Page 15 of Ascendent
But now he was in the Kremlin again, and forced to live. To endure. What were these tendrils of happiness that reached for him? Sergey’s affection, his undying love? Ilya’s brusque acceptance? And now this?
A chill shivered down his blood, whispered up his frozen bones. Maybe he was freezing to death anyway. Maybe he was freezing from the inside out. Maybe he was turning into asnegurochka. Maybe he hadn’t really survived after all. Maybe this was all in his head, some delusion of death.
Sasha grunted, some sequence of syllables and noises as he pushed himself to his feet, stretched his long limbs. Mikhail passed over the tape from his friend––Ruslan, who introduced himself as he took Yuri’s place at the free weights––and Sasha taped his knuckles, his hands. He still kept his back to the wall, kept both eyes on the three men in the room. He felt adrenaline sing in his veins, scream through his body. He was ready for the fight, for the inevitable confrontation.Nothing lasts forever. Nothing.
Mikhail held the bag steady as Sasha tested the weight, threw a few practice swings. Steadied himself, and breathed. Mikhail braced, putting his shoulder against the bag.
His fists flew, a blur of noise and color. He slammed his knuckles into the bag, heard the dullthump thump, felt the bag tremble and shake. Mikhail slid back, steadied himself again. The chain holding the bag shivered, links clinking.
Sasha let loose, pounding harder, faster, until he was screaming, open-mouthed shouts as he wailed against the leather, until he held it steady and beat the bag one handed, over and over and over, first Moroshkin’s face appearing, then his old wing commander’s, then his former comrades, one by one beneath his fists.
Until finally, he saw himself.
Sasha fell back, his fists rising to his forehead, sweat dripping into his eyes, raining from the ends of his hair. Mikhail peered around the bag. His shoulder was red, a pressure bruise from where he’d held up against Sasha’s furious rage. It had been a torrential outburst of everything he’d kept deep within, ever since the first fist had flown at his face, ever since he’d stumbled toward the Kremlin gates one snowy spring night.
A thick hand landed on his shoulder. Sasha whirled, lashed out with a punch and a duck and an uppercut. Yuri caught his fist one handed, batted it down. “Is good to get it out,” he rumbled. “You fought with President Puchkov? During the coup?”
Swallowing, Sasha nodded. He picked at the tape on his hands, trying to get it off. Sweat burned his eyes, made his vision triple. He had to get out of there. Had to get away.
“We were in a resistance cell here, in Moscow,” Mikhail said. “We linked up with the federal police and some of the military units that rejected Moroshkin’s coup.”
Sasha grunted. He balled up his tape, threw it at the wall. He thought it would shatter, turn to ice dust. His hands were so cold. Surely he froze whatever he touched?
“We watched Moroshkin’s men line up a dozen of our colleagues. Our friends. They were executed in Red Square.”
His eyes slipped closed. Sasha’s shoulders fell. His head tipped forward.
There were bullet holes all over the Kremlin. He’d seen enough restoration work, enough patch jobs, to put two and two together. Ilya had waged war within the walls, and before that, Moroshkin’s men had occupied the entire Kremlin. He’d executed anyone who stood against him, who sided with Sergey.
How many of those bullet holes were in a horizontal line? A killing line?
“You flew that mission that found Moroshkin, and that mad American general.” Yuri spat. A wad of spit landed on the concrete floor. “That was a good thing. Without your flight, how would President Puchkov have known where to go to kill those dogs?” He grinned, all full of teeth and gums, a bear’s wide smile.
Russian media had painted Sergey as an action hero, riding to save the world on a submarine bursting through the Arctic ice. Some comics penned him astride a polar bear, leading a submarine and a fighter jet and taking down Madigan while running over Moroshkin. Sergey was the undisputed hero of Russia, the man who had saved the world with his bare hands. Anton, Aleksey, and even Sasha were on the sidelines, tough fighters backing up Sergey and a fighter jet screaming overhead.
Legends and myths. Perhaps even propaganda, if Sasha didn’t believe Sergey was, in fact, a hero.
He wanted to erase every fighter jet in every comic, every commemorative drawing, every hint of his own actions, though. His medal was in the bottom of his duffel, shoved inside a sock.
“We weren’t fast enough.” Sasha glared at Yuri. “I should have found them in the Arctic earlier.” If only he’d thought of Volga air base sooner, thought of the MiGs and what he could do. He’d been so consumed with Sergey, with protecting him, serving him. He should have done more.
He was so cold.
Yuri’s bear paw hand clamped down on his shoulder again. “Our friends died as heroes for Russia.” He squeezed and let go.
Silence, for a moment. Yuri stepped back. “I will spot you. Come, lift with us.”
* * *
“More bodies have washedout of theMoskva-reka.” Ilya stubbed out his cigarette and held Sergey’s stare. “Students, it looks like. On the banks of the University.”
“Eto pizdets,” Sergey growled. He shook his head. “Executed?”
Ilya nodded. “The FSB is working on identification now. Hopefully some of the families will be able to find answers.”
Sergey glared, his arms crossed, his lips pursed. All along the Kremlin’s outer walls, the red brick was plastered over withMissingandMemoriumsigns: pictures of lost loved ones and memorials for the men and woman who had gone missing or who had been murdered by Moroshkin’s coup. In Moscow alone, at least six thousand were missing, most presumed dead. Across the country, the number was five times higher.
“Attendance is still growing at the University,” Ilya said. “And at others. Students are coming back. Here and in St. Petersburg. The students are energized and mobilized. They’re planning a memorial for the bodies we’ve recovered, and others.”
