The Void

CHAPTER 7

Viktor Dubkin stepped from the elevator on sub-basement 12. The underground levels below the Kremlin senate building continued on down another three floors, but below him there was nothing other than the interrogation rooms, and with them, the smell of blood, fear, and death. They made him feel physically ill. He had no problem with ordering death, and even torture. He just didn’t like to be close to it when it happened.

This floor, and the few above it, were far more interesting; they contained the research and development laboratories, and he was confident this one in particular was going to make a difference to Russia’s future on the field of combat. Though all the major countries were investing heavily in cyber warfare, pulse, magnetic and microwave weapons, Russia had learned significantly from the urban battlefields of Chechnya, and its lesson had been that asymmetrical warfare always demanded close-order contact — hand-to-hand, face-to-face, and where the biggest fist, boot, tooth and claw, won the day.

He hummed to himself. Dubkin knew that if his pet project was a success, then the rewards would be immense — glory, favors, and wealth. He nodded to the two lab-coated scientists, who buzzed around him like miniature satellites, deferring to his seniority, and also well aware he was one of the chief sponsors of their program. They showed him to one of the largest rooms and as they approached, the doors slid back. Entering, the three men found themselves behind a heavy glass partition looking into a hall-like space where six men trained with weapons, in hand-to-hand combat, and lifted weights with heavy gauge iron bars bending like bows.

Once again, Dubkin felt an odd sensation in his chest — he wasn’t sure if it was pride, awe or maybe a little revulsion. These men were the experimental ‘Kurgan’, the code name for the Russian combat troops of the future. The road to success had been long. Decades of grotesqueries were buried in unmarked graves, but eventually the breakthroughs came after they managed to extract information from a captured American scientist who had worked on the Arcadian program.

Each man was a giant, nearly seven feet tall, and hugely muscled. One of the scientists stood beside Dubkin, hands in lab-coat pockets and nodded toward them.

“The genetic treatment has given them enormous advantages. The skeletal framework is heavier and far more dense, and the musculature striations are longer.” He snorted. “The ministry of sport would kill for just one of them at the next Olympics.”

Dubkin turned, his mouth turned down. “You think we spent billions on these subjects to turn them into sporting toys?”

“No, no.” The scientist blanched. “I just meant that they are physically superior to any other human being on the planet. They are a marvel; that was all I meant, comrade Dubkin.”

Dubkin stared for a moment more, making the smaller man squirm before he grunted and turned back to the glass in time to see one of the men punch a heavy bag so hard, his fist penetrated the leather, spilling sand to the ground. The scientists brightened again.

“That one is Zlatan; he’s the natural leader and superior to the rest in intelligence, strength, and aggression. He really is something else entirely.”

The huge man turned pale eyes on the window and stared straight at Dubkin.

“He can see us?” The Russian politician had a sudden urge to take a step backwards.

“No, not possible.” The scientist raised small, neat eyebrows. “Even though their senses are heightened to be well above average, the glass is one-way mirrored and soundproofed.”

Dubkin nodded, unconvinced. He watched as a woman came into the room and had Zlatan sit down, and she began checking his hands, perhaps for injuries. She smiled, and the man’s large features melted momentarily as he looked up into her face.

The scientist watched the pair for a moment. “Their handlers, the women, are with them constantly, and have formed intimate bonds with the men. It keeps them interested and docile.” The scientist nodded, either agreeing or congratulating himself. “We have them psychologically imprinted for loyalty. But the Kurgan are strong-willed, so we added a little fail-safe.”

The scientist smiled dreamily as he watched Zlatan and the woman together. “After all, a man in love will do anything, yes?”

“The women know to do this?” Dubkin tilted his head.

“Oh yes, each man has his own, um, special lady.” The scientist turned back to the glass. “The sweetest fruit is dangled, but never actually eaten.”

“Good, good.” Dubkin liked what he saw… until one of the men stripped off a sweat soaked shirt, revealing what seemed a deformity.

“What is that? What’s wrong with him?” He squinted, seeing bands or lumps underneath the man’s skin, across his chest and lower back, and even extending up his neck to the base of his skull.

The scientist grinned with pride. “What is wrong with him? Nothing as far as our treatment is concerned. We just subjected them to more and more trauma while putting them through our gene-manipulation programs. Their DNA was tricked into thinking they needed to be more physically robust to survive, and it obliged by rewriting itself to better protect them.

Dubkin grimaced at the misshapen shape of the man’s torso. “Deformed.”

“Well, yes, there are observable changes.” The smaller man nodded. “His skeletal architecture has rewritten itself — his ribcage is now almost a solid mass of interlocking plates. Cartilage extends down over his softer organs, and within his thighs, calves, arms, and neck, there are strips of cartilage, more like that seen in a cuttlefish, that give extra scaffolding support, strength, and stability. Added to that their skin is more like toughened leather than the soft stuff covering us weaker beings.” He smiled, lovingly. “In a way, the men have grown their own personal suit of armor; it just happens to be inside them.”

The scientist titled his chin. “Just a few years back, in Texas, a man by the name of Tiny Meeker set a record when he bench-pressed over 1,100 pounds — a phenomenal weight.” He raised his eyebrows momentarily before turning back to the glass. He nodded to one of the Kurgan at the bench. “That man there, Stroyev, is lifting 2,000 pounds. Zlatan could lift even more.”

Dubkin was impressed and looked down as another scientist stepped closer to him. He nodded deferentially, and also beamed with pride. “The Kurgan heal quickly, don’t get sick, and we have built-in loyalty conditioning — basically, they are perfect.”

Dubkin grunted. “On paper.” He rubbed his chin for a moment. “I want to see one of them in action. See what they can really do.”

The scientist bobbed his head. “What did you have in mind… and when?”

“A little field testing in the old district. If this Zlatan is the best, then let’s see the best in action.” Dubkin looked at his watch; it was just 9 pm. He smiled. “Now is a good time… and I know the perfect place.”

Zlatan stared in at the patrons through a small mesh-covered window in a door that was thick enough to deter a bomb blast.

The bar, ‘Glebs’, was in Kupchino, the Frunzensky district of St Petersburg, and an area even the locals knew to avoid at night. After dark it became a place inhabited by drug dealers, street gangs, and general down and outs. The police never bothered going there — even if there was a murder — until the sun came up.

Zlatan’s near colorless eyes missed nothing as they took in the single room filled with thick, blue tobacco smoke. Even from outside he could smell the stale beer and body odor. There were about thirty occupants, mostly big brutish men with broad Slavic features, and dark, stained teeth. A few slatternly women laughed too loudly and were dragged onto laps, where they cooed and ground down hard onto waiting groins.

Zlatan forced the grin from his face, pushed the door open, and headed straight for the bar. He stumbled once as though intoxicated, all eyes were on him, taking in his expensive clothing, gold watch, diamond ring and chain around his neck. Perhaps they thought he was some sort of high-paid sports star who was on a bender and had wandered into the wrong place. Or maybe he had come to satisfy his urge for a rougher trade. Regardless, even though he was a big man, he knew his inebriation and trappings made him impossible to ignore — and for some, impossible to resist.

He sat on a stool, ordered a beer, and pulled out a wad of cash, peeling off a 5,000 ruble note — the salmon-colored banknote was a rarity and worth more than most of the bar occupants earned in a year.

The barkeep frowned, refusing the denomination and leaned in closer to the stranger.

“I think you are in the wrong place here. Take your money and go, quickly.”

The huge man just grunted then pulled out a smaller 500 ruble note from the stack and slapped it down, telling the barkeep the change was his. The man froze in confusion for a moment — no one tipped in his establishment, and certainly not that much. After another moment, he shook his head, cursed the man’s stupidity and took the money.

Zlatan smiled, feeling the interest and tension rise in the room. They would come at him soon; he could feel their hunger now, coming off them in waves. They stared and licked fleshy lips like a pack of wolves encircling a lone animal in the forest.

He reached into a pocket and pulled a cigarette-pack sized device free and placed it on the booze-stained bar. It had a dark dome on top, and inside a bank of cameras sprang to life taking in a 360-degree image of the room, and transmitted it back to Dubkin, the scientists and, Zlatan hoped, also to his beautiful Rahda. She had told him to make her proud — she could count on it.

“You looking for a woman, drugs, weapons?” A rat-faced man sidled up to him. He looked like a cross between a ferret and human being. His eyes never stopped moving, darting around in a pocked face, but always coming back to alight on the massive Rolex on Zlatan’s wrist. “Something else? I have everything.” He turned and snapped his fingers twice. “Albina, come.”

The barely conscious woman stumbled closer and did her best to look seductive, but her bloodshot eyes kept rolling back in her head, and there were crusted sores at the corner of her mouth and one nostril.

“Albina likes you. Do anything you want.”

Zlatan turned to the pair, and raised his voice to a slurring shout. “Fuck off, shlyukha!”

The woman shrunk back at the old Russian word for whore, and Weasel-face showed a row of small, dark teeth as he backed away a few steps. His eyes never left Zlatan’s watch. Behind them, groups of men whispered, sizing him up, planning.

The Kurgan lifted his beer, sipped and spat it out on the floor. “Dog’s piss.”

An empty bottle slammed into the back of his head, causing Zlatan to lean forward momentarily, and then turn to the small device on the bar to nod. When his head came up he was totally devoid of expression. He got to his feet, and headed for the door. Catcalls, whistles, and more projectiles followed. Other men also got to their feet, intent on following him outside.

But he didn’t leave. When he got to the door, instead of exiting, he slid the deadbolt across, locking it, and then turned. The first men to come at him were big, raw-boned, covered in gulag tattoos, and their faces carried broken noses and numerous scars from lives lived fighting.

One swung a wooden chair down on Zlatan’s head and shoulders so hard it shattered, but before the man had even finished on his follow-through, the Kurgan had caught a chair leg out of the air and used it like a dagger embedding the splintered end deep into the eye socket of one of the men. He shot out a tree trunk-like arm and caught the other man by the throat, and then grabbed his waist, lifted him above his head, and slammed him down across one knee. The sound of his spine cracking was like a rifle shot.

The women fled and the room exploded in shouted curses, frantic movement, and a rush of bodies as they all came at him at once with knuckle-dusters, knives, and guns.

The small device on the bar top caught it all.

Back at the laboratory Viktor Dubkin blanched as he watched blood spurt, bones break, and limbs pulled from sockets. Never had he witnessed such methodical brutality inflicted on other human beings.

One big man with a face like a potato swung a long blade into Zlatan’s ribs. He struck hard, but the knife barely penetrated. The man probably thought the giant wore body armor, but the reality was his armor was grown internally. Zlatan merely pulled the knife from the man who tried to turn away, and swung the blade back at him so hard, the shaft passed through the back of his neck, coming out his mouth to then nail him to the wall, so he hung there like a coat on a rack.

Dubkin blew air softly through pursed lips. The other thing that amazed him was even with the bestial ferocity the massive Kurgan displayed, his face remained impassive, not even breathing hard.

In another few minutes it was all over, with just two men left — the barman, ashen-faced and holding his hands up, and another man on the ground attempting to rise.

Zlatan looked down briefly at the struggling man, and casually lifted one size-fifteen boot before bringing it down on the face of the man so hard his skull caved in.

Slowly he lifted his gaze to the barman. Dubkin pressed the communication button, and his voice transmitted directly to a small pellet in the Kurgan’s ear.

“No mercy, no survivors.”

Zlatan reached down, picked up a discarded gun, pointed it and fired twice — both bullets hitting the barman between the eyes.

Dubkin nodded, satisfied. He checked his watch. “Three minutes and seven seconds; very good.” He turned to the scientist. “I have a mission; I will need them.”

The scientist’s eyebrows rose. “How many? Several are ready for…”

“All of them.” Dubkin turned away. “Get them ready for immediate departure. I will brief them as soon as Zlatan returns.”