David Nickle - Rasputin's Bastards

Holden let go of his shirttails, leaving sweaty handprints on them. The Russian, Alexei, was looking at him — or if not exactly at him, then in his general direction.

Holden knew he should know what was going on here with the thousand-yard stare — there was a kind of familiarity to it — but he couldn’t quite put it together. He was thinking about some time in a farmhouse — a long time ago, when he was very, very young and very bad things had happened to him. It was very far away.

He had lost part of himself back then, and for some reason… For some reason, it made him think about this Russian.

The murderous sense of déjà vu slipped away again before he could put it all in order.

The Russian stepped toward him now — and for an instant, Holden thought he was coming for him; there was a faraway look in his eye that Holden had seen in men bent on killing. That, Holden was sure, was what the Russian meant to do right now. Kill Holden Gibson. He’d never been more certain of anything in his life. Desperately, Holden balled his fist, raised it, and as the Russian got into range—

—Holden swung at the air.

He was looking forward now: at Heather, who moaned and stirred on the deck; and the slate grey sky, over a dark sea that was suddenly quiet with the approach of the Koldun.

Holden whirled around. The Russian was climbing down the steps that led to the lounge. He seemed unperturbed. As though he had walked through Holden.

Fascinated, Holden followed the Russian.

The Russian ducked under the top of the doorway and stepped into the lounge. Holden followed, and peered around. It looked like nobody had moved — nobody but Heather, who’d had the misfortune to make her way to the bridge — since he’d come there. The kids were even there. Including that talking baby that they all worshipped like their fucking father.

Someone had propped him upright on his pillow like a little Buddha statue. He was the only one with his eyes open, and he looked back over his shoulder as the Russian came up behind him. The baby grinned as the Russian picked him up. Together, the two hustled back through a narrow path between the chairs.

The other kids stood, and filed along behind them. Nobody seemed to take any note of Holden Gibson, and that was fine by him. He waited until they’d all stepped out the back. He cleared his throat.

“All right, crew,” he said, in his most commanding voice. “Now’s our chance!” And all at once, the entire crew’s eyes snapped open, and each stood.

“ Now’s our chance !” Holden reeled back. The crew reeled back. “What the fuck?”

“ What the fuck ?”

He stared at them. They were repeating his every word — in a creepy kind of unison. He lifted his hand.

Two dozen hands raised.

He raised his middle finger.

The crew returned the gesture. Holden suppressed a chuckle.

Well fuck , Holden thought, looking out the glass door at the assembly of children, watching the flotilla arrive to collect them. I’m the same as you little freaks!

Holden moved forward, among his crew — or not his crew, but his sleepers — careful not to manipulate them this time. He had to go — talk to Vladimir — see the flotilla for himself—

Rejoin his family.

He hurried now, stepping through his crew like they were ghosts, his feet slipping in the substance of the deck. Through Neil and Jude and Allan —

Until finally, he came upon one he’d nearly forgotten.

Holden .

Holden Gibson stood face to face with himself. He studied the minute lines on his face, the dark sag of skin beneath his eyes, the spots that were starting to grow on his forehead. He looked embalmed. Like a corpse. A walking corpse. Holden Gibson .

Holden Gibson took a sharp breath. Holden Gibson sucked air too, but more violently. He must have looked that way last year, when they’d had to take the defibrillator to him. Maybe they’d have to again. Holden Gibson felt his heart racing — he could feel his breath on his cheek — and a sharp tugging, like the line was going taut on fish-hooks embedded in his stomach, his thighs.

The room shifted then, as those hooks yanked him around so he was facing backwards. The fishhooks were gone, and he couldn’t see himself anymore. Weight returned to him. And with it, a terrible weakness.

But he knew it wasn’t a heart attack. Not this time. It was… there was a word for it.

The Returning. That’s what they’d called it at Kiwichiching. The Returning.

Sometimes, they warned, it could be very traumatic indeed.

By the time Holden Gibson hit the floor, the trauma was coming at him full tilt. The world grew dark. He barely heard the tumbling clatter of his crew falling to the floor beside him, their strings cut as consciousness fled from Holden Gibson’s re-inhabited skull.

Amar Shadak was just getting started with his submarine guy when Kolyokov’s boy finally called him back. “You wait,” he said, pointing a finger from inside the coil of leather belt he’d just finished wrapping around his fist. He grabbed the cell phone with his free hand and let the belt trail behind him, its buckle clicking a gentle staccato on the floor tiles as he walked back along the corridor into the great room of the caravansary. The submarine guy’s whimpering faded to a moist echo as he thumbed the cell phone on.

“Hello, Stephen,” he said pleasantly. Shadak always adopted a pleasant phone manner — even when he said things like, “What the fuck is going on over there that you hang up and don’t call me back, you little piece of asswipe? And who the fuck do you think you are not to take my calls?” he would say it in such a pleasant and solicitous tone that no one, he was sure, not even his gravest enemies, could ever think ill of him for it.

“We’ve had some problems here too,” said Stephen. “That’s why I’m calling you back. We’ve both got problems, and we both need answers. I propose we share information.”

Shadak smiled warmly. It was the kind of smile that conveyed itself through the voice — no matter that his words were more to the effect of, “Fuck you, Stephen. Put Kolyokov on the line before I cut your liver out and feed it to crows.”

“Mr. Kolyokov can’t come to the phone just now,” said Stephen. “He personally asked me to take the lead in dealing with — our problem.”

Shadak considered this as he settled into a wide leather chair. Kolyokov told Stephen to take the lead? On this ? Everything else being equal, how likely was that? The last time that Shadak had spoken to Kolyokov — when they were negotiating the delivery of the children — the old man had done nothing but complain about the boy. Since Afghanistan, since the dark time, Shadak had had plenty of dealings with Kolyokov. He knew him well, and on many occasions got along with him just fine. But he knew him well enough to know the old bastard wasn’t one to give so much as an inch of responsibility to his underlings. That was one of Fyodor Kolyokov’s most reliable weaknesses.

Why would he change his ways now?

Of course, the answer to that question was easy: he wouldn’t. Stephen was pulling some kind of a coup, a subterfuge — fucking over the old man and Amar Shadak all at once.

The only question was: how, precisely, was he fucking them? What did it have to do with this fuckup with the submarine? Even at this early stage of the interrogation, Shadak was pretty sure his submarine guy didn’t have any clue. He’d work him over a little longer to make certain, but so far as Shadak was concerned the answer to the riddle lay elsewhere.

Perhaps within himself — in the dark place, the Black Villa where the better part of his soul rested; in the things the Children had done to him, their scratching in his head, their dubious promises of Paradise… of Rapture.