1530

 

Three dull thumps on the cabin’s roof. Nineteen’s shout drowned by the buffeting wind. Yet, Sop II replied and conversed with her fluently as though they were speaking face to face. 

 

“Yeah! That’s our old base camp!” she said. “They got their backs turned towards us when we arrived. Didn’t see us coming! Huh?” She blinked in disbelief, then waved her arms vigorously. Skorpion ducked; Sop II almost struck her.

 

“But I did! You still don’t believe me?” She then flicked her wrist and giggled. “Hahaha, but they are slow and dumb…Huh?” She blinked again. “How did I do it?” Another giggle, “I jumped out of the helo and….” 

 

Skorpion ducked under her flailing arm again.

 

“...‘Boom!’. Then I was like,” she bopped her extended index fingers up and down, ‘Bang! Bang! Bang!’ and…what? How did the Jaegers not hit me?” She giggled again. “Easy, they are slow and dumb, so I just kept moving around the Guards and Rippers juuuuust right and make the Jaegers hit them instead. It’s really that easy and....”

 

“Sop II!” 

 

The aforementioned doll, still grinning, blinked. AR-15, her arms folded, had slammed her foot down. She admonished her with an even tone, “You are already conversing with Nineteen in the Zenner Network. Keep quiet and keep your arms still. You almost hit Skorpion, and you are disturbing the driver.” 

 

Despite her assertion, Leopold had kept his eyes fixed to the view-port, his hands steady on the steering and his mouth sealed. The whirring fan and the chattering radio buried any complaints he might have uttered. Only Makarov, who had leaned towards the driver’s seat to listen to the radio’s broadcast, had narrowed her eyes annoyedly at Sop II.

 

The BTR rocked. Wheels crunched gravel. Sop II, though silent, continued making small gesticulations. AR-15’s lips quivered, her arms still folded. She turned to glare at the false eyes.

 

Light tap against the true shin, a nudge against the ribcage. Skorpion didn’t need to prod; the false eyes had already turned towards Ingram. “Hey, Pops.” She leaned forward, then nudged her head towards AR-15. Her voice hushed, “It’s been half an hour, and they are still mad. Could be trouble. Last chance to call this off.” 

 

M4, half-concealed beside AR-15, silently gazed at the BTR’s door.

​

​

​

1330

​

“You what?!”

​

False eyes blinked. AR-15 had shot onto her feet, her cheeks furiously flushed and her purple gaze furious. Meanwhile, M4 remained in her seat, her eyes on her borscht. 

 

The pink T-Doll blinked and glanced about. She had sensed the sudden silence in the canteen and felt her peers’ eyes on her. Gritting her teeth, she sank back onto her seat.

 

“What’s collateral?” Sop II asked, her wriggling fork clenched between her teeth. 

 

“It means he will leave us with the refugees as a guarantee,” the elder T-Doll half-hissed. Still glaring, she said, “Commander, I advise against this.” Scars gouged into the table; her palms had balled into fists.

 

“I will if I hear M4’s denial.”

 

AR-15 glanced at her team leader, then spoke, “These people do not want us there. They threw us the bag and retreated behind their wall without saying anything.”

 

“Yeah!” Sop II nodded vigorously. “They gave us these dirty looks like we are Sangvis.” She then stabbed her fork into her pelmeni bowl.

 

“And they are armed!” AR-15 added insistently. “We were lucky they didn’t point their weapons at us back then.”

 

“That is understandable. They do not trust us, and we did present a poor first impression. Hence my intention. Your echelon and the BTR as collateral throughout the contract’s duration. A guarantee of forthcoming remuneration. A show of good faith.”

 

China-clatter. “That’s five dolls and a BTR, Kommandir,” commented Makarov. “They could just as easily see that as hostile intent.” 

 

“We will park the BTR outside the wall, and I will disembark and approach the gate alone, placing myself in a vulnerable position. Perhaps, then, they will be more amiable.”

 

“How can you be sure?” AR-15 insisted, again with that half-hiss. “They wouldn’t speak to us, remember?”

 

“They spoke to Kalina yesterday, and they have spoken to her again today. They agreed to the meeting at sixteen hundred. They have yet to shut their door on us. Now M4.”

 

M4 gazed upon the false eyes. Her expression was impassive. 

 

“Do you agree with this arrangement? If you dispute my decision, speak.”

 

AR-15 gave her team leader an urging look. M4 furrowed her brow, her body language indicated disagreeableness, yet she said, “Fine. If that’s what you want.” 

 

“M4!” AR-15 half-shouted. The canteen fell silent again. M4 gave her a look, then asserted, “We’ll do whatever you want.”

 

Sigh exhaled. “Your echelon’s safety rests in your decisions, M4. If you dislike my decision, dispute it.” 

 

“You are the commander.” Her tone was harsh, defiant, and goading. “Just give us the order.” 

​

​

​

1555

​

Gravel crunched under the wheels; the BTR had come to a gradual stop. Sop II continued gesticulating to her invisible audience; she was not the slightest affected by the vehicle’s lurch, much to AR-15’s chagrin. The door creaked open, and M4 looked away, her eyes stung by the filtering dry wind and the sudden solar blaze. 

 

Heavy boots crushed dried grass against gritty sand and cracked mud. The wafting dust stung the false eyes. Whining in the lenses, they tried to compensate for the low river’s glare. 

 

Additional crunches. Three sets of footfalls, two light and one less light. Sop II waved both her hands at Nineteen, who waved back with one hand while twisting her weapon and her gunshield away with another.

 

Skorpion tugged at the left sleeve while sneaking glances at the gate two hundred paces away. “They don’t look too happy to see us,” she said. “I changed my mind. We should go with you.”

 

“Are you disputing Tovarisch Kommandir’s decision?” Makarov inquired snidely. Skorpion did not respond; she could see the handgunner’s right hand resting on her holstered pistol and sense the nervousness underlying her snide tone. “But I somewhat agree with her. At least bring along your Grach.”

​

The aforementioned pistol currently occupied a seat inside the BTR.

 

“Implied duplicitousness, even if justified, will only engender distrust.”

 

Makarov squinted at the gate. “They already distrust us. Look.” She pointed. “They are pointing a gun at us.”

 

The true hand showed its palm to Skorpion. “Even more vital that we demonstrate sincerity. Stand down.” She reluctantly released the sleeve and rested her hands atop her holstered machine pistols; she was still ill-eased. 

 

The boots crunched gravel and grass. The settlement’s hostile oppressiveness grew in tandem with each rhythmic step. 

 

One of the settlers stood vigilant over a small herd of goats grazing by the riverbank. Draped in dirty white, his head wrapped under chequered white and faded red. The neck tingled as the feet passed him by. It could feel the herder’s furtive gaze.

 

The shadowed gate, a rusted blue-and-white minibus, loomed three steps ahead. Only the passenger’s door and a broken window were exposed. True to Makarov’s words, a Kalashnikov poked out of that window. Dark brown eyes emerged from behind the gun, their suspicion bared. They looked up and down, then slowly withdrew. 

 

These dark eyes were set deeply on a spotted, pale backdrop, adorned with a scraggy black beard marred by untamed white strands. They belonged to a traditionalist Muslim.

 

“Salam,” the throat croaked dryly.

 

The silence deepened; the concealed guard had fallen deathly still. The barrel raised slowly, cautiously; it no longer aimed at the chest, though the gnarled finger remained on the trigger guard. “Salam.” Greeting cold as the night sands. “You are punctual, Grifon Commander. The imam expects you.”

 

Traditionalist Muslims. Imam. Sunni. Trouble.

 

“Two attendants will accompany me.”

 

The guard’s visage emerged once more. He narrowed his eyes, then looked beyond the shoulders. He pursed his lips, then uttered gutturally. “Head and face covered. No speaking. You may bring only one.” 

 

“Two attendants.” Two false fingers shown for emphasis.

​

His gun once again aimed at the chest.

 

“An aide and one of the collaterals, who will remain with your people until the contract’s conclusion.”

 

His lips trembled, his brows furrowed. He glanced downwards, then looked over his shoulders. “Consult the imam, quick,” he said to his unseen companion. “And you…” the Kalashnikov shuddered, “...wait here.”

​

​

​

1622

​

“I don’t understand,” Ezra boomed suddenly, loudly enough to be heard despite the competitive shouting around us. “How are you so calm?”

 

“Why wouldn’t I?” I replied firmly. Not too loud, just enough to be heard. “We patrol this street every day.”

 

“You made it sound like we’ve been doing this for years when we only started last week.” 

 

“So? Nothing’s happened so far.”

 

“Well, first!” 

 

I sighed. Ezra had puffed his chest; he was in one of his preaching moods. 

 

“Fix that attitude before someone bumps into you, and….” 

 

I leapt back so suddenly that I almost bumped into a pedestrian. Ezra flashed me a brief grin as he withdrew his fist; he had tried to jab me in the gut. 

 

“Like Captain warned us. Second…” he adjusted his MTAR’s sling and pointed to his left. “Look there. What do you see?” 

 

Three girls manning a fish stall, not an adult among them. The tallest brandished her fan frantically in a battle against pesky flies. Her shouts were in Arabic, but her head and face were bared. Their heads and faces were bared.

 

“Heretics.”

 

The eldest girl saw us and immediately fell silent, cowered and looked away in fear and shame. She patted her younger ones and urged them to do the same. 

 

Blinked. Bump against the rib. M4’s concerned eyes peeked from behind the slit between her hood and neck scarf. 

​

“Yes. Heretics. Does it not irk you that we are breathing the same air as them and doing nothing about it? Instead, Father ordered us to protect them while keeping a lookout for dissidents.” 

 

“We protect them because they are Father’s flock. Besides, you can’t fault them for being sinners. They have forgotten Allah’s splendour.”

 

“Allah’s splendour. One Istanbul, one Turkey. We will regain that soon.” 

​

Huts of termite-nibbled wood and lichen-gnawed stone. Stitched-up, weather-worn yurts. Rain-rotted fences, too feeble to hold a single goat, let alone a herd.

 

“If only they are all True Faithful, like us. Imagine, Cetin. Tens of thousands of people like us. Strong, united in Jihad.”

​

Bearded men in sun-bleached linen held watchful vigil. Tillers without seeds, irrigators without buckets, craftsmen without tools. Only the absent herders were engaged in gainful employment. No womenfolk in sight, only the sackfuls of cashmere spools and the whining of spinning wheels indicated their presence.

 

A tug on the sleeve. Makarov gazed from under her blood-red scarf. A dubious look. She regarded M4, blinked, nodded, and returned her attention to the false eyes. They had a silent conversation.

 

“The Iron Seytan across the Channel couldn’t have stopped us.” 

​

Bent wood tipped with goats’ horns, sinews stretched on planted poles. A bent geriatric shaved feathered stick by a basket filled with feathered sticks. Incomplete arrows. He was heedless of our passing. 

 

“The Iron Seytan did stop them, Ezra, and now they are broken. So it is up to us. We’ll cross the Channel, we will succeed where they have failed, and, Inshallah, we will teach them to believe again.”

 

“Inshallah, Brother.”

​

Faith hadn’t delivered us salvation. 

 

“We have arrived.” A yurt under the shadow of a crumbling church, as tattered as the rest. The guide knocked at the decaying door, and it swung inwards. At the threshold, a greybeard in pristine white. His white turban denoted his status as the imam. His tired brown gaze flitted towards M4’s direction before resting upon the false eyes. 

 

“You. Grifon commander,” he said firmly, commandingly, “come in. They.…” He gestured at the dolls; he graced them nary a glance, “They wait by the door.” 

 

“These are my attendants, imam.”

 

“I am aware,” he replied harshly. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have permitted their entry. Yet, I will not suffer any woman who isn’t my wife in my abode.” He clasped his hands behind his back and gazed sternly into the false eyes. His even tone barely concealed his venom. “Let alone woman-shaped puppets. Allah forbids it. You want to negotiate? They wait by the door.”

 

“The tall one, M4, will remain in this settlement as collateral.” 

 

“You also brought four more dolls, one of your soldiers and a BTR as collateral. I’m aware. However, I forbid them from setting foot in this town.” He remained firm, unaffected. “I made an exception for your attendants only so that they may hear our discussion. However, they will listen from here. I was led to believe they have keen ears.”

 

M4 stared at us but said nothing.

 

“If this is what you wish, so be it.” True fingers fished the dictation machine from the breast pocket, raised it to the eye. “But our conversation will be on the record.”

 

The imam nodded. “So be it. Let’s not waste any more time.”

 

Removed the boots, washed the hands in the basin by the door. 

 

“I see you have failed your Test of Faith,” said the imam. 

 

“You knew I was Muslim?” 

 

He smiled briefly, laconically, as he sat cross-legged by the low table beside an unlit stove, facing the door. He settled his opened Quran by his patina-encrusted astrolabe to his right. “Nobody else in this land would know of our practices and traditions. Only a Faithful or a former Faithful.” He rested his hands on his knees. “Are you Uzbek? Kazakh?”

 

Sat down, pressed the button, set the dictation machine upright on the table. “Turk.”

 

“Ah,” he exhaled. “A divided man, in both land and spirit.” He sounded almost sympathetic. “As-salamu Alaikum. Imam Mahmud Ismailov.” He showed both his hands, palms facing each other.

 

“Waalaikumsalam.” Extended both hands and clasped his. Bowed the head. “Grifon Commander Cetin Yilmaz.”

​

He gave a brief smile, warmer than his previous, laconic one, as he withdrew his hands. “Do your dolls and your Kalina not tell you who we are?”

 

A radio assembly on a table to the left.

 

“I am only aware of the Sangvis plaguing your flock yesterday and your misgivings about us.”

 

“Now that you have walked our streets and among our homes, you understand the misgivings. You know our ways and what we are forbidden to do.”

 

“Yet, you still agreed to meet me. You know what this task entails, do you not?”

 

He nodded grimly. “I do, and I have heard your terms. By all rights, I should have turned you away.”

 

“Yet your situation is desperate enough that you are willing to compromise.” 

 

“Only because I believe you will be more reasonable than the other uniformed men we have dealt with previously. Now, state your revised proposal, and I will decide.”

 

Imam, Sunni, Traditionalist. Only the men worked hard labour. The women stayed out of sight, working the looms. Thinly-veiled disgust towards M4 and Makarov, limited hostility towards Team AR yesterday. Typical. Yet…radio assembly on the table to the left. Similar to the one Kalina had used, and the one lying…

 

Yellow Eyes gleaming in the steel-tinted mist.

​

…bullet-shattered in my Brothers’ tomb…

 

Heart palpitation, aching false limbs, trembling true fingers.

 

Inhaled, counted to three, exhaled.

 

The imam, his hands clasped on the table, watched expectantly with hawkish eyes.

 

Radio assembly on a table to the left. Similar to the one Kalina had used. Insular, yet the imam retained a means of contacting the world beyond the wall. With it, he had broadcasted his community’s distress rather than risk his flock trying to cull the Sangvis stragglers prowling about outside.

 

Settlement half-ruined, just as M4 had described. Fields without crops, tillers without seeds. Estimated a hundred inhabitants, but the number of huts suggested capacity for only half that number. Yet even half of these were rubble, and the remaining half were crumbling. Trenches dug partway towards the river, a watermill with a pylon but without cables. 

 

Not even a minaret erected outside the church, to designate its conversion into a mosque. 

 

Payment for culling Sangvis stragglers was begrudgingly made. Womenfolk fully engaged with the spinning wheels, yet to whom will they sell the cashmere or cashmere-related goods in this sector? From whom will they purchase the seeds? 

 

Sympathy towards a former Faithful; the imam had yet to condemn the loss of Faith.

 

Potential points of ingress, yet one must not be hasty. He had his guard up. A mistake, and he will erect a fortress wall and shut the gates.

 

Probe with the first shot.

 

“The task remains unchanged. Eighty intact Sangvis Guard frames and their shields, bullet damage or missing head still acceptable. Deadline in three days. Bounty of four hundred thousand rubles upon completion of the contract.”

 

The imam raised his clasped hands and perched them on his elbows. He rested his lips behind his hidden thumbs and exhaled softly. 

 

“Your task entails us going into that Allah-forsaken city and sifting through multitudes of unclean bodies, Cetin. You know this is Haram.” He glanced at his Quran and lowered his eyes. He found the job distasteful, yet he could not dismiss it outright; the offered compensation was too lucrative, too vital to turn away. 

​

He was contemplating a suitable amendment to the contract terms, one more to his people’s favour, and he would bring Allah and scriptures into the debate. That would only engender a sense of self-righteousness. 

 

Follow up the attack swiftly, while the window of opportunity had yet to close. Suggest a method to fulfil the contract that would not violate the Quran’s teachings. 

 

“The Quran has nothing against womenfolk touching the bodies of another woman, or men carrying the fallen bodies of women if wrapped in cloth.”

 

“They aren’t women,” the imam replied, his tone conveying his annoyance. “Woman-shaped puppets, but not women.”

 

“Yet you treated my dolls as though they are foreign, heretical women, imam.”

 

He faltered. Glanced to the side, towards the Quran. “It’s Haram, Cetin. Unclean.” He insisted, “I will not permit my people to touch those things.”

 

“How are they unclean? They are ‘puppets’. Machines. They do not decay. They do not spread disease. No more unclean than the Kalashnikov guarding your gate if it was caked in mud.”

 

“They are woman-shaped!” The imam’s shoulders tensed. “You have been away from the Faith, so you may have forgotten. Let me remind you again. These dolls are made in the image of half-naked women. The mere sight of them will inspire men to sin. Hence, it is forbidden for the menfolk to interact with them.”

​

“Then have the women sift through them and wrap them in cloth. The Quran does not forbid women from touching another woman or playing with their toy dolls, some of which are themselves woman-shaped objects. The men can scout out their unburied graves and look after the women as they wrap up the Guards. Once this is done, the men can carry the fallen Guards and their shields to a transport.”

 

“You must have heard the wheels spinning on your way here. Our womenfolk are spinning them. They spin cashmere yarns which are our livelihood. They cannot be taken away from their duties.” 

 

“And to whom are you going to sell the cashmere, imam? The refugee camps which had evicted your flock from Central Asia to here? Will they buy from you again? Will your people even be allowed to return?” 

 

The imam opened his mouth, left it hanging for a while, and closed it again. Once more, he faltered. Let him regather himself, but not too much. Strike before he fully composes himself, but soften the blow, lest he lashes out like a cornered beast.

 

“Imam, I have met many Muslims who doomed their communities by conflating their personal beliefs and biases with the teachings of Islam. Consult the Quran again. Do any of its passages support your views on dolls?” 

 

He pursed his lips and looked downwards. His hands were under the table now, his thumbs likely twiddling. He furrowed his brow for a moment. “Is this how you failed your Test of Faith, Cetin? Witnessing one too many infidels blaspheme against the teachings of Islam?”

 

“Will you too blaspheme against Islam whilst propping up the Quran like a shield?”

 

“No, I’m no blasphemer,” he shook his head. “My Faith was tested many times before. You are not the first nor the last, Cetin. Inshallah, I will not be found wanting.”

​

“Whether you believe me one of Allah’s many tests or the Iblis’ many temptations does not concern me.” Clasped hands on the table, the watch read 1650. “What concerns me is if you will forfeit this opportunity to reimburse yesterday’s expense many times over or if you will grit your teeth, swallow your self-righteousness and seize it.” 

 

Clenched teeth, knitted brow, piercing glare. His nostrils flared as he made three curt nods. “Your collateral. These five dolls and that one driver. They may linger outside, but they will not idle. Our women will find your quarries; our men will watch over them….” He leaned back and folded his arms. “...But we will not waste our cloth on these dolls. They are scarce enough, and we can’t afford to spare them on these machines. Your people will be the ones to prepare their bodies and bear the burden of their weight.”

 

Unclasped the hands, tapped the fingers against his table. “I have no quibble with this arrangement. Now, we discuss the matter of transportation….”

​

​

​

1755

​

Dark green carpet lying flat by the dirt road. The herder atop it was petrified like a sandstone pillar. His hands clasped in front of him, he faced southeast and bowed his head. He paid scarce attention to his grazing goats. He needn’t. None of the beasts deemed it proper to wander away from their agreed-upon boundary.  

 

Vodka stung the throat. Fire in the veins.

 

“Cetin!” Tugging on the left sleeve, fabric brushed against the wrist. Skorpion’s blue eye emitted a furious glint. “The imam called us ‘women-shaped puppets’ and said seeing us will ‘inspire men to sin’. It’s all wrong! Why didn’t you scold him for this?”

 

She was livid over the disrespect the imam and his community had shown to the dolls. 

 

“A confrontation over the subject will only alienate the imam and his community, Skorpion. They will see challenges to their beliefs as a clear sign of disrespect to their religion.”

 

“Well, their religion is wrong!” she declared. “It’s so obviously wrong! We are not like what they say! How can anyone think saying and doing such things is right?”

 

“Yet this religion forms the core of their upbringing and shapes their worldview. To them, proclaiming their religion to be in error is like proclaiming that the sun rises from the west; a denial of the fundamental truths of the world. They will not take this kindly. At best, they will refuse to cooperate with us, and at worst, they may treat us violently.”

 

She puffed her cheeks and emitted a low grumble. “But the sun rises from the east….”

 

“It seems the Kommandir’s adjutant does not understand the concept of ‘objective’ and ‘subjective’ truths.” Makarov had arrived, her arms folded, a sneer upon her lips. Skorpion narrowed her eye and then looked away. Makarov continued, not acknowledging her refusal to engage, “Regardless, as distasteful as it sounds, I agree with the Kommandir’s decision to let this be. Starting a fight with this community won’t do us any good, especially when we already have the Sangvis to worry about.”

​

“We cannot afford to alienate them, not while we still have need of their labour.” 

 

“Can’t we just put bullet holes on their gate?” Skorpion asked, her query delivered through clenched teeth. “Scare them back to their senses?”

 

“We can’t just shoot at people we don’t agree with.” Makarov folded her arms. “We only do that if they are terrorists, and the shots won’t be just for scaring them straight.”

 

“Regardless, Skorpion, changing their beliefs is not a simple matter of preaching to them. That will produce the opposite result; they will hold onto their beliefs ever more obstinately and treat us as adversaries instead.”

 

“So, what do we do?” Skorpion demanded. “Are we going to just let this slide?” 

 

“We agree to disagree and leave the matter be.”

 

“What?!” she blurted, flushing vividly. “That’s it? We are not doing anything about it?” 

 

“We follow their rules and terms of compromise for as long as we work alongside them.”

 

Skorpion ground her teeth discontentedly.

 

Sigh exhaled. “Skorpion, their beliefs prohibit women from bearing arms or performing hard labour. Yet they see us push the burden of combat onto you and your fellow dolls. To them, this is abhorrent but have they demanded that we change our ways to suit them?” 

 

“But they think of us as just ‘woman-shaped puppets’!”

 

“Their imam has come to the unspoken conclusion that dolls should be treated the same as women. Even so, has he demanded that I disarm all dolls and assign only light labour to you, even outside the settlement walls?”

 

She looked away and ground her teeth. Her answer filtered through clenched jaws, “...No?”

 

“Then is it fair of us to demand that they change their practices to suit us, even within their walls?” 

 

Her reddened cheeks puffed. “I…No? No! Of course not!” She directed her gaze towards the false eyes. “So…we leave them alone, and they leave us alone?” 

 

“Yes.” 

 

“Wouldn’t do us good if we start fights wherever we go, huh? Kommandir?”

​

Skorpion turned to scowl at the smirking Makarov. 

 

Sigh exhaled. “Stop agitating Skorpion, Makarov.” 

 

“Just stating facts,” the pale doll dropped her smirk. “Anyway, your recorder.” She held out the dictation device. Pluck it from her fingers, slipped it into the breast pocket. 

 

Leopold smoked while chatting with Ingram and Nineteen by the side door. M4 and her sisters were nowhere to be seen; they had not exited the BTR. Watch read 1806. Siskin 1 was due to arrive in nine minutes.

 

Pitter patters. Skorpion had departed towards Ingram. Her frantic footfalls indicated her simmering agitation. The matter had yet to be settled peaceably. 

 

“She still wouldn’t accept the facts,” Makarov commented. “How unsightly.”

 

“She has every right to be indignant. The imam hadn’t treated you dolls justly. It wouldn’t be like her to let this stand. Let her vent for now, and we will discuss this again after she has calmed down.” 

 

“Quite unheard of that a Takticheskiy Kommandir would let this go on longer than it should. You are not going to order her to drop the matter?”

​

“I promised her I would not order dolls outside of operations.”

 

Makarov arched her brow. “That, too, is unheard of. I’m surprised you agreed to this. Anyway…” she looked towards the praying herder, “...the negotiation concluded remarkably smoothly. Using the teachings of their holy book against them is a clever move, though most kommandirs wouldn’t know enough about Islam to pull this off. You are a Muslim?”

 

“Was.”

 

“Quite rare for a Muslim to abandon his Faith, I hear.”

 

A gulp off the flask. Fire in the veins. “I failed my Test of Faith.”

 

“That so?”

 

Skorpion brandished her fist while speaking agitatedly to her peers. Leopold simply nodded in between drags while Ingram snuck glances at us. 

 

“Just a question, Kommandir, if you will. If we didn’t need this community and didn’t have the Sangvis Ferri to deal with, would you still tolerate them and their beliefs?”

​

The herder had knelt and bowed.

 

“Are they a threat?”

 

“They could be Jihadists.”

 

“Those are wolves pretending to be shepherds, justifying their ravenous appetite for blood and excess with the Quran.”

 

Like the Khorasani, which once plagued my Brothers and my people. 

 

“This community is different. Just sojourners trying to make sense of the world by viewing it through Faith’s lenses. They are no threat. Yes, I will tolerate them.”

 

“A Turk’s perspective, I see,” said Makarov, her gaze still on the herder. He was rolling up his carpet, his prayer concluded. “Not a common view in this country. Us Soviets are notorious for our intolerance for the overtly religious.”

 

“So you wouldn’t have tolerated them.”

 

“Were it up to me, I would have chased them out of every state-managed refugee camp and hounded them from Central Asia to here, where they would be the Sangvis’ problem.” There was a sly quality in Makarov’s smirk. “But of course, it will never be ‘up to me’....”

 

“But you would do that if it were, is that what you are saying?”

 

Makarov blinked and gaped at Skorpion, who had rejoined the conversation with flushing cheeks. 

 

“You monster!” the yellow doll wrung her fists. “How could you? What they believe in is wrong, but chasing them all around like that is worse! And what’s that about making them ‘the Sangvis’ problem’?!”

 

“Have you no sense for subtlety?” Makarov flushed, her wool-like hair seemingly blown out. “I’m insinuating what the Soviet authorities have already done to them. Also, what are you doing here and not there?” Makarov glanced towards Ingram, Nineteen and Leopold, who were staring curiously. “How are you already done ranting?”

 

“You were getting chummy with Cetin, so I just have to know what you were both on about, and what you said is evil! Cetin!” Skorpion turned her furious glare towards the false eyes while pointing accusingly at the pale doll. “Don’t listen to Macky! You mustn’t!”

 

“I do not intend on doing such a thing. And what did I say about bickering with Makarov?”

 

“What!?” Skorpion gawked, startled. “That’s still on? I thought that’s only for when we picked up Sarge, FAL, Snow and Lev!”

 

“I made no such condition.” Sigh exhaled. “I will make this instance an exception if you both settle your differences peacefully by the time Nicholai picks us up.”

 

The two dolls glared at each other. Another sigh exhaled. One last gulp from the flask, screwed it tight, slipped it into the pants pocket. Both dolls started grumbling at each other as the boots made to depart. 

 

“You are not going to do anything about that settlement, Pops?” Ingram inquired, staring intently, her arms folded. 

 

“Leave them and their beliefs be. We must discuss the task at hand. Enter the BTR, all of you. That includes you, Nineteen.”

 

A loud thunk followed the scraping boots’ wake. Nineteen zipped to the nearest seat after descending from the gun-mount. Hearing her frantic approach, Sop II perked up and waved in greeting. M4 and AR-15, however, kept their surly moods.

 

Sigh exhaled. Took the seat to the far left. Tobacco stench wafted from the right, where Leopold stationed himself. Ingram directly opposite, Thirteen to Sop II’s left. Thirteen and Sop II spoke a little and were subsequently shushed by AR-15. They redirected their attention to the false eyes.

 

Arid wind blew out the parched throat. “You have heard the recording. Are there still lingering doubts?”

 

Ingram raised her hand. “Just to confirm, we do not speak to the men, and we will always cover ourselves when working with them?”

 

Head nodded. “Yes. Leopold will speak to the men on your behalf. You may, however, interact with the women. Any further questions?”

 

AR-15 raised her hand. “We will learn to operate the BTR while we are here.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“About that cloth….” Leopold started, dabbing his cigarette against his metal seat. “...what did Kalin say about it?”

 

“She said there won’t be enough sheets to wrap all the bodies. However, she has dispatched sufficient quantities to cover the settler’s wagons. They will arrive with Siskin 1, together with the camping supplies.”

 

Leopold lit another cigarette and took a long drag. “It sounds like we are collecting bodies for a mass grave. The settlers won’t be happy to see that. Might dredge out some things they would rather forget.”

 

“They will honour the bargain, Leopold. However, should disputes arise and develop beyond M4’s ability to handle, contact the base immediately.”

 

He took another drag. “Are you sure about that, commander? The princess’ been moody all day.”

 

M4 kept her head down, not making any eye contact. Her thoughts were concealed along with her face beneath her bangs.

 

“Any queries, M4?” 

 

She kept mum.

 

“You are in charge of this operation, M4. Should you have any queries, any doubts, ask them now.”

 

She kept her silence, despite AR-15’s nudgings. 

 

Sigh exhaled. “Are you truly prepared to take charge of this operation?”

 

Her eyes peeked from behind her bangs; they were obstinately upset. “I told you, commander. I’ll do anything you want. You have already given the order, haven’t you?”

 

“You are not here to be just a soldier, M4. You will be commanding this operation.” 

 

AR-15 looked at her team leader, then gazed upon the false eyes. She motioned to speak and was swiftly silenced; M4 had raised her palm, making a ‘stop’ gesture.

 

“As I said, I’ll do anything you want. You give the order, and I execute the order. What else do you want?”

 

Her eyes gleamed with defiance. 

 

Sigh exhaled again. “M4, you understand that you will be leading your team to flank Intruder’s position four days from today. You will separate from us, lead your BTR convoy up that dark, narrow road towards the AO, relying entirely on your wits, just as it had been the last time you led Team AR up there for Safehouse Three. Until we are reunited, there will be no communication between us. And even then, we may not be able to reestablish contact due to Intruder’s jamming.”

 

Her expression remained stony.

 

“Just obeying orders will not suffice; it will be detrimental to your team’s survival. You must be prepared to lead your team back into the tempest. Hence, this particular operation. You can still afford to make mistakes sailing this gale-tossed sea, just off our port. Our lighthouse illuminates the sky here, and assistance is but half an hour away. Make them and learn from them while you still can.”

 

Twigs snapped against the steel wall, followed by bellowing dust. Buffeting wind outside spurred into vortices by chopping blades. Leopold took another drag, squashed the depleted blunt under his boot then got up to depart. “Nicholai’s here. He is going to need help with unloading the supplies.”

 

“Coming with you,” said Ingram as she followed after him. Next followed Thirteen, then Sop II. AR-15 gave M4 one last look before going with them.

 

M4 still maintained her defiant composure.

 

Sigh exhaled again. “You want to help that settlement? This is your opportunity. Outside the daily reports, unless a crisis develops beyond your control, I will not intervene.”

 

A slight twitch at the corner of her lips.

 

“However, a few words of advice. Adhere to their rules. Help them only if your offers of help are accepted. When dealing with their menfolk, act through Leopold. Finally, do not meddle with their internal affairs. You are here to assist them in completing the contract, not fighting injustices or fostering a rebellion.” 

 

She still maintained that quarrelsome glare.

 

“Promise me you will complete this operation without any drama.”

 

She exhaled and nodded. “Yes, commander.”

 

A little twitch on the true lip. Raised the true forearm, showed it to her. 

 

She blinked. 

 

“Raise your left forearm and hit mine with it. Skorpion said it’s for good luck.”

 

She blinked again, then hesitantly raised the aforementioned limb. We knocked our forearms together. 

 

The limbs lowered. “This morning, Persica told me you know how to contact her. Show me.”

​

​

​

Kalina has done all she can. The rest, we must follow through.

 

M4’s anger continues to simmer. I can only hope it does not boil over and scald her team and the refugees. 

 

…

 

Three days moored to an unfriendly port. I had anticipated trouble from the refugees, but I hadn’t expected them to be Sunni Traditionalists. You know what they are like. What we were like. I wonder if they may be too much for M4.

 

…

 

All water under the bridge now. The waves may be rougher than expected, perhaps, but M4 is still within the base’s reach. Let her have this ordeal. I have mine to bear. 

 

The taking of this waystation, a task given by a party unknown, though Persica claimed it to be her friend. A confounding client, like the spies we once spectated fretting about on a discoloured liquid crystal screen. 

 

Persica claimed this phantom to be her friend, and I have to trust her vested interest in our wellbeing as Team AR’s shield. For now, I must focus on completing this task given to us. Complete it, be compensated by the phantom or by her on its behalf. To that end, I was taught the means to contact her. A satellite communicator loaned by AR-15. M4 had offered hers, but I had her keep it in case M16 contacts her.

 

…

 

Satellite positioned over this sector; it seems Persica had been surveilling the region for quite some time. Likely observing Safehouse Three. 

 

Persica, Agent, Kryuger as well? Was all that had transpired thus far anticipated? Is it intended for this company to be both port and bulwark until the struggle for Safehouse Three concludes? What lies within Safehouse Three that draws this much attention? What still remains?

 

I am still in the dark on what’s discovered within Safehouse Three and what still remains in it, but Fortune willing, perhaps not all is scrubbed by the time we reach it ourselves. There may yet be enough left to piece together this puzzle. Perhaps enough of it to understand the unseen hand driving this conflict. Maybe even unveil the Sangvis agenda.

 

…

 

This waystation…Communications…This unknown actor…this ‘friend’ of Persica, seeks it. Is what contained therein related to Safehouse Three? I should try to recover as much as from the waystation before leaving it in this client’s custody. See what can be gleaned from it. See if my suspicions are correct.

 

This may prove difficult, however. The client hasn’t provided any details on what was being sought. Instructions were to clear the AO and then await further instructions. No further details, though I suspect we may find those same obsidian blocks Grifon Intelligence had us secure in that manor in Subsector Two.

 

A fool I was to not attempt looking into these blocks. I will not repeat this mistake.

 

Clearing out the AO is the second ordeal. Intel on it is sparse. Only topography, nothing else. I have sent Team FAL and Team SVD to reconnoitre and 416 to supervise their effort. David has assured me that the waystation’s transceivers cannot detect our transmissions, but I still ordered for minimal communications just in case. Until they return to us with actionable intel, I must make my preliminary plans around speculations.

 

Preliminary plans I have already made based on the worst speculations. Even Nivy had accused me of paranoia, yet, better to be overprepared than to be blindsided.

 

I do not intend to repeat Novum Sambir.