Ministry Protocol: Thrilling Tales of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences

by Tee Morris

  *****

  13 Years Later

  Outside Chudovo, Russia

  Field Agent Vasily Zinchenko dropped onto the snow bank, splashing little flurries into the air as he readied his rifle. He’d trekked in through the quiet countryside, past burning cottages and ruined farmsteads, the night sky the only other witness to their fate. Vasily had been tracking the movements of a battalion of Lev soldiers for two weeks, and they’d led him to the mother lode. From his perch at the pine thicket’s edge, he could see a hive of men centered about a place his map called “Bugorski Hill”.

  Whatever the Lev were planning, they’d set up camp on the long railway that ran from Moscow to Saint Petersburg. Vasily looked over the tall, windowless wooden structure they’d built alongside the rails. It looked to be about the size of three large barns stacked on top of one another, and it was packed with men coming and going at all hours. He shuddered to think what was in that wooden fortress. The agent wondered if the newly-coroneted Tsar Nikolas knew the Lev were about to wrap his favourite railroad around his country’s neck like a silvery noose. The only thing between the colossal structure and Saint Petersburg was two Imperial Army detachments, and Vasily wondered if that would be enough.

  He peered through his rifle’s scope, a gift from the Ministry clankertons. He sighted on a distant pair of men and clicked a button on the side. Twisting a few dials locked a light green lens over the hood, and night became day. A subtle whirring from the tally counter told him the range was locked in at three-hundred yards. And to top the whole thing off, a little spinner popped up and measured the crosswind. Vasily had once played golf in Scotland, and the caddy was ever so helpful with advice. He liked to think of the scope in very much the same way as his caddy, but with more killing involved.

  Ten men patrolled the perimeter, but the pair in his sights had just opened a flask and lit cigarettes. The others would leave, but the two in his sights would stay, and they would die. Then, Vasily could sneak in, ascertain the contents of the building, and move from there.

  He remembered Doctor Sound’s assignment:

  Our man on the inside only got us one message—Koschei the Immortal is coming to destroy the capital. Find out what the Lev are up to and cripple them if you can. The Queen rather dislikes the Russians, but she likes the Lev even less.

  A normal man would have scoffed at the idea of Koschei the Immortal—a god, whose soul is locked inside a chest, inside a hare, inside a duck, inside an egg, inside a needle. Open the chest, and you must catch the hare. Kill the hare, and the duck flies away. Only by smashing the egg, can Koschei be killed.

  Of course, a normal man had never met Baba Yaga, either.

  The agent was about to screw a sound dampener onto his barrel when he spied a figure creeping toward the structure from the east. Closer inspection revealed a woman in a strange uniform with locks of wavy blonde hair spilling down her back. Vasily watched her unholster a strange pistol as she moved toward his targets, and she took careful aim at one of them.

  His eyes darted to the patrols, still in the area. “You can’t be that stupid,” he whispered to no one.

  When she fired, a soundless heat wave swept across the sentries, felling them instantly. She set upon their pockets like a vulture, tugging at them for some keys. The gun was a very cute toy, to be certain. Vasily cocked an eyebrow, watching the scene unfold through his scope. What was she thinking? She hadn’t given the other patrols enough space.

  No sooner had she come up with her prize than another Lev guard rounded the corner right in front of her. The guard brought up his rifle to gun her down, but Vasily put a shot through the man’s head before the sentry could even take aim. A thunderous crack rolled through the valley, and the pines over Vasily rained snow with the force of the shot. The field agent’s eyes drifted to the sound dampener at his side, the one his clankerton friends had worked so hard to make. They would be angry, if he lived to tell them.

  “Oh, no,” grumbled the field agent as klaxons spun up all over the camp.

  Men emerged from the building at all angles as searchlight spots spilled over the ground like a bag of marbles. The structure lit up with a crackle of gunfire, spattering the ground all around Vasily. If his cover hadn’t been so good, he would have been Swiss cheese right then. He had just enough time to see the blonde hunker down behind a couple of crates before he had to duck, as well.

  He dashed along the snow bank, hidden by the forest, before dropping back down and firing another two shots into the closest Lev soldiers. Both men fell as the remaining guards re-centered their fire on his new position. Not to be outdone, the blonde jumped from her hiding position, spraying the men nearest her with her queer pistol. She took out another three. Between the two of them, Vasily optimistically wondered if they could take this base alone.

  No sooner had he completed that thought than the top of the wooden building lit up with cannon fire, shredding his cover. The field agent sprinted from his shrapnel-filled nest, near certain that he’d feel the killing shot any second. He chanced a look back to his hiding spot, only to see a fountain of dirt, fire and splinters. He could see great gouts of flame blasting out of the structure’s roof and ripping into the countryside. What the devil sort of gun did they have? He ducked back into the tree line, trying to stay hidden.

  The klaxons ceased abruptly, and over a loudspeaker came a deep, Russian voice, “Prepare for launch.”

  Explosive bolts tattooed the sides of the building, and the wooden planks fell away, revealing an iron fortress on tank treads, bristling with guns. Her Majesty’s dreadnaught fleet inspired less fear than the Lev monstrosity. Vasily’s eyes bulged when he saw just how many of those guns were trained on him. He shouted every curse the Russians knew as he sprinted along the forest edge.

  The firing stopped, and the gargantuan contraption rolled out over the tracks. Interlocking sections disengaged, and the massive tank sprawled forward across the tracks like a cat stretching in the sun. They didn’t need to waste any more ammunition on Vasily when they were about to make their move on Peter. He’d never catch up to them again.

  The beastly machine rumbled away as Vasily emerged from his concealment and killed the last of the remaining guards with several well-placed shots. He’d have to find a horse if he wanted to run the tank down. What had become of the blonde woman who’d blown his surprise? When he scanned the surrounding countryside for her, she was nearly on top of him. She levelled her pistol and shouted for him to put down his own weapon. He lowered the muzzle.

  “All the way down,” she said.

  “I saved your life,” he snapped, complying with her command.

  “That you did,” she said, stepping closer. From this distance, he could see her full lips, her bright eyes. She had a flowing voice, like Lavrovskaya, and a little shiver ran up Vasily’s spine. He hadn’t expected to find a flower on a battlefield. “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Do you mind, miss? I believe the Lev are escaping.”

  “Yeah. Looks like you scared the shit out of them.”

  He balked. “Who taught you to speak in such unladylike fashion?”

  “You get to ask questions when you’re the one pointing the gun.” She craned her head and smiled, the beautiful façade giving way to the cruel turn of her mouth. “Who do you work for?”

  Something about her expression unnerved Vasily. He’d seen his share of rogues in his tenure at the Ministry, but none of them set him on edge quite like the wolfish grin of the woman before him.

  A twitch in her eye told him she sensed his discomfort, and she flicked a switch on her gun. “Are you going to tell me or not?”

  “I was shooting the Lev. Isn’t that enough for you?” He nodded in the direction of the tracks. “Now, if you please, they’re getting away, and we’ve need of horses, or motorcycles or...something.”

  “Didn’t bring your own?”

  “I travelled light, to avoid announcing my presence.” He looked her
over, head to toe, and grumbled, “I wish you’d done the same.”

  She lowered her pistol. “Don’t worry. I live nearby.”

  With that, she took off into the woods, away from the rolling fortress. So this was to be it: either try to run to some peasant’s house so he could steal transport, or follow a strange woman into the woods. With a sigh, Vasily slung his rifle across his back and trailed behind her. They dashed between the trees by moonlight, and he tripped over the odd root or hidden rock more than once. When he was finally sure they were truly lost, she stopped. He looked around; unless their destination was an unremarkable clearing in the middle of nowhere, she’d led them astray.

  “Great,” he said. “Now the Lev can march on Peter while I play in the woods.”

  “Shut up, you inbred farmboy,” she spat.

  “Excuse me, but I am not—”

  She silenced him by whistling a shrill melody. They stood without speaking while trees creaked overhead, their crowns bowed with frost. Vasily was about to leave when a cabin materialised out of thin air before him, stray reflections peeling from its walls like old paint.

  The structure wasn’t any ordinary hut. Dozens of bleached bones dangled from the eaves of the roof, macabre icicles with bits of fur and leather tied to them. The windows glowed with an eerie, green firelight, and the stench of rotting meat permeated the clearing.

  “Sweet Mary, Mother of Christ!” he shouted, drawing his revolver.

  “I told you not to worry,” she said, making her way toward the door. It opened by itself as she stepped onto the porch. “I said I lived nearby. You coming or what?”

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “Yevgeniya Babikov. Zhenya for short. Now, I’m tired of you wasting time. Get in here, or I’m leaving without you.”

  “Leaving?” Vasily lowered his weapon and followed her to the door. He saw no horses, but then again, anyone who lived in a hut like this would probably eat their horses. He stopped at the threshold. “Where are we going?”

  “After the Lev! You’re a thick one, aren’t you, farmboy?” She jerked him inside by his collar.

  The interior of the hut was far less pleasant than the outside, sporting thousands of dried bundles of herbs lining the walls. Dusty shelves of greasy jars contained a menagerie of grim trophies, from eyeballs to human hands. Hooks, crusted with blood, hung from the ceiling, and Vasily eyed them nervously. Pale, pink skins lay stretched across the ceiling, nailed to planks, while a spiked, iron candelabra illuminated them from below.

  While Vasily’s fellow agents may have been sceptical folks, he had personally met Baba Yaga. This woman was a witch.

  “Don’t go fainting on me,” said Zhenya.

  “Who the Devil are you?” Vasily asked. He fumbled the cross from under his shirt and rubbed over it with his thumb.

  Zhenya chuckled, rolled her eyes and strode to the corner of the room. She banged on a board and it flung open, revealing a recess containing a long, brass lever. “The saviour of Mother Russia,” she laughed, throwing the huge switch.

  The stench disappeared with a hum, and the room grew a little brighter. With a tremendous clank, the ceiling overhead flipped over, hiding the skins and hooks as it became a brass sheet. Dozens of hidden panels reversed across the walls, showing gauges, levers, switches and other indicators. Vacuum tubes jutted out from hundreds of hidden compartments, coruscating with incandescent light. The cauldron folded down on one side, revealing a leather-upholstered seat, bristling with all manner of control apparatuses.

  Vasily suddenly became conscious of his bulging eyes. “I say again, woman, who the Devil are you?”

  She vaulted into the seat, her deft hands wrapping around the two largest levers. “Try to hang onto something.”

  The house bucked, the floorboards rushing up to meet Vasily as he was thrown from his feet, barely managing to keep hold of his pistol. He rolled to one side and watched in astonishment while the trees rustled past the window. The house rose fifteen feet into the air. Then it lurched forward, lunging ten feet with a resounding crash. It lurched again and again, until Vasily understood the motions—a steady gait. The house was walking. He knew what he’d find if he could see it from the outside; it would be a witch’s hut, running on a pair of chicken legs.

  He managed to get his knees under him. “My God. You’re Baba Yaga.”

  “What was your first clue?” She cackled over the clanking of her mechanised house.

  His fear became anger as it churned in his stomach. He raised his pistol to her, pulling the hammer back. “All these years. All these years I’ve thought of my parents. Of my childhood. You stole me away from them!”

  Her expression changed. “Oh,” she said. “You’re one of the children.” She sighed and flipped a stray lock of blonde hair from her eyes. “I kidnapped you, did I?”

  “You left me in London, thousands of miles from my home! By the time I got back, I learned my parents had died in the famine!”

  She cocked an eyebrow. “Sounds like I did you a favour, then.”

  “The choice wasn’t yours to make!”

  “You did all right, didn’t you? Found someone to take care of you?”

  One twitch would erase that smile from her face. Four pounds of trigger pull. He tensed, his leather glove creaking in the frozen air.

  Professor Fount had seen fit to send him away to the finest boarding schools and personally taken charge of his education. Even though the previous head of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences had always maintained his distance, he groomed Vasily to be their best Russian operator. If not for Baba Yaga, he would have died in the famine, too.

  But it had not been her choice to make.

  Zhenya’s voice snapped him back to the present. “Go ahead, then. Shoot me and go back to being a farmboy. You can do that, can’t you?”

  “How will shooting you return me to my parents?”

  “What did I look like when you met me?”

  Old.

  Frightful.

  The same smile, though.

  Vasily looked her over. He could imagine her hands growing into the talons of the crone, her now-beautiful nose crooked in age, her pert lips withering like rotten fruit.

  She smiled. “I haven’t kidnapped you yet, but I will. One day, when I grow old, I’ll go back and take you from your parents. I’ll travel through time, because that’s what I do.”

  His fury renewed, and he grit his teeth. He knew it was unreasoning. He had to think of his training, but he had lost his childhood. The trigger itched under his grip. “I never got to see them again, you know. What a perfect reason to kill you.”

  Her expression softened. “Yes, and if you do, I won’t be here—in our present time— to save Saint Petersburg. Neither will you. There will be no Agent Vasily Zinchenko of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences. There will be a young boy whose name will go forgotten, just another death in the all-too-common famine of the Russian wilderness. And the Lev will gain control of the country, and eventually all of Asia. You weren’t kidnapped. You were recruited.”

  He shook his head. He didn’t want her to make sense.

  “I’m sorry. I wish there was another way for you, but this is what fate has written. Do you think it was an accident that you found your way to me?”

  He lowered his weapon and dropped to his knees. She joined him, and took his face into her hands. She was so beautiful. The most incredible eyes he had ever seen…

  “Tell me of the day we met so we can get on with the task at hand.”

  As they travelled, he told her every last thing in exacting detail: where he was from, how she’d lured him into the woods, of his meeting with Doctor Fount in the early hours of the London morning. He left out as much sensitive Ministry information as he could, but if he wanted to make it to this exact moment, she would have to know as much as possible.

  “And where are you from?” he asked

  “About thirty-one years in the future. Oth
er than that, I can’t tell you,” she said with a wink. “I’d hate it if you decided to return the favour and kidnap a little girl.”

  “So you grew up and built a time machine? What are you, some kind of genius?”

  “I stole it from the Americans. Great at baseball. Bad at guarding Air Force bases.”

  When they crested the next hill, a war zone greeted their eyes. Explosions, cannon fire and the crackle of rifles filled the air. A regiment of the Tsar’s men had engaged the behemoth, to absolutely no avail. The Lev tank laid waste to all before it with dozens of guns. As Zhenya’s hut raced down the hill toward the action, Vasily knew it would be too late for the Tsar’s soldiers. He saw them torn apart as they tried to flee on horseback, and he said a silent prayer for their souls.

  “If you can move through time, why can’t we go back and stop the Lev from gaining that monster?” asked Vasily.

  “I would if I could, but the old witch went back and locked the time jumps into the system when I stole the stupid thing. The horrible bitch also made it look like this house.”

  “You’re talking about yourself?”

  Zhenya shot him a sidelong glance. “She thought I’d use it to make money.”

  “And would you?”

  “What can I say? She knows me pretty well.”

  “When are you headed to next?”

  “Fourteen years from today. I’ll land somewhere near the Podkammenaya Tunguska River.”

  He frowned. “There’s nothing there.”

  “Then I’ll take a vacation. Maybe bed one of the Tungus. I bet some of those hunters are great fun.”

  Vasily blushed. This woman reminded him of a Ministry operative from New Zealand, Agent Eliza Braun. When she would be partnered up with him, he lacked any idea how to speak with her, and he often pretended his English was bad so he could avoid conversation. While Braun enjoyed a bit of fun in her work, Vasily was all business.

  With a half dozen leaps, their hut had closed the distance to the tank. Up close, Vasily already regretted tagging along for the ride. There was nothing his rifle could do against its iron sides, and the plethora of guns bulging from the beast did nothing to calm his nerves. He saw several of the cannons swing in his direction. He hit the deck as the house took a flying leap to its left, sending him rolling into the far wall. Explosions turned the night orange as shells peppered the trees around them.

  “You’re going to have to board it!” shouted Zhenya.

  “I’m sorry, I’m going to have to what?”

  “This thing doesn’t have any weapons! You’re going to have to jump aboard! And do, you know—” she said, gesturing wildly with one hand while driving her time-traveling hut with the other, “Secret agent…stuff.”

  Vasily staggered to the front door and whipped it open, watching as the black pines blew past. His stomach flipped—fifteen feet to the ground seemed a lot further when the ground went shooting by like that. He took a long swallow and calculated the distance to the upper deck of the monstrosity. Ten deadly feet hung between him and the freezing iron tank.

  Cannon fire streaked across their eaves, and Vasily was forced to grab hold of the door frame as Zhenya executed a swift dodge.

  “Step on it!” she screamed at him.

  “Step on what?” He shook his head. He couldn’t feel more mortal in that moment: cannons on one side, a death-defying leap on the other. Now he was supposed to step on something?

  “It’s an expression. From my time, not yours! Now get over there, farmboy!”

  The cannons were reloading. This would be his only chance. He was a secret agent, damn it, and this was for the Queen. They’d trained him for this sort of thing—

  Well, not this sort of thing, but close combat.

  He backed up against the far wall, slung his rifle and looked to Zhenya. “If you could get me a bit closer, that would be just ducky!”

  “Just what?”

  “An expression from my time!” he snapped, holstering his pistol and rifling through his shoulder bag. He finally grasped what he sought—the Mountaineer: a fierce-looking pistol with a barrel the size of his forearm. He just hoped the clankerton Blackwell’s work was as fine as her smile. “Just get me closer to the damn tank!”

  The house lurched to the right as Zehnya shouted, “Now that I understood!”

  She lined them up for his leap, and sprinting over the unsteady floor of the cabin, he launched himself into the blistering Russian winter. The explosions, the gunfire, the screech of the train, all of it melted away, leaving Vasily with the distant edge. So close... he reached out.

  And he missed.

  As he fell, Vasily took aim on the hull and fired the Mountaineer, its magnetic cylinder slamming into the hull of the tank. The cable running from it back to the gun went taut, and he kicked, the sudden momentum lifting him back up in the air. His fingers found purchase on the rim of an iron hatch. He hoisted himself up to the tank just as a pistol-sporting soldier popped open the hatch next to him. Vasily caught the man’s wrist before twisting the weapon from his grip. The Ministry agent blasted his attacker through the cheek with his own pistol, leaving the Lev scum to prop the door for him. Vasily then drew a grenade from his belt, counted down, and chucked it into the hole. Several screams were silenced by the sharp pop of small ordinance. He clambered inside, shoving his shrapnel-shredded acquaintance out of the way.

  The metallic interior reeked of blood, organs and gunpowder—two more fellows downed from the blast at the base of the ladder. From the hallway stretching before him came the clamour of troops. Oddly enough, he felt safer here, surrounded by enemies, than he did back in Baba Yaga’s house.

  From inside the tank, Vasily heard engagement with dozens of enemies. The Tsar’s men would not surrender without a fight. How far had they travelled? For that matter, how fast had they been going? Could they already be at the first military post before Peter? The combined forces of the Tsar would be no match for this monstrosity and its ability to punch right through any blockade.

  A klaxon sounded and throughout the corridor echoed, “Make ready the Hare.”

  It couldn’t be! This whole blasted contraption was what the Ministry’s mole inside the Lev had meant by “Koschei.” They’d be launching some sort of secondary craft soon, and that was where he’d find the deadly payload that would destroy the city. He checked the ammo on his newly-acquired pistol and dashed down the hallway.

  Evading the guards was a simple matter. As long as he avoided the sounds of cannon fire, the rolling castle was sparsely populated. He made his way toward the front as best he could figure, eventually coming upon a cavernous, central chamber. What he saw in the centre took his breath away—perched above the train tracks was a sleek set of train cars with a strange nozzle protruding from the back. The contraption was at least as long as three passenger cars, but lower to the ground. A control room glowed orange in the front through porthole windows. The small train had to be the Hare, poised to take off. The tank had only been a shell. The true payload was a bomb whose infernal origins Vasily could only guess.

  The place swarmed with hard-looking men, and Vasily knew it would be death to show his face. He ducked back into the shadows and watched the scene unfold. A man in regalia, his chest scaled with shining medals and insignias, descended a distant staircase, his men bowing before him as he passed. His violet cape fluttered behind him, as though he already thought himself Tsar. He must have been the ring leader. Vasily thought back to his orders: “Cripple the Lev.”

  Killing their show-off leader would do it. He unslung his rifle and took cursory aim from the hallway. His heart thundered, but he slowed his breathing. In... out... in... out... Do not open the scope until ready.

  Another klaxon screamed, and the front doors to the chamber slowly opened to the outside with the chugging of two powerful engines on either side. Snow twisted into the chamber, and the men shielded their eyes from the oncoming wind. Their leader, however, did not, his cape whipping
about his shoulders. Vasily popped open the scope, the dry, frosty air tickling his face around the eyepiece. He exhaled and wrapped his finger around the trigger. One shot, for Queen and Country.

  “Intruder!” came a shout from in front of him.

  Vasily brought the rifle up to the opposite gangway to find a guard pointing his rifle at him. “Bloody Hell!” he grunted, using his one shot on this immediate threat.

  Vasily ducked back behind his column and panic erupted throughout the room as every Lev soldier decided to empty his rifle in whatever direction he was facing. No doubt, the Lev Tsar would be boarding his warship that very moment. If the Hare launched, the mission was over. Vasily yanked his remaining two grenades from his belt and steeled himself.

  He tossed the first around the corner, where it clanked down some metal stairs before blasting some poor chap. He then ran into the room and hurled the remaining grenade as far as he could toward the opposite wall. Screams, alarms, and gunfire followed in the explosions’ wake, and Vasily leapt over the railing into the madness. A dozen Lev soldiers confusedly attacked their surroundings, but Vasily only cared about one man—the fellow boarding the Hare. The man in regalia smiled, slamming shut the hatch. Arclight struck the engine from an ignition system in the back of the train, and the nozzle burst to life with a blue peak of fire.

  Throwing his rifle back over his shoulder, Vasily bounded toward the Hare. Already, the contraption had begun to lurch forward, and automated winches released it onto the tracks. He ran as fast as his legs would allow before taking a flying leap onto the back of the slick train cars. He scrambled to right himself on the roof of the rear car.

  The engine blast became a beastly roar, deafening him.

  “Oh, no,” Vasily said, but he couldn’t hear himself as the vehicle rocketed from its well-armed cradle and down the tracks. The launch attempted to shake him free, but all it did was cause him to lose his hold on the pistol Vasily liberated from the Lev soldier. His lips flapped about his clenched teeth as the god-awful engine reached full speed, and it took all of the strength in his fingers and arms to hold on. He looked behind him, seeing the Chest, along with Baba Yaga’s hut, fading into the distance. The Lev’s plan to launch a manned bomb into the heart of Saint Petersburg seemed like a very smart one in that moment.

  Vasily tried to pull forward, but found the force of the wind far too strong to assault. However, the vehicle slowed as the speed evened out, and the agent found he could almost stand. He made little progress forward as the trees tore past, and he knew they would see Peter soon. He had to get to the front car before that happened.

  The hatch on the lead car swung open, and the soldier-king leaned out with a long-barrelled pistol. He happily blasted away as Vasily took cover by hanging off the other side of the train. As the ground dashed past Vasily’s feet, he questioned his choice of hiding spot.

  “Tell me your name!” called the soldier-king. “So we can remember the man who dared to stand against the Lev.”

  “I’d rather shoot you, if it’s all the same!” Vasily shouted back, drawing his own Ministry-issued pistol. He flipped the compressor on the Wilkinson-Webley “Crackshot” and tightened his grip on the weapon.

  “It would do you no good. Koshchei’s wrath has been incurred, whether you kill me or not! Were you to stop the bomb right here, it would kill a thousand peasants.”

  “Better a thousand, than a million!” he grunted, pulling himself back up onto the roof. He popped off two shots in the direction of the soldier-king, missing both.

  “Oh, so I should detonate it this instant!” The Lev returned fire.

  “Would you be so kind?” Vasily flattened against the icy roof. “I’m finding this mission rather tedious now.”

  The soldier-king emptied his pistol clip, forcing Vasily back to his hanging cover on the opposite side of the train. The Lev mock-saluted. “This has been most diverting, but I’m afraid I must depart now!” Then he shut the hatch.

  Vasily knew if he could get to the front, he could shoot the man through the portholes, provided the Lev didn’t shoot back. But then, the portholes were so small, and how could he get inside once he’d killed the soldier-king? It was a bad plan—and a sure ticket to a bullet in the head. Vasily pulled himself up, his tired muscles complaining, and laid against the icy armour of the train. His thoughts raced along with the Hare, and he saw a dim illumination in the distance. The beautiful spires of Peter drew closer.

  His eyes scoured the infernal mechanical carapace, but he saw no weakness. Surely there was some way to destroy the thing. Then his mind settled on the soldier-king’s parting words: “I must depart now.” Hadn’t they already departed?

  A dozen loud pops sounded, and the plating underneath Vasily’s hands lifted up like a kite on the wind. For a moment, he felt weightless as he watched armour fly from the craft on all sides, including the piece on which he was perched, twisting in the wind. He held on for dear life until the plate crashed into the snow, sending him tumbling head over heels. Miraculous luck brought him back onto the armour plate as it bounced like a Hellish sled ride through a field… headed straight toward a copse of oaks. The Ministry agent braced himself for the inevitable.

  The plate wedged against a root, catapulting him into the air. The ensuing assault of tree branches was far worse than any beating Agent Campbell had ever given him in their Bartitsu training. A particularly sharp smash against his face left him reeling, and when Vasily came to rest on the frost, the stars still hadn’t settled. He blinked hard, and looked in the direction of the Hare.

  Wings ejected from its sides, and it rocketed into the sky. The Duck had launched. Vasily had failed.

  He felt for his limbs. He still had the required number, but they moved lazily, like a drunk man’s. He wiggled his fingers, surprised to find nothing broken. Salty copper filled his mouth, though, and he sat upright to spit out one of his front teeth into his hand. Hot pain seared his guts as he did, and he swore before falling into a coughing fit. Slowly, he got his feet under him. He looked down and spotted his rifle laying on the ground, the strap torn from its stock. He fetched it, for all the good it would do. He could at least get to a safe spot before the Lev’s bomb wiped out the city. Someone had to report what had happened here.

  When he turned to hobble back the way he came, he spied a green streak flitting around in the distance. It grew brighter and larger, until it was a roaring ball of light headed straight for him. Another Lev weapon? No, something more familiar.

  Then he remembered the green fire of Baba Yaga.

  In a flash, she was upon him, riding atop a glowing, chrome bowl like some sort of insane horseman. She brought her vehicle to a halt, and he got a better look at the thing, spying all manner of controls and gauges lining her chair.

  “Taking a break, I see,” she called down to him, extending a hand.

  He took it without hesitation. Agony crackled over his ribs as he climbed aboard behind her. “You’ve got more tricks, then?”

  She smirked. “Of course. This is the core of my house, the part that actually travels through time. You may have heard of Baba Yaga’s Flying Mortar?”

  “Where’s the pestle?”

  Zehnya gave him a mischievous wink. “That’s a weapon best reserved for when I have something to grind.”

  She twisted the throttle and they shot into the night sky. Vasily would have appreciated it more had he not been the coldest he’d ever been in his life. The low, patchy snow-clouds unfolded before him like scenery on a stage to reveal a glimmering backdrop of stars clinging to the pearlescent moon. A bright patch under the distant clouds represented the sprawling imperial capitol, with all its history and beauty, its gas lamps alight for another peaceful evening.

  “There it is!” said Zhenya, pointing to an orange streak on the horizon. The Duck shot across the night like a comet, no doubt considered an ill portent by the peasant farmers below.

  “Get us closer,” said Vasily. He checked his rif
le. Two rounds left. He stowed it neatly beside him.

  “I’ll swat that thing out of the sky.” She closed her hand around another flight stick, this one containing a trigger.

  “Stop! If you shoot it, it could detonate.”

  The craft made a whirring noise as she depressed the trigger halfway. “Better here than the capitol.”

  He reached around and stopped her. “There is always another way.”

  She looked back at him, fury in her eyes at his presumption to touch her craft. He let go of her hand, showing his palms. “Think of the innocents already below us,” he said.

  “You’ve got ten seconds to convince me, or I’m bringing down the Pestle.”

  There was an alternative, yes? Surely they could spare the countryside. But what could they do? If the bomb got into Peter, the whole Russian government would become unseated. The Tsars were not nice men, but an age of darkness could follow a power vacuum that great. They needed to move the Duck far from this place. Somewhere…

  Remote.

  “Two seconds, farmboy!”

  “How do you travel through time?”

  Her finger twitched, but she didn’t fire. “What?”

  He tried to hide the panic in his voice. “The next place you’re going is Tunguska. How do you get there?”

  “The Mortar is the engine that actually does the time traveling. If we can get it into contact with the Duck—”

  Vasily nodded. “We can send their bomb into the middle of nowhere.”

  She considered his proposition. They could see the spider web of roads that formed the outskirts of Peter gathering below. Zehnya laid into the accelerator, and he clung tight to her to avoid being thrown from the craft. They streaked toward the Lev aircraft with a speed meant only for gods, and the Duck grew in their view from a tiny speck of light to a blazing rocket.

  “He’s not going to simply let us ram into him, Vasily.”

  “Leave that to me.” He shouldered his rifle and took aim down the scope.

  The nose section had the portholes from the Hare, and for that, Vasily felt thankful. He could put a bullet through those. Through the windows, lit by the dim glow of dials and indicators, the agent spied his Lev nemesis. The man leaned forward, oblivious to Vasily’s presence, and flicked a switch on his console. Strains of Anton Arensky’s Elegea from his first Piano Trio saturated the air through loudspeakers, so deafening as to be heard for miles around. The melancholic tune was almost like an apology to the innocent people of Peter for the fate about to befall them. The soldier-king relaxed and closed his eyes, letting the sounds of the music take him to his final destination.

  Vasily always hated the melodramatic villains.

  “Can you make this shot?” asked Zhenya.

  “Of course, I can,” he bit back, but once the anemometer on his scope popped up, his certainty melted away.

  The scope’s windage spun far too fast to get a measurement. If he fired, it would have to be on gut instinct. He tried to imagine the bullet’s path, but he found himself aiming far in front of the Duck, hoping the arc would bring the shot back into its airframe. He threw back the cockbolt and took comfort in the feel of the round chambering. He sucked in a deep breath. With a moonlit cloud as his mark, he counted down, then fired.

  They saw a tiny spark as the bullet clanged off the Duck’s hull, but all its windows remained intact. Through his scope, Vasily saw the soldier-king startle upright and look in his direction.

  The agent let out his breath as the Duck took evasive manoeuvres, diving straight at the city. “Oh, bollocks.”

  “Idiot!” hissed Zhenya, and Vasily’s stomach flipped as she raced downward after the Lev craft.

  His rifle lost its weight as gravity, his long-time friend, abandoned him. His hair floated, his pockets emptied, and he held tight to Zhenya, trying not to scream in her ear. They raced through the clouds toward the falling Duck, and sparkling Peter appeared in their view, majestic like a bed of gold coins. A million lamplights—each of them a house, or a person, or a family—spread below them. The Mortar had grown close to the Duck, and Vasily choked on the sulphur fumes of the Lev rocket engines.

  One more round. Maybe, if he could hit the centre point of the nozzle, he could make it lose control. What good would that do? Would it blow up? Would that be better in the air than on the ground?

  He levelled his rifle for his final shot.

  “Not yet!” screamed Zhenya. “Wait for it!”

  She cranked a lever all the way, and Vasily nearly fell out of the Mortar as it streaked downward, past the Duck, coming to hover directly in its path. Vasily had a straight shot up into the portholes, and he could see the surprised whites of the soldier-king’s eyes.

  “Now!” she cried.

  With a pull of the trigger, the viewport glass spider webbed with crimson strands, and Vasily knew his bullet had found its mark. With its pilot dead, all that remained was the Duck and Koschei’s wrath...

  ...crashing straight at them.

  “What’s the plan?” he shouted.

  The Duck spun lazily, chasing them toward the city. The exterior of the Mortar began to sparkle with strange energies, and Vasily smelled ozone. Zhenya’s hands deftly flickered over the controls as the diving crafts developed an incessant scream. The bomb was a mere ten feet away, and he could see the dead soldier-king’s face through the cracked glass. He looked from Zhenya, to the Duck, back to her, back to the bomb, and he knew he was shouting something, but he couldn’t tell what it was, because everything seemed to take a left turn all of a sudden. All sensations became only noise.