Rasputin's Bastards

THE IDIOT

Alexei Kilodovich’s body was in awful shape. The back hurt and there was a blinding headache, and it had new injuries all over from what Alexei assumed were particularly vicious fights it had fought on someone else’s behalf. The worst of these was his left shoulder. It felt like it was on fire and when he checked it with his good hand he found a thick bandage there. When he poked it, he wanted to scream.

Someone had shot him.

Great.

“I told you to come back, Kilodovich,” said Vladimir. “But I guess you had other things to do.”

Alexei opened his eyes. He was standing in a low, wide room that he’d never seen before. It was a bunk room, obviously, and the Children such as he remembered them were all here. Vladimir sat in a makeshift crib. Alexei glared at him.

“What did you do to me?” he said.

Do you want another apology, Kilodovich? said Vladimir. I had hoped to engage your help in rescuing us. But events have taken a turn.

“Yes,” said Alexei. “They have.”

As he scanned the room, it became apparent that Alexei’s body wasn’t the only piece of furniture to take some damage. Bullets had torn ruts in the wood panelling — a couple of lights were dark — there were dark stains on the carpeting here that Alexei assumed was someone’s blood . There had at one point been glass doors on the bunk beds. There still were some, but many of them had been smashed, and now the glass was in neat little piles in the corners of the room.

And as Alexei looked over the damage, he saw that he was also not alone as the sole adult in this room.

Holden Gibson was in one of the bunks — one with glass on it — lashed to the mattress with thin cord. He was staring at the top bunk, his mouth working around his rage.

“Gibson is here,” said Alexei. “How did that—”

He came here to murder us, said Vladimir. Now he is under the thrall of the Babushka.

“Hah.” Alexei strolled over to the bunk and tapped on the glass. “Hello Holden.”

Gibson turned to the glass. His face pulled into a rictus of anger.

“I’m in fuckin’ communication with the Babushka right now, Russkie. And let me tell you — you’re fucked.”

Alexei shrugged. “I am fucked maybe.” He turned to Vladimir. “Has there been a doctor to see me?”

No. You applied that dressing yourself.

“You applied it, you mean.”

Yes. Using your hands, however.

“You think you got her beat — but let me tell you from experience. There’s no beatin’ Babushka. She’ll have the whole fuckin’ world in the Empire of New Pokrovskoye.”

“Is that so? Is she talking to you now?”

“She’s been talkin’ to me off and on since before you were born,” said Gibson. “You can’t stop her.”

“We did, though.”

“Fuck you. You didn’t come close. You made her retreat — twice. But you didn’t come fuckin’ close.” Gibson struggled against the bonds, his eyes rolling to look at the Children. The bunk bed rattled under his struggles, but it held. “You’re all fucked.”

Alexei shook his head. “I was thinking about killing you, you know that?”

Gibson’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah. That’s what the Koldun told me.”

“Which was why you tried to kill me. I guess I cannot blame you for that. It still pissed me off though.”

Gibson’s lips went thin and petulant. “So kill me now,” he said. “Fuck you. I’ll just ascend like Babushka.” He gave Alexei a look. “And from what she told me, you could ascend too.”

Alexei looked around. “Me,” he said, “these kids.”

“Right.”

“To be — what? Fuel for the Babushka’s great machine? Amplifiers, so that when she wants to take on more sleepers — or dream-walk — she can do so, without the inconvenience of using her own aging body?”

Gibson was quiet at that.

Alexei felt a welling inside himself — like he wanted to throw up. He thought back to Afghanistan, and the thing he had done to Amar Shadak and Ming Lei and Wali Beg and all the rest — for no better reason than to serve the ambitions of some degenerate dream-walkers who wanted to build an arsenal for themselves, and needed the people to do it.

“You,” said Alexei, “are an evil bastard. I feel no guilt for what I am about to do.”

“Go ahead,” said Gibson. “Like I said — I’ll—”

“Ascend?” Alexei let himself smile. “No. You won’t. There will be no more of that for you.”

“What—” Gibson’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I am the destroyer,” said Alexei.

He shut his eyes and took a breath.

Holden Gibson started to twist in his bonds. He looked at a space in the air just above Alexei’s navel. “Hey!” he said. “Fuck! Do up your fuckin’ fly!”

Alexei, eyes still closed, smiled. “That’s not what it is,” he said.

Gibson screamed. “Babushka!” he yelled. “Deliver me!” and “Fuck! It’s got me!”

There was a rustling then — a rustling of the soul. And then he went quiet — sobbing softly. Several of the Children joined him. Alexei withdrew the tentacle from Holden Gibson’s middle and opened his eyes.

The only sound in the room was the soft clapping of an infant’s hands.

“Why Kilodovich,” said Vladimir. “I am impressed. Clearly you have—”

“—unravelled the lie that is my life,” said Alexei, knees cracking as he stepped away from Holden Gibson, suddenly alone in his head once more. “I know. Now come — we have work to do.”

Alexei bent down and lifted Vladimir from his crib. Vladimir looked at Alexei with wide eyes and held up his little hands as if to fend off a blow. No! he shrieked with his mind while he wailed with his little mouth. Do not undo me! I am not ready!

Alexei smiled. “No,” he said. “You are not.”

And with that, he hefted Vladimir against his chest and carried him out of the greenhouse.

“You must show me the others,” said Alexei.

The others. What do you mean, Kilodovich?

“You must show me this Koldun who ordered my death so easily.”