I think we have everything prepared: a fully loaded rifle, a magazine of ammo, two pocket knives—one each for the woman and one for myself—some bread, a scalpel looted from one of the med pods, bits of shrapnel that I can weaponize—stored in my pocket—and . . . Anna Karenina. I told the woman to put it back on the shelves, but she argued that her dress pockets still had plenty of space, even though a couple bread loaves almost fell out when we tried to push them in.

A light tapping rumbles in my ear like a Chinese gong as my body intensifies. The tapping comes through the ground, from the other side of the door. I feel hotter, but not so hot that I start sweating right in the middle of winter. And even in summertime, the heat is bearable. If there’s one terrible thing about being in the mode, it’s how overly sensitive your body becomes. Heartbeats feel like marching drums, and drums sound like grenades.

Sitting close to the door handle, I mouth to the woman, “Just stay in here, okay? Let me handle the negotiation.”

She nods from where she is cowering under the bookshelf.

A few timid knocks resound on the steel door, echoing like pistol shots in my ears. I remain quiet and unmoving. The knocks get louder and hastier, really clanging now, and I’m about to yell for them to stop when a voice on the other side rings out, “Comrade Vronsky? Comrade Vronsky, please open up. It’s Lieutenant Commander Petrov.”

I turn to Alice and say, “Thumping; banging; gunshots.” I notice her wincing at ‘gunshots’. “No matter what you hear, do not get out. Understood, soldier?”

“O—okay.”

“I didn’t hear an ‘understood’. If you’ve understood, say understood.”

“Understood.”

I take in a deep breath, then twist the doorknob and open the door. Petrov is standing uncomfortably close to the threshold with a hospitable smile on his face. I choose to think he hasn’t heard any of our whispers. I’d thought that Smolov would be the person to come for us, and am quite surprised when it’s the lieutenant commander who greets me. I’ve never seen Petrov tagging along with these soldiers before, and I didn’t even know he had the authority to command people outside of his section.

Behind him are three armed men. I look to the sides and see three more on the left and three on the right end of the corridor. I’m not sure I can square off against ten people in such a narrow space, but them spreading thin is even worse—more space for them to shoot and less room for me to blend in.

I can’t expect not to get shot like this. I have to remove a few of them somehow.

Petrov peeks into my storage room and says, “Cozy place. Could use a couple heaters, though.”

“You have anything else to say that isn’t sarcasm?”

“I’ve heard the woman’s voice from the other side, so I have no further question about the authenticity of your testimony. But it’s not for me to decide,” Petrov replies in a mellow voice. “Commander Dzyuba is waiting, comrade Vronsky.”

“The woman is still not prepared. I want you to help us with something.”

“What do you need?”

“I want you to carry her out in a stretcher. She’s fatigued and malnourished. She hasn’t eaten in days.”

“We want to see that thing first,” says a soldier from behind Petrov, but the lieutenant commander raises his hand to hush him. Uncharacteristically assertive of him.

“He said the woman hasn’t eaten in days. We need her to be presentable in front of Commander Dzyuba.” He points to the three soldiers on the left side of the corridor. “Go to the infirmary and get a stretcher plus half a loaf of bread.” The soldiers murmur something among themselves but still leave.

Petrov walks away from me and towards the soldiers on the right side, conveniently giving me space to maneuver. Of the three soldiers in front of me, I recognize the one on the right. I don’t remember his name, but he always shrouded himself in a corner with a cig on his mouth.

“We’ve all been sleepless today, gentlemen,” I say. “How about a smoke? I’m not one to share, so you best appreciate how delighted I am to have you here at my door.” My hand dawdles closer to my pant pocket until the tip of my finger skims over the contents inside the hole.

“What are you doing?” grunts the lofty soldier on the left.

“Relax. I’m just reaching for a smoke.”

“Hands off your pocket. Now!” he screams as he points his rifle at me. The one in the middle gingerly follows. The poor nicotine addict on the right licks his lips, but reluctantly raises his weapon as well.

A thirty-five angle swing will hit all three of them in the carotid artery.

“Okay, okay. No need to throw a hissy fist.” I clench my hand into a fist and slowly move it in front of my belly. “You discriminate against smokers or something?”

“Open your palm!” The guy on the left shouts. I hear a swooshing motion, and I know Petrov’s given signals for the guys on my right to raise their rifles too. Their weapons are unlatched.

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0.05 seconds to catch the falling men.

“I’m one of you guys.” I shake my head. “Why are you treating me like this?”

“Follow command, Comrade Vronsky,” says Petrov. “If you’re clean, you’re clean.”

0.1 second for an overhand throw. Forty-degree hip swing.

“Quit the bullshit.” The lofty guy grits his teeth. “I’m shooting—”

I swing my hand and open my palm. Sharp metal pieces pierce their necks, and blood spurts from their veins. Two of them drop their weapons, eyes and mouth gape open. The one on the left slumps to the ground immediately. I sprint in, catch the falling soldier, and hurl him toward the soldiers on the right. They must be too shocked since they haven’t opened fire.

The flying soldier crashes into two others, sending all three tumbling several meters before smashing into the wall. Blood sticks on the wall like paint strokes as the soldiers skid to the floor.

Shit. My calculation is off-the-mark. The flying body is supposed to hit Petrov and the guy next to him too.

The soldier next to Petrov frantically raises his rifle at me. His finger’s already on the trigger.

I roll a few rounds, expecting sound of gunshots. But none echoes. I get back on my knee to realize that last soldier has already fallen to the ground. Petrov is rubbing his wrists and cracking his knuckles.

Any gunshot fired would have been problematic. Even if I had avoided a shot, everyone would’ve known something was wrong.

“Why did you help me?” I furrow my brows as I stand. My body starts burning and I’m itching to release all the energy.

“Can’t let these expendable toys leave a scratch on the Republic’s property,” he replies with a half-smile as he touches his crooked nose.

I barely hold back a gasp. Did he just call me the ‘Republic’s property’?

He’s a Republican spy! I have to take him out right now. Kuznetsov must not know about my betrayal, at least until I’m out of his radar.

I plunge in at a 45-degree angle, going for a prison yard rush, aiming at his neck. My mode is nearing its maximum speed. The cut’s bound to hit his shoulder at least.

And he parries my blade. With his forearm.

I stare at the part on his arm where my knife should’ve pierced through. His flesh has turned into solid, charcoal-colored rock. I press my blade further, but it doesn’t sink in one bit. When I withdraw my blade and take a step back, the petrified outer layer of Petrov’s arm shifts and recedes until his skin looks normal again.

“You’ve underestimated me,” Petrov says.

“And you’ve missed an opportunity to strike me in the ribs.”

“I can’t do that and not risk losing my balance. I know you’ve thought of that scenario.” He throws me a sideway glance. “Zashchitnik, huh? Didn’t take you for an antique collector.”

“Hand me a XPR if you’re gonna shit on my weapon.”

Zashchitnik 87, the Republican’s upgrade to the Zastava M21 might be an antique with a 4-power scope and light duty 5.56 ammo, but after five months of AKs and Dragunovs, I can safely say this is still my best bet. Nothing against Dragunovs, but the extra mobility from a lighter bolt-action with fewer moving parts will serve a man on the run well. Especially if we’re going to hang out in Siberia for a while.

“Loosen up a little, comrade Vronsky. If you finish your mission, even if you ask to be the mayor of Golden Mile, the uppers might acquiesce.” He ends the sentence with a word of which I don’t know the meaning.

I keep my knife close to my shoulder and raise my off-hand vertically. “Are you a Gen 2? Reinforcement type? So you’re the person they sent to tail me.” I knew the Republic couldn’t trust me handling a Rank S mission alone. I suddenly recall remembering the mission as I was talking to Petrov, too. He must have triggered something in me using one of their Mind Gadgets. This can’t be a coincidence.

“The Republic always have a plan to make sure this doesn’t happen. Why are you doing this, Vronsky? You might not know and care about us Gen 2, but every one of us knows how much General Kuznetsov favors you. He might even let you take over his position once he leaves office.”

“I don’t want a commanding position. If he liked me that much, he would’ve set me free.”

“Freedom?” He snorts. “You’re delusional.”

“Enough talking. If you want a real fight, I’ll give you a real fight, and I’ll make it quick.”

“I’m not fighting you.” Petrov shrugs. “I’m no match for one of the legendary Gen 1 War Machines.”

“Isn’t it your mission? Fight me and die as a Republican dog, the true War Machine style.”

“My mission is to report to Moskva. If you kill me, it will trigger an automatic message to the Republic. So you best leave me alive.”

I scrunch my nose, relax my posture, and pocket my knife. I stoop and grab my rifle, then walk over to the guys sprawled on the floor. I break their necks. Can’t risk anyone waking up.

As I finish with the last guy, I tell Petrov in my lowest, most-threatening tone, “Hand it over.”

“What do you mean?”

I bare my teeth. “Whatever mind gadget you used to . . . to plant images in my brain.”

Petrov sighs. “I have no way to control your mind, Comrade Vronsky. You’re being paranoid. You always assume the Republic is some big bad wolf with no care for its employees. You know full well that they haven’t yet succeeded in making mind control machines. Otherwise you wouldn’t have had a functioning brain of your own.”

“Stop mincing words. You cannot control my mind, but you can interfere with it.”

“Then keep your distance. The device doesn’t work beyond three meters away.” Petrov smiles. I want to punch that smug look so hard that his face sinks into his colon. “I know you won’t appreciate me keeping tabs of you, but I can assure you I take my job seriously. I even requested a memory enhancer for you, but the headquarter think a tough cracker like you can endure another mission without needing one. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes, comrade Vronsky. One more mission and you might—”

“Stop talking.” I know what he’s about to say, and I don’t want to hear it.

“—lose your memory for good.” Fucker just had to do it.

I walk past him, and he steps away without me asking. As I walk back into my room, letting the door close behind me, I catch him saying, “I won’t stop you now. But if you decide to escape, rest assured you’ll hear from me again.”

I stare at Alice, praying she didn’t overhear the conversation. She stares back at me with the same confusion I’m having right now. I guess the both of us already know. We’re in for a clusterfuck.

“Let’s go,” I say as I run my hand through my hair and huff.

She stands, lifting her dress so the hem doesn’t drag on the floor. “Did the people out there try . . . to hurt you? I heard a lot of shouting.”

“They tried to hurt us. I need you to stay calm and soldier up for me. Have you ever seen dead bodies before?”

“I . . . have, actually.” She turns away and bites her lips.

“Good.”

“Are there bodies outside?”

“Don’t scream.” I turn back and push the door open. I don’t know what expression she’s making, looking at the bodies, but I figure it’s best not to know.

I grab a pistol from a dead soldier, put it inside my holster, then we head out. Lieutenant Commander Petrov has long gone.