In the Shadow of a Valiant Moon Page 3

  Only, in his moment of unbridled machismo, he's got it all wrong.

  I grab the back of the barrel and drive it with a satisfying smack against his face. Once, twice, three times. Leading with my knee, I drive up, delivering a stunning kick to the groin. His legs buckle as anything he's got between his legs smashes between my shin and the bone of his pelvis. I spin as he doubles over, grabbing his jacket and using his pitched angle to drive his face into the wall.

  The Maxim gun pivots back in my direction. Nowhere to go.

  “Sard.” I grab the stunned soldier and pull him in front of me—a human shield.

  The blinding flash and deafening concussion throws me back against the wall and to my knees as Nazal and half of his men disappear in a cloud of smoke and fire. My head spins, my ears ring. The dynamite. Finally. I cough and crawl for cover over the flayed body of the Kahangan soldier.

  The heavy iron door bursts open. Mos and the resistance fighters pour in with a blaze of gunfire. In the smoke, the rest of Nazal's men collide with the ranks of my people. A second explosion rocks the room.

  My head rings. Damnation. What was that?

  There’s now a hole in the back wall. Silhouetted against the stream of natural light and the swirling snow beyond is the massive form of the crazed Gracile. In one arm, he carries a crate and in the other, a fired RPG launcher. He drops the tube-like weapon, turns back to flash a contemptuous grin, and disappears into the whiteout of ice and wind.

  Locked in a twisting melee, my fighters clamor with the drug-crazed Kahangans. Mos raises one man over his head and, with a shout, drives him headfirst into the foundation. Beside him, fighters scramble, parry and strike—taking out the Kahangans one by one. We have prevailed.

  But, where's Husniya?

  I scan the smoke-filled room and find the girl locked in hand-to-hand combat with a final, defiant Kahangan twice her size. My stomach roils and my muscles twitch. The desire to save her is overwhelming.

  No. Let the girl earn her stripes, Mila. She can handle herself.

  "Come on girl, don't try to fight toe-to-toe," I say under my breath.

  The madman shoves into her and she pivots, isolating his right arm and leg just as I taught her. Swift and brutal, she strikes with an uppercut to his armpit, disabling the nerve bundle, followed by a downward stomp to his lower leg. The Kahangan screams and whirls on her. A knife flashes from a sheath on his belt. Husniya’s confidence fails and for the first time, there’s fear in her face.

  My stomach contorts again. Come on, Husniya.

  The Musul girl deflects the first knife thrust and parries the second. With his free hand, he punches her hard in the face. Stunned, she's open when he stabs again. At the last moment, she intercepts his wrist and strips the knife from his grasp, simultaneously punching him directly in the throat with all her might. Wheezing, but not injured enough, the man grabs her by the neck and pins her back against a crate. Husniya, eyes wide and exhausted, thrashes but can’t release herself from his grasp.

  That's enough.

  Launching forward, I slam the butt of my rifle into the Kahangan's neck, sending him out like an extinguished candle. He crumples to the floor, dragging Husniya with him. She climbs out from under his limp body and sits up, rubbing her neck.

  "I ... I had him right where I wanted him," Husniya protests.

  I help her up and grab her shoulders in affirmation.

  "I'm serious. I did just what you taught me."

  "I know. You did great."

  The battle finished, we make our way over to Mos, who is shaking the shoulders of our men in encouragement.

  "We did it Mila. We’ve liberated Kahanga,” Mos nearly shouts. “And it is thanks to you and the help of these good people."

  "Come on Mos. Let's see what we can learn. I have questions."

  As I walk amongst the crates to the other side of the room, the damage from the dynamite is noticeable for the first time. Dead Kahangans lay sprawled about. Some are missing limbs—others are piled like old loose clothes, jumbled against sandbag barriers.

  Yeos, what have I done?

  Mos studies me. "The dynamite?"

  I nod, unsure of what to say.

  My Kahangan friend puts his hand on my shoulder. "Mila, you saved our lives. You saved the lives of my people, hundreds of them. You had to kill a few cruel and loveless men to do it. It is a good and necessary thing you have done here today."

  Before I can answer, a man coughs nearby. Mos and I step through the lingering smoke. There, resting up against the wall, is Nazal. The ragged stump that remains in place of one of his legs drools blood onto the floor. He’s cinched his belt around his thigh to try to staunch the flow. It won’t save his life.

  Nazal’s eyes flash with defiance. "The prodigal son returns," he wheezes.

  Mos grunts. "I told you I would. I also told you I'd kill you the next time I saw you."

  "You did, brother. You have made good on your word. Now you can be a despot like me. Like Father. All hail King Mosavva. Go become a selfish pig.”

  Mos bristles. "Get the name of my father out of your mouth, you dog.”

  "Your father? Oh, of course. I wasn't wanted. But you, you were the favored son. I suppose it's only natural you'd have such affection for the old bastard. Too bad you'll never get to tell him—wait, that's not true. I do still have his head.”

  "I'll keep a head for a trophy too—yours." Mos steps toward the broken warlord.

  I slide in front of him and hold out my arms. "Give me a moment, Mos."

  The Kahangan stares me down with an intensity I have rarely seen in him.

  "Please, Mos."

  After seemingly great internal deliberation, he steps back and crosses his arms over his barrel chest.

  I turn to face Nazal. "I'm Mila. You only just met me." I motion to his amputated leg. "I need some answers."

  He looks me up and down. "Why would I tell a Logosian groveler anything?"

  "Because you know something about this that's bigger than some old family feud. What is it?"

  Nazal looks at the blood issuing from his ruined leg, "I'll die and you'll never know."

  I shake my head with mock sadness. "Mos?"

  My friend sets his boot on the edge of Nazal's severed thigh and presses—twisting his toe.

  Nazal screams, his eyes wild with pain. He claws at the stone foundation until I motion for Mos to release. Chest heaving, and body quaking, drool spills from the warlord's lips. "Go sard yourself. Both of you."

  The air is racked with screams of agony as Mos kicks the toe of his boot against the severed bone peeking out of the bloodied meat of Nazal's thigh.

  My stomach churns and my own leg throbs in sympathy. I wave Mos off.

  Defeated, Nazal hangs his head. Strings of saliva dangle like bloodied bands of silk from his mouth and nose. "No more. I'll tell you. I'll tell you," he whimpers.

  "Where did the Gracile come from?"

  "I don't know."

  Mos kicks the stump, and the man jumps as though he was hit with electricity.

  "I don't know, I swear. Stop."

  "What do you know?" I press.

  "We had an arrangement. The Gracile supplied stims for me and my men in exchange for crates of weapons and ammunition."

  "What stims?"

  "Just the red one. Red ... mmm ... something, I don't remember what he called it."

  "Why did you want it?"

  “You saw how powerful it made my men. Pure, adrenaline-fueled, rage. Resistant to pain. Why wouldn't we want it?"

  Stims for weapons? Are the Graciles planning an attack? "The Gracile. He left with a crate. What was in it?"

  "Something special." Nazal’s eyes grow wide, but he slumps and a moan escapes him. "Don’t ask what. It looked like junk to me. The Gracile wanted it. I don't know anything else. I don't know ..."

  “Where did the weapons come from? Nazal?"

  "We’ve been gathering them from all over Etyom ... Though, there�
�s talk of a ... silo ..." He moans, fading from consciousness.

  A chime goes off. My Personal Electronic Device.

  "What silo? Nazal?" I press.

  There’s no reply. Nazal now wears the cold mantle of death.

  Damnation. “So, Mosavva, the rightful king of Kahanga. Whose brother is Nazal the warlord, who also imprisoned their sister. I've learned much about you today. But what have I missed? Were the Kahangan’s in league with the Graciles too?"

  "He's not my brother. Not since he murdered my father for his crown."

  "You should have told me."

  Another chime sounds from the PED in my satchel. I reach into the sling bag and remove the old hacked piece of Gracile tech and the screen illuminates.

  Mos tries to meet my gaze. "What is it?"

  "Looks like it's headquarters."

  "Oh?"

  I show him the screen.

  Mila.

  Someone or something attacked us in the night.

  Could be Rippers.

  Return to base ASAP.

  - Bilgi

  Mos rubs his head. "When the old man rings, it's serious. Need me to come?"

  "No. You've got a lot of work to do here. We can’t let Kahanga fall back into enemy hands. If Kapka hears Kahanga is fractured, he’ll come looking for more Musuls to add to his army. Just be ready if I need you." I point to several fighters. "You five—stay and help Mos. Whatever he needs. The rest of you come with me. We're heading out."

  "I'm going to send a convoy to come get some of these weapons and ammo for the resistance. I'll leave the rest with you. Okay?"

  "And what are you going to do?" Mos eyes me with curiosity.

  "Figure out what the deal is with this attack back at base. Then try to determine why a stim-enhanced Gracile is dealing with Kahangan warlords. Something's wrong about all of this."

  The Kahangan puts his hands on his hips. "You sure you don't need some rest before making the trek back to base in that?" He motions to the blizzard outside.

  I zip my heavy leather jacket, sling the papasha across my back, and turn to leave through the blasted hole in the wall. Outside, the restless snowflakes whip and spin. "No rest for the weary, Mos. Not in this life."

  Chapter Two

  VEDMAK

  “Worthless—a failure from the start, like all the rest,” I hiss.

  The pathetic youngling stares up with wet, almond-shaped, hazel eyes—Gracile eyes. I strengthen my one-handed grip around its neck, squeezing, cutting off the air to its lungs. The disgusting whelp doesn’t even struggle.

  You don’t have to do this. There are other ways.

  “Oh, there you are, little peacock. Just in time.” The annoying Gracile, Demitri, who used to possess this corporeal shell is a constant thorn in my side. There seems to be no end to his perpetual interruptions, pleading for me to halt my work.

  Please, let him go.

  “Why? This creature is useless to me, to Russia.” I rap on the youngling’s head with the cane in my other hand. “Should I let it die slowly in the cold like an injured goat? No. We should all hope for such a quick release.”

  Why should he die at all?

  “Without torture, there is no science,” I rasp. “Its mind is like borscht. Malformed and lacking in the strength of its body.”

  Him, not it—he’s a child, Vedmak. Not that it matters to you.

  It’s difficult to hold back the snarl of a smile spreading across these stolen lips. The Gracile lives in here with me. He knows my soul. My desires. I toss the runt into the waiting arms of one of my more successful ventures: Merodach—an enormous Gracile clad in armor—who does as I bid. The intravenous stim keeps Merodach in a permanent rage, yet under my control.

  With powerful hands, Merodach holds the youngling’s arms out, splaying it wide open. Vulnerable. It squirms in the dim light of the lab, throwing awkward shadows against the white walls.

  Please, stop it. Stop.

  “Silence, peacock. Always in my head. Always whining. Enough.”

  Merodach watches me, but he’s not confused. He knows of the inner voice.

  I stare through the round lenses in my modified Soviet gasmask and study the little creature—past its sad little eyes, and into the void of its feeble mind. Whatever dwells in there it’s not what I wanted.

  The laser-scythe ignites, screeching into life—my black walking staff now adorned with a crescent-shaped, cobalt-blue plasma blade that crackles and pops. I trace the edge across the youngling’s cheek. The incision is instantly sealed by the white-hot blade. If it weren’t for this mask, I could smell the burning flesh. Pity.

  The pup’s chest heaves rapidly, but still, no words come from its lips. As I suspected, its soup-like mind is useless. No ability to speak. If it can’t talk, it will at least scream. I nod to Merodach.

  Merodach’s face breaks into a beautifully evil leer and he begins to pull on the arms.

  The youngling shrieks.

  “So, you can make a sound.” I laugh, glee filling this chest.

  For the love of Yeos, end it!

  “Yeos? Oh, how delicious. Are we praying now?” My laughter fills the mask, and it’s difficult not to choke on the stim vapor circulating inside. “Yeos doesn’t exist. Neither do Yahweh nor Ilah. You as a scientist should know this best, little puppet. I am the closest thing there is to a god. Soon, the Logosians and the Musuls and all of Etyom will learn this.”

  The youngling is on its knees mumbling incomprehensibly; its face wet with tears. It bores me. I lift the plasma scythe into the air and slice down with a powerful strike. The youngling’s head rolls off its shoulders and bounces across the floor of the lab—its wide eyes still staring off into space.

  My Gracile demon is silent.

  “Vardøger,” says a deep voice from within the dark of the room.

  Aeron, Merodach’s twin, marches into the light, carrying a large crate in his muscular arms.

  “Comrade Aeron. The task in Kahanga was a success?” I ask.

  Aeron nods slowly, his powerful chest heaving with the Red Mist-induced adrenaline rush. “We obtained some weapons. There was resistance. The Daughter of the Star Breather was there.”

  Two quick steps and I’m upon him. The heel of my scythe catches him hard across the face. “I’ve told you not to call her that.”

  Aeron doesn’t flinch. “Da, Vardøger.”

  The blood in these veins feels hot with anger. “Did you lose the enclave?”

  “They killed Nazal. There will be no more alliance with the Kahangans,” Aeron replies.

  “Blyat!” I turn to lash out on my prisoner, only to remember it’s already a headless corpse.

  “Shall I send a team to kill her?” asks Aeron, sidling up to his brother.

  “No, no. We wait.” Damn that little suka. “Our forces are not strong enough yet, and her Opor is not to be taken lightly. Without the Kahangans, we must accelerate the plan. No one kills Mila but me, understand?” The air inside the mask is humid with my breath.

  “Da, Vardøger,” Aeron says.

  Merodach grunts, as only he can do.

  “Did you at least retrieve what I traded so much Red Mist and weapons for?” I ask.

  The stimmed-up Gracile slams the huge wooden box onto the floor and rips off the lid, which he flings across the room. It clatters against the wall. Inside sits an ice-covered, metallic contraption: a skeletal cylinder with tubes, wires, and large discs. Across the edge of one of the skeletal pillars is a faded, painted word—TOKAMAK.

  You found my brother’s second fusion reactor?

  I did indeed, little puppet. It will change everything. My plan is now closer than ever to fruition.

  I don’t think it is.

  What are you whining about, little kozel?

  It won’t work.

  You’re lying.

  No. I’m not. You know what I know. Look at it, Vedmak. Really look at it.

  He sounds smug. I stare at the device, searching
its exterior. How can this wretched Gracile know it’s broken from a glance? He’s lying. I strain to pull the information from his consciousness. Normally he fights me, tries to hide his knowledge just as I hide things from him. Not today. Today he offers it freely.

  His experience rushes into my consciousness. His work on extra dimensions and the collider, powered by this device, etches itself into my brain. It’s the magnets—they’re cracked and broken. The Tokamak uses a combination of electromagnets and electric currents to contain plasma, which is used to generate thermonuclear fusion power. Without them, it’s useless.

  “Fix them,” I say aloud.

  I can’t.

  “Fix them or I’ll hurt her.”

  Vedmak, I can’t. Believe me. Search in my consciousness. You know I can’t. Just leave her alone.

  Searching his knowledge once again, I know it’s true.

  “Sard it all.” The floor squeaks under my boot as I turn from Merodach and Aeron, leaving them to yank the decapitated experiment to pieces and feed it to the wild animals in my vault.

  Where are you going? You said you wouldn’t hurt her.

  No, I didn’t.

  Stomping across the lab of the fallen lillipad, I make my way to my private quarters. This is probably the only Pistil that remained intact after that cockroach Kapka pulled everything down. But it is mine. And it has served me well.

  When lillipad 17 on the northern edge of Zopat fell, the support balloons softened the impact, keeping the structure almost upright and intact. Still, the explosion melted the ice around it and formed a glistening and nearly impenetrable fortress. It couldn’t have been planned better.

  Despite Mother Russia providing me an icy hiding place, it wasn’t enough. The pathetic Robusts and their sad little band of resistance fighters hounded me for more than a year. Something else was needed. My little peacock provided it for me—if not under duress. A Gracile invention that can bend visible light. They’d used them on the Creed strike ships as active camouflage. Draped over the lillipad, it—and the constant frozen white-out—keep us hidden.