The spray of snow conceals Katvar, his sled and his dogs. Only once in a while do I catch a glimpse of his head and his broad shoulders. We are racing the dogs because they are asking for it. They’ve been lazy and bored for days and Katvar has decided to give them what they want. We’ve left the Carpathian Mountains behind us. The ground is smooth, a thin layer of fresh dusting conceals half a metre of compressed snow. Sari’s tracks are wiped out already. But we don’t need them to find our way.
I’m angry at Birket. He stole Katvar’s razor so I can’t shave off my hair again. The reddish three-day stubble on my scalp is already telling. That man knows nothing about warfare. It’s of no use to run around shining like a beacon that screams, “Look, everyone, here’s that chick who plans to kill all the BSA jerks!” One doesn’t show off like that. You have to be unexpected, silent and invisible. Else you get killed before you’ve accomplished anything.
While steering my sled around a tree today, I almost had a collision. I’m still learning to do this dog sled thing. The commands for left or right have to be repeated as often as needed to complete the change of direction. For a broad and sweeping forty-five degree turn, I had to shout, ‘Left!’ about twenty times. Katvar tapped his lead dog twice. I guess I’m not established as the leader of my team.
The tree that I missed by mere centimetres was the only one in a large clearing. Now, the forest stretches as far as the eye can see and we don’t need to worry about firewood until we reach the tundra.
We are loaded to the max — an estimated three hundred kilograms on each sled, much of it moose meat. We don’t need to hunt for the next five to seven days and can finish our first leg quickly.
The dogs are working hard, and because the snow cover is so compact and has little to no grip on the skids, the heavy sleds are flying over the white. It also helps that Katvar has coated the skids with a thin layer of ice — an elaborate procedure that involved dunking moss into lukewarm water and spreading layers of water onto each layer of newly formed ice. It took ages, but it does wonders.
We plan to avoid settlements until we reach Minsk. Visiting a clan always involves a lot of talking and eating, and we can’t afford delays before we’ve made it to Syktyvkar. After that, we’ll need help, and only then will we invest the time to socialise.
At breakfast, Katvar signed to me the plan for the next six days. He had to write it down, too, so I understood everything correctly. We’ll rise before the sun, run the dogs until noon, rest for at least one hour, eat well and feed the animals, then run again until the sun sets. That’s a bit different from what Kioshi told me, but Katvar is the expert here, so I’m listening to what he says. Once we hit difficult terrain, we’ll add two more breaks to our day, but not more. Life will get harder the farther north we travel, so we’d better eat away the kilometres while we are fresh and strong.
One small thing makes me oddly happy and I can’t help but smile when I see her leaping through the snow: the white dog that was snuggled up to me when I woke up at the Lume’s winter quarters two years ago. I’d almost frozen to death and Runner was badly injured. The Lume had saved our lives and this white one was the first dog I learned not to fear. I even learned to like her and I still do. She’s a friendly girl with eggshell white fur, black nose and lips, and warm brown eyes. Her name is Gull and she’s running behind the lead dog of my team, Balto.
Before we left the hut, Katvar mixed up our teams, then chose the two lead dogs. He’ll be keeping an eye on the pack dynamics for the next few days. ‘Be wise when you choose the leader,’ he’s signed and written for me. ‘Most dogs like it when someone they trust tells them what to do. They feel safe. Few dogs want to be the ones in power and even fewer of those are good leaders. It requires patience and the will to take responsibility.’
Katvar seems a good leader. He teaches me to praise them a lot, and to be vigilant. Never allow one dog to steal food from another. Never even let a dog eat before you have said it’s okay to eat. He’s teaching me how to stiffen my stance, how to growl low in my throat. And praise. Always praise. I’m also learning the clicks and huffs he’s using on his animals. I had to laugh when he told me he’s the alpha male and I’m the alpha female.
I don’t think the dogs give a shit who’s which gender.
The sun is high in the sky. We race in and out of the jagged shadows of firs and pines, through the glare of snow crystals.
Before us, the sound of many paws, the huffs and yaps of happy dogs. The wind in my face. The scents of frozen forest. I open my mouth wide and stick out my tongue.
But there’s nothing. No flavours spread through my mouth and down my throat. I can’t recall how the word “forest” tasted, or the word “Micka.” Once upon a time, there was a girl who could taste words. I wonder if she’s ever coming back.
Katvar makes a croaking noise and lifts his whip high up. His sled slows down and comes to a halt. My dogs obey his signals before I can tell them to stop. They plop into the snow alongside the other team, bury their muzzles in the cold white fluff and swallow a mouthful.
He fetches the axe from his sled, begins carving meat off one of the moose legs, and feeds it to the dogs. The animals always come first, he said. Without them, we can’t get anywhere near our final destination. I get the second axe and choose a tree with dead and dry branches, chop off an armful and start a fire.
The meat is tough but delicious. We eat without talking, because my mouth is full and Katvar’s hands are busy. Once I wipe the grease off my chin, I ask, ‘Shouldn’t we have crossed the river by now?’
Two sharp lines form between his eyebrows. He nods, extracts the map from his coat and points his knife to where we are, or rather, where he thinks we are.
Katvar signs and writes in the snow, ‘I keep thinking we should have stolen Javier’s SatPad.’
Surprised and proud I understand all his hand signals correctly, a grin spreads over my face.
‘What?’ Katvar signs.
I shake my head. ‘Not a good idea. A SatPad can be tracked. Even if Erik once believed me dead, after what Javier told the other Sequencers, Erik now knows I’m alive. He’ll be looking for me. For now, I think, we are quite safe. We’ve been travelling mostly through dense pine forests. Even IR sensors won’t see us properly.’
‘IR?’ In a fraction of a second his right hand pokes his pinky up in the air, then crosses index and middle fingers. Sometimes I have the feeling that my eyes could plop out of their sockets trying to follow his super fast speaking.
‘IR is short for infrared. Satellites can make thermal signatures of animals and humans visible. One might think the winter would make that an even bigger problem — our bodies are much warmer than the snow and the air around us. But…’ I touch my hood, ‘…we are insulated. Fur everywhere. The dogs have very thick pelts that prevent heat loss. I’ve checked them with the night-eye of my scope. The heat signature of their bodies is pretty low, only their noses and eyes show up hot white. So with the tree cover and our heat insulation, we are pretty much invisible. At least until we reach the tundra.’
‘Will he know where we are then?’ he signs.
‘That’s our advantage. He won’t know where to look for us. He doesn’t know where we are heading. He doesn’t even know there’s a “we.”’
Katvar nods once, lost in thought.
‘What are you thinking?’
‘He will know when we cross the sea ice.’ He repeats it twice for me until I get what he means. “Cross” and “sea ice” are new words for me.
‘I’ll find a solution. There’s time.’
‘How fast can Erik get from his headquarters to Svalbard?’
‘Hm… Headquarters is roughly two thousand five hundred kilometres from Svalbard. The top speed of his solar plane was five hundred kilometres an hour. If he’s got his hands on another such machine — and I’m sure he has — he’d need at least five to six hours.’
‘So he can be there long before we reach it.’
‘No. We can hide. We race the dogs when there’s a cloud cover. We dig ourselves a snow cave when the sky is clear.’
He nods again, unconvinced.
‘It’s the best I can offer. Believe me, you don’t want me to fly an aircraft.’
‘Why not find someone who can?’
I laugh. ‘I’ve never see normal people own high-tech stuff and know how to operate it. Power plants and water treatment plants, yes. Everything else, everything high-tech that can be used in warfare — satellites, warships, and aircraft are all in the hands of the BSA and the Sequencers.’
‘And you will destroy the satellites.’
I nod. ‘Yes.’
He gives me a sharp glance and flicks his hands and fingers.
‘What?’ I ask.
He writes it in the snow: ‘You shaved your head. Stupid. Too cold.’
‘I had lice.’
‘Use petroleum next time.’ He stands and brushes the snow off his pants. ‘We’ll talk tonight.’ And then he whistles at the dogs and they jump up and greet him with wagging tails and excited yips.
I gaze at the small fire, drink the last sip from my mug, and fill our canteens with warm water from the pot. Then I pack our stuff, sit down on my sled, and cover my legs with furs. I’m not standing on the skids like Katvar, because I’m still not back to normal. The ankle needs another week or so of little strain, and I’m still bleeding. Barktak warned me that my abdominal muscles will never fuse back together if I don’t listen to her and take it easy. So now I’m a bit torn between not giving a fuck because I don’t plan to return from my Svalbard adventure anyway, and giving just enough fucks so I can at least get there in one piece.
Katvar stands on his sled and taps the lead dog with his long whip. A mighty jerk forward and both sleds are flying through the snow. I’m impressed at how much weight these dogs can pull. Do they notice that with every stop and every meal, each sled gets a little lighter?
When we reach a clearing that stretches almost as far as the horizon, we know we’ve found the river. We’ve crossed four small rivers already, but this one might be dangerous. It’s much broader and the ice might not be thick enough.
Katvar brings his dogs to a halt, turns around and signs. Shit, I hate it when I don’t get what he says. He points up at the clear sky and signs again, slower this time, ‘Can we leave the woods?’
‘Let me check.’ I grab my rifle and walk up to him. Leaning against a tree, I scan the landscape that spreads flat and white before us. ‘I can see the river, it’s two and a half kilometres from here. No bridge anywhere near, but there seems to be ice on the river. Wait! What’s that?’
I hear him step up to me, hear his breath behind my back. I bristle at the closeness, but what’s in my finder needs analysing and I can’t move away from him without taking my eyes off…a field of approximately two by two kilometres, needled with hundreds of antennae. The wind bends them gently at their tips. There’s no building anywhere near, but I suppose the large crater — now a gently sloping, deep dip in the snowy landscape at the edge of the antennae field — must once have been the control centre of whatever espionage unit had its base here. They look ancient, the countless antennae. As if the people who built them hadn’t dared to dream of satellites.
A hand taps my shoulder.
‘It’s just some old stuff. Want to see?’ I step aside, still supporting the rifle against the tree trunk. Katvar places his hand where I slip off mine and gazes through the scope. He stares at the antennae field, scans the river for long moments, then nods at me and hands me my weapon.
‘Wait until nightfall,’ he signs.
‘Yep, that’s what I thought, too. We’ll dig a snow cave and try to cross at midnight. If it’s impassable, we’ll return to our snow cave, sleep, and tomorrow morning we’ll follow the river upstream and stay in the forest until we find a bridge.’
One sharp nod and he gets to work: feeding the dogs, digging a hole in the snow. I chop wood and fix our beds. I don’t like sleeping next to him in this constricted space, almost touching. He knows it.
When the stew is ready, I call for him, but he doesn’t come. I find him sitting among his dogs, staring up at the moon. I join him and offer him a bowl of food. He takes it and places it on his lap.
‘What precisely is the plan?’ he signs.
‘We get to Svalbard. As I said.’
He narrows his eyes at me.
‘What?’
‘What precisely will you do in Svalbard?’
I clamp my teeth down on a piece of meat that proves too large and tough to be chewed to pieces. I push it halfway out of my mouth and use my knife to cut off a bit. Slowly, I chew and take my time to think. Katvar is not a warrior, he knows little about war and the BSA. So what information can I share?
‘Erik gained control over the global satellite network. He’s using it to spy on people and to control the war. So…satellites make him more effective. He will bring war to everyone’s home and he can do that any time he chooses.’
Katvar nods and signs, ‘I know enough people who believe the BSA is doing good work. But I don’t understand.’
‘I don’t really understand these people, either. From what I learned about human history — and I can only talk about what Erik made accessible to me, which is most likely biased and very limited — what did I want to say?’ I scratch my forehead.
A smile flickers past Katvar’s lips.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘You look like a warrior,’ he signs.
‘I am a warrior.’
‘I know.’
‘Where was I? Oh, yes. The ancient question: Us or them? Them being the ones who think, look, speak, or behave differently. Them or The Others. Does that sound familiar?’ I throw him a sharp glance and his expression darkens. ‘Yeah, it does. Of course, it’s always us who deserve to survive, us who are better, and us who have the shiny future. Never them. The BSA is cultivating this in a way that is not new. Men are the us, women are the them. A man has ten times the worth of a woman, a man can have many wives, women have to obey, submit, serve or they’ll be punished. A man can take a woman whenever he wants or rather, whenever he feels the need. Women are filthy. Without women, men would be clean. Women can be punished, raped, killed. Because women stand so low, men can stand above them; they have something to look down upon. Because we are so filthy, they are clean and good. Because we are unworthy, they are worthy. That’s why so many young men join the BSA — because they feel they deserve more than a hard life with hard work shared equally among family members. They want to feel entitled. Few women join the BSA by choice, and I can only guess what their true motives are. One of the women in the camp told me she wanted to give birth to the next martyr, the greatest honour for a mother. I almost threw up in her face.’
Katvar sits frozen, eyes dark. There’s repulsion shining in them.
‘Erik has control over weaponised satellites.’ My voice is low and hoarse. This is too close to home. ‘If he sees us, he can kill us with the push of a button. He can pick a city and burn it off the face of Earth. When he decides his war is to enter its final stage, he can kill tens of thousands of people without risking his own life. I don’t know why he hasn’t done this already. It’s as if he’s waiting for something, maybe his final showdown. I’ll prevent that. I’ll burn the BSA headquarters to the ground before they can do this to us.’
Slowly, he nods. Then he signs, ‘How many children are in that camp?’
I laugh at him. A bitter, cold noise. ‘Fuck, Katvar! You don’t know shit about war!’ I compress snow in my hands and throw it against a tree. Thwack! it says as it bursts into pieces.
‘How many children?’
I growl in frustration. ‘Between twenty and twenty-five.’
He narrows his eyes. ‘So you push a button and kill twenty-five children just like that?’ He snaps his finger and I’m ready to kick his balls.
‘Yes.’
He nods. ‘You will not.’ With that, he rises to his feet and begins to play with his dogs. They are made of simpler material. No politics. One leader, the others follow.
I’m angry, boiling inside. I walk up to him and hiss, ‘You do not understand anything! You haven’t seen them strap explosives to children and send them into battle as living bombs. You haven’t seen them gang-raping nine year-olds, you haven’t seen them beating a young, beautiful, gentle woman to pulp, dismembering her and burning her alive because they believe that a woman loving a woman is against the law of their god and needs to be punished by a lynch mob. You haven’t… You haven’t…’ I gulp, kick at the snow, and turn away, images of sweet Rajah flooding my mind, my eyes, my heart. I want to puke out all the pain, the smell of her blood, the stench of her burning flesh.
My hands on my knees, my stomach convulsing, saliva dripping into the snow, I stand half upright, half felled.
A hand settles softly on my back. I whirl around and punch him in his face. ‘Touch me one more time and I’ll break your arm.’
He takes a step back and licks a trickle of blood off his lips. There’s no fear in his eyes. ‘You forgot to pull your gun,’ he signs, slow and deliberate. It feels like capital letters to me.
Air leaves my lungs and I turn away from him, crawl into our snow cave and roll up in my furs.
Fuck this.
Fuck him.