David Nickle - Rasputin's Bastards

“Fuckin’ Russkie,” he said. “Now who’s killin’ who? Now—”

Gibson stopped. Against all reason, the Russian was starting to move.

His face was pale with the loss of blood. His shoulder was soaked in that blood. Nevertheless, Alexei the traitor sat up, and pulled himself to his feet. Gibson held the machine pistol in front of him. He pulled the trigger. But it clicked empty.

Gibson tried to bring back that smile. “Jesus, pal, you don’t look so good.”

Alexei stooped to pick up the asp. He jiggled it in his hand. At first, he was trembling — but as the asp tip oscillated faster, he got that under control. He looked at Gibson with hollow, unfeeling eyes.

Gibson raised the machine pistol. It clicked empty again. Kilodovich stepped over the unconscious form of the Koldun. He held the asp to his side, bobbing up and down. The ball on the end of it gleamed in the low light. Blood continued to seep from his shoulder. His lips pulled back from teeth. He seemed almost feral. His feet scraped across the carpet.

Christ. The fucking Russian had wanted to kill him from the get-go. Now it looked like he was going to get his wish. Gibson backed away.

The Russian continued forward. The pain from the wound in his shoulder must have been ferocious. It should have knocked him unconscious. It probably, Gibson realized with a chill, very probably had.

“You’re not Alexei,” he said cagily, “are you?”

Gibson felt the cool smoothness of glass behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. A little kid of no more than three looked back at him with wide eyes.

“Is it you?” he asked. “Nah. Couldn’t be. You’re awake.”

The kid looked away, and Gibson took the cue. The asp made a star in the glass behind where Gibson’s head had been a moment before. When it struck again, Gibson was on the ground and had rolled away. He wasn’t fast — but like many big men, he was faster than his opponents would give him credit for.

He crawled like a panicked crab across the floor to the Koldun’ s machine pistol. Gibson grabbed it, rolled onto his back and aimed it at Alexei.

Or rather, where Alexei had been.

Gibson pulled up the barrel. He would have shot straight into the bunk-bed. Killed the three-year-old, who was staring at him now with wide, knowing eyes.

John , said a voice in his head.

“Who the fuck is that? Is that you, kid?”

No. It is I .

“You?”

I .

Gibson put down the machine pistol because with the way he was shaking, he was afraid the thing would just go off. He knew who I was, and he knew it wasn’t the kid behind the glass.

No . I was the one who decades ago, invaded the mind of John Kaye — tore its defences to shreds — broke down his identity — and laid the groundwork for the construction of Holden Gibson.

I was John Kaye’s murderer .

“You b-ball-bustin’ fuckin’ bitch,” said Gibson. “Wh-where did you put the fuckin’ Russian?”

Gibson felt his chest hitch — felt himself chuckle. Even though he had nothing to chuckle about. It was her chuckling. She continued.

I wish you could tell me , said Lena.

“Well he was just fuckin’ here.”

No , she said, he was not. Alexei Kilodovich has been hiding from me since the dance began. He and — and several others. It does not please me .

For a moment — just a moment — Gibson felt the world shrink underneath him, the lands crumble, and he felt as though he were sitting on a great desert under scorching sun. A cloud loomed and rolled in the distance — like some cartoon version of Yahweh. Beneath the cloud, a great city of golden towers and spires grew, like the Kingdom of Heaven.

If he had more wit, he’d have found words to mock it — tear it down. But as he looked upon it, he saw that the vision the Babushka had constructed simply dwarfed his own conceits. There was no mocking the divine. Not, he shivered, when it was real.

Gibson shook his head, and the vision disappeared. He was back in the room inside the greenhouse. The Koldun lay beside him. Blood soaked the carpet underneath Gibson’s bare ass.

You should not have awoken , said Lena. With that one’s betrayal — I had need of you dreaming, John Kaye. I had need of your dreams .

“B-ball-bustin’—”

Bitch. This is tiresome. This construct of yours — Holden Gibson. How did you come by it? Thumbing through old Mickey Spillane novels ?

Gibson picked up the machine pistol again. “Hey fuck you—”

Bitch. That is how you deal with the world now. I must say, John, it is scarcely more convincing than your red devil costume. Do you remember that ?

Gibson raised the pistol. “I’m fuckin’ warning you—”

You’ll shoot. No you won’t. These children are your flesh and blood. You won’t kill them because you haven’t the stomach for that sort of thing. I remember when we finished with you, you were nothing more than a little puddle of flesh. We destroyed you, Fyodor Kolyokov and I. It was very easy. Do you know why ?

He could feel the spring pushing back as his finger rode the trigger like a clutch.

You are , said Lena, the Babushka, a fake. Then and now, John. Then and now .

He let go of the trigger. He put down the gun. He stared down at his bare, pimpled thighs — the blood underneath him. He felt tears well in his eyes and snot thicken in his nose.

Now , said Lena, the Babushka, there is nothing for you. Nothing for you but to be absorbed. It is time for you to join me as I spread across the world — and consume it, yes?

“I don’t think,” said Holden aloud, “that my joining you would be an equal partnership.”

Shh , said Babushka. It is never an equal partnership in love .

What the fuck ? thought Holden.

Vasili Borovich could never accept that. He was too hungry in the beginning — and that hunger made a weakling of him. It put him in my thrall. That made him a useful ally for many years. But that, I know now, is also why he betrayed me .

Ah. Holden nodded. So this whole fuckin’ thing is what — a lover’s quarrel ?

We were not lovers for a very long time — not, truly, since before you and I met .

Holden was about to say — to think — something else. But something was happening in the air in front of him. A figure was forming — a young woman, wearing a hooded cloak covering all but her cheeks, her red, red lips. She wore dark, form-fitting pants. Holden Gibson whistled — remembering now, seeing the figure a lifetime ago on a blasted plain of ice.

He could see how this Babushka could keep a guy like Vasili Borovich on a string all these years. It wouldn’t be that difficult.

Babushka’s mouth spread in a small, teasing grin.

Join with me , she said. Spread with me. Come with me across the ocean and beneath the waves. We shall wipe the world clean of the Vasili Boroviches, and make all of the minds of men and women minds of ours. Sit at my knee, John Kaye. It need not be equal to be a joyous thing .

Gibson thought about an answer, thought about the prospect of doing this, at the knee of this magnificent creature. Thought about spreading across the world.

Sure , he said, on one condition .

Yes ?

But he hadn’t the chance to name it. The asp tore down on the back of his neck and in a brief flowering of light he was unconscious.

The Empire of New Pokrovskoye danced in frenetic celebration for hours, reeling and pumping at the old songs — marvelling at the beauty of this land. They had arrived in this place, this grand consensus at last. Had it once been a fishing village? Well hadn’t Rome once been a swamp — London an old provincial outpost of that — New York City, a clutch of tribes conquered by London? New Pokrovskoye was no more a fishing village now than any of those places were a picture of their humble beginnings.