Page 55 of Ascendent
Gerasimov put his cigarette between his lips and popped the lid on a crate he’d kept. He disassembled the scope from the rifle’s housing and passed it to Grisha.
Grisha adjusted the focus, scanned, found the man––
The man looked back.
“Blyad,” Grisha cursed. “That’s Sasha Andreyev!”
“Who?” Gerasimov ground out his cigarette on the concrete.
“An old wing mate of mine. Someone I used to know at Andreapol.”
Chapter Eleven
The first flightout of Krasnoyarsk was to Tura, the only fixed wing airport in the Evenkiysky district. It was a twin propeller freight transport, carrying government food aid and the biweekly mail. There was room for three passengers. Sasha was the only one. He sat beside a grizzled pilot who chugged vodka from his flask before taxiing down the runway, then slept for an hour once they were in the air.
He’d stopped feeling his hands and feet during the flight. He shivered so violently he thought he was seizing. Time seemed to bend. He was flying, no, he was falling. He was riding a sunbeam, he was blowing with a snow storm. He was an ice crystal, one of a billion, and he was floating in space, one of the trillion-trillion specks of dust that orbited the sun.
Sergey. He’d thought Sergey would be his end, that he would die in Sergey’s arms. How was he to know Sergey had been the only thing keeping him alive?
He could feel the ice taking over his body. It slithered between bone and ligament, between muscle and tendon. Between his veins. Into his cells, and deeper. It was filling up the space left behind in the absence of his soul.You did it to yourself.
He was barely conscious as they landed, pressed against the glass cockpit window and clinging to his duffel, trying to feel something, anything. The pilot, Denis, gave him a glare and a growl and clambered off the plane. Sasha followed, falling to his hands and knees. He coughed, and his ribs nearly shattered. A thousand ice crystals blasted through his body. He could practically feel his organs shredding. He checked his palm for blood.
“Aja bishindi?” A voice approached, calling to him. Boots echoed on the tarmac.
He looked up.
An Evenki man, dressed in brightly colored cargo pants, the airport’s logo on the thigh, and a ratty sweater, reared back, away from Sasha. He spat something in Evenki, something Sasha didn’t understand. His eyes narrowed.
“Help me,” Sasha croaked. “I need to find Kilaqqi.”
“You are soul sick.”
“Yes.” He coughed again. He fell forward, his forehead pressing against the asphalt. He groaned. His heart was pounding, trying to beat its way out of his chest. It was going to explode. Or be crushed in the ice floes. He felt ice slide inside his heart.Sergey.“Please! Kilaqqi, he said one of my souls was missing. He went to find it!”
“Kilaqqi helpedyou?” Not an ounce more of disbelief, of distaste, could have been forced into one word. “Whoareyou?”
How much did this Evenki man know? In all of Russia, there were just under thirty thousand Evenki left. Had he heard about what happened during spring? About Kilaqqi finding him in the snow? Did he even know Kilaqqi? “I’m the pilot,” he choked out. “Kilaqqi saved me.”
The man spat. His wad landed on the ground by Sasha’s head. “Slerkan was killed because of you!”
Bits of stone and old tar ground into his skin as he sighed. He tasted asphalt and tar, snow and ice. Winds roared around him. Snow fell over his eyes, clouding his vision. “I’m sorry.”
“You should not have come. If you die here, your souls will know no peace. There is no rest for you in these lands,Russky.”
“I am dying.” He could barely see. He was so cold.
“You’re soul sick. You’re out of balance.”
“I’m cold.” He was shivering again, shaking and trembling. Around him, porters were unloading the plane, hauling canned food and bags of rice out of the cargo hold, pulling out parcels and bags of mail. Everyone ignored Sasha and the Evenki man. “I’m freezing.”
“Agdy has your soul.” The man held his hand over Sasha’s forehead. He wouldn’t touch him. “You’re falling into the darkness.”
“Kilaqqi…”
The man stood. “You should not have come. Kilaqqi is our most powerful shaman. He has no time forRusskyinvaders. But, if he wishes to see you, we will take you to him. If not––” His expression was grave. “Wait here.”
Sasha tried to laugh. He couldn’t move. He’d made it to the Evenkiysky district, made it aboard a plane into Tura, and he’d finally collapsed. If he stood again, he’d shatter. The sun was shining, and the tarmac was warm. But he was frozen. He was ice. He was a snowflake on the wind.
