They met in one of the captured city’s back alleys. Soldiers had already evacuated the nearby streets, shut down a looming factory and allowed it to cool. Rainbow sludge clogged many of the pipes that had previously spewed pollution into the underground canals. With the materials extracted, this place turned into a perfect hangout for those who wished to avoid prying eyes.
The Wolfkins of several packs stepped into the dark cover of the alley, leaning against the walls, frowning and glancing at the large figures of the shamans who patiently waited for the talk to begin. Such assemblies were unusual, and doubly so without the presence of warriors or warlords. To talk about a warlord behind her back? To invite the wolf hags of the other packs and not inform their warlords? It reeked of intrigue, or worse, treachery, and even the older wolf hags didn’t seem to be at ease here.
“Thank you for coming, sisters.” Melina stepped from the darkness and tore a cowl from her head, raising her paws to the dim sunlight to signify her pure intentions to the Spirits. “Sorrowful tidings had called…”
“Stop posturing,” dropped Sarkeesian, a wolf hag of the Alpha pack.
The woman was easily the size of a shaman. She alone wore a full uniform, a crimson jumpsuit. A tank shell had gouged her face, devouring fur and leaving rough skin covered with layers of scar tissue in its place. Constant domination struggles had robbed her of her natural fangs, and the wolf hag had implanted titanium daggers, causing a loud clanking to accompany her every utterance. The rejuvenation procedures kept age from dulling the movements of the second-highest-ranking wolf hag in Alpha’s pack, and she had lived for well over a century, often joking that she had birthed a small army on her own.
“I shall speak plainly, then.” Melina spread her arms. “The Janine pack is left honorless. Others think us weak…”
“Bullshit!” spat Zlata, a scrawny and balding wolf hag of the Martyshkina pack. The nation deemed her a valuable asset, and she had bathed in her first rejuvenation capsule a month ago, lamenting the need to prolong her shame.
“Was it not you who told this in the face of our wolf hag?” Melina faced her.
“To rile up the bitch and dominate her, yeah.” Zlata nibbled at her forearm, noticed pieces of fur in her jaws, sighed, and reached for the medicine. “There’s no way someone who has reached the rank of a warlord and given birth to such an adorable piece of meat…” she nodded at the silent Anissa. “… can be weak. So your pack fell on hard times…”
“And this is the crux of the matter!” Melina raised her voice, ignoring the snarl of the offended wolf hag. “It’s been years since Janine took over, and she still hasn’t given a single honorable name to her rank.”
“She has one, and an excellent one at that,” Sarkeesian grumbled. “It was stolen.”
Some of the group released claws, but not in response to the wolf hag’s statement. An Ice Fang approached, a male larger than any of the females present. Sword Saint Tancred Ironwill wore no armor, painted tattoos visible through his short fur on his open arms and legs. He threw the end of his short robe over one shoulder and stood patiently.
“Stolen, lost, irrelevant,” Melina said, not even nodding to the infringing outsider. “The warlord no longer has a second name, and the Blessed Mother herself has stripped us of our hard-earned glory.”
“So?” Zlata rubbed medicinal gel over herself. “Fame isn’t food or water; it comes and goes. Dedication remains, and the little Jani…” She swayed as Impatient One landed a heavy slap at the back of her head. The wolf hag growled, but she bared her throat in surrender. “Janine did good in culling the bandits. Help me here, Meli-girl. What exactly do you want?”
“I ask for your help,” Melina said.
“Choose your next words very carefully, Melina,” Anissa said, pointing a claw at the smaller woman.
“Janine is worthy,” Melina stated. She stepped close to Anissa and pushed her paw against the claw, earning herself a laceration. “But it is my duty and our duty to worry about morale! The balance of packs is important; we are deliberately pushing the Ygrite pack forward for the sake of it! Are you seriously telling me that after years of watching our sisters and brothers suffer ridicule for serving under a nameless warlord, you will stand by and do nothing? What about no one left behind?”
“Would you like me to transfer to your pack and give Janine a few pointers on how to be a warlord?” Sarkeesian’s roaring laughter echoed from the empty buildings.
“Melina, it takes some time for a warlord to adjust to her rank. That’s why they work with the former ones for years. If you’re stressed about falling behind, consider that Martyshkina had the luxury of being mentored by her former mistress and Alpha after she earned her rank,” said Arruda, a wounded wolf hag embarrassed at the need to have two scouts attend to her. “Janine was neglected. The tribe screwed up.”
“She must have an honorable name.” Melina offered her palm, and Anissa sliced her own and pressed it against Melina’s, merging her blood with hers. “I plan to challenge Janine. Yes, I know I’ll lose!” she stopped jokes and grinned. “Mighty is my leader. As I lose, I plan to push her. I will hurl insults at her, and I ask Soulless One to remind Janine how Terrific earned her face and insist on the ultimate punishment for disgracing the spirit of the duel. Janine has served under Terrific longer than anyone else; she knows every single torture the woman has ever inflicted. As life will leave my screaming body…”
“No,” Soulless One stated. She opened her mouth to speak, and a strained rasp left the surprised shaman. She convulsed and grabbed the nearest building, elbowing Impatient One’s worried paw away. “Concern…” she forced a word out. “…Not for me. Fine. Melina, your devotion is pure, and this is the reason you breathe still. Anyone else suggesting such foulness would be expiring in my jaws. This… Impatient One!”
“Cheating is not our way.” Impatient One took Melina by the shoulders. “Every warlord has her own way to rule. What you are suggesting will inevitably change the warlord and may cause discord in our ranks.” Impatient One nodded to Anissa and several scouts. “Yes, Melina. There are alphas, omegas, and intermediates within packs. All of them are different, and not all must be first. Abandon thoughts of premature death and serve honestly and loyally, sister. Sacrifice not for glory, but to save lives. Believe. Our kin’s is sturdier than that. Patience is a hunter’s virtue.”
Melina dropped to her knees and bowed her head, chastened by the shaman’s words. If she had expected to be met with contempt, the jokes and congratulations had disappointed her. Wolf hags and scouts renewed the oaths of friendship, binding the packs by exposing their necks and permitting the weaker ones to bite them gently, before embracing and wishing each other long and prosperous lives.
“If a name is so important,” Tancred said, and the atmosphere of welcome reunion vanished. Distrustful eyes watched him. Sarkeesian, Zlata, and Anissa raised their paws, calling the lesser ranks into submission to prevent a brawl. Tancred continued as if he had not noticed anything, a lone white figure against an agitated group of fangs. “Then perhaps I may offer a friendly sparring match? Janine and I are roughly on the same physical level, and there will be no gossip should she defeat me.”
“Should,” Impatient One said. “Curious choice of words.”
“It is merely a figure of speech…”
“Be quiet, cousin.” Soulless One slapped herself on the chest several times. “This is a warrior’s gathering, and we won’t shoo you away. But your web of lies won’t catch a soul here.” She raised a finger, stopping him. “Warlord Janine carries wounds from battle, from the Blessed Mother, and those done by the betrayer. Do you take us for fools and think that we will help you convince her to accept another challenge? Tell the rest of your snowy kind this. Approach Janine at your own peril. Packs stand united!”
“Packs stand united! Warlords for packs, packs for warlords!” barked Sarkeesian, and the rest of the group cheered in agreement.
“Is there anything else?” Impatient One asked when Tancred bowed.
“Yes.” Anissa scratched her backhand. “My brother is fiddling with various technologies, and males often join him. Abyss, even I come to him for help in requesting a connection back to the village through the Net. Is this against the law?”
“Self-education should never be opposed,” Tancred asserted.
“Our cousin speaks out of turn, but his words ring true,” Soulless One declared. “Ignacy and everyone else are permitted to learn, help the mechanics, and even use the unusual gifts in their spare time! Should they ignore the warlord’s orders again, beat them. If they want to join the engineering corps, banish them, for we are all fighters. But learning new crafts to use in war is admirable.”
“There were times when we fought naked,” Arruda said. “Nowadays, we wear heavy armor and use ranged weapons. I say the shaman’s decision is reasonable enough. No reason to pester Lacerated One about it.”
“What do you mean, there were times?” Zlata’s suspicious look set off a series of laughs in the alley, and even Tancred joined in with a paw over his mouth.
Janine skulked away from the factory’s rooftop edge, disappearing into the darkness. Many, including Normies and Wolfkins, believed her to be clumsy and loud, and she did little to change that perception. It was advantageous to be underestimated. And working hard meant taking on more deadly tasks that were often downright dangerous for her pack. And their welfare was her responsibility.
She would’ve been a poor excuse for a warlord if she hadn’t caught a whiff of Melina’s call for the assembly. Perhaps the wolf hag thought herself to be crafty and sneaky, but her sudden request for immediate leave, coupled with the same situation throughout the city, was enough to tell a story in itself. Janine asked Soulless One not to stop this meeting and to attend it, not as her representative or spy, Janine could do both very well herself, but as a judge of the warlord’s rulership.
Melina wasn’t an opportunistic upstart. Her pushing on Janine’s buttons was a way to push her leader ahead, and the constant self-doubt and the call for the trial of shame must’ve been grating for the woman. Lesson learned. No more worrying about being worthy, but about leadership. The pack must see her as a rock, a mountain shielding them from harm, not as a lost and inexperienced idiot.
She landed on the street opposite the alley, shaking the ground. The warlord hurried back to the camp, occasionally greeting the soldiers and escorting civilians. Maxence was still in the field medical camp, supervising the loading of the wounded into the crawler.
“Maxence. How are you?” Janine asked instead of greeting.
“Had an hour’s sleep. Still tired.” He removed the hood of his protective suit and injected a shot of adrenaline into his sweaty neck. “Nothing a long rest and a proper meal won’t fix.”
“How is Soulless One?” Janine asked directly, leaning on the medical cabinet.
“Not my secret to tell.” He tried to walk away, but she put a paw on his shoulder.
“Max, please,” the warlord pleaded. “I am neither heartless nor blind. She twitches like a broken toy soldier. She smells of oil. If her life is at risk, I must fix it before she can endanger the lives of her comrades.”
“Fix it,” Maxence chuckled. “A human organism is not a machine to be repaired, reassembled, and put back together. There is always psychology to consider. Do you know how many of my patients have died because they simply refused to accept modern, harmless implants designed to save their lives?”
“And Soulless One is one of those people?” Janine asked, making sure his frustration wasn’t just a side effect of his overworked schedule.
I have no idea what you are talking about, warlord." The doctor pushed her paw away from his shoulder. “Our patients’ medical records are their private business.”
“Thank you, Max.” Janine got the signal and left.
She picked up several bottles of cheap moonshine from her own personal stash. Officers, Ice Fangs, and Wolfkins of the Third had access to more sophisticated beverages like wine, vodka, brandy, and even regular beer, but after spending so much time in the sparsely populated wastelands, where days and weeks could pass without encountering another settlement, Janine had grown accustomed to these harmless mushroom-based drinks.
Soulless One has returned to her tent. The Wolfkins lived in these cloth motile houses, assembling them and hiding them in the pits during a sandstorm, one of the few stone structures in the village. After a storm passed, the villagers would leave the pits and start unburying hidden treasures and iron chests containing their belongings, while the little ones were busy setting up the tents anew and leading cusacks to pastures, places of slaughter where either harsh winds or hunters decimated insectoid parties. When their presence thinned the wildlife too much, the Wolfkins would pack up and migrate to let nature replenish itself. Upon their return, they often found prayer dens and pits occupied by either bandits or predators, driving out the latter and leaving the former to a grisly fate unless they heeded a shaman’s suggestion and surrendered.
Such lifestyles led to different customs and rules than those of the Normies, most of whom lived sedentary lives either in the dilapidated ruins of the Old World or in built settlements. Knocking on a tent was considered a sign of bad manners, as it was easier to heal wounds than to procure sturdy cloth or leather hides to patch the damage. The Wolfkins stomped outside the entrance, announcing their arrival if the host was asleep and couldn’t sense them.
The shaman wasn’t sleeping. But she hadn’t met Janine, either, and the warlord banged her foot on the ground, lightly enough not to wake the soldiers in other dens and hard enough to create vibrations that said: A guest has arrived.
“Warlord?” Soulless One invited her in.
Up close, Janine heard an unnatural electrical hissing coming from the shaman’s ears, and the odor of oil and the sweet aroma of rotting flesh intensified. As the shaman sat cross-legged on the floor, an implant that replaced her lungs pushed into her ribs, parting the fur on her side. The woman’s skin was pale, marked by yellow veins, but her eyes were clear and calm.
“How long do we know each other, shaman?” Janine uncorked the bottles.
“Counting since you helped my mother give her littler, or since I joined the pack?” Soulless One asked, placing clean stone cups on the ground.
“I assisted in your birth?” Janine poured alcohol into the cups. “I don’t remember.”
“Starstruck One said you did.”
“Since we met in the pack, then.”
“Fifty years.” Soulless One sniffed the moonshine and drank it in one gulp. “Good stuff.”
Janine followed her example. The drink created heat in her body, and it spread to the rest of her body in a quick, comforting wave. The Wolf Tribe’s alcohol was strong enough to knock a Normie off her feet in one go, and a very first bottle of it caused males and warriors to experience visions. It had a different effect on everyone; some went berserk, and some wept, imagining meeting their lost relatives as the drink bridged this world and that of the Spirits.
Upon growing in power or drinking more, such mushrooms were losing their punch. Not even a hint of confusion clouded the warlord’s vision, and she continued to enjoy the drink, welcoming its honest warmth and savoring the woodsy, meaty flavor that reminded her of the times the scouts treated her to a bowl of chicken soup.
“And so are you. Never have I complained about your service; never have I been afraid to show you my back or to defer to your judgment, and your punishments have ironed out my mischief and helped mold our pack into a wonderful unit…”
“But?” Soulless One asked.
“Why do you want to die?” Janine put aside her cup. She saw the shaman gazing at her own implants and answered, “Not the same. The necrosis around the mines do not even threaten my nerves, let alone my organs. My body out-heals the harm done by them. You are different. The stench, cramping, pain in your eyes… I consider you my friend and family. Fifty years we served together. Will you insult me by lying?”
“No.” Soulless One gestured for more moonshine. “Forty-five years. It’s been forty years since I saw this flash and woke up with most of my organs replaced. How do you think I feel having a blood pump in place of my heart, Janine?” She drank another cup and made a circle in the air with her finger. “Imagine this. I go into battle after battle, hoping to perish, always giving my all, as traditions demand. But there is no respite; medical miracles prevent me from aging, keeping me forever young. Death eludes me. I can’t just kill myself; it goes against my every belief in duty. Nor can I ignore how hypocritical I sound when I encourage young females to have cubs when my own dead womb can’t produce a soul. It is a perfect trap. But there is a way out. If my implants wear me down, if I die naturally, I’ll be free.” Soulless One went silent for a while. “Fifty years of my life. I’ve served enough, haven’t I?”
“Yes.” Janine clinked cups with her. “Yet you gave in to despair.” Soulless One tensed. “Yes. We all have flaws, and shamans are not an exception.”
“I never betrayed…”
“I do not speak of treason. Spirits, I would sooner betray that state than you! You are my guiding light, Soulless One, but even a pathfinder needs a paw now and then.” Janine’s eyes met the shaman’s eyes. “You grief about inability to bring life into this world, but have you thought how many lives you have saved with your own two paws? The Spirits may have taken the ability to give life away from you, but you have transcended this limitation and helped keep my soldiers alive. Now it is my turn to do the same. Get your implants fixed, Soulless One. Give the medics permission to upgrade the artificial organs. Live.”
“What if I am too tired for that?” the shaman asked.
“Then heal yourself and rest. Exile yourself from the tribe and see the world. There will always be a place for you in my pack,” Janine promised her. “If you need rest, we’ll understand. But live you must. While you are under my command, you will live. Don’t make me dominate you into obedience.”
Soulless One’s arm moved, splashing moonlight over Janine’s eyes. The shaman charged faster than a bullet, opening her jaws to bite into the warlord’s neck. But the fangs closed on empty air; Janine had already risen and connected рук knee to the shaman’s jaw, knocking the woman’s head back. She held back the blow, unwilling to potentially maim her old friend, unwilling to potentially maim her old friend, but the attack drew a stream of foam from Soulless One’s lips. With her eyes still blurry from the moonshine, Janine acted on instinct and retreated, dodging the claws that sought to hook her under the shoulder blades.
She grabbed the shaman in a hold, as the claws missed their mark. This sudden burst of speed allowed her to pin the shaman’s paws to her chest, and Janine tensed her muscles, locking her opponent in an iron grip. Soulless One tried to break free, but Janine’s fangs closed around her neck, immobilizing her. The shaman closed her eyes and whined in surrender.
“Fix yourself, Soulless One.” Janine released her and stepped away.
“By your will, warlord,” submitted the shaman.
****
Three times. That is how many times Soulless One has visited the cybernetic bay in the past forty-five years. Once she awoke here to find a world devoid of the lifegiving. Another time, she had come to find a replacement for her failing heart. And the last time, she had come to pick up a restored soldier.
Today she came on her own volition, walking through the wide, quiet corridors, large enough so even Ravager could come in freely. Instead of being a single hangar stretching for over a hundred meters, the cybernetic bay now had over a dozen compartments, each meant to accommodate cases of varying severity. A strange woman who looked like a green-eyed white ghost led the shaman to a spot in the middle of this small labyrinth and opened a door.
“Sorry for the mess; we are still cleaning up the place. Name’s Banshee, by the way; I am sort of a student here,” the woman said.
The room wasn’t large. It had three operating tables at the end, each capable of staying in a horizontal or vertical position. Beneath each table were a variety of mechanical attachments. There were saws, drills, pliers, hands for holding blood transfusions, manipulators, and various other types of machinery. The shaman didn’t understand the woman’s words about the mess. She could taste the pungent smell of a cleaning solution permeating every millimeter of this place.
“Now get undressed, lie down, relax, and don’t worry about a thing.” Banshee pointed at the operating table to the left. “I’ll secure you and inject painkillers. Sure you don’t want proper anesthesia? You’ll just go to sleep and wake up to a whole new world of wonder!”
“I’d rather be awake,” Soulless One replied. The table wasn’t cold. There was a heater installed in it, and the surface soon warmed up, creating a comfortable sensation. Iron rings slipped off the table, restraining her limbs, and another secured her neck. Mechanical arms holding syringes came into view, releasing painkillers into her bloodstream. “It isn’t necessary,” she mumbled. “If I so much as scream or twitch, everything I own is yours.”
“You don’t look rich, and yes, it is needed; you’re not the doctor here,” Banshee said. The mutant turned on a terminal on a wall as another mechanical appendage moved a scanner over the Wolfkin. “Series two point one? Who even uses these torture devices?! They were banned decades ago!”
“Me, apparently,” the shaman said drily. “I’ve never seen you before. Are you a recruit?”
“No, no, nothing like that; my parents won’t let me join the army yet,” Banshee replied. “I used to help my dad with cyberization operations back home, and I volunteered to help since he is busy.”
Soulless One decided not to pry any further and returned her thoughts back to Janine. She was conflicted about her friend. Dominations allowed for a wide range of commands, but as the tribe grew and matured, Lacerated One officially banned some things, such as body mutilation or forcing another into copulation via domination. What Janine made her to agree on was… No friend should’ve done it.
But a warlord should. A leader who cared more about a valuable asset that she could use to preserve lives and win battles. Was Soulless One such an asset to Janine? Could she ever forgive the betrayal of being denied an exit from a lifetime of duty? In the end, it wasn’t relevant. Warlord Janine acted as a leader should, and she will respect this choice and do everything in her power to use her new body for the betterment of the Reclamation Army.
The painkillers numbed the nagging ghost pain in her missing liver, and a tube inserted into her mouth cleared her trachea of pus. Injections to her scalp eased the pulsating headache, but the annoying grinding turns of gears and hoarse sounds of air pushing in and out of her artificial lungs remained. It haunted her even in her sleep, poisoning her dreams and constantly reminding her of the things she had lost and the machine she had become.
More metal appendages worked on her body, cutting off fur, removing it, and washing off her body. It was a humiliating experience, but the Normies were obsessive about treating their patients under sterile conditions. The metal rings lifted her body over the table, keeping her perfectly level, and the overzealous nurse shaved the fur from the shaman’s back.
“Okay, the prep phase is complete; time for phase one!” Banshee sounded both excited and hesitant. Soulless One noticed that the mutant’s mouth opened all the way to the ears, giving her the eerie impression that the top of her head was about to slide off. “Honestly, I have no idea how anyone could live with that irritating noise. I just met you, and this banging is threatening to drive me crazy. Don’t worry, the newer artificial organs will work peachy, pinky promise.”
The shaman furrowed her brows. No one else had said anything about the functioning of her implants, and mutants were inferior New Breeds compared to the Wolfkins. How could this nurse hear the machinery?
“The cybernetics team will be here in five to ten minutes, so we best start relieving you of some non-important stuff…” Banshee said, navigating automatic saws to Soulless One’s side. The woman controlled them through the terminal. The stench of pus and oil assaulted the shaman’s nose as the saws sliced into her side. “What the fuck!” Banshee screeched, and the shaman thought she felt someone hitting her and the room shaking.
Must be my imagination. She decided. The nurse stopped the saw, quickly inspected the wound, grabbed her head, and reached for a terminal to call and send the video recording to a designated recipient.
“Dad! Daddy! Answer up, it’s an emergency!” the mutant cried desperately.
“I am not your father, student,” said a voice from the terminal. “What is it? I am in the middle of a delicate business.”
“I don’t know what it is! I made a standard incision; I’m not sure why she fountains like that! It’s like I popped up a balloon, only it’s a human!” Banshee paced the room, one hand on her head, the other filming the shaman. “Fuck! I… I… I never saw anything like this in my practice! Is this normal for a Wolfkin?!”
“Don’t swear, young lady. Swearing is a sign of a stupid person who lacks the vocabulary to properly explain a simple event. This is why you are not ready to live alone,” the voice said smugly. “You took a job to do a simple preparation that even a village idiot could do, and... What the hell is this? Why is she rotting? What garbage is installed in her? Hell skewer me, she’s even leaking oil. Why?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be a genius? You tell me, Dad!” Banshee yelled back. “And how about not swearing in the medical room?!”
At least this promises to be amusing. Soulless One chuckled and relaxed, enjoying the spectacle.
