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The Fists
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Little Sister Into the Wastelands
INTO THE WASTELANDSTRAINS DID NOTrun anymore.They had spent a day at the Little Wells station, huddling around the small tin stove that filled the waiting-room with soporific heat. Outside, the ragged icicles were melting and dripping, fat drops of water drumming on the asphalt. The air smelled raw and tender. A thaw had come.They spoke little. After the confrontations with the Fists, Andrei seemed to have withdrawn into himself. He spent most of the time cleaning and reassembling the black fire-stick that he called the Nagant.Svetlana was repulsed by its oily sheen that resembled an Enemy’s skin, its aura of sly darkness. She had seen how deadly it could be, but Andrei told her that it only held two more shots to fire. What use was such a weapon compared with the generosity of Light? But Svetlana did not tell him that. The distance between them seemed to be growing with every empty minute they spent waiting for the train that did not come.Krasnov, laid up in his shabby
Little Sister The Pit
THE PITTHE COILING STEAMclosed around them like a fog bank—a suffocating blankness that stank of hot iron and rust. They groped through, holding hands.Svetlana’s face burned with the heat.Then the blankness ended abruptly. They stepped out and found themselves on the lip of a large excavation surrounded by a belt of raw earth. There were several skeletal watchtowers around the excavation, each topped with a revolving searchlight. Their illumination looked like a mockery of the buttery warmth of electricity: harsh and lifeless. The howling seemed to come from these towers or rather from the searchlights, as if this dead glare screamed its own unnaturalness into the night.Svetlana’s fingers closed convulsively around Krasnov’s electric torch, but she did not turn it on. The sense that they were being watched by mocking and hostile eyes was overwhelming.She lingered, frightened of approaching the excavation, seeing what it contained. Andrei stepped forward and looked down.
Little Sister Traitors
TRAITORSTHE CELL WAS FILTHY.There was dry vomit on the floor where its previous inhabitant had emptied his or her guts. The bucket in the corner filled the tiny space with stench. At least, it was too cold for flies. Svetlana could imagine the cell buzzing with insects in summer.She sat on the edge of the bunk that held a scrunched-up dirty blanket which she refused to touch, overwhelmed by the disgust toward its no-doubt-dead-now previous user. It was as if the blanket crawled with the detritus of the body that refused to recognize its demise.She was cold, though, so cold that after a while the idea of snuggling into this corpse-blanket began to appear rational. Why not? Would she be better off frozen to death? Didn’t she owe it to her city, her family, and the Voice to survive and learn as much as possible? A three-candles girl, almost an adult, there were more important things in life than getting a little dirt over her clothes, which were not the cleanest to begin with.St
Little Sister Two Shots
TWO SHOTSSHE WAS SNIFFLINGinto his shoulder, while his familiar smell—sawdust and wool—dispelled the stench of the prison cell, and his familiar hands patted her back awkwardly, just as they had done in the long-ago childhood when her greatest sorrows had been a lost sand-bucket or a slingshot from the neighborhood’s bad boy. These hands had made everything all right then.“Daddy,” she sobbed.“Come on, Sveta, you are a big girl now. Everything will be fine. Don’t cry.”His voice sounded pinched somehow and she instantly felt ashamed. Surely, his tribulations had been worse than hers.“Mama ... ” she whispered.“Your mother is here too. You are going to see her soon.”She straightened up, tried to wipe her eyes, smearing tears and snot all over her face. It sounded like a dream. Could it be a dream? No, it was all too rough, too real. She was cold, and hungry, and in need of a bath—and her father was here!“Mama is here?”“Yes. We are going to her now.”He
Little Sister On the March
ON THE MARCHTHEY HAD BEENmarching for two days now. They had been marching for two days now through unstable weather. Brief periods of thaw interspersed with blasts of icy air from the north froze the slush into a slippery mudflat. At least they were lucky it did not snow, even though a snowstorm could bring warmer air in its wake. But they needed visibility.On the way they found several burnt villages. They were so thoroughly ransacked that not even a trace of the Enemy-hidden food remained. Nor was there an Enemy to be seen. They had all joined the Wulfstan troops.The gaunt-faced soldiers had instantly accepted Andrei as one of their own. They shared hand-rolled makhorka cigarettes, and easy banter, and a swallow of homemade throat-burning spirits from a milk bottle in the evening. They did not quite know what to make of Svetlana and treated her with an almost ridiculous courtesy. It suited her just fine because it kept them at a distance. She did not feel like talking to
Little Sister The City
THE CITYSHE HAD SEENpictures in textbooks, of course, and sung patriotic songs about the glory of Light shining at the heart of Motherland and illuminating forests and rivers, cities and towns. The reality was different, yet not so different as to make it unrecognizable.Peering through the dirty train window, she first saw a spiral shape etched on the clouds. It appeared small, as delicate as a seashell, dwarfed by the snowstorm massing above it. Only when Svetlana saw the twinkling lights far below did she realize the Tower of the Voice rose fifty stories high. Its twin-helix openwork body was painted in red and stood out boldly against the murky background. It leaned to the side, as if in defiance of the ordinary laws of physics and architecture, proclaiming its own invincible uniqueness. Inside the mammoth curving framework, Svetlana could discern large bodies suspended in the air and picked out by lines of bright electric lights. She knew these structures rotated once in
Little Sister The Audience
THE AUDIENCESHE BARELY NOTICED the open metalwork, as sturdy as any factory joists and as delicate as rime. She paid little attention to the marvel of the huge but silent mechanisms that gently rotated the structures within the Tower, each hanging sphere big as an average apartment block. Of the POP operatives who accompanied them through the mirror-lined corridors and into a glittering elevator, like a hollowed-out diamond, she retained only the general impression of young stern faces and long leather overcoats. All Svetlana remembered afterwards was the abundance of Light. It spilled from every giant window and skylight, gleamed on the polished marble floors and ceilings, reflected from mirrors and gilded cornices, twinkled in the garlands of tiny bulbs draped over arched doorways and blazed from the giant electric chandeliers. Light was everywhere, filling Svetlana with its promise of the bright future and washing away the grief and despair that had clogged her mind like layers of
Little Sister Goodbyes
GOODBYESTHEY ONLY HADan hour or so before the train was supposed to leave. Svetlana spent much of the morning going over the med kits she had been issued before departure. There were not enough. There were three-hundred people in her combat battalion, and she only had twenty kits. But with judicious use of gauze and iodine, she could stretch it out to cover most emergencies. Well, except for those that required actual surgery. Even if she knew how to do it, there were no scalpels or sterilization supplies in the kits. There were also no doctors. Most of them were sequestered in the Health Institute right here, in the City, trying to find the cure for the black-star infestation. The last she heard, they had met with significant success. Certainly, the random Patrols that went around the City, stopping passers-by and shining an electric torch into their eyes, were finding fewer and fewer traitors. She almost never saw them execute anybody anymore. Recently, these Patrols were com
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