At three thousand six hundred meters altitude, the air was so thin it scraped the lungs like sandpaper, and smelled of a nauseating mixture of rancid camel sweat, dust, and vomit covered with blood specks.
Captain Ilya Rostov, of the Second Orenburg Cossack Regiment, adjusted the fur papakha over his eyes to protect himself from the blinding high mountain sun. He had spent two weeks in that stone hell, escorting what his men called 'The Death Caravan.'
Before him, the goat path twisted like a scar on the mountainside. One hundred Bactrian camels and fifty reinforced-axle carts creaked under a weight that defied the knowledge they had experienced over the last weeks. The wheels sank into gravel, groaning with each meter gained from the abyss.
"Captain," the sergeant croaked, approaching with a dirty handkerchief tied tightly over his mouth and nose. His eyes were red from irritation and fear. "Three more drivers fell this morning. The guides say the cargo is cursed by the Djinn. They say the lead boxes eat their life force."
Rostov spat in the dust. The saliva came out stained pink. He didn't feel well either; he had a metallic taste in his mouth, as if he were sucking an old coin.
"Curses don't exist, Sergeant," Rostov said, forcing his voice to sound firm. "Dysentery exists and altitude sickness exists."
But he knew he was lying. He had seen the men. Strong mountain men, accustomed to harshness, who suddenly started losing hair in clumps. Their gums bled for no reason. They vomited until dehydrated and their skin turned grayish.
The engineers sent by the Saint Petersburg Academy of Sciences, those pale men with thick glasses who traveled in the rear guard and never removed their rubber gloves, called it heavy metal toxicity. Locals called it 'Green Death,' though the rocks they transported were black as night.
"Give them water and leave them behind if they can't walk," Rostov ordered with a coldness that hurt his soul. "The cargo doesn't stop for anyone. We have to take this to the Osh railway station, then rest to walk to the capital. Afterwards, the cargo should arrive safely at the research departments."
The cargo.
Rostov looked with hatred at one of the carts passing beside him. It carried rough wooden crates, reinforced with iron corners. Inside each wooden crate was another sealed lead box. And inside the lead... stones.
Simple black stones. Pitchblende.
Rostov didn't understand why the Empire was spending a fortune and killing dozens of loyal men to extract rocks from a forgotten mine in the Fergana Valley. It wasn't gold. It wasn't silver. It wasn't anything a sensible man would want to possess. But the encrypted orders from Saint Petersburg, signed by Stolypin himself, were clear: [Absolute Priority. State Secret Level 1. Nobody looks inside the boxes under penalty of summary execution].
A sharp scream resonated so loudly that the wind's calm became stormy.
"Halt! Ambush!" Rostov drew his Nagant revolver and spurred his tired horse toward the vanguard.
The road was blocked. It wasn't a natural rock slide. It was a built barricade. And the men waiting behind the rocks weren't basmachi bandits with rusty muskets.
They were a small, disciplined, well-positioned group. They wore explorer clothing, colonial hats, and, most alarming, Lee-Enfield bolt-action rifles. The British Army's regulation weapon.
A man stepped forward, separating from cover with arrogant confidence.
"Good morning, Captain," the stranger said in fluent Russian but stained by an unmistakable accent. "I'm a... private collector. I've been told you're transporting Silk Road antiquities."
A spy. Probably an intelligence officer operating from British India, playing the Great Game. Or worse, a contractor from that phantom firm, which seemed to have eyes even on the roof of the world.
"This is the Tsar's personal property," Rostov barked, aiming his weapon. "Step aside or we'll open fire."
"Come now, Captain. Let's not insult our intelligence," the Englishman smiled, resting his rifle on the ground carelessly. "We know it's gold. The weight of the carts gives it away. Only gold weighs that much. My employers are willing to pay double what the Tsar pays you to look the other way. We only want ten crates. The rest is yours."
The Englishman made a discreet signal. On the upper ridges, armed silhouettes were outlined against the sky. Rostov calculated distances and angles. He was at a disadvantage. His men were sick and tired. If they fought, they would die, and the cargo would be lost.
But Rostov had an order. And he had a Cossack's fanatic loyalty.
"Alright," Rostov said, slowly lowering his weapon. "See the merchandise. If you want it, it's yours."
The Englishman smiled, triumphant. He believed all men had a price. He approached the nearest cart, pulling an iron crowbar from his backpack.
With a crunch of splintered wood, he broke the outer crate. Then, with visible effort, he lifted the heavy lead lid.
His smile vanished instantly.
Inside there were no shiny ingots with the imperial seal. There were irregular chunks of black, greasy, opaque ore that seemed to absorb the mountain sunlight.
The Englishman extended his hand, confused. He removed his leather glove. He touched one of the stones.
It was warm. Hot, even, radiating a kind of heat despite the ten degrees below zero of the environment.
"What the hell is this?" the spy asked, looking at his hand stained with black dust. "Coal? Are you pulling my leg, Captain?"
"It's not coal," Rostov said.
And fired.
The Nagant shot hit the Englishman in the center of his chest, piercing his explorer jacket.
Before the body touched the ground, Rostov's Cossacks, who had taken advantage of the distraction to silently flank through the upper rocks, opened fire with their carbines. There wasn't a great battle; yes, it was a quick execution. The British shooters fell rolling down the slope before they could use their Lee-Enfields.
Rostov dismounted and approached the spy leader's corpse. The man had died with his hand still dirty with radioactive dust, with an expression of surprise frozen on his face.
"Sergeant," Rostov called, holstering his weapon. "Burn the bodies. With gasoline. I don't want anyone to find them."
"And the Englishman, sir?"
"Bury him deep. And bring the engineers," Rostov ordered, looking at the open crate with superstitious fear. "Have them seal this damned crate again. And bring alcohol. Wash your hands. Wash them until they bleed."
Rostov looked at the caravan extending behind him. Several tons of ore they had called uranium, of high purity. Enough, according to the crazy rumors from Saint Petersburg engineers, to "make the sea boil." Rostov didn't believe it. He only saw stones that killed whoever touched them and attracted London's vultures.
But the scientists wanted them. And Captain Ilya Rostov would deliver them to the Osh train station, even if he had to pave the road with his own men's bones.
"Forward march!" he shouted, his voice breaking from coughing. "Whoever stops stays behind!"
The death caravan set into motion again, slowly descending toward the plains.
A/N: If you've enjoyed this story and want to read ahead, I have more chapters available on my Patreon at patreon.com/Nemryz. Your support helps me continue writing and translating this alternate history epic. Thank you for reading!