David Nickle - Rasputin's Bastards

“No, never,” said Alexei.

Kolyokov didn’t take his eyes off Alexei. He moved across the perfect grey floor of the proto-classroom. “You never did,” he said in a low, grim voice.

Alexei nodded. “Right.”

“Good. Answer questions truthfully. Don’t volunteer anything. Don’t look away from your interrogator. Wash your face thoroughly. Behind the ears.”

“Behind the ears,” said Alexei. “I’ve got it.”

“Good boy. Now,” said Kolyokov, taking the cigarette from his mouth and dropping it to the floor, “wake.”

Alexei found he was far less constrained when he was locked in the metaphor than during his waking time at City 512. In metaphor, he was free to explore. More and more, he found he was simply responding to programming while awake. A small part of him was able to watch him go through the motions — but it was as though he were watching the progress of a marionette, through a tiny camera mounted on the top of his head.

So he watched, as the marionette Alexei Kilodovich scrubbed his hands and face with abrasive soap — took extra time around his ears — then dressed himself in the coveralls that had been laid out for him in his little room. He pulled on his boots and laced them up, and ran a hand over his close-cropped scalp. Then he stood and waited until the door opened, and he was able to join the procession of his classmates to the mess hall.

They wore identical coveralls, and all had hair shaved to stubble on their scalps. But that was where the similarities ended. Alexei’s classmates were of all ages — the youngest one was a girl of about six years old — and there were two or three that looked to be in their seventies. There were blacks and Indians, Arabs and Asians — lots of Asians — and even a few Caucasians like Alexei. As they started to walk, the group sorted itself by ethnicity. Alexei found himself walking next to an old, balding man who wore little wire-rimmed spectacles, and a girl only a few years older than himself.

They moved along a corridor with walls of poured cement, lit by flickering fluorescent tubes set behind wire cages. They finally gathered on the platform of a large freight elevator, and once they were safely away from the edges, the old man pressed the green button on the controls. The elevator began its ascent. In short order, the old man smiled, cocked his ear like he’d heard something and pressed the red button. They continued into a large room, like a hangar. There were trucks with grey canvas covers over their loads parked along one wall. A long black car was stopped at an angle in the middle of the chamber. Its back door was propped open. A group of men dressed for the cold stood around it — conferring with someone seated inside.

Alexei and the others stopped, and shuffled themselves into a line. The group — there were five of them — continued an animated discussion with the one seated in the car. The acoustics of the huge room were poor enough that at first Alexei could only make out a few words — could only surmise what was said.

But as he listened, the words became clearer. It was as though he were standing in their midst.

“ They should not be all together like this .”

“ It is true. In Moscow, the ones we trained were kept separate from one another. Groups of three who knew each other by face were as large as we dared .”

“ City 512 is not Moscow, Comrade General .”

“ It certainly is not. It is a colossal waste here. This sort of game will bankrupt us. Worse than Petroska Station .”

“ Hear hear .”

“ City 512 is not Moscow. And it is not Petroska Station .”

“ You said that, Comrade Kolyokov .”

Ah! Thought Alexei. Fyodor Kolyokov! He looked similar to the Kolyokov of his metaphor — but a little older. A little fatter. Less confident, perhaps? Kolyokov pushed his fists into his jacket pockets. One of the other men clapped him on the shoulder.

“ Why don’t we let you show us how different this place is. Let’s go see your pupils .”

The men stepped away from the car. And as they did so, the seventh man appeared. He was a tall man, with dark hair and a lean look about his face. But his body appeared incongruously heavy under the military greatcoat. He carried a dark fur cap in one hand, and as he strode across the floor to the group, he pulled it down over his head.

There were stars sewn into the hat. Four of them. He stopped, facing the assembly, and ran a gloved hand across his chin.

“That is quite a crowd,” he said. “I count fifty of them. Are they all agents?”

“Yes, Comrade General Rodionov,” said Kolyokov. “There are seventy-two.”

“I was at our sleeper training facility in Moscow — along with Pyorovich here. It only carries a class of — how many, Comrade Pyorovich?”

“Twelve,” said a stocky man who must have been Pyorovich. “That is as many as is practical.”

“Hmm.” General Rodionov squinted as he regarded the class. “This must be a very impractical project indeed, then,” he said. “Seventy-two! That is exactly six times what you are doing for us, Pyorovich.”

Pyorovich bristled, but said nothing. The barest sprinkling of smile touched the corners of Rodionov’s mouth.

“Of course,” he said, “none of it has really proven itself to me. To the Party. Not your twelve, Comrade Pyorovich. Nor your seventy-two, Comrade Kolyokov.”

Kolyokov and Pyorovich looked at one another. General Rodionov’s smile broadened.

“Make them dance for me,” he whispered.

And Alexei was back in his classroom. He was alone this time — no Kolyokov, no fellow students. But the place seemed to have gathered some solidity. He scuffed his shoe across the floor and it made a sandpapery sound. He looked down and saw the bare grey had been given the substance of concrete. And the desk where he sat was more than a wire frame now. The top of it was a light wood veneer. There were nicks at the corners. The seat was uncomfortable and too small for him, in a most convincing way. And the chalkboard was covered with smears of chalk dust. There was a tiny line up the middle, where two pieces of slate joined. Across the line, Alexei saw three words, written in a firm, teacherly hand. He leaned forward, and read them aloud:

“Manka. Vasilissa. Baba Yaga.”

He read them again, just to be sure.

“Now what the hell does that mean?” he wondered aloud. And then it came to him in a great rush.

“Vladimir,” he said.

The world spread apart — and Alexei found himself now in dark. He felt as though he were falling. But he was not, for the air around him was still, and stale, and without odour.

“ How is it going here, Alexei? Are you any nearer the truth of your life ?”

“Well, let me see. I know that my life learning to be a spy at the hands of Fyodor Kolyokov was a big lie. I find that all I ever was, was a sleeper agent. A stupid sleeper agent in the KGB. Fyodor Kolyokov was not my instructor. He was the man who controlled me, and tricked me into thinking that I was a sleeper agent. I know that I am talentless when it comes to the dream-walking and psychic powers that you and the others enjoy. I know that everything I remember is a lie. Did I say that already?”

“ Yes .”

“Did I remember to thank you for the opportunity to come to this truth?”

“ You did not .”

“Well thank you , little Vladimir. Remind me to wipe the shit from your ass again when I come back to the world. That is one thing I am apparently good for.”

“ You are not very good at that, actually .”

“Well I’ll take a course. Or maybe you can just walk me through it. I’m good at being walked through it.”