Shoe on Concrete
Kuhpayeh Refugee Camp - April 13
Ilyana set up a line of wood chips on the other side of the table. Shirin looked confused. “What are you doing?”
“It’s called
shagaa,” Ilyana said, “I learned it in Yavdi.”
She held up another wood chip. “To win, you flick this and hit as many of those as you can!”
“Really?” Shirin said. “Can I try?”
Ilyana handed her the wood chip. “Sure!”
Ilyana and her two friends had nothing better to do. Most of the adults had already been allowed back into Isfahan, as were most of the Persians in the refugee camp, but she and Friedrich had been held back for some reason. Ilyana asked around, but none of the adults would give her a straight answer. Nor did they tell her anything about Wilhelmina.
Shirin set down the chip on the table, steadied herself, and then flicked with all she could. The chip flew across the table but fell short of the targets. The Persian girl looked down, ashamed. “Aw…I can’t do it.”
Ilyana took the chip back. “Don’t worry, you’ll get better! Just follow my lead.” She readied the chip and prepared her hand. “You got to hold it like this. Get your finger back like this, and…” A flick, and the chip knocked down three targets. “Easy, just like that!”
“Wow, Ilyana!” Shirin said. “You make it look so easy!”
“Nothing you can’t do, with a little practice. I know you can do it, Shirin.” She collected the chip. “Try again.”
Shirin set up the chip again. This time, she positioned her hand just as Ilyana did. She took a deep breath and flicked. A split second later, two targets fell. Shirin’s face lit up. “I did it! Ilyana, I did it!”
Ilyana beamed. “You did it! Great job!”
Suddenly, they heard a crash outside. Ilyana tensed up.
“Ilyana?” Shirin asked. “What was that?”
“I don’t know,” Ilyana said, “Stay here.”
She walked outside. A crowd of Persian kids had gathered in front of their shelter, all surrounding Friedrich. The crash had apparently been caused when the boy had been thrown against a metal garbage can, which had tipped over on top of him. He was now sprawled on the ground, covered in trash.
“Go back to your country!” one of the kids shouted. “We don’t need your
goh here!”
Ilyana couldn’t believe the words coming out of these kids’ mouths.
Who taught them such bad words? Though I’m not one to complain, with the words Izinchi taught me.
“Stop!” Friedrich pleaded, but all he accomplished was getting a half-rotten banana in his mouth, which he spat out.
“Yeah,
goh xordan, like the trash you are!” one of the kids shouted.
“Persia is for Persians,
mâdar jende!” A girl who couldn’t have been more than 7 spat on him. “All you’ve done is ruin and destroy our homeland! You’re not welcome here anymore!”
Ilyana walked over, fists clenched. She couldn’t let these insults stand.
“Please!” Friedrich said. “I haven’t done anything to you!”
Ricky, Ricky…when will you ever stand up for yourself again?
One of the Persian boys, who looked about ten, stepped forward and cracked his knuckles. “You did, though! You dishonor our soil with each step you take!”
“But—”
“No buts! This war is all your fault!” The boy tried swinging down at the helpless Friedrich, who cowered and raised his hands to shield his face. He braced for the worst…but it never came. When he opened his eyes again, he saw Ilyana had stopped the boy’s punch with both of her hands.
The boy turned his angry gaze on Ilyana. “Who the frak are you?”
Ilyana refused to even flinch. She glared back with an equal amount of determination and anger. She buried the fear and terror that was rising up within her, focusing her entire mind on a single thought.
You wanted to hurt Ricky.
“Il…Ilyana?” Friedrich said.
You wanted to HURT Ricky.
“Ricky.” Ilyana kept her eyes on the bully. “Get out of here.”
Friedrich quickly got on his feet and ran inside. Ilyana let go of the boy’s fist and stepped back, forming her own fists.
That can’t stand.
“Protecting your boyfriend, huh?” the bully taunted.
Ilyana felt her cheeks burning up, but she suppressed it by focusing on that one thought standing in the way of complete terror and panic. “Nobody touches my little Ricky.”
You will pay.
“What are you going to do?” The bully wrenched his fist out of Ilyana’s hands. “Hit me?”
You WILL pay.
“Yeah, hit him!” the other kids taunted. “Go ahead!”
“I’m going to make you pay,” Ilyana said, in a cold and steely tone.
“You don’t belong here either,” the bully said.
There is no place for you
here, scum. Ilyana had picked up a few choice words from the likes of Julian and Samir too, and now she was going to use them.
The boy continued. “You Romans have only brought ruin to Persia for thousands of years. Jerusalem only came here because of you refugees! If not for you, my mom would still be alive!”
“My dad!” the other kids chimed in. “My brother! My sister! My cousin! My grandpa!”
Grandpa… Ilyana tensed up at that word. Her body froze. Her determination briefly broke, allowing the fear to surge forward. Her face wavered, as did her hands.
Grandpa…no…I have to…stay determined…for him…
Everybody noticed her hesitation and saw an opportunity to pounce. “Yeah! You don’t know what it’s like to lose someone!”
That was it. Something snapped within Ilyana. Her willpower crumbled, and the terror she was holding back took hold. Memories of that dark day she had tried to forget rushed back to her, bringing with them the feelings she felt then. Her eyes narrowed, and she saw the dead and empty eyes of Vasily staring back at her, his bloodied and bullet-filled body pinning her against the cold floor of the bunker.
Grandpa…please don’t leave me…please come back…
But he wouldn’t come back. He would never come back. It was all because of that horrible man with the eyepatch. But instead of Elias Anhorn, she saw the boy standing where he did. That boy had the same smug expression on his face.
Please come back, Grandpa… Tears welled up in her eyes. She wanted to bawl and cry right then and there. There was nothing holding her back too. And yet…she didn’t. Why? Wasn’t she supposed to be terrified? Paralyzed by the memory she had tried to forget? Then why was she so calm now?
I don’t want to be alone…don’t leave me, like Mama and Papa did…
The boy thought he had won. He crossed his arms and cackled, raising his head to look down on her even more than he already was with their difference in height. “So get the frak out of our country and—”
PLEASE COME BACK! Her arm moved on its own. She didn’t realize she was still holding the wood chip until it had buried itself deep in the boy’s face and drew blood. The boy screamed, one hand covering his wound and the other flailing wildly around. The other kids backed away, their smug grins giving way to shock and fear.
Ilyana felt nothing. No fear. No terror. No paralysis. Not even pity as the boy cried out for his mother and begged for the pain to stop. It took her another second to realize she was still feeling something. All that pain she had just been forced to relive was no longer controlling her. No, she was in control, directing it towards a singular thought. She was determined.
I may not have been able to save Grandpa, but I can still save Ricky.
Ilyana knew what she had to do next. After taking control of herself, she now had to take control of her surroundings. She picked up a metal bar that had fallen out of the garbage can. “You made a big mistake picking on
my little Ricky.”
“We’re sorry!” one of the other girls pleaded. “We were just repeating what our parents said—”
“Don’t talk over me!” Ilyana struck her across the face. Blood and what looked like a tooth flew out of her mouth. The girl crumpled to the ground with a whimper, and the others instantly shut up. “I am in control here, and you will listen to me! You think you can pick on us because we have no home? Because we don’t speak Persian? You think that gives you the right to insult us and deny us a home?”
“Please!” One of the older boys was also begging now. “Please have mercy on us! We won’t tell anyone!”
Ilyana frowned with disappointment.
Cowards, trying to take the easy way out by fleeing. But it was okay. She couldn’t handle them all at once. She was still only one six-year-old girl, after all. And besides, these kids could send a message to any others who might want to harm her or Ricky. “Leave my sight, and never come back.”
The terrified kids helped the injured boy and girl to their feet, and then they all bolted down the road and around a corner. Once she was sure they were gone, Ilyana dropped the bar onto the ground and sighed with relief.
For all their talk, those kids folded really quickly. And to a girl two-thirds their size and age, no less.
She turned around and saw Shirin standing in the doorway, looking shocked.
“Ilyana?” she said. “Are you okay?”
Ilyana tried putting on a smile. “Yeah, Shirin, I’m fine!”
Shirin wasn’t convinced. “There’s blood on your hand.”
Ilyana looked at her hand. There was still some blood from when she stabbed the boy with the wood chip. Even now, she was still surprised that attack was as effective as it was. “So?”
“What did you do to them?”
“I dealt with them,” Ilyana said, “We don’t have to worry about them ever again.”
“Really?” Shirin said. “How?”
“You want to learn how?”
“Yeah! If you can do it, I can too!”
Ilyana smiled and picked up the bar again. “Okay, here’s how…”
Isfahan - April 14
“The Artesh has announced it is closing in on the Roman city of Mosul, in Mesopotamia,” the reporter said, “Mosul is home to a strategic Crusader military base and command center, now the only one after the liberation of Basra. The General Staff believes Persian forces will reach the city limits within two weeks…”
Izinchi scoffed. “They’ve grown confident, they have. Announcing their plans on live telly when they ken Jerusalem’s having a look.”
“There’s a reason they’re doing this,” Julian said.
“And wha’d that be?”
“Think about it.” Julian pointed at the screen. It was now showing a map of the area around Mosul, with neat graphics of troop formations and projected movements. “They publicize an offensive that will take place in two weeks. Jerusalem takes steps to fortify Mosul and prepare for the attack. Our casualties will increase. And you know who’s going to take the brunt of those casualties?” He tapped his finger on the turquoise-colored units at the front of the Artesh formation. “They didn’t put a flag over them, but we all know who’s making up these units.”
“Non-Persians,” Izinchi realized, “Börte’s troops.”
Julian nodded. “They intend to make a spectacle. A reckless and wasteful offensive that Jerusalem wouldn’t expect. They’d be overwhelmed. The city would fall. We’d lose a lot of troops. They’d say they died for Persia. But the truth is, very few of those deaths would have been Persian. They’d have pushed all of their casualties onto our allies. Mozaffar gets his victory and his martyrs with little Persian blood shed. Further proof that his ways work and that he should have more power. He sweeps the examinations on a wave of nationalism and jingoism. Then he’ll have a popular mandate to carry out anything he wants.”
“Including deposing Gunduz?”
“I can’t rule that out now. He’s made no secret of his dislike for Gunduz, and he’s never lifted a finger against the growing republican organizations.”
“Those bloody eejits. D’they ken what they’re daeng?”
“I never took you for an anti-republican,” Julian said, “I would’ve thought this was something you’d be onboard with.”
“It’s…complicated.”
Julian decided not to press the matter further. “Our primary objective will be to prevent Mozaffar from winning the upcoming national examinations.”
“And how d’we dae that?”
“We don’t have the military strength to get rid of him, and even if we did, we’d only be proving his point that we’re anti-meritocratic tyrants who overthrow governments,” Julian said, “However, we don’t need to. Mozaffar’s tied himself to the war effort to boost his political fortunes, but we can turn that against him.”
“Y’mean tae sabotage the war effort?”
“No.” Julian shook his head. “That would both be suicidal for all of Persia and treasonous. Mozaffar would claim we’re Jerusalemite sympathizers. No, I’m not going to do that.” He pointed at the map of Mosul on TV. “I’m going to do the opposite of sabotage.”
Izinchi finally caught on. “By helping the non-Persians.”
“Exactly,” Julian said, “Mozaffar banked on a reckless strategy that will get thousands of non-Persians killed, as a way of scoring political points. I intend to deny him those points by making sure those casualties never happen while still capturing the city, then exposing his failed plan for what it is.”
“But will nae a more successful victory with fewer casualties help him?” Izinch asked.
“Not if I change the narrative away from that,” Julian said.
“And how d’ye intend tae dae that?”
“You’ll see.” Julian smiled.
Suddenly, a brick smashed through the window and landed on the carpet next to Julian. Izinchi yelped, letting out another heavy Caledonian swear, and ducked behind the wall. Julian, though, didn’t flinch. He merely picked up the brick and turned it over in his hands.
“They’re getting bolder,” he observed.
“GO HOME ROMANS! PERSIA FOR PERSIANS!”
“And louder,” he added, “So many more today.”
“W-will this end?” Izinchi stammered, covering her face in fear.
“Come now, Izinchi, that’s not behavior befitting of a Roman chancellor.”
“Julian, y’ken my office means little these days.”
“Still, it would be great to set an example,” Julian said, “For when this is over.”
“And when’d tha’ be?”
Julian hesitated. “No idea. All I know is…” His tone grew somber. “It’s going to get worse before it gets better.”
“THIS COUNTRY IS FOR PERSIANS!”
“MOZAFFAR WILL SAVE US ALL!”
“As they say,” Julian continued, “It’s always darkest before dawn.”
Outer Isfahan - that evening
This was a nice neighborhood, Angelica thought. The townhouses were designed in a fancy neo-Imperial Century style. Each had a large front lawn. A row of oak trees lined the street. There was a bakery a few blocks down. She was crouching on the rooftop of a school whose signs boasted of all of the academic awards its students and faculty had won.
Alençon once had all this… Angelica thought.
It’s all gone now. They still have it all, but…
There was nothing warm about this neighborhood. It seemed peaceful, but there was no life here. The townhomes remained as vacant as they were several weeks ago, when the evacuation order came. The government was still handling everybody’s return to the city and hadn’t gotten to this neighborhood yet. Even if they did come back, a large number of them wouldn’t be allowed to return to their homes. Several blocks away, the Artesh had set up a line of barricades which cordoned off several blocks around a three-story hospital. All roads heading towards the hospital were now guarded by at least two tanks, three machine gun nests, and one squad of Persian soldiers. Helicopters constantly buzzed in the air around the hospital. Searchlights combed the surrounding blocks. Drones patrolled even further out, but Angelica had made sure to stay out of their range.
Officially, the hospital held two high profile prisoners of war: Regent Theodor Tesla and General Edmund Remmele. However, the documents Julian had obtained thanks to Senator Afshar’s “generous” help told them otherwise. Theodor and Edmund were being held in a military prison outside Isfahan, for obvious security reasons. The money trail for this hospital had been sent through several shell companies and military contractors, presumably those with ties to Mozaffar—that was for Julian to figure out. The lengths Mozaffar went through to hide the connection between himself and this hospital indicated whoever was being held inside was extremely important. There was no other place for Mozaffar to hide the missing Kaiserin and Shahbanu. It would explain why this random suburban neighborhood had been turned into a heavily armed military base.
Angelica recalled many of the adventures of Agent Hansen—specifically the semi-declassified infiltrations of Sentinel bases—she had read in the X-Division case reports, back when there was still an Athanatoi. Mozaffar’s little operation was no Sentinel, but it was still intimidating, even to a veteran like her. She reached into her pocket and took out a tattered and faded photo of Sylvia and Oliver, the one Clara had given her years ago in Bremerhaven.
Mark my words, once this is all over, I’ll find you all, and I’m going to open that damned bakery. I’m tired of this life.
Angelica took out one of Tania’s sniper scopes from her backpack. Peering through it, she observed first the patterns of the drone patrols, then the searchlight movements, and finally the firepower gathered at each point of entry. The drones seemed to have a random pattern, or maybe they changed patterns every so often. The searchlights were the same deal, and even if she did find a pattern, the drones also covered the same area. The soldiers at each checkpoint seemed to be taking long shifts. As she continued observing, one checkpoint changed out its squad, showing they changed shifts at different times. There would always be at least three squads at full alert. A direct assault on one would draw in the personnel from the two next to it. And she wasn’t even considering the machine guns and tanks yet.
Seriously, why do they need that much firepower? Isn’t that going to raise a lot of questions? Oh wait, Mozaffar’s counting on the people to not ask and then shut down the few who do. Even if she somehow got past the checkpoint, she still had two blocks before she reached the hospital itself, and then whatever was patrolling the interior of that building remained a complete mystery to her. Even if she got her hands on the floor plans, the internal patrol routes wouldn’t be as easy to find. In short, she had to rule out both a direct assault and covert infiltration.
That left one other option: disguising herself and getting credentials. She could handle the makeup and hairstyling needed to make her face unrecognizable, but the hard part was getting the right clearance. She didn’t even know how many levels of clearance were in this whole operation, much less who had the one with access to Wilhelmina and Gunduz. Back in the Athanatoi, whenever she needed a new level of clearance for a case and an ID to go with it, she always knew who to ask.
If only you were here, Clara, then my job would be much easier. But Clara wasn’t. Worst case scenario, the biochemical slurry that was once her body was decomposing in a radioactive ditch somewhere in Scandinavia. Best case scenario, she had made it out before Tingvalla was razed. Either way, she wasn’t around, and nobody in her immediate circle of allies had the same skillset. Perhaps it would be easier to create credentials for a doctor. It would be stupid if doctors weren’t allowed to do their jobs in a hospital. They would likely have more clearance than the soldiers.
And Julian already went with the whole “Angie” thing last time, so I might as well continue it. That still ran into the same problem as with the military clearance, in that she needed to get one.
Having scouted out the location’s security and a possible method of entry, there was nothing else she could do here. Angelica put away the scope and quietly descended from the rooftop, then made her way out of the neighborhood on foot. She’d let Julian know her findings, and then they would figure out the next step in their plan.
“Hang in there, ma’am,” she whispered, “We’re coming to get you.”
Kleinrom, Isfahan - April 15
The Kleinrom neighborhood of Isfahan was originally located in downtown, around the refugee centers and apartment complexes set aside for the initial wave of exiles when Jerusalem was formed. As more Romans arrived in Persia and the situation in Jerusalem only grew worse, the exiles started moving to the suburbs, picking neighborhoods where previous exiles had already settled so that they weren’t alone. For five years, everything seemed fine. The Romans got along with the Persian locals quite well. Roman children, both those with memories of Jerusalem and those who only knew Persia, went to the local Persian schools and spoke Persian just as well as the languages their parents spoke. Last year, the Isfahan municipal government even elected its first Roman councillor.
That peace was shattered in April when Jerusalem rampaged through Isfahan.
Although the Crusaders never got as far as the Kleinrom neighborhood, Mozaffar’s rise to prominence and embrace of nationalism changed the social dynamic. Persian neighbors grew colder. The regular community outreach programs and special events to welcome and integrate the exiles stopped. Bullying against Roman children surged. Robberies and buglaries of Roman homes and businesses went ignored. And that wasn’t the worst of it.
When Kresge arrived at the house where Magnus, Alexandra, Alex, and Thea were staying, he found all four of them hunched over a wet and soapy sidewalk. Even under the foam, he could still clearly see the words spray painted on the concrete.
“GO BACK TO YOUR COUNTRY”
“BURN SERVANTS OF AHRIMAN”
“YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE CRUSADERS”
“REMOVE BRATWURST”
“LET’S DO ANOTHER CARRHAE”
“626 AGAIN”
“SALTUK DID NOTHING WRONG”
The four scientists were doing their best to scrub the graffiti of the sidewalk, but it was slow work. They were tired and sweaty from what seemed like hours of work, but not much had been erased.
“Need some help?” he asked.
Alexandra looked up. “Kresge? What are you doing here?”
“I was in the neighborhood, on the way to Gebhard’s new place.”
Also, I was told the children of Angela and Anders were helping our government while I was gone. “I wanted to see how you were doing.”
“Well, we’re not doing well.” Magnus pointed at the graffiti.
“They did this to you as well?”
“What, you got graffiti’d too?” Thea asked.
“Yeah, only they put way more slurs on my door,” Kresge said.
“Have you been able to do something about it? It’s getting unbearable.”
“I’m trying my best,” Kresge said, “But my hands are tied. With the Shahbanu still missing—”
“She’s not missing,” Alex said, “We all know she’s being held somewhere.”
“Yes, I know, but I need hard evidence before I go on TV and announce it,” Kresge said, “Izinchi and I are assessing the options we have. Mozaffar didn’t leave us with many.”
“You need to speak to the Majlis and tell them that us Romans aren’t safe anymore,” Thea said, “I’ve received three death threats just this week.”
“I’m trying,” Kresge said, “But I’m not confident. The National Persian People’s Freedom Party controls the Majlis, and Mozaffar controls the party. He could just deny me a hearing, and even if I was allowed to speak, I doubt they’d listen.”
“How could Persia do this to us?” Magnus said. “We’ve been here for five years, trying to live our lives. We’ve been nothing but helpful.”
Fear, that’s why, Kresge thought,
I saw the same thing happening in Russia when Burkard visited and we were almost deported to Jerusalem. Wilhelmina brought us back from the brink then, but where is she now?
A car rolled by, angrily honking. The driver rolled down his window and flipped the middle finger at them. “WE DON’T WANT YOU HERE! GO HOME!” He sped away, spewing exhaust fumes behind him, before anyone could respond.
Alex got up, faced the quickly receding car, and held up his own middle finger. “FRAK OFF!”
“Alex,” Thea cautioned, “You’re doing it again.”
“Sorry,” Alex said, “It’s just that…this doesn’t feel right. When we first got here, they welcomed us with open arms.”
“Did they?” Kresge said.
Alex nodded. “You only just got here, but things were better before. When Alexandra said she wanted to move out of Ali Qapu and into her own house, they helped her get one here. Hell, I even had a nice chat with some newspaper stand owner a couple months ago when I was trying to help Magnus get a good gift for Separ…Spar…oh frak it, that one holiday.”
“There were still some who were annoyed, though,” Alexandra said, “I remember some of the early protests against Jerusalem. Some directed their anger at us. Not many, but they were there. It was nothing like this, though.”
“I’m sorry I can’t do more,” Kresge said, “If I could, I’d have put a stop to it already.”
“Unfortunately, it seems only Gunduz has the power to put Mozaffar in his place,” Magnus said, “But Mozaffar dealt with her and took her authority. Just like the committee did with the old tyrant Wilhelm.”
Izinchi told me Wilhelmina wants to sever the monarchy from politics entirely. I didn’t put much stock into that idea, but after what happened in the old Reich and now here with Mozaffar…perhaps she has a point? “It’s happening here too…” Kresge looked around the neighborhood. “The Reich, Russia, and now Persia…” He saw many of the houses on the street had either “For Sale” or “Sold” signs. “No wonder so many are leaving again.”
But where are they going?
“I’ve been thinking of leaving too,” Alexandra said, “Ironic. I wanted to stay here my whole life, but if the country and its people don’t want me, I’ve got no reason to stay.”
“I’d be up to leave,” Alex said.
“Same here,” Thea said, “But where?”
Perhaps a town where the hatred isn’t as bad and Mozaffar’s influence is weaker?
But the scientists were thinking further. “Turkestan?” Magnus shook his head. “No, Samarkand’s even worse off.”
“Afghanistan?” Alexandra suggested. “Nah, that place has rampant Pesah outbreaks.”
“Even if we did have somewhere to go, Mozaffar wouldn’t let us leave,” Thea said, “People with our skills…he’d keep us here and working for him as long as he can.”
“On military applications too,” Alex said, “He’s already sent people to ask me about the reactor.”
“Me about Theodor’s exosuits and Argeiphontes.”
“This sucks,” Alexandra said, “I thought we won two weeks ago. This doesn’t feel like a victory.”
“It seems like the only one who truly won was Mozaffar.” Kresge stepped on the graffiti. “I really wish I could do something, but it feels like…” He scratched at the graffiti with his shoe, accomplishing nothing. “We’re a goddamn shoe.”
“If only we could do something about it…” Alex said.
!
