Kursed (3 page)

I don't know if it makes me trust him more or less.

“Is this your first time flying?” I ask him. Some of the color's drained from his warm olive skin, leaving behind a sallow undertone. His knuckles are bright white around the armrest.

He forces himself to laugh. “Is it that obvious?”

The wheels lift off of the tarmac and we are weightless, surging forth, untethered.

Stravinsky's
Firebird
flutters through my thoughts as I look around the dull metal interior of the military transport plane. The cargo netting, the sacks of parachutes and meal rations, the empty slots where rifles ought to be, but there's a war on, and supplies are running rather low. Hot white spikes through my thoughts as I'm thrown into a new vision—for a moment, the plane morphs into a burned-out skeleton of itself, netting torn, trees jabbing through its metal ribs, screams ringing in my ears. But then everything is back in its place.

I tighten the fasteners of my harness and make myself smile at Andrei.

“Now that we are safely in the air,” Rostov says, voice booming in the narrow hold, “I am permitted to share the details of our mission. I am Anton Ivanovich Rostov, and I will be your commander for the duration of our task. Understood?”

We all make noises of assent, though the roaring propellers eat up most of the sound.

“My orders are to be followed without question and without hesitation. This is not only because I am your commander; it is because our mission succeeds or fails as a direct result of your actions. Everyone's lives depend on your compliance.” His lips squash together; his cheeks curl inward like shallow graves. “Now, then. Our first target is the Mittelwerk factory outside of Nordhausen. We are under instructions to infiltrate the facility, acquire as many schematics and working parts for the V-2 rocket as possible, and persuade the scientists there to return to Moscow with us, where they will live a far more comfortable life than what they currently enjoy in the doomed Third Reich.”

Lyubov curves one vicious eyebrow up beneath her tangle of hair dyed Russian red. “Comrade Rostov. Forgive me for asking, but—but I am afraid you and I are the only officers here with field training. How do you expect these, these … well, these civilians to take part in such a delicate operation?”

“You don't think I've considered that?” Rostov strains against his harness to tear open the duffel bag before him. “We will be posing as inspectors from the Schutzstaffel.”

I catch sight of one pitch-black uniform sleeve spilling out of the bag, of the gleaming silver-thread bands around its cuff. The SS corps—the
Schutzstaffel
, the Nazis' elite enforcers, not unlike our NKVD.

Andrei
hmms
beside me. And when no one looks at him, he
hmms
louder.

Rostov's head snaps up. “Is there something wrong, Comrade Chernin?”

“Mm? Oh, I—I was just thinking.” Andrei spreads his hands on his lap. “I'm a student of psychiatry. Hazard of the profession, and all.”

Rostov's mouth mashes shut with disdain. “And what were you thinking about?”

“Well, as this lovely young lady—Lyubov, is it?” Andrei gestures to Lyubov, whose cheeks turn as red as her dyed hair. Who has time and money for hair dye this deep into a war, I don't know, but then, I suppose the NKVD has access to everything. “As Lyubov was pointing out, I believe you two are the only ones on the team trained in espionage, deception, firearms … you name it. I can put on a uniform, sure, but I'm still going to sound like a Russian student chewing up the German language. And as for the ladies here, well, I'm pretty sure SS uniforms don't come in women's sizes. Seeing as how there
are
no lady officers in the SS.”

“I can pull it off,” Olga says. “Just get me some gauze, and—”

“The ladies will be posing as our secretaries,” Rostov says, his tone spiked with frost. “As for pulling off a convincing portrayal, that is solely
my
concern. Not yours.”

Andrei clutches his harness as he leans forward. “And how do you expect me to accept—”

The air crackles around us like foil; Andrei's jaw goes slack. A noise like a badly tuned radio bristles against my thoughts. Andrei punches the latch on his harness and stands up, hasty, seat snapping shut behind him. He marches toward the back of the plane, face eerily still as he stares straight ahead. His movements swing at odd angles, like a badly built marionette.

“Comrade Rostov. Please,” I say. “This is unnecessary. You've made your point.”

“Have I?” Rostov asks, as Andrei closes his hand around the emergency handle on the hatch. “Do you understand now, Comrade Chernin, what I am capable of?”

Andrei says nothing. He can't say anything.

But I know precisely what Rostov is capable of; it's in my files, marked for further research when the war is won.

Mind control.

“If I wished,” Rostov continues, “I could make you open that door and fling yourself out into the atmosphere. I could make you forget your name. Your own face.” Rostov's lip twitches as he strains; the crackle and hum in the air bloats, infected. He must have no difficulty pushing past Andrei's flimsy shield. “Ahh, but I see you've already changed your name. Chernikashvili—that used to be your last name, did it not? You are from the Georgian Republic? You were wise to chop all that off. No one likes a filthy Georgian. If only your parents had been so wise, they might have—”

“Enough!” I shout.

Briefly—so briefly it might have been a dream, a fault of memory—a vision pushes through the haze. A single frame, snipped out as if by a censor from my future life. Anton Rostov stands over me, pliers in one hand, as screams tear from my throat. Something I've just done has set me on the path toward the future I've just glimpsed.

Rostov's face, pinched like wax, turns toward me. The static grows and grows, like I've stepped into a swarm of gnats. Instinctively, I press my lips together, squeeze my eyes shut. But then the noise retreats.

Lyubov's eyes are rounded, whites showing like a spooked horse, though she forces her face back to neutral with a well-practiced effort. Olga's expression, however, is hooded, and I know instantly that she's seen something like this before—if not this particular psychic twist, then this kind of man. A Party man, through and through, unafraid to flash his power around like it were a medal of honor. One doesn't survive Moscow State as long as we have without learning the intricate dance required to deal with Party men like Anton Rostov.

Andrei slumps forward, forehead clanging against the metal walls of the plane.
“Bozhe moi.
What the hell did you just—how did—” He stands up straight and weaves his way back toward his seat. “Are we all supposed to be able to do that?”

I chew at my lower lip. “Thus far, Comrade Rostov is the only psychic I've encountered in my research who is capable of mental control and manipulation.”

“Let's hope it stays that way,” Andrei mutters under his breath where only I can hear—not that either of us could possibly think that would stop Rostov. Andrei clips back into his harness. Rostov's gaze, like a drawn blade, is fixed on him, but Andrei refuses to cross that gaze; slowly, Rostov turns away.

Rostov clears his throat and snaps open his folio. “Here are the rough sketches of the compound's layout our informant provided us with. We believe the rocketry research is being conducted in this high-security section over here, adjacent to the barracks and medical facilities where the laborers reside. Olga Semyonovna Korolyova?”

Olga raises her hand, her gaze cool, her short brown hair tufted like a cloud around her pale face.

“Your ability involves the manipulation of objects, yes? Moving things around without making physical contact with them? Telekinesis, I believe we're calling it.”

“That's me,” she says. Then, as if to demonstrate, she holds out her hand, and Rostov's schematic lifts up and over the distance between them to land safely in Olga's palm.

Lyubov scoffs. “How are you supposed to be any help to us in your state, though, telekinesis or not? Pardon my saying so, but your leg—”

Olga's expression bristles like razor wire. “My leg was crushed under a falling piece of rubble during an air raid. I assure you, I can get around just fine without it—I've had lots of practice.”

“But if your gift is moving objects, why didn't you just…” Lyubov sweeps her hand through the air. “Push it out of the way?”

“I did.” Olga looks away. “The rubble was headed for my
head
.”

Rostov gives Lyubov a look, and she falls silent. He continues, “So you can unlock doors that are locked from the inside? What about moving large pieces of machinery?”

“It has to be something I could physically move myself,” she says. “Door locks, yes. Missiles, no.”

Rostov furrows his brow. “All right. We can work with that. And Lieutenant Kruzenko, we've worked together briefly on the front, yes? I understand you simply read minds.”

Lyubov's cheeks darken again. “Yes, comrade, that's correct.”

“All right. You will stay alert for any signs that our subjects are becoming suspicious, or that we should try another tactic. Antonina Vasilievna Berezova, you foretell the future, is that correct?”

“I prefer to call them premonitions. Makes it sound less like a fortune-teller.” I lace my fingers together. “Visions will occasionally come to me without prompting, but I can also test out hypotheses—like checking for cause and effect.”

“Must come in handy for your research,” Andrei says.

Now it's my turn to blush. “It's never a—a complete guarantee. It seems to pertain to factors both known and unknown.”

“No certainty?” Lyubov snorts. “What a useless ability.”

“Not necessarily. Because sometimes—sometimes, I'll see both possibilities. I'll see them change over time, one gaining ground over the other. Sometimes, I'll know exactly why they've changed. But sometimes it's too indistinct, or because some truths are harder to swallow than others. Sometimes I can change the outcome—but most of the time? It's beyond my reach. Too late.”

Andrei shakes his head. “Sounds like you'd have to be a real pessimist to buy into whatever these visions are telling you. Wouldn't you rather try to change it for the better?”

“I prefer to think of it as realism,” I reply, but I can't really argue the truth of what he says. I call my power a gift, but too often I feel cursed by it. I live my life looking at a future that is so permanent, so immutable, it might as well be my past.

“So if I ask you a direct question about something in the future, can I trust that you will have an answer for me?” Rostov asks.

I square my jaw and force myself to nod. “I'll have a strong possibility.”

Rostov's smile pulls taut. “Then that will have to suffice. I will be asking you very precise questions, then, as to what we are encountering, but I expect you to be continually monitoring for further threats. Understood?”

“Yes, comrade.” I know the drill—no room for excuses, no matter how valid. Excuses sound a lot like dissent.

“And Comrade Chernin. What exactly is it you do, again?” Rostov flips through his notes. “Your test results are—not too strong.” Rostov glances at me, only a brief jab, but I feel its sting.

Andrei gives him that crooked smile. “Oh, nothing as exciting as the rest of you. I can see things happening at a great distance.” He taps his glasses frames. “In the next room, the next building, the next city…”

“We call that type of psychic ability ‘remote viewing,'” I say.

“Remote viewing. Yes. I like that name.” Andrei smiles.

Rostov narrows his eyes. “So if I were to ask you to confirm an individual's location, or to tell me the contents of a locked room, could you do so?”

“Like telling you the time.” Andrei tugs at his straps with a grin.

But something isn't sitting right with me about his power. When I'd tested him earlier today, he'd showed good aptitude for reading Stalin's mind with more precision than other kinds of psychics—unless that, too, was me misinterpreting my vision, just like that strange future I saw play out.

We spend the next few hours of the flight reviewing Rostov's plan to infiltrate the Mittelwerk factory, and reviewing how to work the rudimentary crystal-powered shortwave radios he's distributed to us that will allow us to communicate in the field, in case we get separated. Then Rostov encourages us to sleep, if at all possible, until we approach the eastern front somewhere in what used to be Poland before the Nazis snatched it up. Each time I start to drift off, though, listing toward the empty seat on my right, my visions press against me like fingers clearing a fogged pane of glass.

Walking skeletons, skin pulled like a secret over ragged bones.

Metal monstrosities on a pedestal, concentric rings telescoping to a lethal point.

A darkened tunnel ringing with the distant march of giants.

At first, I think the sharp yank, ripping my stomach one way and my body another, is another vision. Then everything comes into focus around me: the plane shuddering, the harness cutting into my shoulders, and the half-awake mumbles and gasps of the other passengers.

Rostov unlatches his belt and tries to make his way toward the cockpit to speak with our pilot, but the plane tosses him into Lyubov's lap, then against the empty seat at my side. Thunder roars through the cabin, as if we're flying through a lightning storm, but Rostov and the pilot scream back and forth at each other, the whine of the propellers chopping up their words. “Anti-aircraft,” I hear. “Sustained fire.” “Supposed to be clear.”

“Wait,” Andrei shouts, scrubbing at a trail of drool from his chin to his shoulder as he rouses from his sleep. “Wait. I can help.”