Russian Amerika (ARC)

by Stoney Compton

  "Cora, you cover Alex; we have to get the radio. Wing, can you get two with your bow before they know what's happening?"

  "Of course I can," the raven-haired woman said as she thrust out her finely chiseled chin. "You know that."

  "Just checking. I want you to get the armed guard here"—his finger prodded dirt in the model layout—"and cover this one. If he makes a move to shoot, kill him."

  She grinned, causing the scar on her wide cheek bone to bend back on itself. "Can't I just kill him?"

  "No. We need trained people." Slayer-of-Men felt proud as he looked over the nine under his command. Each of them had commanded raids like this in the past.

  They were the best warriors the Den nation offered. He fervently believed that every day brought them closer to the time when the cossacks and their masters would be driven from Den land. And people like these would lead new armies.

  "You must all be in place by the time the shadows have moved from here"—his finger traveled less than a hand's width—"to here. I will signal and, after Malagni kills the Kalashnikov, the attack begins."

  Murmurs of assent dissipated in the air and the team melted into the brush. Slayer-of-Men made his way back to the wide oval hacked out of the forest by the Russians. He waited and watched the huge cossack who sat on the small guard platform with an automatic rifle resting across his knees.

  There would be more weapons like that in the camp. The cossacks ruled their world so completely that they felt only one of them at a time needed to be armed in this manner. Every one of their camps the Den had attacked had been just like this one.

  The only deference the Russians made to their previous losses elsewhere was the decrepit tank sitting on the riverbank. The tankers had lapsed into boredom and indifference over a week ago. The prisoners didn't need the machine to keep them working; the cossacks did that.

  The cossacks wasted their own strength, Slayer-of-Men thought for the second time in less than an hour. He knelt and took his bow from its hiding place. Nocking a metal-headed arrow, he leaned back and calmly waited for his team to strike.

  The shadows crawled inexorably along their appointed paths.

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  9

  Construction Camp 4

  Grisha could not ignore his thirst any longer. One of the many cossack rules forbade convicts more than one drink of water per hour. He felt sure dehydration due to diarrhea played no part in their calculations; a drink of water would improve his work. Perhaps if he just explained it to them.

  The water station stood directly in front of the squat guard tower. A cossack corporal dominated the middle of the newly built square, a Kalashnikov resting across his muscular thighs. Fear threatened the tightness of Grisha's bowels as he spread his arms outward in the proscribed manner and shuffled forward.

  As if it were animate, the barrel of the automatic weapon lazily centered on Grisha's chest. The corporal's blocky, bearded face remained bereft of expression. When Grisha was five meters from the drinking water, the big Russian spoke with a voice reminiscent of rusty iron hinges in use.

  "What are you doing here, dung-eater? You guzzled more than your share of water much less than an hour ago."

  Grisha stopped and braced as straight as he could. The weight of his hands multiplied every trembling second but he resolutely held them out.

  "Yes, master, that is true." He felt overwhelming disgust for his self-debasement. "However I have the shitting sickness and my body does not retain the fluid—"

  "Then shit in a cup." The cossack jerked the slide back on the weapon and released it to snap a round into the chamber. One pull on the trigger and Grisha would no longer need water, ever.

  His knees trembled uncontrollably, the familiar burning told him he'd slightly fouled himself, and the stench of his body hung around his face like a rotten wreath. A raven called from deep in the trees. His tongue ran over cracked, parched lips, and he felt the last reserve of energy, and care, drain from his soul. Only anger remained.

  The anger sparked a determination to end this animal-like existence. If nothing else, he would die like the soldier he once was. His arms dropped.

  The corporal's mouth slowly twisted into a parody of a grin and he raised the weapon. "Go back to work now or you die."

  Grisha felt incredible freedom. This moment would have presented itself sooner or later; why endure any longer in a world without hope? He squared his shoulders and lifted his head, a Troika Guard major and boat captain one last time, and finished throwing away his life.

  "At least fight me bare-handed, you louse-infested sodomite." The insolence felt so good that he grinned.

  The corporal snapped the weapon to his shoulder and squinted down the barrel. He shuddered and his expression shifted to surprise.

  Grisha frowned at him, wondering at the hesitation. Could the huge fool actually be considering his challenge?

  The Kalashnikov clattered to the ground.

  Grisha jerked back in amazement.

  The corporal slowly leaned forward, and picking up momentum, toppled off the platform into a heap on the ground. An arrow protruded from the base of his skull.

  Grisha snatched up the automatic weapon and, dashing back to the water, stuck his whole parched head into the wide tin basin. After three huge sucks he threw himself to the ground behind the water tank and peered around, trying to make sense of the situation. Another raven called from the forest. Two women prisoners stood in the framed-in doorway of the lodge, staring silently at the dead cossack.

  He checked the weapon. The chamber indeed held a round. He remembered the muzzle steadying on his chest and shivered.

  Grisha twisted to see how the tankers would react. The soldier who always sat on the turret seemed to be patting the cannon; a feathered shaft jutted from his back also. Grisha realized the man was trying to escape.

  The soldier gracefully slid around the barrel and fell to the ground. A figure popped up from behind the riverbank and deftly tossed a blocky object into the now-vacant hatch. Grisha blinked in disbelief as the figure vanished.

  The camp was under attack.

  Footsteps pounded behind him and he turned to see the burly army guard racing toward the fallen cossack. He pulled the Kalashnikov up to shoot the guard. The guard pointed his rifle from the hip, the muzzle bobbed back and forth.

  Silence expanded like a bubble, then exploded with the tank. A piece of flaming debris scorched past Grisha's head and hit the guard, knocking him gurgling to the ground, his chest a mass of blood, ripped flesh, and mangled organs.

  A Kalashnikov suddenly racketed off a burst. Another explosion blew the main cossack cabin into flinders. Chunks of wood rained down.

  Out of the corner of his eye something moved rapidly toward Grisha. He recognized the straw boss, the Creole woman from west of here, what was her name?

  The women all hated men. She could shoot him as well as Russians. He tightened his grip on the gun.

  From the half-formed lodge a guard stepped backward on stiffened legs, staring down at his hands grasping the arrow buried in his chest. His thin scream died away and he fell over backward. The straw boss slammed into Grisha and hunched down beside him.

  "If you ain't gonna use that thing, give it to me!"

  "Who do you want to shoot?" he asked.

  "Cossacks!" she hissed.

  Chunks of wood exploded off the guard tower at their back as the sound of another Kalashnikov grabbed Grisha's attention. The sergeant, framed in the window of one of the finished cabins, sprayed the trees at the edge of the clearing, then again turned his weapon toward the two convicts huddled at the water station.

  Grisha finally felt himself shift into combat mode. He squeezed off three rounds as the weapon bucked furiously in his hands. The window frame around the sergeant disintegrated and the man's face suddenly burst in a grisly spray.

  "Pretty good shooting," the wom
an said.

  "Thanks." He stared down at the rifle, then up at her. "Answer a question for me?"

  She frowned and her eyes flicked around the area before coming to rest on his face.

  "What?"

  "What's your name? I've been trying to think of it for five minutes now!"

  She laughed, showing gaps that remembered teeth. "Blue. My name is Blue."

  Abrupt silence fell across the work site except for the crackle and pop of the furiously burning tank. The trees stood listless in the last surge of summer heat. Birds and insects, reeling from the cacophonous assault, remained silent lest they bring the racket anew.

  His heart slammed against his rib cage and his hands shook unless he gripped the weapon tightly. He mentally eased back into slavery.

  "I wish something would happen." He didn't realize he whispered the words.

  Somebody tried to stifle sobs. The quiet became so loud that Grisha's ears began to ache. Blue moved beside him, her hand touched his.

  "Don't be afraid." Her voice rose barely above a breath, but he heard her clearly. "These are my people."

  His eyes flashed back to hers. Her face, alive with emotion, shone with sweat. He thought she looked beautiful just then.

  "Soldiers of the Czar," a voice called in Russian. "Lay down your weapons and you will not be harmed. If you continue to resist you will die, slowly." A moment later the ultimatum was repeated in English.

  "Who are they, your people?" Grisha asked.

  "The Den . The English call us Athabascans. We have lived here for hundreds of generations. This is our land." Even though she spoke softly, her words possessed backbone.

  "My mother was a Kolosh," Grisha said. "She told me once that her ancestors traded with yours before the Russians came."

  "And after, too," Blue agreed. "You have nothing to fear from us."

  "I hope you're right. The last woman who told me that almost got me hung."

  The tall Russian corporal everyone called "Professor," because of all the books he read, walked into the center of the square with his hands above his head. He didn't appear frightened, merely curious. Another guard shambled out of a cabin supporting a third soldier who dripped blood from an arm wound.

  "Don't shoot! We surrender. My friend is hurt and in shock." They came to a halt near Professor and the wounded man slumped to the ground.

  "I saw three of them die," Grisha said. "But there could have been more in the tank."

  "Two," Blue said, "were in the tank."

  "Then there are two more somewhere."

  "The cabin that blew up?" she suggested.

  The voice called out again, this time in a language Grisha didn't recognize.

  From the other side of the clearing another voice answered in the same tongue.

  "They're doing the same thing we are, making a tally," Blue said.

  One at a time, voices reported from around the clearing. The birds began to sing again. The voices stopped.

  Movement flickered in Grisha's peripheral vision. He jerked around to see a lithe youth, face painted black and green, dart into the edge of the square and take cover behind the corner of a cabin. The young man's movements, quick and deliberate, suggested much practice—or experience.

  Blue called out a question in Athabascan.

  The youth scrutinized her carefully.

  "Blue?" he said in English.

  "Lynx?"

  A rhythmic pulse worked on Grisha's mind, persistent and bothersome. He watched the interchange between Blue and the person, Lynx. The pulse grew louder.

  "Helicopter!" someone shouted. "Get into the tree line."

  How did they know to send a helicopter?

  "They radioed for help!" Grisha blurted.

  Lynx glanced at him, then back to Blue.

  "Usually the cossacks fight it out. One of the soldiers must have done it when the attack started."

  "How far are we from Tetlin?" Grisha asked.

  "Thirty kilometers at the most," Lynx said, "Why?"

  "That's an incredibly fast response, unless this attack was anticipated."

  The solid beat of rotors announced the impending arrival of the aircraft. Blue slapped Grisha on the arm and ran for the tree line. Grisha hesitated only a moment before following her. Professor thundered along behind them. Lynx had disappeared.

  They ran into the forest for about twenty meters and threw themselves into a clump of alders. Grisha squirmed around so he could see the open square framed by trees. The unwounded soldier waved upward frantically.

  The bright red helicopter hesitated in the blue Alaskan sky. Sparks suddenly danced across the bulbous fuselage as a Kalashnikov rattled.

  The helicopter veered sideways and roared out over the river. Grisha watched, entranced, as it slowly turned back toward the camp, dropped to treetop level and bored in at high speed. The soldier still waved, grinning and hopping up and down.

  Seeing only threat, the pilot fired his skid-mounted machine guns. The bullets threw up two walls of flying dirt, rock, and debris that raced across the square from left to right. The exploding tracks ripped across both soldiers, throwing them backward like sacks of bloody rags.

  The Kalashnikov hammered again and a stream of greasy smoke threaded from the helicopter. The thread thickened into a tatter that rapidly ribboned into a banner. The craft turned awkwardly and labored out over the river again.

  One island presented a long sandy expanse bereft of trees. The helicopter settled to within meters of the sand before it exploded. The blazing hulk ripped into pieces, some splashing down a quarter of a kilometer away.

  Grisha turned to Blue with a wide grin. Two men flanked her. Both wore green and black paint applied in random patterns from the tops of their faces down to the neck of their dark shirts. The smaller one held a rifle that casually pointed at Professor, who sat quietly on the ground.

  Grisha's heart lurched as ice filled his mind.

  "I am Slayer-of-Men," the taller man said in English. "We are Den . This is our land."

  Grisha nodded, desperately trying to remember the names of his Athabascan Troika Guard troopers.

  "We need your help and then you're free to go," the second man said. "Understand?"

  "Yes."

  "I'm Claude," he said. "What's your name?"

  "Grisha." He licked his lips. "Grigoriy Grigorievich. I am a Creole. My father was Russian and my mother Kolosh. Until recently I lived in Akku, on Akku Channel."

  His anxiety lifted. If they allowed him to keep talking, he would be all right. His determination to live swelled.

  "Tell us later." Claude looked down at Professor. "How are you called?" he asked in Russian.

  "Nikolai Rezanov. Please call me Nik," he said in perfect English.

  Grisha raised a skeptical eyebrow; the man was named after the famous romantic Russian hero?

  "Were any of those people your friend?" Slayer-of-Men asked.

  "No. I expected something like this," Nik said, showing no fear. "Before leaving Tetlin Redoubt we were told to remain constantly on the alert. But the cossacks told us to stay out of their way, that they would tell us when we were needed."

  "We kill cossacks," Claude said.

  "Good."

  "Was he cruel in his duties?" Slayer-of-Men asked Blue.

  "Not that I ever saw. If anything, he was lazy, his nose in a book or scratching on paper all the time."

  "He's afraid of the cossacks just like we were," Grisha said.

  The Russian soldier glanced at him. "He's right. I am afraid of them. They're soulless animals."

  Grisha glanced around. More painted Den filtered through the trees, bringing the other convicts.

  The one called Lynx jogged across the square and into the trees carrying a Kalashnikov. Blue stood and faced the youth.

  "Are you Lynx Bostonman, son of Boston Jack and Bead Woman?"

  Lynx dropped the heavy weapon and moved closer to her.

  "Yes. And you're Blue. I thought my sis
ter was dead."

  They hugged. Grisha saw a tear run down Lynx's cheek. The others shifted away from the two and found tasks to occupy their attention. Some of the convicts murmured to each other.

  Grisha touched Claude's arm.

  "Are we . . . am I a prisoner?"

  "He is," he pointed to Nik, "for now, time will tell. Like I said, you're free to do what you like. We're going to leave soon. There's another tank and more soldiers on the way here from Tetlin Redoubt. I'll be surprised if more aircraft aren't here within the hour."

  Slayer-of-Men clapped his hands together.

  "Now you will help us. All bodies go into the river, as well as damaged weapons. Let's get busy, we don't have much time."

  All of the prisoners stripped the dead soldiers of their boots and field jackets; the long nights had been cold. Grisha found a pair of boots that fit and carefully wiped each clean of the pieces of flesh stuck to them. The previous owner had taken the brunt of an explosion in the upper body.

  Once again Grisha found himself using weapons to weigh down Russian bodies for a watery grave. Both times involved saving his own life. He hoped this time the result would be very different.

  Again Slayer-of-Men clapped his hands for attention.

  "You people have to choose now. More cossacks are coming. We'll be gone long before they arrive. You can come with us or stay."

  "If we go with you," Irena asked, "will we be slaves?"

  "No. You can leave us at any time. But if you stay with us you'll work for your keep, but you won't be a slave."

  "What about the cannibals in the forest?" Basil asked.

  The tall Den smiled and one of his team chuckled.

  A thin Indian as tall as Rezanov clapped Grisha on the shoulder with a friendly hand.

  "Who would eat this sorry litter of muskrats?"

  "Heron is right," Slayer-of-Men said. "You wouldn't be worth cleaning, let alone cooking. There are no cannibals. We started that rumor to keep the cossacks and the army out of the bush in small numbers. If a lot of them come into the land, we know about it because of the racket they make."