"Get on board, young man! If we want to reach Alyaska by nightfall, we need to set sail!"
A fishing boat was moored to an old pier. Emin stepped onto the main deck. He shuddered as he gazed at the desolate shore shrouded in early-morning mist. They were the only souls there. He watched the old fisherman loosen the mooring line and toss it aboard, then gesture for him to follow up the ladder to the wheelhouse.
It was still cold inside, but at least they were sheltered from the biting ocean wind. Emin set his backpack in a corner and moved closer to the clear viewport, studying the thick haze hanging over the water.
"It'll warm up soon. Have you eaten? I have coffee and sandwiches."
Emin had little appetite at such an early hour, but he didn't want to offend the old man. He accepted the sandwich gratefully. The fisherman started the engine, and the old vessel stirred from its foggy slumber. He let it drift on the gentle swell until the bow pointed toward their distant destination. Somewhere beyond the Vitus Strait, hidden behind veils of cloud and mist, lay Alyaska — a place Emin had never visited, a place he knew almost nothing about except that it had once belonged to the Scythe Empire. For three centuries it had been in Gomorian hands. In other words, enemy territory.
"Mohammed. Haven't heard that name around here in a while. Foreign guests don't come this far. Even Scythes rarely travel so deep. Few young people either. Just me and a handful of others. Our life is too monotonous and remote for you city folk."
"It's quiet. I like that."
"True enough. But don't let the first impression fool you. This town might still surprise you."
"Tell me."
"Refugees from Alyaska. Mostly desperate families fleeing poverty in Gomora. The Vitus Strait is their only escape route, but not everyone survives the crossing. They use whatever vessels they can find — some in solid speedboats, others brave enough to row. Sometimes they run out of fuel or get caught in storms. Lately I've been afraid to walk the coast, worried I'll find another body washed ashore. Poor souls. No one deserves to live or die like that. Scythia should take Alyaska back, too."
"What happens to the refugees?"
"They're sent to the big cities. There is work and shelter for them there. One family decided to stay with us, though. Husband and wife, no children. He's a fisherman and found work here. His wife is a good woman — she helps in the bakery."
"Have any tried to cross back over the Vitus Strait?"
"You mean Alyaskans returning home?"
"Not only them. Right now, many war criminals and traitors are trying to flee justice…"
"No. Once they reach our shores, they forget Gomora like a bad dream. Besides, it's easier and safer for traitors to head for Baltica than to cross the whole Scythe Empire just to reach Cape Wëlen. You're the first person who's asked me to take him to the other side."
"You think I'm a traitor?"
"Young man, I know a traitor when I see one. Still, I'm curious. What draws you to Alyaska?"
"A friend," Emin lied. "I've lost contact with him. Someone told me he was in North-Gomora."
"Bring your friend back if you can. Decent people don't belong there. Though I've heard the Natives are taking their land back, so maybe things will improve one day."
"I will," Emin replied curtly.
"I suggest you get some sleep. It'll be a long day. I don't know if you have somewhere to go once we arrive, but it's a fair distance from Cape Cymru to civilisation. You can rest downstairs in the kitchen."
Emin agreed. He took his backpack and left the wheelhouse. He paused at the handrail. The mist hadn't lifted. He knew little about navigation, but the fisherman seemed unconcerned, confidently guiding the vessel through the turbid water. Emin had no clear idea what awaited him on the other side. No one expected his arrival — that was an advantage — but it also meant he would be entirely alone once he landed. He would have to cross all of Alyaska to reach North-Gomora, and from there find his way to the man he had lost contact with.
Emin descended the ladder and went straight to the small, surprisingly comfortable kitchen. Fatigue washed over him the moment he sat on the bench. He hadn't slept or truly relaxed in months. Only now did he realise how tightly wound his body had become. Right after the end of the Special Military Operation, he and his team had thrown themselves into hunting war criminals and traitors. His people were scattered across the West. He could have monitored them from afar, but he had chosen to take on the most difficult and dangerous mission himself: eliminating Vladko Shut.
Emin opened his backpack and reached into a hidden pocket. Inside were passports, foreign currency, a pistol, and a large manila envelope. The envelope contained several high-resolution photographs of a man and a woman in various settings. One showed them walking through a park under an umbrella. Another captured the man holding a door for the woman at night, his face partly in shadow. But the most telling image was taken through the window of a restaurant: both faces turned clearly toward the lens. There was no doubt who the man was.
It was Vladko Shut. The woman was a Borderland prostitute living and working in North-Gomora.
Surprisingly, it hadn't taken much effort to obtain the pictures or locate Shut. After Borderland's capitulation, Vladko and his closest lieutenants had vanished. No one knew where they were hiding. Most assumed they had fled to the West, but they had erased their tracks well. Shut would have disappeared completely had it not been for Emin's unrelenting determination.
It was no secret that Vladko was a drug addict. Emin had quickly found his dealer, who broke under intense pressure and the threat of smashed fingers. The man admitted he had stopped supplying Shut with cocaine a week after the fall of Borderland because of unpaid debts. He had asked around and learned that Shut had fled to Gomora. He didn't know the exact location, but he had connections.
From that moment Emin had stayed close to the dealer. The criminal network eventually led to someone who knew where the fugitive was hiding: a city in North-Gomora near the Alyaskan border. That contact had followed Shut, noted his routines, identified his associates, and provided photographic evidence. Shut's wife and children weren't with him. To ease his loneliness in exile, he had taken up with a local prostitute.
Emin had memorised every detail. He had even studied the streets Shut frequented on street-view maps. After seeing the restaurant photograph, there was no longer any doubt. Vladko Shut was on the other side of the ocean. Emin had left for North-Gomora immediately.
There were no regular flights, and he lacked the special permit required for such travel. Obtaining one through official channels would have taken too long. The only alternative route was the dangerous passage through Alyaska — a path rarely used since the Fall of Gomora.
Blinded by rage and determination, Emin had travelled to the easternmost point of the Scythe Empire: Cape Wëlen. There he met Fjodr, the fisherman who agreed to take him across the Vitus Strait. Emin had expected complications, perhaps even police involvement, but nothing of the sort occurred. He had used his undercover name, Mohammed. The fact that Fjodr raised no alarm about a stranger asking to be taken to enemy territory was slightly unsettling, yet something about the old man made Emin lower his guard. He felt he could trust him.
Emin hadn't noticed himself falling asleep while reflecting on everything that had led him to Cape Wëlen. The silence of the kitchen, the absence of voices, and the gentle rocking of the waves lulled him into the deepest sleep he had enjoyed in months. He had trained himself to remain alert even in rest, but the unusual tranquillity nearly let him forget his constant vigilance. Occasionally he woke, went up to the bridge to speak with Fjodr, or walked the deck drinking tea. The next time he stirred, Fjodr was gently shaking his shoulder.
"We've reached Alyaska."
The night was chilly and eerily still. The boat was tied to a partly collapsed, rotting pier. The only light came from the wheelhouse and was quickly swallowed by the menacing darkness of Cape Cymru. To Emin it felt as though they had arrived on a deserted island in the middle of the Silent Ocean. All life seemed to have fled this place.
He stepped cautiously onto the pier. The old wooden beams swayed beneath his weight.
"Watch your step, Mohammed! This pier will collapse soon. Here, take this," the fisherman handed him a plastic bag of food. Emin protested, knowing Fjodr needed supplies for the return journey.
"Please, take it. I have enough for the trip back. I feel bad leaving you here like this."
Emin thanked him for his kindness. Fjodr seemed relieved that Mohammed would at least have something to eat in the wild Alyaskan woods.
"I'll let you know when to pick me up." Emin shook the old man's hand firmly and disappeared into the night.
Emin pushed deep into the endless labyrinth of the Alyaskan woods. He moved without rest, maintaining a steady pace regardless of obstacles. He carried no maps or compass. He trusted his instincts. He wasn't heading toward a fixed destination — the destination could change. He was moving toward a goal: Vladko Shut. No matter where the clown ran or hid, Emin would find him. But he needed transport. The sooner he reached civilisation, the better.
To his surprise, he soon came upon a modern three-storey log house with an underground garage, motion-sensor lights, and stairs leading to a porch. He climbed the steps and knocked. No answer. The house appeared empty. He circled it, looking for another way in.
The garage door was open. The last person to leave had been in a hurry; fresh tyre tracks marked the concrete. Inside, covered by a rain sheet, stood a motorcycle. Emin closed the garage door manually — the electric lock was broken — to avoid drawing attention from any other travellers.
The house was well furnished and surprisingly clean despite being abandoned. The food in the fridge had spoiled after the power was cut. None of the lights worked. The bedrooms on the second floor were in disarray, clothes and shoes scattered as if someone had frantically searched the wardrobes. One room was locked, which immediately piqued Emin's curiosity. He forced the door open.
The room had been barricaded from inside. It took considerable effort to move the heavy antique oak couch blocking the entrance. When he finally succeeded, the stench hit him — the familiar, sickening smell of death he remembered from the Library.
In the centre of the study, a man hung from a rope tied to the chandelier. His grey skin and the advanced state of decay left no doubt how long he had been there. An overturned chair lay beneath his feet. The sight didn't shock Emin; he had seen far worse. Holding his breath, he opened the windows to let in fresh air.
On the desk he found the man's suicide note to his wife, thanking her and asking for forgiveness, along with a stack of unpaid bills and a farewell letter from her saying she was leaving and taking the children because he was a failure who could no longer provide.
Emin considered burying the body behind the house but changed his mind. Sooner or later the wife would return and discover the consequences of her departure. He almost wished he could be there to see her face.
He pushed the heavy couch against the wall, closed the door, and decided to stay the night despite the dead man upstairs.
At daybreak he left on the motorcycle. There was enough fuel to reach the next town. As he rode, he took in the scenery of Alyaska, but he found no beauty in it. The decaying buildings, crumbling infrastructure, and pervasive sense of hopelessness disturbed him. If Scythia ever reclaimed Alyaska, it would require decades and vast resources to make it habitable again. There were neglected regions in the Scythe Empire, too, but something about Alyaska felt uniquely bleak and forsaken. Even the usually fearless Emin couldn't wait to leave it behind.
After two hours he reached a small town and refuelled. As in the rest of Gomora, local owners set prices arbitrarily; there was no central authority to regulate them. Emin had braced himself for hostility, but the stereotype proved false. People struggling to survive were grateful for any paying customer, regardless of origin.
The roadhouse waiter gave him directions for the safest routes. The journey ahead was long, and the closer one got to North-Gomora, the riskier it became. The man even tried to persuade Emin to turn back or stay in town.
After that stop, Emin rode until darkness fell. He was grateful for the sleep he had managed on the boat and in the dead man's house, because there would be no rest in any motel.
He rented the cheapest room. The entire place was cheap in every sense: no outdoor lighting, no heating, a door that wouldn't close properly, and a lock that couldn't be trusted. Emin barricaded the entrance with a drawer, sat on the floor with his back against the wall facing the door, and kept his pistol close. The waiter had been right — the farther from Cape Cymru, the more dangerous it became. All night he heard drunken shouting and fights outside. He had hidden the motorcycle in the bushes; to his relief, it was untouched when he left at dawn.
After two days on the road, he reached the border of North-Gomora. He had made several stops, and for the most part nothing unusual occurred. Only once, at a roadside inn, had he been forced to use force. The innkeeper, in a foul mood because business was bad, had taken exception to his first guest in weeks being a Musulman staying only one night. He hurled racial slurs and told Emin to leave. When Emin turned to go, the man mistook his calm for weakness and pushed him. Emin's fist connected with the innkeeper's face before the man could react. He tied and gagged the unconscious owner, locked him in a cupboard, and spent the night in the man's own room, which had heating, a fridge, and a working television.
As he waited at the border to enter North-Gomora, anxiety tightened in his chest. He had noticed a marked change in attitude toward strangers — especially Musulmans — the deeper he travelled into the country. Several vehicles with dark-skinned occupants had been pulled aside for thorough inspection. Emin sighed. He had always hated North-Gomora even more than the former United States. Western propaganda had once painted North-Gomorians as polite and open-minded, a multicultural haven. The truth was far uglier. They were the descendants of convicts and outcasts shipped from the Old World. The blood of their ancestors still ran strong.
His identity documents and driver's licence wouldn't raise immediate suspicion — the Secret Services had seen to that — but if anyone ran the motorcycle's plates, he would be in trouble. The databases were old and patchy, but border control still had access to some of them. The dead man whose motorcycle he now rode had been old enough to be registered before the Fall of Gomora. Emin was taking a significant risk.
The car ahead was waved through. It was his turn. Just as the guard reached for his papers, loud shouts erupted from the area where unwanted travellers were held. A Musulman man was screaming about discrimination and his rights. He grew more aggressive with every dismissive response from the armoured guards. One guard stepped forward and struck him in the face with the butt of his rifle. Blood flowed. The smell and the brutality ignited the other foreigners. They rose as one, fists clenched, shouting insults. Even some white drivers stepped out of their cars to join the fray. Officers from the offices and checkpoints rushed to support their colleagues, leaving only one guard per queue.
The young officer handling Emin's documents was distracted by the chaos. Agitated, he barely glanced at the papers before waving Emin through.
Once the motorcycle had carried him a safe distance from the border, Emin felt as though half his mission was already complete. Finding Vladko Shut was now only a matter of time.
He could have contacted their local informant, but he chose not to. If the man had sold out Vladko to the Scythes, he could just as easily sell out Emin to Vladko or the Borderland mafia that infested the Yukunah region. Their criminal network had operated in North-Gomora since the Fall of the Union, though its influence had declined with the Native Revolt. The Natives were reclaiming their lands and focusing their efforts on Central-Gomora. The Borderlanders kept a low profile, waiting to see how the conflict would resolve.
Emin was riding straight into the lion's den. No one could know of his presence. Besides, he had studied the streets and buildings Vladko frequented so thoroughly on maps that he felt he already knew the city. When he finally reached the Yukunah region and located the district in question, he navigated it with ease.
He rented a room in the same rundown hotel where Vladko and his prostitute were staying. He didn't want to attract attention by wandering the corridors. As the only Musulman in the building, he already stood out. He locked himself in his room and stepped onto the narrow balcony. According to the floor plan, his room was directly below Vladko's.
The sign outside claimed it was a three-star hotel, but in post-Fall Gomora such ratings meant nothing. The building had clearly once been a low-income apartment block. The new owner had made minimal renovations. The ceilings were low, and the balconies hung so close that the tall Emin could reach up and grip the concrete edge of the one above. With his regular training, pulling himself up and climbing over the railing would be straightforward.
He forced the door of the upper room and slipped inside. A strange smell hung in the air — cheap perfume, sweat, and stale clothing. They were out. Emin knew where they were but decided to wait. Traces of powder were visible on the table, drawers, and nightstands. Good old Vladko, he thought.
In the closet he found a bag of Gomorian cash, several suits, shoes, crumpled ties, and the umbrella he recognised from the photographs.
A pistol lay under the pillow. Emin removed the magazine, emptied it, and replaced it. He found a laptop, but it was password protected. There were no papers or letters, but he would make sure Vladko told him where he kept important correspondence before he died.
Emin made space in the closet and hid inside, waiting for the final act.
They returned extremely late and extremely drunk. The prostitute tripped over the threshold. They both cackled as Vladko helped her up. An angry female voice shouted from the corridor for them to be quiet. The prostitute yelled obscenities back and slammed the door. Vladko laughed like an idiot as he followed her to the bathroom. They stayed there a long time. Emin grew impatient.
After showering and snorting drugs straight from the marble floor, they finally staggered back to the bed. The woman climbed on top of Vladko and began massaging his chest, making plans for the next day and listing places she wanted to visit. Vladko agreed eagerly, gripping her hips and whispering that he would take her anywhere as long as she kept fucking him.
Emin grew tired of the filth. He stepped out of the shadows.
"You have a wife and children, you son of a bitch!"
The prostitute screamed when she saw the dark figure. In her panic she fell to the floor. Vladko lunged for the gun under the pillow, aimed it at Emin, and pulled the trigger.
"I removed the bullets."
"Who the fuck are you? What do you want?"
"Your life. It's time to pay for all the evil you've done, you clown!"
"What? No! You think I'm Vladko? I'm not! Don't shoot! Look at me!"
It was dark in the room. Only their silhouettes were visible in the streetlight, their faces unclear. Emin hated to admit it, but doubt crept in the moment the man spoke. Something in the voice was wrong — harsher, raspier. Keeping them at gunpoint, Emin moved to the bathroom door and switched on the light.
He could scarcely believe his eyes. The man who looked and sounded like Vladko Shut wasn't Vladko Shut at all. The resemblance was uncanny, but it wasn't him. This was a decoy, perhaps even a trap. He had been right not to contact the informant. If he had, they would have been waiting for him. That was why obtaining the pictures, and information had been so easy. The real Vladko was hiding elsewhere.
Emin kept his face impassive and his gun steady.
"What's your name?" he demanded.
"I'm Stepan. I'm just an actor. They paid me to pretend I was him."
"Who paid you?"
"I don't know! They were from the local Borderland mob. They gave me the bag and instructions, saying Vladko and Borderland needed me. I had no choice! I don't even consider myself a Borderlander! I hate them!"
"Shut up, Stepan! Fucking coward!" the prostitute spat. "And you — you nasty Scythian pig! Breaking in here and almost killing us! So typical! All you Scythes are murderers! Wait until the mob finds out. I'll ask to cut off your balls myself. You won't die until you watch your family butchered, you —"
A suppressed shot ended her tirade. She slumped back against the wall, a small red hole in the centre of her forehead. Stepan turned deathly pale and struggled to breathe as he stared at the dead woman.
"Why did you do that?" he stammered.
"I released her from her misery. Being a whore is one thing. Selling herself to the enemy is another. Though you Borderlanders were never squeamish about such things."
"Look, man, I don't care! She only wanted my money. You can have it — it's in the closet. Just don't kill me!"
"That would be a waste of the time and effort it took me to get here. You'll live — but only if I allow it. You can still be useful. Get dressed. We're leaving."
"Where are we going?" he whispered.
"First, you'll take me to the people who hired you."
"Oh, hell no! You have no idea who they are! They're animals! They'll kill us both!"
"You have no idea who I am. Now move."
Stepan dressed hurriedly, glancing fearfully over his shoulder. Emin watched him while formulating a new plan. First, he would find the contact who had deliberately fed them false information and teach him a lesson for wasting their time. Then, with Stepan's help, he would track down the mobsters who had hired the actor and extract every piece of information they possessed. He needed to know who their client was. After that, they would return to the Scythe Empire — together with Stepan.
There was too much to process to see the full picture yet, but Stepan's remarkable resemblance to Vladko was an undeniable asset in the fight against Shut's former allies and benefactors. Emin had lost valuable time, but he would soon discover where the cocaine clown was hiding. The destination didn't matter. If necessary, he would travel the world to find him.