Thrilling Tales of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences

by Pip Ballantine

  Now, the icy cobblestones scraped Vasily’s hands and knees. Clanking factories and bells in the mist rattled in his ears like bones. He begged in his native Russian for her to take him home. He cried, tears streaming down his face in the winter air. He wet his pyjamas. She laughed, her shrill cackle echoing through the alleyway. Vasily clenched his eyes tightly, certain the hag would eat him soon.

  He waited for the death stroke, his skin electrified with fear. It never came.

  He sensed light behind his eyelids and opened them to a roaring green bonfire. Baba Yaga sneered as she backed away into the flames, and they consumed her before vanishing with a sucking pop. The wet cobblestones where she’d been standing hissed and steamed with her passage.

  Vasily was now alone.

  The little Russian peasant boy whimpered and stood, his hot urine now frigid on his legs. The foreign city echoed around him, and he smelled a river nearby. He dared to look beyond where the witch had stood and saw something of which he’d only heard tales—a tremendous clock tower watching over the city like a second moon. And in the same way he’d recognised the legendary witch on sight, he recognised the legendary clock, as well—Big Ben. Surely, this was London, which meant Baba Yaga had taken him quite far from home, indeed.

  When he turned to see the rest of the alleyway, he spied a fat man in a bowler hat, making steady progress toward him with the aid of a cane. The fellow called out to him in English, but the young boy had no knowledge of the language.

  “I can’t understand you,” Vasily sobbed.

  “I said,” came the fat man in perfect Russian, “It looks as though you’re having quite the extraordinary evening.”

  “Who are you, sir?”

  The man smiled and doffed his hat, his nose chapped red. “My name is St. John Fount. I’m a scientist and a servant of Her Majesty’s government. I’ll give you a hot meal in exchange for a good story.”

  13 Years Later

  Outside Chudovo, Russia

  Field Agent Vasily Zinchenko dropped onto the snow bank, splashing little flurries into the air as he readied his rifle. He’d trekked in through the quiet countryside, past burning cottages and ruined farmsteads, the night sky the only other witness to their fate. Vasily had been tracking the movements of a battalion of Lev soldiers for two weeks, and they’d led him to the mother lode. From his perch at the pine thicket’s edge, he could see a hive of men centered about a place his map called “Bugorski Hill”.

  Whatever the Lev were planning, they’d set up camp on the long railway that ran from Moscow to Saint Petersburg. Vasily looked over the tall, windowless wooden structure they’d built alongside the rails. It looked to be about the size of three large barns stacked on top of one another, and it was packed with men coming and going at all hours. He shuddered to think what was in that wooden fortress. The agent wondered if the newly-coroneted Tsar Nikolas knew the Lev were about to wrap his favourite railroad around his country’s neck like a silvery noose. The only thing between the colossal structure and Saint Petersburg was two Imperial Army detachments, and Vasily wondered if that would be enough.

  He peered through his rifle’s scope, a gift from the Ministry clankertons. He sighted in a distant pair of men and clicked a button on the side. Twisting a few dials locked a light green lens over the hood, and night became day. A subtle whirring from the tally counter told him the range was locked in at three-hundred yards. And to top the whole thing off, a little spinner popped up and measured the crosswind. Vasily had once played golf in Scotland, and the caddy was ever so helpful with advice. He liked to think of the scope in very much the same way as his caddy, but with more killing involved.

  Ten men patrolled the perimeter, but the pair in his sights had just opened a flask and lit cigarettes. The others would leave, but the two in his sights would stay, and they would die. Then, Vasily could sneak in, ascertain the contents of the building, and move from there.

  He remembered Doctor Sound’s assignment: “Our man on the inside only got us one message—Koschei the Immortal is coming to destroy the capital. Find out what the Lev are up to and cripple them if you can. The Queen rather dislikes the Russians, but she likes the Lev even less.”

  A normal man would have scoffed at the idea of Koschei the Immortal—a god, whose soul is locked inside a chest, inside a hare, inside a duck, inside an egg, inside a needle. Open the chest, and you must catch the hare. Kill the hare, and the duck flies away. Only by smashing the egg, can Koschei be killed.

  Of course, a normal man had never met Baba Yaga, either.

  The agent was about to screw a sound dampener onto his barrel when he spied a figure creeping toward the structure from the east. Closer inspection revealed a woman in a strange uniform with locks of wavy blonde hair spilling down her back. Vasily watched her unholster a strange pistol as she moved toward his targets, and she took careful aim at one of them.

  His eyes darted to the patrols, still in the area. “You can’t be that stupid,” he whispered to no one.

  When she fired, a soundless heat wave swept across the sentries, felling them instantly. She set upon their pockets like a vulture, tugging at them for some keys. The gun was a very cute toy, to be certain. Vasily cocked an eyebrow, watching the scene unfold through his scope. What was she thinking? She hadn’t given the other patrols enough space.

  No sooner had she come up with her prize than another Lev guard rounded the corner right in front of her. The guard brought up his rifle to gun her down, but Vasily put a shot through the man’s head before the sentry could even take aim. A thunderous crack rolled through the valley, and the pines over Vasily rained snow with the force of the shot. The field agent’s eyes drifted to the sound dampener at his side, the one his clankerton friends had worked so hard to make. They would be angry, if he lived to tell them.

  “Oh, no,” grumbled the field agent as klaxons spun up all over the camp.

  Men emerged from the building at all angles as searchlight spots spilled over the ground like a bag of marbles. The structure lit up with a crackle of gunfire, spattering the ground all around Vasily. If his cover hadn’t been so good, he would have been Swiss cheese right then. He had just enough time to see the blonde hunker down behind a couple of crates before he had to duck, as well.

  He dashed along the snow bank, hidden by the forest, before dropping back down and firing another two shots into the closest Lev soldiers. Both men fell as the remaining guards re-centered their fire on his new position. Not to be outdone, the blonde jumped from her hiding position, spraying the men nearest her with her queer pistol. She took out another three. Between the two of them, Vasily optimistically wondered if they could take this base alone.

  No sooner had he completed that thought than the top of the wooden building lit up with cannon fire, shredding his cover. The field agent sprinted from his shrapnel-filled nest, near certain that he’d feel the killing shot any second. He chanced a look back to his hiding spot, only to see a fountain of dirt, fire and splinters. He could see great gouts of flame blasting out of the structure’s roof and ripping into the countryside. What the devil sort of gun did they have? He ducked back into the tree line, trying to stay hidden.

  The klaxons ceased abruptly, and over a loudspeaker came a deep, Russian voice, “Prepare for launch.”

  Explosive bolts tattooed the sides of the building, and the wooden planks fell away, revealing an iron fortress on tank treads, bristling with guns. Her Majesty’s dreadnaught fleet inspired less fear than the Lev monstrosity. Vasily’s eyes bulged when he saw just how many of those guns were trained on him. He shouted every curse the Russians knew as he sprinted along the forest edge.

  The firing stopped, and the gargantuan contraption rolled out over the tracks. Interlocking sections disengaged, and the massive tank sprawled forward across the tracks like a cat stretching in the sun. They didn’t need to waste any more ammunition on Vasily when they were about to make their move on Peter. He’d never catch up to them agai
n.

  The beastly machine rumbled away as Vasily emerged from his concealment and killed the last of the remaining guards with several well-placed shots. He’d have to find a horse if he wanted to run the tank down. What had become of the blonde woman who’d blown his surprise? When he scanned the surrounding countryside for her, she was nearly on top of him. She levelled her pistol and shouted for him to put down his own weapon. He lowered the muzzle.

  “All the way down,” she said.

  “I saved your life,” he snapped, complying with her command.

  “That you did,” she said, stepping closer. From this distance, he could see her full lips, her bright eyes. She had a flowing voice, like Lavrovskaya, and a little shiver ran up Vasily’s spine. He hadn’t expected to find a flower on a battlefield. “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Do you mind, miss? I believe the Lev are escaping.”

  “Yeah. Looks like you scared the shit out of them.”

  He balked. “Who taught you to speak in such unladylike fashion?”

  “You get to ask questions when you’re the one pointing the gun.” She craned her head and smiled, the beautiful façade giving way to the cruel turn of her mouth. “Who do you work for?”

  Something about her expression unnerved Vasily. He’d seen his share of rogues in his tenure at the Ministry, but none of them set him on edge quite like the wolfish grin of the woman before him.

  A twitch in her eye told him she sensed his discomfort, and she flicked a switch on her gun. “Are you going to tell me or not?”

  “I was shooting the Lev. Isn’t that enough for you?” He nodded in the direction of the tracks. “Now, if you please, they’re getting away, and we’ve need of horses, or motorcycles or...something.”

  “Didn’t bring your own?”

  “I travelled light, to avoid announcing my presence.” He looked her over, head to toe, and grumbled, “I wish you’d done the same.”

  She lowered her pistol. “Don’t worry. I live nearby.”

  With that, she took off into the woods, away from the rolling fortress. So this was to be it: either try to run to some peasant’s house so he could steal transport, or follow a strange woman into the woods. With a sigh, Vasily slung his rifle across his back and trailed behind her. They dashed between the trees by moonlight, and he tripped over the odd root or hidden rock more than once. When he was finally sure they were truly lost, she stopped. He looked around; unless their destination was an unremarkable clearing in the middle of nowhere, she’d led them astray.

  “Great,” he said. “Now the Lev can march on Peter while I play in the woods.”

  “Shut up, you inbred farmboy,” she spat.

  “Excuse me, but I am not—”

  She silenced him by whistling a shrill melody. They stood without speaking while trees creaked overhead, their crowns bowed with frost. Vasily was about to leave when a cabin materialised out of thin air before him, stray reflections peeling from its walls like old paint.

  The structure wasn’t any ordinary hut. Dozens of bleached bones dangled from the eaves of the roof, macabre icicles with bits of fur and leather tied to them. The windows glowed with an eerie, green firelight, and the stench of rotting meat permeated the clearing.

  “Sweet Mary, Mother of Christ!” he shouted, drawing his revolver.

  “I told you not to worry,” she said, making her way toward the door. It opened by itself as she stepped onto the porch. “I said I lived nearby. You coming or what?”

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “Yevgeniya Babikov. Zhenya for short. Now, I’m tired of you wasting time. Get in here, or I’m leaving without you.”

  “Leaving?” Vasily lowered his weapon and followed her to the door. He saw no horses, but then again, anyone who lived in a hut like this would probably eat their horses. He stopped at the threshold. “Where are we going?”

  “After the Lev! You’re a thick one, aren’t you, farmboy?” She jerked him inside by his collar.

  The interior of the hut was far less pleasant than the outside, sporting thousands of dried bundles of herbs lining the walls. Dusty shelves of greasy jars contained a menagerie of grim trophies, from eyeballs to human hands. Hooks, crusted with blood, hung from the ceiling, and Vasily eyed them nervously. Pale, pink skins lay stretched across the ceiling, nailed to planks, while a spiked, iron candelabra illuminated them from below.

  While Vasily’s fellow agents may have been sceptical folks, he had personally met Baba Yaga. This woman was a witch.

  “Don’t go fainting on me,” said Zhenya.

  “Who the Devil are you?” Vasily asked. He fumbled the cross from under his shirt and rubbed over it with his thumb.

  Zhenya chuckled, rolled her eyes and strode to the corner of the room. She banged on a board and it flung open, revealing a recess containing a long, brass lever. “The saviour of Mother Russia,” she laughed, throwing the huge switch.

  The stench disappeared with a hum, and the room grew a little brighter. With a tremendous clank, the ceiling overhead flipped over, hiding the skins and hooks as it became a brass sheet. Dozens of hidden panels reversed across the walls, showing gauges, levers, switches and other indicators. Vacuum tubes jutted out from hundreds of hidden compartments, coruscating with incandescent light. The cauldron folded down on one side, revealing a leather-upholstered seat, bristling with all manner of control apparatuses.

  Vasily suddenly became conscious of his bulging eyes. “I say again, woman, who the Devil are you?”

  She vaulted into the seat, her deft hands wrapping around the two largest levers. “Try to hang onto something.”

  The house bucked, the floorboards rushing up to meet Vasily as he was thrown from his feet, barely managing to keep hold of his pistol. He rolled to one side and watched in astonishment while the trees rustled past the window. The house rose fifteen feet into the air. Then it lurched forward, lunging ten feet with a resounding crash. It lurched again and again, until Vasily understood the motions—a steady gait. The house was walking. He knew what he’d find if he could see it from the outside; it would be a witch’s hut, running on a pair of chicken legs.

  He managed to get his knees under him. “My God. You’re Baba Yaga.”

  “What was your first clue?” She cackled over the clanking of her mechanised house.

  His fear became anger as it churned in his stomach. He raised his pistol to her, pulling the hammer back. “All these years. All these years I’ve thought of my parents. Of my childhood. You stole me away from them!”

  Her expression changed. “Oh,” she said. “You’re one of the children.” She sighed and flipped a stray lock of blonde hair from her eyes. “I kidnapped you, did I?”

  “You left me in London, thousands of miles from my home! By the time I got back, I learned my parents had died in the famine!”

  She cocked an eyebrow. “Sounds like I did you a favour, then.”

  “The choice wasn’t yours to make!”

  “You did all right, didn’t you? Found someone to take care of you?”

  One twitch would erase that smile from her face. Four pounds of trigger pull. He tensed, his leather glove creaking in the frozen air.

  Professor Fount had seen fit to send him away to the finest boarding schools and personally taken charge of his education. Even though the previous head of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences had always maintained his distance, he groomed Vasily to be their best Russian operator. If not for Baba Yaga, he would have died in the famine, too.

  But it had not been her choice to make.

  Zhenya’s voice snapped him back to the present. “Go ahead, then. Shoot me and go back to being a farmboy. You can do that, can’t you?”

  “How will shooting you return me to my parents?”

  “What did I look like when you met me?”

  Old.

  Frightful.

  The same smile, though.

  Vasily looked her over. He could imagine her han
ds growing into the talons of the crone, her now-beautiful nose crooked in age, her pert lips withering like rotten fruit.

  She smiled. “I haven’t kidnapped you yet, but I will. One day, when I grow old, I’ll go back and take you from your parents. I’ll travel through time, because that’s what I do.”

  His fury renewed, and he grit his teeth. He knew it was unreasoning. He had to think of his training, but he had lost his childhood. The trigger itched under his grip. “I never got to see them again, you know. What a perfect reason to kill you.”

  Her expression softened. “Yes, and if you do, I won’t be here—in our present time— to save Saint Petersburg. Neither will you. There will be no Agent Vasily Zinchenko of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences. There will be a young boy whose name will go forgotten, just another death in the all-too-common famine of the Russian wilderness. And the Lev will gain control of the country, and eventually all of Asia. You weren’t kidnapped. You were recruited.”

  He shook his head. He didn’t want her to make sense.

  “I’m sorry. I wish there was another way for you, but this is what fate has written. Do you think it was an accident that you found your way to me?”

  He lowered his weapon and dropped to his knees. She joined him, and took his face into her hands. She was so beautiful. The most incredible eyes he had ever seen…

  “Tell me your name,” she insisted. “Tell me of the day we met so we can get on with the task at hand.”

  As they travelled, he told her every last thing in exacting detail: where he was from, how she’d lured him into the woods, of his meeting with Doctor Sound in the early hours of the London morning. He left out as much sensitive Ministry information as he could, but if he wanted to make it to this exact moment, she would have to know as much as possible.