Rasputin's Bastards

THE LITTLE HERO

AmarShadak’s antique submarine broke surface two kilometres off from New Pokrovskoye amid a school of kraken and moon-silvered froth. A trio of Romanians emerged on deck immediately, carrying with them the components of a Zodiac. Two more came out with a machinegun, which they set about assembling on the foredeck. Konstantine Uzimeri remained atop the tower, surveying the horizon with light-enhancing binoculars. Stephen took his own binoculars, and focussed them on the coastline, and the faint glow that rose beyond the jagged rocks.

“You should not go ashore,” said Uzimeri. “You are too weak.”

“Fuck you, Konstantine.” Stephen squinted. Aside from the light, the coast looked utterly barren. He played with the focus — for a moment, he thought he could actually see a structure — a tower, maybe a lighthouse — but then it faded. And the light faded too. “Don’t talk to me about weak. I’m not the one who fell for Babushka’s line.”

“You never had the chance,” said Konstantine. “You are too weak.”

Stephen didn’t bother answering. Instead, he slung the Skorpion machine pistol under his arm and swung himself out onto the ladder. The water was calm, but it was still dizzying making his way down the four-metre conning tower. He shivered. If it was possible, the submarine from outside seemed even narrower, less substantial than it was on the inside. It was slippery and narrow on top — every step to the boat’s prow was like a step along a tightrope. Finally, Stephen set down on the wet decking, crossed his legs, and squinted at the coastline. He left his binoculars around his neck.

It was like seeing Central Park from the Emissary Hotel, looking at New Pokrovskoye. Stephen began to imagine his way through the rock, through the illusion. He slowed his breathing — tried some of the techniques he’d learned in Jersey. And after a while, sure enough — the glow came back. He could even make out the shape of the tower.

And then, bit by bit, more things became visible: smoke coming from some buildings — great stone ramparts going down to the sea. The masts of tall ships. Flickering oil-flames further out, on top of buoys. A glorious hot-air balloon, tethered to the topmost tower of a fantastical palace that looked like it was out of a fairy story.

And a voice, a deep basso, calling out for someone called Natascha.

Stephen shook his head.

Fuck it, he thought. What the hell did a bunch of fortune tellers in New Jersey know about dream-walking anyway?

“Hey!”

Stephen looked over his shoulder. Mrs. Kontos-Wu was maybe a dozen feet behind him. She had changed into the same getup as had Uzimeri: a black sweater, black jeans and high laced boots. Stephen nodded at her.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” she said. “Easiest thing in the world, to slip off the side and fall into the ocean.”

“Okay.” Stephen spun on his ass so he was facing her. “Now I’m not alone.”

“We got another set of messages,” she said, “from the Mystics.”

“Which is?”

“We’re not as done as we thought we were,” she said. “Babushka’s still a threat. Soon, Alexei will confront her. Hopefully, he is strong enough. And there is something else…”