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  Copyright © 2019 by Simon Harrak

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  SPECTRE OF CHAOS

  1

  LOYALTY WAS LIFE. Erik Burscheid had always believed that. What would the world look like without a commitment to one’s family, to one’s friends, to one’s land? Without loyalty, there would be no civilisation. No progress. Empires grew because people did their duty. Those kids who treated their phones and even friends as disposable objects, they had no idea what an oath meant. You would get a blank stare if you asked them what long-service leave was. They owed their existence to the fact that their ancestors hung around. In the animal kingdom, staying together was the difference between survival and annihilation. Burscheid even stuck to his hairstyle, having had his ponytail since he was sixteen. He took pride in his consistency and dependability.

  The League Of Reckoning was family, and Erik Burscheid would gladly sacrifice his life for it. He maintained loyalty at any cost, doing whatever the leadership asked of him. Pick-ups, drop-offs, mundane errands, breaking some bones here and there. Delivering a package or burying a body; it was all the same to him. It was all about loyalty.

  He had just carried out his latest errand for The League, having dropped off the Abel kid to his apartment. As he left Abel’s place, the weariness of the long drive back from Copenhagen had hit him like a sedative. He picked up a Currywurst with fries for lunch then headed to the Grand Luxus to get some rest in his room. The search for street-side parking needed more time than usual, since the out-of-town soldiers bolstering Kalakia’s fortress had taken most of the spots. At least Burscheid could sleep easy knowing they were out there.

  Once he managed to find a spot at Zoologischer Garten, he crossed the intersection and made for the hotel. He passed several soldiers on the way, many of whom he knew well, but still did not acknowledge — official policy. At the entrance, however, he did pay attention to a bright green food truck selling hot dumplings. He gave it a long glance while continuing toward the revolving glass door. Then he stopped. He spun around and glared suspiciously at the man inside the van. There was something about him. He had a sweaty, chubby face with red cheeks and a downturned mouth. He was staring into thin air and tapping his fingers on the bench. What’s bothering you then? Burscheid kept staring, analysing every feature of the man, bemused by his presence. Then Burscheid smiled. For all he knew, the guy’s one-night-stand from a couple of months ago had just called and told him he had knocked her up. If that were the case, then he would need to consider sticking around for the kid to have any chance at life. No running away. Not like Burscheid’s father had. Coward.

  The fatigue was getting to Burscheid. He knew that because his mind was wandering. He had barely stopped in the few days since the attacks. The nap would do him good. He forgot about the sweaty-faced man and went through the revolving door. He was looking forward to that king-sized mattress, and figured he could even have a nip of whiskey before he dozed off.

  2

  The milk had coated her feet white. A thick pool of it flowed slowly outwards from the pot which had hit the floor with an ear-piercing clang. Her sharpened, disbelieving eyes remained on Kalakia as she studied his face, barely breathing, not daring to move.

  Kalakia broke the stand-off by stepping around the mess and picking up the pot, placing it on the kitchen bench. He then lifted the tea towel from the cabinet handle and crouched down to begin dabbing the milk off his mother’s feet. Before long he felt a hand on his shoulder. He froze, then stood up. With a gasp she lunged forward and wrapped her arms around him. He responded by placing a hand behind her head and pulling her firm, tiny body into his chest.

  “You’re here,” she said, pulling back and placing a hand on his cheek. “My boy,” she added, her eyes now softening and filling with tears.

  Kalakia looked carefully at his mother. He had not seen her in over four decades. She was smaller than he remembered, and she had lost weight, especially around her face. She appeared weary, but her stare remained potent, seeping into him and flooding him with old emotions.

  “Come,” she said, placing a hand on his wrist. “Leave the mess.”

  She took off her shoes and placed them by the doorway before walking barefooted into the living room, where Kalakia followed and found her on the couch. He passed by her and ran his fingers along the old books on the shelf. The classics were still there, including Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy. Kant’s ‘Critique of Pure Reason’ also caught his eye. He recalled how much of an insatiable reader his father had been.

  “Sit, my boy,” said his mother and patted an empty spot beside her.

  Kalakia complied. My boy. He had not heard that phrase in a long time.

  “I felt it was important to see you,” he said as he sat. “Trouble is coming.”

  She nodded solemnly as though she understood everything.

  “Trouble has always followed you, and you have always conquered it.”

  “This is different.”

  “I thought about you many times over the years,” she said, ignoring his ominous statement.

  “Did you?” he said.

  “Of course.”

  “I assumed you would try to forget me,” he said.

  “Forget you?” she said with a headshake. “Nonsense. You are my son. I was angry at you, that is true. Angry at what you did to that boy, the path you took.”

  The image of Arman falling down the cliff shot up with a thump. Kalakia remembered how Arman’s hair felt as he clutched it and mercilessly dragged the young boy to the edge and tossed him over. He heard Arman’s dreadful scream echoing over the valley.

  “I disappointed you,” he replied.

  “You did,” she said. “And I have forgiven you. I did so long ago.”

  Kalakia recalled his mother’s anguish when news came that her son had committed murder. She had wept, continuously shaking her head and repeatedly whispering ‘no,’ refusing to accept it, until his father led him out the door. She had been too weak to follow them, crippled by shock and grief. Her scream from inside the house had been the last thing Kalakia heard before his father forced him into the backseat of their car.

  “Do you know why I forgave you?” she asked.

  “No,” said Kalakia.

  “Because I finally understood something. You did not choose the path you took. Your future was already written.”

  Kalakia felt the fog of sorrow come over him. He knew what she meant. Sensing the shift, his mother reached over and placed her hand on his cheek as though he were still that boy.

  “You carried the burden for all of us,” she continued. “Your father was too distracted, your brother as well. For them, reputation was everything. They were not interested in the truth. It was too painful to face.”

  Kalakia listened carefully, mesmerised by his mother's insight.

  “But you were different. You accepted who you were,” said his mother. “My little warrior,” she added with a tender smile.

  Kalakia blinked and nodded.

  “You have reflected on this for a long time,” he said.

  “I had a lot of time to think after your father died. Are you still angry with him for sending you away?”

  Kalakia’s jaw shut tight. He nodded.

  “He also had no choice,” she said.

  “He only cared about what others thought of him.”

  “True, but it was more complicated than that. He lo
ved you.”

  “Did he? After Kraas went away, he barely spoke to me. The whole town looked down on us, and he would have fallen to his knees for them to accept him. Even when Kraas joined the armed forces, they still mocked us. Nothing we did was going to wash away the shame of who we were. We remained gypsies to them. Uncultured and uncivilised. Filth, and nothing more.”

  “Your father could not help who he was. Just like you could not.”

  “I defended our honour. What did he do? He disowned me for it.”

  “He sent you away to protect you. They were going to kill you.”

  “You believe I could not have defended myself? He underestimated me, and worse still, he underestimated himself. He always did. Do you know what Arman said before I killed him? ‘Your family are a pack of dogs, trying to walk on two feet like humans.’ You do not reason with such people; you humble them with force. It was then I realised my father’s way would not work. Men respect only strength and power.”

  “You’ve had the rage of a lion, ever since you were a little boy. And you’ve always been stubborn, even more than your father. Nobody could convince you to see things differently.”

  “Idealists. My father and Kraas.”

  Kalakia’s mother gave a weary smile.

  “I pray one day you’ll understand,” she said.

  “I did not come to talk about them. I came to protect you from what is to come.”

  His mother’s tenderness faded before his eyes, and her face turned hard. She lifted her chin and intensified her stare.

  “Do you think I would need your help after all these years?” she said.

  Kalakia smiled and shook his head.

  “Every lion was birthed by a lioness,” he said.

  “And don’t you forget it,” she snapped back before standing up. “Will you stay for lunch?”

  Kalakia checked the time.

  “I will,” he said.

  “Good, I’ll get started right away,” she said before going into the kitchen.

  Kalakia leaned back on the couch and gazed into space, thinking again about the day he murdered Arman. His father’s furious response. The fistfight which almost broke out between him and his father. The frantic drive to the train station to escape Arman’s family. The tight knot in his chest which he felt in exile every morning since that day.

  Now Kraas was dead, and Kalakia’s life was under threat. The League was at war. With mayhem all around, Kalakia sensed his mortality for the first time in decades. With it came an irresistible craving to return home and revisit his past. To see his mother, and make sure she remained out of Stirner’s reach. The coming war would descend like the plague, and nothing would be the same once the dust settled. Above all, Kalakia had to admit; he came to visit because he craved the comfort that only home offered. He hoped it would inject him with the strength to face what was ahead.

  He closed his eyes. The symphony of birds chirping came through from outside. He could hear his mother rattling around in the kitchen, just like when he was a boy. His father would be in his reading chair, Kraas would be out somewhere plotting his next scheme.

  A knock on the door interrupted Kalakia’s nostalgia. He tilted his head. Francois. He went over to the front door and opened it.

  “Stirner’s people made contact,” said Francois immediately. “He wants to speak with you.”

  The pitch-black had swallowed them whole. Shirvan’s erratic breathing followed Brunswick from behind, the resonance of their shuffling feet on the tunnel interior amplifying each step. Brunswick’s stomach growled, while a sharp pain throbbed in her thigh. She knew where the tunnel led, but that barely made walking in total darkness any less unsettling.

  It was six kilometres from the emergency facility to the tunnel opening. They would only know they had reached their destination when they saw the light coming through the cracks of the entrance. Until then, they would have to carry on through the abyss with barely a sense of time or space.

  “How long do you think it’s been?” whispered Shirvan from behind.

  They had barely spoken since they left the emergency facility.

  “An hour, I think,” said Brunswick.

  “I hope they’re ok back there.”

  “They’ll be fine,” she snapped, wiping the sweat off her face.

  Did he have to remind her? She had pushed the situation in the emergency facility to the back of her mind. The chaotic escape that led to the deaths of Aiko, Lena and Jonas had demoralised them. Especially Brunswick. Finding themselves in an even tighter space without food had tipped them over the edge. The firefight in the main facility had cut off the power. Everyone was hungry, exhausted and afraid. After the scuffle between Phil and Vitaly had broken out, Brunswick knew they had to act. She had deliberated for a long time before deciding that the secrecy of the Neutralaser project was no longer a priority. Something terrible had happened to Michael, Brunswick was sure of that, and that meant they would need to call someone else for help. She fired up the battery-operated satellite phone and made contact with the Inselheim Group. The Chief Security Officer Anke Müller called back and said that she had given a NATO unit the coordinates for the concealed tunnel exit. With a rough time window for extraction, Brunswick and Shirvan left immediately, terrified that The League Of Reckoning would figure out where they were.

  Must be close now, thought Brunswick, realising she had been on autopilot. Shirvan had said nothing for a long time.

  “Sorry,” she whispered absentmindedly.

  “What?” said Shirvan from behind.

  “Sorry I snapped at you before,” she said.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he replied. “You’re doing fine.”

  Bullshit. There was nothing ‘fine’ about losing three of their friends, she thought.

  “I think we’re close now,” added Shirvan. “We have to be.”

  They proceeded in silence for a long time, before Brunswick saw a soft glow in the distance.

  “There,” she said.

  The appearance of their goal injected Brunswick with a thrust of energy that carried her forward. The aches in her body dissolved. She picked up her speed, kicking a large rock and almost tumbling over. Shirvan’s breathing rate increased behind her. The details and shape of the tunnel emerged, and patches of dirt and tiny pebbles on the floor appeared, along with the bare-concrete walls and ventilation system. Finally, they made it to the over-sized, hydraulic-powered steel loading cage. With Shirvan’s big eyes looking at her, Brunswick stood panting under the dim moonlight coming through the cracks between the boulders used to camouflage the tunnel entrance above.

  “We made it,” said Shirvan. “God, let’s not do that again.”

  Brunswick rubbed his arm then marched over to the control panel mounted on the side of the cage.

  “I can’t hear anything,” said Shirvan.

  Brunswick trained her ears to the surface. The rescue team was probably still hours away. That was not going to stop her from going up. She pushed the button, and a loud whirring noise came from beneath their feet, as the cage began rising upwards with enough force to lift the mammoth weight of steel and rocks.

  At the top they were greeted by the moonlight. Brunswick walked out onto the dirt and raised her head to the sky before sucking in an enormous breath of freedom. She gave a sigh of relief and stretched her neck, savouring the moment.

  Her ears went stiff. A rush of footsteps came towards her from behind. She turned and flinched hard. A group of eight commandos dressed in all-black approached with their rifles held across their chests. Brunswick automatically lifted her hands into the air.

  “Put your arms down,” said the group leader as the commandos surrounded Brunswick. “Nobody is going to hurt you if you cooperate.”

  Brunswick hesitated, then slowly lowered her arms. Shirvan came over to her side. The two of them gazed at the small fleet assembled at the tunnel entrance. It was clear that they were not NATO.

  “Move it!�
� yelled the group leader to his soldiers.

  The engines of four army transport trucks came on and revved up simultaneously. The fleet of vehicles formed a straight line, and one of the trucks drove onto the cage.

  “Who are you?” said Brunswick when the first truck had descended into the tunnel.

  The group leader gave her a brief stare before checking his watch then looking impatiently toward the horizon. Who was he worried might come, wondered Brunswick? She studied him and the rest of the team attentively but found no clue which gave away their affiliation. Suddenly she could not shake the feeling that she and her team were mere pawns in a high-level game of chess. It made her feel tiny and insignificant, creating a pounding in her ears and a pressure in her chest which threatened to burst wide open. She began shaking with rage. A cloud of dust from the tyres of the trucks then blew into her eyes, and she knew that she had been tipped over the edge.

  3

  The disturbing mix of emotions had Frederich levitating. He felt surprise at Ida’s unexpected appearance, confusion at how Vidrik had been behaving. There was also the dark, familiar presence. Knowing that Vidrik had stalked and threatened Ida, as well as slaughtered her neighbour, Frederich was ready to rampage. Vidrik was a dead man, no buts about it. If only Frederich knew in Copenhagen what Ida had told him now. How could he have been so careless?

  Standing in his living room with fists clenched, the chemical cocktail of surprise, confusion and fury exploded. He stepped forward and kicked the lamp over with a loud grunt, smashing it against the wall. Broken glass from the bulb crumbled to the ground. He grimaced from the sharp pain in his back where Vidrik’s bullet had struck him and stood there with his chest heaving up and down.

  “Frederich,” said Ida sternly from the sofa. “Relax. Come sit here.”

  Frederich stared out of the window, dragged away by his thoughts. He had greatly underestimated Vidrik. He should have known. That demented look on his face was a dead giveaway. If Vidrik was crazy enough to follow Frederich to Copenhagen and try to kill him, he was capable of anything. He would go after Ida again. By letting Vidrik go, Frederich had placed Ida in terrible danger.