Dragon Horse

Captain Swirski walks in the shadow of his ship, the ORP Dragoon, the one hundred and thirty-six meter, fastest-built destroyer of the southern hemisphere’s navy with a top speed of 30 knots. It is propelled by six Yarrow-type water-tube boilers, geared steam turbines, and two shafts, and it is armed with six Mk XII guns, two Mk V AA guns, and twelve torpedo launchers.

His daughter Manka marches at his side. She has two holsters on her belt, each containing a pistol.

Any other father would’ve left their young to fend for themselves after they developed radiation poisoning. This is nature. Survival of the fittest.

Instead, Captain Swirski enlisted as a naval officer to fund her treatments.

Both wear silicon carbide, scale-covered helmets with glass borosilicate visors, titanium armour, and gilled respirators that shield them from the torrents of acid rain and the smoke-red air.

Now, Swirski tucks one arm behind his back and points to his left eye with two fingers. He trails a finger down his throat, then taps the inside of his wrist. The southern hemisphere’s salute. For the salt in the sea, the salt they have shed for those they have lost, and the sweat and blood they shall spill in their name.

Manka mirrors his movements.

Swirski strides towards the warship, but halfway down the dock, he sprints back to her, scooping her up in his arms and spinning her around. His salute to her.

The gill respirator conceals all except for Manka’s eyes, and the warm smile within them as she speaks through the filter.

“When I get my dog tag, I’ll choose a Polish call sign, too.”

“I can’t wait to see it.” Swirski sets Manka on the stone-hard soil, his gloved hand resting on her shoulder for a split second longer than necessary before it slides off. Then, he walks down the dock, calling back to her before he climbs into the Dragoon’s entry port. “Salis et Sanguis!”

“Salis et Sanguis!” she echoes.

Broken pieces of metal and glass litter the coastline. Snakes of silver seem to swim and stir over the surface of the waves, which lap at the docks with the fury of a starving dog at a dirty bone. The Dragoon shrinks into the shade of the half-sunken Arctolean ships in the harbour, craggy canines of the stray’s maw, their shattered bows still clawing for the sky from the sea.

And Manka stands by herself, halfway down the dock.

The conning tower is an armoured cylinder and the highest point on the ship, giving good visibility of the massive shadow of the ship, which warps over the surging waters, and the smaller vessels flanking the destroyer.

Inside its steel stomach, Swirski approaches the main control console. His crew stands at attention and salutes him as he strides through them. He nods to his helmsman, Hamelin. Then, his stare settles on the scrawny boy behind him.

“Where’s Decatur?”

“A killer whale from the northern hemisphere bit through the hull of his submarine,” Hamelin reports sharply. “He is with the waves now –” he motions to the sixteen-year-old “– and the Commandant has sent his recruit in his stead.”

“May we spill as much blood as the salt his family will shed for him.” Swirski turns to the boy. “What’s your call sign, son?”

“Garbo, captain.”

“Welcome aboard, young man.”

“I’m only sixteen,” he laughs uneasily, “I’m not much of a man –”

“You survived the Red Tide, didn’t you?” Hamelin cuts him off. “If Decatur trained you, you’re man enough.”

Garbo swallows hard. “I’ll do my worst, captain.”

“We all will.” Swirski’s stare settles on the stirring sea ahead of them. “Everyone, to your stations!”

The crew scrambles into their seats. Garbo and Hamelin fall in step beside Swirski. They stop in front of the ship-gun fire control system, scanning for enemy ships through the rectangular windows that curve across the face of the tower.

Swirski turns to Garbo. “Sixteen, you say?”

“Yes, captain.”

“Same as my daughter.”

“When does she go through the Red Tide, captain?”

Swirski’s shoulders stiffen. “Today.”

Manka trudges through the blackened iron gates of Elisus, the southeastern military fortress. They unhinge and swing apart vertically like the jaw of a serpent. Then, she wades between the two aqueducts in the center of the inner compound.

The acid rain has let up at long last, so she lifts up her helmet slightly, wincing as it scrapes against the blisters on her chin. She tightens the straps of her respirator and threads her matted, dark brown hair into a single strand.

As she slinks through the columns of dirty, red clay and strolls across the grated bridge over the deep, roiling, sickly-blue canals, a group of barefoot, Sub-equatet children in ragged clothing hurry up the stairs from the abandoned train stations where they have taken shelter, laughing as they chase each other across the heat-cracked streets from one alleyway to another.

One girl digs her heels into the ground and salutes Manka, who smiles and salutes her in return.

“You’re back!” The girl turns to shout at her compatriots. “Manka’s back!”

Manka passes them rations from her pack.

“One day, I’ll be a hero like you,” another girl mumbles through a mouthful of paste that used to be a cracker. “I’ll help you drown the northerners.”

The muggy, humid, dusty air weighs down on Manka’s shoulders. The sunlight seems redder than before. Harsher. It's not the blistering heat. It’s the sight of the children's bare, calloused feet. Their faces, sallow and thin from hunger and dehydration. No food to eat. No water to drink.

The radiation and global warming devoured what little resources they had, then the north swallowed all the money that they could've used for repairing their infrastructure. They were forced to drain the rest into their factories. The screens. Their weapons. Their soldiers. Their army. The war.

“And why are we drowning them?” she asks the girl, squatting to her level.

The girl stands up straighter. “Because they tried to drown us first.”

“That’s right, and when we’re through with them, you won’t have to be hungry, or thirsty, or scared again. The serpent will surface, remember?”

“The serpent will surface!”

“Don’t lose that morale, kid.” Manka pats her arm. “Salis et Sanguis.” With that, she keeps trekking into the desert, disappearing into the smog.

“Salis et Sanguis!” the children cry after her.

In the Dragoon’s berthing area, the crew sleeps soundly, but Swirski awakens to a knife against his throat.

Garbo’s hands tremble around the hilt.

“What are you doing, son?” Swirski whispers.

“What I did to Decatur,” Garbo rasps, “with the sky as my witness.” He shoves the knife harder into Swirski’s neck. “I’m sorry, captain –”

With a steady hand, Swirski grabs Garbo’s wrist, wrenches the knife away from his neck, wrestles him down, pins his arms behind his back, ties them there with his sheets, and presses the blade against his lips. “No need for that,” he huffs.

Hamelin rushes to Swirski’s side, scowling and spitting down at Garbo. “Do it, captain. Do what he did to Decatur!”

Swirski’s hold on the knife tightens, but as Garbo swallows the lump in his throat, the bunk beneath him warps into a hospital bed, and the boy becomes a girl – his girl with snake’s skin, shivering and whimpering with each breath because of the scutes peeling her skin apart.

Swirski flips the knife, grips Garbo by his hair, and knocks him out with the hilt.

“What in the sea’s name are you doing?” Hamelin snaps.

“He’s just a scared child, trying to fight for his family.”

Hamelin pulls Swirski in by his collar. “He’s just the spy who killed Decatur, my brother-in-arms, my friend!” He sinks onto his bunk and hides his tears under his curled fingers. “What happened to spilling blood for the salt we’ve shed?”

Swirski sits beside him. “Yes, he’s taken lives, taken information, but now we can obtain information from him, and send him to be re-programmed.”

Hamelin wipes himself off with his sleeve. “You swear by the sea?”

“I swear by the safety of my daughter.”

The Coliseum. A free-standing, oval-shaped building constructed entirely out of white ceramic. Several black murals decorate the entrance, depicting many ancient battles, such as the first two world wars. The white pillars supporting the different levels of the arena have some cracks, but they seem stable for now. Screens, serpents, soldiers, and war animals of black paint splatter the rust-red walls.

Manka joins the recruits, their fingers toughened with callouses, their nails stained from the oil of the machinery they repair for twelve hours a day. Their protective gear hides under layers and layers of equipment and tools. They seem to be bickering about whose prototypes are the best while they clean a set of machine guns, eight tanks, and stack up two cases of artillery shells.

Noora wears a harness with two grimy gas tanks. The pipes attached to the canisters connect to her own pistols. She also has blisters, but on her temples. She punches Manka in the arm when she sits beside her, then catches her hands, grimacing at the sight of her tangled, tattered wrappings, greyed from the soot spewing from the chimneys of the factory looming over them.

“For the sea’s sake, Manka. How long have you had these?”

“I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter.”

“Your fingers must be decomposing under there.” Noora rips through the bandages, then tears a new strip from her sleeve. She stretches it out and tugs it in two. She holds one half between her teeth while she wraps the other around Manka’s wrist.

Manka recoils. “I can wrap them on my own.”

“Yeah, poorly.”

“I said I can do it on my own,” Manka insists, even though her fists loosen a little. Then she opens her hands, so Noora can weave the fabric through her fingers and over her palms.

“You don’t have to anymore.”

“What do you have up this sleeve, genius?” Manka raps her knuckles against Noora’s right tank.

“Sevoflurane, and I’m not a genius.”

“Sounds lethal.”

“It’s actually non-lethal.” She pauses, then adds, “ignoramus.”

Manka raps her knuckles against the left tank. “What about this sleeve?”

“Sarin.”

“Let me guess, lethal.”

“Maybe you’re not such an ignoramus after all.”

“Ignoramus or not, even I can tell you’re a genius.”

“That doesn’t distract me from the fact that you’re late on the day of the Red Tide.”

“So is Archimedes.”

“Praefectus Archimedes.”

“No timeliness, no title.”

Archimedes flickers onto the screen hovering on the wall above them.

“Speaking of which,” Noora mutters under her breath.

The other recruits salute the screen.

Archimedes mirrors them. “At ease.”

The other recruits lower their arms.

“The aim of this year’s Red Tide is to infiltrate an enemy warship and seize control of the conning tower from your opponents. As stated in the briefing that none of you have read…” She shoots a pointed look at the camera.

The Fornax recruits all grin guiltily.

Noora stifles a snicker and Manka punches her in the arm again.

“...You will be working in teams of two.”

The crowd erupts with protests, except for Manka and Noora, who grin even wider and point finger guns at each other.

“The layout of the battleship that the Commandant has chosen for you is also in the briefing,” Archimedes continues coldly. “You have three minutes to pick a partner and come up with a strategy.”

The grins instantly melt off Manka and Noora’s mugs.

“Three minutes to figure out how to break into a battleship?” the latter yells at the lens. “Are you kidding me?”

Archimedes scoffs. “If you ask me, she’s being too easy on you.”

“‘When I stood in the same spot as you…’” Manka starts snidely.

“When I stood in the same spot as you,” Archimedes starts snidely.

“Called it,” Manka murmurs to Noora.

“I only had thirty seconds,” Archimedes recalls, “and I had to do it on my own.”

Manka raises her hand. “Is this also in the briefing?”

“Spoken like someone who hasn’t read the briefing.”

“She hasn’t, but I have,” Noora interjects, “and there are a lot of spelling errors. You should read over your own work first.”

“I would take this more seriously if I were you two,” Archimedes cuts in. “There’s a reason they call it the Red Tide.”

“So what? I have a Red Tide every month,” Manka cracks, causing Noora to dissolve into another snickering fit.

“I should’ve assigned teams,” Archimedes murmurs to herself. “May the sea save you.” The screen blackens.

“What’s the plan?” Manka circles the map of the enemy battleship.

Noora raises her hand. “I call on-deck.”

“I’ll go below deck.”

“We shoot down anyone who gets in our way.”

“To kill?”

“Only if they shoot to kill first.”

In the Dragoon, below deck, Swirski peers through the bars of the cell at the corridor’s end.

Garbo curls into the corner like a nautilus’ shell, his arms paper-pale and thin. Under the blazing, white illumination of the Swirski’s flashlight, his bruises seem black against his sallow skin.

“Captain?”

“No need for titles, son.” Swirski’s shadow overlaps with the sixteen-year-old’s silhouette. “You’ve lost your cover, anyway.”

On the upper deck of the mock enemy battleship, Noora slides her pistols out of their holsters, surveying for opponents, but there are none.

“Scute-1, this is Scute-0, radio check, over.”

“Scute-0, this is Scute-1, over,” Manka’s voice crackles over the device.

Noora lowers her pistols, her brow furrowed. “Scute-1, the upper deck is empty, break.” Her eyes widen in alarm. “I think all the hostiles are on the lower deck, break. Do you need backup, over?”

Below deck, Manka slides her pistols out of her holsters and creeps through the corridors. She keeps her back against the wall, slowly poking her head out to look around the corner, but there is no one there. “I read back: the upper deck is empty? Over.”

“Correct, over.”

Manka lowers her pistols, her brow furrowed. “Scute-0, the lower decks are also empty, break.”

In the Dragoon, below deck, Swirski offers rations through the bars to Garbo. “Who bruised you?”

Garbo sits up straighter. “What’s it to you?” He staggers towards Swirski, reaching for the rations. His fingers brush the plastic packaging, but then his knees give out and he slumps against the door, clutching his ribs.

“My helmsman got to you before me, didn’t he?”

After a long pause, Garbo says, “Yeah.”

Swirski retracts the rations. He rips open the packaging and drops the saltine crackers into the cell, chuckling at Garbo as he eats them off the muck-caked floor. “What’s your real call sign?”

The boy swallows hard. “My real one?”

“What do they call you on the other side of the equator?”

In the mock enemy battleship, Manka sweeps through the last part of the lower deck, and Noora sweeps through the last of the upper deck. Both are almost at the conning tower.

“It can’t be that easy,” Noora whispers into the radio.

“We’ll worry about it when we reach the conning tower,” Manka whispers to herself.

Swirski steps closer to the cell and passes another packet through the bars.

“My codename is Huehuecoyotl,” Garbo gulps, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

“Who’s that?”

“A shapeshifter.”

“A fitting name.”

“What’s yours?”

“Swirski.”

Garbo shuffles onto his feet. “Who’s that?”

“A Polish vice admiral.”

Manka runs through the berthing area and climbs the ladder to the upper deck, where Noora waits for her. They jog towards the tower together.

“So, who’s going to be captain?” Manka cracks.

Noora smiles in spite of the situation. “You can be captain.”

“Only if you’ll be my helmsman.” Manka kicks the entry port open.

Both recruits draw their pistols, but there are no opponents between them and the control panel.

Noora and Manka turn to each other.

Noora almost slides her pistols into her holsters.

Manka almost slides her pistols into her holsters.

Noora’s brow furrows, then her eyes widen when she understands the test.

Manka’s brow furrows. Why is Noora looking at her like that?

Garbo steps closer to his side of the cell and reaches for the rations.

“I’m sorry about my helmsman,” Swirski says with a smile.

“No need for that.” Garbo retracts his trembling hand, his stare sharp.

“What are you doing, Huehuecoyotl?”

“You know, Swirski,” Huehuecoyotl says hoarsely, “there’s a reason they called me that.”

Noora takes aim with her right pistol.

Serpents slither along Manka’s spine. “Noora, what are you doing?”

Noora’s fingers tighten on the trigger and Archimedes flickers into the screen on the inside of Manka’s skull.

There’s a reason they call it the Red Tide.

Manka’s stare sharpens.

She raises her pistol.

And pulls the trigger.

Noora’s finger loosens on the trigger. She slumps against the port, red trickling from the tunnel the bullet took through one temple and out the other. Her pistol still rests in her blistered hand.

Her blistered right hand.

It’s sevoflurane, Noora’s voice crackles from Manka’s hippocampus.

Sounds lethal, her voice cracks through the cerebral device.

It’s actually non-lethal, ignoramus.

Manka’s pistols fall to the floor. She slumps beside Noora, her sister-in-arms, her helmsman, tracing her thumbs over the scutes on her knuckles. Her friend’s knuckles. Then, Manka throws her arms around her and tucks her face into her neck, screaming, her voice – not the one in her skull – cracking as she seizes her opponent’s shoulders and shakes her with every vestige of her strength.

Manka trudges down the dock. She has grimy gas tanks harnessed to her back, the pipes attached to the two pistols. The silvery chain of a dog tag spills out from between the fingers of her clenched fist.

She’s not sorry she shot her opponent. Her options were being shot and shooting. No one in their right mind would keep their finger off the trigger.

She starts to sprint when she sees a man in the ship’s shadow.

Three hours ago, in the Dragoon, below deck, Garbo reaches – not for the rations, but for Swirski’s collar, slamming the captain’s forehead into the bars. A wet crunch. Swirski slumps against the steel, blood pooling under his nostrils.

Manka stops in her tracks, halfway down the dock.

Captain Hamelin walks into the light. He tucks one arm behind his back and points to his left eye with two fingers. He trails a finger down his throat, then taps the inside of his wrist. Then, he tries to rest a hand on her shoulder, but she recoils from his touch.

Her eyes fill with saltwater, but then, like the waves receding from the coast, they shrink away, her corneas as cold as Noora’s – her opponent’s corpse. She opens her hand and looks down at her dog tag.

Sklodowska knows now that this is nature. That if her father were fit to survive, he would’ve slit that spy’s throat. He may have been her age, but he had just as much ice in his veins as any northerner.

And even if her father came back from that battleship, he wouldn’t see his girl with snake’s skin.

Only a snake in the skin of a girl.