David Nickle - Rasputin's Bastards

“Me,” said the baby. “My name is Vladimir. I am throwing my voice. Into your heads. Now how about I throw something else into your heads?”

Alexei clutched at his forehead. He felt as though he’d just swallowed too much ice cream on a hot day. His forehead and sinuses screamed in pain and he felt himself slipping.

And he shook his head. The pain was gone. Everyone around him — the adults at any rate — seemed to have experienced something similar.

“Now,” said the infant Vladimir. “Who will take me to the pilot?

“You?”

Vladimir looked up at Alexei.

“Yes,” he said. “Kilodovich. Pick me up — gently, with your thumbs hooked in my underarms.”

Alexei did as he was told.

“No need to support my head,” said Vladimir. “I’m not some newborn mewler. Now hurry — my brothers and sisters won’t last forever on this changeable sea. Hurry!”

Heather spotted the rafts. There were two of them — yellow dinghies, crowded with little passengers. Vladimir ordered the yacht brought about to intercept them, and Holden didn’t argue. Alexei didn’t think it would have taken much to obtain his co-operation — Vladimir could have foregone the whole ice cream headache stunt and simply promised more children. Holden would have gone along with it happily.

But, Alexei supposed, Vladimir was young: chock it up to the impetuousness of infancy.

“You think I’m impetuous, Kilodovich?”

Vladimir reached up and grasped Alexei’s nostril with his thumb. The nail was tiny, but razor-sharp against the inside of his nose.

“I didn’t say—”

Vladimir’s thumb dug into Alexei’s flesh. “Don’t talk — just think. I want this conversation to remain private.”

Okay , thought Alexei. How is this ?

“Good,” said Vladimir — still apparently speaking aloud for all Alexei could tell. “Now we are talking privately.”

And now that we are talking privately — how do you know my name ?

“I think you know the answer to that one.”

I don’t think I do.

“Where do you think those rafts came from? Jolly old England?” Vladimir waved a chubby arm to the fore, where the little flotilla now lay waiting. “They came from the same place you did. They’re the ones who sent you here.”

The kids… from the yacht ?

Vladimir nodded solemnly. “ Ming Lei 3 .”

This will raise uncomfortable questions , thought Alexei.

“About your amnesia, you mean? If you want my advice, just keep up the act. The old man has his own amnesia problems to contend with, and he’s already ready to adopt you. He’ll believe anything you say. And the lady — she won’t fuck you no matter what you do, so just forget about killing anybody.”

Alexei blinked . What does a five-month-old know about fucking and killing ?

“It’s all anybody ever thinks about,” said Vladimir. “You would be surprised.”

Hmm. So you are a mind reader ?

“Isn’t it obvious?”

It’s pretty obvious. I assume also that you are a mind speaker .

Vladimir’s little mouth opened and he let loose a baby giggle. “Mind speaker. Yes. That is good. At City 512, they use the word ‘telepath,’ and they call what we are doing ‘Discourse.’ But I like your word better.”

Alexei frowned . City 512. Where have I heard that before?

“You tell me.”

Probably not important. But you tell me, Vladimir — why are we on this boat together?

Alexei was starting to enjoy this exchange. The little bastard might have inflicted a blinding headache on him a moment earlier, but in conversation Vladimir had a refreshing bluntness about him.

“The bluntness of infancy,” said Vladimir. “So why are we on this boat together? Because it will take us to a better place than Ming Lei 3 would have. Because Holden Gibson has reason to join us, and we have need of him. And for… other reasons that are none of your business right now, Kilodovich. Now. If you will excuse me—” and with that, the quality of Vladimir’s voice changed and amplified, and he addressed the group. “Okay. You see the rafts? Help my brothers and sisters from them. When they’re up, pull the rafts on board, slice them open and fill them with ballast. Then throw them overboard. Bring the brothers and sisters to the lounge, and leave us all alone there until I say. And Andrea—” he waved at a little girl no more than five “—kindly direct the pilot on his new course.”

“New course?” Holden stepped forward angrily. “What the fuck do you mean, new—”

He bent over then and grabbed his skull in both hands. “Fuck!” he screamed.

“Take me downstairs, Kilodovich,” said Vladimir in his private voice. “I’m tired of this shit. And I’m getting hungry. See if you can find me a tit.”

It didn’t take long for the truth of their predicament to settle in: effectively, the child-traders’ ship had been taken over by pirates. That the pirates were a gang of orphaned Eastern Bloc children and their victims were a band of criminals themselves was a complicating factor, and a source of some amusement to Alexei. But he kept his amusement to himself. The rest of the crew didn’t find anything funny about their situation.

Most of them were locked in the former children’s brig below decks: only adults deemed necessary for the operation of the ship were allowed to roam. And those were under the ever-watchful eye of the children, who now numbered twenty-two.

Alexei was among those kept below decks — but it had been made clear to him that he wasn’t a prisoner the same way the others were. Vladimir had placed him in the brig as a guard. “Anybody tries anything, and you know what to do.” Vladimir ran a tiny finger across his chubby throat.

Why do you trust me ? thought Alexei.

“Let us just say — I know that you of all people on this boat won’t fail me.”

Well okay. That makes as much sense as anything else you’ve said .

So Alexei spent his time with the prisoners, in a situation uncomfortable for more than the obvious reasons. The brig was fine for twenty little kids, but it was cramped when you stuffed half as many adults inside. The bunks were too short, the ceiling was too low to stand straight, and the watercooler ran out in an hour. And, as it turned out, a dozen adults locked in a confined space together got on one another’s nerves much more quickly than twice as many frightened children would have.

Alexei broke up no less than four fights in the first eight hours of their stay there. The first fight was between James and a fat little guy named Simon.

Apparently they had history, and some incident over the past couple of hours had dug it up. Alexei never found out what it was — the feud had devolved so that now they were only communicating through a proto-language of glares and snorts. Heather’s repeated admonitions to “knock it off” only made matters worse and within a half-hour Simon brushed past James a hair too close.

James’ nostrils flared and his eyes widened into a churlish, schoolyard glare. Simon pretended not to notice — or maybe he really didn’t notice, because he seemed completely surprised when James’ foot shot out and tripped him. Simon went down and in a flash, James was on top of him, fists flailing.

Alexei groaned inwardly — this loser is the guy who brought me soup — and got up from his bunk. “Let him go,” he said in as reasonable a tone as he could muster.

“Fuck off.” James punctuated with a sharp jab at Simon’s ribs, and Simon yelled.

Alexei didn’t let the conversation continue. He stepped over to the fight, bent over, and grabbed James’ left ear between thumb and forefinger.