“Thinking of Helheim?” I shout over the rumble of the engine.
“Yes.”
“You better be. Here we go.”
I hit the throttle and accelerate all the way across the street, almost clipping the rear end of a pedicab on the way. When did they get those? Too late to worry. The wall comes up fast. I hope we don’t end up in Hellion Fresno.
And then we’re skidding on ice. The rear end starts to fishtail, so I hit the accelerator to straighten out. When we do, I throttle down and creep forward in second gear.
I’ve been in cold places, but this is ridiculous. The wind comes down from high snowy peaks. Every time I exhale, the frost from my breath almost covers my face. I can already feel ice forming in my nose and the corners of my lips. My hands are numb. If we don’t get someplace soon, I’m going to end up with frostbite.
“What’s happening?” screams Captain Sunshine.
Around the next corner I see it. Like Butcher Valley, Helheim is a deep depression surrounded by hills and watchtowers. And like the other valley, most of the towers are dark and look like they haven’t been used for years. The main difference between the two places is the temperature. Butcher Valley burns with open lava pits. Helheim is a glacier, a moving river of ice scouring the valley and increasing its size forever. There will always be room for racy nuns and naughty heretics down here.
I stop the bike by a Quonset hut encased in so much snow and ice it looks like the bottom of a life-size snow globe. There are a couple of snowcats outside and a hellhound. I can’t tell if it’s in working order or not.
I put down the kickstand and go around the front of the bike to cut down the captain. It only takes a second to see why he stopped yelling. His lips are frozen shut. I give him a little pop in the mouth. Not to hurt him. Just to break up the ice. And to hurt him a little. Remind him whose game this is. I take off his blindfold and he looks around in wonder.
“We’re here,” he says.
“Looks like it. Here’s what’s going to happen next. You’re a captain. We’re going inside and you’re going to do the meanest, most hard-ass officer impression of your life. Order people around. Make them salute and kiss your ass. Then tell them you want to see the new arrivals.”
He shivers in his thin city coat. So do I. I put up my hoodie.
The captain shakes his head.
“What if it doesn’t work? Are you going to kill me?”
“Why wouldn’t it work?”
“They might be in a different regiment. They might not take my orders. Sometimes soldiers stationed this far out for too long can go a little wild.”
“Do your best,” I say, and whisper the hoodoo that resets the glamour on my face. The captain shakes his head.
“This will never work.”
“Maybe not, but isn’t it more fun than getting drunk all on your lonesome?”
“No.”
“You’re welcome. Now go up there and be an asshole, Captain Bligh.”
He moves so fast for the door to the Quonset hut I have to trot to keep up. He bursts inside with all the subtlety of a mammoth on roller skates.
Six guards stare at us. One is standing by an old wood-burning oven and the others are scattered around several tables. There used to be more guards here. The ones that remain don’t like one another much. All good information to have.
The moment we get inside and the captain gets warm air into his lungs, he starts looking like an officer. He stands up straight, giving the scruffy guards the hairy eyeball. The bad news is that they give it right back. No one gets up when they see him. No one salutes. The Hellion by the oven nods and pours something thick and sludgy from a pot into a coffee cup.
He says, “Well, what did you do to get this shit duty?”
The captain doesn’t answer for a few seconds.
“I don’t believe I heard you say ‘sir’ at the end of that sentence, did I, soldier?” he says.
The soldier at the oven seems genuinely shocked.
“I guess not. Sorry. Sir.”