An Unlikely Ally
Geryon's Code Cycle | The Orphaned Earth | Chapter 8
Jack March, Ivan Vassilevsky – September 7, 2192
“Why the hell is it always a hangover on top of everything else?” Jack groaned, prying open crusted eyelids. “Feels like someone jammed a harpoon in my side. Where the fuck did I end up this time?”
Waking up after a bender wasn’t much better than clawing your way out of the grave—something Jack had done more than once since the last bloodbath. It took effort just to yank his numb arm out from under his body, and when he did, a thousand invisible needles stabbed through it.
After a minute or two of cursing, he managed to sit up. The room he found himself in was wide and drenched in gaudy, overdone luxury. In the center stood a bed with peeling gold trim, clearly trying and failing to look regal.
He nearly slammed his face into a pair of grotesquely oversized pink breasts—and realized, with irritation, it was just a painting. Someone out there had a deeply unhealthy obsession with abundance.
There was a sound behind the wall—water sloshing, steady and rhythmic. A hotel, Jack figured. One of the fancy ones. The kind that pipes water straight into the rooms.
Then came the real surprise.
His one-eyed drinking partner from last night was on the floor doing knuckle push-ups. Shirtless, wiry, sweating, wearing nothing but loose white pants. Judging by the puddles forming under him, he’d been at it a while.
Jack patted his gut and winced. “Damn. Five years ago, I didn’t look half-bad either.”
What was his name again? Holy sunshine… He scratched his head. And how the hell did we end up in the same room?
He glanced at the bed—still pristine, untouched. Not even a crease.
The one-eyed man hit two hundred, wiped his face, and dropped into a cross-legged seat like a monk settling in for tea.
“Water’s in the decanter. The cups are on the table,” he said, not bothering with a greeting. “Please, don’t touch anything else.”
Jack snorted. Did this posh bastard think he was some kind of savage? Still, before he knew it, he’d drained glass after glass, practically inhaling the stuff, trying to put out the fire in his throat.
The blond man watched, satisfied Jack wasn’t about to keel over, then disappeared behind a door. Water kept splashing.
Time oozed by. Jack couldn’t believe anyone could take that long just to wash. Life on the road didn’t exactly allow for luxuries. Most city folk were lucky to bathe once a week.
But this guy—Ivan-something—looked like he belonged on a recruitment poster for a utopia that didn’t exist. Jack wished he knew what the blond man did for a living.
As the fog in his head began to lift, flashes from last night at the White Mermaid drifted back. Ivan had promised to help him with the search—in exchange for an escort to Seven Winds. Jack was already regretting saying yes to anything in a drunken haze.
He’d gone so long without a win that part of him just wanted to slip out the door and vanish. But the latch clicked.
Ivan stepped back into the room, nonchalantly combing his damp hair.
Jack felt a flicker of irritation. The guy probably never knew real hunger—the kind that rots your teeth and makes your hair fall out in clumps.
“Your turn,” Ivan said, nodding toward the bathroom.
Jack looked down at his filthy clothes and hesitated.
“They’ll take them to be washed, and I’ll lend you something to wear,” Ivan added.
So Jack obeyed, soaking away the sleep, grime, and hangover for the next thirty minutes. At last, he caught his reflection in the mirror—and for a moment, it didn’t even look like him. A Black stranger stared back, one with some small, foolish gleam of hope. Jack smiled at the ghost of himself, allowing—just for a second—the belief that maybe that worn-down guy still had a future.
Then the memories hit again. More than three years old now, but sharp as ever.
After the bathhouse, Katrina had run up to him, throwing her arms around his middle in a quick but fierce hug. Just minutes before, he’d been grumbling silently about the money he’d spent getting someone else cleaned up. But when she touched him—just like that—his breath caught in his chest.
All the way to Seven Winds, she’d been modest, quiet, like she was afraid her beauty might cause trouble. But now? She was glowing. Delighted. Childlike in her wonder. She examined her hands, combed her fingers through her hair, traced the texture of her scaly, snakeskin-like clothes. And Jack was standing there with a goofy smile. Life hadn’t given them many chances for that lately.
They were starving. So they hurried toward the White Mermaid, following a narrow street strung with tired little bulbs—some of the last working lights in the city. The glow reflected off Katrina’s face, delicate and sharply sculpted. Her dark hair fluttered in the breeze.
Jack glanced at her with a mix of admiration and quiet sadness—different from how he’d ever looked at a woman before. He knew they’d probably never be a couple. And it wasn’t even about the age gap.
Though Katrina owed Jack her life, he couldn’t shake the sense—maybe even the silent certainty—that she stood above him somehow. Not in arrogance or pride. Just… beyond.
Sometimes, when they were deep in conversation, she’d forget she was talking to a barely literate caravan driver. Words he didn’t know would slip out. Or ideas that didn’t belong to a girl her age.
She never complained, never raised her voice, and never gossiped. She listened—fully, without cutting in. Jack had met quite a few adventurers, preachers, even men of science. And only Heldrich seemed as alien.
She bore a secret. That much he was sure of. Something vast, ancient, and aching. Something that touched everyone, whether they knew it or not. And beside that—gold, diamonds, the endless squabbles over whose gods were real—all of it shriveled to dust.
Still, that didn’t stop her from lighting into Jack the day he snapped at the scrawny beggar who’d latched onto them.
“If we stop helping each other—regardless of blood or friendship—we’ll become animals,” she’d said, eyes flashing. “Too many horrors happened because some believed they were better than others. Even the Blackout…”
He flinched. The Blackout? What the hell did human ego have to do with that? Everyone knew it was caused by a solar flare. Only the lunatics in the Moon Cross or the fringe cults blamed divine punishment.
What stuck with him more was how she froze mid-sentence, like she’d slipped up. Like she’d said too much.
Later, at the White Mermaid, Katrina had suddenly turned pale and rushed out to the terrace to breathe. In his usual blunt way, Jack asked if she was pregnant.
She shook her head hard. “The smell,” she explained, face scrunched in revulsion.
The seal meat—rich and fatty—was too much for her. He just shrugged. It was food that kept you going for a whole day. But he’d noticed: while traveling with his caravan, she ate anything but meat.
Another strange girl’s whim, he thought then, smiling inside. How the hell has she survived all the way?
Then her attention shifted to something else.
“Oh! It must be the Pine Island!” she said, agitated. “She’s electrified or am I seeing things?”
From that place, they could perfectly see the Pine Island’s upper decks with several windows and floodlights gleaming in the dusk.
“Heldrich can afford an ethanol generator,” Jack suggested the simplest explanation. “And has his storage cells recharged in town.”
“Poor soul! He must need lakes of ethanol,” Katrina said with doubt. “But what powers up things in town?”
“Hydro station in the mountains to the south. One or two functional turbines,” replied Jack. “Fun will be over when the engineer dies. Dude’s already as old as devil.”
A drunk fisherman’s voice broke into their conversation.
“ It came from the abyss! Kinda submarine!”
“No! I saw this thing fall from the sky like a damn me-te-or!” answered his companion.
“Was your mom falling upon me...”
Katrina sneered at the argument, but her gaze was that of a dog picking up a scent.
“Love a good rumor,” she said, striding towards the debaters.
“Breakfast!” Ivan’s voice snapped him out of the warmth of memory and shoved him back into the cold, gray morning—into the world where this woman, most likely, was already dead.
Ivan Vassilevsky– September 7, 2192
Before dawn, desperate to escape Jack’s thunderous, whistling snores—punctuated by curses barked in his sleep—I slipped outside to clear my head. The ocean stretched out beneath a sky glittering with stars, and even after a childhood on a sealed spaceport and years in Heliopolis, the sight of open water still hadn’t lost its magic.
I made my way to the tip of the artificial cape, which jutted ten meters above the sea, and leaned against the railing—one of the few places in the city where someone actually bothered to keep things clean.
It felt good to finally breathe something fresh, not the stench of booze, weed and sweat. Katrina’s story clung to my thoughts like a splinter I couldn’t dislodge—because I’d heard it before, just not from her.
The “Double V” — the Martian hacker Violet and Veliard Reed —attempted to sneak into Seven Winds soon after their glourious fight against the Prophet’s Desmoduses. The cyborgs tried to pass themselves off as regular humans.
Alas, Heldrich’s Sighted saw through the lie in no time: they knew who was going to come and what to expect. They must have pulled the info from the Winters, through deceit or torture.
No biological human could’ve survived the kind of damage Violet and Veliard took in the ambush. But the cyborgs were tougher than they looked. Evading the Sighted and Solveig’s winged scouts, mostly traveling at nighttime, they limped their way to Heliopolis.
Freiberg, the soft-spined bastard elected the chairman of the Winged Sun, dithered for days before granting them entry. It took a full-blown ultimatum from Rakhmanov—threatening to leave if the doors weren’t opened—to force his hand.
That’s how we gained two of our most valuable assets: battle-hardened scouts who now feed us intel on the Antarctica’s most dangerous people—Geryon Lindon’s flock, the Moon Cross.
Lately, they reported a large armed group of the fanatics moving out of Port Amundsen and heading toward McMurdo, which means the clock just started running twice as fast.
Everyone hungry for action is placing their hopes in Rakhmanov. Because if we don’t make the next move, it’ll be either the freaks from the deep or the zealots who’ve already turned both Americas into one giant cult. It’s not a game of politics anymore—it’s survival.
Yes, comrades, a deep rabbit hole may seem warm, cozy, and even relatively safe. It just happens that our shelter may soon become our grave.
Ever since Rakhmanov’s confirmation, the mission of security has shifted. We’re no longer a containment unit waiting to repel a hypothetical attack and stall until reinforcements arrive—back when reinforcements were even a thing. No, now we’re scouts. Explorers of what’s left of the world.
We’ve gone back to making weapons, digging through old blueprints. But weapons need materials—materials we can’t always buy or scavenge from dead caches. Sometimes we have to go out there and get them ourselves. And that means exposure. First to the locals—not much of a threat. But worse, far worse, are the machines from the Moon and the rare tech-savvy Moon Cross agents.
Still, Rakhmanov gets it: better to take the risk than rot in a rabbit hole waiting for the wolves to come.
That’s why I’m here, even after losing an eye on the Glacier.
I held off on getting a standard replacement (makes it easier to blend in as a scarred local). But I did fit something special in the socket: a “super-eye” with thermal vision, electromagnetic sensor and echolocation. Guys failed to make it look like a biological eye, though in the Golden Age it would be a piece of cake. So, the black patch is a camouflage.
If I’m going to be hunted, I might as well see more perils around.
My train of thought was cut short by a distant rumble—low, guttural, like thunder. But let’s be honest: it was far too early in the season for storms. And this wasn’t natural. The sound came from the direction of the sea, unmistakably mechanical.
In the clear, faintly frosted night, I spotted a silhouette hovering above the water and blocking out stars as it moved. Without hesitating, I launched the radar program on my wrist unit, hoping it wasn’t too far out to tag.
For a few seconds, the machine hovered—suspended like a shadow in midair—then shifted course and continued westward. Its engines growled once more before fading into silence. Whoever it was, they hadn’t come close. Hadn’t shown themselves. Just passed by.
I scanned the darkness, hoping for another trace—light, movement, anything. But the next thing I noticed wasn’t out at sea—it was behind me. A local guard was quietly pacing the terrace, shooting curious glances my way. Clearly wondering what a one-eyed outsider was doing staring into the void this late.
“Not thinking of jumping, are you?” he asked, smirking slightly as I turned. “Just so you know—I’m not diving in after you.”
“Takes more than a ride from New Bergen to Seven Winds to make a guy drown himself,” I said, matching his tone. “Did you hear that sound? What do you think it was?”
“Mister Heldrich says it’s a natural phenomenon,” he replied with a shrug. “He’s a scholar, one should trust him.”
“Got it.”
Barely a day in Seven Winds, and already I had two things to report. I jogged back to the Velvet Night. Jack’s snoring had dulled into a low, exhausted wheeze—mercifully quiet, still nowhere near waking up. Perfect.
I pulled up the holographic screen, keyed in the radar logs—and froze. My chest went cold.
The machine had been identified as a Soviet amphibious helicopter Umai. Designed for rescue, but easily modified for recon or transport, it could skim the water, land on it, even dive—up to twenty meters deep.
So what the hell was an unknown Umai doing cruising near Seven Winds?
Making sure that Jack was sleeping sound, I activated the radio. Both updates went out encrypted straight to Rakhmanov. He responded immediately, being nicknamed “The Sleepless Man” for a reason.
His reply was short and clear:
“Stay sharp: mollusks might be entering the market. Find out if winter ended.”
I should finally check if the Martian brother and sister are dead or if they’ve been sold as slaves. Mollusks on the market? This means Nautilus. They must be surveying their former territory before sending people in.
What rotten timing.
Although, who am I kidding—shit like this is never well-timed.
“Look, Jack, I propose cooperation,” I said once the caravaner had eaten something and washed it down with detoxified water to dull the headache. “You’ll be my eyes and ears in Seven Winds. Introduce me to the locals, walk me through customs and rules, give me the lay of the land. In return, I’ll help you with those ‘lost souls,’ deal?”
Jack wiped his mouth and leaned back, the edge of caution creeping back in as his clarity returned.
“Look, I still don’t even know who you are, where you’re from, or what you want here.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “I live in New Bergen. Trade in medicines. You dabble in them too—though in a slightly more… artisanal way,” I added, smirking. “So my colleagues and I figured this might be a good spot for collaboration.”
“Let me guess—you lost the eye mixing something up?”
“You asked me that yesterday. Congrats—you were right both times. Now, to business. How do I meet this Heldrich of yours?”
“He lives and works on Pine Island. Doesn’t leave the liner much,” Jack muttered, visibly annoyed at the mention. “Suspicious of everyone. Doesn’t matter where you’re from.”
“Is he a liar?”
“Can’t say he’s ever lied to me,” Jack admitted. “But if you say something vague, or make the slightest slip, he’ll twist it around to serve himself. Guy’s sharp. Cold.”
“How do people seal deals around here?”
“No paperwork. Just word of mouth—sealed in the tavern. Best to have two witnesses on each side, though I’m guessing you didn’t think about that.”
“I’ll bring some, if needed. What about habits? Preferences?”
“He’s an ascetic. Barely drinks, doesn’t chase women. Sometimes shows up at Scarlet Wings to watch the dancers, but if he ever took one to bed, the whole town would know by morning. Otherwise—silent as a tomb.”
So. If Heldrich doesn’t want to deal, there’s no easy way in. Still, I knew one thing that might draw his attention—assuming our higher-ups gave the green light.
“Any settlements west of here?”
“Outland village,” Jack said carefully.
Right. He’d listed names from there last night, drunk off his ass.
“And beyond that?”
“The Wild Coast. Runs all the way to Dumont d’Urville.”
“You mentioned your cousin’s family yesterday. Planning to warn them?”
“A smart thing to do,” Jack nodded, rubbing his temple. “Problem is, Heldrich’s probably keeps a watch over me.”
“Is there a workaround?”
“There’s always a workaround. You can reach Outland by sea.”
“Tell me what you need, and let’s go.”
“I need to pay the boatman,” Jack mumbled, eyes dropping to his rough hands. Asking for help didn’t come easy for him.
“That won’t be a problem,” I said, sliding a plate of sliced frozen fish his way. “And don’t worry. You’ll earn it. I’ll need you to ask around in Outland—see if anyone’s noticed anything odd lately.”
“Odd like what?”
“Sounds from the sky or sea. Large flying machines. I’ve heard rumors that things like that show up around here sometimes.”
“As if small ones were not enough,” Jack spat after a pause, fear flickering across his eyes. “If I see anything strange in Outland, you’ll know first.”
I started mentally calculating how much liquor, ammo, or plain old time it would take to get Jack talking about the younger Winter. If she was dead, we deserved to know. If she’d somehow ended up with the Moon Cross, she might still be alive—barely. Violet and Veliard clung to that hope like it was gospel.
I didn’t push. Jack bristled when pushed, and excessive kindness made him even warier. He hated the feeling of being a piece in someone else’s game.
“I’ll also need you checking the taverns,” I said. “Pick up rumors, watch the strangers. And don’t puff up like you did yesterday.”
“And this has to do with pharmaceuticals… how?” Jack asked, mockery creeping in.
“If you don’t like it, you know where the door is,” I snapped. “Go catch LostKids on your own.”
“I just want to know what I’m getting dragged into—and what it’ll cost me. You’ll leave. I’ll still be here, trying to survive.”
“You don’t have to stay in Seven Winds. Look at it this way: every task you finish, I’ll give you a piece of information. The more you tell me, the closer we get to the truth about Katrina’s fate. Believe it or not, there are people who care just as much as you do.”
“What’s there to uncover?” Jack snapped, waving his hand so hard he nearly knocked over the plates. “She’s gone. Hoping otherwise is stupid… Wait. What people? Don’t tell me—those same bastards who left her to get ripped apart by an artificial monster?”
“No, Jack. She has loyal friends. But as you well know, sometimes shit happens faster than any of us can act,” I said, letting the old Scheherazade tactic carry the moment. “Now go. Take the back exit from the inn. I’ll try to get us a meeting with your big boss. Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone you’re staying at my place.”
“Am I?..”
“Well, we’ve got a shared goal. Might as well stick together.”
I handed him a small pouch of mixed-caliber rounds. He didn’t ask for more, didn’t grumble. As promised, I lended him a dark blue insulated jumpsuit—something I’d worn with Rakhmanov on the Glacier. It was too long in the sleeves and legs, but we rolled it just fine, and the transformation was remarkable. I’d hit his coat with some cleaning foam, and after a quick comb through his hair, the man who left the room looked nothing like the sack of road-tired bones I’d dragged in.
Once my new companion left, I rang the bell at the porter’s desk and asked them to wash his old clothes and have his leather armor patched up.
Then I dressed and set out for the passenger terminal. Luckily Jack had explained the way quite clearly.
But I never made it onboard on that day.
See Book 1: No Life but Immortality
Pictures: * Sergiu Radu Pop **Roman Bocharov (R. Dioneth)