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MILA
“Demitri!” My echoing scream disappears into the depths of the passage ahead. The black rock walls seem to amplify the air of oppression in this place. “Demitri, let me help you,” I shout in frustration, fingernails digging into my palms as I clench my fists.
He’s gone.
I’ve got to get out of this tomb and warn the others. If Vedmak is taking back over, he’s going to try to get out of Vel again with the nuclear power cells. I wheel around and jog in the opposite direction, a fragment of hope at a possible way out stuck in my mind. I’d passed an alcove while chasing my deranged friend. Can’t say for sure it’s what I think it is, but it bears checking out.
Retracing my steps, I slow my heart rate by controlling my breaths. My thoughts stretch in so many directions I fear my mind might shatter, the pieces of the person I used to be scattered and forgotten. Demitri is going to be the death of us both.
Why can’t he face his demon? Don’t have time for this. Damnation, my ribs ache.
An old wooden platform with a section of rail track leading up into another tunnel at an angle appears from the dark. My legs feel like lead, the muscles full of acid after all the running and jumping, not to mention the fall. My boots clunk up the steps to the short platform. There’s a cable attached to the front of the railcar. Of course. Maybe I can get in and it will winch me to the surface. Only one way to find out.
The rusted generator at the foot of the shaft silently collects dust. In the dim light of the single incandescent bulb hanging above the platform, I unscrew the gas cap and peer inside. Bone dry. Sard. “Great.” I huff, disgusted with my fortune. This generator hasn’t been used in ages. That should have been obvious since there’s no way to refine petrol anymore. Most machines run on electrical turbines or ...
Or, a nuclear power plant. Of course. The power is piped in.
Crouching, I check the console and brush away the thick dust coating. There. From under the box snakes a long hose, the black rubber coating flaking with dry rot. It runs up the wall and is bundled with a host of other cables running the length of the tunnel above my head. I follow the hose. Each winding turn looks the same as the one that came before it, a mind-numbing maze of serpentine rock walls lit only by the occasional hanging bulb.
I stop abruptly, my boots slipping on the gravel beneath their treads. Above, at the junction, there’s a main power cable. At its end are a series of outlets designed for a plug. But, there’s one too few. The end of my cable hangs with no female pairing for its prongs. I grab a wooden crate and drag it over. Stepping up onto the corners, it creaks and wobbles but holds. Straining up, I grab the nearest plugged-in cord and yank it free. The tunnel around me plunges into a darkness. Panic rises in my chest, the anxiety at the thought of being lost down here smothering. I swallow and fumble with the free cords.
“Damnation. Come on, already,” I curse, my fingers blindly securing the new plug. There’s a disorienting flash as the prongs sink in. And, way back from where I came in the dark of the tunnel, there’s a peep and the soft hum of something electrical.
“Yes. Okay, Mila. Hurry up. You’ve got this.”
I make my way down the wall toward the sound, groping the irregular stones in the wall like a blind person. Beyond the black, a faint red light grows brighter as I near the platform. A second time, my boots clunk onto the wooden platform.
Flicking the power breakers on, the winch hums to life. It’s about five meters to the rail car. Looking back to the console, I mash the green button labeled winch engage and in two strides, vault from the platform to the car. Crouched in the cold steel bucket, it makes its slow, steady ascent to the surface.
A tiny square of light begins to grow and widen in the distance. I wince at the squalling grind of the cart’s wheels beneath, their axles in desperate need of grease. But there’s another sound now—the pop-whiz of gunfire and the zap-thud of plasma bolts slamming into flesh and bone, rendering people to windblown ash. My people.
A knot forms in my stomach, my hands searching for the Makarov pistol, a knife, something. I come up empty. The knot tightens as the square of false-paneled sky grows wider, the sounds of war, louder. Unarmed, I am to be thrust into the heat of battle with nothing but my wits.
The Creed strike-ship screams overhead, its engines pivoting for a vertical landing. Now clear of the flare, it swings in a wide arc, circling the maw. He must be looking for a place to land. You’re running out of time, Mila.
Scrabbling from the cart, I realize I’m not out of the quarry just yet. An earthen wall inset with a series of short wooden ladders stands between me and the rim of the mining pit. Running forward, I leap for the ladder. My feet catch the rungs, the pressure snapping them. Another hop before they give way and I snag hold of a rung halfway up and start to pull. After what feels like an eternity, I make it up the series of short ladders to the lip of the mining quarry.
A handful of Gracile soldiers, twisted grins of pleasure on their perfect faces, blast holes in the meager cover the remaining resistance fighters cower behind. But they’re not advancing. They’re holding their position behind a makeshift bunker of junk. Above them, the strike-ship slows, twisting in midair. They’re protecting the ship for an extraction. They’re expecting him.
“Mila,” the wheezed sound of my name is barely audible.
A young man lies nearby, clutching at his pelvis. From the hips down nothing remains but the ashen stumps of protruding pelvic bone.
“Jape,” I call out, scrambling on all fours over to him.
Jape’s arms shake involuntarily, his eyes stuck wide, white spittle in the corners of his mouth. Dragging him behind the edge of a nearby dwelling, I pull a medical stabilizer from his jacket and press it against his neck. With a hiss, the hypodermic needle delivers the cocktail of painkillers, anti-shock, and slow-stop for hemorrhaging.
A plasma bolt strikes the edge of the building and showers us in a sheen of powdered brick. I pull him a little farther behind cover. Jape’s shaking has slowed, his eyes glassy.
“I’m sorry, Mila. Back at the house—I should have listened for your orders. I just ...just ...” Jape stutters, spittle clinging to his lips.
“Don’t think of that now, Jape.” I grab his hand.
“Can ...” He manages. “Can I have another?”
I clench my teeth to fight back tears. “No. Another cocktail will stop your heart.”
“Please, Mila. This is killing me, like my insides are all dried up. I don’t want to die in pain. Not like this.” He pats the ashen turf where his lower half used to be.
“Jape, lay back and—”
He struggles to swallow. “Just one more hit.”
Tears fill my eyes as I pull a second auto-injector from his jacket. I press the nozzle to his neck and give him a second dose.
He raises a hand and grabs my arm, the squeeze weak. “Thank you, Paladyn,” he says. His breathing slows, his eyes dim until the spark of life in him fades and is gone.
There’s that name again: Paladyn. Do they still believe in me? Does a protector of the people commit murder? Do they get all their people killed?
A scream, high and shrill, brings me back to the conflict. Sard it all.
“Lead, Mila. That’s your job. Do your job,” I say through clenched teeth.
I grab Jape’s sub-machine gun, a cobbled-together thing that looks like it belongs more in a welding shop than on a battlefield. Pulling two old Soviet grenades from Jape’s vest, I sling the sub gun and move to the edge of cover for a better view.
Husniya is cowered behind a low wall currently being shredded by the blue flashes of plasma bolts striking home. The girl screams again, covering her head.
I’ve got you, Hus. I pull the pins on both grenades, odd lemon-shaped devices with little posts on top that fit well in the hand. The spoon on the first one ejects from the body with a ching. I hurl it toward the Gracile position. I let the second grenade fly, the spring-loaded spoon flipping into the air. Both grenades in flight, I raise my hands high. “Hey jackbags, make you feel strong to shoot down a woman?”
They swing their rifles on me and it takes everything I’ve got inside to not dive for cover. Their faces seem to glow in anticipation of the kill when the first grenade detonates. There’s a flash and the Graciles scream as shrapnel finds its way through the spaces in their exo-suits. The second grenade explodes in their confused midst. Howls of pain and terror drift from the gray smoke.
“Go,” I scream at my men behind the bunker. “Don’t let them escape.”
The sound of my voice stirs my people to action. They open fire, rising and running toward the confused elites. Through my fear I drive forward, heedless of the stabbing pain in my side.
The remaining Graciles stumble from the smoke. holding their wounds, their arms clawing for purchase amidst the ash. My friends, Mos, Ghofaun, and Husniya, lead the resistance forward with bold strides.
Someone lands a lucky shot and a Gracile is hit in the neck. His muscled frame tenses and a jet of crimson shoots through his fingers as he chokes on his own blood. The last few stumble back toward the gunship.
“They’re falling back,” I shout above the melee. Beneath my arm, the sub-gun chatters away in a predictable staccato.
The last few Graciles fall back to the rear of the ship. One of them collapses, sprayed with bullets that riddle his body and ping off the Creed vessel. The others scramble flat to the icy ground.
The strike ship’s engines whine, preparing for takeoff.
“Target the engines. Don’t let them leave,” I scream.
A fusillade of bullets looses upon the strike ship, but this time they don’t rattle on the hull. Instead, they hit an invisible barrier that ripples like a pool of water. A chill descends upon me, the fine hairs at the nape of my neck prickling. The Gracile soldier who’d laid flat reappears looking smug. A portable plasma shield. It’s large enough to cover the strike-ship and prevent us from circumnavigating it. Damnation.
“Mila,” Ghofaun calls across the battlefield. “Look.”
The monk is standing with Mos and the rest of our people. His gaze is fixed beyond the plasma shield, near the nose of the gunship. And there, probably originally trying to flank our enemies, are Husniya and Zaldov. But now, they’re trapped behind the energy wall. And there’s not a damn thing I can do.
The enemy soldier starts to stride toward Husniya, but he hasn’t made it two paces when his smug grin slackens and blood spurts from his lips. A huge leaf-shaped blade lances through his neck. It’s yanked free, and he drops lifelessly to the ground.
From the shadows, the form of my Gracile friend appears. Demitri?
My men unleash a volley of gunfire.
“No, wait,” I shout
The bullets disintegrate into the shield.
“It’s Demitri!”
Demitri drops to the ground, apparently exhausted, but forces himself to his knees, using the Ripper’s spear he’s holding as a crutch. He looks to me, pain in his eyes, then to Husniya.
Husniya’s face lights up and she takes a step forward. When Zaldov moves with her, she stops him with an upheld index finger. I can’t hear what she says as she shakes her head and lays a flat palm against his chest. The Creed looks down at her, then back at the Gracile. Zaldov nods, lowering the plasma rifle in his hands—its digital display blinking red from an empty power cell.
Husniya walks forward, wiping tears from her face. She’s begging something of her old friend.
Demitri offers a gentle smile and opens his arms to her.
Mos and Ghofaun can only watch in silence.
Husniya breaks into a fit of sobbing as she enters the arms of her friend and buries her face in his chest. He responds by wrapping his severed arm around her, tears forming in his eyes.
“Demitri?” I whisper.
As if he heard, Demitri looks straight at me. His lips peel back over perfect teeth in a sadistic grin. Husniya gasps as the twelve-inch spear tip erupts through the taut muscles of her back.
My legs give out, knees driving against the turf, my fists balled, a ragged scream tearing from my throat.
Husniya coughs, flailing, blood splattering on Vedmak’s chest as he hoists her up, the weight of her body sliding her down the shaft of the spear.
“Husniya!”
Screaming curses, Mos empties his weapon, the shield rendering his attack useless.
There’s a shriek, high and piercing. It is the sound of absolute pain. But it’s not Husniya. Zaldov launches forward, crossing the divide in a single leap.
Vedmak dumps the wounded girl to the side and tries to brace, but he’s not fast enough. Zaldov drives down with a hammer fist blow to the bridge of the nose, laying it flat against Vedmak’s face in a spray of blood. Another shrill scream and Zaldov hits Vedmak again, this time with a precision hook to the ribs, followed by an uppercut, then a cross to the chin.
I bolt upright, my eyes wide, my fists clenching handfuls of my jacket.
“Yes, Zaldov! Do it!”
Vedmak falters, crawling to all fours, a look of panic on his blood-smeared face. Rising, he yanks the spear free of Husniya and jams it through Zaldov’s left shoulder, wrenching the robot’s arm free of the socket. His severed mechanical appendage dangling, Zaldov lets loose a fearsome cry, utilizing a cross body block with his right arm that shatters the spear shaft. Zaldov grabs Vedmak by the throat, lifts him up and slings him against the ground the way a frustrated child would discard a doll.
Absolute terror now envelops Vedmak’s pale, beaten features.
The gunship’s thrusters engage. Vedmak forces himself to his feet and kicks Zaldov in the chest, knocking him back. He grabs the hydraulic piston attached to the liftgate as it whines closed. With a burst, the ship accelerates into the sky. Vedmak swings himself up and into the hatch, the ramp sealing shut behind him. A thunderous boom echoes as the thrusters launch the strike-ship upward, propelling it through the hole in the roof and out into the swirling storm.
After a moment, the translucent blue wall of the plasma barrier flickers and fades. I sit on frozen knees, mumbling through tears, hands clutched to my chest. My companions rush forward, administering a medical stabilizer and trying to apply compression bandages to Husniya’s terrible wound. Beyond them, arm dangling, Zaldov paces back and forth like a lost pup, his gore-covered fist clenched.
“Mila, we have to go,” Mos shouts to me. “We have to get her back to Opor if she’s going to have any chance.”
“I can’t ... I ...” My body refuses to stand.
Demitri was right. I should have killed him when I had the chance.
But I was too weak. I couldn’t, and now Husniya has paid the price.
“Mila, we are leaving,” Mos shouts as he heaves the girl up and they all run toward the enclave’s entrance.
Ghofaun grabs my elbow and attempts to lift, but I yank it free. “Just leave me.”
“Mila, please.” He reaches for me again.
“She was with you. Where were you?” I clench my fist and shake it at him.
“No, Mila, where were you?” The monk’s face is hard.
I can only shake my head. “I’m done. Leave me alone.”
Ghofaun stares at me, his eyes boring into me for what feels like an age, but says nothing and eventually leaves.
I failed everyone who ever needed me or called me friend. Better that I never existed at all than to have become the unwitting instrument of so much misery. I slump back into the dying grass, the weight of my failures, my faithlessness, and my shame a millstone of anguish and self-loathing pressing down on my chest.
Snowflakes flutter and swirl through the hole in the false sky above, falling lower and lower until they come to rest on my face like the cold kiss of death.
