Thrilling Tales of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences (25 page)

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

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

And he missed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The engine blast became a beastly roar, deafening him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he remembered the green fire of Baba Yaga.

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

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

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

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

“Where’s the pestle?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Remote.

“Two seconds, farmboy!”

“How do you travel through time?”

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

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

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

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