David Nickle - Rasputin's Bastards

“Make you,” he said. “I don’t know how to finish making you.”

“What?”

“I didn’t know,” said Alexei. “I didn’t know anything.”

Shadak came at him. He punched him and kicked him and tore at his shirt. He picked up a stone from the ground lifted it over his head. He glared down at Alexei.

“You don’t know how?” he said. “Then learn.”

And with that, he smashed the stone down — into Alexei’s skull.

The void again. Alexei spun in it. It was like being dead. He opened his mouth to cry out for Vladimir, then shut it again. He’d told the baby to fuck off. He couldn’t go crawling back to him now.

No. Alexei thought about what little Shadak had told him to do:

Learn.

Alexei would have to take charge of this realm of memory on his own. He had done something awful — become the agent of Fyodor Kolyokov and those others — to create something in Afghanistan.

But they — the dream-walkers — they weren’t in Afghanistan. They hadn’t set foot there.

They were in City 512.

The place where they all were born.

Where Kilodovich had come from.

That, he knew, was where he would have to go.

And it wouldn’t do to have Vladimir take him there.

Alexei breathed and turned and willed himself to leave Afghanistan for the moment. He blinked, and imagined, and used what force of will he had —

— and the void faded. Alexei Kilodovich steered himself north, and into the heart of old Soviet Russia.

It was a thin, dry snow that fell outside City 512. Comrade General Rodionov was wearing a heavy woollen overcoat and a fur cap but it wasn’t good enough. He was still freezing cold as he got out of the car. He rubbed his hands together and watched his breath cloud in front of him. The dozen KGB men alongside him were better off — they were wearing body armour and heavy gloves and helmets. Some of the men wore crucifixes and charms around their necks. Others lined their helmets with tinfoil, or carried garlic bulbs in their pockets. Some of them etched crosses in the tips of their bullets. Still others muttered little prayers and hexes that their grandmothers had taught them.

Rodionov simply hummed as he got out of the car and started toward the low buildings that hid the top of the shafts. It was a tune that his own Babushka had sung to him when he was tiny — one so old he could not even remember the words or where it had come from. But it had helped him sleep. Now — perhaps it would keep Rasputin’s devilish progeny out of his mind.

It was probably the most effective thing. Alexei Kilodovich found the old bastard’s brain completely impenetrable. He stood beside Rodionov, still a spectre.

Rodionov strode toward the huge open doorway in the nearest warehouse. There were perhaps a dozen men and women lying naked, face-down on the cold concrete, while Rodionov’s men held rifles on them.

“The assault has gone well, Comrade General,” said one of the men — a Colonel by his insignia. He gestured with his rifle to the prisoners. “We have rounded up these ones from the coffins. There are others still—”

Rodionov held his hand up. His eyes narrowed.

“I do not recognize these,” he said.

“Comrade General?”

“These,” said Rodionov, “are not the dream-walkers.”

“We found them in the coffins,” said the Colonel, but he said it like a question. “Surely—”

Rodionov hummed out loud. He stepped into the warehouse building, past the prisoners. The building was lined with his men, several of whom he obviously did recognize. He nodded at one or another, as they clutched their assault rifles to their flak-jacketed chests. The space in here was as big as an airplane hangar and all but empty. Alexei trotted along behind him. This following along wasn’t very illuminating, and as they stepped through a metal cage-work structure in the middle, Alexei decided to take another step.

He had, in little Shadak’s metaphor, been able to break the wall and hold a conversation. So he would, he decided, do the same thing here.

“Comrade General,” said Alexei as they stepped into a stairwell. “Stop that music.”

Rodionov blinked.

“Rasputin,” he said.

Alexei frowned. “Rasputin?”

Rodionov nodded. He didn’t precisely look at Alexei — but he was responding to him.

“You healed the Czar’s son and made yourself a place in the court,” he said, “and you used that place to do what?”

“Tell me,” said Alexei.

“To do nothing,” said Rodionov. “Nothing but fuck women and drink vodka and live in nice houses.” He sneered. “Mystics. You could have the world, and you just feed off it.”

“I am not Rasputin,” said Alexei.

“You are Rasputin. You are all Rasputin.”

“You sound as though you have been practising this little speech,” said Alexei.

“I have,” said Rodionov. “Indeed — I have found it useful to practise everything I do beforehand, when I am dealing with you bastards here at City 512. When I do not — well. I become distracted.”

“How is that?”

Rodionov stopped and looked around. “I cannot see you,” he said. “Can you make yourself visible?”

“I am visible,” said Alexei.

“No,” said Rodionov, “you are not. How do I become distracted? Well. I start to investigate the odd appropriations moving to Cuba — for an underwater project that had supposedly been cancelled. Before I know it, I have had too much to drink. My memories are foggy, and I remember another appointment. I decide to review intelligence reports coming out of this division — see whether we have made any headway in Central America. And suddenly I am on my way to the airport to meet an old friend, who does not arrive until next week. So — I practise. I write things down. I leave little tape recordings for myself. Clues. I have done enough of that — and lo! Here we are! Bringing this pestilent time of our history to an end.”

“I see,” said Alexei.

“Except I must ask myself,” said Rodionov, “what distractions might come before me now? Perhaps a ghost walking beside me to keep my eye off the mark?” He shook his head. “Appear — so I may deal with you in flesh. Or walk behind me if it is your wish to view your destruction. Or better, return to your little water tank. Take time to make peace with yourself.”

And at that, Rodionov hurried down the stairs, shouting ahead to his men who had secured the second level. He stepped deftly around the carriage on the landing. Alexei paused and crouched down in front of it. Vladimir glared back at him.

“You,” said Vladimir, “are not being helpful.”

“I am sorry I told you to fuck off,” said Alexei. “That was rude of me.”

“You are forgiven,” said Vladimir. “Now come back.”

“To my body?”

“Yes. Your body is injured. I am spending all my time tending it. We also have a prisoner.” He leaned forward and regarded Alexei slyly. “Holden Gibson.”

“You have Holden Gibson,” said Alexei. “I see.”

“You wanted to kill him, yes?”

“You put me here to stop that as I recall.”

“Things have changed, Kilodovich.”

Alexei looked at little Vladimir levelly. “Now you want me to come back to kill him?”

“I did not say anything. Only it is time to come back. You understand your true self now.”

“I understand,” said Alexei, “that I have been used and manipulated.”

Vladimir sneered. “You have been used — but as you have seen, you did not protest too greatly. We saw the games you played with Amar Shadak’s poor girl. That was not only Fyodor Kolyokov playing that game, Alexei.”

Alexei nodded. That was true. He could come up with any rationalizations: I was a young man, whose ethical compass was not exactly well-configured at that time; it was a fleeting lapse; I may well have been deceived by a false metaphor such as my dreams of an early childhood.