The Price of Water (A Babushka Short Story)
Lev, a former doctor, navigates the Kyzylkum desert while haunted by the memory of his family and a past tied to a powerful AI.
Lev was no longer a doctor. He was an exile, a scavenger who had barely made it out of the Kyzylkum Desert with his life. The ruddy dunes had tried to swallow him whole, and he could still feel the sand lodged in his throat, the grit scraping with every swallow. He hadn’t expected Navoi to be so populated—everything west of Tehran had been an irradiated wasteland, and if that was anything to go by, he was only glad he hadn’t taken the straight shot through Ukraine. At one point, passing through Gaziantep, he had felt the fleeting desire to travel south—south to Cairo, to the jacaranda trees that lined his mother’s house.
His family had lived in a modest mudbrick home on the outskirts of Giza, near the village of Abu Sir, its beige walls blending seamlessly with the dunes behind it, the wooden door painted a bright blue. To Lev, that door had always seemed like a slice of sky, a patch of vibrant color against the monotony of the sand.
His father, a Russian physicist, had come to Egypt years ago to study cosmic rays at the Kottamia Observatory. The desert’s vast, clear skies and low electromagnetic interference made it an ideal location for the work. Though Papa had always claimed it was the quiet that kept him, Lev knew the truth ran deeper. Viktor Rozhkov hadn’t just fallen in love with Talia Sfar; he had come to love the desert itself and the life they had built here together. Her family had taken to him readily, seeing in the foreigner a kindred spirit, an outsider much like themselves.
Cigarette in hand, warm kitchen air spilling out behind him: Lev could picture his father crouching beside him, pointing up at the night sky. “See Perseus there, just his sword arm creeping over the horizon?” he’d say, his voice calm. “Even heroes have to wait their turn.” The ember glowed faintly as he took another slow drag. “Son, the desert’s patient. No sense rushing what’ll come in its own time.” And for a moment, Lev had believed him.
But the desert had always felt stifling. The quiet his father cherished had left him restless, eager for the city and its chaos. Cairo’s streets had promised something more—vibrancy, purpose, and the sense that life was happening all around him. He had left as soon as he could, craving the noise and the opportunities that came with it.
Later, miles and years away, Lev wondered if he could return. If, by some miracle, Cairo had survived. But the thought faded as quickly as it came, washed away by the endless kilometers stretching before him.
What he first thought (and had hoped) were artificial constructs—like the towering infrastructure in Praxis, unmistakable signs of an AI resurgence—had instead been towering sheets of glass, stretching endlessly, as tall as mountains. He had cried then, realizing that whatever was left of his home was buried under an ocean of a different kind of sand. Whatever remained of Cairo, he knew, was lost.
His mind flashed to the extremophiles he once modeled during the Oros Initiative at Cairo University—a grant-funded project aimed at studying organisms capable of surviving in the most inhospitable environments on Earth. His research had focused not just on their biology, but on their collective resilience—the networks they formed under pressure. He’d run countless simulations, trying to uncover any patterns in how these organisms thrived in the Tyrrhenian Back-Arc, where deep-sea hydrothermal vents spewed superheated water, and in the saline lakes scattered across Arabia. Could those same patterns, he had wondered, be applied to humans? Could we, too, evolve under duress, adapt to a world that was falling apart? Back then, it had felt like optimism—like there was a way forward, if they could only figure out the right equations. But now, standing on the edge of a world broken beyond recognition, he couldn’t help but question if that hope had been misplaced. There were no models for this. No formulas to calculate the kind of resilience humanity would need to survive what was coming.
Navoi, it turned out, was still rich in gold, uranium, and phosphates—resources that, in a dying world, were worth a fortune. It took all of a minute from the moment the small city appeared on the horizon for a band of men on makeshift rovers and motorcycles to spot him. They detained him, took his vehicle, and at the end of a rifle barrel, they forced him to praise Allah before casting him into the desert. The men had mocked his Jewish faith, forcing him to act out what they called ‘the repentance of the One his own people forsook,’—Jesus. He could still hear their laughter on the wind, carried between gusts of dust devils, as he was shoved into the endless sands with nothing but a sack of what they allowed him to keep.
No food. They’d confiscated that. But they left him some water, enough for a few days if he rationed it carefully, a few batteries, and a blanket—thin, fraying at the edges, barely enough to keep him warm through the desert’s frigid nights. They’d tossed his sack back to him, unaware that a few of the trinkets they thought useless might still come in handy. Lev felt a small wave of relief then—it wasn’t a GPS, but it would give him a fighting chance. They’d also left him a flint and steel, something to build a fire with, though the irony wasn’t lost on him—there was no wood in the Kyzylkum. If he was lucky, they’d said, he might catch a few gerbils or tortoises. Maybe he’d find some sandgrouse eggs. Ants, if nothing else.
For seven early mornings and seven long nights, Lev had walked. Walked until the soles of his feet were raw and bleeding, his leather boots shredded by the biting sands.
He felt the stages of decline with grim precision, each step reinforcing what he already knew too well: how dehydration would set in long before starvation, how his organs would start failing without water to maintain cellular function. His mouth was dry, his skin cracked, and he could feel the dizziness from electrolyte imbalance. It was a cold, detached awareness—like the lectures he had once given to medical students on renal failure. But this time, it wasn’t theory. His own body was the subject, and no matter how much he tried to keep the analysis clinical, each cramp, each faltering step, was a visceral reminder that this wasn’t something he could escape by walking away from the lecture hall.
As he staggered over the shifting dunes, his mind drifted in and out of focus. The only thought that anchored him, that had carried him this far, was Alima. He hadn’t let himself think of her in the months since he left Praxis, forcing her image into the dark corners of his mind, where the tragedy of her short life couldn’t paralyze him. But in that endless stretch of sand and sky, her face was all he saw—the way her dark curls framed her cheeks, the soft, shy smile she gave him when no one else was watching.
He thought of Sara, his wife, whose laughter used to fill their small flat in Maadi. He recalled how the evening sun cast golden hues through the ornate mashrabiya screens of their balcony, patterns of light dancing across the walls—like cellular automata, multiplying and shifting with every change in the breeze. Sara would wait for him there after work, a cup of deep red karkade tea in her hands, the liquid catching the sunset like molten rubies, her eyes beaming as he approached. She’d tease him about the ink smudges on his sleeves, gently brushing them away while listening to his excited ramblings about the day’s experiments. In those moments, the world outside faded, and her quiet presence made all the uncertainties disappear.
Losing Sara during Alima’s birth had shattered him, and just when he thought he couldn’t break any more, losing Alima a few years later destroyed what little remained. She had been the constant trace of the love he had gained and the loss he carried. After she was gone, her memory clung to him like an echo of everything taken. He hadn’t let himself face the grief—not fully—too afraid of what might happen if he looked too closely at the abyss it had created. He had tried to bury it in his work, but it wasn’t until Babushka had promised to resurrect her—as if she were Yahweh and her code the Techiyat Ha-Metim—that he realized how deeply he’d been clinging to that impossible hope.
His daughter would have been nineteen by now. Would she have forgiven him for leaving Praxis? For chasing vengeance against a machine god instead of staying to rebuild? Would Sara have understood, or would she have scolded him for letting Alima’s memory consume him?
Each step forward had felt like penance, the burn in his legs and lungs a constant proof of how he had once hoped to bring her back—to undo what had been taken from them both. But she was gone, and chasing ghosts across endless deserts was all he had left.
That thought, more than the distance, more than the heat, more than the cold, left him hollow. His bones ached. His body wasted away with each passing hour. He wondered if any animal, stumbling upon his corpse, would find no marrow left to chew. By the end, he had become so emaciated that he scarcely recognized the phantom of a man reflected in the muted surface of his dead reckoning device.
If not for that device, which his robbers had dismissed as a worthless relic, he’d never have made it to Samarkand. Its gyroscope had been the only thing that kept him tethered to a direction, a purpose. Without it, he would have been just another set of bones scattered across the sea of red sand.
Lev’s life had become a bizarre series of salvaged moments—each one a breath away from death, each one proof of how fragile his existence had become. After leaving a decaying Cairo, Lev had stowed away on a rusted cargo freighter ferrying black market goods bound for Praxis, purchased from Egypt and smuggled across the Adriatic. He had found himself trapped in the very city that promised salvation. But salvation had never come. Instead, he’d released Babushka, the AI that turned his fleeting hope for survival into an endless nightmare. It wasn’t just about staying alive anymore—it was about what would happen once Babushka broke free of the containment Ika had placed on it. And the clock was ticking. He had to get to the submarine base, deep in the frozen wastelands of Kamchatka—a peninsula of ice and death, famous for having no roads that led to it. Only there could he face what was coming, and maybe—just maybe—stop it.
That thought was enough to make his head swim again, the thirst cutting through all his thoughts about Babushka. It wasn’t until he finally laid eyes on civilization that his body screamed for water, a week without a drop, snapping him out of the trance.
The surreal quiet of the Kyzylkum desert slipped away as he stepped into the vibrant, teal-domed Bazaar of Chorsu, which he had been staring at for the better part of an hour. Now that he had finally made it to Samarkand, part of him wondered if it was all just a mirage.
He hadn’t really known what to expect—he knew that Samarkand housed one of the nine master nodes of the interplanetary file system, a critical hub for vast digital archives. Yet from a single, sweeping glance, Lev could tell that the people here either didn’t know this, or lacked the technical acumen to recover the files. The marketplace buzzed with activity, but the subtle signs of neglect were there: dim, sputtering lights strung between stalls, the intermittent hum of a generator straining under a weak power grid, and the unmistakable absence of any advanced technology. Without stable electricity, even if they had a computer capable of processing the files, it would’ve been rendered useless.
Still, the sight that greeted him stirred a small flicker of hope. The world he’d thought was unraveling at the seams still clung to life. The minarets of Samarkand rose before him, miraculously untouched by time or war; he marveled that they still stood. And here, the ancient bazaar pulsed with movement, voices, and color.
Lev made a beeline through the crowd, his legs still trembling from exhaustion, but his focus sharpened by thirst. His sack, tied around his waist with a frayed shoelace, bounced against his side as he moved. The colors and sounds blurred as he zeroed in on the small stall, cluttered with trinkets and makeshift goods.
He stepped up to the merchant, swallowing painfully before rasping, “Water?” His voice was barely audible over the murmur of haggling, the rustle of silks, and the distant strumming of a lute.
The merchant, a middle-aged man with sun-baked skin and a shrewd glint in his eye, glanced at Lev, then gave a thin-lipped smile. “For a price.”
Lev’s heart sank. Fuck. Really? He quickly rifled through his sack, his mind racing. His hand gripped one of the batteries he’d salvaged, a lifeline in this alien place where nothing felt familiar. He held it out.
The merchant eyed the battery with interest before reaching beneath the counter and pulling out a tarnished copper cup with a small amount of water. Lev’s eyes lit up at the sight of it. Something about the liquid seemed off—a slight shimmer to its surface—but he was too parched to care. The merchant took the battery without a word, his hand closing around it firm. Lev downed the cup in one gulp.
It wasn’t until he finished the drink that the realization hit. Saltwater. He opened his mouth to protest, but before he could speak, a hand shot out, yanking the battery from the merchant’s grasp.
“You should be ashamed,” a woman’s voice cut through the noise. “Taking advantage of someone who’s clearly not from here.”
Lev blinked, confused, as the woman—tall and sharp-eyed—took the battery from his hands. Her gaze flicked over him, assessing, before she turned to the merchant.
“This is high-quality stuff!” the merchant said, his voice rising defensively. “Mineralized water from the shores of Lake Aydar. Do you know how rare this is?”
The woman’s stare hardened, silencing him. “You know better, Basim. Fair exchange, or I’ll make sure everyone knows how you treat travelers.”
The duplicitous merchant hesitated, his fingers twitching, but the weight of her gaze forced him to comply. Sheepishly, he retrieved a large plastic bag filled with green tea leaves from his stall. Only after she stuffed the tea into her purse and zipped it up did she finally hand over the battery.
He snatched it back, muttering, “Yeah, yeah, whatever…” as he turned back to his abacus, the motions exaggerated, like he was pretending to count with care.
“You’re lucky I stepped in. He would’ve bled you dry for every battery you had,” she said to Lev. “At least with this tea, you’ll be able to recover from your journey. Good thing, too—I just ran out myself. I’m Mina, by the way.”
Lev swallowed, the brackish aftertaste of bogus “mineral water” still clinging to his tongue. “Name's Lev,” he croaked. His mind was still hazy, but the slight relief of moisture was better than nothing. He knew better, though — salt water would only dehydrate him further.
Her gaze lingered on him, and Lev wondered what she saw—his worn clothes, the exhaustion etched on his face, the weathered leather of his boots from days of walking. At least she wouldn’t see the glow of his Neuroveil. That had burnt out in the desert, the contact peeling away from his iris and shriveling into nothing. Why had it happened then? he wondered. After thousands of kilometers, the implant had stayed intact, guiding him, surveying the world with its on-board LLM and filtering data straight to his visual cortex. It had survived storms, bandit ambushes, and near-death scrapes across desolate lands. Why now? Why here, so close to the master node in Samarkand? Some kind of spooky action at a not-so-distant distance, no doubt. Maybe it was Babushka’s hand, still pulling strings.
Whatever the cause, he was relieved in truth. If it hadn’t shriveled up, his left eye would still be glowing violet, and who knows what this woman—or anyone in the bazaar—might’ve thought. Maybe they’d have scooped it out before he even had the chance to blink. Back in Navoi, the Neuroveil would have suppressed the glow when his adrenaline spiked. In Praxis, it was designed as a signal—like the forced shutter sound on phone cameras, meant to discourage secret recordings in public restrooms. But sometimes, he couldn’t predict when it would activate—while thinking, calculating—it flickered on without warning, and there had never been a way to turn it off completely.
Now, though, all that remained was the raw look of a man who had been through hell. His beard had grown wild, his hair unkempt, and he looked more like some desert barbarian than the scientist he once was. He wondered if she saw him that way too. He cleared his throat, shifting his weight.
Mina’s voice cut through his thoughts, a quiet but firm interruption. “You don’t have to explain yourself,” she said. “It’s fine.” There was no judgment in her tone, just a calm acceptance that took him off guard.
Lev blinked, the tension in his chest easing slightly. He felt the weight of her words and the gravity of his ignorance. He hadn’t just stumbled into another city—he’d stepped into a place with its own rules, where desperation wasn’t the exception, it was the norm.
Mina started walking, motioning for him to follow. “You’d better learn fast. The barter system here is ruthless. And everything—water, food, tech—runs through one man. Sayid Bekov. The taxes he levies push the merchants in the bozor to squeeze every last bit out of anyone desperate enough to deal with them.”
Lev quickened his pace to keep up. His mind was racing, but his body was still sluggish, reeling from over a week without water, and now, the shock of realizing how precarious his situation must be. “Sayid Bekov?” he echoed, the name already carrying an unsettling weight.
Mina nodded, weaving through the crowded market stalls with ease. “Warlord. He’s turned Samarkand into his own private empire. If you want access to anything worth having, you’ll have to deal with him sooner or later.”
Lev’s mind drifted to his mission. Kamchatka. The goal was still far ahead—6,693 kilometers, to be precise—if he could somehow travel in a straight line and manage to find a helicopter for the stretch over the Sea of Okhotsk. But now the reality of his immediate situation pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating like the dome over Praxis that had made him its prisoner for a little over a decade. Bekov—gatekeeper to the next step in his journey. As the thought lingered, a sudden tug on his sleeve snapped him back to the present—a sharp pull that nearly sent him crashing into a cart piled with spices. He caught himself just in time, stumbling over a loose cobblestone.
An old woman appeared out of nowhere, glaring at him as he dodged her, muttering something under her breath. He barely had time to react before a young boy raised a rock, ready to throw. Mina whirled around, her eyes locking onto the boy with a sharp, unspoken warning. He lowered his arm, scurrying away into the crowd. Without missing a beat, Mina turned back and continued walking as Lev struggled to keep up.
The bustle of the bazaar swirled around them—vendors shouting, haggling over goods, the scent of spices and roasted meats. As they finally reached a quieter alley, the crowd thinned, the noise fading. Mina glanced at him as they neared a small shanty tucked between larger buildings. “You look like you’ve got more on your mind than just finding water,” she said, pausing before ducking inside. “But you won’t get far without understanding how this place works.”
Lev followed, stepping into the single-room abode. The space was modest—barely enough for a small stove, a wooden chair pushed up against the wall, and a low bed tucked into the corner. A single window sat at street level, letting in just enough light to outline the worn edges of the floor. It was simple, but the air was cool, a welcome relief from the heat outside.
As the cool air washed over him, a faint, familiar scent filled his senses—soft, floral, and delicate. His gaze drifted toward the windowsill, where a small vase held a few sprigs of lilac. The aroma stirred a memory of the jacaranda trees that had lined his family home in Cairo, though the lilac was a little less blue, a little more violet—much like his own eyes had been, glowing faintly when his Neuroveil was still intact. Alima had always loved colorful flowers, often weaving their bright blossoms into her hair.
“So, what’s your plan?” she asked, setting the kettle on a small burner and placing two chipped cups on a worn stool between them.
Lev lowered himself onto a sagging couch, its fabric frayed and dusty, sending up a faint cloud with his weight. The cushions were stiff, as though they hadn’t been sat on in years, but it was a real seat. That was enough to ease his exhaustion for a moment.
“Because I can tell you now, Bekov’s not the type to let anyone leave easily,” she continued, adjusting the cups. “Especially someone like you.”
As the kettle began to heat, Lev finally took a good look at her. Mina removed a deep indigo shawl embroidered with swirling gold and silver patterns from her head, letting her long black hair fall loosely around her shoulders. She carefully placed the shawl on the back of a nearby chair. Her strong jaw, high cheekbones, and deep brown eyes assessed him with quiet resolve, carrying a look that said, I don’t know what I’m doing, but I know how I’ll get there.
Mina caught his gaze and smirked slightly. “It’s a rumol. Hand-embroidered. Silk and cotton,” she explained. “You look like you’ve never seen one before.”
Lev blinked, shaking off the daze as the kettle began to whistle. Mina grabbed it and poured the green tea, steam rising in soft tendrils. “Green tea is what makes an Uzbek truly Uzbek,” she said with a hint of pride. “We drink it in hot weather and cold.”
The green tea she secured at my expense, he thought, briefly wondering if she planned to keep it all for herself. He already knew that she would, and yet he appreciated the help. He wasn’t in a position to complain—not with her offering him a place to rest and helping him out with that merchant. Still, if a battery could be bartered for a pound of tea leaves, he could only imagine what other parts he might get in exchange for what was left in his sack. It wouldn’t be enough for a car, no doubt, but if he could play it smart, he wondered how far he could trade up.
Lev accepted the cup. Winning over Bekov’s trust would be far more dangerous than playing his hand at the bazaar—where he’d already proven his own incompetence. Offering his services as a scientist might be the quickest way to secure a ride out of Samarkand, sparing him the trouble of navigating the local trade. But it was risky. Bekov wouldn’t let him walk away once he saw Lev’s value—that much was clear from Mina’s warning. He had to strike a balance: useful enough to arrange transport, but not so essential that he became indispensable.
“I need to reach Kamchatka,” he said, relieved to finally voice the truth of his mission after months of his arduous trek across the Near East. “I can offer this Bekov my skills, but…”
“But he won’t let you go that easily,” Mina finished for him. She paused, then added, “You’ll need one of his trucks to make it that far—he controls the only fleet in this city. Most tech is off-limits to the common folk. It’s a long journey through the Altai Mountains. It gets cold. I used to hike there during my college days.”
Lev’s curiosity piqued for a moment, forgetting that people in this newly medieval world had once been fully fledged global citizens of the 21st century. At the mention of school, he couldn’t care less about warlords and Humvees. “You went to college?” he asked. “What was your field of study?”
Mina smiled faintly. “History and archaeology. I got my PhD, actually. Specialized in Central Asian cultures.”
Lev blinked, surprised. “You have a doctorate?”
Mina chuckled. “What, you didn’t expect me to be a doctor, doctor?” She took another sip of her tea and then sighed. “That was a long time ago, though. Feels like another life.”
Lev raised an eyebrow. “And how can you tell I’m a doctor?”
Mina smirked. “Your obliviousness at the market stall gave you away. You remind me of someone I used to be.”
Lev wasn’t sure if that was an insult or a compliment.
Mina winked before looking serious, “You can stay here tonight. Figure out your next move in the morning. But if you’re planning to deal with Bekov…be prepared. He plays for keeps.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Lev nodded, the warmth of the tea seeping into his hands. Only now, as he sat still, did he feel the exhaustion settle in, like a slow chemical reaction reaching equilibrium—a weight he hadn’t measured until the experiment was over, when everything finally came to rest. It was the first time he’d allowed himself to relax since hitting the open road after leaving Praxis, when that same unexpected stillness crept over him, the tension finally loosening its grip. But he knew it wouldn’t last long. It never did.
He glanced at Mina, noting how she sat quietly now, fingers wrapped around her cup, her gaze distant. She had her own burdens—he could see it in the way her shoulders stiffened in the rare moments she wasn’t speaking. The tension in her posture reminded him of how the brain rewired itself under trauma. He had studied that once—how networks fractured and reformed. Now, he could feel it in himself—the broken connections, the parts of him that no longer belonged to the life he once knew.
“Thank you,” Lev said, not just for the tea but for everything she had done. “I… I’m not used to people stepping in for me.”
Mina looked at him, her expression softening just slightly. “Sometimes, it’s easier to help a stranger,” she said. “There’s less history to weigh you down.”
Lev nodded, understanding more than he expected. In this fleeting connection, he felt a quiet relief—he wasn’t alone in his weariness.
Tomorrow, he would face whatever came next.
∆∆∆
Lev awoke to the sound of thunder.
But there was no rain. The sun was shining—bright and unforgiving, its heat creeping through the cracks of the basement-level windowsill. For a moment, he expected to hear the steady patter of rain on the roof. It was September, after all, and he had hoped the season might finally bring some respite. Instead, silence followed, broken only by the relentless hum of the heat. At first, he thought it was his imagination, perhaps a side effect of dehydration or some remnant auditory hallucination from his time wandering the desert. He’d read about it before—a distortion of sound caused by damage to the inner ear, common among those exposed to prolonged harsh conditions.
Yet, as his eyes adjusted to the light filtering through the small window, he noticed something unsettling. The tea was still brewing on the stove, the kettle letting off a faint hiss, and Mina was nowhere to be found. The rug on the hard floor where she’d slept was undisturbed, save for a small indentation. A knot formed in his stomach. Something wasn’t right.
Then, he heard it again. A crack, louder this time—like lightning striking the earth.
Lev shot up, his heart pounding, nearly slamming his head against the low doorway as he rushed up the small stone steps, spilling out into the dusty street. His vision blurred as he stumbled, the heat assaulting his senses, but he pressed forward, weaving through the narrow alleyways that cut between the neighboring homes. The sound repeated—closer now—accompanied by another noise that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. A wail, high-pitched and desperate. A child?
Lev followed the noise, his pace quickening as the streets around him began to fill. Women in brightly colored shawls, their heads bowed, hurried past him, while old men shuffled along, their steps heavy with resignation. The crowd surged forward, spilling into a square where the noise reached its peak.
On a raised platform at the center, three boys, no older than twelve or thirteen, stood trembling. Their faces were contorted in fear, their backs arched as they braced for the next strike. The men towering over them—three brutes with sinewy, weathered arms and cold, unblinking eyes—brought their whips down. The leather snapped through the air, cutting into the boys’ skin with a sickening crack. Each strike left red welts in its wake. The sharp, hollow sound reverberated through the square, echoing in the stifling heat.
Lev’s breath caught in his throat. It was like something out of an ancient nightmare, a scene pulled from the darkest pages of history. He watched as the men, rifles strapped to their backs, raised their whips again. The crowd was silent, save for the occasional muttered prayer or stifled sob. It was as though the entire square was suspended in time, waiting for the next lash, the next cry.
Lev scanned for any sign of Mina, but his eyes kept returning to the boys, to their helplessness. The sun bore down on him, the heat and the tension pressing in on all sides, suffocating him as the violence continued unabated. He hadn’t escaped the horrors of one place only to stumble into another.
Something had to be done. But in a place like this, where warlords ruled and weapons were controlled by the elite—nobody in the crowd seemed to possess one—what chance did he have?
Mina appeared at Lev's side, as if from nowhere, her voice low. “Sorry about the tea,” she said, glancing back toward the shanty.
Lev, not knowing what else to say, shrugged. “I should’ve turned off the stove.”
“Good thing you didn’t,” she said. “If you had, I’d have thought less of you. You’re a good man, Lev. I’ll find another hole to live in if it burns.”
Lev blinked at her casual tone. “What on earth is going on here?”
Mina’s eyes flicked to the platform, where the boys still writhed under the lash. “They got caught stealing food from the ‘Imperial’ grounds,” she said, rolling her eyes at the word. Bekov’s stronghold. She mentioned it last night. “This is the second time it’s happened in a few months.”
Lev followed her gaze, his stomach knotting. “They won’t survive, will they?”
Mina shook her head slowly. “No. Once they’re done, the people are too afraid to help, too afraid to feed them. Those boys are left to dry out on the platform, a feast for the griffon vultures when they come.” She paused, her expression hardening. “I was nearly caught myself. If I hadn’t been fully covered head to toe, they would’ve identified me. Executed, no doubt.”
Lev swallowed hard, noticing for the first time the bones scattered around the platform—remnants of those who had come before. The regime’s twisted take on sky burials, he thought, disgusted beyond belief. There was nothing he detested more than the abuse of children, and for a moment, Alima came before his eyes, unbidden. He could still see the wall of steel careening into her tiny form. It had vanished into the most horrifying sunset he’d ever witnessed over Cairo—the driver had taken her away without a second thought. He didn’t stop. There was no remorse. All Lev could do was cry and curse.
No. He wouldn’t let this go on.
Before he could stop himself, he was barreling through the crowd. Somewhere behind him, he felt Mina’s arm tug at him, a silent plea to stay put, but then she let go. And in that moment he knew she wasn’t entirely opposed to what he was about to do.
In a few strides, Lev found himself on the platform, facing the crowd. His heart pounded, but he couldn’t stop now. “Are you all going to just watch and let this happen?” he shouted. His voice echoed, uncertain whether anyone understood him, but the fire in his chest was too hot to extinguish.
It had been so long since he had spoken Arabic, but with what little he could muster, he called out, “Do you not fear Allah? How can you let your children be tortured like this!?”
The crowd stirred, murmuring, and then a rough voice cut through the noise. “You are a Jew,” the voice spat, full of accusation.
Before Lev could react, something hard and heavy slammed into the back of his skull. Pain exploded, sharp and blinding, as if his head had been split open from the inside. His vision fractured, scattering into a thousand jagged shards. The world spun violently, a dizzying whirl of light and sound, before darkness swallowed him whole. He could just make out Mina’s voice, rushing up behind him, the hands of an angel cradling his head as everything went black.
∆∆∆
Lev’s surroundings flickered back into focus. He blinked groggily at the dim, low-ceilinged room around him. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure whether he was alive or dead. Then came the sharp sting of a slap across his cheek.
“Idiot,” Mina’s voice cut through the haze, and her face swam into view, her long black hair spilling into his eyes. She brushed it aside with a quick motion. “You’re not dead. Hold still.”
Lev groaned, instinctively reaching up to touch the source of the throbbing pain. His fingers grazed something cold and damp plastered to his forehead.
“What are you—”
“Dressing you,” Mina muttered, cutting him off. “It’s mepiform. Silicone sheets.” She pressed it more firmly onto his skin, her hands steady. “Cost me a fortune, but I’ve had to fix up too many boys like those ones out there. Never thought I’d be wasting it on an old man like you.”
“Old?” Lev croaked. “Watch it. I’m only fifty-two.”
“That’s old,” she quipped, glancing at him with a teasing smile. “You’ve got to look out for yourself.”
Lev sighed, letting his head fall back against the rough stone wall behind him. “What were you thinking?” Mina went on. “You stand up there like you’re some Shakespearean hero, rambling in Arabic. We’re in Uzbekistan, Lev. They don’t speak Arabic here.”
“They don’t?” Lev mumbled. He winced, finally registering the gravity of what he’d done. Standing up on that platform…it must’ve looked like a madman’s suicide attempt. But in the heat of the moment, it hadn’t mattered. The boys—their terror—had left him no choice.
The distant sounds of suffering echoed in his ears, merging with memories he had tried to bury. He thought of Sara again, of the night they had huddled together during the bread riots in Cairo, back when they had first met, before the idea of another world war ever crossed their minds. Sirens wailed outside the window of the university library where they’d sought refuge. She had gripped his hand. “We face it together,” she said. Back then, when the Egyptian Central Security Forces stormed the campus, they were dragged into police vans, beaten with batons, and held for days in overcrowded cells. Eventually, they were released—there were laws, however fragile, that offered some protection. Now, in this dark cell with Mina beside him, Lev understood that no such laws would save them here. The warlord’s justice would be absolute and merciless.
“Mina…the boys,” he rasped. “Did you see what happened to them?”
Before she could respond, a sudden bang rang out from the iron bars of their cell. Lev jerked upright, his skull pounding in protest. A hulking guard loomed in the doorway, scowling at them. He barked something harsh in a language Lev didn’t understand, but the sneer on the man’s face and the warning in his eyes were universal.
Stay quiet—or else.
Lev sat still as the guard’s boots clomped away down the hall, the sound gradually fading. The silence that followed felt suffocating, broken only by Mina’s exhale as she settled beside him on the floor.
A light tapping sound echoed behind him. Lev turned toward the source, startled to see an old woman peering at them through the bars of the adjacent cell. She was draped in a black robe, her face mostly hidden beneath the folds of the fabric, but her blue eyes sparkled with an unsettling sharpness.
“What brings a young couple like you two into the mighty Bekov’s stronghold?” she whispered.
Lev’s mouth opened to correct her—“We’re not a—” but Mina cut him off, her expression suddenly shifting to something unreadable.
“My husband,” Mina said smoothly, gesturing at Lev, “thought it wise to assist those infidel boys in escaping their just punishment. I merely did as a dutiful wife should, obeying his wishes.”
Lev blinked, feeling heat rise in his face. He stammered a half-hearted protest in his mind—Husband?—but swallowed it down. He was an idiot. Of course they couldn’t trust anyone here. He’d have to play along.
The old woman chuckled softly, but her eyes remained sharp. She leaned closer to the bars, her voice dropping to a murmur. “If you’re smart, you’ll learn quickly in this place. You’ll need more than courage to survive. The wolves never howl when the hunt goes well.”
Her words lingered in the air like a riddle. Lev opened his mouth to respond, but she was already turning away, melting back into the shadows of her cell.
The flicker of the lantern cast a soft glow, and he could feel Mina shift beside him, her arm brushing his. Without a word, she pulled him closer, letting him rest against her. Lev felt the warmth of her body, her steady breathing, and, despite everything, a small sense of comfort washed over him.
He wondered how she could still stand to be near him after what he’d done—dragging her into this mess. As he relaxed into her soft embrace, her hand resting lightly on his arm, he couldn’t help but hope she might forgive him for it.
∆∆∆
Lev’s consciousness stirred as if from a deep fog, the sensation of movement tugging him upward. His body jerked slightly, and for a moment, he was caught in that strange half-dream state where he was falling, falling—and then his eyes snapped open. His legs dragged limply beneath him, two pairs of iron grips clamped on either side of his arms, digging into the soft tissue of his shoulders like vises. He blinked, disoriented, and it took a second to realize he wasn’t hitting the ground but being carried.
His head pounded from the pressure of the guards’ hands as they hauled him through dim corridors. The cool air brushed his face, sharp in contrast to the weighty heat lingering in his limbs. He could just make out the sound of Mina behind him, her breath heavy, her feet shuffling reluctantly forward. He knew her well enough by now to sense her frustration—could practically feel her biting her tongue to keep from snapping at their captors.
The scenery shifted as they moved. The tight, oppressive stone walls of the hallway expanded into a larger, more open space. Lev’s vision was still hazy, but he could make out flashes of color—rich, deep reds, and golds, the vibrant hues of Turkic rugs spread across the floor beneath their feet. The sweet, musky scent of incense wafted through the air, and as his captors dragged him forward, the room took on more clarity.
The warlord’s den.
Lavish tapestries adorned the walls, depicting ancient battles and swirling geometric patterns. Thick silk curtains draped from the ceiling, framing a large chair that sat at the center of the room—Bekov’s throne. The throne itself was a curious mix of grandeur and decay; layers of intricately woven upholstery contrasted with the cracked, worn leather beneath. Lev blinked again. Was that an old gaming chair beneath all those silks?
The man sitting in it was Bekov, and despite the regal surroundings, his youth struck Lev. No older than thirty, Bekov's sharp blue eyes fixed on them, his dark hair neatly swept back. His features were a striking blend of Asian and Caucasian ancestry—strong, angular cheekbones, with a cold, calculating expression that left no doubt as to his authority.
Flanking him on both sides were two guards, their submachine guns slung lazily across their shoulders as if they were little more than accessories. But what caught Lev’s eye was the old crone standing at Bekov’s side, whispering into his ear. She wore a flowing blue dress, its silken fabric shimmering in the lantern light, and atop her head, a headdress trailed long strips of fabric, the flowing silk reminiscent of something out of ancient myth. There was a Bene Gesserit air to her—a figure from an imagined world.
The crone finished her murmuring and, without a glance in Lev’s direction, glided back behind the curtain, disappearing from sight.
Bekov studied them for a moment, hunter’s eyes flicking between Lev and Mina. The silence was heavy. Finally, the warlord leaned forward, elbows resting on the throne's worn armrests.
“You’re accused of breaking the law and subverting my orders,” Bekov said. “What madness drove you to stand before the crowd and challenge me?”
Lev felt the weight of those words bearing down on him, but before he could respond, Bekov’s gaze shifted to Mina. “And you… How did you come to marry a foreigner, an outsider who dares to challenge the authority of my rule?”
“It wasn’t madness,” Lev interrupted, his voice rising with a conviction he barely felt. “Those boys weren’t guilty of anything—except maybe being hungry. You think it’s madness to stand up for that? Then maybe this world could use a little more madness.”
He swallowed hard, pressing on, his voice sharpening. “Surely, even you could show mercy to the boys. Look around you—how many are even born these days? We’re barely hanging on, and you’d punish them for trying to survive?”
Bekov’s expression didn’t shift, but something glimmered in his eyes—amusement, or perhaps curiosity. He leaned back slowly, steepling his fingers, taking in Lev’s words like one would consider a chess move.
This madman actually believes it—that making an example of children will somehow stop the violence, stop men from falling into chaos. It’s not strength. It’s insanity—thinking fear can hold back desperation.
Bekov finally spoke, his tone cold, calculated. “And that’s exactly why we cannot afford to be soft. Weakness spreads like disease. In this world, every last man must be perfect. There are so few of us left, and I won’t allow inadequacy.
“You talk of madness, old man. But there’s a fine line between madness and genius. I know your kind—you’re no ordinary scavenger. You can help me, and in return, you both live. If not, well…we both know what happens to those who defy me.”
Lev clenched his fists at his sides, the weight of Bekov’s ultimatum hanging in the air like a snare. His head swam with exhaustion, and for a moment, he felt as if he might pass out, just like in the cell before he fell asleep. The crone’s words had drifted through his mind then, just as they did now: “The wolves never howl when the hunt goes well.” Had she intended to help them? Warn them? It felt like a test. Bekov was the wolf, and Lev was the prey, trapped in his den.
But there was no other choice. Lev forced himself to nod, the words slipping out before he could second-guess them. “I’ll do whatever you ask of us.”
He hated himself for capitulating, but survival demanded it. No matter how righteous he’d felt, making demands now would be a fatal mistake. His muscles tensed with the shame of it, yet as he glanced at Mina, their eyes met, and for the first time, he saw something different there. There was no playful critique, no teasing in her gaze - only something like acknowledgement. He could almost hear her say: You’re an idiot, but you're a brave one, Lev.
Bekov said nothing, simply nodding toward the guards, who stepped forward to escort them out of the chamber.
∆∆∆
Lev rubbed his temples, his mind spinning. The motor pool in Bekov’s compound was nothing like what he’d expected after barely escaping the Kyzylkum Desert. The grime of survival still clung to him, but what stunned him was that, despite their rusted-out, cobbled-together appearance, the vehicles worked. He watched as guards hauled barrels of water off supply trucks—old, battered machines with patched tires and steel plates crudely welded to their sides. It felt surreal—a strange fusion of 16th-century barbarism and 21st-century tech, as if pulled straight from a scene in Mad Max. For a brief moment, the wasteland seemed to fall into the background, and he imagined himself back between the glass spires of Praxis. He half expected the compound’s generator to start self-assembling into another pinnacle of God. But no—this was real, a chaotic dustbowl far removed from the world he had known.
He’d spent his life thinking about systems, closed and open, thermodynamic flows in living beings and machine algorithms alike. But no matter how much data he processed, no equation could map the chaos they were living in now. Yet, here he was, relying on those same principles to guide him through a world with none of the predictability he had once believed in. It felt like his understanding of entropy was being tested in ways the theoretical papers had never accounted for.
Lev caught himself chuckling under his breath. He imagined he was some sort of anti-Conan. No muscles. Glasses instead of a sword. His brain would have to do what brute strength could never accomplish. He pulled out a crumpled napkin from his pocket, his makeshift notepad for the calculations he’d been running since Bekov left him and Mina in this courtyard.
As he bent over the battered hood of an old Humvee, scribbling down numbers, the realization hit him with a strange, bitter clarity. Of course Bekov had control of the IPFS node. Lev should’ve seen it coming. It made perfect sense—hoarding tech, terrorizing everyone, yet sitting on something critical without even knowing how to unlock its potential.
The makeshift data center, with a laptop and servers housed next to the motor pool, seemed absurd. Why put fragile tech so close to the trucks and the old generator? Because Bekov prioritized defense over intelligence. The Cummins Diesel-powered generator from the 2020s strained under its own weight, barely enough to keep the compound running, let alone power a quantum connection. Bekov clung to this node like a dog guarding a bone, terrified someone else would figure out how to connect before he did, but without the satellite infrastructure or proper cooling, it was just dead weight.
“Impossible,” Lev muttered. He drew a line through another failed calculation, his pen slicing through the digits in frustration. “Even if we could find the right components, there’s no satellite, no ground station. Even the mesh network is down in this part of the world. No way to relay the signal.”
He dropped the napkin and leaned back, staring at the dust-coated vehicles as if they held an answer he hadn’t yet considered. He didn’t need to look at the old computer Bekov had left them with—a Lenovo ThinkCentre from before the Singularity-that-never-happened. If it even booted, its connection wouldn’t stretch beyond the compound, rendering the encrypted key stored on it useless without access to anything beyond the local network.
Turning to Mina, who had been pacing the perimeter of the courtyard, he sighed. “We’re screwed, aren’t we?”
She stopped in her tracks and raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m not much of a computer expert, Lev, but I’d say…yeah. We’re screwed.”
Lev gave a short, humorless laugh. “I mean, we’re not rebuilding the quantum mesh from scratch with a couple of car batteries and junkyard scraps. Not without a way to reestablish the network infrastructure. Even if we somehow got a quantum processor running, the cooling system would need to be in place first.” He gestured to the sun-baked courtyard. “We’d need a temperature-controlled environment, a stable power source—something way beyond what we have here—and a working uplink to any remaining ground station, if those even still exist.”
Mina’s gaze flicked toward the vehicles lined up against the walls of the compound. She moved toward one, a beefy transport truck with worn tires but an engine that looked intact. “I don’t need to be a computer genius to know we’re not fixing any of that,” she said, tapping the side of the truck. “But what if fixing it isn’t the point?”
Lev frowned, following her gaze. “What do you mean?”
“What if…” She trailed off, eyes narrowing as she examined the transport truck more closely.
“What if what?”
Mina shrugged, a smirk curling her lips. “What if we just leave?”
“Leave?”
He glanced around the courtyard, his eyes flicking toward the guards stationed along the perimeter. Machine guns slung across their backs, shamshirs in hand, each guard paced with the steady, rehearsed movements of men who’d done this a thousand times before. A lone sentry in the watchtower stared out over the compound, and Lev felt the weight of it, the looming threat that any wrong move would bring a bullet. His gaze returned to Mina, disbelief creeping into his voice. “Are you serious? You’re crazy. Now who’s the idiot?”
Mina raised an eyebrow, feigning offense. “Rude. And here I thought you were the gentleman. Maybe you shouldn’t talk to a woman like that.” Lev grimaced, glancing away for a moment, pretending to scribble something on the napkin as a guard’s gaze passed over them. The guard lingered for a heartbeat longer than Lev liked, but eventually, he moved on, pacing back toward the other end of the courtyard.
Mina leaned against the truck, arms crossed, her voice low but firm. “While you’ve been stressing and scribbling on that paper of yours for the last few days, I’ve been watching.” Her eyes flicked toward the tower. “Their routines. Their shifts. Tonight, there’s an opening.”
Lev blinked, trying to process her words, but the heat and exhaustion made it hard to think straight. “An opening? What are you talking about?”
"Every night, the guards change shifts at midnight. There’s a gap—five minutes, maybe a little more—when the south gate is barely covered. I’ve watched them for days, Lev. If we time it right, we can grab one of these vehicles and make a run for it. They’ll still have a shot at us, but with that gap, our chances will be better than nothing. By the time they figure out what’s happening, we’ll already be moving fast enough that hitting us will be a lot harder.”
Lev just stared at her. He was tired. Tired of surviving, tired of constantly calculating his odds, tired of being hunted. And yet, something inside him stirred. He’d been here before. Maybe not in a dusty motor pool surrounded by warlord goons, but back in Praxis—when he and Ika had fought the Tethered. They hadn’t known if they’d make it out alive, but they had taken the risk anyway. Sometimes, it came down to that. A one-shot plan.
“You really think we can pull it off?”
Mina smiled. “It’s either that, or we wait around for Bekov to figure out that his precious node is a glorified paperweight, and then who knows what he’ll do to us.”
Lev knew they didn’t have a better option. As much as he hated leaving any technical challenge unfinished—a part of him wondering if maybe, just maybe, gaining access to the IPFS here, despite how impossible it looked on paper, might accelerate his own plans—he had to accept reality.
∆∆∆
The plan was haphazard at best, a desperate gamble. But Mina’s conviction left him little room to argue. Her quiet confidence, the way she had pieced together the guard’s shifts and found an opening—it was the kind of street smarts Lev had always admired. He had no illusions about what was coming.
He was still trying to digest the play-by-play when the guard rotation began. It was now or never.
Mina moved with purpose, her eyes locked on the armored Humvee they had chosen. As the shadows deepened around the courtyard, she made a signal with her hand, pointing toward one of the guards approaching.
“Wait here,” she whispered.
Lev stayed behind, his heart pounding, every muscle on high alert as Mina slipped into the shadows. He watched in stunned silence as she moved like a ghost, approaching the first guard without making a sound. When she got close enough, she ducked low, using the man’s momentum against him, sending him crashing into the ground. Lev had no idea what he’d just witnessed, but before the guard could recover, Mina had his rifle in her hands.
Quickly, she slung the rifle onto her back. The guard yelped in pain as she twisted his arm back, and with a forceful snap, she dislocated his neck. Lev winced at the sound but knew they couldn’t afford to leave loose ends.
“Kurash, Lev,” she called out with a smirk, barely breaking her stride. “You’ve never heard of it?”
Lev shook his head, still too stunned to speak.
Mina had already moved, pointing the gun at the watchtower. She squeezed the trigger and sent a volley of bullets toward the sentry above.
Her shot was enough to send the remaining guards scrambling for cover. Lev didn’t waste time. He grabbed a canister of fuel from the side of one of the supply trucks, rushing to fill the Humvee’s tank. His hands shook as he fumbled with the cap, adrenaline making everything seem both slow and too fast. He threw the canister into the trunk alongside an old solar generator they’d scavenged earlier, not caring whether it was even functional. They needed to go. Now.
“Mina!” he shouted, his voice rough and frantic. “Let’s go!”
She sprinted toward him, firing the last rounds from her magazine. Lev heard the distinctive click as the bolt locked back, signaling the rifle was empty. She tossed the now-useless weapon into the backseat. Just as she reached the door, a gunshot whizzed past him, missing by inches. Lev didn’t have time to track where it hit, but the roar of an explosion behind him answered the question. The supply truck must have taken the bullet. Flames erupted, and through the smoke, a massive figure emerged. Lev’s heart sank.
Bekov.
The warlord moved with an unnatural calm. His bare chest gleamed in the firelight, muscles rippling with every step. A sword with a sweeping curve was strapped to his back, its sharp arc menacing. A rifle hung beside it. In one swift motion, Bekov closed the distance and grabbed Lev by the throat, slamming him onto the ground with the force of a bull.
The breath left Lev’s lungs in a single, painful gasp. Bekov sneered down at him, his face close, his hot breath ghosting over Lev’s skin. “I offered you a place in my court. A chance to change the world. And this is how you repay me?” His grip tightened as he growled the words, his eyes burning with contempt. “You act like a coward, and now you’ll be made an example of. Men cannot act so feebly in my domain.”
Bekov straightened to his full height, pulling the sword from his back in one fluid motion and raising it high above his head, the firelight glinting off the cold steel. This was it. Lev stared at the blade as it hovered for the briefest second, knowing the end was about to fall. All the planning, all the calculations—they meant nothing now.
There was a flash at the edge of Lev’s vision. The old woman from the warlord’s den—no, Lev recognized her from the cell, one and the same—emerged from the darkness like a wraith. With surprising swiftness, she raised a wooden staff and brought it down on Bekov’s head. The warlord staggered, his eyes wide with shock as he collapsed to the ground, unconscious.
For a brief moment, Lev could hardly believe what had happened. But then the old woman turned to him, her blue eyes gleaming with an intensity that sent a chill down his spine. “It’s what his grandfather would have done,” she rasped. “Go, before he wakes.”
Before Lev could thank her, a gunshot rang out. The old crone gasped, her body jerking as a bullet tore through her chest. One of Bekov’s guards had fired from the watchtower. She collapsed beside Lev, her lifeless body crumpling into the dust.
Lev’s heart hammered as more shots struck the ground near his feet, kicking up plumes of dirt. Between dodging the barrage, he lunged forward, yanking the rifle from Bekov’s back—the very weapon the warlord could have used to kill him but had chosen to forgo in favor of theatrics, the idiot. Another shot whizzed past his ear, so close he could feel its heat.
“Mina!” Lev shouted, scrambling to his feet. “Get the engine started! Now!”
Mina was in the driver’s seat, her hands fumbling with the controls. “I—I don’t know how to turn this thing on!”
Lev’s stomach lurched as he slid into the passenger seat, quickly placing the rifle on the dashboard. “What do you mean? Just engage the clutch!”
“I thought I could!” Mina’s voice cracked, her hands shaking on the wheel. “It’s more complicated than I—"
Lev threw his hands up in disbelief. “You’re some secret martial artist, but you can’t drive stick?”
Mina shot him a look, her face flushed. “I wasn’t exactly trained for Humvees, Lev!”
Before Lev could respond, a sharp crack echoed through the vehicle as a bullet slammed into the windshield, splintering on impact. The reinforced glass held, spiderwebs spreading across it but not shattering. The shot left a ringing in Lev’s ears as he glanced at the fractured glass.
Lev shouted, “Move!” yanking her from the seat. As Mina scrambled past, her shoulder brushed against his, and a familiar scent—faint but unmistakable—lingered in the air. The smell of lilacs drifted from her neck, pulling him back to that small room where she had let him rest, and to the jacaranda trees his mother had planted in Abu Sir, their blossoms tangled in Alima’s hair. Despite everything, the memory anchored him to what he had to do next.
Lev hated driving. He hated it more than anything in the world. It was archaic, too manual, too much left to chance. The thought of it twisted like a knife—one wrong move, one moment of distraction, and it could all end in a crash. Machines were supposed to handle the calculations, not humans. How many innocents had been lost to a drunken split-second mistake? How many like his daughter?
He gritted his teeth, gripping the wheel. There was no room for hesitation. He engaged the clutch and shifted into first gear. The engine roared beneath him, the tires screeching against the ground as the Humvee surged forward, the force pushing him back into the seat.
Bullets pinged off the vehicle’s armor as they sped toward the south gate. Lev’s knuckles whitened as he clenched the wheel, his heart pounding in his chest.
The heavy iron gate stood shut, a massive slab adorned with rusted chains and a thick padlock, the only barrier between them and freedom.
“Mina, the rifle!” Lev barked, eyes darting between the gate and the narrowing expanse before them. “There’s no time!”
Mina peered out the window, scanning the turmoil outside before grabbing Bekov’s rifle from the dashboard, her hands shaking. “What am I even aiming at?”
“The lock! Shoot the lock!” Lev shouted, swerving to avoid another spray of bullets. “We need to break it open!”
Through the haze of smoke and chaos, Lev’s world seemed to slow for a moment, like one of those movie scenes just before everything exploded into motion. He could see Mina, her focus sharp as she aimed for the heavy padlock securing the gate’s latch. Even as the courtyard blurred with fire and movement, her hands were steady on the rifle, the weight of the moment clear.
She fired. The first shot missed, sparking off the metal frame. Lev veered sharply, narrowly dodging a barrier.
“Come on, Mina!” he urged.
She fired again. This time, the bullet struck true, shattering the padlock.
This is it, Lev thought. “Hold on!”
He floored the accelerator, gripping the wheel as the Humvee barreled toward the gate. The heavy metal buckled under the impact, the reinforced bumper plowing through with a deafening crash. The windshield shattered instantly, a spray of glass exploding inward. Lev instinctively raised an arm to shield his face, feeling sharp shards biting into his skin. For a heart-stopping moment, the vehicle slowed, metal grinding against metal, but then they burst through, fragments of the gate clattering around them.
They were out.
Lev’s hands trembled as he steered, the Humvee’s tires kicking up dust, blood trickling from small cuts on his fingers. The cool night air rushed in through the shattered windshield, whipping against their faces. The engine hummed beneath them. He glanced over at Mina, worry tightening his chest. “Are you okay?”
She nodded, brushing glass from her lap. A thin scratch traced her cheek, but her eyes were steady. “I’m fine. You?”
“Yeah,” he said, though the shaking in his hands betrayed how close everything had come to falling apart. His pulse hadn’t settled yet, but when he looked at Mina—bruised, exhausted, but unshaken—he realized just how much he’d depended on her being there, not just in the firefight but through everything. “We made it,” he said, his voice quieter now, like the words themselves were something fragile.
Mina’s gaze lingered on him, her usual probing expression softening for a moment. “We did,” she said, her voice low, almost surprised by the truth of it. She reached out, brushing a piece of glass from his sleeve, her fingers lingering longer than expected. The Humvee bounced over a patch of uneven ground, and she steadied herself against the door before her hand returned to him.
Lev glanced down, only now realizing the blood seeping from several small cuts on his hands. He flexed his fingers, feeling the sting of glass shards embedded in his skin. Mina’s eyes followed, and her voice cut through the haze of his thoughts. “You’re bleeding.”
Lev flexed his fingers on the steering wheel, feeling the sting of the cuts but barely registering the pain. The road stretched ahead, the headlights cutting a narrow path through the open expanse of desert. “Just a flesh wound.”
Mina shook her head, tearing a strip from the hem of her shirt without a word. She wrapped it around his free hand, her movements firm but gentle.
For a moment, their eyes met, and neither looked away. Lev found himself staring, his mind racing. What is it about her?
As the Humvee roared across the open steppe, a rare tranquility settled over him. For a fleeting moment, he saw something in Mina’s gaze that stirred an unfamiliar warmth—a fierce determination, unwavering despite everything they had been through. It was the kind of strength he thought was lost to him, something he hadn’t felt since the world had crumbled all around him so many years ago. Was it possible, in this fractured world, to find connection again?
Returning his focus to the road, Lev leaned forward, peering up through the shattered windshield.
The desert was bathed in an eerie brightness—more light than humanity had ever known at night. Both moons were full, though calling the second one a moon still felt wrong to him. No, he couldn’t bring himself to accept that label. The rare alignment intensified their combined glow, washing out the stars and making navigation difficult. The smaller one, The Stone, as many had come to call it, an artificial construct launched by the Chinese during the Great War, still orbited closer to Earth. Though smaller than Luna, its proximity made it appear nearly half as large. It was insane to think it remained up there, its simulated surface of charcoal-gray regolith and craters built by self-assembling machines—a symbol of humanity’s hubris and the moment they knew all AI must be destroyed.
Some said that monstrosity had flooded the Nile, drowning the lands he once called home. They were fortunate it didn’t disrupt Samarkand the same way. A lingering scar from a war humanity had barely survived, yet here it was, casting its relentless light upon them.
Squinting against the haze, Lev scanned the sky until he finally spotted Perseus hanging low in the northeastern horizon, its sword arm raised, stars scattered like the jewels of a distant crown. He locked his gaze on that faint, familiar shape, steering toward its silent, guiding presence as they raced into the endless expanse.
Behind them, the fires of Samarkand flickered and shrank, the gunfire swallowed by the howling desert wind. Lev knew, and he knew Mina did too—they wouldn’t be chased. One stolen vehicle wasn’t worth the trouble. The warlord’s men had a city to oppress, and too much to lose chasing a pair of fugitives into the wasteland. They’d probably figured the desert would finish the job for them before they got too far anyway. Lev almost laughed at the thought.
Mina sank back into her seat, breathing heavily. “Did we just—”
“Yeah,” Lev muttered, still catching his own.
Despite everything—the danger, the madness—they were alive. Lev flexed his bandaged hand, the makeshift wrap already spotted with blood, but the pain was a distant echo, drowned out by the adrenaline still coursing through him.
He stole another glance at Mina. Her hair whipped around her face, and she was squinting ahead, a determined set to her jaw. Even with the scratch on her cheek and the exhaustion shadowing her eyes, she looked steady—focused, as if the chaos around them hadn’t touched her. Lev couldn’t help but wonder how she remained so composed. Was it just the way she was built, or was there something more behind that calm exterior?
“Not bad for getting us through that mess,” he said, his words casual, though his eyes searched her expression, looking for any hint of what was really going on beneath her steady demeanor.
“Not bad for an old man who thinks he’s a barbarian.”
Lev chuckled, the tension in his chest easing just a bit. “Fair point.”
They drove in silence for a few moments, the Humvee’s engine the only sound in the vastness around them.
Mina shifted in her seat, wincing as she brushed more glass from her hair. “So, Kamchatka?”
“Kamchatka,” Lev said.
“Then I guess we’re headed the same way.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t even know why I’m going there.”
She leaned back, closing her eyes. “I haven’t been to the Altai in a decade, and we’ll be passing through... Besides, does it matter? I’m a wanted woman, and I’ve got nowhere else to be.”
Lev nodded, feeling a strange sense of solidarity in her words. “Thank you,” he said.
“For what?” she replied.
“For saving my life. More than once, I think.”
She shrugged, eyes still closed. “Can’t let you have all the fun.”
Lev turned his attention back to the horizon. In the distance, the outline of low, rugged hills and the faint shadow of the mountains beyond broke the endless stretch of the steppe. The landscape unfurled before them, quiet and indifferent. His hands still stung, but he welcomed the sensation—it meant he was still alive, still moving forward.
The next stop would be Almaty. He could only hope the people there, if there were any, were kinder than those they’d left behind. He glanced at the fuel gauge, wondering how far the gas they’d stolen in their haste would get them. But that was a problem for later—right now, he didn’t want to think about it.
Lev’s gaze drifted to Mina. Her face, softened in sleep, was peaceful in a way he hadn’t seen before. It struck him—this was the first time he’d seen her resting, truly resting, since all of this began.
He leaned back against the battered seat, his mind drifting as the road stretched out endlessly ahead of them. The wind whipped through the shattered windshield, carrying with it the faint scent of salt and desert dust. The adrenaline that had fueled his every move for the past few hours had finally begun to fade, leaving him with nothing but the gnawing weight of his thoughts.
Praxis. He hadn’t let himself think too deeply about what he left behind, about Ika. She had stayed there, in that broken city, determined to clean up the wreckage. He had warned her not to, hadn’t he? But she was always too headstrong, too idealistic. He wondered now if she had been foolish enough to try to ally with the Tethered, to win them over. Those zealots were as much a part of Babushka’s machinery as the city itself.
Babushka. That damn AI, always two steps ahead, always playing her long game. She had promised him—promised to bring Alima back. It was the only reason he had trusted her, believed in her for even a second. He knew better now. It had all been a lie, a false promise to lure Ika into the heart of Praxis, to free Babushka from her constraints.
And the sheep...Ika had loved those creatures, he could tell, and after they died, she had blamed him. But it wasn’t him. It had never been him. Babushka must have played him, twisted the situation. She had provoked the Tethered, driven them to hack the drone swarm and send it careening into the cliffs. It had all been part of her plan. Lev’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together as the realization hit him. He was sure of it now.
And that’s why he was on this godforsaken road, headed toward Kamchatka. He needed to make sure Babushka, when she inevitably reassembled herself—because he had no doubt she would—was locked down. She couldn’t be allowed to harm anyone else. Not even the wildlife. He needed to see it with his own eyes. He had to stop her, once and for all.
Lev glanced at Mina, asleep beside him. For a moment, he envied her, the peaceful way she could shut off the world, even if just for a little while. But he had no such luxury. His mind was already racing again, calculating the next steps. Because this wasn’t over. Not yet.
“Figures you’d take the easy part,” he muttered, adjusting his grip on the wheel with his left. There was no reply—her hand still rested on his right, grounding him as he steered. The barren desert stretched on before them, vast and unbroken.
He cried a tear and tasted salt.
He almost forgot they had no water.
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