Asimov's Science Fiction: July 2013 (8 page)

Miroslav did not enjoy getting to know the cadets. Most of them were too timid to ask any questions of the famous Captain Ponomarenko. Some were too timid to look at him, and only one or two met his gaze. Even they, when they looked at his prostheses, blanched.

The cadets' timidity was only one reason Miroslav did not enjoy meeting them. Mainly, he did not enjoy telling the story of his last patrol: the darkness, the sudden action he knew to be a feint, the young lieutenant—also a graduate of this same sub-academy—who rushed in when he should have held fast; the call for support, the rebels' probing assaults, and finally the twin, timed charges that blasted first his right leg and then, as he twisted, his left arm. Miroslav knew that most of his recollection was probably inaccurate, just his brain applying order to the disordered events. Even the priests knew, battle was full of noise and confusion and garments rolled in blood.

It added insult to Miroslav's injuries when some of the cadets asked about Lieutenant Rostropovich. They remembered him from his days at Trubetskoy. Miroslav hated explaining that Rostropovich was now a captain and, having sustained only minor injuries despite his bravado, in command of Miroslav's old unit.

Thankfully, the classroom ordeal did not last too long. Berezovsky invited Miroslav to dine with the cadets, and luncheon brought back other memories. The food was the same as always: ordinary, hearty fare, nothing like the exotic foods he had enjoyed when he had been detailed to Iran. After lunch, Berezovsky invited him to observe the cadets at their drill and martial arts.

"I am at your disposal," Miroslav said, feeling as he always did when he was resigned to enduring a briefing or a training course.

The drilling was exactly as he remembered: precise and boring. The sparring seemed more intense than he recalled. It would have been more enjoyable to watch
had not Berezovsky continued with a running narrative extolling the virtues or vices of this or that cadet. "You see that one? Very early he learned the effectiveness of hurting people. We are not sure he would make a good off icer, but he is very quick and very strong." "That tall one, he has more of the virtues we seek, more like you when you were a cadet. See how he steps in to defend the smaller cadet, to protect him from being hurt?" "This dark one is very cunning. Watch how he will draw his opponent in, little by little, until—there!—he has him." "That one is not only strong, but has a good sense of what is worth fighting for. He may be ready to be a soldier very soon." To hear Berezovsky tell it, each of the oldest boys, a score of them in all, had something worth considering. And it was evident that the administrator was very proud of the work he was doing to continue turning out good soldiers like the famous but unfortunate Captain Ponomarenko.

"So, which one do you want?"

The question was so strange that Miroslav at first did not realize it was being directed at him. Berezovsky, who had been standing with his arms crossed, now gestured toward the observation window beyond which the cadets were finishing up their sparring. It was evident that he expected Miroslav to select one of the boys he had been talking about. But for what?

Again, Berezovsky proved astute at reading Miroslav's expression. "Did they not tell you truly why you were here?"

"My orders were sealed," Miroslav said. "I presumed this was a last... honor they wished to do me. Or a last punishment. An opportunity to pass on my experience before being discharged."

Berezovsky smiled, but his smile was not friendly as much as it was gleeful. "Oh, no, Captain. You are not here to end your service. You are here to begin your career anew."

Berezovsky said no more until he was back in his off ice. "They really did not tell you what was in your orders?" he asked as he walked to the desk. He withdrew the papers from the drawer in which he had locked them, and shook them for emphasis. "Here, read them for yourself."

The orders were stamped with an authorization strange to Miroslav, but otherwise they began like most of the orders he had received during his career. They had the usual coding and dating and authentication that ensured rear echelon administrative troops—the only ones to whom the gibberish made sense—remained busy behind the lines and never had to venture near bullets or bombs. The instructions directed at the school, however, were so strange that Miroslav read that part three times.

The special training unit at the Nikita Trubetskoy Military Sub-Academy is directed to assist Captain Ponomarenko by providing opportunity to interact with and observe the senior cadets, for the purpose of selecting a host for the captain's rejuvenation. The selectee must meet all qualif ications under the Teryosha program, with all preliminaries completed and ready for early graduation. Target date for initiation is 20 June, with two weeks for assimilation and closeout of familial obligations. Ensure Captain Ponomarenko // Teryosha // reports for refresher training by 7 July.

Attached to this paper was a similar one assigning Miroslav to the Teryosha Project
and directing him to follow the Administrator's instructions.

To Miroslav, Teryosha was only a folk tale: the boy carved out of wood, brought to life, who thwarted the witch that wanted to eat him. What that had to do with him, Miroslav could not fathom. Each time he read the words the feeling he had fought while standing across the street, that he was the target of an elaborate joke, grew stronger; it crept into his good hand and he crumpled the paper. "I do not appreciate being made a fool of," he said.

"Captain, this is no joke," Berezovsky said. "You do not realize how high an honor you are being given.

"These boys are usually reserved for high off icials, mostly even now the Party faithful—if we still had a Politburo, the members who knew about Teryosha would crawl over each other for a look at the boys who might host their rejuvenation—"

"Stop," said Miroslav, and tossed the papers on Berezovsky's desk. "This is insane. I went to this academy, I was a top graduate. I know nothing of this."

"Of course not. You were not an
early
graduate."

"What does that..." Miroslav felt his unspoken question die a quick death. Early graduate? No one graduated early, except—

"Sharova?"

Berezovsky smiled. He looked up at the ceiling, or perhaps at the wall behind Miroslav's head, and said, "Yevgeni Sergeyovich Sharova, yes. He graduated early. That would have been what, perhaps a month before you left for basic training?"

"I don't remember exactly. Something like that. He had been sick. We had a party for him."

"We always do," said Berezovsky. "Did you follow his career after he left here?"

"He went into government service somewhere, but I don't recall."

"He went
back
into the Ministry of Industry and Trade, specifically, fast-tracked for advancement. He might have become the youngest Minister in history, had he not died in a skiing accident in Switzerland." Berezovsky narrowed his eyes at Miroslav, then activated the intercom and said, "Miss Kozyreva, please bring in some water for our guest."

"No, I'm fine—"

"I insist."

The door opened a moment later and Anastasiya entered, carrying a silver tray laden with a bottle of Perrier and two tumblers. Miroslav glanced at her as she put the tray on Berezovsky's desk; he could not bring himself to look her in the eye, but he thought her expression was dark.

Berezovsky poured and handed over a glass while Anastasiya left. When the door closed behind her, he said, "If you are shocked, then I will take credit on behalf of our security arrangements. Very few know the capability exists, and even fewer where it is. As I said, this is a high honor for you... you must have powerful friends, or your heroism has attracted the attention of people at the very top. Or both."

Miroslav knew whose attention he had attracted, but questions dominated his thoughts. Unsure what question to ask first, Miroslav gulped some water. He choked a little on the bubbles, and asked, "But, how?"

Berezovsky shrugged. "In this, I am only an operator. I make the process happen, but deeper questions would go to Herr Riemenschneider... if he were still alive, of course."

"I don't understand."

"Riemenschneider was a scientist, one among many whom our forces captured and brought back after the Great Patriotic War. He was interested in longevity and other means of... improving humanity. He continued his work and, I am happy to say, perfected it before he died."

"Perfected?" Miroslav's voice sounded distant, harsh, despite the water. "Do you
mean that... that I..."

"May choose one of the older boys you saw this afternoon, and you will be given his body."

Miroslav swallowed against the urge to disgorge the lunch he had eaten. He dropped his head, looked at his feet, the f loor, the baseboard—

Berezovsky grabbed Miroslav's upper arms; he had come around the desk, and did not shy away from Miroslav's prosthesis. Miroslav looked up as the administrator said, "Think, Captain, think! Your bravery, your experience, gone to waste because of some swine's bomb? How much better for you to go on, whole and hearty and, perhaps best of all, younger?" Berezovsky grinned, tapped Miroslav's prosthetic arm twice, let him go and walked around the room, saying,

"Don't you think the Americans would be doing the same thing, if they could? Or maybe they are—they captured their own scientists, after all. Surely Riemenschneider did not do all his work alone. But think what they would do with it: rich, fat industrialists paying for the privilege of youth, so they can screw young women again and put more of the world in their pockets. Not so for us. We have rejuvenated great leaders, great scientists, great warriors, who can then go on to even greater accomplishments."

Miroslav found his voice. "But, this school, our school. Why here?"

Berezovsky tilted his head, as if wondering if he had heard the question correctly. "Why else do you think this school even exists, except for Teryosha? We aren't like the Americans, with such schools all over the country. Camden, Randolph-Macon, Oak Ridge, all of them dedicated to their twisted idea of liberty in isolation, rather than the security of cooperative service to the people and the state. No, this sub-academy is unique and exists for one thing: to prepare young men to give their all for Mother Russia. Some will do so as you have, and some will do so in... other ways."

Miroslav drained his glass, and found himself again looking at various spots on the off ice f loor. Finally he said, "I... don't know. I need some time to put all this together in my mind."

"Of course," said Berezovsky. "Take the rest of the day, think about what it means for you and for your country. But you saw the orders: the target date is the twentieth. That gives you three days."

Late afternoon sun slanted through the city, and Miroslav limped from sunlight to shadow again and again, registering but not really feeling either the warmth or the coolness. He maneuvered generally in the direction of his mother's apartment, at times homing in on it before veering off again, wanting to seek her counsel but forbidden to, sure she would welcome him but afraid she would read his dilemma in his silent brooding.

He stopped once in front of a great bronze monstrosity on the side of what had been some Party building. Unlike the mosaic across from the academy, this bas-relief had depth, and the sculptor had taken pains with details like rolled-up shirt-sleeves and straining muscles, but the workers' paradise subject matter neither impressed nor captivated Miroslav. He moved on when his stump began to itch.

Hunger intruded on his brooding as Miroslav limped past several restaurants, but it was full night before he found what he wanted. For all the historical ties between Russia and Iran, he had trouble finding good Persian food—and he had spent enough time on assignments in Tehran and elsewhere to know what was good. Unfortunately, while the place was suitably dim and the wait staff discreet, the
Dizi
was not as good as it could have been. The vodka, though, was clear and cold and sharp—and that was enough.

Miroslav tried to concentrate on the music in the background, and on the texture of the f latbread and the taste of the broth, but other thoughts intruded. Pain in his absent left arm reminded him of his first battle wound: a minor piece of shrapnel in his bicep that he had extracted with his teeth to impress his soldiers. His thoughts inevitably led from wound to wound, engagement to engagement, until the last and fateful skirmish that found him trapped and left him broken. He thought of Lieutenant—now Captain—Rostropovich, oblivious to the Chechens' feint as well as to the signs of planted explosives as he charged ahead without authorization, and wondered if the young fool had learned enough that he could really take care of Miroslav's men. And always he felt, in his heart and his arms, Anastasiya's brother Pasha dying so many years before.

The restaurant came back into focus—perhaps a little blurred at the edges—when a slender youth said, "Excuse, please, but my father insisted that I ask you—"

"Yes," said Miroslav in the best command voice he could produce, not wanting to hear the question because he knew what it must be.

"Sir?"

Miroslav swayed. In his eyes the youth became a young boy, then an old man, then a recruit, then a corpse... then Pasha. Miroslav threw back another shot of vodka and slammed the glass down on the table. "Yes, I said. Yes. I am, Ponomarenko... I was... I am what is left of him."

His vision cleared and the youth returned to his table. Miroslav watched him make his report, and did not want to wait for the boy's father's reaction. He could not take another citizen fawning over him, calling him hero... he would rather they accost him, condemn him, call him butcher and traitor and coward.

Miroslav groped in his pocket and produced more than enough rubles to cover his bill. He dropped them on the table as he rose—

—and began to fall, his prosthetic leg uncooperative—

—and reached out to steady himself—

—and crashed into the table on top of his prosthetic arm. The waiter rushed over and began to mop up the table, but his noises of obsequious concern were lost in the rush of blood through Miroslav's ears. Patrons at the other tables were either laughing or trying to ignore what they had seen, except for the youth and his father, who both looked unaccountably sad.