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  The Bringer of Good Tidings is mentioned several times in the Qur’an. I think I’m going to retch. Religious crap! What else would the Bringer of Good Tidings be, if not some religious propaganda?

  Fuck, I really should have connected the dots earlier. When I was a prisoner of the BSA, Erik shoved his so-called holy books down my throat, expecting me to learn them by heart. But I was terrified of what he might do next, what punishment and torture I might have to endure if I couldn’t rattle down text that never made any sense to me, too terrified to learn, to think. Busy with escape plans and my own fears, I never tried to understand what he was trying to teach me.

  Looks like I was right all along. I’d been suspicious of Erik from the first time I heard this “good tidings” tale. But… Something never fit. Something was always off.

  And still is.

  The Bringer of Good Tidings sent a woman with hair the colour of flame and skin as scarred as a battlefield to free humanity.

  Why would Erik spread this among hunter tribes? And how? What would the BSA be hoping to accomplish by motivating people to idolise me?

  Ah, right. Erik was planning to use me as a girl mascot. Put me up in some pseudo-leader position to draw more women to the BSA, because the Brothers and Sisters of the Apocalypse need fresh meat. They’re all rapists, and everyone knows it. As if people would be stupid enough to believe propaganda and ignore their own experience.

  Maybe they are stupid enough.

  But free humanity? If there’s one thing humanity needs to be freed of, it’s the BSA.

  No, I can’t see Erik spreading this tale. I’m missing something here. I have the feeling it’s staring me smack in the face, and I’m too blind to catch it.

  I skim chunks of text about the Bringer of Good Tidings and learn that he’s the Prophet Muhammad, sent by Allah to give glad tidings and warn all mankind. But of what? I find a lot of “if you don’t worship Him, you’ll be punished” crap. There’s nothing new here. I could cut these sections out and paste them into the Bible, and no one would notice the difference.

  There’s even a list of other names used for Muhammad. I snort. He was called “The Model of Conduct” and “The Perfect Man.” Yeah. Sure. Women are never that. In these shit pamphlets, women are never persons to look up to, but chattel a man can steal, trade, rape or beat to a pulp.

  This is what the BSA is using: fiction books that are more than two millennia old. I wouldn’t be surprised if Erik started to call himself “Prophet” sometime soon. I freeze when I find Muhammad’s other names: the Bearer of Good Tidings, the Announcer — al-Mubashir, al-Bashir.

  Al-Bashir.

  I swallow.

  My knuckles come down on my mouth with too much force. The taste of blood spreads on my tongue as I whisper Runner’s childhood name, ‘Basheer.’

  My brain stutters, unable to process the new information because it’s just too unbelievable…yet…shockingly logical.

  My eyes squeeze shut when I think of Runner whispering poetry across my skin: I grew up in the desert. I love it. It’s such a beautiful place. I love the sand, the wild landscape scarred by countless battles, the sunsets.

  The scarred landscape was my skin. The sunset, my hair. If Runner had wanted to let me — and only me — know who’s spreading this tale, he’d use the name he told no one else. The name he’d been given by his mother. A name he’d kept until the day the BSA killed his tribe and his family.

  Basheer, the Bringer of Good Tidings.

  There was never a reason for Erik to spread propaganda that would motivate people to help me. Runner, though, had every reason.

  Skin as scarred as a battlefield. Runner’s words on the day I left him to die.

  And suddenly, the whole thing makes sense.

  The Bringer of Good Tidings sent a woman with hair the colour of flames and skin as scarred as a battlefield to free humanity. She is the spark. The people are the force.

  Runner gave his life and this final gift to me. He stayed in Taiwan to radio this tale out into the world. To help me survive and raise a shitstorm. All for the tiny chance the tale would spread and I’d be able to make my escape. He was a strategist, an expert in the art of war. Posturing often decides a battle before it even begins. And propaganda plays a big part in it.

  I don’t need to shut my eyes to see him hunched over the mic, repeating the tale over and over and over again. Hoping I would make it.

  I cannot fathom what made him so sure I’d survive the BSA when no one else ever had. Did Runner even ask the Sequencers to evacuate him? He must have. He couldn’t have chosen that ugly radiation death just to…

  He couldn’t have…

  Choking, I press my face into the crook of my arm.

  Eight

  Katvar is still in bed when the heavy sky faintly blushes. He’s tossing and turning, but asleep. I move our few things to the airplane, free the wheels and nose ski of ice, then return to our hut. The dogs draw back when they see me stomping through the snow.

  I push open the entrance and kneel at Katvar’s side. It worries me that he’s still not up. ‘Hey,’ I say softly, and touch his cheek.

  He cracks open his eyes, scrunches up his face, and rolls over to retch in the snow.

  Ice hits my stomach. ‘Is…is your head hurting?’

  He grunts and claws at his temples. That’s a yes.

  I unwrap the bandage. He tries to hold still, but pain and nausea send shivers through his body. His arm is oddly stiff. I try not to dwell too much on what that could mean. I scrape a few handfuls of snow from the walls of our hut and hold them to his wound. With a hoarse cry, he lashes out, pushing me away — an awkward and jerky movement that seems disconnected from his body.

  ‘Sorry,’ he croaks. ‘Didn’t…’ Gnashing his teeth, he rolls off the bed and presses his face to the ground. Snow muffles his groans of pain.

  My mind disconnects itself from my frantic heart, and calculates options and outcomes. My calm hands untie our travel package, find the MedKit, and pull out a syringe and a small bottle of painkiller. I pull down Katvar’s collar to expose the muscles of his neck and shoulder, swipe disinfectant over his skin, and inject ten milligrams of morphine. I don’t know if morphine can be given intramuscularly, but the label on the bottle lists a maximum dose. So that’s what he’s getting. For now.

  With my hand on the back of his neck, I wait and watch. Gradually, his breath becomes less laboured.

  ‘Does it help?’ I whisper.

  He nods once.

  ‘Good. We’re leaving now.’ Before he can protest, I flip him around, grab him by his armpits, and lug him to the entrance of our hut. I smash the door with my heel and move the bits of compacted snow aside. The dogs go crazy as they spot their chief.

  I dig our sled out of a snow drift, drag Katvar up unto it, and fetch his furs to cover him. My gaze pauses on the large package that’s supposed to stay behind. It contains the ultrasound scanner.

  More weight yet, but it might end up saving Katvar’s life. I fetch the small machine and rewrap our packages, then tie the frantic dogs to the sled and give them the go signal.

  The sled jumps forward. The dogs and I kick up mushy snow as we race to the aircraft that’s only a couple of minutes away. The ice anchor goes in first, then it’s unleashing the dogs and tying their lines to the nose gear strut. But they don’t want to go where I want them to go. Their bodies point toward Katvar. Balto stands in his harness, yapping. They don’t even hear what I’m shouting.

  Cursing, I push the sled with Katvar ten, twelve steps ahead of the aircraft to line up the dogs. They pull without me needing to tell them to. But the machine doesn’t move.

  I run back to the hut and grab my axe, then chip away at the ice that’s blocking the wheels and ski. Still nothing. Tears of fury and despair curse down my face. I jam the head of the axe into the ice. Using the axe as a lever, I push at one of the wheels. A creak and the thing begins to move. I wipe snot off my nose and keep p
ushing, grab the whip that Katvar uses only to tap at his dogs to direct them left or right, and smack the animals’ backsides. They yelp and jump, pulling harder. Centimetre by agonising centimetre, the aircraft moves.

  When we finally reach Katvar, my throat burns from cursing.

  ‘You okay?’ I ask.

  His eyes tremble in their sockets. He blinks at me sluggishly and works his jaw as though to speak.

  ‘Hang in there. We’re nearly ready to take off,’ I lie.

  I pull him farther out, baiting his dogs. My underwear is soaked and plastered to my skin, my arms hurt from hacking and pushing, from whipping the dogs. My legs are rubber. I can’t give up now. We’re so close.

  Again, I push Katvar further out, and again the dogs and I pull, push, shout, bark. My knees wobble, my whole body is a wreck, and I have no clue where I’m getting the strength from to move eight hundred kilograms through jumbled ice with only three dogs and my own skeleton.

  But we make it. We make it.

  Can I have a wheelbarrow-sized serving of buttered string beans, with dumplings, and roasted ham, swimming in its own fat, and — if it’s not too much to ask — strawberries for dessert?

  I land face first in the snow. Saliva fills my mouth. What the hell was that? Hallucination? Fuck, I hope not. Touching my head, I push myself up. What was I supposed to do next? Right, release the dogs, move Katvar into the machine. Maybe moving him first, shut the door, and then untie the dogs might be better?

  I’d be happy with a slice of dry bread, though. Doesn’t have to have ham.

  I slap my face and get to work. Dragging him to the machine, I try to wake him. We collapse by the door, and I’m openly sobbing now. I’ve nothing left in me. Moving my fingers is too much, keeping my eyes open is…

  ‘Shut up, Micka!’ I scold myself. ‘Self-pity won’t get you anywhere.’

  It can’t be helped. I tap Katvar hard on his chest. ‘You need to stand up!’

  His lids flutter and his eyes don’t seem to focus on anything. He reaches out and misses me by a generous measure.

  ‘I’ll get you to a hospital. Alta has a hydropower plant, and they’ll have a hospital, I’m sure. And good physicians.’ I’m babbling on and on, as we crawl up the three steps and into the belly of the aircraft. Breathing heavily, I rest my head on Katvar’s chest.

  ‘Get your things, wrap him up, untie the dogs, start the engines,’ I mutter to myself. Saying the words helps to make my legs move.

  The bohemian villages are at twelve per cent. Three per cent more than a few days ago. I squeeze my ass into the flimsy hammock seat I fashioned from twine and strips of reindeer skin. There are no buckles. A hard landing could kill us.

  No time to think about that.

  I start the engines. Their sputtering drowns out the barking and yapping of the dogs. Automatic takeoff procedure is engaged; I have to force myself not to grab the yoke. I want to pull at it with all my might. Make it race toward the sun and then, Alta. And I’m scared as all hell of relinquishing control to a computer.

  On a display I watch numbers and letters appear. Temperature, wind force, direction. Precipitation and ISO intensity.

  “Battery charge critical,” it tells me.

  No kidding.

  “Fuel conservation activated.”

  ‘Why wasn’t that in your manual?’ I squeak. But the computer won’t enlighten me. Bitch.

  “Flaps: 5°. Calculating required takeoff distance.”

  I stuff an index finger into my mouth and chew on the nail.

  “1340 meters takeoff distance. Proceed with fuel conservation takeoff? Yes (recommended) / No”

  I tap yes, because, duh. The ice is smooth and we have a shitload of space. Vibrations rattle the plane and I’m sweating again. Rubbing my palms on my thighs, I cast a quick glance over my shoulder. A small cloud of breath hovers over Katvar’s mouth. I tear my attention back to the controls. We’re speeding up. The bohemian villages are at nine per cent.

  Fuck.

  “Battery charge critical.”

  My hand is poised above the yoke. I can’t not do anything. Can’t let a machine decide whether or not we’re going to kick the bucket.

  The wheels detach from the ice. We’re climbing! I nearly piss my pants laughing. But it’s too early to feel relieved. The hard part is happening now. We’re up in the air and the batteries are at…four per cent.

  “Battery charge critical.”

  ‘Shut the fuck up! I’m not blind!’

  The cloud cover is near. So near. One millimetre from the yoke, I curl my fingers to a fist.

  That’s when the bleeping concert of doom begins. “Battery charge critical. Battery charge critical.”

  At three per cent, I grab the yoke and pull. The engines whine. The clouds swallow us.

  Everything bleeps and flashes red, urging me to initiate emergency landing procedure immediately.

  I press “override.”

  One per cent.

  We are floating in white cotton.

  Behind me, Katvar begins to scream.

  Nine

  At our current speed and headwind, it will take an hour to reach the Norwegian coast. Never has an hour been so agonisingly long. It feels like a lifetime. Excursions to the cockpit to check course and refuelling procedure are kept to a minimum. I hold Katvar gently as he claws at me. Tranquillise him with morphine when he hyperventilates. I slap his cheeks and massage his limbs when the morphine slows his breathing too much.

  His eyes flutter open. He tries a smile and my heart soars. I kiss his lips. That’s when he starts seizing. His face, his whole body contorts in a paroxysm.

  I know seizures. My brother had them. Died from one. The term “brain damage” hits my mind like a brick, carrying flavours of unripe raspberries and green leaves to my palate.

  I guess I’ve known for days. I just…never wanted to know.

  That’s when I do something I’d never have dreamed in less dire circumstances: I switch on the emergency comm and broadcast our position. ‘Mayday, mayday! Small solar aircraft needs to… I’m… I… Fuck! Whoever is listening, I need a doctor. My friend has a head injury and… He’s having seizures. I think he’s dying! I need a—’

  ‘Small solar aircraft, this is Alta tower. What’s your position?’ a voice as furry as a bear’s butthole answers.

  A sob of relief burst from my mouth. ‘About fifty kilometres north of Alta.’

  ‘Small solar aircraft, can you specify?’

  ‘My GPS isn’t working!’ I blurt out, trying to sound surprised at the fact.

  ‘Please squawk ident.’

  ‘You want me to…squawk?’

  He clears his throat. ‘Your injured friend is the pilot of this plane?’

  Brilliant solution! I don’t even have to think about it before saying, ‘Yes! I have no idea what I’m doing, so…’

  ‘Copy that,’ the bastard says cooly. ‘Please press the ident button on your transponder.’

  I find it and jab it with my thumb.

  A long moment later, he says, ‘Small solar aircraft, we have you on our radar. Turn right to one niner zero. Descend to three thousand four hundred. Speed one seven zero.’

  For a second, I’m speechless. ‘Can you repeat that in English?’

  ‘Turn to the right until your compass shows one hundred ninety degrees. Slow down to one hundred seventy knots, and go down to three thousand four hundred feet altitude.’ Spoken like he’s announcing the weather.

  As I fumble with the yoke, my shitty hammock seat swings and nearly tips me out, but after several minutes Bear Butt says, ‘Looking good. Hold that. You said your pilot is injured. May I ask your names and where you’re from?’

  In my panic, I almost blurt out “Svalbard.” But nothing good can come from everyone on the frequency knowing it’s Katvar and me who blew up the satellite network. ‘We’re coming from Greenland. There was an attack. The BSA shot my Sequencer. His name is Ben. I’m his apprentice, S
andra. A bullet grazed his head and I think something inside is damaged. He’s having seizures. He needs a doctor. Can you get us a doctor? We can…pay.’

  There’s silence. Seconds tick by. I chew the inside of my cheeks to shreds. A long time ago, Sandra was my lover for one night. I’d almost forgotten her. Ben, though… Ben was my friend. The BSA shot down his solar plane, burning him and his apprentice Yi-Ting alive. And Yi-Ting… I can’t even think of her name without pain burrowing into my stomach.

  ‘Our hospital is full. We can’t help your friend. I’m sorry.’ He sounds like he really is sorry.

  ‘If you save his life, you can have my ultrasound scanner. It’s in top condition and can save a lot of lives.’ My voice breaks and I hate myself for showing weakness.

  More silence on the other end. Then, ‘I’ll talk to someone,’ and with a crackle, the connection breaks off. I blink.

  The machine skims over a blanket of clouds. I glance over at the controls to make sure I’m not missing some red warning light telling me I’ve screwed up, then pull my arse from the hammock seat and move back to Katvar.

  I don’t know if my heart can break any further. His face is chalky, his eyes shut. Half his body is oddly twisted in a convulsion. The morphine is used up. All I can do is place my hands on his cheeks and kiss him softly, making promises that I can’t keep. I doubt he hears them.

  ‘Sandra, this is Alta tower. One of our physicians has agreed to take a look at your friend. He suspects brain herniation and suggests you lose altitude ASAP to decrease intracranial pressure. Descend to one thousand. Speed niner zero. As soon as you see us, switch over to automatic landing procedure.’

  I can’t wait to get this machine on the ground, so I do as Bear Butt says, twisting my neck to keep one eye at the controls and the approaching city, and the other on Katvar.

  But then I have to tear my attention away from him to focus on the landing.

  ‘We have a visual,’ crackles through the radio. ‘Looking good.’

  There’s one landing strip that’s been cleared of ice and snow. I muddle around for ages to line up the machine, then let go of the yoke. The computer modifies speed and flaps. It’s eerie to watch. Learning to fly will be high on my to-do list if…when Katvar is better.