Dragon Horse

Helike. Nikolaos' home. He’s spent sixteen years of his life there, and the enemy has taken over it in less than two days.

The pitch black of the tunnel pales into a blinding white snowstorm, and then, the shadows of the mountains surrounding the glacial memorial field. A sliver of General Chiyou’s statue. The polar vortex sweeps it away.

Nikolaos knows he has no home anymore.

Yet, he can’t stop looking back.

He slides into the seat next to Xolani. It’s difficult to read his lips because he’s muttering. Nikolaos can only make out the word “unicorn.” He suspects that the wooden crates flying around in the Air Force Station must have hit Xolani hard.

What in the sky’s name happened to Aroon’s arm? Did the unicorn gash it open with its horn? Is that what Xolani's mumbling about?

Xolani digs through his satchel, bringing out a roll of cotton bandages, an alcohol wipe, a needle, sutures, and a packet of regenerative pills.

“Ow, ow, ow,” she snaps.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry.” Xolani dabs around the wound with the wipe.

“Stitch faster.”

“I can’t just stitch faster.”

“Why not —” She clenches her jaw, and sinks her nails into her cargo pants, and taps her foot at the sight of Xolani threading the sutures through the needle.

“Your deltoid, biceps brachii, and brachioradialis are all lacerated, and it’ll take at least two to three layers of stitches to patch it up. And you wouldn’t be injured if you didn’t try to single-handedly fight the Commandant.”

“I could’ve won if you fought with me,” Aroon says sharply.

“This isn’t a fight you can win,” Nikolaos signed.

Xolani and Aroon stare at him. Even though they don’t speak his language, they can read his message off of his face.

“You’re right," Aroon scoffs, "I’d be too busy protecting you scrawny runts to even attack her.”

Xolani wraps up her arm and rips open the packet of regenerative pills for her. She washes it down with a swig of water. Nikolaos thinks there are dark circles under her eyes for a moment. He blinks, and they’re gone.

It hits him that Ammi and Baba are still at the station. With the Sub-Equatets. And their Commandant. He shoves the thoughts down before the darkness drowns him.

“Where are we going, I’m-Xolani?”

“We’re going to the Arctolean base in the southeast, but we need a cover. Chances are the Sub-Equatets have taken over it, and if we don’t have disguises, it’s off to the firing squad.”

“And we don’t have disguises.”

“Yeah.”

“Sky, if you can hear us, if you could get us some Sub-Equatet armor..."

Nikolaos leaps up from his seat and taps Aroon on the shoulder, pointing to the doors to the compartment in front of them. It slides open.

Three Sub-Equatet soldiers squabble over who told the other two to get off at the wrong station. One Cetus, one Mensa, and one Fornax.

Aroon, Xolani, and Nikolaos scan their Sub-Equatet armor. They seem to be just the right size.

The three Sub-Equatet soldiers look over Aroon, Xolani, and Nikolaos’ Arctolean clothes. They seem to be just the right size.

The hair on the back of Nikolaos’ neck and forearms stands on end.

The Fornax soldier slashes at him with their pronged weapon. He throws himself to the side. The soldier stabs the space where his head rested milliseconds prior.

Xolani grabs her elbow and tries to throw her over his shoulder. She wheels around, catches his hand, and zaps him in the ribs. Xolani sprawls onto one of the seats. He shudders with each bolt that ripples over his parka.

Nikolaos stomps on the back of the Fornax soldier's boot. When she loses balance, Aroon stands up and kicks her in the solar plexus. The enemy doubles over, struggling to breathe. Aroon knees her in the face until she slumps to the ground.

The compartment lurches forward. The railway rattles under the combatants. The Cetus soldier seizes Aroon’s bad arm and slams her into one of the seats.

The Mensa roundhouse kicks Xolani in the ribs again. He crashes into the window.

The Cetus soldier takes out two tapered, iron clubs from a harness on his back. He flicks the switches on the handles. The club ignites, blinding white. The Cetus soldier pins Nikolaos with his foot. Searing heat radiates off his strange, molten weapon.

“Setback,” he sneers.

"Over here, hothead!" Aroon shouts.

She’s one to talk.

"You call that technique? My arm is a mess, and I could throw a better cross than you!"

The Cetus soldier swings at her. Aroon spins away, striking the side of his neck. Her foot hooks onto his arms, throwing him to the floor. The handles of the pyrotechnic clubs fall out of his clutches.

The Mensa soldier tries to sweep Aroon's leg.

Nikolaos hits the Mensa soldier in the temple with the hilt of the bayonet. She drops at his feet.

Nikolaos dusts the snow off the blade with the cuff of his sleeve. The steel reflects the three unconscious enemy soldiers and a stack of their confiscated weapons. He crouches beside the Fornax soldier.

Xolani taps him on the shoulder.

"Yeah, Nick," Aroon echoes, "don't be stupid.”

Nick? At least it’s better than dicrip. Nikolaos’ pulse pounds in his ears as he loosens the helmet from the soldier's head.

The Fornax soldier flinches.

Nikolaos whacks her over the head with the hilt of the bayonet, and she flops onto her side again.

She’s painted her respirator with white dots and streaks. Two scaled arms wing out from the central mouthpiece. Nikolaos points at the strange arms and shoots a quizzical look at his comrades.

"I've worn those during swimming drills—" Aroon crosses her arms “— but I don't know how they work."

"My mama told me they work the same way as the gills of a fish." Xolani reaches out and runs his fingertips along the scales. "When the water goes through the scales, it separates the oxygen from the liquid."

Nikolaos secures it over the lower half of his face, biting down on the plastic tongue. Clean, warm air filters into his windpipe when he inhales. He switches his ice-picked boots for the Fornax soldier's pair. He pries off her bulletproof armor.

The strange, black material is lighter than it looks. It fits around Nikolaos’ chest, but they're loose around his shoulder blades. He unbuckles the guards on her shins, knees, arms, and shoulders. He straps them over his limbs, and takes her canteen, cleaning off the mouthpiece with the hem of his shirt. He picks up her utility belt and wraps it around his waist.

Her trousers have inflatable bladders with a valve that can be connected to a cockpit and force blood to circulate when the G force increases. A fellow grounded pilot. The south isn’t manufacturing aircraft fast enough for all the child weapons they’re churning out. He stuffs the supplies from his backpack — including the thermos filled with rations — into her rucksack.

Nikolaos examines a pair of knives from the pile of weapons. The blades are serrated; several slots cut into the steel edge. He sheathes them into his new belt, right beside General Chiyou’s bayonet.

He slips his new rucksack over his shoulder and turns towards Aroon and Xolani.

"How do I look?" he signs.

"Like the enemy," Xolani says with a hard swallow.

"It makes my blood boil." Aroon winces, rubbing her knuckles, still bruised and bloodied.

Nikolaos forms both of his hands into a Y-shape, brings them down to hip level, and points them at Xolani and Aroon. "Now you."

Xolani ever-so-cautiously brings the Mensa soldier's grenade belt over his head to complete his get-up.

Aroon and Nikolaos give him plenty of space.

Aroon changes into the Cetus soldier's armor, since the Mensa's is too small for her. She examines the pair of clubs that almost took out Nikolaos. She flips the handles around in her hands, so the long, tapered pieces of iron act as shields for her forearms. She flips the switches on the inside of the handles. They burst into flames.

Nikolaos flails backwards into his seat.

"Shut it off!" Xolani shrieks. "Shut it off!"

May the sky have mercy! Nikolaos' hands shield his face.

Aroon fumbles with the handles again. The flames flicker away.

"What kind of clubs are those?" Xolani huffs, wiping the sweat off his forehead.

"Not clubs. Mai Sok San. I fought with them all the time when my grandfather taught me Krabi-krabong.” She plants her boot on the Cetus soldier’s chest. “This knucklehead wasn't even carrying them properly."

She juts her chin out toward the Fornax and the Mensa.

"Speaking of which, we should dispose of the soldiers."

Xolani offers her a roll of surgical tape.

"That material's not strong enough to tie them up with and we need to save it for later.”

Xolani's eyes widen.

"You wouldn't."

Aroon hits the emergency stop lever. She drags the Mensa soldier towards the window beside Nikolaos’ seat and cranks it open. A torrent of muggy, hot air hit my face. The temperature climbs higher and higher as they approach the equator. She pushes the subquate over the windowsill with her good arm. Xolani rushes over and peers through the opening.

"We're just going to leave them in the middle of the desert?"

"Affirmative.”

"All they have is the clothes on their backs. What about exposure, thirst, or starvation?”

"Xolani, they tried to kill us."

Nikolaos tears a page off his notepad and hands it to Xolani.

If we tie them up and leave them on the train someone else will find them. They'll turn us over to the Commandant. Then, we'll be captured and executed by firing squad. If we're lucky.

Xolani scratches at his neck. "And if we're unlucky?"

“Hyalocinated,” Aroon answers bluntly.

The three shuck off their winter gear. Aroon discards her Colchis jacket first. She brushes her fingers through the horsehair on her helmet, her fingers lingering on the metal before she lets it go.

Xolani unties his scarf, covering his scars with one hand and slowly holding it out with the other. The wool slips through his fingers as the burning wind carries it away.

Nikolaos holds his winter coat close to him. He swears he sees white flakes dotting the fur on the hood. Maybe from a snowball his kid brother made. He lets it fall out of his arms and through the window.

Nikolaos shoves the Fornax soldier out the window.

“Sorry,” he signs.

Xolani strolls over to the Mensa soldier.

"I can't do it–”

Aroon scoops up the Mensa soldier and dumps her out.

"I can.”

Nikolaos sets down a bundle of crackers on his lap. He rips open an aluminum packet containing some freeze-dried vegetables. They melt into a bland, chewy paste that sticks to the roof of his mouth when he tries to swallow it.

How could Cadmus eat this three times a day? Even though Achilles had an invulnerable stomach, they fed him better than this.

Aroon hasn’t eaten. Her eyes stay on the Mai Sok San lying at her feet. Nikolaos shakes the small bag containing the crackers.

“I’m not hungry.”

“I am,” Xolani says brightly. Nikolaos chucks the crackers at him. He squeaks and ducks from the flying snacks. They hit him square on the nose. Nikolaos stifles a laugh. Xolani snorts and chows down. “Thanks for the sympathy, Nikolaos."

Xolani adjusts the collar of his camouflage jacket, covering the scars on his neck. Aroon’s shoulders stiffen at the sight.

“Aroon,” Xolani asks quietly. “What’s going on?”

“I’m just thinking,” Aroon answers wearily.

“About…if the general would be proud of you —” Xolani cuts himself off. “Sorry, sorry. I need to shut up.”

“I'm thinking I left my father's dog tag at my house." She sits down next to us. "I'm thinking about my grandfather, too, and I understand why he held me back.” She props her elbow up on the windowsill and grimaces at the sudden motion. “He thought of me as too weak, and he thought right.” Her words sharpen as she stares at the bandages around her arm. “I should’ve listened to him.”

Nikolaos passes his notepad to her.

Your grandfather wasn’t without weakness either. He lost his co-pilot, Ao Guang, on the way back from the airstrike he led. The enemy shot him down from the sky because he didn’t fly low enough.

The paper crumples in her hands.

“Don’t kid around with me.”

Nikolaos shakes his head solemnly and flips to the next page for her.

He broke his leg on impact, not falling through the ice after a blaze of glory. He crawled out of the cockpit and cowered underwater as they captured his comrade. Our army dragged him back to base on a stretcher.

Aroon crosses her arms and sits back, embers of fury flashing across her eyes as it seeps in.

Nikolaos holds out the general’s bayonet to her.

"Keep it."

Xolani wipes the crumbs off his mouth.

“Uh, speaking of the south, we’re going to need some Sub-Equatet code names.”

“Call signs, not code names," Aroon interjects. "I learned about them during the Espionage unit at Colchis." She points at Nikolaos. "Write this down.”

Nikolaos flips to the next clean page of his notepad.

“Both Sub-Equatets and Arctoleans are familiar with legends and history. We teach both to train students to become informants,” Aroon explains. "However, the south doesn't borrow their call signs from myths. They take the surnames of historical figures."

"What if our code names aren’t in their records?" Xolani asks between more mouthfuls of saltines.

"They aren't assigned code names like in the north. They choose their own, and they don't put trackers in their weapons. Their insistence on freedom is an excellent chance to get lots of informants across the equator." She cracks a grin at that. "It’s thanks to those informants that we know what they call their Kerberos. Chimaera, because they figured out how to combine genetic material from three animals instead of two."

"Such as Livyatan," Xolani recalls. “Intelligence of a dolphin. Diving speed of a blue whale. Sonar of a sperm whale. It’s the one advantage they have over us in terms of war animals: aquatic species."

What would they need a whale for? Nikolaos writes to him.

“They should use them to deliver supplies, but most of them deliver bombs.”

“Speaking of aquatics, the Sub-Equatets don’t call the flood the Kheima. They call it the Red Tide for all the blood spilled. Salt and blood is also their battle cry. 'Salis et Sanguis.' Don’t talk about the sky bearing witness or they'll execute you by firing squad.”

Nikolaos underlines that three times.

“On top of that, the battle in question isn't the Neos Iliad; it’s the Third World War.” She holds up three fingers.

Xolani raises his hand.

“I, um, I came up with the code names—call signs.”

“You stuttering son of a gun. Already?”

“I, I name my parents’ Kerberos all the time, so, uh…”

“Go on,” Nikolaos signs.

“I’m kaSompisi.” He points to Aroon. “How about Naresuan? I don’t know if this is a myth or not, but he was a great fighter, right?”

“A myth? He was almost as great as my bpuu. After his father died, he took his place and won independence for the country. He founded the military power that led Siam to prosper for a century."

Xolani jabs a thumb in her direction.

“She’s Naresuan, then. I haven’t gotten to Nikolaos’s code name yet.”

Nikolaos taps Xolani on the shoulder. He spells out four letters. He knows his Baba would be even prouder of his choice than himself.

"W-I-E-N."

“Nikolaos is going to be 'Wien,'” Xolani echoed, reading it off the paper.

Aroon’s eyes narrow.

“Who's ‘Wien?’”

“Don’t ask me.”

Nobody important, Nikolaos thinks irritatedly. Only Noel Wien, the Arctic Ace, the first pilot to make a round-trip flight from the north to Asia, and the pioneer of Alaskan aviation!

The trip to the southeast spans seven hours. If Nikolaos sleeps now, it’ll be easier to adjust his circadian cycle to the time zone below the equator.

He keeps his hearing aid on, and he keeps a hand on the hilt of his bayonet. He won’t close his eyes without a weapon on him. Not after Helike and the Air Force Station.

He rests his head on his rucksack. The circular lights in the roof of the compartment stab at his heavy eyelids.

Aroon leans back on her new pyrotechnic Mai Sok San. Xolani curls up in a seat a few rows down. He tosses and turns, shivering from the cold air that leaked through the vehicle's windows.

A voice cuts through the silence.

"I’m-kaSompisi? Nick? Whoever's awake."

Nikolaos sits up and stares serrated daggers at Aroon's silhouette.

I am now.

"Uh-huh?" Xolani yawns.

"If we make it back to the north–” she shifts so she won’t be prodded by the handles of her weapons “–what would our code names be?"

"You go first," Xolani slurs.

"Wukong."

"Why the same as your father?"

The silence resurfaces.

“Oh,” Xolani clears his throat. “That’s why.”

"You go next, Lani."

"Nomkhubulwane.”

“Can I call you Nomnom?”

“Nomnom?” Xolani splutters. “She’s the governor of wild animals and the land. Show some respect!”

“Whatever you say, Nomnom.” Aroon nudges Nikolaos in the ribs with her foot. “Nick, what's yours?”

He won’t take his name from the Iliad. The north taught me to think of it as a story of camaraderie, but when he read it with his brother, he discovered only a story of the loss of comrades, and when Achilles finally found the strength to leave his tent and face the battlefield again; when he killed his great enemy Hector, he felt no triumph. He only mourned.

He takes his name from the Odyssey. A story, not without violence and struggle, but not without hope either. The sea may fight against him. Nature itself may try to hold him back, but he will bring himself and his brother home.

“O-D-Y-S-S-E-U-S.”