shower of sparks from the bursting primer. With a whoosh the gunpowder takes. An involuntary gasp escapes my lips as I squint from the flash. Yet as quickly as it comes, the fire is gone, replaced by a smoldering pile of embers. Much like our brief time on this Earth—a flash of light, an opportunity for great good, immense evil, or worse, selfish nothingness. And just like that, our light too, for better or worse, goes out.
The monk leans close, whispering to the flame with gentle breaths, coaxing the sparks to live again. A small finger of fire takes hold on the moss bed. Rebirth. Renewal. The light begins again, feeble but growing. It knows nothing else, only the perpetual act of pressing back against the darkness. That is its only purpose. It knows not of the endless cold in which it exists and will never overcome.
Water drips away from my skin like thawing frozen meat. With great effort, I’m able to move my fingers again. Husniya sits unmoving, her eyes wide, hypnotized by the jumping and popping of the small fire. On the other side of the fire, the monk removes his wet overcoat and sets it aside to dry.
Ghofaun pulls some items from his bag. In a small bowl, he pours some almost-frozen water followed by a packet of medicinal herbs. Mixing furiously, the herbs soak up the water turning to a brownish paste. “Your arm,” he says.
“It’s fine.” I pin the useless appendage to my body.
“No, it is not.” Ghofaun levels his gaze at me. “The flesh will turn black and we will have to remove the limb. Let me see it.”
Ghofaun gently pushes my sleeve back to the biceps. The wound is not large, but it does go all the way through.
He grabs a small flask of sloop from his bag. Ghofaun holds it up. It’s not for drinking. A splash of sloop across the wound causes me to howl, fire coursing through my arm, my free hand clawing at the rock.
“It’s okay, Mila. That’s all,” Ghofaun says, packing the wound with the paste. “You’re lucky it was only a piece of the copper jacket and not a whole bullet that hit you.” The monk finishes wrapping the wound with clean cloths, tying them tight and helping me back into my coat. “And your leg?”
I shake my head.
He eyes the bullet graze on my thigh and gives a slight bow, then takes a seat on the other side of Husniya.
Must sleep. It doesn’t matter if I wake.
***
Cold light bleeds between my half-closed eyelids. The fire smolders, smoke rising, the last of the warmth fading. Without it, the early morning chill has invaded our shelter with cunning stealth, nipping at my face and sinking into my heavy garments. I heave myself from the ground but don’t make it to my feet. Husniya still sleeps. But Ghofaun is already up, packing his belongings. Has he stood watch over us all night? Not that there’s anyone out here beyond the walls.
I swing a bleary-eyed gaze across the horizon.
Panic fills my chest, stopping my heart. There’s a man standing at the edge of the road, his long black robe lying in piles at his feet, a staff with a long sickle by his side. His heavy hood flops low, obscuring his face. His bony hand reaches out, beckoning me.
“Ghofaun, there’s a man ...” I start, my voice trailing away as I look to my friend and back to where the robed man had been.
“What is it, Mila?” Ghofaun says, his voice exhausted but full of patience.
The road is empty. “Thought I saw something.”
“How are you feeling?” he says, pushing the last few items into his shoulder bag.
I grunt, checking the bandage on my forearm and flexing my fingers. “Still alive—thanks to you.”
He says nothing.
“You held watch for us all night?”
Ghofaun dips his head. “I spent most of the night in the deepest levels of Chum Lawk meditation. It is not the same as sleep, but my chi allowed me to recover some while still remaining vigilant for threats.”
“You joined in our fight, saved our lives from the elements, and watched over us as we slept.” I bow my head to the warrior monk. “You are one, at least, whose loyalty knows no end.”
Ghofaun sets his pack aside. “What happened yesterday injured me. I can’t imagine how it wounded both of you.”
His words are like a fresh slice into an unhealed wound, every ounce of pain newly remembered. There’s a throbbing in the pit of my stomach. I’d rather die than feel this.
I can only grunt.
“Give it time.” Ghofaun dips his head. “Time heals all wounds.”
Not this wound. Need to change the subject. Turning, I place my hand on Husniya and give her a little shake. “Get up.”
“I said I don’t need you to treat me like a baby,” she shouts, swiping my arm away.
I sit back with my hands raised.
The teen sits up, wiping the sleep from her eyes, her face becoming red in a deepening blush. “I’m ... that wasn’t for ... Damnation, just forget about it.” She starts to gather her things together.
“Master Ghofaun saved our lives.”
“Thank you, Master,” Husniya interrupts, blowing past both of us as she stomps her way down to the road.
The snow has stopped for now, but the sky has darkened with heavy clouds. Through the gray half-light of the early morning, we take off down the Road of Death back in the direction of Etyom, all the way following the tracks of the ornery teen. It takes Ghofaun and me longer than expected to catch up with Husniya moving with anger-filled purpose.
“Husniya, wait for us,” I call out.
She continues to forge ahead.
Sard it all. She’s going to walk right into a—
The girl stops dead in her tracks, hands raised above her head. Ghofaun and I pick up the pace.
Not far ahead is the female Gracile, Oksana, her Creed marching along with their weapons raised. The woman looks less than perfect. Her boots and cloak are muddy, her face so drained of life she almost resembles the troop of frozen Creed.
“You people again.” I shake my head. “Don’t worry, Oksana, I’m using the term people loosely. No need for any of you to be offended.”
The Gracile says nothing, her gaze cold and tired.
“Lower your weapons,” Zaldov says. “Mila Solokoff and her friends are our allies.”
Husniya starts off again, prompting me to grab a fist-full of her jacket. “Wait, Hus.”
The girl spins into me, her jab coming right up the center nearly striking my chin. Before I can stop myself, the flat of my hand lands hard across her face. The slap knocks her to the ice. She grunts and flails, wide-eyed.
My forearm throbs with waves of radiating pain. Ghofaun’s gentle pressure on my shoulder pulls me back to reality.
“What is wrong with you?” I snap at the girl.
Ghofaun helps Husniya up.
My heart aches. Damnation, Mila. She’s been through enough already without you slapping her.
“Me? What’s wrong with you? How come you never told me? You had a chance to rescue him and you didn’t.”
Words fail to come.
“I don’t need you. Any of you.” Husniya shrugs Ghofaun off, tears running down her face. She turns and continues stomping down the road.
“Mila.” Oksana takes a step forward. “I need to speak with you. The game has changed.”
“Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but as you can see, I’ve got my own problems right now.” I motion to Husniya.
There’s an uncomfortable silence.
“I will look after Husniya.” Zaldov’s sterile voice breaks the stillness.
I stare at the strange Creed, then back at Oksana who nods.
“I am incapable of harming those with whose care I’m charged, Mila Solokoff,” Zaldov says plainly.
“Go then and let us talk,” Oksana commands.
“Affirmative,” Zaldov echoes, marching away after Husniya.
Ghofaun stands with his arms folded, observing with narrow untrusting eyes.
“I take it you couldn’t get out ... again.” I motion to her mud-soaked cloak.
The Gracile’s eyes narrow. “And I assume your attempt to rescue your friend was a failure, since he’s not with you?”
Heat flows from my scalp down my face. The desire to reach out and slap this Gracile is almost more than I can bear. “If you want to say something, you’d better get on with it.”
Oksana steps to the side, revealing a woman, a Robust woman, who looks strangely like me. The athletic even boyish body-type, the short dark hair. This woman even has a scar across her eye that leads back towards her ear. It’s like I’m looking at my reflection in a piece of cracked glass. But not a real reflection—there’s something dark and distorted about her, as though she’s been entangled with something evil for far too long.
The questions tumble out. “What is this? Why does she look like me? Who are you?”
“My name is Anastasia,” the woman replies. Her voice even sounds a little like mine.
“I don’t like this. Somebody better tell me what’s going on. Right now.”
“We encountered her on the road,” Oksana says. “She said she’d gotten lost trying to get to Fiori.”
“And?” I check the Robust woman over again. “Why did you care? Why should I?”
“She says she has a message for you from Demitri Stasevich.”
“That’s not possible.”
“It is,” Oksana says. “She wouldn’t reveal much to me, but what she did—it could be bad, Mila. You should hear her out.”
A wave of dread passes through my insides. He’s coming. It takes me a moment to master myself. “Demitri isn’t in control. How did he give you a message?”
“You are Mila?” Anastasia asks. Her voice is full of emotion, perhaps a longing to make sense of some madness her heart can’t reconcile. “He told me to find you.”
“Demitri did? Or—” I start.
“The Vardøger?” she offers. “He has two personalities, I know.”
“Vardøger?” Oksana and I say in unison.
“Don’t you mean Vedmak? Are you sure we’re talking about the same person?” I press.
Anastasia looks confused. “That’s what he demands to be called. The Vardøger.”
“But you spoke to Demitri? He regained control?”
“For a time,” Anastasia replies. There seems to be pain in her eyes.
She’s a bit slow, this one. “How did you know it was Demitri?”
“Because Demitri is soft and kind and gentle. Nothing like Vedmak, or the Vardøger, however you wish to call him. He was—is—trapped inside. Tormented. He promised to save me,” she says, taking a moment to master herself. “He kept his promise. Vedmak was hurt. Demitri regained control. Cut off his own hand to free me.”
Oksana looks to me for confirmation.
“Stress and injury do seem to shift the balance in his head,” I say.
“Whatever this Vedmak is does not align with the Creator’s work. Demitri is the angel sent to save me.”
The Creator? “Are you Logosian?”
She shakes her head, a frown creasing her forehead. “I would not associate with those self-righteous zealots. They believe their rituals are the only way to worship Yeos, but He is everywhere and in everything, and—”
“Let me stop you right there.” A deep breath in through my nose, the air cold and burning. Going to ignore that she called me a sarding zealot. “I don’t need a lecture on religion from a Soufreit.”
Anastasia crosses her arms and cocks her head. “You say the name of my people like we are not human. Like being wanderers and not having an enclave of our own makes us lesser. We are all creatures of Yeos. I may not be a Logosian, but I’d bet with that high-brow attitude, you are.”
“Okay,” Oksana interrupts. “We’re getting off track. I’d like to hear the message before you two go to pulling each other’s hair and scrambling around in the mud like a couple of rodents.”
Anastasia and I both turn, staring at the unamused elite. Graciles. I might still break her nose before the week is out. No one says anything for a while. I cast a glance at Ghofaun, who simply shakes his head. He knows better than to interject himself in this boiler pot.
We are still alone, but we can’t stand out here all day. My gaze falls back to Anastasia. She’s feisty, I’ll give her that. Question is, how did she end up with Demitri in the first place, and why were they in the Vapid?
“I don’t get it,” I start. “You say you know both Vedmak and Demitri, and your group was out on the road. If you really knew Vedmak, you’d be dead. What gives?”
A scowl darkens the woman’s features. “Vedmak kept me in chains for the last three years. Shackled naked in the dark, cowering in my fear and shame, never knowing when he’ll arrive to ...” She almost shakes with the words, her eyes welling up. “Demitri is the only reason I live at all. He fought Vedmak. For me.”
Oh, Demitri, no. A familiar pain stabs at my heart. Faruq and now this. What has become of my friends? Maybe if I’d found them sooner. If I had not given up.
“Well done, Mila,” Oksana says.
“Close your mouth, Gracile.” I hate myself enough already.
“Look,” Anastasia starts, wiping her face. “What’s past is prologue. Do you understand? It’s all part of Yeos’ plan.”
His plan. Does he truly have a plan for us? Am I part of it anymore?
“The Vardøger was headed somewhere,” Anastasia continues. “Demitri told me to find you.”
“So, she’s here. Spit it out already,” Oksana says.
Anastasia glares at haughty Oksana before continuing. “I didn’t understand it all. Demitri told me what’s happening is worse than the Gracile Leader’s plan. He said the Vardøger is creating an army of Graciles like him.”
“See,” Oksana says, looking to me. “Bad.”
“Wait, Vedmak is creating an army of Graciles with demons?” I ask.
Anastasia shrugs. “He said like him.”
“There aren’t enough adult Graciles to have an army that could take Etyom,” Oksana offers. “At least there weren’t before.”
“Is there a way for him to create new Graciles?” I ask.
“We used to grow new Graciles from gene maps. But all the lillipads came down, and likely destroyed the body farms,” Oksana says.
“Wouldn’t that take years?” I ask. “To grow a mature human, I mean.”
Oksana nods. “Yes, unless he’s found a way to accelerate it. Though I’m not a bioengineer. I don’t know how he’d do it.”
“We’ve got to stop him—”
“Wait,” Anastasia says. “There was one more thing.”
Oksana and I stare expectantly.
“Something about a VME?” the strange woman says, looking to us for recognition of the term.
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” I look to Oksana. The color is drained from her face. She understood all too well. “Well, what’s a VME?”
Oksana licks her lips and shakes her head as if making intricate calculations internally. “It’s complicated. I’ll try to explain this in a way you might understand.”
“Uh huh. Let’s have it.”
“A VME is a vacuum metastability event,” she says. “It’s a theory which suggests the universe exists in a fundamentally unstable state—that right now it’s teetering on the edge of stability. Some scientists once theorized that at a particular point, the universe will tip over the brink.”
“Okay, what the hell does that mean for us?” I ask.
“Well, when it happens, a bubble will appear. Think of it as an alternate universe. This alternate universe bubble will expand in all directions and wipe out everything it touches, destroying everything in our universe.”
You’ve got to be kidding. “And Vedmak is, what, going to initiate this?”
“Vedmak or the Vardøger, or whatever you want to call this lunatic, may not even know he’s doing it. Look, every time he creates a new clone, with the same abilities as Demitri’s—as you’ve explained them to me—it’s like making a crack in our universe. The more clones he creates, the more cracks until eventually the dimension or universe, from which this Vedmak comes, will come spilling into ours completely wiping it out.”
I’m having serious déjà vu here. First a black hole, now this? “Is it even possible?”
“Demitri seemed to think so.” Anastasia looks to me. “He was scared.”
“What would Vedmak need to be able to create enough clones to tip the balance?” I ask, turning to Oksana.
“To create an army of clones large and fast enough for Demitri to be worried about an imminent VME?” The Gracile blinks several times, again making rapid computations in her pretty head. “A lot of energy. Something like that would require a huge power source, but there’s nothing in Etyom that would be sufficient anymore. Nikolaj’s fusion reactors were destroyed.”
“When we were attacked in the Vapid, we were going to get something critical to continuing his work. He said it was in Vel,” Anastasia says.
My skin tingles. Pulling my sling bag around, I rifle through it, snatch out my PED and read Gil’s message again. I’d never responded to it. Sard. My eyes wide, I turn to Oksana. “Vel, Oksana.”
The Gracile stiffens with the terrible epiphany. “The nuclear stockpile. He could use it as a power source.”
Ghofaun touches my sleeve. “Mila, we have to get back and tell Bilgi and the others. Kapka may have wanted the nuclear stash, but if Vedmak has found it ...”
“We are all in grave danger,” Oksana says, her voice as thin as glass.
I hand my PED to Ghofaun. “Send an advance message to Bilgi for me. Tell him the basics and that we’re on our way back.”
Without a word, Ghofaun starts typing.
“Mila, you’ll need help. Scientific expertise for combating this, to be exact. Allow me to assist you,” Oksana says, this time with no air of superiority in her tone.
“Why would you want to help me, your majesty?”
The defiance returns to Oksana’s face. “How about I don’t trust the fate of the universe to a Robust?”
You can’t help but poke the bear, can you, Mila?
“And what about you?” the Gracile says, deflecting the tension to Anastasia.
The Soufreit shakes her head. “No. I can’t be part of this.”
“You can’t walk away now,” I say. “What about Demitri? If you cared for him at all, doesn’t he deserve to have the favor returned?”
Anastasia’s gaze softens, her eyes welling. I can’t tell if that’s fear of facing Vedmak again or guilt for abandoning Demitri.
Oksana doesn’t let the silence hang and opens her big mouth. “We can’t let you leave.”
“Let me?” Anastasia says, her face becoming a scowl. She turns, scanning the rolling hills of ice surrounding us. “Ussuri.”
A growl, deep and menacing, echoes from the hills around us. Every one of us locks in place.
My blood turns to ice. “What in creation was that?”
Oksana, half crouching, looks absolutely terrified. The Creed regiment stands ready, their glowing metallic plasma rifles primed.
“Lower your weapons. He was only answering me,” Anastasia says. “If he wanted to kill you, you’d be dead.”
“What the hell is an Ussuri?” Oksana manages to squeak.
Anastasia stands proudly as a massive beast, auburn and black, slides from behind the snowdrift where it’s been observing us this whole time. “Why does everyone keep asking that? Ussuri is his name.”
