I felt I needed some sort of connection between the Prawa V I'd written and the sequel, some 50 years later. It was difficult to choose who to pick, but I think I made the right decision. Our narrator and Łaska will serve as an introduction to Freja (see previous blog entry) and a gateway to the new story, before fading off into the sunset. They've had their story. It's time for them to step aside, but not before firing up the new one.

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The sun was low when we returned to the homestead. Pale dust drifted in the wind, catching in the tufts of dry grass that lined the drive. I killed the engine and listened. The wind turbine creaked. The wind spoke through the eaves, but all else was quiet. Except for the front door ajar.

I stepped out slowly, boots crunching against gravel, and felt the weight settle in my chest. Łaska moved before I could say a word. Hand to her belt, sidearm ready, body low. She pushed the door open with her shoulder and vanished inside. I followed.

The house was silent. Warm and familiar, but wrong. On the table sat a single slip of paper, its edge curled in the breeze from the open window. Łaska picked it up. Read it once. Said nothing as she handed it to me.

They’re coming.
Branka's girl is in danger.
Get to her before they do.
 

Czajka

My throat dried. For a long moment, we didn’t speak. We didn’t need to.

Łaska turned and walked toward the fireplace. Her movements were precise, almost ritual. She took the cloth and the oil tin from the mantle, reached up, and brought down the grenade launcher mounted there. She cradled it with a reverential, though slightly reluctant, ease. Her fingers moved with care, checking the barrel, wiping dust from the chamber. She did not look at me.

I opened the gun cabinet. My lasrifle sat on its rack, just where I’d left it all those years ago. No attachments nor frills. Just familiar steel and weight. I ran a finger down its receiver, checked the chamber - clear. The magazine empty. I loaded a fresh mag, then stripped and wiped the bolt with the cloth. Cycled it once. Safety engaged. It fitted against my shoulder as though it had never left.

"We'll need the truck," I said.

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The garage doors groaned open. We didn’t speak. She climbed in beside me as I started the engine, the truck rumbling to life after a few attempts, somewhat like myself in the morning these days. We’d serviced it last winter, not knowing we’d need it again. The road was just two ruts through dry earth. The fields were quiet. Familiar ghosts watched us from every fencepost and treeline.

We drove down the the gate, the edge of our world, now. I cupped her cheek. She had aged. Silver threaded through her hair, lines etched around her eyes. But she was still my stormborn królowa. Still the woman who had led men through fire, who had never once looked away from the truth of what needed doing.

She leaned into my touch.

I kissed her. I could still remember the first time we ever did. The touch of her lips gave me back the strength I had then.

When we pulled away, she rested her hand on my thigh. A small squeeze. I loved our life on the farmstead, but that gentle touch and the new fire in my guts made me feel truly alive again. Our life there was not wasted, just two veterans living our twilight years in peace. But Branka had called on us. And we were answering.

Then we both looked forward. Ahead was the road. The fight. The end, perhaps. But not today.

Today, we were going to protect Branka’s daughter. And we would not fail her again.

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For context, if you've not read the rest of my other blogs, Branka was a trooper in the 280th when the narrator was leading them. She fell at the assault on Complex 73 and both the narrator and Łaska have carried that guilt with them ever since.