David Nickle - Rasputin's Bastards

That was more than she could say for Jim — running off after the Society of the Scarlet Arrow through the back-alleys of Istanbul, without telling anyone. He had no excuse. And she was going to tell him that, as soon as she found him.

She only hoped she found him soon enough that the doctors could re-attach his right hand. Otherwise, Jim might never throw one of his patented fastballs again.

“Mon Dieu,” said a voice behind her. “C’est mal ici.”

Becky turned around. “Antoine!” she said. The irritating Parisian brat that had kicked off the whole wretched adventure just a week ago when the Scarlet Arrow had him kidnapped by mistake, was standing right behind her. “You,” she scolded, “are supposed to be at home with your maman, not here in the sewers following me into what may turn out to be a very dangerous encounter indeed.”

“Nonezeeless,” said Antoine, “’Ere I am!”

“Well this is a dreadful surprise,” Becky said.

“An’ zat,” said Antoine, “is not ze only surprise in store for you, Mademoiselle Barker.”

With that, the terrible twelve-year-old reached into his knapsack. He pulled out a very big revolver, and with both hands aimed it straight at Becky.

“You have fallen into my trap,” said another voice — from the shadows, behind little Antoine.

“You may shoot, my child,” said the voice.

There was a loud bang, and a very bright light. Becky gasped. It felt awful: like the time that her pony had gotten upset and kicked her in the chest. Only part of her knew that this was much, much worse. She put her hand up to her stomach, and when she pulled it away it was wet. The flashlight fell from her other hand. And soon she fell too.

“Was I very good?” asked Antoine.

“Very good, my child. Now, you know what you must do.”

Antoine sniffled. He took the gun and walked off into the darkness, beyond the beam of Becky’s fallen flashlight.

A mysterious hand reached down and picked up the flashlight. It flicked the light off. When it flicked it on again, the beam was focused on a familiar face.

“You can’t believe I killed Becky Barker — can you?” said Lois. She was wearing her old Bishop’s Hall uniform. The light under her chin made her scarier than a Halloween mask. But Mrs. Kontos-Wu knew she had nothing to be afraid of. Lois, after all, was her friend; even if she had just murdered Becky Barker — or ordered her death, which was just as wicked as doing it by Mrs. Kontos-Wu’s books.

“Well, after having read through this sorry narrative, I have to say it’s high time someone murdered that little dolt. I can’t believe that Kolyokov was able to keep you tame with this metaphor all these years. So infantile. So far beneath you. We will have no more of this. You have important work to do. And it seems as though I cannot speak with you directly, so the pages of this children’s fantasy will have to do.”

Deep in the tunnels, Antoine’s revolver went off once more. There was a small splash as the gun fell into the filthy waters. And then there was a larger splash. And that was the last anyone would see of irritating little Antoine.

“Let’s go find Jim,” said Lois. “We can talk as we walk.”

Mrs. Kontos-Wu followed along behind her. She puzzled at her new predicament — it seemed now, as though she had completely submerged herself in the book — to the point where her thoughts and actions were in fact being described by the unnamed novelist.

“We are doing this,” said Lois, “because that bastard Fyodor Kolyokov has so effectively demolished the metaphor of Bishop’s Hall.”

“Bishop’s Hall is bullshit,” said Mrs. Kontos-Wu.

“Yes,” said Lois, “it is. But it was a convenient way for us to speak. And now it’s fragmented. You’ve still got this novel, though. You still believe in that. So I’ve had to make do.”

Mrs. Kontos-Wu shrieked as something scurried over her foot.

“Now. Step carefully. And be quiet. We’re almost in the Cistern of Blood — which is where, I believe, the Scarlet Arrow is keeping Jim. We shall have to turn off the lamp, or they’re bound to find us. And no more shrieking. Just listen.”

Mrs. Kontos-Wu was quiet. Lois whispered as they climbed down a long, slippery set of stairs.

“You are among the enemy,” said Lois. “You are in a very dangerous place — probably, I’d wager, near the Society of the Scarlet Arrow by now. They are unconscionable. Wicked men. They must be stopped. You must kill them — and if that little bitch Zhanna tries to stop you…” Lois looked at her significantly.

Mrs. Kontos-Wu stopped. “Wait a second,” she whispered. “Lois — I thought you were Zhanna. Are you saying that you’re not Zhanna? Or do you want me to kill you? I’m confused.”

“Shhh! Someone’s coming!”

Mrs. Kontos-Wu and Lois pressed themselves against the sweating stones of the ancient sewer’s walls. Sure enough, there were footsteps in the distance. From around a corner, Mrs. Kontos-Wu could see the flickering yellow of torchlight — and the guttural mutterings of the secret language of the Scarlet Arrow.

As the torchlight grew brighter, the voices grew louder, and their peril became more imminent, Mrs. Kontos-Wu could not avoid the suspicion that Lois — whoever she was, whatever her agenda — had simply avoided answering a sticky question with a conveniently placed cliffhanger.

Pok-pok-pok .

It sounded, Stephen thought, very different from the outside than the inside. Echoing through the cold, still waters outside the submarine, it sounded like a deep, rich drum. It reverberated through the sea with a tribal intensity.

Stephen took control of the cadence — tapping along the outside of the submarine, and then stretching great tentacles as far as he could reach — tasting the strange flavours of the ocean. Soon, he felt confident enough to launch himself through the dark waters, climb from the shelf. He spared a glance back at a black sprawling thing, an artefact hammered into the shelf itself, on thick concrete and steel columns; a structure made of spheres and cylinders and boxes, illuminated here and there by flickering lights like Christmas strings; exuding strange limbs like tentacles that moved arthritically around their ancient, rusting joints; occasionally, farting a bit of air skyward in a string of silver that glowed brighter, and grew finer, the higher it climbed. Latching to this assembly was a long squid-shape of a kind that was becoming altogether too common in the deep complacency of the shelf.

But it wasn’t enough to worry a mind. Quick enough, it was away — in a great jet of seawater, away to the surface.

The surface, and dinner…

Whoa .

Stephen shook his head and propped himself up on his elbow.

“You see, Stephen,” said a Romanian, sitting over him, “why we like it down here so much?”

They were in a stateroom in the upper levels of Petroska Station — just one deck below what the Mystics called their Aerie. The walls were a light cream colour. Light came from soft semi opaque globes that hung from a high ceiling.

The air seemed cleaner here. The Romanian lurched, and said in a slightly different voice:

“So there. Now you are a big psychic. Feel better?”

The second voice, Stephen could tell, belonged to the mystic called Yorgi. The first one was Dmitri. There were maybe five other distinct voices that inhabited the Romanians at different times. Those voices had not introduced themselves, but Stephen could tell the difference. The trick was in not paying attention to which mouth was speaking. The Mystics tended to jump from one mouth to another — often while in mid-sentence. Sometimes, there would be overlap, and all the voices in the room would utter the same word at the same time, in a terrible kind of harmony.