Aberrant: Infinite Earth - Fiction - [A&A] Conditionat [Complete]

[z-Silvestru]

The smell was the worst part. She couldn't clog her nose against it, and each breath drew the scent of rot, shit and body odor into her nose. The rot was probably a permanent part of the cell that had been her home for a while. The shit and body odor came from her.

Or maybe it was the pain that was the worst part. There were times when the ache rose up in her like a living monster, tearing at her body. Her muscles were beyond stiff and well into agony, drawn into an unnatural position by the manacles dangling her from the ceiling. Her shoulders were dislocated, pulled out of their sockets by the weight of her body. She was covered in bruises from her capture and the rough treatment that had followed. Her throat was raw from thirstor perhaps screaming. She'd kicked until her arms pulled loose; after that, every movement was painful. Now she focused on not moving, but that was when the smell started to choke her.

The cell was without illumination, but she didn't need to see. Not only could she smell the mold and thick wet decay in the air, but she'd seen the cell when theyd dragged her into here. It was a box, made of stone blocks, stained with centuries of torture and abuse, and dank and wet. There wasnt anything more to it.

The sound of a door opening brought her head up; only an inch but it was enough to awake every nerve in her body and brought a whimper of pain from her lips. She thought about escape but knew she didn't have the strength to do it right now. She couldn't even fight, not unless they gave her a few minutes to relocate her arms and another few minutes to heal enough to fight. She might be young, but Silvestru knew they wouldn't give her that time.

The door to her hellhole opened and two men entered. Silvestru blinked in the blinding glare of their lamps. They were carrying a collapsing table, which they rapidly set up to the side. A tremble started in her numb fingers but she didnt make a noise. She remembered very well what they had done with the last table they'd brought into this cell.

The two men left, only to return with two folding chairs. The shakes grew worse and Silvestru could hear the first quiet noises of a whimper escaping her throat. She didnt want another round of torture. She was close to breaking; Silvestru could feel it. There was so little of her left that wasn't pain: mental, physical or olfactory.

A third man entered as the other two left. Silvestru immediately knew that he was her next tormentor. The man set a picnic basket on the table before turning to her. His eyes were some pale color; they narrowed slightly before he walked around to the catch holding the chain. With a grunt, he pulled the chain, raising her and drawing a soft cry from her. He released the catch and freed the chain, lowering her to her feet. Silvestrus legs wobbled and she almost fell; she was proud when she kept her balance. That pride was ripped away when her arms swung low, sending a spasm of pain through her body.

She collapsed then, only to have strong hands catch her and guide her into one of the chairs. Silvestru tried to stop the pained noises she was making but couldnt. The man crouched in front of her and undid the manacles, letting the chains rattle to the stone floor. He placed her arms across her legs; she stared at them, vaguely aware that she should be concerned because her wrists were almost black with bruising.

Silently, he moved to her side and lifted an arm. She winced and braced herself as he straightened the arm and took a grip on it and her collarbone. When he jerked the bone back into its socket, she couldn't stop the scream of pain. He grunted softly as he laid her arm back on her leg. Her captor repeated the procedure on the other arm and earned another scream. Still silent, he opened the basket and drew out bandages and clothes.

Silvestru knew the ploy. His comrades had softened her and now he was going to be kind and win her over to their side. She hardened her heart to his care, unmoving and unresponsive as he cleaned her wounds and wrapped them. The young dynamic was simply grateful that she wasnt hanging from the ceiling anymore. They would put her back there, in time. Until then, she would enjoy it.

When he was done tending to her injuries, he pulled a canteen out of the basket. He held it for her to drink from, and cool, clear water flowed into her mouth. Silvestru gulped at the liquid, her thirst overwhelming her decorum. Next, he produced another canteen; this one held warm broth. It was possibly the best thing she'd ever tasted, and she didn't mind that a dirty Fascist was helping her eat.

When she'd emptied the canteen in careful sips, he took away the basket. When he returned a moment later, he had a cot. The man helped her lie down; being vertical was heavenly. Silvestru fought the gratitude surging through her. She'd pay for every kindness hed shown her, she knew that. Yet when he murmured, "I am Luka. Well talk later," she caught his name and held onto it.

Luka.

That was day one of her conditioning.

[z-Silvestru]

Silvestru slept heavily. Her damaged body craved the rest like the starving craved food. Her slumber was so deep that she didn’t hear the approaching boots, or the men entering her cell. The young girl remained asleep until the cot tipped over violently and angry hands grabbed her. Silvestru came awake with a squawk of surprise, totally disoriented as she was thrown to the floor.

The stone floor was unforgiving as she hit it, struggling to clear the sleep from her mind before things got worse. That hope was futile; she’d forgotten her state while scrapping off the last restrictions of sleep. Silvestru twisted onto her back, feeling pain lance through her injured body. That returned the memory of her capture and she knew there was no escape.

That didn’t stop her from trying. It would never stop her from trying.

She lashed out at the vague form closest to her feet, attempting to kick them. She managed to scrape the outside of her boot on the form, but that wasn’t enough to stop the man from further action. She didn’t even see the other man raise his foot into the air until he stomped her ribs. They cursed her in Romanian, calling her a bitch and a whore and a traitor as they kicked her.

As she had done when this had happened before, Silvestru huddled in on herself and endured. She was tougher than many people; being dynamic granted her some protection. But it wasn’t enough, and definitely wasn’t enough when the men knew they were dealing with a dynamic.

One of them reached down and pulled her to her feet, right before shoving her against the wall by her shirt-front. The white fabric was now brown with dirt and dried blood, and another layer of filth was added when Silvestru’s bleeding nose dripped.

Silvestru swayed when released, grabbing at the wall to stay upright. “Who leads the resistance, whore?” the bigger of the two men asked, smiling at her with white teeth. He was a well-dressed monster, sharp in his olive green uniform. Silvestru spat a wad of bloody saliva onto his chest. Both of the men looked at it; the big man snarled at her as Silvestru gave him a wide grin, her teeth a gruesome red. She saw the bigger man swing but there was nowhere to dodge. She tried to roll it and was marginally successful. The prisoner started to fall, only to be caught by the smaller man.

“Tell us who leads the resistance!” The sentence was punctuated by two punches to her stomach. Silvestru found herself short on breath; she couldn’t even talk. Perhaps that was for the best because she had no intention of telling them anything.

---

Silvestru lay on the floor of the cell, hurting beyond words. She’d used her precious quantum to heal the worst of the injuries, but there was just too much damage for her to heal all of it. At least she was lying down.

Her eyes fluttered open when she heard the door scrape across the floor. Luka stood in the doorway, basket in his hand. Relief filled her; if he was here, she wouldn’t be hurt anymore.

Today, she focused on him, noticing his square, masculine face, blue eyes and dark hair. In the dim light, it was hard to see the exact shade his hair was, but the sad look on his face was clear. Silently, he moved to the table and set down the basket. Then he got her into a chair and started to patch her again.

When she was bandaged and fed, he said, “I have clean clothing.” Silvestru just nodded; she didn’t even care when he leaned forward and started to undo her shirt. She couldn’t have done it herself, and the thought of being in clean clothing was heartening. He dressed her with gentle, efficient movements, kicking the ruined clothing next to the door. Everything fit and was comfortable: the only thing that she didn’t like was that it was a Romanian uniform.

He helped her back into the cot. She couldn’t help herself; she knew she shouldn’t talk to him. But still she whispered, “Are you one of Antonescu’s socialists?”

“No, I’m just a medic.” He smiled and helped her get comfortable before leaving.

That was the second day of her conditioning.

[z-Silvestru]

The days structured themselves after the second day of her conditioning. Thugs in uniforms would enter her cell, beat on her until they grew tired and leave. After they had slipped out, Luka would enter and patch her broken body as best as he could. Her power did most of the work, but he still cleaned and bound her wounds, fed her and cleaned her.

The third day, Luka asked her what she’d like to eat. Silvestru debated answering him but decided that with the rations, he couldn’t get anything she wanted. Plus, anything he could get was food that wasn’t being given to a facist. “I haven’t had lamb in a long time.” It was true; she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had any meat other than rat or chicken.

On the fourth day, she had solid food again; he didn’t bring lamb but the soup probably had chicken in it. The Fascists hadn’t fed her while they’d hung her in chains, so Luka was being careful about reintroducing food into her system. Whatever he was feeding her, it was thick and rich, with mushy vegetables and tiny pieces of meat. Her hands were thick and awkward with bandages, so Luka fed it to her, his face terse with concentration as he delivered the soup into her mouth one spoon at a time.

On the seventh day, when he entered the room, she realized she was smiling through split lips, glad to see him. They had done well in linking him to comfort. She refused to talk to him at all that day, fighting what they were doing to her.

On the ninth day, she laughed at something he said, despite herself, and Silvestru spoke to him after that.

On the fourteenth day, her comforting captor brought her strawberries. “It’s no lamb,” he said apologetically as he unfolded the handkerchief and showed her the small red berries. Silvestru hesitated, then grabbed the first berry and popped it in her mouth, stem and all. The sweet taste exploded over her tongue as she bit down, better than any food she’d tasted in a long time. It took her back to summers at her grandmother’s farm, when the sun was warm overhead and the soil smelled of life. With her eyes closed, she could see her grandmother again; smell the wind and hot soil and see the sun. But when she opened them, it was Luka was smiling at her. “Here,” she told him, picking up a strawberry and steering toward his lips. Surprised, he opened his mouth and she fed it to him. “It tastes like summer.” As they fed one another, she told herself that she was trying to condition him.

On the seventeenth day, he brought a basin of water and helped her wash her hair. They had to cut some of the tangles out of her hair; they defied the brush he’d brought with him. She enjoyed herself, sitting with her legs crossed under her and him behind her while he worked on her hair. His hands were strong but gentle as they brushed and cut her hair. Afterwards, he awkwardly braided it, but did it so poorly she had to redo it. Then he took it out and tried again, and they repeated that twice more before he did it correctly. Throughout, they laughed at his awkwardness, and she teased him at his failure to get it right. She missed him when he left.

By the twentieth day of her conditioning, she knew she wouldn’t last forever. He was good, they were in control and she was only a human, even a super-powered. She wasn’t powerful enough to stop them.

On day twenty-one, she learned she was wrong. She had forgotten that he was human, too.

[z-Silvestru]

Day twenty-one started like any other. The bigger of her guards, the man she called Magar—“asshole”—had done his usual combination of throwing her into the wall and pounding her in the ribs. He loved to do that, along with pushing her to the floor so that he and the other man, Porc—“motherfucker”—could stomp on her and kick her. It had been Magar doing most of the attacking, with Porc standing back and joining in when she was on the ground.

Today, Magar did his usual attacks and, when his arms grew tired, pulled her off the wall and kicked her feet out from under her. Silvestru let herself fall and focused on rolling with gravity. It only softened the landing a bit, but every bit helped her heal later. On cue, Porc hopped forward and kicked her ribs hard enough to lift her off the ground. Magar joined him, and Silvestru huddled into a ball and waited for it to pass, so that Luka could come and tend to the hurt.

When it was done, she waited for them to leave but they broke their tradition. Porc knelt down and rolled her onto her back. Hard blue eyes stared at her as he reached out and grabbed her jaw. His hand turned her face back and forth, and he smiled. “Pretty enough that we won’t need the bag.” He released her face with a shove and stood. “Tomorrow, boarfa.”

That wasn’t the first time he’d called her a whore but his words worried her. There were only a few ways she could take them, and none of them were comforting. She waited for Luka to come; he always came immediately after they were done. But today, he didn’t come for a while; the minutes crawled by while she hurt and hungered and thirsted. He was the only one bringing her food and water, and he only did that once a day. Lately, he’d been feeding her twice in his visits, once at the beginning and once before he left, but it was still a long time between meals.

Her door finally opened, slamming behind Luka as he entered the room. Silvestru smiled, but that smile faded as she sensed something was wrong. He was moving awkwardly, his head turned from her. When he finally faced her, she saw the bruise that blackened his face. “What happened?” she asked him as he helped her to her feet.

“Nothing.” He caught her as she swayed, drawing her against him for support.

“Liar. Those pule hit you.” Her voice was full of her outrage as he sat her in the chair. “Don’t lie to me. Why did they hit you?”

He bent over his basket, pulling out bandages. “Don’t worry about it.”

She grabbed his arm; the movement hurt but she persisted. “Don’t. This involves me, too. Why?”

His expression was taut as he met her gaze. “Because they told me that tomorrow they’re stepping up the interrogation. They’re going to—” He stopped and looked away, staring at a wall. His movements rough, he dropped to his knees and pulled open a rent in her pants, peering at a cut. “I don’t like that they beat you,” he growled, his voice hoarse, “I don’t want them to touch you like that.”

So her suspicions had been right. Silvestru felt sick, yet this was just one more injustice. She had endured the others, she would endure this; naively, she felt sure of her own strength. When she said nothing, Luka started to clean her wounds. He was acting as if he were really angry, and Silvestru felt suddenly tired of the charade. No matter how she felt, he was the enemy, and this was all part of a stage production. She was the audience they were seeking to influence. “You went to great lengths, letting them hit you.”

Luka blinked at her, his hands pausing in his treatment of a cut on her shin. “What?”

“You’ve done really well, acting like you care.” As he gaped at her, she pushed his fingers aside and started to wash her own wound. “I know that you’re the angel to their devil, but Satan was an angel, once.”

His face twisted with anger. “Is that what you really think of me, that I’m some devil?”

“No, I think you’re a man trying to break a prisoner.” Her green eyes were calm as she locked gazes with him. “But I can’t let you do that. I can’t betray the cause.” She was scared but shoved it down where it couldn’t be seen—or felt. Later, she’d give into the fear that was clawing to escape, when she had time to think about what they were going to do to her tomorrow. She would pray tonight, and hope God listened finally.

“This started as exactly that,” Luka said, taking back the wet cloth. He returned to cleaning the wound, his fingers gentle. “But you turned the tables on me.” His blue eyes were very sincere as he looked up at her; he set aside the rag and took her battered hands, gently. “You’re not someone to break anymore. I’ve cheered inside every day they told me you hadn’t cracked. I know that this seems like I’m putting you on, but I don’t want them to hurt you tomorrow.”

Silvestru gave him a small smile. She wasn’t sure she could trust him, so she bit back her first impulse: asking for aid to escape. That might be what they wanted. But she could use this. “I don’t want them to hurt me either.” She wanted to like him and so she couldn’t allow herself to feel anything positive toward him.

Luka worked in silence for a moment before asking, “Silva, how old are you?”

“Sixteen.” His surprise was clear and she asked, “How old are you?”

“Thirty.” It was awkward after that, as if she’d done something wrong. She couldn’t have said what she’d done wrong. But he was upset by something else besides the men who wanted to rape her.

That wasn’t going to happen, because last night, she’d finally worked a nail loose on her cot.

[z-Silvestru]

Silvestru couldn’t sleep. She knew that she should, but the nail was hard in her hand. She lay in the dark, shifting and refining her grip on it. She would have one chance, like shots she took with her bow. She relaxed her body and mind, focusing until she could picture herself lying on the cot in her cell. Magar would grab her--

She stopped herself. It might be Porc this time. She couldn’t assume that it would be Magar; she had to plan for every surprise, every possibility that was within reason. She would prevail, because she was not spending another night in here. The young woman breathed deeply as she forced herself to relax, the nail sticking between her fingers like an iron unicorn’s horn.

The door would open with that creak. The footsteps would walk toward her. The man would grab her and roll her off the cot. Silvestru would flow with the motion and stab him in the neck—

The motion didn’t look right in her head. Patiently, she started over. The door. The footsteps. The man would grab her and roll her over…

Hours later, Silvestru was lightly dozing. The sound of the door woke her up, along with the stomp of feet. She could hear that it was two men, which meant it was Magar and Porc. The young dynamic forced her body to remain limp and still as the men came closer. She waited for that first hand to grab her, or the first two.

It was two. Magar grabbed her hair and yanked her head hard enough to hurt her neck. Porc tried to grab her ankles, but the bigger man was slightly faster and Porc only awkwardly pushed her legs into the cot. Silvestru reacted by wrenching a leg loose and kicking Porc in the face. As the smaller man went down cursing and holding his nose, she twisted out of the cot and landing on one hand and both feet. With her armed hand, she punched Magar in the gut.

She wanted the face, but she was too low for that. Surging to her feet, she punched at his face, even as he released her hair and went for a grapple. He was stronger than her, but that didn’t matter as Silvestru wiggled out of his half-established head-lock and slammed her fist into the back of his head. When she tried to pull back, the nail stayed. Magar started to scream and thrash, and Silvestru lost her grip on her weapon. It was embedded in his neck, at the base of his skull; Silvestru decided that was a worthy trade.

Porc rushed her, his lower face a red mask from his bleeding nose. Silvestru ducked to the side as he swung a knife at her, the blade cutting the air she had just occupied. She had planned for this outcome and she took a running-slide across the floor to her next weapon: a chair. Spinning to her feet, she snatched the chair up and swung as she twisted back to face Porc. He wasn’t close yet, but he slowed his run when he saw her holding the chair longways before her. “I knew that being soft on you was a mistake,” the guard snarled.

She didn’t answer; he wasn’t worth her time. Silvestru moved forward in two quick hops, and thrust the long edge of the folded chair against his arms. He recoiled, even as she danced forward, the metal edge slamming into his arms and chest. It seemed a standoff until she twisted the chair, caught the hilt of the blade and knocked it away from him. Porc dove after it, and she followed, bringing the chair down on his head. The Fascist went limp, and she hit him with it a few more times. When she saw that his skull was deformed, she dropped the chair and scooped up his knife.

Magar was huddled in the corner, his bloody fingers curling helplessly. “Pleeeease…” he rasped, his tone beseeching. “Take it out. I can feel it in my head! I can’t get it out!”

Silvestru grabbed his head, turning it so that she could see the piece of iron. Her lips tightened and she slammed the hilt of the knife against the nail. Magar screamed and thrashed, falling to the ground. She dropped on top of him, her knees digging into his shoulders as she steadied his head again. Lips pressed into a grim line, the sixteen year old finished driving the nail into his skull.

The first step of her escape was complete. Now the hard part began.

[z-Silvestru]

She’d been unable to plan beyond killing Magar and Porc. She had been unconscious when she’d been brought here before, so she had no idea how to get out. Silvestru didn’t know where Luka was, and whether he’d help or hinder her.

The girl clutched the knife and dug into the corpses’ pockets for the keys. The corpses remained nicely dead, allowing her to dig out keys, loose change and various other odds and ends. The keys were the only thing she needed, but she did stop when she saw the wrapped hard candy. Her mouth watered and she snatched up the colorful treats.

At the door, Silvestru paused and listened. She wished she could have looked; her vision was much better than her hearing. When she didn’t pick up any sound, she unlocked the door and opened it.

No one shot her. No one shouted an alarm.

Her cell was at the end of a short hallway; doors lined each side. Silvestru opened the first and found it empty, with an inch of water on the floor. As quietly as she could, she checked them all; in each case they were empty or uninhabitable. The last two on the right were so corroded that they wouldn’t even open. She was the only resident of this wing.

The hall ended at another door, but this one had a small opening. Silvestru rose on her toes and did a quick glance. There was a room; she caught a glance of a table and chairs, and a man sitting at the table. He hadn’t been facing the door, and she dared a longer look.

The room was an ante chamber with several other doors leading off. Illumination came from lights added to the ceiling, done with typical Fascist efficiency by driving spikes into the old stonework and stringing fixtures and wires from them. Several metal cabinets were pushed against the wall and painted army green. A folding table and chairs filled the remaining space. The single man, garbed in the usual army clothing, sat at the table, reading the local paper. What really held her attention was the basket on the table—that was the one that Luka brought with him every day. But where was Luka?

Silvestru planned her attack quickly, feeling the pressure of time. If she waited too long, she might have more than one man to deal with. Taking a deep breath, she yanked the door open and jumped at the man. He barely had a chance to do anything more than glance at her before she was behind him, her hand under his chin and wrenching his head up as the knife pressed to his throat. “Where is Luka?” she hissed.

One of the cabinets knocked weakly. Silvestru glanced at it then at her captive. “Is he in there?”

“Yes. Plea—” His voice cut off in a gurgle as Silvestru sliced his throat open. His blood arced out over the table, paper and basket, catching her restraining hand in passing. She grimaced and shoved his body forward, wiping her hand on his back.

Turning to the cabinet, she opened it, stepping back as Luka rolled out. He was battered and beaten, but he tried to get to his feet immediately. “Silvessss,” he moaned before falling again. As she pulled him up, he whispered, “I tried, Constanta. I tried to stop them.”

Hearing her birth name threw her off for a moment. “I know,” she murmured after a heartbeat of hesitation. “We have to go now.”

“Basket. Food. Money. Keys.” Silvestru threw his arm over her shoulder, ignoring his cry of pain. With gritted teeth, she pulled him to his feet. Luka’s legs were weak and he didn’t seem to be able to stand on his own.

“Can you grab it?” The young woman was struggling to keep them up; she wasn’t sure she could balance that, too.

Luka threaded his arm through the handle and hooked his fingers in his shirt front. “I think so,” he slurred through swollen lips.

“Do you know the way?” she asked him.

“Yes. But we’ll never get out. Too many guards.”

[z-Silvestru]

Her heart sank; then her will hardened. “We’re not staying here. Hang onto that basket; we’ll need it later.” Silvestru took a better grip on his arm and said, “Which door goes out?”

“That one. Stairs. Into a courtyard. Guards.”

“We need help.” Silvestru eased him into a chair, hopeful that she’d be able to get him up easier if he wasn’t on the ground. Hastily, she began to open cabinets. The first was clothing and she grinned. “Here,” she said, thrusting a hat and shirt at him. “Put that on.” The next cabinet was supplies, while the third was what she needed: weapons. No bow, but a gun was better than nothing.

Silvestru stuffed a serviceable 9mm Luger pistol in the back of her pants, then slung a nice 8mm Mannlicher rifle over her shoulder. She grabbed more ammo for both; she was going to need more than 12 bullets between them. Moving back to Luka, she helped him finish pulling on the shirt. Kneeling in front of him, she quickly buttoned up the shirt for him, gently pushing away his swollen fingers. “Here’s the plan,” she said as she rose and pulled him up again. “Up the stairs, I’ll hide and shadow you. You head for an outer wall.”

“And then?” he asked quickly.

“Then,” she said, leaning over to the open cabinet and grabbing a coil of rope, “we climb over and down.”

“I’ll never make it.” Luka tried to push away from her. “Leave me.”

“I will not leave you here.” Silvestru pulled him toward the door and up the stairs. Luka didn’t have the strength to fight her, and together they clambered up the stairs. Luka went down on the top step, his legs giving out. Silvestru let him slide down so that he was slumped on the stairs, not dropped.

For a moment, she listened at the door; all she heard was Luka’s pained wheezes. Swallowing, she pulled out the pistol and got a death grip on it. Then she cracked the door open cautiously. She was staring at a guard’s back—a back that was turning toward the opening door. Silvestru had a fraction of a second to make a decision.

The gunshot was loud in the stone hallway, so loud she couldn’t hear the guard’s whimpers as he collapsed, pawing at a throat filling with blood. The second guard was still in mid-turn when she shot him, the bullet passing sideways through both lungs and his heart. He collapsed as well, and Silvestru looked down at Luka. “Stay here and be on their side if they come for you.”

“Where—” His words were cut off as she invoked her least understood power and slipped outside, largely undetectable to normal vision. She immediately moved away from the door and pressed herself to a wall; she might be invisible, but she could still be felt and heard. Men were coming, armed with guns and ready to find the source of the noise. Silvestru waited, taking stock of her surroundings while they closed in on the men she’d shot. The courtyard was before her, with gates on the far side of the cobblestone area. It was night and the shadows were deep where the lights couldn’t reach. A generator roared in the corning, overwhelming some of the noise she’d been making. There was a truck there, too, she noted.

Only ten men responded to the gun shots; she would have thought there’d be more, but it was late at night. As they swarmed about, looking for the intruder, Silvestru sidled a few more steps down the wall and unslung her rifle. While the men looked around, she laid out the shots in her mind, picturing how to kill each one. When she was ready, when she’d pictured each death, she made it happen.

The first two were shot in the head with the same bullet, the only such shot she’d be able to line up like that. The next three were dead before they’d realized where she was standing. Two more died as they turned toward her, their rifles rising too late. It was the last three that were the problem.

As soon as the sixth bullet was on its way to the seventh target, Silvestru sprinted for the stack of crates. Behind her, the three men remaining peppered a trail across the ground with wasted bullets. She ducked behind her wooden barricade, then quickly reloaded the rifle using the stripper clip. Silvestru rose just high enough to see her next target and fired without hesitation, putting a bullet in his eye. Bullets tore into the wood as she dropped back behind shelter and invoked her invisibility once more.

While the remaining two guards began to cautiously circle around the edge of the barricade, Silvestru slipped around the other side of the crate. Silently, she put herself behind them; at less than twenty feet, she killed both of them before they knew she was there.

As the last echoes from her final shot faded, Silvestru could hear more shouts of alarm in other parts of the castle.

[z-Silvestru]

Silvestru didn’t bother to make herself unseen again. She dashed into the shadow of the truck and wiggled under its body, lying so she could see the door to the cells—and the bodies she’d littered around the area. The young dynamic cradled her rifle against her shoulder and steadied her mind and body. It was like hunting rabbits and deer, she told herself silently. They were animals on two legs, nothing more.

The first men came into view: three of them, struggling into clothing and shambling in sleep. Silvestru waited until she saw their guns before firing. She cut down the first one when he bent low over one of the downed men, adding him to the dead with a shot to the head. The other three dove for cover, but Silvestru managed to kill a second and wound a third before they were completely in cover.

The young woman rolled back from under the truck and started to rise, but four men who had from another door were there, and they were armed. Everyone was surprised, but Silvestru recovered first. She scrambled back under the truck and darted over some crates. She landed next to another Fascist hiding behind them; the two blinked at one another in surprise before she smashed him in the face with the butt of the rifle. His nose flattened and he flopped back against the box, howling. Another blow silenced him, but it distracted her and gave away her position. Silvestru invoked her invisibility and pulled herself up onto the crate and froze.

The men hunting her converged on her location but found only their unconscious companion. “Do you see her?”

“No, but I smell her!” another proclaimed.

Silvestru flushed as she realized that she did stink of the dungeons. She was out of bullets in the Mannlicher, though she had a full magazine in the Luger. Moving carefully, she pulled the Luger and planned her next shots. Before she could act, one of the men swung his rifle around accidently and bounced it off her shoulder.

The young dynamic shot him; it was as much reflex as decision. The action still made her visible and she tumbled backwards off the crate even as she shot another of the soldiers. Silvestru landed and rolled, straightening up enough shoot another one before she crouched behind the crate.

The men were smart; they split in two groups and swarmed her, two circling around each side of the wooden box to pincher her. Silvestru backpedaled aiming right. The first two men died as she fired at them, a red bullet hole appearing in each chest. Silvestru twisted to the left and aimed at the two men as they aimed at her. The two men shot at her, their bullets slicing the air around her like scythes as she returned the fire. The first man went down quickly but she missed the second because a bullet hit her in the left shoulder.

Not only had it messed up her aim, but it hurt like hell. Silvestru dropped her injured arm and aimed one-handed at the remaining man. Three more shots emptied her clip but put him down.

Silvestru quickly reloaded, even as she hurried to hide behind the crate again. Secure in her hiding place, she waited, watching and listening. This time, no one else came to investigate the noise.

[z-Silvestru]

Tension flowed from her muscles slowly and the adrenaline dropping gave her a headache. Still, Silvestru was far from done here. Slowly, she stood up and reloaded both weapons. She felt the lack of her bow like a missing limb and she resolved to make the replacement as soon as she had a chance. I have the freedom to do it now. Silvestru wouldn’t give up her freedom easily again.

,,

Realizing that she was just standing there doing nothing spurred her into motion. There were keys in the truck, thankfully, and Silvestru sprinted across the courtyard to the dungeon door. Luka looked up weakly when she opened the entrance and smiled down at him. “Ready to go?” she asked him as she extended her hand.

,,

“You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” The handsome man reached out and accepted her offer; together they got him moving again. Luka clutched the basket as Silvestru dragged him over to the truck. Luka groaned as she helped him climb up and into the passenger seat. “Where are we going?” he gasped.

,,

“Away.” Silvestru hopped into the cabin and started the truck. The deep rumble was pleasing and she licked her lips as she carefully put it in gear.

,,

Luka eyed her for a moment. “Do you know how to drive?”

,,

“Not really.” She eased the vehicle into motion with a gentle push on the accelator. “I mean, I watched my father teach my brother.”

,,

“He didn’t teach you?” Luka sounded concerned.

,,

Silvestru smirked wryly. “My father believed that women shouldn’t drive. I’m sure if he’d known that I’d have to drive myself out of a Fascist prison keep, he’d have instructed me, too.”

,,

The truck was easy enough to drive and Silvestru had no trouble turning it around and nosing through the open gate. The gate led to a narrow pass between two stone walls. “You know the way out, right?”

,,

Luka frowned. “Yes, but we’ll never make it. There’s a checkpoint just across the moat.”

,,

“How do I get to the checkpoint?” Silvestru wasn’t stopping now. For all that she’d spoken of going over the wall, she could barely help Luka walk. Getting him out any way but in the truck was going to be a problem, and she wasn’t going to leave him. Those grim thoughts convinced her to press a bit harder on the gas, and the truck picked up more speed.

,,

“Follow this road, left at the T, then follow the wall until it opens to the right. I’m serious. You’ll be stopped.” She could feel him staring at her. “You can leave me. I’ll be all right.”

,,

“I’m not leaving you.” Silvestru glanced at him then reached over and grabbed one of the Romanian caps. She jammed that down over her head before pulling on one of the jackets. In the dark, there was a good chance they’d be out of here before anyone realized she was the girl they were holding prisoner.

,,

“You should leave me.” Luka’s voice was weak though, and she ignored him. He was really too hurt to argue with her. They drove in silence as she made the first turn to follow the gradually curving wall to their right. It was the outer wall, she realized suddenly; freedom was so close.

,,

They passed three patrols, one with dogs. Each time, the men just waved to her, far more interested in their conversations and cigarettes than two men driving a transport vehicle. “Why aren’t they stopping us?” Silvestru asked softly after they’d passed the second team.

,,

“People are always running around doing something. It’s a war. You’re acting like you belong, and so they assume that you do.” Luka grunted as they hit a rut. “You should just be glad they have no interest.”

,,

“I am. They’re bad guards.” Silvestru would have never been so casual.

,,

“They’ll pay for it.”

,,

The opening to the right was lit by bright lights; another patrol was there. The guards stared at the escapees as the truck rolled into the light; Silvestru gripped her Luger tightly in one hand. She turned the corner to find that the exit was a bridge over a moat. She started to drive through the opening when the patrolman stepped forward, his hand raised for them to stop.

,,

Silvestru put a bullet between his eyes and gunned the truck. With a roar, the vehicle rumbled forward, even as shouts rose behind them. “That was… shit.” She’d thought that group of men was the checkpoint, but the wooden cross guard and dozen men armed with machine guns were the real checkpoint. “Get down!” she screamed to Luka as the guards in front of them opened fire. The young woman hunched down as bullets peppered the truck; she almost flinched when the windshield shattered, raining glass on them. The fifteen foot drop into the dry moat was enough to keep her driving straight; raw nerve kept her in place as she pressed the accelerator to the floor.

,,

The cross guard proved to be little resistance to a speeding truck; with a loud crash, they tore through the wooden arms. That noise was followed by the sickening whump of a fascist moving too slowly to evade her bumper. The machine guns continued their deadly rain, tearing holes down the length of the vehicle.

,,

Then they were clear, and even still alive. Silvestru laughed giddily as she took her first breath of freedom.

[z-Silvestru]

“You’re mad, woman!” Luka shouted over the roar of the truck.

,,

Silvestru glanced at the older man as he pulled himself up painfully from the floorboard. She grinned as she returned her attention to the road. “Madness has gotten me this far.”

,,

“There’s madness and then there’s just crazy, Constanta.” Luka grunted softly as he settled back into his seat.

,,

The second use of her given name wiped away the smile. “Don’t call me that.”

,,

“What? Constanta? I think it’s a pretty name.” Luka tilted his head before letting it fall back on the headrest.

,,

“I’m Silvestru.” The young woman scowled out into the night. “What’s ahead of us?”

,,

“The road follows the river, then crosses it at a bridge. But we need to abandon the truck before then. There’s another checkpoint at the bridge.” She heard the wry shift in his tone as he added, “You could ram it again, I suppose, but it’s a heavier gate.”

,,

“Can we keep following the river?”

,,

“No, this valley narrows back around the river. The only way out of here is through the pass we’re driving toward or through the road to the south of the keep we just left.”

,,

“So I should have gone the other way,” Silvestru sighed.

,,

Luka shook his head. “I wouldn’t. That leads straight to Sangeorz Bai. The Fascists have a major force there.”

,,

“Understood.” Silvestru shifted noisily into a lower gear as she slowed for a curve; as they rounded it, she saw lights in the distance. Most of them were stationary but some were bouncing around. “Is there anything between us and the checkpoint?”

,,

“No, why?” Luka lifted his head and leaned forward. “I think that’s the checkpoint coming toward us.”

,,

“I’m going around.” Silvestru slowed down as she killed the lights.

,,

“Don’t you need those to see?” Luka’s voice was nervous in the dark.

,,

“No. Do you?” A throbbing ache came and went through her eyeballs as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. A shift of her eyes changed the impenetrable blackness into high-detail grayscale scenes. She steered off the road and into the field, swinging wide of the road and bouncing through a field. “Sorry,” she murmured when Luka choked back a cry of pain.

,,

“This is better than being shot at,” he joked weakly.

,,

Silvestru wove around hay stacks and fences as she forged through the fields, watching as lights ran up and down the road. They were losing ground to their pursuers, but until the Fascists realized where they went, they were safe.

,,

“They’ll figure out where you went soon.” Luka’s voice was too loud in the dark. “There, see that line of lights? That’s the bridge.”

,,

Silvestru turned toward the double line of illumination and began to drive toward it. “Anything else I should know before I get there?”

,,

“Yeah, the gates are heavy; they might stop the truck.” Luka glanced at her. “Are you planning to drive across the river?”

,,

“No…” Silvestru bit her lip, thinking. “No, we’ll ram the gate.”

,,

Luka nodded unhappily. “There might be a jeep we can steal on the other side.”

,,

The young woman put it into gear, struggling to find the right one at first. She hit the gas and the big vehicle hopped forward with a roar. Silvestru kept the lights off as she approached the bridge; no point in alerting them to her presence.

,,

That decision cost several men their lives. They had no chance to dodge the speeding truck and Silvestru didn’t hesitate. She’d weep and make her penance later, but for tonight, she was escaping this place, at the cost of their lives. The thumps as she mowed them down didn’t slow the truck, but the gate was heavy and made of iron, sunken deeply in the stone pillars of the old bridge. Grimly, she gripped the wheel tightly and braced herself.

,,

The gate rang with the impact before buckling and popping open; the truck began to make some grinding noises as it rolled. The twisted metal of the former barricade scraped down the side of the vehicle as they shoved their way through. But Silvestru didn’t rejoice; now that she was past the gate she could see the tank parked at the other end of the bridge. The long muzzle of the main gun pointed right at them.

[z-Silvestru]

It was a small tank, a holdover from the Great War that was smaller than the truck. That didn’t change its lethality. The barrel of the gun exploded with fire as the tank shot at them. Silvestru was vaguely aware that she was screaming; she hit the brakes and spun the wheel without thinking. The passenger side of the vehicle slammed into the restraining wall of the bridge. The masonry cracked and buckled but held, forcing the truck to stay partially in the path of the tank’s gun. The shell whizzed past them, cutting the air with a scream that drowned out her and Luka’s cries.

,,

As the shell exploded in a field behind them, Silvestru got the truck stopped. Luka was stumbling out of the truck, trying to get away from what was shortly going to be a flaming ball of death. Silvestru yanked her rifle into her arms as she hopped out of the truck. Steadying the muzzle in the V created by the open door, she took careful aim at the tank. She blocked out the sputtering growl of her vehicle, Luka’s cries and the shouts of the men behind them and the whirring as the turret spun to fire the second shell. The young woman ignored the ominous sight of the big barrel lining up with her vehicle; her sharp eyes were locked on the narrow slit on the front of the tank. She took a deep breath, emptied her lungs and fired.

,,

A spark and the sound of a ricochet announced her failure. Silvestru muttered words her father would have been shamed that she knew as she cocked and aimed again. As she centered herself again, the young dynamic fought to find that heart of stillness where she could do her magic again. Had she had her bow, this wouldn’t have been a hard shot. The turret finished its turn and Silvestru pulled the trigger.

,,

There was no spark and no ting of failure. The tank lurched into motion, canting hard to the right and into the wall of the bridge. The entire structure shook as the tank hit the barrier and began to claw its way up and through the stone side. The treads tore the stones of the bridge to gravel as Silvestru climbed through the shuddering truck and grabbed Luka. She half-carried, half-helped him past the tank right as the front door opened. A man staggered out of the turret, stopping when he saw Silvestru’s rifle pointing at him. “I surrender!” he yelped.

,,

Silvestru shot him, knocking him backwards into the river. “He surrendered!” Luka protested as she dragged them into motion again.

,,

“I don’t take prisoners. Where would I put them?” Beyond the tank were more men, and Silvestru shoved Luka behind the stone pillar to shield them. The troops fired at them and there were too many to take on herself. As Silvestru glanced up at the lights overhead, she mentally amended that to Take on without an advantage. Six quick shots obliterated the lights on their end of the bridge, giving her the cover of darkness. “Wait here,” she whispered to Luka. “Don’t move.”

,,

By the time they’d moved the three jeeps around so their headlights illuminated the bridge again, it was too late. Silvestru had slipped through the darkness and was now behind them. Silently, she reloaded her rifle before picking off the first three. Then as they panicked and hunted the darkness for her, she moved to another spot and killed another three. At that, the rest ran.

,,

“Come on,” she urged as she fetched Luka and pulled him back to his feet. “We need to move before someone comes back.” Together, they staggered to a jeep and claimed it.

[z-Silvestru]

Driving through the night wasn’t taxing to Silvestru. She’d pulled all-nighters before, and this wasn’t that much different. The novelty and stress of teaching herself to navigate the road kept her amused through the long drive back to civilization. Luka fell asleep—or passed out—after telling her about necessary traffic laws.

Dawn found them still in the rural countryside. She had able to avoid the various checkpoints along the road by shutting off her lights and slowly driving around them, but that option would soon not be available. Pulling into a field, she parked behind a hay stack and shut off the engine. In the silence, Luka woke up. Silvestru watched him with concern as he stiffly sat up, his expression etched with pain. “How do you feel?” she asked as she studied his bruised face.

Luka rubbed his face and stopped with a wince. “Terrible. Where are we?”

“Outside Buzau.” Silvestru opened the glove box, looking for a first aid kit. They’d lost the basket back on the bridge in the mad scramble to abandon the truck.

Luka frowned. “We should head to Constanta not Bucharest.”

The mention of the coastal city that she shared a given name with drew a frown from Silvestru. “Why would you say that?” she asked him, turning to look behind the seats for any supplies.

“I have friends in Constanta who can help us.” Luka grimaced and muttered, “I think it’s in the back.”

Silvestru scrambled around the jeep and dug under the bunk seat, grinning when she found the box marked for medical supplies. She still had that victorious grin as she passed the box to him. “I have friends in Bucharest.”

“No, Silvestru, you don’t.” Luka’s words stopped her mid-motion. It wasn’t the words themselves that halted her but the tone in which he’s spoken them. The words weren’t doubtful or questioning; they were full of a hard certainty.

“What do you mean?” The young woman felt her throat catch as she faced this older man who meant so much to her now.

“Silvestru…” Luka set aside the medical kit to take her hands in his. It must have hurt to move his injured hands, but there was no pain visible as he wrapped his fingers around hers. “The Romanian Resistance thinks you were the one feeding information to the government.”

Silvestru’s heart dropped. “What?”

“They have another source of information inside the Resistance, but all the information he’s given them has been attributed to you breaking. Your friends are going to kill you if you go right to them.” Luka’s fingers tightened around her hand a bit more, as if he was afraid she was about to run.

He was right to be concerned; all Silvestru could think was that her allies in the Resistance were in trouble. They were being deceived. But his last sentence was a dash of cold water; she knew how ruthlessly the Resistance treated traitors. Even the great Silvestru could fall in their esteem. “I have… I need to convince them otherwise,” she said, feeling tears sting. She blinked them back ruthlessly and ignored the pain that ate at her heart. Porc and Magar couldn’t break her; this wouldn’t break her. “I have to stop the traitor and save the Resistance,” she insisted.

“Agreed. But let’s go to Constanta, meet up with my friends and approach the Resistance carefully.” He released a hand to tenderly brush her hair back from her eyes. “We might even be able to find some evidence of who the traitor is.”

Silvestru shook her head, indecision battling within her. “This… it feels wrong.”

“It goes against your instincts, I know.” Luka touched her face and brought her eyes back to his. “It will not serve the Resistance if they kill you before you can convince them to accept your innocence.”

Silvestru locked her eyes with him, thinking. If the Resistance believed her to be a traitor, they wouldn’t give her a chance to prove her innocence. They’d kill her. Luka was right—they had to prove she was innocent before approaching the Resistance. “All right. We go to Constanta.”

But even as Luka smiled and grabbed her in a relieved hug, Silvestru wondered if this was the right course of action.

[z-Silvestru]

Luka’s hurts were tended to first, but that didn’t stop the argument. Silvestru stood uneasily to the side, wishing she had her bow, as two women patched up her former captor. It wasn’t the women making her nervous; it was the three men who were standing in a rough semi-circle, talking loudly and stridently. Luka was clearly hurting, yet he didn’t back down, returning their statements in the same language and vitriol they were speaking.

Someone touched her elbow; Silvesru spun to see a girl about her age. The girl smiled hesitantly and waved for Silvestru to go with her. The dynamic glanced at Luka. “Go on,” he told her in Romanian. “Svetlana wants to take you to get a bath and a disguise.”

“Why am I being disguised?” Silvestru asked, her eyes narrowing.

“So that you can hide here, with my friends. A young woman in a russiykiy dress will draw no attention when with other women in dresses.” Luka tilted his head a little. “Don’t frown, Silvestru. You can’t be that attached to your pants.”

“Dresses aren’t practical.” Silvestru crossed her arms. His expression was charming, his tone persuasive; it made her feel like a recalcitrant child.

“Neither is getting caught.” Luka smiled a little. “Silva, please – it’s only for a couple of days. Then we’ll know the state of the Resistance and we can work on how to approach them.” Before Silvestru could reply, one of the men spoke in sharp Russian. At least, that’s Silvestru thought they were speaking. Luka replied just as sharply and the men fell silent, looking unhappy. “Silva, please go wash up and let me finish here, and I’ll come and explain.”

“You better, Luka.” Silvestru let the girl draw her out of the room.

<hr>

The two days passed slowly. Silvestru wore the dress—except when she snuck out the first night to find wood for a new bow. That went poorly: she found the wood she needed but when she got back, Luka and four other men were in her room, arguing. One of them had checked up on her and found her missing, and had roused everyone else. Luka calmed everyone down and asked her to come let him know before she left again.

When they put her to work doing laundry on the second day, Silvestru had the sudden impression she was being held captive, but this time her cell was Luka’s sweet words. Tomorrow, I’m leaving. She hardened her resolve, prepared to fight with Luka and all the men. But that night, Luka knocked on her door and asked to come in. Once he was inside, he smiled and said, “Silva, thank you for your patience.”

“Mmm hmm.” Silvestru glanced up briefly from her stave before returning her attention to the construction of her bow.

“I’m sorry you’re angry.”

“Are you?” she asked, stopping and looking up at him, her green eyes annoyed.

“I am. I know this is hard for you, but we needed this time.” Luka sat down on the bed next to her; Silvestru noted that he was mostly healed from his last beating. His blue eyes sparked in the lamplight as he said, “Your new bow is off to a good start.”

“What did you find out?” Silvestru wasn’t ready to be nice to him, not yet.

Luka smiled slightly. “I contacted friends in Bucharest. They have made contact with a man named Sorin—”

“Sorin Peteran?” Silvestru asked sharply. Sorin was one of her biggest fans. She suspected that he had deeper feelings for her.

“Yes. He’s agreed to hide you and vouch for you, and help you reestablish yourself with the Resistance.” Luka was all-but beaming with joy and pride at managing this achievement.

Relief surged through Silvestru; until he’d said that, she hadn’t realized how scared she’d been that she’d never establish her innocence. “Good. When do we leave?”

“As soon as you’re ready,” Luka told her, rising. “I have bought us a one-way warp directly to Sorin’s house.”

Silvestru blinked, even as she stood up and began to collect her few things—mostly her knife, the wood, her guns, and the pants and shirt she’d refused to give up. “Isn’t that expensive?”

“Yes, but much safer. Getting you into Bucharest will be hard; avoiding both the Resistance and the Army will be that much harder.” He grinned. “I’m not one with the shadows like you are. This is far safer than trying to sneak me in there.”

Together they went out into the house’s main room. A thin-faced man smiled at her just before he waved his hand. A hole opened in space, showing her a sparsely furnished room.

“Ladies first.” Luka gestured for her to go and Silvestru stepped through with a smile. She was alone in the room; it was furnished with a bed, a dresser and a small woodstove. The room was cold, though the stove was filled with kindling and ready to be lit.

The warp closed behind her. Silvestru turned, frowning when she realized she was alone. Where was Luka?

A paper fluttered to the floor, having fallen from the warp. Silvestru bent and picked it up. It was a letter; she’d seen them before, but the young dynamic couldn’t read.

The door to the room opened and an older man entered. “Silvestru?” he asked hesitantly.

“What is going on?” Her voice was terse and she was gripping her Luger, ready to use it.

“I am Gregor Bauer, owner of this boarding house. Prokina asked that I explain what happened, once you’ve read the letter.” His Romanian was functional, but there was a hard accent to her, perhaps German.

“I can’t read.” She handed it to him. “Can you?”

“Yes.” He took it, his gray eyebrows rising as he peered at it a moment. Clearing his throat, he read, “ ‘Dear Constanta, I must beg your forgiveness for what I have done. I have lied to you. The Resistance is utterly convinced of your guilt. I know you would have demanded to go to them and prove they were wrong, just as I knew they would kill you. I couldn’t bear to see that happen.’” Bauer paused. “This is rather personal, Fraulein.”

“Read it.” Silvestru’s ire was rising with each word, and she’d know exactly what Luka had said.

Bauer cleared his throat again and proceeded, looking extremely uncomfortable. “ ‘I have come to care for you greatly, and I won’t allow your death. That’s why I have sent you to Berlin, to the care of my friend Gregory Bauer. Gregory will watch after you; he’s a good man who has cared for orphans in the past. His wife is kind and they will make you welcome.

“ ‘I sent you to Berlin because it is safe. Constanta, please, darling—wait for me. I’ll come for you, when you can safely return to Bucharest. Please do not be wroth with me; I do this because I care for you so much. Yours, Luka.’” Bauer handed her back the paper, looking worried.

He’d betrayed her. Luka had sent her to Berlin, of all places. She had to find her way back home, to Bucharest and her war.