Tales from the hothouse.
Fluff part 4 "The Final Installment."
Kusnetsov expected a kicking after the mans outburst, but instead the “white eyes” shoved passed them and ran off in the direction of the “hot house” and it’s clouds of steam.
“You need to learn to keep your mouth shut.” Kusnetsov whispered. “Who were those…men?”
“Moles, the wrecking crew” he replied.
“What in Hades are moles?”
“Mining operations lightless environments, freaks pumped full of stimms, kitted out for fire fighting by the looks of it.”
“There’s a fire?” asked Kusnetsov.
“There always has been a fire. Area 75. They never did put it out.”
Kuznetsov’s attention was drawn to a tall great coated figure, marching purposefully toward them, this looks like the boss he thought.
The fellow was quite a sight, weatherworn and rugged, his face half burned away. Dark blue stains beneath his skin, where dust had gotten into old wounds, a veteran miner.
It seemed that at some point the man had lost the lower part of his left arm, as it terminated in a hideous looking pneumatic rock drill.
He passed along the file of seven men, looking them up and down, inspecting them like cattle, like slaves.
To each he gave a number and, obediently a “white eyes” noted it down in a black bound book.
He couldn’t help it, just couldn’t.
When it came to Kuznetsov’s turn, he glared at the squinting man (was he so unused to daylight?) who, though a slight smile had appeared on that craggiest of faces, stared coldly back.
“Five” he said.
For the first time the white eyes looked up from the book.
Five?
A high pitched squeal of feedback came from the mans pocket, a comm link.
He heard a roar of static then a panicked voice.
“Orlovsky! Get me Orlovsky!”
“Orlovsky, what is your progress?”
Kusnetsov couldn’t quite make out the response, but heard a few words. “Target acquired…brought down…two dead…one fatality…unavoidable…”
Orlovsky turned to the guard stationed at the enclosure entrance, “Keep him quiet! Go on now, don’t be scared” he insisted.
The guard hesitated for long moments, but then ran off toward the “hot house” and its rising plumes of steam and Kusnetsov realised that the other guards had stationed themselves at the very same door.
“Get them put away” hissed Orlovsky and two white eyes began herding the prisoners toward one of the cold iron sheds.
But not Kusnetsov.
Orlovsky slowly stalked up to him, a look of utter contempt upon his face.
“You have no concept of loyalty, do you worm? No sense of belonging. You… will… learn.”
Kusnetsov grinned at him, defiant, stubborn.
“ Five.”
The white eyes shoved Kusnetsov toward a small block of what he had taken to be storage bins, or some such. They were each numbered in livid red paint, there it was, number five.
The heavy rusted synsteel door was set in a ’crete block at about 45 degrees, a heavy bolt and turn lock to secure it.
The white eyes opened it and Kusnetsov peered down into the gloom. A steel rung ladder was set into the wall and the guard (not so subtlety) suggested that he climb down.
As he did so, he heard a muffled voice from the white eyes comm (they can hear then).
What was said, he couldn’t make out, but, for a moment, the guards attention was diverted, he looked back, at the compound gate .
Kusnetsov weighed his opportunity…but no, not now, he wouldn’t get 10 paces, patience, patience, wait your time.
He couldn’t see exactly what was going on, some rungs down the ladder as he was, but, just before the guard slammed shut that heavy steel door to his underground prison, he did see two things.
One, was that four riders, carrying sniper rifles on their backs, had galloped into the camp.
As they struggled to restrain the (for some reason) spooked horses, Kusnetsov made out three bodies, wrapped in blankets, stained blood red on two rider less horses.
That and one of the white eyes guards at the hot house door, struggling to keep it shut, as someone within hammered feverously upon it and, whoever it was, they let out such a wail of despair, Kusnetsov thought his memory would never be free of it.
That’s what he saw, before the rusty door slammed shut and the lock slid firmly home.
Right, get yourself sorted boy, be ready.
He scanned the cell, barely 8x8 feet, hmmmm.
The walls were plain grey plascrete, stained from years of damp.
Overhead was a glowbulb, set in a wire mesh cage (what, you too?), it’s flickering light ebbing and flowing, running low, suddenly brightening, decaying like the rest of this place.
There was a synsteel bunk that ran the length of one wall, springs, no mattress.
The shaft that led outside in the corner, about six feet above his head, another three to the surface.
He nodded his head, absentmindedly, things clicking into place.
Over the next, what, possibly an hour, he couldn’t really tell, he busied himself, prepared.
He scraped the thick mud from the sole of his boot on the bed frame and, when he had uncovered the sharpened steel blade, hefted it in his hands contentedly.
“Idiots.”
It took a while, but eventually he worked loose a bracket from the bed frame and, together with a spring and some material cut from his greatcoat, he had a decent blade.
With that, he decided to take a rest, but the b******s wouldn’t have it. Every so often one would smash (a carbine butt?) against the rusty steel cell door and send bitter tasting particles down to choke him.
In the gloom, lulled into a sense of quietude by the repetitive drips from the ceiling, hugging himself into a corner and wishing, just wishing, he allowed himself sleep.
But that’s how it was then, it wasn’t his fault, they all did it.
The only water they had, was licked off running walls, sour and contaminated with who knew what, but what else could you do?
Survival, nothing else, nothing else could even be entertained.
The rats had been the first to go. Once plentiful in the dark, almost comforting in some strange way, but not any more.
Then, it was hard to contemplate, but the medical bay served their needs.
After that, well…
Kusnetsov came suddenly awake.
What was that? Banging on the rusty door?
“This is it” he thought.
From the shaft, he caught the sounds of harsh breathing, something…what, exactly?
From the sodden folds of his greatcoat, he drew the blade, cold, but sure in his sweaty hand.
Damn those springs, as they moved beneath his shifting weight, no noise, please no noise.
He could see the knife now, the throbbing light of the glow bulb reflected in it’s deadly surface.
He began to go through the mantra. Imagining in his mind what would happen, forming neural pathways in his mind that would click into gear, guide him with the precision and surety of instinct.
If the guard was clever, he would descend the rungs with his back to the wall…if not…he would be dead.
Whatever, Kusnetsov was ready for anything.
But, of course, you cannot be ready for everything.
No-one descended the ladder, they didn’t need to.
For, as quick as a flash, it jumped down the shaft and there it was, standing before him.
What was it?
He never knew.
All he had time to do was drop the blade and whimper.
As the world slipped away, all he could remember was that strange thing he had dreamt about (it was a dream, wasn’t it?), the thing that hissed, that spat. The thing with four arms, ending in talons and strangely human hands.
And…it’s eyes were human too, weren’t they?
The cold winter sun caught the snow drifts so beautifully, it really was a joy!
The guttural growls of the Kominform crawler did nothing to dispel the magic of the mountains.
It’s of times like these, times you really must tell your offspring!
The crawler ground away to the top of the slope. In the distance, he could see his destination, Arkhavy Prospekt.
You know, for the first time in his thirty four years, he was happy, he belonged.
The magus, the father he never had, the brood his brothers and sisters.
And, that happiness was to be passed on, passed on to Arkhavy Prospect.
Yes, for the first time in his life, Kusnetsov was truly happy.
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