The Pulver Chronicles – 14. In The Subways Of Your Mind

The first thing that came back was the sense of touch. Numbness. Coldness. Wetness. Roughness. Then, came the sight. White and gray, and blurry all over; there were some spots of red, as well. Moments later, the hearing was back. The wind was blowing, its whistling half-obfuscating another sound, a Human sound. A scream.

He forced himself to move, to ensure he still had control over his body. His hands responded quickly to his brain’s commands; his feet, however, dragged as he attempted to get up. Standing would not be an option just yet, he quickly realized, so he settled for sitting against a big object nearby, which he eventually recognized as a tree stump.

For the next few minutes, he remained very still, waiting for his perceptions to focus. That was lesson one: before all, be aware of your surroundings. So, he patiently observed. Gradually, the world started making sense to him again. He was in a valley. The ground was covered in snow, about six inches deep. Some snow was falling from the sky, though not much -yet.

What else?… In the distance, he could see mountains, maybe a dozen clicks away. The sun could not be seen through the layers of clouds, but it was probably early in the morning. The temperature was below freezing, as indicated by the frozen poodles in his vicinity. Around him, the snow-covered ground was stained with blood. Some of it, he realized, was coming from him.

He looked down at himself to locate his wound, and saw a red patch on his left flank. There was very little pain, owing probably to the cold. He observed the wound to ascertain its severity. It was not very large but seemed rather deep, although thankfully the blood freezing had closed it, possibly saving him from exsanguinating. He palped it a bit more. Bullet wound. He had some experience with those. Unfortunately, this time, the bullet had not gone through. Given the wound’s location, and guessing the angle from which he’d been shot, there was a good chance no internal organ had been damaged. Small consolation, overall: he was still a wounded man, in the middle of nowhere, in very cold weather.

His eyelids were heavy, and he had to make an effort to keep them open. He couldn’t afford to lose consciousness. Not now. He had to stand up and find some cover. But where? He couldn’t see anything but wilderness in all directions. Did he have anything on hand he could use to find his way? A map? A compass?

Rifling through his backpack and the pockets of his many layers of clothing, he found a variety of objects. In the backpack were four cans of salted fish, a compass, a pair of binoculars, a pencil, a foldable knife, a first aid kit, and a small spade. There was a pistol holstered on his belt, along with two spare clips, one of which belonged to a different weapon; from the caliber, he guessed it was for a rifle. His trusted ax was also attached to his belt. In his coat’s pocket was a small radio. He sighed with relief when he pressed a button to see if it still worked and he heard static coming out of the speaker. It was already set to the right frequency, too; he thanked God he had the presence of mind to do that beforehand.

With a deep breath, he finally stood up on his two legs. His hat -an ushanka- nearly fell off his head as he did. On the ground, near a big, dark lump, was what looked like another pistol. He reached to grab it, groaning as he did. It was an old Tokarev, which had clearly seen a lot of use over the years -or decades- since it had been manufactured. Lowering the thick scarf that covered the lower half of his face -thankfully, the wind had calmed down-, he raised the radio at mouth level and pressed the button again.

“Byron to Fyodor, please respond.”

As he waited for an answer, he began walking towards what he ascertained to be the west, leaving the mountain range behind him. How far was he from the river? Hopefully, he would be able to reach it before the weather grew worse -it was pretty much a rule in this region that it always would grow worse. From the river, it would be much easier to find his way back to the village.

“Byron to Fyodor, please respond,” he spoke into the radio again.

There was an electric sputtering, then a female voice came from the other side:

“This is Fyodor, come in, Byron.”

He groaned with joy. “Good to hear from you, Fyodor. I got into an ambush. I’m fine, other than getting shot.”

The woman swore in her native language. “Are you safe?”

“I killed two of them; the last one’s gone. I’m heading to the river.”

“Any idea who attacked you?”

“Not yet.”

Someone -a man- screamed again. Byron pulled out his pistol. Peeling his eyes, he scrutinized his environment until he saw something move in the snow. He was crawling on the snow-covered floor, his camouflage outfit marred with blood. As Byron got closer, he identified the man as one of his ambushers. A bullet had pierced his cheek, apparently coming through his open mouth, and damaged his ear. Judging by how he clutched his chest, this wasn’t his only wound. The man was crying and shouting for help, agony distorting his voice. 

He saw Byron approaching in the corner of his eye, and stumbled down in the snow with a groan. The man began shouting incoherently; all Byron could make out were curses and vague threats. Given how badly wounded he was, Byron was not very surprised to see that the man did not even try to reach for his weapon -assuming he still had it-, even as he himself pointed his gun at his would-be ambusher.

The man screamed one last curse before Byron shot him in the heart. He dropped down on his back, barely making a sound. Byron put the safety back on his pistol, and placed it carefully back in its holster. He searched the body, finding little but a few blood-drenched ruble bills. The outfit he wore was clearly Soviet military, but around here, that could mean anything, especially in these times. It could have been stolen, bought on the black market, recovered on another dead body…

Byron pocketed the cash, and resumed his journey back to the river. He picked up the radio once again:

“Byron to Fyodor, the last one’s dealt with.”

The device crackled strangely, and a different voice pierced through the waves, barely audible.

“…ou hear me…”

“You’re cutting up,” Byron said. “Come again..”

Probably one of the scouts sent south, he thought.

“Do you hear me?” the voice came out again, clearer but there was still interference on the line.

“You’re coming in weak. Please identify.”

He released the button and waited. About a mile later, no answer had come.

“Byron to unidentified caller, please identify yourself.”

“Byron, it’s me! You’re in a fucking dream or something. You need to get the hell out of here!”

He stopped in his tracks. What was that? This was a man’s voice coming in from the other side, one that sounded weirdly familiar although he could not place it. And what did he say? Something about a dream? Maybe the message was addressed to someone else. No, it couldn’t be, the caller specifically used his codename.

The wind came back at full strength, forcing Byron to urgently put his scarf back over his face. The cloth was thick, so much so that he had difficulty breathing through it. It was much better than the alternative, of course, which was to face that icy wind barefaced. He only regretted that he had nothing with which to cover his eyes; it was the only part of his skin that remained exposed to the elements, and it certainly felt like it. His glasses must have been lost in the gunfight.

As predicted, the weather grew worse as Byron carried on to the river. The snow was now falling heavily, carried by a wind so strong he had to push against it. He could hardly see anything but the whiteness, hear anything but the howling, or feel anything but the cold. The three layers his body was cloaked in were just enough to keep his body temperature high and protect him from iceburns. A few times, he thought he heard the radio come alive again, but the wind was howling too loudly for him to listen to it, much less respond.

Seeing the river warmed Byron in the inside, though not nearly enough to make up for the now below freezing temperatures. He followed the river north until he found the fisherman cabin he and his allies used as a landmark. It was remarkable how such an old, cheaply-made building had managed to stay up for so long despite the dire elements. Byron wasted no time entering the place and shutting the door behind him.

Although it was still cold, the cabin represented a definite improvement to the outside. Byron regretted, however, that the old stove was broken: the pipe was damaged, leading to smoke filling the small room every time it was used. Making a fire without it was a bad idea, given that the entire place was made out of wood, from floor to ceiling, including the walls and what little furniture there was. Byron took a seat on a wooden stool, then grabbed a large piece of cloth on the table that was either a coat or a mat, and threw it over his shoulders after dropping his backpack on the table. Now, it was only a matter of waiting out the storm. He pulled out his radio again, and sent a message to Fyodor, indicating where he was.

“Copy that, Byron,” Fyodor said, her message coming through with great difficulties. “Can’t send anybody over. Stay put until it blows over; should be a couple of hours.”

Byron had expected as much.

He should have brought his book, he thought with a sigh. Unfortunately, said book was pretty big and heavy, so he had decided to pack some extra food rations instead, in case the mission lasted longer than planned. Hindsight had proved him right: he was now trapped for a few hours inside this cabin, on an empty stomach. Between getting shot, losing consciousness, and trekking in the cold, it was little wonder he had worked an appetite. He opened one of the cans with the foldable knife, and sipped the oil that dripped from the lid. The oil was rich in fat and the fish in protein, making it an ideal meal -if not a particularly tasty one- in such conditions. He was full before the can was empty, but nevertheless he finished it, judging that he could use the extra calories.

His wound had started hurting, although it wasn’t bleeding again -not yet. He fished out the first aid kit from his backpack, and opened it. There wasn’t much there. The painkillers were all gone, most of the bandages had been used, and there were barely three penicillin pills left. He popped one in his mouth, and dry-swallowed it with a grimace. With some effort, he bandaged the open wound, groaning in pain when he pushed on the bandage to ensure it would stick. Then, he took a breath, and finished licking the oil inside the can.

Tiredness overcame him before he realized. Byron fell asleep so quickly he only noticed when he was woken up by his radio some time later. It was sputtering static intermittently. Worried that something might be wrong with it, Byron inspected it. His eyebrows jumped when he noticed that it was turned off. Ah, right. He remembered turning it off after patching up his wound; with the snowstorm outside, communications were pretty much impossible, so he had decided to spare the batteries a little.

“Byron! Do you hear me?”

Byron dropped the radio, letting it hit the floor with a “clunk”. That strange voice had come out of it once again. He picked up and looked at it again. Had he turned it on by accident? No, the switch was still on the off position. Maybe he had misheard, then. Maybe the voice actually came out from outside. No, that was impossible. It had come out clearly, even less distorted than before, not muffled by the walls or muted by the storm.

“Who is this?” he said, pressing down the button. Before he released it, the voice spoke again:

“Byron, it’s me! It’s Jackson!”

What the fuck? Whoever that man was, he spoke English with a clear American accent, the kind only a native would have. Which was just another impossibility piled on top of the others: Byron knew for a fact he was the only American thousands of miles around. And from what he said, he knew Byron. In fact, he seemed to imply that they knew each other.

“Who are you? How did you get this frequency?”

“Freq-?” the man said. “Oh, yeah, the radio. I guess that’s how I manifest to you. Look, this is gonna sound really crazy -trust me, I know-, but you’ve gotta believe me.”

“What do you want?”

“Listen: none of this is real. You and I, we’re both trapped in this dream or hallucination or whatever. First, it was me being trapped, and you got me out. Now I guess we’re doing a role reversal.”

Well, this kid was right about one thing: that did sound really crazy. What the hell was he trying to pull? That was way too elaborate to be some kind of practical joke. Some kind of gaslighting tactic, then? Some psyops? If so, it was severly uninspired.

“Look, I don’t know who you are, or what this is about…” Byron said.

“You do know who I am, Byron!” the kid said. “And I know who you are.”

Byron chuckled to himself. Sure he did.

“Listen! Err… You go by Byron, which you told me was not your first name or your last.”

“Outstanding,” Byron said. “You could have gotten that by listening in on my comms.”

“For fuck’s sake,” the other grumbled. “You told me almost nothing about you… Err… Hold on. You, erm, you’re US Army. Or you used to be, I guess. You said you were Delta Force, once. Err…”

Yeah, whoever that kid was, he was definitely not an operative, Byron judged. Sending someone so unprepared on the field would have been downright criminal.

“You… Wait! Here’s something I bet you didn’t talk over the comms. You know some kind of crazy move with your ax, where you cut the guy right behind the knee. You call it the Jarnac Slice. Wait, no. You don’t call it that, the guy who taught it to you calls it that. His name… Shit. Erm. Oh! Yeah, his name is Venyamin Kovalyov.”

Byron’s breath caught in his throat. That was definitely not something he talked about over the radio. Or anywhere else. In fact, not even the agency knew about Venyamin. This wasn’t enough to convince Byron that this kid did know him, of course, let alone what he said about the rest. But it was certainly enough to spark his interest.

“What exactly do you want from me?” Byron said.

“Ah, crap, you really don’t remember me, do you? No, that’s okay. I didn’t remember you either at first, when it was me under the spell.”

“You’re really not making any sense.”

The kid groaned in frustration. “Look, I think I can… Yeah, I think I can force your memories back. Pretty sure that’s how you did it for me. But it won’t be pleasant. You okay with that?”

“Am I okay with what?” Byron retorted angrily. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“Right, well… Sorry about this.”

“Sorry about wh-”

That sentence ended in a loud, pained scream. For a moment, Byron was convinced his head had just literally exploded in pain. He fell off the stool, dropping on his knees, holding his head with both hands. In his mind, a wall had been breached, letting in a bright light that consumed all of his senses and his cognitive abilities. It was like the world around him had been obliterated by a fire born inside his skull.

Images flashed in his mind, along with fragments of sounds and vague sensations. They assembled seemingly at random, forming portions of strange scenes. A mouthful of peach pie. A man armed with a club, bleeding profusely. Another wearing a robe and a hood, accompanied by a terrible feeling of dread and agony. A pregnant woman. A forest at night. A myriad of other such pieces followed in rapid succession.

And then, the strangest thing happened: it all started making sense. Byron had been taught that the Human brain was essentially wired to try and find logic even where there was none, and to identify patterns even in things that were not related in the least. At first, he assumed that this was what was happening. Until he remembered.

Sakha. Karachaane. Samuel. Duval. Boardman Lake. Jackson Pulver. It all came back, piece by piece, until the big picture could no longer be denied… No matter how insane it was.

Byron found himself in a very strange state of mind, as he regained sight of his surroundings. The floor on which he was lying down on his knees and elbows did not feel right to his touch. The smell of old wood, moss, and mold floating in the air was off, in some elusive way he couldn’t explain. Even the aspect of the cabin’s inside and the poor lightning of the sun rays peeking through the slats just looked wrong.

And of course they did: it was all fake. Was it still derealization when all of what you perceived was indeed unreal?

His vomit did seem real, as it poured out of his mouth and matted the floor. Ugh. And it certainly tasted real, despite all evidence to the contrary.

“Well… I’m back,” he mumbled.

“I’m so sorry,” Jackson’s voice said. This time, it didn’t seem to come out of the radio.

“Had to be done,” Byron said, standing up and wiping his mouth. Thank God he had taken off his scarf before vomiting.

He spat out the rest, then stood up. His jaw dropped and he staggered back when he realized why Jackson’s voice was no longer coming out of the radio. The young man was here now, right in front of him, as real as anything else -if the word “real” even meant anything anymore. Byron approached him, and raised his hand to touch him. It went through his chest.

“Figures,” Byron said.

“Ah, fuck. I’m the ghost now?” Jackson said. “This better be fixed by the time we make it out. Speaking of which, why the hell are we still there? Bringing my memories back was enough last time.”

“No idea. Maybe our jailor has upped his game. For now, I guess we’ll have to let this thing play itself out.”

“Play itself out? Shouldn’t you be trying to fuck up the story?”

“I don’t think it’s going to work this time.”

Byron couldn’t hear the wind through the walls anymore. He pushed open the door and took a look outside. The storm had rescinded, although the sky was still clouded. He made sure his coat was properly buttoned up, and adjusted the ears of his ushanka.

“You’re worried about the cold?” Jackson said. “You know it’s not real, right?”

“Well, it still feels real. Real enough to be a pain.”

He ventured outside, and breathed in the cool air.

“Where are we, by the way?” the young inquired. “This place is like, if winter froze over.”

“Sakha.”

“Never heard of it. Is it in Canada or something?”

“Hardly. It’s in Russia. Or rather, in the Soviet Union.”

“What the hell were you doing in the Soviet Union? Weren’t you in the US Army?”

After picking up his backpack, the veteran resumed his journey, heading north this time. His boots sank in the snow up to two inches above the ankle.

“I was undercover,” he said.

“With Delta Force?”

“No. With… Let’s just say, with an intelligence agency. They recruited me out of Delta Force after I had spent two years there.”

“Recruited you for what? What were you doing there? Some kind of special ops?”

Excitement was rushing Jackson’s words out of his mouth. This whole thing was daunting to that kid. Black ops, to him, were probably something exciting and glamorous, the kind of stuff that got turned into action movies with manly actors wielding big guns. A belief not unlike the one he once held.

“I was… protecting America and its interests,” he replied with somber sarcasm.

“Must have been some deep cover thing. I mean, an American soldier fighting in the Soviet Union? That’s the kind of shit that would have made the Cold War go hot.”

“Yes. Pretty deep cover.”

The village came into sight. It seemed much closer to the cabin than it should have been. Then again, this whole thing was probably based on Byron’s memories, and he might not have remembered that detail right. Other than that, the village was very much the same as he left it. The same small houses half buried in the snow. The same barely usable dirt roads that no one bothered to clear (Why bother? More snow would come soon). The same church in the center, the only building there more than fifteen feet tall.

And the same people. One man and two women appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, rifle in hand. Byron pulled down his scarf to make sure his face was visible. One of the women recognized him, and signaled the others, who put away their weapons. The man let out a scream of joy, and ran to Byron. The veteran braced himself, knowing full well what was about to happen.

The man was a titan, almost as wide as he was tall -and he had almost one foot on Byron. When he grabbed Byron and held him into a tight hug, Byron felt both his nearly three hundred pounds of weight and the awesome strength of his muscles.

“You made it!” the giant said.

“Hello, Michil,” Byron said.

Michil noticed Byron wincing, released him, and looked at the blood stain on his coat. Without saying anything further, he took Byron’s arm, and half-lead, half-dragged him to one of the houses. It was an old log house, with a concrete foundation, built on top of a small hill. From the outside, it looked like a one-story building, like every other house in the village, but Byron knew it had two additional stories underground.

A fire was roaring in the living room’s fireplace. A family consisting of a grandmother, two parents, and their three children was having dinner, seated around a large table. The family’s father stood up when he saw Byron and Michil enter, and went to open a door leading to a staircase.

The two men descended one floor, and arrived in a large room which served as a makeshift field clinic. It had four bare mattresses on the floor, two metal tables, and a variety of medical instruments -some of them soiled with blood and other fluids. A part of the room was separated from the rest by a plastic curtain. Byron sat down on one of the mattresses, and began taking off his clothes. The coat he could probably clean, as well as the sweater, but the undershirt was definitely a loss.

“Damn, I didn’t know you were so ripped.”

Byron blinked.

“I almost forgot you existed for a second,” he said to Jackson.

“None taken. Also, by the looks of it, this isn’t the first time you got shot.”

The young man pointed at two of his scars, one near his stomach, the other on his left biceps.

“Occupational hazard.”

“Guess so… And, hey, I don’t see any tattoos. I thought for sure you’d have a few.”

“Not yet,” Byron said, more to himself than to Jackson.

The latter was clearly about to ask more about this particular subject, but he was interrupted by the plastic curtain being pulled. A woman appeared, wearing dark, dirty scrubs. Someone unaware of Russia’s complex tapestry of ethnicities would have thought of her as Chinese, or maybe Korean. Byron, who was quite knowledgeable on the subject, knew that Kara -or Karachaane Voronin- was Sakha, like most of the people in this place. She was young, early twenties, had semilong black hair that fell behind her shoulders in messy waves; one of her eyes was dark brown, the other light brown.

“Byron!” she exclaimed.

Suddenly, Byron felt much less cold. Her voice. How long had it been since he had last heard it? And even though he knew it wasn’t actually her voice -and even though he knew she wasn’t really there-, it still activated a muscle inside his chest that had been laying dormant for an eternity or two.

“Kara,” he said in a hollow, raspy voice.

“Raise your arm, let me see that.”

She retrieved some sort of gooey liquid from a bottle hanging on her belt, then scrubbed her hands with it. Byron removed his bandage, which had soaked up a lot of blood.

“The bullet is still inside,” Byron told her.

“Yeah… Lie down.”

He did so. Kara instructed Michil to get him a duffel bag in a corner of the room. She retrieved an off-white bottle from it, opened it, and poured a good measure of its content on Byron’s wound, who groaned and grimaced. Next, Kara took a pair of tweezers.

“Please tell me she’s gonna give you some painkillers first,” Jackson said.

Byron chuckled darkly, then took off his belt and placed it between his teeth; Jackson’s face fell, but he didn’t look away. Michil kneeled beside his friend and held him tight. Kara observed the bullet wound for a few seconds, breathed in deep, then inserted her tweezers. Byron immediately threw his head back and groaned loud enough to fill the room. Blood sprayed out of the wound.

“Here it is,” Kara mumbled.

Initially curious, Jackson reconsidered his decision to observe the operation as the young woman used two fingers to hold the wound open. What seemed like an entire pint of blood poured out. Byron writhed in obvious pain; Michil had difficulty keeping him still in spite of the fact that he had at least a hundred pounds on him. With a quick, precise gesture, Kara stuck the tweezers one or two inches deeper, tightened them around a solid object, then carefully dragged them out.

The bullet came out, dripping with blood. It was dented, its head slightly flattened. Kara dropped it in a cracked ceramic bowl. She looked into her bag again, and got another tube. This one was much smaller, and looked like a tube of glue. Looking closer, Jackson realized that was exactly what it was.

“You’re shitting me,” he said. “She’s gonna fix you up with Krazy Glue?”

Kara placed some glue on the edges of the wound, then held it shut with Michil’s help. Then, with a bit of water from an aluminum bottle and a sponge, she cleaned up the area as best she could. Finally, she used several pieces of medical tape to keep the wound closed. Byron dared a glance at the final result, and breathed out. It wouldn’t help him win any beauty contest, but at least it should heal just fine.

“You need some rest, now,” Kara advised. “Don’t forget to drink a lot of water.”

“I know the drill,” Byron said, his voice still hoarse.

As he laid down on his mattress, he noticed Michil had relieved him of his backpack. The gigantic man showed him where he had put it, then left him. Kara gave him the now half-empty aluminum bottle of water along with a metal cup, then sat down on the mattress next to him. Byron felt his throat tighten as her scent seeped in his nostrils again. She smelled the same, or perhaps that was how his mind interpreted it. He raised his hand and delicately touched her cheek with its back. And, of course, she felt exactly the same. She closed her eyes and smiled.

“I was scared, Mad,” she murmured.

“I’m sorry.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette.

“Mad?” Jackson repeated.

“Do you think these men were after you?” Kara said, watching him light his cigarette. That look of disapproval for his nasty little habit was exactly the same, too.

“I don’t know,” Byron said. “I don’t think so. They wore military outfits, but they didn’t look like Kozlov’s men. Could be they were just soldiers moonlighting as highwaymen.”

“That would make sense. I keep hearing rumors that several garrisons have not been paid in a while.”

A sparkle of resolution lightened up her eyes. “We are reaching a turning point. The economy shows no sign of recovery, the schism between the Party and the army is getting larger every day, and the bureaucracy is so bloated and corrupt it can do nothing but try to sustain itself. It’s only a matter of time, now.”

Byron sighed to himself. Ah, Karachaane. It hadn’t been her clever eyes, her pouty lips, or even her musical voice that had sealed the deal for him. What had done him in was this determination that animated every muscle in her body, and drove every aspect of her mind. Before meeting her, Byron had wondered how such a young girl could have become one of the main leaders of her movement, and why her nom de guerre was on every KGB personnel’s lips this side of the Urals -though none of whom even knew she was a woman. Then, he had witnessed her iron will, and how it transformed her. Under the impetus of her ideals, the young farmgirl and aspiring medical student that was Karachaane Voronin became Fyodor, the resistance leader whose words kindled flames in her people’s minds.

“Soon,” Byron agreed.

“Very soon, I hope. I’ll have other things to occupy my mind in the midterm.”

She took his hand, and placed it on her stomach, a large smile shining on her face. Byron forced himself to return her smile; his attempt did not feel very convincing. She kissed him on the lips, then went upstairs, after reminding him to get some rest.

Byron laid down on the mattress, resting a hand on his forehead, drawing a long puff on his cigarette. He closed his eyes, knowing full well that, despite his blood loss and his doctor’s advice, he would not get any sleep.

“So, d’you mind giving me some context here?” Jackson said.

The young man was looking around the room with a mixture of confusion and curiosity.

“Ask away,” Byron sighed, blowing smoke as he did.

He remembered that, when this had happened in reality, he had simply laid down on the mattress until the next morning, alone and in pain, exhausted but not sleeping more than an hour in total. At least, in this reimagination of the scene, he had Jackson to talk to, even if his past life was not his favorite subject of conversation.

“Well, first of all, who are these people?”

“The man is Michil. The woman is Karachaane. They’re part of a resistance movement that seeks to obtain the independence of the Sakha people. They call themselves the Sakha National Liberation Army.”

“Wow. And you were sent here undercover to help them fight against the Soviets for freedom?”

“Something like that.”

“Damn, that’s pretty cool.”

“Uh-huh,” Byron said noncommittally, taking another puff.

“But that’s not what’s important, I guess,” Jackson said. “Have you given some thought to how we’re going to get out of here?”

“I have.”

“And?”

“Still no idea.”

“Shit, me neither.” The young man sighed. “I tried to pull that thing you did back in my memory trip. You know, with the hole in the wall? I can’t seem to make it work.”

“I’m guessing our warden has found a way to block that out.”

“Our warden? You mean that Cambion?”

“Evidently.”

“What do you think they want with us?”

“Not us: you. It’s your name they said before they dragged you into the Land of Oz. They probably don’t even realize I exist.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right.” Jackson’s forehead wrinkled with worry. “How the hell does he know about me? I don’t think I’ve told my name to anyone ever since I’ve gotten into this world; not even Enita.”

“You only told it to the Inquisitor, as far as I remember.”

Jackson frowned. “I wonder what’s happening to my body, while our minds are trapped here.”

“Probably nothing bad. That Cambion wants you alive, it seems. For what purpose, I do not know.”

“Right, so we need to wake up, like yesterday. But how?”

Byron pondered the question, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he did. How indeed? During his years of training, in West Point, in the special forces, and in the agency, he had been taught to fight, sneak, bargain, or otherwise finagle his way out of a number of perilous situations. None of them, of course, came even close to the one he was currently caught in.

A violent sound resonated in the air, dragging him out of his thoughts and shaking him to his core.

Opening his eyes, Byron realized the scenery had changed entirely. He was once again surrounded by white. Snow coated everything around him, from the trees to the frozen stream that descended down the valley. It was nighttime. Byron was standing atop a ridge overlooking said valley, assault rifle in hand. Downhill from him was a military base; the sound of an alarm rose from it, half-muted by the howling of the wind. On the other side of the valley, on the ridge opposite Byron, a fire was devouring the detonated remains of what had once been a surveillance outpost.

“Let’s go,” he said, looking over his shoulder.

A few feet away from him were three silhouettes, all tall and large. Michil was one of them. The two others were known by the locals as brat’ya volki -the wolf brothers. As their name implied, they were both Werewolves. They were about six feet five inches, and had thick, grayish white winter fur that seemed more fit for ursids than canines.

Humanoids had never been well accepted in Russian society, especially not Werewolves. The Stalin years in particular had been a very perilous time for them; the Holodomor was believed to have more than halved the Ukrainian Werewolf population alone. When Byron was sent to the Yakut region, he had been informed that the remote communities of Werewolves, living in exile north of the Arctic circle, would make ideal allies for the Sakha, and had been tasked with reaching them.

They had indeed proved invaluable during the months leading up to that day, between their fighting abilities, their tenacious hatred of the Soviet army, and their knowledge of the mountains. Two of them in particular had shown themselves to be very apt, very motivated soldiers: the twin brothers Vanya and Varnava. They had stood beside Byron through many operations. And here they stood once again, ready for battle.

A battle that they’ve been told would be the last. Kara was confident of that: by taking over the last major military base in the area, the SNLA would strike a decisive blow against the local government. With the attention of the Soviet administration focused on the events in the Western cities, they would be forced to negotiate with the Sakhas. A good plan, Byron had thought.

Leading his group, he strode down the valley, his feet digging deep in the nearly two feet of snow. The slope was sharp; Byron slipped at one point, and would have dropped had Vanya -or was it Varnava?- not caught him by the arm. They soon arrived at the base of the wall surrounding the base, using the snow as a cover and the attack on the outpost as a distraction. None of the garrisoned soldiers had noticed them. Good, Byron thought. He quickly checked his watch. 2:11. Okay. Less than forty seconds. We’ve got this.

With Michil’s help, Byron placed several charges of C-4 on the wall, then connected them to his detonator. Everyone sought cover, and waited. Fifteen seconds. Ten seconds. Nine, eight, seven…

Another explosion shook the air on the other side of the base, almost five seconds ahead of schedule. Byron swore under his breath, and pressed the red button of his detonator. There was a third explosion, much smaller than the others, and a segment of the wall in front of them came tumbling down. The two latest detonations were supposed to happen at exactly the same time. Byron could only hope that everybody inside would be too busy to notice the third one.

They passed through the opening, arriving, as planned, inside one of the garages. Several vehicles, in various states of disrepair, were stored there. The group made its way through them, as silently as possible, encountering no one. Alright, Byron thought, bringing in his mind the map of the base that he had memorized. From here, follow the corridor until the archives section. Then, left.

The corridor was plunged in the dark. Through the small windows on the left wall, Byron could faintly hear the distinctive sounds of gunfire, along with screams and an alarm. He took the lead of the group as they sneaked through. A door labeled “archives” appeared in his sight, in front of him. His eyes focused on it so much he almost failed to notice another door on his left opening, revealing a uniformed soldier holding a rifle. From the dark lines under his eyes and his lack of shaving, Byron deduced that he had just woken up. The soldier’s eyes opened wide as he noticed the group. Before he could react, Byron was already on him, his ax in hand. One quick strike later, the soldier was on the floor, a deep, nasty cut barring his esophagus. Byron closed the door on him, then continued.

Taking a left, they got to a door leading to one of the courtyards. The sounds of battle were now much closer. Byron checked his assault rifle, and made sure the safety was off. He could hear at least three people beyond the door; one of them was screaming orders to the two others. The veteran opened the door very slightly, just enough to take a quick look. Oh, damn. It wasn’t just three people in the courtyard beyond: there were at least eight, possibly ten. From the way they were spread out, sneaking by them was not an option; neither was circumventing them: this was the only access to the armory.

What happened next, again? Ah, right. As if I could forget…

He turned to his brothers-at-arms, and told them the only way forward was filled with enemy soldiers. Michil and the brat’ya volki nodded confidently, clutching their firearms. Byron made sure to remind them that they would be outnumbered, and suggested that the element of surprise would be their best weapon.

On Byron’s signal, all four of them ran out the door and into the courtyard. They just about managed to find cover before the soldiers noticed their presence and opened fire. The twin brothers hid behind a truck, after eliminating a soldier trying to get the engine started; Michil jumped behind a few wooden crates. Byron took advantage of the fact that the enemy was mostly focused on the three others to circle around the courtyard, and sought cover behind a small utility vehicle.

Gunfights, in Byron’s experience, were always chaotic. The deafening sounds of firearms, the bullets impacting everywhere around, the shouts and screams… Even the most veteran fighter could easily get overwhelmed.

This time around, however, Byron was able to analyze the scene with more clarity. The fact that it was the second time he lived that scene was probably the reason why, but the knowledge that this wasn’t real also helped. He wondered for a moment what would happen if he “died” there, but immediately decided he didn’t want to find out. The pains he experienced were certainly real enough.

Three soldiers died within the first seconds, caught flat-footed and unable to find any cover. The five or six others chose to fight as they stood, while the officer -a starshina, judging from his shoulder boards- ran to the armory. 

Two of the Russian soldiers laid down suppressive fire on Michil and the twins, while a third seized the opportunity to try and flank them. Byron barely had the time to shoot him down. But in doing so, he had revealed his position to the rest. One of the soldiers threw a grenade at him, bouncing it off a wall. Byron grabbed it and threw it as far as he could; once again, it was a matter of seconds before the grenade exploded, shattering the car’s windows.

And now the second one…

Before the ringing in his ears had subsided, a second grenade was thrown in his direction. This time, the soldier had miscalculated his throw, and the projectile bounced off the vehicle, landing near the twins. A wounded Vanya -his forearm was bleeding profusely- noticed it, and moved to grab it with his valid arm. He proved a lot less lucky than Byron.

The veteran did not look away; he hadn’t looked away the first time. This time, however, he did not shudder, or screamed in horror. He did not fight an urge to vomit. That is not to say that the horrid spectacle he witnessed left him indifferent. The Vanya he had just seen die may have only been an echo born from his hippocampus, but it was still the image of someone Byron had once called a friend.

Varnava was not left indifferent either. Seeing the mangled, half-burned remains of his brother, he yelled in anger and agony, and left his cover to charge the Russians. He fired his assault rifle without even aiming; his clip was empty by the time he reached the closest soldier. Several bullets hit him, perforating his abdomen, his leg, and his neck, but they didn’t even hinder his charge.

The soldier he reached all but disappeared in a red flurry, savaged as he was by the Werewolf’s claws and fangs. One of the two other soldiers stumbled back in terror, fired, but missed. His comrade, however, managed to remain calm enough to take aim. One second later, a bullet pierced through Varnava’s skull, spreading bits of flesh and bone over the ground.

Michil and Byron retaliated, opening fire on the remaining soldiers. One died within seconds, the other fell to the ground, a hand clutching his wounded throat. Unintelligible gurgles escaped his blood-filled mouth as he slowly sunk into the abyss.

The entire gunfight had lasted just a few minutes. Byron looked around for any remaining threats, while Michil peered down at Varnava’s body. He muttered curses, his voice strangled.

“Both of them,” he mumbled, barely able to get the words out.

“We need to keep moving,” Byron said, placing a hand on his shoulder.

He thought for a moment he would have to snap Michil out of it, but the man shook his large head and followed him.

The armory was only a few doors away from there. Unlike the rest of the operation, securing it proved easier than they had thought. Only one officer was guarding it, who surrendered quickly as he saw the two men barge in on him, weapons in hand. Byron found a utility closet in which to lock him, and also decided to handcuff him to a pipe just in case. The man showed no resistance, only asking for his book -a Strugatsky novel- with him. Byron broke radio silence to inform the others outside that the armory had been secured. It was now time for the final objective: finding the commanding officer, and forcing his surrender.

Byron and Michil climbed up one floor, passed by a few doors, and finally found the office. As they posted themselves on each side of the door, Byron sighed to himself. Once more, he remembered precisely what was going to happen. Once again, he made sure to play his role perfectly. Michil opened the door with one powerful kick, and entered. The office was empty, but the lights were on, and a still smoking cigarette on the desk’s ashtray indicated it had been occupied recently. Michil took two steps forward. 

Near the window, one of the heavy curtains moved. Before Michil could react, several gunshots pierced through the curtain. Five bullets hit him in the chest and the shoulder, one of them came clean through, grazing Byron’s forearm; three more bullets hit the wall to Michil’s left. Byron pointed his rifle and pressed the trigger twice. There was a muffled groan, then a man dropped from behind the curtain, his left leg drenched in blood. He was gray-haired and corpulent, and his uniform clearly identified him as the man in charge. His hand was clutching an empty Makarov pistol. Byron aimed his rifle at his head, silently ordering him to let go of his weapon. Then, he used the officer’s own belt to tie his hands behind his back. Finally, he turned back to Michil. A single look at his friend’s eyes confirmed that he was dead.

“Wait, you knew that guy was here.”

Byron blinked. Jackson was here again. His young face expressed concern and judgment; he had had that same expression when he had found out his bunkmate Willis died at Byron’s hand.

“I did.”

“Why didn’t you do anything? Why didn’t you enter first? Or pushed your friend out of the way?”

The veteran sighed wearily. “This isn’t real, Jackson.”

“Yeah, no, I know. I know, but still…”

“Saving him would not have made anything better. It might have made things worse, in fact.”

“Worse? How so?”

Byron glanced at the officer, still lying on the floor. He seemed completely indifferent to Byron’s exchange with Jackson -if he could perceive it.

“Whatever this… place is, it’s a trap. I believe whoever designed it is trying to use our feelings as a leash. By trying to change it, I’d become emotionally involved, which means getting entangled.”

“You really think so?” Jackson said.

“I can’t know for sure, but that’s the impression I got from your experience.”

“So you’re gonna play it cool and detached until we find a way out?”

Before Byron could answer, the scenery changed again. It seemed to have happened in the blink of an eye, except that he had not actually blinked. He was back in the village, inside the church, sitting on a pew. Next to him was Kara. Her smile stretched from ear to ear; in spite of the exhaustion clearly visible in her eyes, this was the happiest Byron had ever seen her. She was beginning to show, as well, although her large clothes made it a little hard to discern.

“It’s over,” she said, barely believing her own words. “After all this time.”

“Yeah,” Byron said.

“We are free. We truly are! I still expect to wake up any minute now. I even pinched myself a couple of times. But this is for real.”

He lowered his head, joining his hands on his lap. It was never real.

“So, when are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow, just before dawn. I’m heading to Yakutsk, then hopping on a plane.”

“And then, straight back to America?”

“Well, not directly. First, I’m getting debriefed in Okinawa.”

She leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder.

“When will you be back?”

“Soon,” Byron said, and that simple word felt like razors in his throat.

He resisted the urge to touch her. To hold her. To kiss her. And to tell her the truth. Just a memory, he reminded himself. Just a memory.

“Oh, before you go,” she said. Putting a hand in her haversack, she took out a book and handed it to him. Byron chuckled when he saw the cover. It was a Russian copy of Dostoievski’s Demons, her favorite book.

“You’ll love the ending,” Kara said, kissing his cheek.

I could never make it to the end. I thought of you with every page I turned.

Once more, the scenery changed. This time, he was in an office. The decoration was rich, bordering on ostentatious. Between the painting of old Presidents, the old American flag behind a glass, and the pictures of various state officials, the person occupying the place evidently liked to showcase his patriotism, and to make clear he wasn’t just anyone. Said person was an emaciated, pale, middle-aged man, wearing a tailored suit with a tie. His facial hair hinted at a distant feline ancestry. Byron knew him under the codename Samuel -not Sam.

“Outstanding work, Byron,” he said with his usual worn out voice. Samuel had always looked and sounded like he was recovering from a serious disease.

“Thank you, Samuel.”

Everybody called him Samuel. No one ever used a title or a rank -did he even have one?-, no one even called him “sir”.

“Between the Sakhan insurrection, the riots in Irkutsk, and the mutiny in Vladivostok, the Soviet government has essentially lost all control over the eastern portion of its territory. And it’s not looking any better in the West: our latest reports indicate that Yanayev’s putsch has succeeded. This time, our analysts are confident that the Union has breathed its last.”

He coughed in his fist. “You may not realize it, Byron, but you actually played an important role in ending the Cold War, and defeating possibly the greatest enemy America has ever had. It goes without saying that you’re getting promoted. How does a team leader position in West Germany sound?”

“Actually, Samuel, I was hoping I could be sent back to Sakha and resume my role there.”

Samuel frowned. The thinness of his eyebrows made it hard to notice.

“Your role? But your role is done; the mission is over. We’re terminating our operations in that entire theater.”

“I-” Byron flinched. “But what about our support? The money, the weapons? They’ll need to be organized.”

“They’ll be needed elsewhere. Uncle Sam’s pockets are not bottomless, Byron.”

His heart started beating faster. “But… Samuel, without them, the Sakha won’t be able to defend their independence. Even if the Soviet Union does not recover, someone else will take over the show in Moscow, or in Krasnoyarsk, or somewhere else. And that someone will be ogling over the Sakha’s lands.”

“That’s very possible, yes,” Samuel said calmly. “Our analysts deem it likely that Siberia will be reunified within a year, possibly by some Red Army general turned warlord turned generalissimo, or something like that. In fact, there’s someone in Novossibirsk we’ve been following with interest… But I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

Byron couldn’t believe how detached Samuel was as he said all of that.

“We’re just going to abandon them,” he said.

“I’m afraid so,” Samuel said. He sighed, then leaned over his desk. “Look, I understand this may seem cruel. But there’s little place for emotionality in geopolitics. It’s a matter of cold, hard pragmatism. Realpolitik, as the Germans call it. Simply put, the Sakha’s interests no longer align with America’s. Our goal was to defeat the Soviet Union, to end the Cold War…”

“And to ensure America’s dominance over the geopolitical scene,” Byron interrupted, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

“Exactly,” Samuel said seriously. “America Ascendant. And need I remind you, Byron, that you took an oath to that effect.”

He didn’t need the reminder, which was to him like a dagger to the chest.

The scene blurred. Samuel continued talking, but his words were too distorted to be understood. It made sense, Byron figured. He had pretty much blanked out the rest of the conversation.

“Wow,” Jackson said. He was the only thing left in focus as the rest of the environment turned into a swirl of faded colors and muted sounds. “This is… Man, that’s fucked up. They just abandoned them?

“Yeah,” Byron simply said. “I actually believe they gave a damn about the Sakha and their ideals of independence. But in actuality, the Sakha were just a means to an end, to them.” With a sigh he added, more to himself: “I slept and dreamt that life was beauty. I woke and found that life was duty.”

“What happened next?”

“I left the agency and went back to the army. You know the rest.”

“Yeah, but what about that chick Kara? Did you go back for her?”

A humorless laugh left Byron’s lips. “The Soviet Union pretty much collapsed into civil war after that, in case you forgot. Plus, my former employers would have never let me go back. They kept tabs on me after I quit, given what I knew about them and their operations.”

“And… And that’s it?” Jackson balked. “Just like that, she’s out of your life, and you never saw her again?”

Byron remained quiet. The darkness in his eyes was answer enough.

“Do you know what happened to her? And… to the kid?”

The veteran’s expression soured. He didn’t answer that question either; he didn’t need to.

Jackson’s face twisted in dismay; he stuttered, trying to find his words. Around them, all had turned back to darkness. The silence was such that Byron and Jackson could hear their own heartbeats. It’s working, Byron thought. The disembodied voice came back:

“You’re stronger than I thought, soldier boy.” There was an edge to their tone. “And there are so many different stories in those memories of yours. Let’s dig deeper…”

There was a flicker of light in the dark. Jackson and Byron saw what looked like the inside of a room, with walls made out of dirt, enlightened by what looked to be a lantern. A silhouette stood in the middle. Something about that vision was very different from everything else they had seen; it seemed more… tangible? It disappeared as quickly as it appeared, and was soon replaced by another vision.

“Where are we?” Jackson asked, looking around at what looked to be some fancy suburban house. He turned to Byron, who now looked ten, maybe fifteen years younger; he didn’t look quite as athletic and his long hair had been replaced by the standard military buzz cut. His somber expression remained.

“Back home,” he said.

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