In the Shadow of a Valiant Moon Page 9

  Husniya approaches. I wipe my face.

  “Mila!”

  “I’m okay.”

  The girl runs up, and the Moisin-Nagant clacks against the ground. “No, stop saying that, you don’t understand me,” she mumbles grabbing her face.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask. Is she speaking to her voice?

  Husniya continues to mumble, ignoring my question. “These men are Musuls. They look like my brother. I didn’t want to kill them, but I had to.” She cringes at one of the dead men, his head opened like a ripened melon.

  “Husniya, they were murdering innocent travelers.” I take a deep breath. My hatred for their kind spills over to her. It shouldn’t. Talk to her, Mila. Find the words. “We killed them, the same as we would a pack of Rippers or a Kahangan war party. It doesn’t matter where they come from.”

  “So, we have to kill people to try and stop them from killing people?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “But we didn’t stop it, Mila. We made it worse.”

  I turn from the piles of bodies. “I don’t believe that. These travelers were slaughtered for their beliefs and we killed their murderers for acting like animals. Ignoring it wouldn’t have saved them. We did the best we could.”

  “These Musuls ...” Husniya clutches her hands to her chest. “I don’t understand this. I can’t be like them. I refuse to be ...”

  “Just like your brother, Faruq.” I wrestle the words and squeeze her shoulder. “And Mos and every other Musul who refuses to bend to Kapka and his thugs.”

  Stepping toward the ditch, I pull off my burned glove and use the fresh snow to cool my blistered hand. Then, on the breeze, a faint whimper. It’s coming from the ditch. Scrambling over on all fours down the embankment covered in gore-drenched snow, I find a petrified child, wounded, but alive, half-buried by the lifeless corpses of her family. She’s in shock.

  I don’t have to call for Husniya. She’s already pulling the child from the trough and applying a compress to the bullet wound in her shoulder.

  “You stay with her,” I say, standing and doing my best to compose myself. “I’ll do a quick sweep of the dead and see if there’s anything of value to us.”

  The child looks up at us, eyes wide, mouth opening and closing, but no words come.

  “She’s going to live,” Husniya replies, looking up at me. “I can stop the bleeding. It’s not a vital hit.”

  “Wrap it and get her ready to move," I say, standing and scanning the numerous corpses of friend and foe alike. “This will have attracted the attention of other scavengers, and we don’t want to be here when they arrive.”

  Chapter Ten

  VEDMAK

  State your floor, the computer says.

  “Ten,” I say.

  I’m sorry, please repeat, the mechanical voice replies.

  The damn mask. “Ten!”

  Thank you, the computer answers.

  The elevator ascends. Inside the cramped box, the twins’ breathing is loud and labored. They will need to replenish their stim soon. I shift weight off the injured appendage. An oozing wound. Not immobilized, but I’ll have to dig out any remaining bullet fragments if it will ever heal. Sarding animals are using firearms now. That changes the game.

  The old woman squirms on my shoulder, so I lock her into place. Seconds later, the sleek doors slip open again. We step out onto the gangway and into the corridor, marching forward until the lab stands before us. A press of a thumb to the scanner and we’re granted access.

  It’s dark inside, save the faint light emanating from each of the glass eggs, suspended in the air, illuminating the path to the other end. Inside these artificial wombs, my creations float in their nutritious fluid. The EYE passes overhead, scanning the fetuses as it goes. Satisfied there are no anomalies, it disappears into the dark again. Just as with Demitri, it has no idea what secrets these fleshy forms hold.

  I dump the old woman on the floor.

  She gazes, wide-eyed, at the rows upon rows of immature Graciles in various stages of development. “You are farming Graciles?” she asks, a frown creased into her aged forehead.

  “The pathetic weak-minded sheep brought to life by the Leader were not worthy to own such biological machines. I’m giving divine souls a second chance in a new body—a Gracile body.”

  The old woman stares, confused. “Growing an army?”

  Divine? interrupts Demitri. They’re not divine. You’re only keeping those souls who were killers, rapists, and sadists. Every one that isn’t, you murder the host.

  And so, the process is slow. Too few valuable souls, kozel. Too few, and none like me.

  You don’t want them like you. If they were, you couldn’t control them.

  “Hence the Alchemist,” I say aloud.

  The fear in her eyes is palpable. “But it would take years to grow them to adulthood,” she says.

  I grab her by her thin arm and drag her to her feet. “Shall we go?”

  We continue past the glass wombs until we reach the poisons lab. In one corner of the stark white room is a desk littered with conical flasks, beakers, and makeshift distillation apparatus. Red liquid-filled vials are stacked on a nearby shelf. The three-dimensional image of a chemical compound spins on the only monitor. In the other corner sits a table covered in a white cloth stained pink and red and encrusted with dried blood. Various tools and glass plates are scattered across it. A single microscope and incubator are placed at the farthest end.

  But the lab is missing one thing. “Where the hell is Sergei?”

  “I’m here, Vardøger. Sorry, I’m here.” The hunched-over Gracile enters through the sliding doors, limps back to his desk, pulls on two fresh gloves and resumes his work.

  “Alchemist, meet Sergei. You’ll be working closely together. Tell her what you’re doing, Sergei.”

  The Gracile turns his head but refuses to make eye-contact with me. He twitches and refocuses on the Robust woman at my feet. “Immunosurgery,” he says. “I’m removing stem cells from embryos to be implanted in the brain of adult Graciles. We thought it was only a protein that allowed connection to the other place, but it’s a micro-area of the brain. Like an organ. In vivo gene editing didn’t work. The whole cellular structure has to be there. I have to separate the cells from the embryos, using antibodies and mechanical dissection—”

  “Stop flapping your lips. She doesn’t need to know the details, imbecile,” I hiss before turning to the Alchemist. “He takes the best bit of the embryo brain and puts it in the head of an adult Gracile.”

  You’re growing clones of me, only to murder them.

  Not all of them, Demitri, my boy.

  You’re a monster.

  Ignoring Demitri, I continue talking to the Alchemist. “We filter out those Graciles with connections to souls—dushi—of which I approve. You create the stim to ensure those souls stay in control of the body. Understand?”

  “That’s why we don’t see them anymore, the Graciles. You have them.” the old woman says, her eyes wide.

  They had no idea how to survive in Lower Etyom. You tricked them here with promises of safety.

  “Yes, I have them.” I huff out a laugh. “They are the beginnings of my Einherjar—those who have died in battle and have been waiting for the right time, the end days.”

  “Why?” the Alchemist asks. “Why do you need an army? To fight Opor? But then what? What about the other enclaves? The Rippers? You don’t have enough Graciles.”

  “The captured Graciles suffice as a militia until my army has grown. Sacrificing some of the embryos for their stem cells is worth it to have an immediate force. Besides, accelerated growth of the embryos shortens the time to adulthood significantly. It will not be so long before I have my legion.”

  “Do you think this old mind frail and feeble?” the woman asks. “I saw the room of embryos. You have a few hundred at best. Not nearly enough to conquer Etyom.”

  Not to mention the fact half the souls yo
u pull across aren’t evil enough.

  “Do not mock me, old woman. You think I have not thought of such things? I have the capacity to grow many more, I just need more power. Then, I can grow thousands.”

  You know what will happen if you do. The embryos you’re creating are already attached to demons. If you pull too many through at once—

  Be silent, puppet.

  “What if I not help you?” the Robust woman says, folding her arms defiantly.

  A curt nod and Merodach drags her to her feet and, with her in tow, storms from the poisons lab.

  “Wait, wait,” the little woman cries, her feet dragging on the floor. “I never said I not help. I just ask—”

  “He won’t answer,” I call after her. “Poor Merodach is the result of my earliest trials. Implantation of the stem cells left him mute. His frustration at not being able to speak vents through unbridled violence. An exquisite side effect.”

  ***

  Past the glass eggs, across the gangway and into the lift. We descend to the lowest level of the pistil and exit through the north-facing airlock. The pressure door pops open to reveal a cobbled-together structure covering a cavernous hole into the lillipad platform. A ramshackle staircase leads down into the dark, past the concrete of the lillipad and into the frozen ground beneath.

  I lead the way, Merodach still dragging the Alchemist and following close behind.

  We drive farther down beneath the permafrost and into a tunnel dug by my own hand—at least until I had slaves to do it for me. The walls are wet with frozen water, glistening in the light of a few burning torches. We push through a heavy, iron-banded door and into a large cavern with three alcoves enclosed in thick bars.

  The torches illuminate little, and my mask only attenuates what light is left, so I slide it off and throw it to the floor at the feet of the Alchemist, who now kneels wide-eyed at the scene before us. In one alcove, the Gracile children I have grown to maturity stalk about the cage, foaming or drooling from the mouth. Though only two years in age, accelerated growth means they are physically closer to ten. Yet their minds never seem to keep pace and so they remain intellectual infants, defecating where they stand and unable to communicate. It matters not. They do not need to speak. To have little control of their bodies is advantageous—there is no fighting my brethren for the shell.

  They all look like me, Demitri says.

  Of course they do—they are your clones.

  I step forward to admire my young Gracile army. One of the clones bumps into another. He lashes out, tearing out the throat of the boy with whom he collided. Blood sprays across the floor and the defeated Gracile slumps to the floor like a sack of rotten vegetables. I can only cackle in glee.

  “You’ll have no army if they kill each other,” the old woman says.

  I turn to face her. “Your stim will fix that. The dushi need to be in control of the body, but I only need to control the dushi. Understand?”

  The woman says nothing.

  Whimpering draws our attention to the middle alcove, some two hundred feet in length and fifty feet deep. Here, the adult Graciles I have collected sit, pathetic and scared, waiting to be bonded with a soul. Unmoving and catatonic like caged cattle, they stare into space, all hope drained from their eyes. Like all good heifers, they cluster at one end of their prison, as far from the third enclosure—full of sleeping Rippers—as they can be.

  Another door to the far-right swings open and three of my Einherjar—Heimdall, Balder, and Dagr—power in dragging with them a fresh catch of Robusts. Two men and a woman.

  Oh, Yeos, not again. You have to stop this.

  You’re such a child, Demitri. Why would I stop it?

  The muscles of my stolen body tingle again.

  “What will you do with them?” the Alchemist asks, her eyes glassy with fear.

  “All dogs must eat.”

  You drive them to this, the Rippers. Starve them for weeks then feed them a person. You—

  Yes, yes. A monster. Perhaps I should feed your sweetheart to them?

  Heimdall jangles a set of keys in the lock of the cage to the Rippers. Inside, they stir from their slumber. The Graciles in the neighboring prison, though unable to see, know what will happen. They cling to one another, sobbing quietly. The first Robust male is lifted by his garments and tossed screaming inside.

  The Rippers howl and shriek and within mere seconds, the Robust man is torn to pieces, no more than a blood-stained smear on the rocky ground, chunks of flesh hanging from the mouths of those nearest to the door, while others go hungry.

  What would she say if she could see what you have become. This is beyond even your evil. She would never condone this. She’d hate you.

  Silence, peacock.

  You know I’m right. She’d detest you.

  The piercing pain in the mind I occupy is intense. White hot and so very sharp. Over and over, it stabs at the back of the Gracile eyes through which I see. I screw them shut to block out the torture, but drop to the ground, panting. The pain spreads through this biological machine, tightening the stomach.

  The room spins and the blurred figures seem to divide into two or three. Then everything snaps into focus. Like a circuit breaker, the world is alive with color. Vivid and clean.

  And then she stands before me, chestnut hair neatly gathered together under her favorite hat. The same overcoat she always wore, the one with the broach. Her eyes bore into me, full of pain and disappointment.

  Ida. No ...

  It’s her. It’s Ida. Am I doing this? Demitri says.

  A single trickle of red slides down her perfect porcelain nose, across her pointed chin, and drips onto her polished shoes. The bullet wound in her forehead slowly opens like some wormhole to the past, the glint of the bone and brain within.

  “Arggh! Enough of this.” I shake away the hallucination and return to the dim light of the cavern. “Throw the next one in,” I command, standing once again.

  Heimdall does as ordered.

  More raucous howling ensues, followed by a blood-curdling scream.

  Damn you, Vedmak.

  I’m already damned, little peacock. You of all people should know this.

  “Please stop, stop it,” the Alchemist begs.

  Crouching down, I meet her terrified gaze. She searches Demitri’s eyes.

  “Who are you?” she asks. “Where is the young Gracile I met?”

  The lips of this face curl. “You should be worried more for your own life, Alchemist. You will help me or you will become the next meal for my dogs.”

  Her gaze darts from the cage and back to me.

  “You need another reminder?” I turn to Heimdall. “Throw the last one in.”

  “No! Okay, I’ll help.” She sobs into her hands.

  “Good,” I say. “Well, Heimdall?”

  My Einherjar soldier grabs the last Robust man by the throat. “In you go.”

  Protests spill from the whelp’s lips like water from a faucet. He kicks and screams and cries. His girlish shrieks pierce these enhanced eardrums. “No, please. I can help you, I can be of use. I know things. Important things!” he says, in between wails.

  “Wait,” I hiss, stalking toward the now-still man. “What things could you possibly know that would help me?”

  “If I tell you, you let me live, yes?” he whimpers.

  “If you tell me, you may not die today.”

  He seems to consider this before speaking. “There’s something in Vel. Something that would give whoever possessed it the greatest power in Etyom.”

  I study his piggy, fearful eyes. “If it is in Vel, why do the rodents who reside there not wield this power?”

  “The Velians are secret keepers.”

  “What secrets?” I press.

  “The rumor they have a nuclear stockpile. Weapons. Left over from the Soviets of old.”

  You can’t use nuclear weapons to destroy Opor. You’d kill everything inside Etyom and contaminate the area for a hundred
years. This is insane.

  Perhaps this is a good idea, no? Kill everyone?

  You don’t want that. You’ve worked too hard to stay in this dimension.

  Perhaps, little peacock. “What good are weapons of such destruction? It would only serve to kill us all.”

  “But,” the man stutters, clearly wracking his brain for a better answer. “You don’t want others to have them, right? The Musuls. Or Opor? They could be used to generate power, to fuel ships and lillipads or whatever else you need.”

  Power? Fuel for the Fallen Creed gunships. Power for the lab, more Gracile embryos ... More souls. Peacock, is this possible?

  There is no response.

  Demitri, can it be done? Do not test my resolve or the frailty of your Anastasia.

  Maybe, he says. In the latter half of the twentieth century, there was a movement to disarm nuclear weapons and use the material for fuel. The main weapons material was highly enriched uranium. It can be blended down and refined to produce low-enriched uranium fuel for power react—

  Can it be done? Yes or no? Don’t waste my time, kozel.

  Yes, in theory. But I’ve told you before, what you will cause if you keep bringing souls across this quickly.

  That, I can control. Do you know how to do this refining?

  No.

  He’s a blithering fool and coward, but perhaps no amount of torturing the Robust hostage will convince him to do this. However, he is not the only sheep here. There are many more who fear for their pathetic lives.

  “You. Graciles.” I drag a gloved hand across the bars of the middle alcove, the metallic rattling ringing out. “Who wishes to live? Who can build me the means to refine weapons-grade uranium into fuel?”

  They murmur among themselves.

  “Come, now. Some of you are highly educated. You mean to tell me you all wish to die? Perhaps I shall feed all of you to your neighbors.”

  More snivels. Yet, there—a hand. And another. I motion to Aeron, who snatches the keys from Heimdall, unlocks the alcove and pushes through the huddled Graciles until he reaches the first raised hand. Aeron grabs the wrist, then surges further into the flock and grabs the second raised arm. With a grunt, he drags them both out into the cavern and dumps them to the ground. Two sets of wet, female, Gracile eyes stare up at me.