Andrei’s smile fades; his gaze focuses like a laser sight.
“What it will do, in the Americans’ hands. The devastation it will bring, the advances they will gain. If we let them be the sole owners of such power—of any of these powers—”
“We must not.” Secretary Stalin stands up. “We must prepare the world for global communism. And that means we must deny them every possible advantage.”
Andrei watches me, really watches me now, his tongue working at the edge of his teeth. I’d always thought he looked boyish when we’d cross paths in the halls—a brittle and fragile thing, sure to shatter if he were sent to the front. For clever men, studies granted them a reprieve from the death sentence of a fallen comrade’s battered boots on their feet and a jammed rifle in their hands, for they had other ways of serving the Motherland than as fodder for the fascists.
Now, though, I see the reddish tint to his skin from blunt war-ration razors and cruel winter winds. The darkness under his eyes that can’t be erased in one night’s sleep. The fine lines of his features look like clockwork. He is handsome in the way of a distant porch light in a blizzard—but whose porch light, I couldn’t say.
“All right.” Andrei turns toward Stalin. “I’ll join your little team. You will be taking part as well, Comrade Berezova?”
I nod, feeling guilty somehow. I’m admitting a secret I’ve kept from nearly everyone at Moscow State—the true nature of my research. Enhanced mental abilities in the Soviet population, and potential genetic mutations responsible for them.
“Then when do we leave?” Andrei asks.
Stalin says, “Tonight.”
Chapter Two
I’m running out of room in my notebook, but I still haven’t made sense of the notes, of my visions from a future so tantalizingly out of my grasp. Every few weeks, I try to come up with a new numbering system, but nothing fits the data—chronological is the goal, of course, but I’m fumbling in the dark for a light switch, a flashlight, a match. I can only really group visions with like visions, and those are rough guesses. Is that glimpse of the back of a man’s head the same as this man? How do I put a time and place to a bowl of fruit?
The rest of the team members ignore me as they file onto the transport plane, but I take note of each of them. I’ve handpicked them, more or less, reeled them in with the wide net of my genetic sampling test. Some had already volunteered their unique services to the Motherland—like Anton Ivanovich Rostov, paging through his files in the corner of the aircraft, or the husband and wife deployed on a deep-cover mission on the Italian front right now. Our team is small, to be sure, but growing daily, thanks to my tests that found Olga, Andrei, and Lyubov.
Olga nods in slow acknowledgment to me as I find my seat across from her in the narrow hold. “The good little apparatchik,” she says. “I see the genetics wing isn’t short of work these days.” She was a teaching assistant in the physics department at Moscow State; I’d never interacted with her personally, but I’d seen her, in the commissary, at the students’ soviets. Hard to miss, when everyone swerves around her and her missing leg like she’s a disease they might catch.
Andrei shuffles onto the plane last; in his scarf and jacket and worn-out boots, he looks like any other Russian man. He wedges his way sideways down the aisle between the two facing rows of jump seats that run the length of the narrow hold. Only when he catches sight of me does the Andrei I remember from university emerge, his eyes bright and his grin outsized. “Are you in charge here, too?” he asks, tossing his duffel bag in the fold-down chair next to mine.
“Thankfully not.” I jab my pen toward Rostov. “That honor goes to Anton Ivanovich Rostov over there. He’s a SMERSH officer—they pulled him off the front lines to run our operation.”
Andrei rubs at the stubble along his jaw as he studies Rostov. Rostov’s wiry, not in the slippery, newly starved way of most of the war survivors, but from a lifetime of fastidiousness. Dark grooves under his eyes belie his relative youth. I’ve seen the way he looks at everyone, like he’s seeing inside more than just their minds—like he’s peeling back each and every layer of flesh and bone. His mental powers intrigued me when I read about them in his file, and I admit I’m curious to see them in action, like watching a deadly virus replicate under my microscope.
“SMERSH, eh? And what’s a scientist like you know about SMERSH?” Andrei asks me.
What do any of us know about the Soviet hierarchy? Whatever we need to know to survive. “The special counterintelligence force for the Read Army, right? They catch the fascists’ spies and infiltrators in the military. SMERt’ SHpionom—‘death to spies.’”
“They catch people they think are fascist spies, yes. And what they do to them—” Andrei cringes, head retracting into the collar of his jacket. “Well. I’m sure Comrade Rostov knows what he’s doing.” He glances at my notebook, at the folded scraps of paper jammed into it every which way. “Bringing one of your research projects with you?” he asks, then squints at me. “Just what were you really researching, anyway?”
I snap the notebook shut and stuff it back into my bag. “I didn’t lie to you. I just didn’t tell you the whole truth.”
He pauses; for a second, I think he’s done with the conversation, but then I see the skin draw tight around his eyes as he concentrates. Is he really trying to read my mind? That’s right—he doesn’t know. That any of his attempts will be foiled by my—
“Huh. Stravinsky. So that’s your trick, then?” Andrei asks. “When I tried to read your mind during our research together, when we worked for Doctor Zavodov—”
“Oh! So you tried reading it back then, did you?” I force away my grin.
He raises his hands, holding up an invisible wall between us, as he dons the sheepish smile of a boy sampling sweets before they’ve finished baking. “—I just thought you really loved the Firebird Suite.”
The plane rumbles around us, coming to life, air flattening and crackling like a thin live wire. Olga and Lyubov are already seated, chatting back and forth, but Rostov hesitates at the closed doorway, as if reluctant to leave his post. Finally, he folds his long limbs into the seat beside Lyubov, but stays perched right on the edge. It’s not a large plane; everyone’s thoughts and shields slosh against everyone else’s, just like our knees press together. I suppose it’s only fair that Andrei have the same safeguards as everyone else.
“Have you ever had a piece of music stuck in your head?” I ask, lowering my voice, though it doesn’t do much in these cramped quarters. “The kind that weaves through all your thoughts.” I grip the armrests of my chair as I speak; Andrei grips the same armrest, but keeps his hand lower, a safe perimeter between our skin.
“My parents were both musicians.” He winces as the plane leaps forward down the runway. “I always have music in my head.”
I shake my head. “No, no. It can’t be just a backdrop. It has to soak into your every thought. Make it part of your breathing.”
I’m no mind reader, but I can hear enough of others’ unshielded thoughts if I try; I sense the shift in Andrei as he binds his thoughts up. He doesn’t seal them up completely, but he’ll get better with practice. He’s chosen Tchaikovsky’s first piano concerto—a bold, thundering piece, heavy on the brass and the piano glissades. Prior to today, I’d never have pegged him for the bombastic, but now, I’m not so sure. The Andrei who worked with me at Moscow State rarely said more than two words at a time; I never recognized him in the halls until he was only a few feet away. I would’ve trusted him the same as any other stalwart Soviet man—which is to say, not at all, but in a reassuring, familiar pattern of deceit. Now, though, I’m not so sure.
I don’t know if it makes me trust him more or less.
“Is this your first time flying?” I ask him. Some of the color’s drained from his warm olive skin, leaving behind a sallow undertone. His knuckles are bright white around the armrest.
He forces himself to laugh. “Is it that obvious?”
>
The wheels lift off of the tarmac and we are weightless, surging forth, untethered.
Stravinsky’s Firebird flutters through my thoughts as I look around the dull metal interior of the military transport plane. The cargo netting, the sacks of parachutes and meal rations, the empty slots where rifles ought to be, but there’s a war on, and supplies are running rather low. Hot white spikes through my thoughts as I’m thrown into a new vision—for a moment, the plane morphs into a burned-out skeleton of itself, netting torn, trees jabbing through its metal ribs, screams ringing in my ears. But then everything is back in its place.
I tighten the fasteners of my harness and make myself smile at Andrei.
“Now that we are safely in the air,” Rostov says, voice booming in the narrow hold, “I am permitted to share the details of our mission. I am Anton Ivanovich Rostov, and I will be your commander for the duration of our task. Understood?”
We all make noises of assent, though the roaring propellers eat up most of the sound.
“My orders are to be followed without question and without hesitation. This is not only because I am your commander; it is because our mission succeeds or fails as a direct result of your actions. Everyone’s lives depend on your compliance.” His lips squash together; his cheeks curl inward like shallow graves. “Now, then. Our first target is the Mittelwerk factory outside of Nordhausen. We are under instructions to infiltrate the facility, acquire as many schematics and working parts for the V-2 rocket as possible, and persuade the scientists there to return to Moscow with us, where they will live a far more comfortable life than what they currently enjoy in the doomed Third Reich.”
Lyubov curves one vicious eyebrow up beneath her tangle of hair dyed Russian red. “Comrade Rostov. Forgive me for asking, but—but I am afraid you and I are the only officers here with field training. How do you expect these, these … well, these civilians to take part in such a delicate operation?”
“You don’t think I’ve considered that?” Rostov strains against his harness to tear open the duffel bag before him. “We will be posing as inspectors from the Schutzstaffel.”
I catch sight of one pitch-black uniform sleeve spilling out of the bag, of the gleaming silver-thread bands around its cuff. The SS corps—the Schutzstaffel, the Nazis’ elite enforcers, not unlike our NKVD.
Andrei hmms beside me. And when no one looks at him, he hmms louder.
Rostov’s head snaps up. “Is there something wrong, Comrade Chernin?”
“Mm? Oh, I—I was just thinking.” Andrei spreads his hands on his lap. “I’m a student of psychiatry. Hazard of the profession, and all.”
Rostov’s mouth mashes shut with disdain. “And what were you thinking about?”
“Well, as this lovely young lady—Lyubov, is it?” Andrei gestures to Lyubov, whose cheeks turn as red as her dyed hair. Who has time and money for hair dye this deep into a war, I don’t know, but then, I suppose the NKVD has access to everything. “As Lyubov was pointing out, I believe you two are the only ones on the team trained in espionage, deception, firearms … you name it. I can put on a uniform, sure, but I’m still going to sound like a Russian student chewing up the German language. And as for the ladies here, well, I’m pretty sure SS uniforms don’t come in women’s sizes. Seeing as how there are no lady officers in the SS.”
“I can pull it off,” Olga says. “Just get me some gauze, and—”
“The ladies will be posing as our secretaries,” Rostov says, his tone spiked with frost. “As for pulling off a convincing portrayal, that is solely my concern. Not yours.”
Andrei clutches his harness as he leans forward. “And how do you expect me to accept—”
The air crackles around us like foil; Andrei’s jaw goes slack. A noise like a badly tuned radio bristles against my thoughts. Andrei punches the latch on his harness and stands up, hasty, seat snapping shut behind him. He marches toward the back of the plane, face eerily still as he stares straight ahead. His movements swing at odd angles, like a badly built marionette.
“Comrade Rostov. Please,” I say. “This is unnecessary. You’ve made your point.”
“Have I?” Rostov asks, as Andrei closes his hand around the emergency handle on the hatch. “Do you understand now, Comrade Chernin, what I am capable of?”
Andrei says nothing. He can’t say anything.
But I know precisely what Rostov is capable of; it’s in my files, marked for further research when the war is won.
Mind control.
“If I wished,” Rostov continues, “I could make you open that door and fling yourself out into the atmosphere. I could make you forget your name. Your own face.” Rostov’s lip twitches as he strains; the crackle and hum in the air bloats, infected. He must have no difficulty pushing past Andrei’s flimsy shield. “Ahh, but I see you’ve already changed your name. Chernikashvili—that used to be your last name, did it not? You are from the Georgian Republic? You were wise to chop all that off. No one likes a filthy Georgian. If only your parents had been so wise, they might have—”
“Enough!” I shout.
Briefly—so briefly it might have been a dream, a fault of memory—a vision pushes through the haze. A single frame, snipped out as if by a censor from my future life. Anton Rostov stands over me, pliers in one hand, as screams tear from my throat. Something I’ve just done has set me on the path toward the future I’ve just glimpsed.
Rostov’s face, pinched like wax, turns toward me. The static grows and grows, like I’ve stepped into a swarm of gnats. Instinctively, I press my lips together, squeeze my eyes shut. But then the noise retreats.
Lyubov’s eyes are rounded, whites showing like a spooked horse, though she forces her face back to neutral with a well-practiced effort. Olga’s expression, however, is hooded, and I know instantly that she’s seen something like this before—if not this particular psychic twist, then this kind of man. A Party man, through and through, unafraid to flash his power around like it were a medal of honor. One doesn’t survive Moscow State as long as we have without learning the intricate dance required to deal with Party men like Anton Rostov.
Andrei slumps forward, forehead clanging against the metal walls of the plane. “Bozhe moi. What the hell did you just—how did—” He stands up straight and weaves his way back toward his seat. “Are we all supposed to be able to do that?”
I chew at my lower lip. “Thus far, Comrade Rostov is the only psychic I’ve encountered in my research who is capable of mental control and manipulation.”
“Let’s hope it stays that way,” Andrei mutters under his breath where only I can hear—not that either of us could possibly think that would stop Rostov. Andrei clips back into his harness. Rostov’s gaze, like a drawn blade, is fixed on him, but Andrei refuses to cross that gaze; slowly, Rostov turns away.
Rostov clears his throat and snaps open his folio. “Here are the rough sketches of the compound’s layout our informant provided us with. We believe the rocketry research is being conducted in this high-security section over here, adjacent to the barracks and medical facilities where the laborers reside. Olga Semyonovna Korolyova?”
Olga raises her hand, her gaze cool, her short brown hair tufted like a cloud around her pale face.
“Your ability involves the manipulation of objects, yes? Moving things around without making physical contact with them? Telekinesis, I believe we’re calling it.”
“That’s me,” she says. Then, as if to demonstrate, she holds out her hand, and Rostov’s schematic lifts up and over the distance between them to land safely in Olga’s palm.
Lyubov scoffs. “How are you supposed to be any help to us in your state, though, telekinesis or not? Pardon my saying so, but your leg—”
Olga’s expression bristles like razor wire. “My leg was crushed under a falling piece of rubble during an air raid. I assure you, I can get around just fine without it—I’ve had lots of practice.”
“But if your gift is moving objects, why didn’t
you just…” Lyubov sweeps her hand through the air. “Push it out of the way?”
“I did.” Olga looks away. “The rubble was headed for my head.”
Rostov gives Lyubov a look, and she falls silent. He continues, “So you can unlock doors that are locked from the inside? What about moving large pieces of machinery?”
“It has to be something I could physically move myself,” she says. “Door locks, yes. Missiles, no.”
Rostov furrows his brow. “All right. We can work with that. And Lieutenant Kruzenko, we’ve worked together briefly on the front, yes? I understand you simply read minds.”
Lyubov’s cheeks darken again. “Yes, comrade, that’s correct.”
“All right. You will stay alert for any signs that our subjects are becoming suspicious, or that we should try another tactic. Antonina Vasilievna Berezova, you foretell the future, is that correct?”
“I prefer to call them premonitions. Makes it sound less like a fortune-teller.” I lace my fingers together. “Visions will occasionally come to me without prompting, but I can also test out hypotheses—like checking for cause and effect.”
“Must come in handy for your research,” Andrei says.
Now it’s my turn to blush. “It’s never a—a complete guarantee. It seems to pertain to factors both known and unknown.”
“No certainty?” Lyubov snorts. “What a useless ability.”
“Not necessarily. Because sometimes—sometimes, I’ll see both possibilities. I’ll see them change over time, one gaining ground over the other. Sometimes, I’ll know exactly why they’ve changed. But sometimes it’s too indistinct, or because some truths are harder to swallow than others. Sometimes I can change the outcome—but most of the time? It’s beyond my reach. Too late.”
Andrei shakes his head. “Sounds like you’d have to be a real pessimist to buy into whatever these visions are telling you. Wouldn’t you rather try to change it for the better?”
Kursed Page 2
