Rasputin's Bastards

THE IDIOT

As far as Holden Gibson was concerned, Alexei Kilodovich was a big hero. He was, Holden said, the kind of guy Holden wished he had twenty of: “A guy who sees a bullet coming and gets in the way of it. No ifs ands or buts: he doesn’t waste time figuring the percentages, sussing the odds. Just steps right in the way. Without even thinking.”

Alexei, of course, had done nothing so heroic as taking a bullet for Holden Gibson. He had simply pushed Holden Gibson over, an instant after deciding to postpone his murder — while not far off an old Russian torpedo hit a yacht and blew it up.

But to Holden Gibson’s way of thinking, that was enough. So far as he was concerned, the torpedo explosion was immense — just shy of thermonuclear in scope, sending tons of razor sharp debris whizzing through the air at about neck height, aiming for Holden Gibson. When Alexei tackled him, he had saved him from untold mayhem. So Holden Gibson imprinted on Alexei, in the manner of an orphan duckling imprinting on a passing turkey vulture. Alexei had never felt so complete a piece of shit as he did the moment he climbed on board Holden’s motor yacht.

“You could take a lesson from Mister Fuckin’ KGB here,” Holden told Heather as she climbed up the ladder from her own raft.

Heather rolled her eyes to indicate the half-dozen small children in the raft below her. Language, she mouthed.

“Oh. Right.” Holden nodded. “But you get what I mean.”

“Oh yes,” she said. When Holden turned away from her, she shot Alexei a look more venomous than all previous looks combined.

Five of the crew-members had gathered around the rope ladders to help hoist the children on board. There were a few children too small to use the rungs and they had to be passed up by hand. And the ones who were big enough were slow and timid as children can be. Finally, the last of them were on board and the Romanians cast off.

“Good riddance,” muttered Holden. “Those fuckers gave me the creeps.”

Alexei shrugged.

“Well—” Holden turned to Heather “—the sooner we get these little darlins locked up below decks, the sooner we can go home.”

“Right,” said Heather. Out of Holden’s sight, Alexei nodded glumly.

Of course. The children would be locked below in Holden Gibson’s smuggler’s hold, and they would all return to the United States where Holden would put the children into what amounted to criminal slavery, playing out some elaborate magazine sales scam in the far-off lands of Ottawa and Mississauga.

That’s right — that was why Alexei had decided to kill Holden Gibson. Because he was an evil son-of-a-bitch bastard who exploited little children. In the pit of self-flagellating misery he’d made for himself, Alexei spotted a darker corner still and headed for it.

Meanwhile, Heather had put on her game face — a vapidly happy grin topped with wide, sparkling eyes that was probably her idea of how a kindergarten teacher looked.

“All right children,” she said, “who wants to have a little nap?”

“No time for napping,” chirped a little voice from their midst. A chorus of other voices murmured assent.

“Well,” said Heather, “we’re going to have to go downstairs anyway. So come on—” she clapped her hands merrily “—let’s all go!”

She started for the door into the lounge, but stopped when the children didn’t follow. They stared at her wordlessly.

A silence had fallen onto the ship — the only sound was the blustering sea wind and the low thrum of the engines under their feet.

Heather’s game face started to crack.

“Come on.” She said it in the kind of voice that would send a kindergarten class into spasms of tears. “Let’s move it, gang!”

“No,” chirped the little voice. “Let’s not.”

The children looked down to their feet then, and slowly moved apart to make way for the speaker.

Alexei’s eyes widened. “Holy fuck,” whispered someone nearby.

The speaker was an infant — not much more than five months outside the womb, if Alexei were any judge. It wore a little blue jumper — so Alexei guessed it to be male — and had a gossamer-thin curl of black hair, the same colour as the rest.

He crawled forward on his hands and knees, and stopped in front of Heather.

“We are not going downstairs. I have had my nap already today. The rest of the brothers and sisters are likewise well rested. I think instead we will go up to visit your pilot. We have more brothers and sisters to collect before we do anything else.”

Holden’s crew stared slack-jawed at the marvel of the baby’s impossible speech. Holden himself lumbered over and lowered himself to his haunches.

“Well look at you,” he said. “She wasn’t kidding when she said you were special.”

“P-pretty fucking special,” said Heather. “This is impossible. Somebody’s playing a trick. Babies can’t talk — their mouths… aren’t well enough developed.”

Holden’s eyes narrowed. “Good point,” he said.

“It is,” said the baby. “Do you see me using my mouth?”

The baby’s lips were pursed shut as he spoke.

Holden grinned then. “Of course not. Because one of you other kids is doing a ventriloquist trick, isn’t that right?” He laughed and stood up. “Which one? Let me see you. We can always use someone who can throw their voice. Which one’s lucky?”

“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.

James started to turn to grab at Alexei, so he twisted, and James yelled instead. “That hurts, eh?” said Alexei. “It can hurt more.”

Simon had rolled over and was crab-walking away. James’ eyes were screwed shut in pain. “All right,” he said through clenched teeth. “Let go.”

Alexei let go. He stood straight and looked around. Holden’s pirate crew were staring at him. “Any trouble?” he said to the group.

“Fuckin’ right, no trouble.” Holden stood up from the bunk where he’d stretched out. “Everybody — you listen to the Russkie. This isn’t the time to settle old scores. We want to get out of this, we got to stick together — isn’t that right?”

It was a good speech — Holden showed some real leadership, thought Alexei. The group nodded and mumbled assent. James and Simon shook hands. And Holden led the group in a sing-along of old U2 songs that Alexei thought must have been a carryover from the days when these people were all children in Holden’s junior high school thieves’ guild.

But even as a seedling of grudging respect for Holden Gibson started to blossom, it withered again when the old bastard got into it himself. Alexei had to hold down Holden Gibson for nearly five minutes to prevent him from “strangulating” James — who had made the mistake of looking at Holden wrong during the second chorus of “Where the Streets Have No Name.” Every time the old man relaxed, Alexei would let go and Holden would lunge. After a couple of these attempts, Alexei thought it might be a good time for the killing thing — there was certainly enough confusion to make it seem like an accident — but he couldn’t really bring himself to do it. Only a couple of hours ago, Holden Gibson had proclaimed his fast friendship and admiration for Alexei. And here, pinned to the mattress, grinning ingratiatingly up at him while making unconvincing noises that things were fine now, he’d gotten it under control — now, Gibson was less a figure of evil than ever before.

The only way Holden would get it would be if he tried to escape, decided Alexei. Those were Vladimir’s instructions. Right now, Alexei trusted the kid’s judgement.

The question remained, however — why on Earth did Vladimir trust Alexei?

Just past the ninth hour, Alexei found out. The latch opened and the door swung open, and two little girls who might have been twins stood there.

“You,” said one, pointing at Alexei.

“Come with us,” said her sister.

Alexei nodded, and turned to wave his finger at the prisoners. “No fucking around while I’m gone,” he said, and left them to themselves in the children’s brig.

“Change me,” said Vladimir. “We will talk as you wipe.”

Vladimir was squirming on the folding table next to all the pamphlets in the lounge. Someone had laid out a blanket, a roll of toilet paper, and a fresh Pampers diaper.

I have never changed a baby before, worried Alexei.

“Neither have I,” said Vladimir. “It’s not difficult. Just pull off the dirty diaper, give me a good wiping and put on the clean one. Oh — and don’t forget the baby powder. It helps with the itching.”

Alexei sighed and started to work. What did you want to talk to me about?

Vladimir was quiet for a moment. His eyes wandered from Alexei to the ceiling. He grunted as Alexei unfastened the diaper and lifted his feet.

Did you want to talk at all, Vladimir? Alexei struggled to get the old diaper clear without smearing shit on everything.

“Kilodovich,” said Vladimir finally, “I want to apologize.”

Alexei made a big cloud of baby powder. Vladimir sneezed. “Hey! Easy!”

I told you I’ve never done this before. What are you sorry about?

“I can’t let you go on the way you’re going.”

What do you mean?

“Killing Holden Gibson. This mission you’ve set for yourself. Or that you’ve let be set.”

Alexei set his mouth.

“You think he’s evil. You think you’re — blameless. Well things are not always as they seem.”

Alexei set down the baby powder and rested both his hands on the table.

Do you know what he does to children?

“Oh yes. I know about Holden Gibson. I also know about you.” Vladimir gave a little baby shrug. “You are going to have to guard them for a little while longer. But I am sorry — I cannot let you do that yourself. Understand that doing things this way is not my preference — just because you’ve been misused this way in the past gives me no right to do it now.”

Alexei held up the dirty diaper. Where does this go?

“There’s a bucket under the table.”

So what are you saying?

“You can’t go ahead and kill Holden Gibson. I can’t trust you not to do it. But — there is something else. Maybe I can make it up to you in another way”

What way?

“Finish with this,” said Vladimir. “Then you’ll see.”

Alexei blinked in yellow winter light. He took a breath. Smelled the petrochemical tang of the heating oil, the spring frost tugging delicately at the cilia in his nostrils. He flexed his hands that an instant before had been pulling velcroed diapers across Vladimir’s tiny baby ass. Now it was Alexei’s hands that were tiny. He started to ask himself where he was, then stopped. He knew where he was. He was in the old exercise yard. At school. In Murmansk. It was a place he had not been since he was a boy; a place that no longer existed, except in memory.

“Alexei!”

Alexei turned. He was facing Ilyich Chenko. When he was older and marginally larger, Ilyich would die in the belly of a tank in Afghanistan. Now, he was grinning across the yard and beckoning Alexei to join him.

Alexei shrugged and followed. Ilyich was heading toward the back of the yard, amid a low copse of pine trees where the older boys would sometimes gather to shout and gamble and settle old scores. From there, you could see the low outline of the school — a nearly windowless cinderblock structure with narrow red-brick chimneys at either end — but that was all.

“Let’s play cards,” said Ilyich. He produced a thumb-worn deck and set it on the ground between them. “It will pass the time.”

“What is going on, Ilyich?” said Alexei. “Why are we here? Like this?”

Ilyich looked at Alexei. “We are passing the time in your safe place,” he said. “You don’t remember coming here before, do you?”

“Well yes — but a very long time ago.” When I really was this small.

Ilyich nodded. “You have blocked your memories of more recent visits. That’s sensible.”

“Stop talking in riddles!” Alexei felt heat rising in his face — he was getting frustrated, so frustrated as to make his small, child’s body start to cry. He willed the tears back into their ducts. “What do you mean, calling this a safe place?”

“All the sleepers have one,” said Ilyich. “You were last in this one just a day ago. You remembered playing hockey, and the smell of the shipyards, and then you remembered some things that your old teacher Fyodor Kolyokov told you — about sex and torture — and that helped you to keep your mouth shut with Holden Gibson and more importantly Heather. She still will not sleep with you.”

Alexei leaned forward, and studied his old friend Ilyich Chenko in the details. The mole was there, and the red hair. But the eyes were an imperfect copy. They resembled someone else’s.

“That is you, Vladimir, isn’t it?”

Ilyich nodded. “Yes. I am inhabiting the metaphor with you whilst you acclimatize yourself.”

“Why should I need to acclimatize myself? If I have been here as often as I apparently have, I should think I would be more accustomed to this than my own skin.”

“That is true,” said the Vladimir/Ilyich hybrid. “Just like your own skin, you are so accustomed to it that you do not even know when you are in it. And that is why you must acclimatize yourself. So that you may take control of matters and defeat your programming.”

Alexei frowned. “My programming? What is my programming? I don’t have any programming. Do I?”

“What did you spend the last few months doing?”

“I was working with Wolfe-Jordan,” said Alexei. “A bodyguard for Mrs. Kontos-Wu, who is an investment banker for one of the company’s mutual funds. We travelled the world. I — I failed to protect her.”

“Tragic. Also a lie. You travelled around the world all right — but not protecting Mrs. Kontos-Wu, which is not her real name. You were — you were there for another purpose.”

Alexei swallowed and thought about that.

“What about before that?” demanded Vladimir.

“I was in Belarus,” said Alexei. “I — worked for a guy.”

“Worked for a guy. “ Vladimir smirked. “Great. What before that?”

Alexei smiled back. “I worked for the KGB as an agent. In—” Alexei thought about it. All he could conjure at first were names of places — Berlin and Paris and Kowloon. But they didn’t seem right, quite. Finally, he settled on a memory — a convoy of trucks, pushing through mountainous desert while the sound of mortar fire thumped in the distance. “Afghanistan? Is that a lie too?”

“I’m not going to tell you everything,” said Vladimir. “That would only be more programming layered on other programming, and in such a way you would never regain your senses.”

Alexei’s boy mouth opened and closed and opened again. He’d been spun around enough times that he couldn’t even frame the next question.

“Okay,” said Vladimir/Ilyich. “Just one more thing to help you along the way.” He made a beckoning motion with his forefinger. Alexei leaned forward.

“Ilyich here did not die in Afghanistan.”

“That is what I remember.”

“Well he is very well. I saw him just the other day.”

“Funny joke,” said Alexei, but Vladimir/Ilyich didn’t so much as smile.

“Your understanding of your entire life until now is an immense tapestry of a lie — sewn from many small truths,” said Vladimir/Ilyich. “You must spend the rest of your life tearing this lie to pieces and putting it back together. Only then will you find the truth. Play cards until you’re ready to start work.”

When he was finished, Vladimir/Ilyich looked away for an instant. When he looked back, his eyes had changed — they were returned to a perfect copy of Alexei’s memory of Ilyich Chenko, in the smallest of details. Ilyich fanned the deck of cards in his hands.

“So are we playing, Kilodovich? Or are you going to just sit there mooning at me all morning like some queer boy?”

Alexei started to reach for the cards, then withdrew his hands.

“No cards today, Ilyich,” he said. “I remembered something inside. I’ll see you later.”

And with that, Alexei turned and headed to the low buildings to the south.