MY HEAD HURTS. IT’S still dark. Or at least dim—a layer of smog covers everything. My throat is dry and swollen. Need water. I clamber to my feet and stagger a few steps before finding my balance, then pull the goggles from my eyes. Dark shapes gouge troughs in the frosty powder that conceals the ground. Snow should be beautiful, white and glistening. But it’s not. This is grubby and gray with soot, and spattered with ... blood?

Heaps of bodies are sprawled across the permafrost. Dismembered and broken, their insides seep from massive wounds, their heads missing or smashed beyond recognition. My stomach convulses, the watery contents spilling from my mouth onto the snow. They were massacred. Who did this? What happened?

The tongue speaks, but the head doesn’t know. Vedmak’s tone is uncharacteristically calm and more menacing than usual.

I did this. Or he did this, using my body. The snow is cold and wet, soaking through the fabric of my pants as I crumple to my knees. He used me to butcher them, and I let him. My palms are stained crimson; the thick, life-giving liquid is soaked into the sleeves of my jacket and cloak. I grab a handful of cold snow and rub frantically at my clothes, but it only turns to pink slush.

You cannot wash away what you have done, my little puppet.

“This is what you have done. Not me. This isn’t me.” Is it? Or is Vedmak just an extension of me? My subconscious brought to life. Perhaps I deserve to be Ax’d.

After taking off the head, you don’t bewail the hair, child. Without me, you would be dead now. You willed this.

He’s laughing again. But he’s right. I let him through, and if I hadn’t, we’d be dead right now. What was Evgeniy thinking? What does he want me to learn down here? How truly disgusting the Robusts are? To appreciate my Gracile life? Well, I do. It may be sterile, but it’s better than this frozen hell. I need to get my DBS and get out of here. The VTV? Where’s the VTV? And the Creed? “Tatiana? Tatiana.”

From a few meters away, a muffled voice replies from under the snow. “Demitri Stasevich.”

I sprint to the source and fall to my knees, digging until her face is revealed. Her head is intact, auburn hair strewn across her brow. But her body is broken, missing everything from the middle of her spine downward. Only her left arm remains. That fake smile still sits on her rubbery lips.

“Demitri Stasevich,” she repeats.

“Yes, I’m here.” I stroke the hair away from her face.

“I am broken, Demitri Stasevich.”

“I know, Tatiana.”

They pulled her apart in seconds.

“Bastards.” Though, why do I care? She’s just a Creed.

“Demitri Stasevich. Please tell Evgeniy I’m sorry.”

What? She didn’t use his last name; she just called him Evgeniy. “Sorry for what?”

“For failing, Demitri Stasevich. Tatiana loved him very much. She is sorry.” The expression on the Creed’s face freezes, and she says no more.

Did she just say that? Did the Creed know there was another personality program in there? Was she aware of it? Was she ... like me?

You think too much and act too little, Vedmak says.

A cold wind snaps at my face. It’s dangerous out here. I need to get to the enclave. Placing the goggles back on my face, I swing left to right until the compass readout in the goggles points southwest. Got to move. I pull the hood of my cloak over my head and begin tramping in the direction of Zopat.

* * *

AS TATIANA PREDICTED, less than thirty minutes’ walk and the huge walls of the enclave, stony and solid, loom out of the dark. They seem to have no end, the barricade disappearing into the fog in both directions. Above, the silhouette of the lillipads casts a cold shadow—the evening sky hidden from view. My fortress in the clouds comes at a cost for the people down here.

The door to the enclave is huge. Metallic, adorned with strange carvings, and studded with massive bolts. It seems impenetrable. I rap on it with frozen knuckles. A slot in the metal slides open.

“What you want, goondu?” says a voice without a face.

“I need to see Yuri.”

“Jia lat, goondu. Yuri? Why you meet him here, la?”

What the hell is he saying? I only understand every fifth word. “Evgeniy sent me. I have business with Yuri. Let me in.”

“He is lobang king, la. You must be important man to see him, no karung guni.”

“Sure, important.”

What is that moron saying? Vedmak grumbles. Kill him and get inside already.

“Through the door, Vedmak? Just let me handle this.”

“What? Who you talk to, la?” the voice asks.

Damn. “No one, sorry. Please, I just need to get in, do my business, and get out.”

“You have credentials, huh? You have pass?”

Pass, what pass? Evgeniy didn’t mention—oh, he means the mark. I strip the fingerless glove from my hand and shove the scarred limb through the slot. For the sake of the Leader, I hope he doesn’t cut it off. There’s a clunk of metal. My hand is pushed back through the hole.

“Why you no say, la? Come, come in.”

The door swings inward, and I quickly step inside. I figured it to be warmer, comforting. But it’s not. The bite of the icy wind is dampened by the enclave wall, but that’s the only respite. The portal clangs shut, and a little man dressed in poorly cut wool garments jumps and skits about my feet. He looks nothing like the Robusts from outside.

“Oh you no eh kia, la.”

“What? Eh kia?”

“Eh kia, la.” he gestures, pointing his palm at the floor.

“Oh, short. No, I’m no eh kia.”

“Where you meet Yuri?”

“Ummm, Konistiva,” I reply absentmindedly, wandering off in the direction I happen to be facing.

“Go stun, go stun.”

“What?”

“Go stun,” he repeats. “Wrong way. Konistiva is that way.”

“Of course, thank you.”

“You talk funny, la,” he calls.

He talks funny, the stupid little kozel. You should have stepped on him.

Violence. Vedmak’s answer to everything.

* * *

IT’S MESMERIZING. THE alleys and streets within this enclave are numerous and winding. The structures are high, yet unstable and ramshackle. Assembled from the carcasses of old high-rise buildings from a time long ago, held together with rusted sheet metal, and adorned with colored signs—the words formed from tubes of neon light in yellows, pinks, blues, and greens.

Despite the cold, people fill the street. Some have their heads hung low and sacks slung across their back. Others appear jovial, laughing and joking with friends, pushing and shoving and swilling some amber-colored liquid. And they don’t look alike—at all. Some have dark skin, some thin eyes, some blond hair, and others beards as black as night.

I push through the crowd that grows denser the deeper into the enclave I venture. Even hunched, my shoulders are above many heads. And the stench, the smell of their drinks and their bodies, fills my nostrils—sweet and musty.

What is that? A doorway next to a neon-lit window. The sign simply says “Shop,” though gives no indication of the wares for sale. I’m drawn to peer inside, where a lonely counter sits at the back of the room with no one in attendance. No items for sale line the walls. A shrill bell signals my entry as I push through the door, and mere seconds later a small, shriveled woman appears, seemingly from nowhere. She stands attentively behind what I can now see is a makeshift counter made of ill-fitting pieces of wood and corrugated iron.

“What will it be?” she asks, rubbing her hands together.

“Be? There’s nothing here for sale.”

“This is a bespoke service, my large friend. But look at you, you should know this. How much Swole have you taken? You’re huge. The Graciles themselves would be jealous.”

Vedmak laughs. That’s actually funny.

“Swole?”

“Hmm, yes, perhaps not Swole for you. You look stressed. Maybe some Easy, yes, some Easy to calm those nerves, huh? I have a particularly potent cocktail, my own invention.”

“Drugs. You’re selling drugs.”

“I sell dreams,” the woman says softly. “You want to feel like Graciles, right? Of course you do. We all do. Imagine what it must be like to feel happy all the time. To be strong and confident. To feel beautiful. Whatever you want, I have the stim for you.”

Is this how Robusts see us? Is this what they think it’s like to be one of us? Maybe they’re right. Maybe other Graciles do feel this way. Maybe it’s just me who doesn’t. Who am I to condemn them for this vice?

“Yes, yes. I’m not like other alchemists; I don’t use inferior product. My stims are guaranteed,” the old woman squeals.

“DBS. Do you have DBS? Krokodil?”

She studies me with faded eyes, the kind that may have once been bright blue, but time and suffering have drained them of life. “Krokodil? No one uses that anymore. It’s dirty, not a clean high. Stims are the new thing in Zopat. A thousandfold more potent than natural endorphins and hormones, with an alchemist’s personal touch thrown in, you see? Won’t you try?”

She unrolls a cloth on the table and spreads out a dozen auto-injectors, each with a fluorescent liquid inside as bright as the neon letters outside her shop. Each one has black writing scrawled on it in indelible marker—“Easy,” “Swole,” “Hyper”—the names are strange. I have no idea what’s inside, let alone if the needle is sterile.

“I think Easy for our stressed-out friend, hmm? Better than that nasty krokodil.”

Vedmak, who has been silent up until now, barks in my head. Or maybe it will kill you? Or make you invincible. Choices, choices, little peacock. Tick tock.

Maybe it will kill me. I know DBS. It doesn’t kill me. But still ... if Yuri won’t give me any, maybe I should take something. “I’ll take some Easy.”

“Good choice, my large friend—”

“And some of that,” I interrupt, pointing at an auto-injector labeled, “Red Mist.”

“Another good choice. I pity your enemies. A guy your size on Red Mist? Damnation. My old eyes would want to see that.”

“How did you get into selling this? If you don’t mind telling me,” I ask, fishing in my pocket for some Etyom dollars.

“When you’ve been around as long as I have, young man, you learn the game well. If there is one thing that always sells, it’s upgrades. Almost everyone down here is on something, except maybe the religious nuts. People always want what they think others have.” She holds out an old withered hand.

“How much?”

“For you?” She tries peering past my goggles, frowning. Then she smiles, her eyes narrowed. “For you, two thousand.”

It’s crude to use plasticized paper money in New Etyom, but some of us still do, for nostalgia’s sake. And clearly it’s the way to go when trading with the Robusts. I pluck out two thousand and hand it to her. In turn she gently places the auto-injectors in my hand and closes my fingers around them.

“Enjoy them, my large friend. Everyone deserves happiness. Even a Gracile.” She flashes a toothless, knowing smile, and disappears through a door into the backroom.

Everyone deserves happiness. Did she know? Am I not the first? I stuff the auto-injectors into the side pocket of my combat pants, leave the shop, and once more trudge down the street.

A woman grabs my arm, jolting me from my trance. She’s short and petite, with thin eyes covered in dark makeup. Despite the freezing temperature, she wears only an untreated fur that drops to the ground and a garment that covers her pelvic area. Her exposed breasts look overblown, the skin stretched, the nipples hard.

“You a strong one, la,” she says, attempting to drape her arms around my neck. “How ʼbout you show me those pretty eyes, mister pretty boy.” She attempts to pull on my goggles.

I reel backward and push her away. Her breasts feel cold and hard under my fingers. “Sorry, I’m sorry.”

“You don’t like merchandise, goondu?” she spits.

“Sorry, I’m sorry—” I back into a crowd of younger Robust males, who shove at me. These men wear all blue and have pale skin, white hair, and electric-blue eyes. They’re brandishing some form of alcohol in one hand, and in the other they wield small axes with pronounced horns at both the toe and heel of the bit. One of them barks at me in a strange language, while another shunts me forward.

Let me defend you, Vedmak whispers.

My right hand balls into a fist.

“No. No, not now.” I push the nearest Robust and tear out of the crowd as fast as my legs will carry me, the exoskeleton rattling with every step, until the last of the people have been left behind and the lights of the center are but a haze.

Traipsing farther along toward the southeast edge of the enclave, the environment becomes even more industrial. A series of abandoned warehouses pepper the dull-gray soil. Jagged and broken, they materialize from the darkness, their once-bright signs now dead and missing letters. Yet one building stands out. It has retained its original sign intact: “конистижа.”

The heavy metal door reverberates with each rap of my knuckles. For a long while there’s nothing. But before I can knock again, a rattle of keys and dull clunk signal the door’s opening. A heavyset Robust peers out through the crack he’s allowed. Thinning hair and piggy eyes belie his body language; he holds himself like a coiled spring ready to strike with either the twelve-inch blade in his hand or the antiquated, but rather huge, pistol on his hip. He says nothing.

“I’m here to see Yuri.”

The man grunts. “There’s no Yuri here.”

“Evgeniy sent me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he snaps back.

“Yes, you do. I ... I don’t know the secret password.”

The man laughs coarsely. “The secret password? Do you think this is a child’s clubhouse?”

“No ... I don’t.”

“If you speak the truth, why did Evgeniy send you?” he presses. “Why didn’t he come himself?”

“Because he’s dead,” replies a voice from the dark behind the guard. “You must be Demitri. Come, you mustn’t linger outside.”

The door swings open, allowing me in, then clangs shut. The guard begins patting my body and limbs, searching for something. I hope he doesn’t find the drugs.

“He doesn’t have any weapons,” says the guard, halting my pat down.

Weapons?

“I doubt he would have needed any,” the calm man replies. He turns to me. “Quite impressive considering what you did to those Rippers outside the wall, I must say. We’ve been eyeing you since you arrived down here. We may not have your tech, but we do have our methods.”

Rippers? Eyeing me?

“I’m Yuri,” he explains. He’s shorter than the guard, and leaner. Sitting on his nose are wire-framed spectacles that are bent out of shape, and he has long graying hair, tied back. He must be well over fifty years old. Older than any Gracile I’ve ever seen, besides the Leader.

“I didn’t do that to the other ... people,” I protest. “I mean, well ...”

Tell him the truth.

Not now, Vedmak.

Yuri just observes me, a strange smirk on his face. “Evgeniy did mention you were a little odd. Come, come in. We don’t have much time, and my handler is late.” He turns and marches off into the expanse of the dimly lit warehouse. I duly follow.

Giant pieces of disused mining machinery stand in parallel lines, forming huge walls—enormous drill bits and circular saws more than three meters across, their teeth larger than my hands; gigantic mechanical arms attached to vehicles long since abandoned. Ancient light bulbs hang from the ceiling some ten meters above my head, each so far apart from the others that only pockets of yellow light illuminate the floor. Yuri briskly sidesteps into one of the makeshift alleys.

I’m prodded in the back by the guard, urged to follow. We turn the corner and enter a musty set of stairs leading up to a second floor or loft, the ancient wooden boards protesting loudly with each step. We exit into a smaller enclosed room occupied by more men. Below, the ancient machinery stretches out before us. We’re now in the sort of place a manager might use to oversee the workers.

“Well, is this the handler?” one skinny man says, spitting through the gap where his incisors should be.

“No.” Yuri shakes his head. “This is Evgeniy’s replacement.”

“Replacement? No, no, I’m just here for my DBS—ˮ

“If he’s not the handler, then where is he? We can’t wait all day,” another Robust interrupts.

How interesting; looks like no DBS for you. Vedmak breaks into raucous laughter.

“She,” Yuri replies. “But you’re right, she’s late.”

“I thought this handler was never late? We can’t afford for this to be messed up, Yuri. It’s too important,” the toothless man says.

“I’ll take it myself,” volunteers another.

“Hey, about my DBS—”

“You ever handled a package before, Kristoff?” Yuri takes control of the small group. “No. If it were easy, anyone could do it. It has to remain secret. Only the boss can know what’s inside, and frankly I don’t trust any of you not to jack in and read it. Well, the boss and Demitri here.” He waves his hand at me. They all turn to gawk.

“Look, all I’m here for is my fix. Evgeniy said—”

“No one cares what Evgeniy said. We’re here to do business, so let’s get to it—unless you all want to stand here stroking your egos all night.”

Was that a woman’s voice?

A female Robust steps out of the shadows. She’s small and lean, almost boyish, but feline in her movements—her heavy boots never make a sound. Her hair is cut short, and her ears and nose have various piercings in them. An old scar runs down her face, but it’s the fresh wounds that draw attention—her face is swollen and bruised, her lips split. She darts a suspicious glance at every person in the room, and my heart stops as her gaze falls on me. I get the longest look, but then she fixates on Yuri, who stands in the center of the room.

The guard raises his ancient pistol and targets the woman. “How did you get in here?”

“You’re Yuri, I presume?” she says, looking to the small man.

Yuri gives a small dip of his brow in response.

“How long have you been listening? What did you hear?” another man snaps.

“And now you see why we need her.” Yuri grins. “Gentlemen, this is our handler, Mila. Now, shall we get down to business?”

What business? What have I gotten myself into?

Vedmak just laughs and laughs.