Shadow on the Sun (11 page)

CHAPTER 19

Southbound on Bishop's Highway

ANNOS MARTIS
239. 2. 14. 05:51

 

 

The brat-brat bursts of gunfire spray across Vienne's dream. She's running through the mines toward Durango's voice, but when she turns the corner, she's in a tent, staring into the deformed faces of the Draeu. She screams and her hands become a flurry of punches.

“Get off!” one of the Draeu says in a vaguely familiar voice. “Before you scratch Pushkin's eyes out!”

She awakens to find herself in a large tent, pinning Pushkin to his sleeping bag, hands on his throat.

“Please!” he cries. “I only checked breathing!”

While the brothers laugh, Vienne stares numbly at his face. “You're not the Draeu.” She sits down on her sleeping bag. “I was dreaming?”

“
Mitte kübetki!
” Pushkin gingerly touches his neck. He checks his fingers, as if looking for blood. “One minute, girl is snoring, then next, she is all over me—and not in good way!”

Nikolai and Zhuk laugh. Yakov raises an eyebrow and opens a map on a sheath of electrostat.

“For trying to steal kiss from sleeping girl,” Nikolai says, “you deserve punch in throat.”

“Me?” Pushkin gets to his feet. “Pushkin does not steal kisses from girls. Girls throw kisses at him.”

“Ha!” Zhuk shouts. “You should see way tongue comes out when girl is near. Like hound on trail, you are!”

Pushkin chest bumps him. “Brother, only hound is you.”

“Hound?” Zhuk yells. “I show you hound.” He grabs Pushkin and begins grinding his knuckles into his head. Nikolai tackles them, and they crash into a heap.

What have I gotten myself into? Vienne thinks. She pointedly ignores them while packing her gear. She squeezes the sleep from her eyes.

She unzips the tent flap to check the weather. They are camped on a butte overlooking the shore of the Saxa Sea. Below, she sees a vast forest of leafy trees, the kind of green that blinds you. Rolling hills, fertile fields wrapped in a thick gray mist. The forest ends at a craggy, stone-strewn beach next to an azure sea.

Vienne tugs a coat over her baggy gown. She steps outside to escape the wrestling match, which has taken over the tent.

Waves crash against the base of the high butte, which is occupied by a large square building with a courtyard surrounded by high walls. At the four corners are tower sentry points. She can barely make out guards carrying hunting rifles, shotguns, and even bows. Decent weapons but not very effective against vermin like the Scorpions.

“Bet you never saw anything such,” Nikolai says, when he joins her. His face is covered with scratches. A thick bruise is rising on his left cheekbone. “Sea is beautiful,
jaa
?”

Yes
, she thinks, looking at the bruise and wondering if he's won or lost the fight. Then she looks back at the sea. “There are many kinds of beauty,” she says. “But no, I've never seen anything like this. But what now? Where do we go from here?”

“We drive,” Nikolai says, “until we find caravan camp.”

“How long do you think?” Vienne asks.

“As long as it takes.”

“Don't take too long,” Vienne says. “Because frankly, if I have to spend another night with the Brothers Koumanov, you're going to be an only child.”

CHAPTER 20

Northbound on Bishop's Highway

ANNOS MARTIS
239. 2. 14. 06:06

 

 

Barefoot, dressed in a flowing gown spun from honey-colored silk, her blond braid trailing down her back, Vienne walks through a row of beehives. Like a ghost, she floats past the hives without a word, golden sunlight streaming from her hands. The sound of the bees rises and diminishes as she passes. She turns to me, her eyes violet in the wash of golden brightness, and her lips part for a kiss. A Hellbender opens fire on the temple behind her. Bullet holes rip through her body. Bloodstains spread across her gown. She presses a hand to her stomach and looks deep into my eyes. “Help me . . . please?”

“Vienne!”

I sit up, dazed, not sure of where I am. The stink of guanite is buried in my nostrils. I scrape a layer of dust off my tongue and spit out a clump of brown dirt. Oh yeah, I'm in the back of a long-haul truck. A truck that for some reason has stopped.

Brrpt!
Brrpt!
Brrpt!

Gunfire.

Then the harsh voices of men barking orders.

I snap to attention. Battle ready.

“Cowboy,” Mimi says. “Sweeps show large mass bodies.”

I ease to the end of the trailer. Look outside for a sitrep.

Sturmnacht. Armed to the teeth. Faces unshaven. Uniforms ragged. A scout unit gone rogue. “I count eight hostiles.”

“Confirmed,” Mimi says.

Could be worse
, I think.

Then it gets worse.

A soldier drags the truck driver into view. Shoves her to the ground. She's crying, blood in her mouth.

“Where's the cash box?” the sergeant barks. He shoves a razor knife against the woman's throat.

“Please . . . don't,” the driver pleads. “I got no cash, just guanite.”

“Liar!” the sergeant yells, and backhands her.

Her head snaps back. She falls to the ground, moaning.

“
Cào na ze zang,
” I say. We're not having this. I snap my sights on the sarge's forehead. My finger twitches, and I ache to put a bullet in his skull.

“He deserves worse,” Mimi says.

“I'm going to give it to him.”

“Save the innocent first,” Mimi says.

“Clean out the cargo!” The sergeant gestures to the Sturmnacht. “She's smuggling something. I know it!”

I duck behind a hopper before three Sturmnacht privates jump aboard. As they pass, I knock the first cold with a vicious rabbit punch. I grab the second one. Slam his skull against the hopper. The third spins around for an elbow smash to the jaw.

Three down, five to go.

The sergeant is next.

From the tailgate, I draw a bead on him. Pop a round into his shoulder. He screams as his arm flops, and the knife falls to the ground.

Before anyone can react, I launch off the trailer. Land a side kick to the sarge's chest, and he goes flying.

The soldiers are too dumbstruck to stop me.

“Come on!” I grab the driver and haul her down the embankment to safety. “We're out of here!”

But as soon as I put her down, she wriggles free and starts back up. “Not without my truck!”

“What about your life?”

“That truck is my life,” she says, standing her ground. “I can't leave it.”

Shíb dài!
“Stay here and stay down!”

I sprint up to the road.

Five Sturmnacht are waiting for me. Four and a half, if you count the fossiker holding his wound and wailing.

“Serves you right,” I bark at the sarge. I take aim at the other four. “You blighters! On your knees!”

“Kill him!” the sarge yells.

I lift the borrowed shirt to show my armor. “Surrender or I'll shoot you where you stand.”

“He's bluffing!” the sergeant groans.

I fire.

The shot tears off a piece of his ear.

He screams again, rolling in the dirt.

“Next one splits his skull,” I yell. “On your bellies! You know the drill!”

They drop their weapons and lie on their stomachs, hands behind their backs.

“Lady!” I call down the embankment. “Come on up!”

She hustles past me and runs for the truck cab. When the door slams, and she's safe inside, I turn back to the soldiers.

“The driver's going to take her truck and go on,” I say. “Then I'm going to borrow a bike. If you all stay put, I won't kill you.”

“Suck it!” the sergeant yells.

I fire a three-round burst near his head.

He gets quiet.

“Move!” I bark. “Down the embankment!”

I keep my armalite trained on them as they scramble down into the dry wash. When they're out of sight, I pull the three unconscious privates from the trailer and drop them on the ground. Then I shout, “Trucker! Time for you to go!”

She sticks a hand out of the window and waves. Gears grinding, the truck pulls away, and I return the wave. I hope the rest of her trip is uneventful.

“For someone who just shot one man and injured three others,” Mimi says, “you have a gift for understatement.”

“I don't like bullies,” I say.

When the truck is gone, I rummage through the Sturmnacht's bikes and find a few slabs of dried meat substitute and packets of dried amino gruel. Not appetizing, but digestible. After culling the best turbo bike from the herd, I put holes in the fuel tanks of the remaining bikes. Petrol pours onto the road.

“Now,” I say, “if they go back to hijacking, they'll have to do it on foot.”

I grab a full canteen and roll my ride uphill, away from the puddles of petrol.

“You are aware, cowboy,” Mimi says, “that the sergeant will report this incident to a superior, and Dolly will quickly pass the information to the general.”

“How long till Lyme knows I was here?”

“I estimate four hours, maximum.”

“Plenty of time,” I say.

My bike starts with a couple of kicks. As I drive past the embankment, the sergeant sticks his head from the gully. He levels a battle rifle at me.

Sergeants. What a bunch of fossickers.

I fire another shot over my shoulder. The bullet clips his good ear. His howl echoes down the canyon as I drive on. I hit the turbo, and the bike rockets down the highway.

Vienne, here I come.

CHAPTER 21

Southbound on Bishop's Highway

ANNOS MARTIS
239. 2. 14. 09:16

 

 

Three hours later than Nikolai predicted, Vienne and the Brothers Koumanov reach the area where the refugees are camped. It is a place called Sarai, an old waypoint on the highway, built during the time of the Orthocracy as a site for travelers to rest.

They leave the highway and take a sandy path to the camp. Nikolai leads them past the sentries posted outside, then signals everyone to park. Vienne stops her bike next to Nikolai and dismounts.

Three young bodyguards wearing ponchos come forward to greet the brothers. Like most refugees, they're dressed in whatever they could scavenge from the road, and they carry makeshift weapons. But they have the look of hunger on their faces, a wary look that she recognizes as more dangerous than it seems.

Vienne steps forward to meet them first, hand extended in greeting.

The bodyguards stop and raise their weapons. “Halt!”

“Have I offended you?” Vienne asks.

“Refugees are skittish,” Nikolai stage whispers as he hurries to catch up to her. “Girl should wait for escort.”

“I'm not one for escorts,” she says, not bothering to whisper. “Unless you want me to escort you?”

“Who,” the first bodyguard points to Vienne, “are you?”

Vienne reaches for the knife up her sleeve.

Nikolai grabs her shoulder and gives it a good shake. “A comrade. I vouch for her.”

“Who will vouch for you, Ferro?” The second bodyguard pokes Nikolai with the barrel of his rifle. “You're late. Tahnoon the Elder doesn't like to be kept waiting.”

Nikolai forces a laugh. “Then perhaps you should stop with talking and start with walking so that Elder may vet new comrade.”

The bodyguards exchange a look. The first guard signals for them to follow.

“Nikolai,” Vienne says, “you never said anything about this elder having to approve me.”

He grins. “Perhaps it slipped mind.”

“Your mind seems very slippery,” she says. “I hope it's not a reflection on the rest of you.”

Nikolai puts a hand on his heart, feigning injury. “You cut me to quick,
lapochka
.”

“I'm going to do more than that if you keep calling me
little pigeon
.”

Built to protect pilgrims in the days of the Bishops' rule, Sarai is a massive structure made from rough-hewn metamorphic rock. It was erected on a rectangular plinth that stretches out into the Saxa Sea. Its walls are equipped with movable stalls to accommodate travelers, vehicles, and their goods. After the rise of the Orthocracy and the subsequent overthrow by the CorpCom system of government, buildings like Sarai were shuttered. But because of the migration from the cities, its gates had apparently been reopened and its courtyard filled once again.

It is in this courtyard that the refugees are staging a wrestling match. A circle has been drawn in the dirt and a ring formed by a mass of men shouting and holding their bets in the air. There is no coin being passed. Instead, they are betting engine parts, dried meat, boots, and blankets.

Through the press of bodies, Vienne can barely make out the figures of two large men, both shirtless, trading punches.

“Nikolai!” Zhuk calls ahead. “Wrestling match!”

“Go without me,” Nikolai says. “Stay out of trouble.”

Zhuk and Pushkin cheer, then head toward the action. Yakov follows them slowly.

“Think they'll listen to you?” Vienne asks Nikolai as they cross to the other side of the courtyard, where a large tent is pitched near the wall.

“Yakov will,” he says. “The other two, not so much. Ah, here is man you must meet.”

Tahnoon the Elder, a man much younger than his name suggests, stands next to a folding table under the open tent. His hands are tucked casually in the pockets of his dingy white Nehru jacket. Vienne would prefer to see a stranger's hands the first time she meets them.

Whistling, Tahnoon twists the stem from a fig. He takes a bite, wrinkles up his face, and almost spits the piece out as Nikolai barges across the courtyard ahead of Vienne.

“Koumanov!” Tahnoon shifts his attention to Vienne. “Who is this beautiful young woman? Introduce me! Have you no manners?”

Vienne is pretty sure he doesn't.

Tahnoon approaches Vienne, his arms wide. After a second of reticence, she allows the embrace but flinches when he kisses both cheeks.

“Ah, I have made you uncomfortable,” Tahnoon says. “Please forgive me, young woman. I forget that our customs are so alien to others. It has been many years since a monk visited us. My name is Timoji Tahnoon, son of Atoli Tahnoon, grandson of Parchni Tahnoon. Tell me, who are you?”

She watches his hands. “I am Vienne.”

“Such a beautiful name for a beautiful young woman.” He lifts her hand to his lips and kisses it. “What is the remainder of your name?”

Nikolai interrupts, “Her last—”

“Just,” she says curtly, and wipes the kiss from her skin, “Vienne.”

“So it is. Please, do come and sit with me on the chaise for a moment so that we might converse.”

Vienne shakes her head. “I'll stand.”

“Very direct!” He affects a laugh and punctuates it by shaking a playful finger at her. “I like that in a person. So I hope that you will not be offended if I am equally direct in my queries to you.”

“I'd prefer it,” she says, and clasps her hands together, letting the long sleeves of her robe cover them. She fingers her knife, just in case.

“Indeed!” He laughs again, although she is sure that she's said nothing funny. “I imagined you would. Tell me, Vienne, how is that you have come into our presence today?”

She cocks her head. “You already know, don't you?”

“So true!” He takes a seat on the lounge, draping one leg over the other. “I had hoped to hear it from your own lips. Sometimes when others speak for us, the true meaning is lost. Would you not agree?”

“I would.”

“Tell me, please, why have you graced my home with your presence?”

So this is how he's going to play it, she thinks. A string of questions to double-check what Nikolai told him. “I was hired to protect a caravan of refugees from Scorpions.”

“You were hired to help with the job?”

“Not to
help
,” Vienne says. “To
do
the job. The first task is to develop a plan of defense. Second, a rotation of guards. We'll be training your—”

“Oh, ambitious. I like that!” He beams at her. “Such pluck from a young lady.”

Pluck? Vienne glares at him, anger radiating from her eyes. “That's”—she struggles to think of the polite thing to say—”nice.”

“Yes, yes it is.” He nods in a way that lets her know that she has said the opposite of the right thing to say. “My dear, you must be exhausted from the journey. Would you care to have a rest in the women's tent?”

“No thanks.” She shakes her head. “I'll be fine here.”

Tahnoon cuts Nikolai a look, as if to say, Do something about her.

Nikolai picks a green fig from the table. He sinks his teeth in with a loud, slurpy bite. “Fig is sour. I like sour. Reminds me of home.”

“You were hired to protect my caravan. I did not ask you,” Tahnoon says, “to critique the fruit.” He grabs Nikolai and shakes his arm. “A monk? You left us unprotected to find more mercenaries, and you bring back a monk? I had a very specific type of soldier in mind.”

Nikolai leans against the tent pole, legs crossed, arms folded, the very portrait of bravado. “Vienne is not just any monk. She is monk who was Regulator. Girl has killed many soldiers. This I have seen with own eyes.”

“But she is a monk now,” Tahnoon says. “Monks don't kill. How do you know that she will fight the Scorpions?”

Nikolai takes another bite. “She promised she would.”

“Then how do you know she isn't lying?”

“Monks do not tell lie.”

“Of course they do!”

“Not this one.”

“How do you know?”

“She told me.”

“Ah!” Tahnoon rubs his forehead. “For a mercenary, you are very naive,” he says. “Lying, like breathing, is a part of human nature. All monks are human, correct?”

“The girl, she is fighter.” Nikolai wipes his hands on the tent flap and tosses the half-eaten fig over his shoulder. “Plus, she hates Scorpions.”

“How do you know?”

“She told me,” Nikolai says.

Vienne clears her throat loudly. “I am standing. Right here. If you boys are finished. Discussing my abilities and willingness to fight. Can we please commence with forming the plan of defense?”

Tahnoon dismisses her with a wave of his ringed fingers. “Yes, yes. Hush now.”

Like a brittle piece of steel holding up the length of the suspension bridge over the River Gagarin when the Flood hit, Vienne snaps. She steps across the tent, grabs Tahnoon's thumb, twists it backward, and, as he squeals, uses it as a lever to throw him off-balance. She sweeps his legs and drops him onto the carpet. Then, as he's crying out, she twists his arm behind his back and digs the thumb into his spine, as if to wedge it between his vertebrae.

“How's that for hushing?” Vienne says as she drives her knee into his sacrum.

Nikolai starts clapping, but the Elder isn't amused.

“Guards!” Tahnoon yells, choking. “Arrest her!”