2 Works in Lada Garin
05 May 2019
If their tale had been a novel or action movie the story would have been over. The villain should have been vanquished, the kingdom should have been saved, the heroine should have been prevailed. They should have had closure.
But they weren’t in a fairy tale. Alina Starkov was dead, burned to ash along side the leader of the anarchist cult that had nearly destroyed Russia. It was supposed to be over, but the Darkling had lived on through his ideals, and though he was gone the threat of the starless saint’s followers loomed over their home once again.
The bittersweet end of Alina’s standoff had left them both fractured. With only the resources of the shattered Little Palace the two determine they will be the ones to go undercover into the lion’s den to find out what kind of threat this new cult holds. The mission might be the only chance they have to turn their corrupt country around for the better, and though both are determined to succeed or die trying, a new complication exists now that hadn’t been around for their first attempt to destroy to the Darkling and his movement.
Alina also left behind something in those who knew her best— grief.
09 Feb 2019
He talks to her in Russian, over the coms. English is the main language of communication with Earth; it’s what she leaves her logs in, it’s what she got her climatology doctorate in even if, for the most elemental things, she looks out at the night sky and thinks, כוכב, kochav, before she hears the English. نجم, звезда, those come easily, too. And তারকা, she reminds herself. Najim, zvezda, tārakā.
Russian, though, it’s what her aunt spoke to her in, after she saved her life, in a tiny flat in a smoggy bloc of Petah Tikvah. The current pulls her home.
“Nazyalenskaya,” he drawls over the fritzy connection system, “I want to kill Brekker.”
“I think you can spare him another day. If only for all the Van Halen tapes he left behind. And the ridiculous quantity of Indonesian rap.”
“I’m never going to forget about that.”
“Hmmmm, I’d be careful about talking, considering the number of romance novels I’ve found on the system, downloaded by one N. Lantsov.”
“In the face of oblivion,” she tells the crew of the Терешко́ва, “the only course of action left is to science the shit out of this.”