They say the greatest punishment you can give a man is to strip him down naked and send him walking through the Siberian woods in winter. I’m not naked, and Izhevsk isn’t even close to Siberia, but I already can’t feel my body anymore.

Walking along the caponiers, I raise my hand in front of me. I would’ve welcomed the cold, or even the pain against my blistering palm. Instead, nothing. Only the numbness on the tip of my fingers.

The wind shrieks as snow swirls through the air, bouncing off the concrete walls and assaulting my face. My job is to make sure the guys stay in positions along the walls and up the watch posts, but due to the thick snow flurry, I can’t observe anything properly without being inside a five-meter radius. The snow’s so thick the walls disguise themselves as wafer cookies and the dead trees morph into giant parsnips. I almost have to laugh, but that’s probably because I’m starving from having to share my rations with the woman.

This snowstorm isn’t quite bad enough to be called a blizzard, but I wish it would’ve been. At least we’re allowed inside in such cases.

It’s probably two weeks without a single ray of sunlight already. We’re all used to days like these, though I’ve read from a book that a lack of sunlight can cause weak bones. I’ll keep that in mind if I ever get within punching distance of the enemy.

As a higher-ranked officer, I don’t often stand guard, but I used to do so with Roman when called upon. You don’t have many choices when two-thirds of your crew have perished.

As I approach the Southern passage to Izhevsk Hill, I see five guys guarding the entrance nestle against the gate. One of them is clearly not doing his job but instead ducking inside his jacket to keep warm. I almost want to cut him some slack, but then I’d get into trouble for not doing my job.

Before I can say anything, a voice rings out from behind me, “You there, right side of the gate! Stand straight, please.”

“Yes, sir,” the gate guard shouts, uncurling into position.

“Good. Other officers won’t be as nice.” The supposed ‘sir’ walks over to me. “Except for this guy, I guess.”

Recognizing the voice, I turn back and greet Petrov, “Good morning, Lieutenant, sir.”

“Morning. Beautiful day, huh?”

“As beautiful as a bear’s bladder.” Funny how often I cross paths with Petrov. Our section is perhaps the only one with two lieutenants and a commander. Granted, we used to be four times the size. Again, I’ll write it off as Dzyuba not trusting me as an officer. One botched suicide mission to Big Venya will do just that.

Petrov and I walk alongside the walls, inspecting the guards. The open space divides this military complex into three, the outer part comprising an open ground separated by concrete walls. It encircles the interior, including a former production plant the size of two football fields and an urban apartment complex that we can’t stay in because the logistics corps is setting up defensive army camp inside. Outside the perimeter is a trench more than two meters deep, into which we dive to repel enemy sieges. The guards always maneuver behind walls—approximately six meters high with gateways locked at all times, barred with closing barriers like at train crossing—watching over every single meter within the complex. Except when the blowing snow makes it impossible to see more than ten feet.

There are typically a few officers patrolling in the morning, and a separate team in the afternoon. Evenings are reserved for strategic planning, or a lack thereof.

Not many are on duty today. Fewer men at work means more ground to cover, but it is still a miniscule distance and takes up only a tiny portion of our shift. The real challenge is the alleyways between the main building and the side warehouses. They’re narrow and windy, and the drifted snow makes it pretty awful to patrol. Naturally, this is the route where most deserters choose for their escape—a fact revealed by the number of bodies lying on the snow, taken out by Pavlyuchenko’s snipers.

The wind throws punches at me as I turn into the alleyway. Hail bounces off my coat and ushanka, then slips off my finger as I brush it aside. The snowstorm pours more flakes than it will ever make sense to count, painting the sky before me with strokes of absolute whiteness.

Petrov puts his hand over his eyebrows, squinting. “You seeing anything?”

“Not really. Fog’s too thick.”

“Seems patchier than yesterday. Would be strenuous to defend against a surprise attack under these circumstances.” He clicks his tongue.

I shrug. “I don’t think it makes a difference, sir. Not like they can attempt a siege trudging through such thick snow.”

“When the storm’s settled, it’s gonna be messy. I heard Pavlyuchenko finally bought a couple Tu-95 from Moskva. Perm did a good job taking down their bombers, but the oil fields Novgorod seized means it probably didn’t matter anyway. Once the Tu-95 join the fight, our watchtowers are as good as trash.”

Scuffles along the Izhevsk railway have been going on for a few months now, and it feel as though Novgorod has finally gotten tired of us pests. I think the only reason they haven’t launched a higher scale assault on Izhevsk is because the little air force they have was badly damaged after taking Perm. Izhevsk is rather poorly stocked, but we still have one functioning S-300 anti-aircraft missile system to deter Pavlyuchenko from using the few precious air recon he has left. We could’ve imported Stugna-P from Kyiv as well if Smolnikov wasn’t blatantly against ‘inferior’ and ‘antiquated’ systems, cheap as they are. His words, not mine.

Unlike us Tatarstan, Novgorod has no pride. They’re the Republic’s little puppet, and they’ll do everything and anything if it means free weaponry. If they kiss Kuznetsov’s ass hard enough and cede an oil field or two, Moskva might supply them a few Tupolevs and maybe some better clones too. The ones Novgorod have right now are as fast as snails and can’t hit a target to save their lives. That’s what happens when you slash half your clone production budget while doubling their growth speed. If your clones look like they’re fourteen but have only been inside glass cages for seven years, you have a problem.

I think Dzyuba has already known that. He’s been setting up all the Kornet missiles in the urban area in case the enemies get through the walls. I think the plan is to abandon the main building and go all guerrilla between the concrete-hardened apartment complex, bogging down the opposition in an infantry urban battle. It makes sense if the huge main building is going to get bombed anyway.

The snowstorm stops bothering us as soon as we find a small space between two abandoned warehouses to nestle into. I’m not the one to make small talk, and usually Petrov respects that enough to not bother with me. Today, though, was a particularly harsh day, and I don’t have a flask of vodka with me to fight off the cold cutting through my uniform. Petrov pulls out a hip flask from the inside of his coat and offers it to me. I’m not stupid enough to refuse alcohol, so I take a chug.

He follows suit, puts his flask back in one of his inside jacket pockets, then buries his hands in the outside pockets. “When I was on duty in Ufa, I met an Uzbek merc from Zarafshan. He told me how he hated fighting in Russian winters. Cold-weather warfare is atrocious, and more die from exposure to snow than from gunshots. Pretty sure the guy pulled stats out of his ass but he doesn’t seem wrong.”

The clone camp system has always been majorly flawed. First, clones aren’t even the correct term to call us, since clones are supposed to be identical. The technology clearly hasn’t reached that stage. More importantly, the ratio of Camp A to Camp B and Camp C clones was just recently altered to 50:35:15 across most Moskva protectorates, which means for a hundred new clones produced, fifty become farmers and workers, thirty-five become soldiers, and fifteen become specialists—twenty percent more farmers and workers. I don’t know why the uppers underestimate the importance of logistics so much. Production budget is usually poured into weaponry development, while we eat garbage filler food and sport ancient gear unchanged since the 1930s. A single disruption to the stretched logistic line means possible starvation and ammo shortage for troops on the frontline, and with the two major cities on both sides fallen, Izhevsk is feeling the full effect of fucked-up supply lines.

“Where were you before this dispatch, Second Lieutenant?” Petrov asks. “From your accent I guess you’re from the northwest, but you shoot like someone from Perm Corp, and that’s a high praise, don’t get me wrong.”

“Murmansk, to be exact.” It’s quite impressive of him to be able to guess the accent. Russian in general is a very unified language, and though Moskvich and Urali accents are distinct, you generally can’t tell where someone’s from based on the way they speak.

“Ah. Guess they produce fine sharpshooters in the woods. How come you’re here, then?”

“Shit happened. Murmansk is a Republic’s protectorate now, and you can imagine how brutal the annexation process was. I travelled southward in search of something different. Freedom, I guess.”

He nods. “Were the men you came with also from Murmansk?”

“The twelve people originally in my section?” I ask. He nods again.

“No, sir. We got the orders from the Supreme Leader and I led a special task force here to engineer a sortie. You can see how that’s gone down.” As well as you’d expect from a team of twelve men against a colonial power. I’m the only one left.

“You did remarkably to even reach our fort at all. I’m surprised Major Smolov didn’t assign you a section of your own. I’m sure if you lead a platoon we might have a real go at recapturing Izhevsk Hill.”

“Beats me.” Dzyuba probably doesn’t trust an outsider enough to take over a squad of that size. I do wonder though, why the commander never attempted to regain the possession of the hill behind our fort. The Republic’s presence there isn’t nearly as pronounced, and that hill is a strategic location that prevents Izhevsk from total encirclement.

After a brief silence, Petrov proceeds to talk about himself despite me not asking. He was born in Perm to an ordinary human plant. He tried to make his way into the Perm Corp—the elitist facility for gifted soldiers—but failed to impress before his enlistment in the Tatarstan-Novgorod War.

“That war was so stupid,” he smirks. “Skirmishes for years until the Republic just went ahead and gobbled us both anyway.”

He asks me what I miss most about Murmansk.

“I don’t remember. It was too far back,” I say.

“I think everyone has something that reminds them of where they come from. For me, it’s probably turnip soup,” he says with a half-smile. “It wasn’t until I was well into my twenties that I appreciated having veggies in my meal.”

Who likes turnips? Shit tastes like tree bark when it’s raw and boiled tree bark when it’s boiled. I’d much prefer cabbage, but I won’t be baited into chatting about fucking vegetables.

After a while, Petrov asks, knitting his brows, “So what happened to the pile of laundry the other day?”

Shit. I completely forgot about it. To be fair, clean clothes would be the last thing on my mind after I discover a literal woman. “It’s still where it is. I’ll fetch it today.”

“It’s not like you to leave things until the second day,” he smiles.

Dude thinks he’s so smart, catching on to something here isn’t he?

“I’ll get to it. You don’t have to tell me thrice,” I reply. “Actually, I’ll go fetch it now.”

I make my excuse and get away from him. At least he doesn’t try to hold me back. I’ll just report to Ushakov quickly and go on my break.

Nosy and naggy. Talking to Petrov reminds me of the first time Roman struck up a conversation with me, and that bothers me even more. I don’t have the mental capacity to deal with memories of him today.

***

The sky’s already darkened when I return to my room. For once I’m glad my place reeks of piss. She hasn’t gotten outside.

The woman’s sitting with her legs crossed, a book—or at least what I think is a book based on the outline of what I see under the terrible lighting—in her hand as I walk in. She scrambles to put it back in its place, knocking over other books on the shelves as she turns around, then scrambles to pick those up.

“H-hello,” she says.

“Hi. What are you doing?”

“I am just trying to read under the current conditions. It is nothing you need to concern yourself with.”

“Okay.” I place a bucket on the ground. “Here. Your state-of-the-art mobile shitter, model 1980-Alpha, limited edition. You have the honor to be among the first testers of this life-changing technology.”

She proceeds to completely ignore me as she says, “You have quite an intriguing library here.”

“Yeah? What did you read?” I walk over to my water bucket. She didn’t drink all the water and she didn’t shit in it, so we’re off to a good start.

“You have one about a chyerti guarding the Kandalaksha forest. I found that quite amusing.”

“It’s been a while since I read that one, actually. You might have to refresh my memory on that.” I approach her, handing her a loaf of bread. “Say . . . you have any cool stories to tell? Mythical folklore or whatever.”

“Mmm . . .” She takes the bread from my hand.

“You sound hesitant.”

“Thank you for the food.”

“You don’t have to entertain me if you don’t want to.”

“It is not that I do not want to. I am shy around those I do not know that well.”

“Then we’ll get to know each other tomorrow, then the day after that you can tell me a story.”

She grows silent as she moves over to her ‘territory’ on the sofa. Then I hear the sound of her quietly munching on the bread.

I sit down and take out my food. “Do you prefer trolls or goblins?” Then I start eating.

“Hmm?”

“Trolls are ugly, but they get the job done, no questions asked. The burly, no bullshit type. Goblins always fuck you over.”

“I guess.”

I’m determined to get more from her than single-sentence answers. “Dragons or phoenixes?”

“Umm. . . phoenixes.”

“Unicorn or Pegasus?”

“Unicorns are cuter.”

“Leviathans or narwhals?”

“Narwhals are not mythical,” she chuckles. “You can find them in the Arctic.” The cheery after-tone of her voice dissolves into the air like morning frost under the sun. It’s a rather pleasant sound.

“I know. Tell me more about them then, whale expert,” I say as I push the final piece of bread inside my mouth.

“I will. But let us have dinner first.”

I got her to talk about whales for another good hour or so, and I notice her getting chirpier and chirpier. By the end of the night, I gather that humpback whales eat fuck all for most of the year, and all toothed whales have a ‘melon’ on their head that allows them to see through echolocation. Nothing that’s remotely helpful, but at least I know these gigantic mammals hijacked the best survival traits and kept them for themselves. Greedy cocksuckers.

“Okay, good talk. I’m absolutely beat, so I’ll be sleeping. Do you feel cozy on that sofa? You need a blanket?”

“Have you had a taxing day?” She inquires.

“Yeah. What’s with answering a question with another question though?”

“Forgive me for bothering, but is something on your mind? You seem a little stressed out the few past days. Maybe I am causing you inconvenience.”

“Massive snowstorms, asshole superiors. You know; just another day of work.” Can she tell, or is she just saying that? Am I getting that easy to read?

“Let me know if there is anything I can do to help,” she says.

“Thanks for the offer. I’ll take another dozen whale facts, please.”

“Alright. Let me see . . . Ah. So you know whales are rather fatty, right? Baby blue whales drink an incredible amount of breast milk per day.”

“Yeah?” I’ve never understood why animals have to drink milk, and why we can’t produce it from our own breasts, but I’m not about to interrupt now.

“So mother whales transfer that fat to their babies!” She clasps her hands together. “Well, sort of. Up to fifty percent of whale milk is fat, you see. Now, there are plenty of reasons for this . . .”

She keeps talking until her voice turns into quiet murmurs, then to silent breathing. In the end, she never asks for a blanket even though I can see her occasionally quailing.

“Are you awake?” I whisper. When there’s no reply, I ask again at a higher volume. Still nothing.

Then I go and get water. Then I remember the fistfuls of snow I shoved into my mouth. Then I remember Roman.

I’ve gone fooling around, burying my problems under my ass, getting nothing done. I hate myself for spending days like this then regret having done so.

I have five days left.

If I’d finished my mission two days ago, I would never have had to watch Roman die. If I knew what my mission was, I might have managed it.

I turn to the straight lines I’ve carved on the wall: heaps of parallel lines, looking like some animal has been scratching on it. The woman hasn’t noticed those lines yet, or at least she’s paying them no heed. I’ve lost count of how many I’ve etched, and it doesn’t feel useful anymore when I’m counting backwards.

When snowing halted this afternoon, Ushakov tried to break the encirclement, and oh boy, how dreadfully it ended. We fired self-propelled rockets into a position I myself had scouted, then the infantry was supposed to break through their damaged frontline and open up another escape route for Dzyuba. Turns out, their frontline was anything but damaged. Pavlyuchenko’s army outnumbered us. Overwhelmed us. Annihilated us.

Captain Ushakov got shot in the head, tripping backward on the sandbags, and fell headfirst into the trench. I don’t think any of the vanguards made it back. I saw one of them frantically trying to scramble to the fort. His eyes darted to me near the gate, pleaded for me to return fire, pleaded for me to try to open the gate by myself. Pleaded for whatever I could do. The last seconds of his life flashed before his eyes, tiny blood vessels waiting to burst. Oh boy, he wanted to live so badly.

I do, too. I want to live. I wish to fight no longer.

As the sniper took the poor vanguard down with a clean shot into the back of his neck, I left my post position. Nobody was there to ask me to stay on guard. I did not wish to die from a stray bullet.

They gave me an assignment—the last mission I will ever have to take part in. And then, I’ll finally be free. No more following orders. If I finish this in five days, I will no longer have to fight. I will no longer have to kill anyone.

I have five days left.