David Nickle - Rasputin's Bastards

It was comical, actually, watching the brief triumph in the Ivchyn’s eye turn into terror as Stephen raised the little revolver and shot him through the heart.

Thanks to Kolyokov, Stephen wasn’t programmed for anything these days.

But Mrs. Kontos-Wu was. “Baba Yaga. Manka. Vasilissa,” said Stephen as the cartilage in his ear made a cracking noise. “Baba Yaga—”

“—Manka. Vasilissa,” said the boy at the top of the book-ladder.

“Sh-sh!” said Mrs. Kontos-Wu. The boy was making her angry. Mrs. Kontos-Wu had found what she thought to be a refuge in the library; just her and the books, the wonderful smell of the old leather and house dust, cooked to a sharp intensity by the afternoon sunlight.

Lois had sent her here for a while, to relax; catch up on some reading; maybe get a little shut-eye curled up in one of the high-backed leather chairs by the windows. Let the setting sun do its work on her. You’re putting yourself under too much pressure , Lois had said, and Mrs. Kontos-Wu had to agree.

So the boy at the top of the ladder did nothing but tick her off. She closed the pink and blue covers of the Becky Barker book she’d picked for the afternoon, and set it down on the end table beside her.

“Just what do you think you’re doing here?” she snapped. “This isn’t the gym! Get off that ladder now!”

“Ow!” said the boy. He appeared to be on some pain. “Listen — Manka! Ow! I mean — Baba Yaga — Manka! Vasilissa!”

What a hateful, curious boy. Mrs. Kontos-Wu got up and crossed the library floor. She stood at the base of the ladder and gave it a good shake. “What kind of talk is that?” she demanded.

“Hey! Let go!” The boy’s face scrunched into a mask of pain and he swatted at his groin — as though an invisible hand were grabbing and twisting there. “Jesus! Mrs. Kontos-Wu! Wake up!”

Mrs. Kontos-Wu shook her head. “I came here for a nap you — you fucking little weasel,” she said. “Talk to Lois.”

“Who?”

“Just go — fuck yourself! How about that, smart boy?”

And then the boy did the most peculiar thing. He let go of the ladder with both hands, raised a fist, and brought it down in a swift punching motion. As he did so, a stray cloud passed over the setting sun behind Mrs. Kontos-Wu, and the library was for just a few seconds plunged into the deepest darkness. When the cloud passed, Mrs. Kontos-Wu blinked and searched the library. The boy was gone. Without a trace.

Mrs. Kontos-Wu shrugged and returned to her chair. She must, she assumed, have nodded off after all — and the hateful, curious boy had been nothing more than a dream. An unusually intense one, to be sure — it wasn’t every night that Mrs. Kontos-Wu found herself sleepwalking through the library — but a dream nonetheless.

Stephen winced as the disinfectant settled into the twin gashes across his cheek and started to fizz. The fizzing stung, but Stephen had expected as much; the disinfectant would have plenty of work to do there. Mrs. Kontos-Wu’s nails were filthy, and probably they were home to more harmful bacteria than a crack-house toothbrush. Stephen hoped the disinfectant would be enough; Stephen’s immune system wasn’t up to dealing with stragglers.

It could have been worse, of course. The gashes across his cheek were the only part of Stephen’s skin that Mrs. Kontos-Wu had broken. The other injuries she’d inflicted were the kind that didn’t come with a mark; she’d twisted his ear hard enough to leave an ache that seemed to reach all the way down to his tonsils, and she’d twisted his balls hard enough to send another tree-root of pain up as high as his tonsils. But that was as far as it went. She’d missed his eyes, left him his teeth, and hadn’t pulled out more than a few strands of hair or broken even a single bone.

Indeed, it could have been much worse. In her weakened state, Mrs. Kontos-Wu succumbed with little fuss when Stephen had brought his fist hard against the side of her head. She hadn’t even made it through the bathroom door to where Kolyokov slept.

And overall — cut for cut, injury for injury — taking down Mrs. Kontos-Wu had been a piece of cake.

So why was Stephen shaking?

It might, he thought, have something to do with the mnemonic. It should have worked. Hell, nine times out of ten it would work — if Kolyokov was the dream-walker, and Kolyokov was the master. The mnemonic was a serious enough trump card that Stephen was on standing orders to kill anyone who heard it in the context of use. It was tangible mojo.

And yet here, he’d used the mnemonic four times, and the dream-walker hadn’t budged.

Who the hell was it in there? Stephen stuck his head out the bathroom door to check, make sure the restraints were holding. They were: he’d strapped Mrs. Kontos-Wu to the bed with thick leather belts that Kolyokov had brought over from Russia along with the tank. He hoped they’d be enough to hold the dream-walker when Mrs. Kontos-Wu came to.

Stephen was more worried about what would happen to him when Kolyokov came to. The old man’s mood wouldn’t be improved by the sight of Mrs. Kontos-Wu tied up in bed. It would only be improved slightly if Stephen could convince him that in tying her up, he had been doing nothing more than saving Kolyokov’s life.

On the whole, Stephen would have rather let the old bastard sleep, and figure this situation out on his own. But that, he knew, would be the worst mistake of all. Kolyokov trusted Stephen to a point — but he didn’t trust him enough to teach him the dream-walking tricks. If Stephen left Kolyokov out of the loop in a situation such as this? Kolyokov’s rage would be limitless.

So Stephen propped open the door and turned back to the sensory deprivation tank that dominated the room.

“Now or never,” he said, and gave the locking wheel a quick turn. The door opened easily.

Worries of Kolyokov’s anger evaporated in the stink that wafted out. Stephen’s image of Kolyokov the master dream-walker was instantly replaced by that of Fyodor the incontinent old man. Stephen took his hand from his nose and sniffed again to confirm it: the old man had done it. Pissed himself, and — yes, and shat himself too. Probably a couple of hours ago. In the enclosed space of the tank, the smell had thickened — notably foul even among the catalogue of stenches Stephen had learned to recognize from his years on the streets.

“Sir?” Stephen stepped back to the opening, and peered inside. Kolyokov kept the bathroom lighting low — so as to not shock his eyes when he woke. The light level meant that Stephen couldn’t see much of Kolyokov in the tank, however. All he could make out was a fan of hair spreading in thick grey tentacles through the swamp made by Kolyokov’s bladder and bowel. Stephen leaned closer, tried not to choke, and whispered: “Sir. You must — wake up.”

Nothing. Stephen cursed. He wished there was a mnemonic to wake the master as well as Baba Yaga, Manka, Vasilissa woke his underlings. Grimacing, Stephen reached into the tank and touched Kolyokov’s forehead. He recoiled as quickly. It felt waxy and cool to the touch. Kolyokov didn’t stir.

“Shit.” Maybe the dream-walker’s visit had been redundant. Was Kolyokov dead in his tank?

Stephen reached in further, found Kolyokov’s wattled throat. He searched for a pulse. Nothing.

“Shit shit shit.” Dead. Fucking dead in the tank. What the fuck had happened? A stroke? Heart attack?

Stephen wouldn’t be surprised if it was. Kolyokov was only getting older, and more to the point refusing to accept the fact that he was getting older. He ate badly and drank too much and got all his exercise dream-walking in young people’s bodies. Sooner or later, something would happen. Today, something had.