Rasputin's Bastards

THE LITTLE HERO

“Stephen,” said Alexei Kilodovich. “It is okay to open your eyes.”

Stephen had been huddled in a fetal position around his middle, while the Romanians took turns kicking him and lashing him. The beatings had stopped for what Stephen has assumed was just a moment. But in fact, when he opened his eyes he saw that he was alone in the room.

“What’s going on?” said Stephen.

Alexei’s voice filled his mind. “We are having a conference,” he said. “Would you care to listen?”

Stephen trembled. He nodded.

“Then shut your eyes again,” said Alexei.

Stephen did.

And for the first time in his life, he stepped into Discourse.

Fyodor Kolyokov had explained, once, how he dealt with Discourse. They were sitting in the Emissary’s lounge downstairs. Kolyokov was sipping at his fourth bottle of beer, and was a little drunk. Stephen was smoking and paying close attention. Kolyokov was sometimes more forthcoming after drinking and today was not an exception.

It is like, he said, stenography.

Yeah, Kolyokov was forthcoming sometimes, but he wasn’t always clear. What does one have to do with the other? Stephen wondered.

Ha. You must take notes of what you hear in Discourse. You must then separate the notes into columns — words for each speaker. It is laborious work. The younger ones are better with it and they can just listen. But for us — for me, rather — Discourse requires some concentration.

Stephen had asked a few more questions but Kolyokov was done explaining. You would not understand, he said, not without a hint of cruelty, then winked. Stenography, he repeated and Stephen had left pissed off and confused.

Now, immersed in what was presumably a vigorous round of Discourse, Stephen thought he understood what Kolyokov had meant.

He seemed to be half out of his body this time. He could feel the floor underneath his ass, his ribs still hurt. But there was a sense of dimension around him — a feeling that this tiny room and submarine had been supplanted by a great, dark hall, as though he might be sitting on the edge of a high gallery overlooking this hall; as though the hall below and above him was filled with politicians and supplicants who all spoke at once. Stephen opened his eyes, and he was back in the submarine. But he still had that sense — that maybe these walls were illusory. That the voices that still filled his thoughts were the reality. They talked and shouted and sang; they protested and justified and spun the facts to their advantage; they offered knowledgeable advice and countered it with bland truisms; all at the same time. Just listening, it was impossible to follow.

But stenography. Stephen slapped the floor around him, as though doing so would cause a pen or paper to roll out. But of course the room was bare.

Then he thought about the way that Kolyokov had worked — the way Mrs. Kontos-Wu had worked.

He thought about metaphor.

Stephen closed his eyes again. He thought about a steno pad — a Hilroy, 200-page pad bound with a spiral of silver wire, little quarter-inch-spaced blue lines on each page. He imagined a pencil — a yellow number two with a little pink nipple of an eraser on the back, and lead sharpened to a point on the front. He imagined it. And he saw it. And carefully, listening to what he could, he began to write.

NOTES ON DISCOURSE, wrote Stephen, then he listened. He thought he could make out a number of different voices, so he made columns for each of them:

ALEXEI; ZHANNA; TEENAGE BOY; PREPUBESC GIRL; BOY WITH SPCH IMPED; YOUNG BOY. STRANGE OLD WOMAN.

Then he listened some more — and wrote what he heard.

He found that as he wrote down one voice, another became clearer, and he wrote down that one too — while continuing to inscribe the first. And then he went to the third and the fourth and so on. Before long, he had the metaphorical equivalent of meeting minutes. As it came together, Stephen found himself becoming very impressed — even as he grew more and more disturbed at the implications.

At the end of it, Stephen nodded sadly. Kolyokov had been right about stenography — but he had been wrong about so very much else. When the Discourse ended and the dreamers went off to do what they had to do, Stephen read over his notes despairingly.

ALEXEI:

MY LIFE HAS BEEN A LIE AND NOW I KNOW THE TRUTH. I AM YOUR SIBLING. I AM YOUR FATHER. I CAN MAKE YOU AND I CAN DESTROY YOU. YOU NEED TO BE DESTROYED BECAUSE THE ONE YOU CALL BABUSHKA IS AIMING TO TAKE YOU OVER. SHE HAS ALREADY TAKEN OVER THE ENTIRETY OF THE SLEEPER NETWORK IN AMERICA AND IS WORKING ON EUROPE AND ASIA AS WE SPEAK. SHE HAS COME INTO THE SEA AND USED HER POWER TO DESTROY THE ONES YOU CALL THE MYSTICS. I AM THE KEY TO DESTROYING THIS. YOU ARE FOOLISH TO THINK THAT THE NETWORK CAN BE PRESERVED. HEY — WHICH ARE YOU? DAMN IT THE OLD WOMAN!

ZHANNA:

BABUSHKA IS A KNOWN THREAT AND WE WILL DEAL WITH HER. WE HOPED TO MAKE A HEAVEN IN WHICH THE SLEEPERS WHO HAD BEEN SO ILL-USED BY OUR MASTERS COULD BE SHOWN THE WAY TO FREEDOM AND PEACE. WE HAD HOPED TO RETURN THE CONTROLS OF EVERYONE TO THEMSELVES. THIS WAS VLADIMIR’S DREAM. IT IS A GOOD DREAM. WE DO NOT NEED TO DESTROY THE NETWORK. WE NEED TO PRESERVE THE NETWORK. NOT TO HAVE SLEEPERS. THAT IS NOT AS MUCH FUN AS YOU THINK, PETRA. DO NOT CALL ANYONE A BITCH, PAVEL. BLOWING UP NEW POKROVSKOYE SOLVES NOTHING. SHIT! HOW DID SHE —

TEENAGE BOY (PAVEL?):

BABUSHKA IS A BITCH. VLADIMIR IS A BABY. SLEEPERS HAVE NO USE NOW. MAY AS WELL DO AS ALEXEI SAYS. SEEMS TRUSTWORTHY TO ME. LEAVE ZHANNA ALONE. SHE IS ALL RIGHT. BAD GUYS? THAT IS SO LAME. AHH!

PREPUBESC GIRL (PETRA?):

WHY TRUST YOU ALEXEI? YOU WORKED FOR FYODOR KOLYOKOV WHO IS A BIG BASTARD. YOU SAY YOU CAN DESTROY THINGS HOW DO WE KNOW YOU WILL NOT JUST TAKE OVER FROM US AND BABUSHKA AND RUN THE SLEEPERS YOURSELF? I WANT TO HAVE SLEEPERS LIKE ZHANNA DOES. ZHANNA THINKS SHE IS SO SMART. SHE IS JUST SCARED TO BLOW UP NEW POKROVSKOYE. IS THAT WHO I THINK?

BOY WITH SPEECH IMPED:

I FINK WE SHOULD TAKE SUBMARINE TO NEW POK’OVSKOE AND B’OW UP BABUSHKA AND HER F’EINDS RIGHT NOW. ZHANNA DOES NO’ GED TO SAY WHAT WE DO. VLADIMIR THOU’ ALEXEI SHOUL’ BE WIFF US AN’ THAT’S GOOD ENOUGH FOR ME. CITY 512 GONE NOW NO GOING BACK. I WORRY ABOU’ OUR OWN SLEEPERS HERE TOO. HEY!

YOUNG BOY:

LET OUR SLEEPERS GO. THEY CAN RUN THE SUBMARINE RIGHT? THAT IS WHAT THEY ARE TRAINED TO DO. TELL UZIMERI TO TELL THEM TO TAKE US TO THE SURFACE. THEN GO TO NEW POKROVSKOYE AND DO NOT BLOW IT UP BUT SHOOT THE BAD GUYS. THEN GO HOME TO CITY 512. DOCTORS THERE WERE NICE. BABUSHKA IS THAT YOU?

STRANGE OLD WOMAN:

IT IS I MY CHILD. YOU ARE A BEAUTIFUL CHILD AND YOU SHOULD JOIN YOUR BROTHERS AND SISTERS UP TOP. I HAVE DEFEATED THE MYSTICS AND I WILL DEFEAT YOU IF YOU PERSIST. SEE HOW I TAKE CONTROL OF YOUR SLEEPERS. SEE HOW I USE THEM AGAINST YOU. SEE NOW HOW HELPLESS YOU ARE, AS I, LENA, BECOME THE TSARINA OF IMPERIAL NEW POKROVSKOYE FOR NOW AND FOREVER! BOW DOWN BEFORE ME! YOU —

WH — KILODOVICH?

Mrs. Kontos-Wu was about to step through the rear hatch to the officers’ quarters corridor and back into the machine shops when she froze, listening to the sound of a rifle bolt being drawn behind her. She spun and ducked — expecting to return fire.

But she didn’t have to. Two Romanians were standing at a doorway — the one she’d seen a Child enter a moment ago. One of the Romanians was holding an old rifle, and aiming inside.

At the Children.

Mrs. Kontos-Wu drew a breath and raised her shotgun.

Shit, she thought. Babushka is inside him.

She had tried to order Mrs. Kontos-Wu to kill for her, and now that Mrs. Kontos-Wu had shaken her off, Babushka had gotten inside the Romanians.

She sighted — but stopped, when she saw the second Romanian reach around the gunman’s neck. He caught him in the Adam’s apple with his thumb. The rifle went off with a thunder and a clang, as the first fell to the ground. The Romanian looked at Mrs. Kontos-Wu and motioned for her to put the gun down and come over.

“Alexei?”

The Romanian nodded. “For a moment. There is a fight on now. You must protect the children against anyone,” he said. “Babushka is invading. Come here.”

Mrs. Kontos-Wu did as she was told. The first Romanian lay gasping for air. Alexei’s Romanian kicked him. When Mrs. Kontos-Wu was beside him, he tapped at the side of his skull.

“When I say,” he said, “do you think you can knock me out?”

Mrs. Kontos-Wu thought she could.

“Good. Now,” he said, “guard the Children.”

The Romanian’s eyes went blank, and Mrs. Kontos-Wu drove her elbow into his temple. He crumpled to the floor beside his comrade, who glared up at her.

“What—” he coughed. “What are you going to do? Suffocate this one? Like the old woman?”

Mrs. Kontos-Wu looked down at him and told Babushka to fuck off. She was about to make the Romanian say something else, but didn’t get far before Mrs. Kontos-Wu’s foot connected with the side of his skull.

She peered in the room. The Babushka’s targets were curled up on the bunk beds, staring out.

She stepped inside a moment.

“What is going on?” she demanded.

“War,” they both said in unison. “We are under attack.”