The New Soviet Man

G. D. Falksen

 

 

Captain Sergeyev rubbed his hands together against the cold and looked out of his window as the rattling aeroplane came in for its final approach. Below him, he saw the vastness of the Kazakh Steppe spreading off toward the horizon, burnt orange and ochre by the light of the setting sun. Sergeyev frowned at the sight. This was a forsaken land; once a place of horse lords and Tartar warriors, now a place where men were sent to die. Nothing but grass and sand stretching for miles.

Well, nothing but the airstrip and the unsightly little town that it serviced: Karmolinsk. A GULAG camp transformed into a city of concrete and barbed wire circling the blackened depths of an open-air coal mine. A haven for scientists who spent too much and provided too little. The private playground of a war hero now seven years out of date.

Russia had no need of old heroes, certainly not those who promised miracles in the hinterland but could not recreate them in Moscow.

Sergeyev clenched his mouth shut as the plane dropped suddenly, its wheels bouncing against the runway. He shook himself silently and resisted the urges of his unsettled stomach. He was an officer of the MVD, the Ministry of Internal Affairs. Such a man did not succumb to airsickness.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled photograph that he always carried with him. His wife Anna smiled back at him. She was far away in Moscow, but the sight of her was enough to distract him from the rough landing as the plane finally skidded to a stop.

And after coughing a few times into the back of his hand, Sergeyev was confident enough to unbuckle his seatbelt and stand, putting Anna’s photograph back in his pocket. He could not afford to be seen as weak on his arrival. Though he had the backing of his Ministry, that backing was hundreds of miles away. If things went badly they might avenge him. They would not—could not—save him.

Sergeyev reached out and shook the man next to him.

“Kirilov, wake up,” he said. As his brawny subordinate snorted and blinked himself awake, Sergeyev vented a small portion of his frustration and slapped the man across the face. “Lieutenant Kirilov, on your feet.”

Kirilov snorted again and pulled himself up. “Yes, Captain. My apologies, Captain.”

Ah, but Kirilov was obedient. As much as Sergeyev hated this assignment, he could not lay the blame upon his loyal subordinate. He clapped Kirilov on the shoulder and smiled.

“Come along, Aleksey,” he said. “We have scientists to frighten.”

“Yes, sir,” Kirilov agreed, grinning.

Sergeyev stepped out of the aeroplane and took a moment to adjust his leather coat and put on his hat. That moment gave him time to study the landscape before him. The concrete warren of Karmolinsk was the most prominent sight as it loomed against the crimson sky, surrounded by walls of barbed wire and guard towers armed with machine guns. In the dying light, he could not be certain whether the defenses were meant to keep intruders out or to keep men penned in, and perhaps that was the point.

But far more important than the city was the party of its representatives that awaited him on the ground. First was an aging man somewhere in the later half of his fifties; an old officer in an old uniform that bore the decorations of the Great Patriotic War. Sergeyev frowned. That would be Zapadov, hero of the Winter War, hero of Moscow and Kursk; the scientist who had somehow transformed Karmolinsk into his own private fifedom. That would soon be corrected, one way or another.

Next to Zapadov stood a girl, also dressed in uniform. But she was only in her early twenties. While she may have seen service against the Fascists, it could not have been anything worthy of note. Indeed, she struck Sergeyev as being rather like a porcelain doll: pale, pretty, and not particularly useful. Perhaps Zapadov kept her around to sate his rapidly aging lust. The very thought of it made Sergeyev sick. What a waste of Soviet womanhood.

The rest of the party was as he had expected: soldiers in drab greatcoats carrying newly issued assault rifles. As Karmolinsk was officially part of the GULAG, these men were under the authority of the Ministry. But Sergeyev saw in their eyes that their loyalty lay with Zapadov and Zapadov alone. Of course, Sergeyev knew, they were not there to threaten him and Kirilov. No, this was an honor guard to welcome them….

Sergeyev scoffed under his breath. If Zapadov meant this to be show of force, he had misjudged his adversary.

But it would not do to show his hand too early. Sergeyev descended the stairs with Kirilov following close behind him. He smiled at Zapadov and exchanged salutes with the old man.

“Doctor Zapadov, I presume,” he said, shaking the man’s hand.

Zapadov was quiet for a moment. With one finger, his adjusted the wire-frame spectacles that sat precariously on the bridge of his nose.

“ ‘Colonel Zapadov,’ don’t you think, Captain Sergeyev?” he asked. “This is an official visit. We must be precise about these things.”

Sergeyev was not deterred. It was an old man’s ploy to maintain his authority. It would not save him. Even a general was nothing if the Ministry saw reason to investigate him.

“Of course, Colonel Zapadov,” Sergeyev replied. He motioned to Kirilov. “My… aide, Lieutenant Kirilov.”

Zapadov nodded disdainfully to Kirilov, before motioning to the girl next to him.

“My assistant, Lieutenant Raskova.”

“Well,” Sergeyev said, “perhaps we should let our lieutenants get to know one another while we discuss our business.”

Zapadov gave Kirilov another look and his face turned pale. He cast a glance at Raskova, who, Sergeyev noted, was beginning to smile a little.

“No, I do not think so,” he said quickly.

“I trust you know why we are here,” Sergeyev said. He pulled an official document from inside his coat and held it out. “But I have papers if the message was… unclear.”

Zapadov took Sergeyev’s orders and examined them, again adjusting his spectacles. His eyesight was going, Sergeyev noted. That was just as well.

“I understand that Moscow is uncertain about my results,” Zapadov replied, handing the papers back to Sergeyev, a small snarl twisting the corner of his mouth. “Though I cannot understand why. I have been most diligent with my reports. I have clearly outlined my methodology… And does my facility not supply tremendous amounts of coal as well? I would think that I am the last person who bears investigation.”

“Perhaps,” Sergeyev said. “But I am here all the same.”

As he spoke, the wind began to blow heavily again, pressing against his back as it bore in from the vastness of the steppe, bringing with it the frigid touch of so empty a place.

“And,” he continued, allowing his tone to become severe, “I think it would be best for all of us if we continued this discussion with a tour of your facilities.”

There was another burst of cold air that tossed Sergeyev’s hair and bit at his ears and cheeks.

“Inside,” he said for emphasis.

 

Despite the cold of the wasteland outside, the buildings of the compound were properly warm. Zapadov and his soldiers ferried Sergeyev and Kirilov past the barbed wire and into the massive facility that made up most of Karmolinsk. Sergeyev made a note of this, even as he shed his coat and gloves at the security checkpoint just inside the front door. There were storage sheds and outbuildings aplenty, along with barracks and the coal mine, but the camp was completely dominated by the main building, a heavy, triangular structure more like a bunker than a laboratory.

As Sergeyev and Kirilov warmed their hands, Zapadov filled in the details:

“As you no doubt saw from the air, the research center here at Karmolinsk is like a triangle. One side is the Reeducation Wing, the other the Medical Wing. You will have no interest in that, of course.”

“Won’t I?” Sergeyev asked, forcing his teeth not to chatter as he soaked in the warmth that had eluded him for the past several hours of flight.

“You are here about the Doctor’s psychological program, aren’t you?” Raskova asked, looking at Sergeyev with wide eyes. Perhaps the thought that her superior might be doing wrong had never entered her mind. “Why should you care about the Medical Wing? It is for injuries.”

“Why indeed?” Kirilov asked, leaning forward and leering at Raskova.

Sergeyev expected the girl to back away, as most people did when Kirilov towered over them, but Raskova held her ground and stared at Kirilov as their noses almost touched. She slowly turned her head and looked at Zapadov, who shook his head. The man looked afraid, afraid of what might become of his precious toy. Sergeyev tried not to laugh. Trust an old man to leave a girl so sheltered. Perhaps he would let Kirilov educate her about the world before they left.

Perhaps that would convince the old man to be more cooperative.

Seeing Zapadov’s disapproval, Raskova looked back at Kirilov and slowly drew away, only then understanding that she might be in danger. But Sergeyev knew better than to provoke the sensibilities of a man who still had a small army at his disposal. He caught Kirilov’s eye and shook his head.

“Not now,” he said softly.

Kirilov looked disappointed, but knew better than to protest.

“I expect to see all of it, Doctor Zapadov,” Sergeyev said. “This is an official review of your camp. The main concern might only be your dubious results in the rehabilitation of disloyal elements, but I believe in thoroughness. Who knows what other inconsistencies you may have here?”

He glanced at a nearby map of the facility. It was very vague, showing only the most basic outline. There were ambiguously-worded areas listed: Principal Reeducation Center, Main Surgical Theater, Rehabilitation. None of it was useful.

“And what about the mine?”

“At the far end, near the prisoner barracks,” Zapadov said. He tapped the area on the map. “It is the oldest part of Karmolinsk, originally a katorga penal colony in the days of the Tsar. In fact, it is the source of Karmolinsk’s name. The Kazakh laborers called it ‘Kara Mola’, the Black Grave, after the thousands who died digging out the coal.” He smiled a little. “Nowadays we use more modern techniques. We have had only ten deaths this year, which I regard as progress.”

“Your repeated requests for more prisoners are strange if you have had so few deaths,” Sergeyev noted. “Explain.”

Zapadov hesitated, perhaps realizing that his tongue had outstepped his good sense.

It was Raskova who came to his defense:

“The Doctor requires more prisoners because they are useful. Karmolinsk is the third largest producer of coal in the Soviet Union. Does that fact not warrant expansion?”

“It warrants supervision,” Sergeyev answered. But he couldn’t help but grin a little. “Still, I can see why she is your assistant,” he said to Zapadov. “Clever little thing, isn’t she?”

Raskova bristled a little at the description, but she said nothing. Neither did Zapadov. Instead, he shed his woolen coat and replaced it with a white medical smock provided by one of the waiting attendants. Sergeyev watched them carefully, keeping one hand on the pistol at his waist. There was not much he could do against half a dozen soldiers armed with AK-47s, but at least the feeling of being armed kept him at ease. In fact, he knew that the authority behind him was his greatest weapon. Zapadov might resent the intrusion, but he would not attack a member of Soviet security.

“Why are you here, Captain Sergeyev?” Zapadov demanded, turning back to them.

“You know why I am here,” Sergeyev replied.

“I understand that you are here to evaluate my loyalty and the legitimacy of my work,” Zapadov replied. “To verify whether my camp warrants the number of prisoners sent here for labor and rehabilitation. But I do not understand the reason for it. I have already sent countless reports to Moscow clearly detailing my methods.”

“No other scientist has been able to reproduce your results, Doctor,” Sergeyev said. “Indeed, Moscow is beginning to wonder whether your reports are real at all. And if your reports are falsified, why does the Ministry permit you to administrate this camp?”

Sergeyev smiled. He enjoyed being able to remind men like Zapadov that their private domains did not in fact belong to them.

“Doctor Zapadov cannot be held accountable for the failures of other men,” Lieutenant Raskova interjected, her pretty mouth twisting with anger. “His results are real. I—”

“I don’t care what you think you have seen, girl,” Sergeyev said. He turned back to Zapadov. “I care about what I see and what my superiors accept as fact. And unless I am satisfied by what I am shown here, Moscow will not be satisfied either.”

“You are in no position to make threats!” Raskova snapped, taking a step toward Sergeyev.

“Yulia!” Zapadov shouted, halting her.

Sergeyev chuckled. He took Raskova’s chin in his hand and smiled at her.

“Oh, I know that the good Doctor has an army of loyal men here. Some of them might even betray the Motherland out of allegiance to him.” Sergeyev raised his voice as he said this: a calculated move to remind the nearby soldiers that to defy him was to defy the Soviet Union. “I am only a man. Kirilov is only a man. Two men. But if we do not return whole, unharmed, and with the answers we want, Moscow will send more than two men, and those men will be far less patient than I am.”

Zapadov hurried forward and quickly placed a hand in front of Raskova, perhaps in a vain attempt to shield her against Sergeyev’s hostility.

“Let us not be foolish,” he said quickly, laughing softly without even a hint of humor in his expression. “We are all dutiful servants of the Soviet Union and glorious Marshal Stalin. Do forgive my officers, I beg you. They are unaccustomed to visits like this.”

“A simple misunderstanding,” Sergeyev assured him, his tone making it clear that it was no such thing. “Already forgotten.” Anything but. “Now then, where shall we begin the tour?”

 

Sergeyev was not surprised when Zapadov chose to begin with the Reeducation Wing. Perhaps he naïvely believed that a jaunt through the tangled maze of concrete corridors and sterile classrooms would sate Sergeyev’s curiosity. But the Doctor was a fool if he thought that. Each time Zapadov stopped to present Sergeyev with a new education room, to offer some anecdote about the elegance of his unprecedented techniques, it further confirmed what Sergeyev already knew: Zapadov was hiding something, most likely abject failure and quite possibly active corruption. Could he be selling coal on the black market? Was the Medical Wing being used to produce drugs? Synthetic opiates or recreational amphetamines perhaps? Something was wrong about Karmolinsk, something that Zapadov was concealing from the Ministry.

“Curious that the Ministry would see fit to… review this facility now,” Raskova remarked, startling Sergeyev out of his thoughts. He hadn’t noticed when she drew alongside him. “Sir,” she added, as a deliberate afterthought. “Even if the men in Moscow cannot reproduce the Doctor’s results, Karmolinsk is still fulfilling its purpose as a labor camp—”

“Yes, it is curious,” Sergeyev agreed, interrupting her to make it clear that they should be worried. “I find it very strange that Internal Affairs has not found reason to investigate the activities of this facility long before now. Karmolinsk is funded by the MVD, protected by soldiers from the MVD, and yet its chief administrator is not a man who answers to the Ministry. Indeed, he seems to answer to no one at all. Doctor…” He paused and smiled. “…Colonel Zapadov enjoys a surprising lack of oversight. That will be addressed soon enough.”

Zapadov cleared his throat and quickly interrupted the exchange, motioning for the security officers to join him at a window overlooking one of the classrooms. Sergeyev looked down into the room and saw a dozen men in simple coveralls seated in a row, each man staring at a flickering television screen while he listened to a set of headphones. Sergeyev could not hear what was being played to them, but each television showed a different set of slowly changing images, ranging from patriotic imagery to newsreels to landscapes and commonplace objects. Without the accompanying sound, it made no sense to Sergeyev.

“What is this?” he demanded.

“The basis of my technique,” Zapadov explained proudly. “Information. What man desires most is to understand the world around him and to know his place in it. I am giving these men a proper education, stripping away the lies and indoctrination that previously filled their thinking. And what is more, not only will this make them good, upstanding, loyal citizens of the Soviet Union, they will even thank me for it after I am finished.”

“They look quite healthy, if a little gaunt and pale,” Kirilov noted.

Sergeyev agreed. “Why are they so relaxed? Where is the exhaustion, the stress? Of course your technique produces no results: you haven’t broken them yet!”

“If my technique produces no results in Moscow, it is because the men attempting it are incompetent!” Zapadov snapped. Then, thinking better of his anger, he calmly replied, “One does not need to break a man to educate him. One simply needs to calm his mind and remove the falsehood that plagues it. A broken man is no good to anyone, even if he has been put back together again. You see, Captain, misinformation is a disease, and I am merely curing it.”

“I would like to see some proof, Colonel.”

“Yes, very well.”

Zapadov stepped away from the window and led them down an adjoining passage, as featureless as all the rest and lit with the same glaring electric lights. Sergeyev knew at least part of Zapadov’s corruption: he was clearly using coal from the mine to provide a tremendous amount of electricity, and he was no doubt falsifying his reports to conceal the extent of it.

Sergeyev followed Zapadov into another room, a small but comfortable office overlooking the classroom. A man was seated at a wooden table, filling out a report. He was tall and well-built, fair-haired, and dressed in a simple black coverall. At first he ignored them, but at Zapadov’s approach, the man looked up and quickly stood, smiling in a slow but friendly manner.

“Doctor, good afternoon,” he said. His words were Russian but his accent was clearly German. “My observations for today’s progress are almost finished. I will have them on your desk….”

He fell silent as he saw Sergeyev and Kirilov enter the room, his face alternating between a smile of greeting and a frown of concern.

“A German?” Sergeyev asked Zapadov. “You have a German running your reeducation program?”

“Only this portion of it,” Zapadov replied. “Karl is a meticulous record-keeper.”

“I’ll bet he is,” Kirilov muttered.

Zapadov stepped to the center of the room and began introductions:

“Captain Sergeyev, this man is Karl Drexler, formerly a Sturmbannführer of the Waffen-SS, now my—”

“A Nazi?” Sergeyev shouted, grabbing Zapadov by the collar. “You have put a Nazi in charge of reeducation at a GULAG camp? And without authorization from Moscow? Are you insane?”

“But I am not a Nazi!” Drexler protested, sounding truly offended by the term, which Sergeyev counted as absurd coming from an SS man. “I am a Communist now, I swear it!”

The sincerity in Drexler’s voice made Sergeyev pause long enough to realize that his hand was on his pistol. He glanced at the soldiers waiting in the hallway and then released Zapadov. He had made his point. There was no reason to goad Zapadov’s men into doing something treasonous for them and fatal for him.

“Explain,” he demanded.

“Drexler was a Nazi when he was brought here after the war,” Zapadov said. “A devoted Nazi. A fanatical one. But in my care he has been freed from his previous delusions and set on the path of Socialism. He is as true a Soviet as you or I.”

Sergeyev snorted softly, dismissing the very suggestion. But, as he studied Drexler, he did read honesty in his eyes. The man at least did not believe that he was lying. And Sergeyev had a great deal of experience in weeding out men who professed loyalty but were not true to their claims.

Still, he would make a note about Zapadov’s pet Nazi in his report. Converted or not, the Ministry needed to know about a man like Drexler.

“Again, I would like to see proof,” he said to Zapadov.

“I have hours and hours of recorded sessions demonstrating Karl’s progress from darkness into light,” Zapadov assured him. “I daresay they will convince even you, Captain.” He smiled at Drexler and motioned for the man to sit. “Thank you Karl, that will be all.”

“Yes, Doctor,” Drexler said. Then, as if losing all interest in the MVD officers, he sat and returned to his reports, suddenly ignorant of the other people in his office.

Zapadov led Sergeyev and Kirilov back into the hallway and closed the door.

“How is it done?” Sergeyev asked, falling into step beside Zapadov as the Doctor led them back to the main hall.

Zapadov considered his reply for a few moments before he answered.

“The human body is a kind of biological machine,” he said. “Medical science has understood this for generations, even if civil and religious authorities have found the fact too uncomfortable to permit. Similarly, the brain is an organic computational device more complex and nuanced than anything our engineers have ever, and perhaps will ever, construct. Our bodies are driven by a network of nervous wires that, like a telegraph, transmit instructions from one place to another. Our thoughts, our memories, our actions are ultimately the product of electrical impulses that store, process, and transmit data.”

“And?” Sergeyev demanded.

“My technique simply removes select portions of mental information, and replaces them with more… acceptable knowledge.”

Sergeyev scoffed at Zapadov.

“Is that what you did with the Nazi?” he asked sarcastically. “You removed his Fascist ideas and replaced them with upstanding Soviet allegiance?”

“Yes,” Zapadov said. As Sergeyev shook his head in disbelief—at the sheer audacity of the explanation—Zapadov continued, “Fanaticism is a quality possessed by some men and not by others. It does not matter what the ideology, the religious faith, the political allegiance, a fanatic is a fanatic. With Drexler, I have simply erased the legacy of his Fascist thinking and replaced it with a fanatical devotion to Communism.”

Sergeyev frowned and corrected the Doctor: “Devotion to the Soviet system is not fanaticism, Doctor Zapadov. It is the logical outcome of a liberated mind.”

For a moment Zapadov merely smiled.

“Of course, Captain,” he finally said. “Pardon me. I meant that I have removed his fanaticism and replaced it with reason.”

“Much better.”

 

After touring the remainder of the Reeducation Wing, Zapadov led them to a comfortable little lounge at the front of the building. Well, Sergeyev reflected, perhaps “comfortable” was too generous, but at least the chairs were upholstered and the wooden table was smoothly polished and free of splinters. There was even a metal samovar of tea waiting for them on their arrival.

“Do you truly expect me to believe that your German subject is reformed?” Sergeyev demanded, as he sat across from Zapadov. Kirilov sat on the other side of the Doctor, a meaningful placement that was not lost on anyone. Raskova, meanwhile, excused herself and attended to the tea, though she repeatedly glanced back at them with suspicion in her eyes.

“Not merely reformed, Captain,” Zapadov insisted. “Cured. I have removed every last trace of the Fascist poison from his mind.”

“How can you be certain he will not relapse?” Sergeyev asked. “How do you know he will not become an agent of our enemies lurking in your midst?”

Zapadov forced a polite smile as he replied, “Because, Captain, I have not merely suppressed his Fascist impulses. I have erased them. Drexler has no memory of being loyal to the German Reich, though he is aware that he willingly served it at one point. But he remembers nothing now except total allegiance to the Soviet Union. Surely you see the advantage in that.”

“If it is true, then yes,” Sergeyev agreed. “But I still have not seen any real evidence.”

“As I said, I have hours of recordings documenting his progress,” Zapadov said. “You are free to review them at any time. I am confident you will not be disappointed.”

“So you say,” Sergeyev answered.

He watched as Raskova joined them at the table, carrying a tray of glass teacups. As Raskova leaned over the table, parceling out the cups to each of the officers, Sergeyev caught Kirilov eyeing the delicate curve of the girl’s neck just above her collar. Sergeyev studied Raskova as well, but what caught his attention were her arms as she reached out to hand him his cup.

Sergeyev grabbed Raskova’s wrist and pulled her toward him. Raskova stumbled but caught herself before she could fall and stood there, balancing precariously, using the fingertips of her free hand to steady herself. Sergeyev noticed, to his amusement, that despite being startled, the girl had not allowed even a single drop of tea to splash out of the cup. He also noticed something else, as he pulled back her sleeve and studied her forearm.

The delicate traces of suture scars circled Raskova’s arm just above her wrist.

“What is this?” Sergeyev demanded.

The scars suggested either traumatic injury or some manner of bizarre surgical exploration, and as Zapadov grew pale at the question, Sergeyev began to suspect the latter.

“Answer me.”

Zapadov was silent, quickly looking into his tea.

“Let me go, sir,” Raskova said, somehow managing to frame the words as both a subordinate’s polite request and an officer’s demand.

Sergeyev chuckled and released her. Raskova backed away from him and pulled her sleeve back down to cover the scars. Then, reassured of her dignity, she placed Sergeyev’s cup in front of him, before sitting across from them with her own.

“Answer me,” Sergeyev repeated to Zapadov.

Zapadov and Raskova exchanged a look and finally Zapadov shrugged, the gesture of acquiescence suddenly granting him the assurance that he seemed to lack only a few moments before.

“Very well,” he said. “During the Battle of Moscow, Lieutenant Raskova and I were already in the capital, supporting our brave Red Army soldiers with whatever medical assistance we could provide.”

“I am familiar with your war record, Colonel,” Sergeyev replied.

“During the fighting,” Zapadov continued, “a German shell hit the field hospital where Yulia was working. While she survived, the explosion destroyed her hands… among other injuries.”

Sergeyev glanced at Raskova and saw her turn away, staring down at her hands as she idly played with her fingertips. After a few moments, Zapadov coughed softly and Raskova looked up, breaking free of whatever strange trance had taken her.

“Fortunately, I was able to replace the damaged… appendages… with the hands of a concert pianist who had died earlier that day.” Zapadov took a long sip of tea before he continued, his voice tinged with pride. “It was some of my finest work. Perhaps desperation is the greatest motivator, but what I accomplished with Yulia was a miracle. I have never yet created her equal.”

Raskova looked back at him and the two of them stared at one another in silence.

Irritated at the sentimentality, Sergeyev cleared his throat loudly enough to interrupt them.

“You expect me to believe that you successfully transplanted a pair of hands?” he asked Zapadov. “In a field hospital? Under fire?”

Zapadov fixed Sergeyev with a hard glare.

“I do not care whether you believe it or not, Captain,” he said. “You asked a question. I answered it.”

Sergeyev scoffed. “Next you will be telling me that she has the feet of a ballet dancer.”

“Of course not!” Zapadov looked genuinely offended at the suggestion. “Are you aware of what ballet does to a woman’s body, Captain? The stress upon the bones, the misalignment of joints, the damage to the tendons? I can assure you, Raskova’s feet do not belong to a ballerina.”

Sergeyev touched his forehead, feeling the first hints of a headache threatening to appear. Zapadov’s continued evasion was wearing upon him.

Oh Anna, the things I tolerate for the good of our family, he thought.

“Colonel,” he said to Zapadov, “my patience wears thin. We have been here for hours and you have giving me nothing but unsubstantiated claims and fanciful stories.” Sergeyev stood, took another drink of tea, and gently placed his cup on the table. “You will now take me to see the Medical Wing and you should hope that I will find something there to satisfy me, or else you will not enjoy the results of my report.”

Zapadov quickly stood and raised his hands in protest.

“Captain, I assure you, there is nothing to interest you in the Medical Wing. Nothing but injured miners and blood samples. Why not retire for the night? I will have a place made up for you in the scientists’ barracks. Tomorrow you can begin reviewing the recordings from Reeducation—”

“No,” Sergeyev snapped. “I have no interest in sleep and no interest in your recordings. The Medical Wing. Now.” He waited a few moments for Zapadov to consent. Zapadov replied with silence. “Very well. Aleksey, the girl.”

“Sir,” Kirilov said, grinning.

Kirilov bounded to his feet and approached Raskova with an outstretched hand. Wide-eyed with disbelief, Raskova looked at Sergeyev and then at Zapadov.

“No—” she protested.

But her cry was silenced as Kirilov wrapped his hand around her throat and squeezed, just enough to choke her voice. Raskova struggled against him, her dark eyes never once looking away from Zapadov. As she lashed out at Kirilov, the brawny MVD officer grabbed her wrist and squeezed hard to restrain her. Still without a word, Kirilov hauled Raskova across the room and slammed her against the nearest wall, pinning her with his full weight.

Sergeyev folded his arms and looked at Zapadov.

“Well?” he asked. “Or shall we continue?”

Zapadov’s mouth worked silently, grinding his anger between his tongue and his teeth. But he said nothing.

“Very well…” Sergeyev said. He turned back to Kirilov and nodded.

Kirilov grinned.

Frantically, Raskova’s free hand clawed at the fingers wrapped around her throat and finally clenched around Kirlov’s forearm, though it was a futile effort. Such a delicate little thing could not possibly resist a man as big as Kirilov.

But the reality of the situation seemed to have finally roused Zapadov.

“No!” he shouted. “No! Stop! Stop!”

The plea was obviously intended for Kirilov—who of course did not listen—but even so Raskova flashed the Doctor a startled look and went limp in Kirilov’s grasp. Her hand released the officer’s arm and dropped to her side as she gave up resisting. But however obedient, there was anger and resentment in her eyes.

Zapadov turned to Sergeyev and cried, “Very well! Very well! I will show you the damned Medical Wing if it matters so much to you! Only let her go!”

Sergeyev placed a hand on Zapadov’s shoulder. “You see? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

He snapped his fingers at Kirilov and nodded. Disappointed, Kirilov sighed and dropped Raskova, who slid halfway down the wall before catching herself with one hand and slowly rising. She glared at Kirilov with utter disgust and hurried to Zapadov’s side. Zapadov took her by the arm and guided her to the door.

“I am sorry, Yulia,” he whispered, almost too softly for Sergeyev to hear. “Forgive me.”

“I understand, Doctor,” Raskova whispered back. “I understand.”

Sergeyev snorted and shook his head. He had guessed correctly: Raskova was Zapadov’s point of weakness. A little pressure against her would do wonders. He might even have his answers by the end of the night, in time to leave at dawn, perhaps with Zapadov in custody for whatever crime he was surely hiding. That would be most welcome.

He looked at Kirilov as the man joined him. Kirilov’s mouth was twisted into a grimace as he massaged his forearm.

“That worked,” Kirilov noted.

“As it often does,” Sergeyev agreed. He glanced at Kirilov’s arm. “Are you in pain?”

Kirilov looked embarrassed. “It is nothing, sir. The bitch is stronger than she looks.”

It took Sergeyev a moment to register what Kirilov had just said. When he finally did, he laughed loudly.

“Oh, poor Aleksey. Did the little girl hurt you?”

Kirilov scowled.

“Shut up. Sir.”

 

Sergeyev was shocked at the difference between the Medical Wing and the rest of Karmolinsk. There was no sign of the claustrophobic warren of narrow concrete tunnels, though he was certain that the heavy reinforced walls were still there, lurking behind a facade of gleaming white. But here in the Medical Wing, the hallways were wide and high, well-lit with bright if flickering electrical lamps. Everything was covered in brightly polished tile that showed every last speck of dirt and stain waiting to be scrubbed away. The place smelled of disinfectant, though the sharpness of the chemical wash did not completely hide the lingering odor of blood.

“As you can see, Captain, cleanliness is paramount here,” Zapadov said. “I have written several papers on the importance of an antiseptic environment, not only in the surgery but also in any place where medical personnel are likely to walk.”

Sergeyev grunted.

Zapadov frowned and adjusted his glasses. “Of course, I expect that is of no interest to you.” He stopped at one of the rooms and examined a paper chart hanging on the wall next to the door. “Perhaps you would prefer to see an example of the work we do here.”

“I would find that a wise choice on your part, Colonel,” Sergeyev said.

“As you wish,” Zapadov replied.

He opened the door and ushered Sergeyev and Kirilov into the room. It was a small chamber, bare of furnishings except for a cot and a bedside table. The room had a single occupant, a haggard-looking man of considerable stature, whose bare ribs spoke of malnutrition and whose eyes were dark with sleeplessness. But despite hunger and overwork, the man’s body was strong and muscular, especially his right arm. Indeed, as Sergeyev approached, he realized that the arm was actually more muscular than the rest of the man. And then he noticed a series of finely stitched sutures around the man’s shoulder.

Sergeyev felt his stomach turn. Was it even the patient’s own arm? It was too large, the skin was textured differently, even the hair was a slightly different color. And yet, as he watched, the patient moved the arm and flexed his fingers with only a little difficulty. It could not be a transplant.

Zapadov approached the prisoner and smiled.

“Borodin, is it?”

“Yes, Doctor,” the patient answered hesitantly. He looked at Sergeyev and then looked away.

“Any discomfort?” Zapadov asked.

“My shoulder,” Borodin said. “It is sore. And… and I still feel the rocks sometimes.” He swallowed and rubbed his bicep absently.

“Do not worry, that is only your body becoming accustomed to things,” Zapadov said. “Its last memory is of being crushed. Now it is being told that nothing is wrong. It will adjust in time.”

“Of course, Doctor. Thank you.”

Zapadov looked at Sergeyev and motioned to Borodin.

“Captain, this is Patient 2271: Pyotr Borodin,” he said. “An ideological deviant seeking to redeem himself through the curative power of hard labor.”

Borodin quickly nodded to confirm that this was true; he seemed especially concerned that the officers understand how much he desired rehabilitation. Sergeyev almost laughed.

“A few days ago he was caught in a mine collapse. The poor man’s arm was completely crushed.”

Sergeyev held up a hand to stop him. “How often does an open-air mine collapse?”

Zapadov frowned and cleared his throat.

“The pit mine is largely depleted,” Raskova explained. “But there remains a significant quantity of coal beneath other parts of the camp, so we have begun to dig shaft mines to harvest it.” She grinned at him. “Most of it is very deep, beneath a heavy layer of rock strata. Who knows what else we might discover down there?”

“More coal, I would hope,” Kirilov grumbled.

Sergeyev agreed with him, both in sentiment and in tone.

“Colonel, are you telling me that you have replaced this man’s arm with another?” he asked, returning to the subject of the patient.

“I have and I am,” Zapadov answered. He motioned to Borodin. “And here you have the proof. I was very careful to match the limb as closely as possible, but a careful examination reveals that the limb is different from the body.” He cast a glance toward Borodin and added, “Still, better than having no arm at all.”

“Yes, Doctor,” Borodin said softly, staring at his hand as he continued to flex his fingers.

Sergeyev was in no mood to dispute the matter and he did not comment.

Zapadov cocked his head and leaned down to Borodin. “Cough for me,” he said. Borodin obliged, with an unpleasant, hoarse noise that sounded both thick with congestion and unpleasantly dry. Zapadov nodded and smiled. “Good. That will be all for now. Try to get some rest.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Borodin replied.

Once they had all left the room, Zapadov turned to Raskova and said:

“New lungs, I think. Make a note of it.”

“Sir,” Raskova answered.

Sergeyev waited until Zapadov had resumed the tour before he spoke:

“You replaced a man’s arm and in only a few days he has almost complete control over it?”

“Yes,” Zapadov said, his tone very curt.

“And now you speak of replacing his lungs as well?” Sergeyev asked. He reached out and put a hand against Zapadov’s chest to stop him in place. Zapadov scowled at the action, but he was silent. “Doctor,” Sergeyev said, allowing his voice to drop into a low and snarling tone, “these things you are showing me seem increasingly less like miracles and more like pageantry. If you are putting on a show to delude me….”

“Nothing of the kind,” Zapadov snapped. Here, in his private domain, he seemed to have grown more of a spine. “You demanded to see the work we do here, so I am showing it to you. I have conducted hundreds of transplants here, almost all of them successful.”

“How is it done?”

“A biological compound that…” Zapadov paused and considered his words, perhaps wondering how to describe his methodology to a layman. “That deludes the cells of both transplant and host into believing that they are one and the same, and at the same time accelerates the growth process in each.”

“Meaning?” Sergeyev asked impatiently.

Zapadov took a deep breath, tinged with the anger of exasperation. “Meaning that a transplanted limb or organ will not be rejected by the body and it will be integrated within a matter of days. Is that sufficient explanation, Captain?”

“An incredible claim,” Sergeyev noted. His tone was not favorable. “And yet, you have not reported about this to Moscow.”

Zapadov laughed loudly. He snarled at Sergeyev and shouted:

“Submit my discoveries to the approval of men unqualified even to take my dictation? So that the likes of Lysenko may denounce my work as ‘counter-revolutionary’? I do not think so, Captain. I—”

Zapadov caught himself mid-shout and took a few deep breaths. He grew pale with the realization of what he had said and to whom he had said it.

“What I mean,” he quickly clarified, “is that my work is too important to be misunderstood. It is too important to the future of the Soviet Union. Once my proof is irrefutable, I will of course submit it to the proper authorities. I simply cannot afford to let small-minded middlemen prevent it from reaching those who are qualified to understand it.”

It was an attempt at self-preservation, one that Sergeyev was willing to indulge. Zapadov was insane. Even if some part of his claims were true, the man was mentally unsound. He was not a secret criminal: he was simply a deluded old man too arrogant to accept the authority of his masters.

“Of course,” Sergeyev said. “That sounds very academic of you.”

This seemed to reassure Zapadov and he continued:

“Truly, the work you will see in this facility is merely the culmination of thirty years of agonizing experimentation and research.”

“Oh?”

“You might say that today we work miracles,” Zapadov said, resuming his walk. “That would be wrong, mind you. These are not miracles, they are nothing more than the achievements of modern science, as simple and material as vaccinating against influenza or setting a broken bone.” He sighed. “But when I began my anatomical research during the Civil War, I was truly nothing better than a butcher, hacking at meat with a glorified cleaver. It had to be done, to keep our brave Red Army soldiers from dying unnecessarily, but I soon realized that amputation is imperfect if it cannot be reversed. If one cannot replace that which has been lost.”

“Like that man Borodin?” Sergeyev asked.

“Borodin was fortunate,” Zapadov replied, leading the group through a set of adjoining laboratories that smelled unpleasantly of sulfur and chemicals. “The men with whom I began my studies were not. But, at least we can take heart that their sacrifice was worthwhile. Hundreds may have died beneath my scalpel, but Borodin lives and he lives with a new, fully functioning arm. One day millions like him will enjoy the fruits of my work.”

“Where did you obtain your subjects?”

After all, Karmolinsk had only been placed under Zapadov’s authority after the Great Patriotic War.

“Before the war, I was stationed at Vorkuta, where I was able to practice my techniques on the injured miners, but the real work began in the twenties.” Zapadov smiled at nostalgic memories. “Those were good days. After my service during the Civil War, I came to an understanding with elements in the secret police. You would be surprised how simple it is to syphon away a few prisoners here or there who are bound for Siberia or scheduled for execution.”

Sergeyev chuckled. “No, Colonel, I would not be surprised.”

“We do great things here, Captain,” Zapadov said. “Repairing injury, combatting disease—”

“Replacing lungs?” Sergeyev asked with a dismissive smirk, remembering Zapadov’s words to Raskova.

“Lungs, livers, even hearts, Captain.” It was Raskova who answered, again coming to Zapadov’s defense when the old man did not care to defend himself. “If Marshal Stalin would deign to visit us, we could do wonders for his health. He might even live to be a hundred.”

“That is a very dangerous insinuation, Lieutenant,” Sergeyev said. “I think our leader’s health has suffered enough from the meddling of doctors already.”

Zapadov interrupted him with an irritated snort and said, “Marshal Stalin is more than seventy years old and a heavy smoker. I find it incredible that he has lived even this long. If he plans to reach the end of the decade, he will require new lungs and possibly a new heart.” Zapadov smiled. “Which, of course, we can provide him, if only he would place himself in my care.”

Behind them, Kirilov took a step forward, making ready to grab Zapadov. The Doctor’s arrogance was deeply insulting and his very attitude was dangerous. But Sergeyev was not yet concerned. He held up a hand and Kirilov backed off.

If Zapadov noticed, he said nothing about it. Instead, he stopped just outside a pair of heavy metal doors that stood closed, flanked by a pair of armed soldiers dressed in white uniforms. White, like the doctors, like the tile, like everything in the damned Medical Wing.

“Captain, would you like to know the secret behind my reeducation program?” he asked. “The reason why my peers in Russia cannot duplicate my results?”

“That is why I am here, Colonel, in case you had forgotten.”

“It is because they are trying to make the same sculpture with the wrong clay,” Zapadov said.

“Explain.”

“As you will recall, I liken the body to a biological machine and the brain to a complex electrical calculator.”

“Yes. And?”

“When the body dies,” Zapadov replied, “the brain dies soon after, starved of blood and therefore of oxygen. The tissue begins to decay and, more importantly, the neural connections begin to break down. But if the brain can be reawakened soon enough, there is a tremendous amount of information that can be reclaimed.”

“Reclaimed?” Sergeyev asked. Then he took note of the stranger of the two statements. “Reawakened?”

“An electrical charge sent into the body can, under the correct circumstances, reactivate the heart and the brain, and with them restore life. Of course other factors are important as well: chemical compounds to reinvigorate the tissue, adrenaline to stimulate vital activity…” He stopped short, made a soft noise of annoyance, and added, “But none of that will interest you.”

“The reeducation program,” Sergeyev insisted.

He did not believe a word of Zapadov’s deranged fantasies about “reinvigorated tissue”.

“The fact is, Captain, that while certain memories and learned behaviors may be lost to death, even after the neural connections begin to break down a tremendous amount of knowledge is retained, simply waiting to be stimulated. Deep memories especially, or skills acquired and reinforced through extensive rote activity. If things are timed correctly, a man might forget the passage of a year and still remember how to fire a weapon or fly an aeroplane.”

Sergeyev blinked a few times as he tried to come to terms with what Zapadov was saying.

“Wait. You are telling me that your reeducation system works because the subjects are killed first and then brought back to life?”

“Clumsy perhaps,” Zapadov agreed, “but elegant in its own way.”

“Are you insane?!” Sergeyev shouted, unable to restrain himself.

Zapadov ignored him, though he did chuckle a little under his breath at Sergeyev’s outburst. He reached into a pocket and drew out a little punch card to which was affixed a photograph and a small section of documentation, almost like a set of identity papers. He placed the punch card into a slot by the door and there was an audible buzz.

“The problem with killing and reanimating,” Zapadov said, “is that while it is expedient, it is prone to error. Either the subject is awakened too soon, leaving too many memories intact, or too late, resulting in permanent damage that renders him little better than a brute laborer.”

“Fortunately,” Raskova added, stepping to the front and pushing open the doors for them, “the Doctor has developed a solution.”

Sergeyev followed the girl into the next room and suddenly stopped. He did not know what he had expected, but it was not this. He saw rows and rows of clean metal shelves lining the walls, glinting beneath the lights. On each shelf were large glass jars framed in metal and covered with nests of wires, dials and readouts of uncertain purpose. And in each jar, suspended in some translucent liquid, was a single brain, its surface pierced here and there with slender needles.

“What is this…?” he heard Kirilov whisper behind him.

“Colonel?” Sergeyev demanded, though his voice was suddenly hoarse and even he could barely hear it.

Zapadov patted the two security officers on the back and led them to the center of the room. Sergeyev glanced over his shoulder and saw Raskova following them, matching their strides step by step, her lips parted in a wide grin. Perhaps after Kirilov’s rough treatment of her earlier, she was enjoying their distress at the sight. Sergeyev quickly did his best to collect himself.

“This is my new method,” Zapadov explained, drawing Sergeyev’s attention back to him. The old man had become agitated with excitement. “Once perfected, it will eliminate the risk of error present in the current system. After death is administered, the subject’s brain is removed and placed in a solution that will maintain its physical stability. Neural connections are allowed to break down as necessary, but the brain itself is not allowed to decay. And we use a careful application of electricity to stimulate those parts of the brain that we wish to maintain after reawakening.

“Alas, it is still imperfect. Only one in ten is currently usable. The rest are rendered idiots and relegated to the mine.” Zapadov quickly raised his hands and made to reassure the security officers. “But! But every failure leads us closer to success. These brains here are expendable, but once a reliable process has been established, we will be able to take a worthwhile individual, remove those thoughts and memories that are undesirable, and reawaken him fit and ready to have the missing pieces filled in.”

“Reawaken?” Sergeyev muttered. “Colonel, these… The bodies… Where are the bodies?”

“In storage, of course,” Raskova told him, patting Sergeyev on the cheek and giving him a pleasant smile. The girl’s sudden friendliness turned Sergeyev’s stomach. “The bodies are put on ice until we are ready for them.” She paused and tapped her lip with one delicate fingertip, as if remembering something. “That is… assuming we even use all of the original.”

“The original?”

Zapadov looked embarrassed at having overlooked that point. He quickly removed his spectacles and cleaned them on his sleeve as he said:

“Oh yes, yes. You see, comrades, the work we do here is all part of a greater whole. Everything connects. Everything is about improving man’s condition. Socialism in medical form.”

“Speaking of, Doctor…” Raskova said. She consulted a small notebook and then looked at her wristwatch. “I believe it is about time for 2739. I would have spoken sooner, but I was waiting for our guests to retire to the barracks.”

As she spoke her last words, she again grinned at Sergeyev and Kirilov.

“Ah!” Zapadov exclaimed. “Thank you for reminding me, Yulia. Captain, come this way. I hadn’t intended for you to see this, but I think you will find it most elucidating.”

But as Zapadov and Raskova hurried back into the hallway, Sergeyev found himself frozen in place next to Kirilov, staring at the rows of jars and the useless brainmatter they contained. For surely, not a single brain could still be alive, whatever Zapadov might claim.

And suddenly Sergeyev realized that he had been wrong each and every time. Zapadov was not a secret criminal selling contraband on the black market. He was not a petty-minded biologist coveting his methodology like a capitalist coveted money. He was simply a deluded old man who had murdered countless prisoners in pursuit of a fantasy he could not admit was impossible.

“We are going to die here…” Kirilov whispered. He was shaking, more fearful than Sergeyev had ever seen him before.

“No,” Sergeyev insisted. “No, Colonel Zapadov is a madman. He sincerely believes that what he is saying is true. We will simply placate him, flatter his delusions. We will leave first thing tomorrow and when I return here it will be with an army at my back and papers for his arrest.”

Kirilov nodded and rubbed his face, his hand coming away wet with sweat.

“I wager he has a room full of his ‘successes’,” Kirilov said. “A pile of corpses with dinner plates in front of them!”

“Pull yourself together, Aleksey!” Sergeyev snapped, keeping his voice low.

“Perhaps he talks to them, you know?” Kirilov continued. “Tells them how much their sacrifice is benefiting the Soviet people!”

Sergeyev opened his mouth to speak, but he was interrupted by Raskova’s cool, pleasant voice calling to them from the doorway:

“Are you coming, comrades?” she asked, approaching them.

Sergeyev quickly composed himself and allowed a slight smile.

“Naturally, Lieutenant,” he said. “Though after this demonstration, I think some rest will be in order.”

Raskova’s smile never wavered as she took Sergeyev and Kirilov by the hand and pulled them toward the door.

“I think that rest is precisely what you will require, Captain,” she said.

 

Raskova led them to a viewing room overlooking one of the larger surgical theaters. Zapadov was already there, addressing the scientists in the room below through an intercom. The viewing room was enough of a scientific excess, filled with lights and buttons and incomprehsible readouts that made Sergeyev dizzy looking at them. But the surgical theater was worse. It was covered in the same painfully sterile tile as the rest of the facility and its walls were almost completely concealed behind the massive metal-bound forms of computing machines, electrical equipment, and other, less identifiable devices.

More excess, Sergeyev thought. More waste to flatter an old man’s delusions!

“And make certain that the current is consistent!” Zapadov shouted into the microphone. “If there is too much, we can manage it. Too little and it will all come to nothing!”

He looked up and saw Sergeyev and Kirilov at the door. Impatiently, he motioned for them to join him.

“Hurry, hurry!” he snapped. “We are almost ready! The process is very sensitive. We cannot delay just for you!”

“I don’t understand,” Sergeyev began. Then he stepped up to the broad glass window and got a proper look at the surgical theater.

At the center was an operating table, surrounded by curious machinery that flickered with sparks of electricity. Upon it was the patient, but even from the high vantage point Sergeyev could easily tell that the man was dead. The subject was a corpse and a composite corpse at that: an amalgamation of different parts, limbs, and flesh, crisscrossed with so many careful lines of sutures that Sergeyev could not imagine what part of it was original. The stitching across the chest made it clear that the dead man had been hacked open, likely to have his guts and organs shifted around and replaced with those taken from more dead men. This was yet another one of Zapadov’s deranged experiments.

And even as he thought of Zapadov, the man drew alongside him and spoke in a voice tinged with pride:

“Behold, Captain, Patient 2739. The product of careful selection and surgery. I do not expect a success, but… This subject was intelligent while he lived. An ideological enemy of the Soviet system. Polish, I think.” Zapadov began pointing to various parts of the corpse as he continued. “The body incorporates a torso and limbs from various prisoners of an especially fit build. The heart…” Zapadov smiled. “You will enjoy this. The heart is one of the healthiest I know. It could last a hundred years. Its owner was killed in a rockslide. The irony.”

Sergeyev coughed. “Indeed.”

“His lungs were almost destroyed by tobacco,” Zapadov explained. “Intellectuals, you know. So I replaced them as well. When 2739 awakens, it will be with a new body, stronger and fitter than he could ever have imagined before now.”

“I see….”

Zapadov turned to Sergeyev and put a hand on his shoulder.

“You are an intelligent man, Captain,” he said. “Perhaps you can understand what we are doing here. You have, no doubt, heard the propagandists speak of the ‘New Soviet Man’: healthy, strong, intelligent, and utterly devoted to Socialism. A man willing to sacrifice everything without hesitation for the good of the Soviet Union.”

“I have,” Sergeyev confirmed, though his voice sounded hollow and distant even to him.

“I tell you truly, Captain, such men are not born. They are not bred. They are built. And I am building them here.”

“It’s not possible,” Sergeyev murmured.

“Watch, Captain. Watch with pride.” Zapadov leaned forward and pressed the button on the intercom. “Begin.”

The scientists in the theater reacted immediately, rushing about the room, each to their appointed task. Sergeyev tried to keep track of them, to register what level of complicity each had in Zapadov’s madness, but it was soon lost to him. His eyes darted from place to place as switches were thrown and great arcs of electricity burst through the air. As one such torrent arced in front of the window, Sergeyev jerked backward.

Zapadov chuckled. “No cause for alarm, Captain. That is simply to bleed off excess current. We must keep the level of electricity high, but it cannot be allowed to overwhelm the body. Too little current and it will not revive; too much, and it will…” He snapped his fingers. “Burn.”

Despite all efforts, Sergeyev found himself staring down into the operating theater, down at the corpse that lay on the table, connected to countless meters of wires. He watched as the body convulsed, a purely mechanical reaction to the electricity surging through it.

Purely mechanical, he insisted to himself.

Everyone else in the observation room faded away as he watched the twitching corpse on the table below him. One surge. A convulsion. Another surge. Another convulsion. A third surge and….

The corpse of Patient 2739 shuddered violently, arched its back, and opened its eyes and mouth, staring blindly ahead even as it gasped for air. The scientists nearby rushed to restrain it as its chest began to heave with frantic breaths. The corpse twisted under their grasp and fought against them, but its limbs were pinned by heavy leather straps, and its struggles accomplished little. Still gasping for air, Prisoner 2739 turned its gaze toward the observation room window and locked eyes with Sergeyev.

“Help me!” it cried, a statement that Sergeyev saw more than heard against the chaotic noise of electricity and shouting.

He darted back from the window, his breath coming in its own frantic, ragged gasps.

It was impossible. What he had seen was impossible. But he had seen it. He had seen it and he was not mad.

Sergeyev did not quite notice as Zapadov drew up behind him, in the midst of filling a syringe from a glass ampule. Still transfixed by what he had seen in the surgical theater, he only just realized the danger as Zapadov grabbed him from behind. It took him another moment to react and in that moment Zapadov drove the syringe into the vein at his throat.

Lashing out, Sergeyev threw the Doctor away, but before he could do more he felt his limbs grow numb. His head swam, suddenly overcome with dizziness. As he turned to fight his attacker, he lost balance, fell against the window, and slid to the floor.

In a daze, he watched Kirilov rush to his aid, only to be intercepted by Raskova. The girl threw herself upon Kirilov before he could lay a hand on Zapadov, and through sheer ferocity she forced him to the ground. Sergeyev tried to understand what he was seeing, but nothing made any sense as Raskova knelt over Kirilov and pinned his arms with her knees, immobilizing him as easily as Kirilov should have restrained her. Laughing gleefully, Raskova wrapped her hands around Kirilov’s throat and began to squeeze the breath from him.

“No! No!” Zapadov shouted.

Raskova looked over her shoulder at him, her pretty face marred with frustration.

“Not the throat!” Zapadov insisted. “No marks!”

Raskova sighed loudly and released Kirilov, only to press her hands over his mouth and nose, suffocating him instead of choking him. Sergeyev struggled to rise, fighting against the creeping numbness in his limbs in an effort to save his assistant. And he continued to struggle even after his eyelids closed and his breath finally stopped. He continued to struggle until his heart beat its last and death took him.

 

“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” Zapadov asked.

Sergeyev looked away from the vast horizon of the Kazakh Steppe and glanced at his friend.

“Beautiful, Doctor,” he agreed. “An untamed wilderness waiting to be subdued.”

“Indeed,” Zapadov said. “And what else do we do here, but subdue untamed things.”

Sergeyev shared a laugh with the Doctor, though he did not quite understand the joke. But he had learned over the past week that it was wiser to share in humor than to reveal one’s ignorance. Well, he had already known it—Zapadov had told him as much—but sometimes things had to be relearned.

“Now do not forget, you must convince Anna,” Zapadov reminded him.

Sergeyev frowned. The name was familiar, but he could not quite put a face to it.

“Anna?” he asked.

Zapadov looked angry. He pulled a small photograph out of his pocket and pushed it into Sergeyev’s hand. It showed a pretty girl who smiled back at him. The face and the smile were familiar. He almost remembered them.

“Your wife,” Zapadov said.

And then the memory returned, stumbling through a veil of fog. His wife. He loved her. She was pretty and kind. She smiled at him. Her name was Anna. He remembered these things.

“Of course,” he replied, shoving the photograph into his coat. “I remember. Only a moment’s confusion.”

Zapadov took Sergeyev’s arm and gripped it firmly. “See to it that you do not forget.”

“I will, Doctor. I will.”

He glanced up as an aeroplane crossed the sky above them. It circled a few times and finally came in to land at the airstrip on the far side of the compound.

“Just in time,” Zapadov said.

“Must I really go, Doctor?” Sergeyev asked.

Zapadov sighed. “Yes, you must. And you had better remember your behavior when you return to Moscow. If they think you are acting strangely….”

“It will not happen, Doctor,” Sergeyev insisted, shaking his head to emphasize his certainty. “I assure you. I will be a perfect officer, as you instructed.”

“Good.” Zapadov smiled. “Now, let us get you to your plane.”

As the two of them crossed the compound toward the airfield, Sergeyev saw Kirilov approaching from the barracks, being led gently by Lieutenant Raskova.

“Say ‘good day’ to the Doctor and Captain Sergeyev,” Raskova prompted, as she and Kirilov reached them.

“Good… good day, Doctor. Captain.” Kirilov put on a smile for them, but his movements were slow and uncertain. Smiling did not come easily to him; but then, the Doctor insisted that it never had anyway.

“Good day, Aleksey,” Sergeyev said, patting Kirilov on the shoulder. “You are looking well.”

“Th-thank you, Captain,” Kirilov answered.

Zapadov raised a finger and pointed at Kirilov. “Now remember, you must practice your diction before you make your report. This is very important.”

Kirilov quickly nodded.

“If you are ever uncertain, Aleksey, simply act angry,” Sergeyev advised. “That is what people will expect of you.”

Kirilov exhaled, suddenly relieved. He smiled at this news. Being angry was easy.

“Now you remember what you are to say?” Zapadov asked Sergeyev.

Sergeyev thought for a moment. The information was all there, but it took effort to summon it up. He would have to work on that. There had been so many new things to learn over the past week.

“The camp is in order,” he said, “but I recommend an MVD officer be assigned here on a permanent basis to provide the Ministry with regular reports.”

“Very good, Captain.” Zapadov glanced back out across the steppe and frowned. “It seems that relying on my war friends for protection has proven more problematic than useful. Better to let the Ministry hear assurances of my loyalty from within its own ranks.”

“That sounds prudent, Doctor,” Sergeyev agreed.

He rubbed his head. Things were still a little fuzzy.

Zapadov clapped his hand on Sergeyev’s shoulder and said happily:

“We are going to do great things, Captain. Great things for the Soviet Union. For humanity.” Zapadov smiled. “I am creating the future, Captain, and you are a part of that. Perhaps between the two of us we will even get Marshal Stalin to visit. For his health.”

“That would be… good, Doctor,” Sergeyev said.

“Yes,” Zapadov murmured. “It would be very good indeed.”