IZHMEK Mechanical Plant/refortified fort, Izhevsk, Russia
November 18th, 1991, 23h22’
56.8619° N, 53.2324° E
Leaning back against his chair, Commander Dzyuba closed his eyes, trying to take in a breath that didn’t reek of vodka, latrine, or his past mistakes. Outside the ventilation hole above his head, fragments of sunlight had long given way to a dull overcast, then to barren nothingness. Dzyuba had never been that fond of darkness. Nothing pleasant ever happens behind the back of the light.
“Take care of my creations for me,” whispered the voice of his old friend Anatoly Maksimov.
Before setting himself alight at the Battle of Vyazma, Maksimov had illegally conceived a pair of identical twins to “carry on his legacy” should he perish. At the time, only the fittest sets of genes were allowed for procreation, and Anatoly had to pull all the strings to sneak his own into the mix. It was the closest anyone could come to sustaining their lineage.
The twins were Andrei and Maksim Maksimov.
The last moments of Anatoly’s life flashed through Dzyuba’s mind again. His lurid grunts as the bluish flame ripped its way through his limbs. His ghastly howl as charred metal and cloth fell into the snow, melted and melded into inky streaks. Skin tearing and flesh shrinking. Hair smoldering and eyeballs popping.
The commander snagged the half-full vodka bottle from the table, craned his neck back, and swallowed until the last bitter drop, letting it bled through his veins. The screams inside his head fizzled a little with each mouthful he absorbed, reducing his terror to fitful murmurs in the back of his mind.
Artem Dzyuba, Anatoly Maksimov, and Boris Zhukov—they were the elites of the 1964 class; the future of the State of Ural. They were supposed to be the symbol of wits, heroism, and bravery, the beacon of hope against the oppressive Republic of Moskva.
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Yet, Dzyuba never felt he deserved to be in the same rank as his best friends. He was never as sharp, never as resourceful, and certainly never as valiant.
It was he who had compromised their hiding spot, but it wasn’t Dzyuba who’d sacrificed himself as a diversion for the other two to escape.
I should’ve died in Vyazma.
He hadn’t. Since then, he had died several times; each time, he’d risen from death, shedding a piece of humanity with him. Now, his time was running out, yet again.
The commander rotated the ring on his index finger until he could see the words “From Papa” engraved on it. The piece of diamond on the ring emitted a dim white light as though a mini lighthouse were built inside.
Dzyuba unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a thick piece of cloth wrapped twice around his chest. He had to wear the cloth, no matter how uncomfortable it felt. He had to hide what was underneath: a Republican artificial heart, observable behind his rib cage, next to his artificial lung. He was no longer a human, at least not one with cardiac organ.
The price I paid for Maksim’s life.
He unwrapped the cloth and looked down at the plastic, heart-shaped, opaque white mechanical organ wired to his arteries. It glowed with a pale light, the same dim glow as the ring. He pressed the diamond against his mechanical heart, and the two lights started interacting, beaming toward each other as the plastic surface grew warm and almost sizzled.
Courses of energy pulsed through Dzyuba. He arched backward, teeth gritting, grating grunts escaping his throat. A greenish tint crept through his veins, visible under his pallid skin.
More, more, more! Stronger, stronger, stronger!
His heart flashed a blinding light, and he dashed the ring to the ground in agony. Beads of sweat poured from his body as he lay face-down on the table, gasping for air. His body was too obsolete for this.
Nonetheless, he had to try. Izhevsk was no place to die. But to survive, he and Maksim needed to be superhumans. War machines. It was them against the world.
‘Take care of my creation for me,’ Anatoly had said.
I must live. I have a promise to fulfill.
Dzyuba stared at the summoning order he’d just written, Alexei Vronsky’s name on it. He’d had a sneaky suspicion ever since that man arrived in Izhevsk unscathed a year ago, only to be confirmed when Lieutenant Commander Petrov had found this mysterious ring lying about inside a med pod and brought it to him. A hidden fusion generator suddenly appearing close to Alexei’s room? In no way it could’ve been a coincidence.
Dzyuba had served Supreme Leader Smolnikov for three decades, and yet had never heard Vronsky’s name among the ranks. How did a person with barely any military record manage to bypass Pavlyuchenko’s army amidst a prolonged siege? Who exactly was he? If that man could walk in, surely he would be able to walk out.
And that meant Dzyuba could, too. He just had to learn Vronsky’s secret.