Table of Contents
New Recruits
Santa Claus is Coming to Get You!
Splinter
Redmond’s Private Screening
About Kevin J. Anderson
Kevin J. Anderson’s
Dark Labyrinth
Volume 2
Book Description
Four dark fantasy tales from the mind of Kevin J. Anderson, each with a short introduction by the author. Includes: “New Recruits,” “Santa Claus is Coming to Get You,” “Splinter” (written with Rebecca Moesta), and “Redmond’s Private Screening.”
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Copyright 2011 WordFire, Inc.
Digital Edition 2011
WordFire Press
www.wordfire.com
New Recruits
Originally published in Weirdbook No. 25, 1990
Copyright 1990 WordFire, Inc.,
Santa Claus is Coming to Get You!
Originally published in Deathrealm magazine, Fall/Winter 1991
Copyright 1991 WordFire, Inc.
Splinter
Originally published in Renaissance Faire, edited by Andre Norton and Jean Rabe, DAW, 2005
Copyright 2005 WordFire, Inc.,
Redmond’s Private Screening
Originally published in Realms of Fantasy, April 2001
Copyright 2001 WordFire, Inc.,
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the copyright holder, except where permitted by law. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Published by WordFire Press, an imprint of
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PO Box 1840
Monument CO 80132
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eISBN: 978-1-61475-023-9
Electronic Version by Baen Ebooks
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New Recruits
Author’s Note:
I never much liked history in high school. I thought it was the driest subject matter . . . until I entered college and discovered professors who had a genuine passion for ancient times and places.
Though I was a Physics/Astronomy major, I became so interested in history courses that I ended up with a minor in Russian History. In one of my classes, I discovered a few off-hand references to the horrific work camps established during the time of the Napoleonic Wars. These camps were run by the brutal General Arakcheev, with the blessing of the normally gentle Tsar Alexander I. Immediately I sensed material for a very creepy story, and when the professor handed out a term paper assignment, I decided to use that as an excuse to do my research.
Unfortunately, Arakcheev’s workcamps were so obscure that virtually no books had been published on the subject, and few scholarly articles had been written, even in Russian (much less translated into English). Nevertheless, I found enough details and all the material for a dark fantasy plot. When I delivered the term paper, the professor was quite pleased; he said he had learned a great deal about the concentration camps and that he had never read such details before.
I smiled and said, “Then I should make up my information more often.”
He was not in the least amused.
In any event, as accurate as I could make it, here is my story of what might have happened in those obscure Russian encampments. . . .
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April 28, 1825
My dearest Tania,
In the military colonies of our beloved Tsar Alexander I, circumstances do not often grant me an opportunity to write you a personal letter—a truly personal letter which none of them have read beforehand. Things are still in a state of confused shock here after the tragedy—some of the buildings are still smoldering, and Lieutenant Goliepin has assumed temporary command; but he has not had us drill for two days now—and I am taking these precious moments of solitude to write you what I fear will be a rather lengthy letter.
Perhaps you may understand the reason for my prolonged silence once you realize the daily routine we undergo here. General Ursov, who was our commanding officer, believed that perfect discipline is the highest achievement any man can hope to accomplish in his lifetime. Thus we spend three days a week in intense military drill from 6 AM to 1l AM and then again from 2 PM to 10 PM. But then, Tania, you are not accustomed to the slavery of clocks, so these numbers probably mean nothing to you. On alternate days we erect new buildings since Ursov insists that “building is the best means of ensuring that one’s name will be remembered after one is dead.”—we also drain the land, dig ditches and clear the stumps and stones . . . and we attempt to reclaim the swamp near which our colony is situated, which turns into a deathtrap mire every spring when the snow melts.
I believe the peasants, though, have it even worse than we soldiers do. They must rise two hours before us to care for the cattle, wash down the sidewalks, sweep the streets, sand the paths, or clean the latrines. And they must also drill with us in the morning, before going out into the fields to till the soil, in uniform. Even their six-year-old boys are required to drill. If only the Tsar knew what it was like—surely he’d change things.
Tsar Alexander said that he wanted these colonies to be places where we soldiers could settle down in times of peace, grow our own food, and live with our families. All I know is that I have been here almost a year—and you, dear sister, and the rest of my family are still not with me. It almost brings tears to my eyes when I think of the day I was conscripted. How you and Mother wept, how the rest of the village already mourned me as dead. Twenty-five years of military service! I might as well be dead. I remember how Father and I drank too much vodka, for it was expected that I overindulge on the last night of my freedom. And then the next morning, riding in the lurching wagon along the muddy, pitted road, my head throbbing and my insides churning, and adding my own groans to those of the other new recruits riding in the crowded back of the wagon. I remember it rained that day—a light, misty rain . . . a gray rain. . . . That was over a year ago.
I am writing this letter myself, Tania, for I have perfected my knowledge of how to read and write here. I am hoping you will know to take this to Father Paniskii—how is he? Is he still alive?—and he will read it to you. Father Paniskii always liked me—he was always so kind. I first learned from him how to read, remember? He was going to send me to one of the church schools, but I was taken into the army before I had finished my lessons from him—barely enough time for me to learn to manage by myself. Old Endovik says that I am lucky to have a priest that I love, for he says the only priest he remembers from his village was a mean, unfriendly man. Endovik has been in the army so long.
Endovik is the man I live with—lived with; I still cannot believe he is dead. But his death was the means for me to get this letter to you—you shall see. I must tell all this in order, lest I lose my sanity by going off on too many tangents. You know me, Tania, as does Father Paniskii, so you know I am not a liar or a storyteller. And I sincerely hope that you will show this letter to no one else, for they will surely not believe me—especially after the “official statement” of what happened here is released. You must believe me—you will see.
It was spring, and wet, and miserable—perfect for the outbreak of cholera which struck our camp. Over one qua
rter of our population died from the disease, in throes of vomit and diarrhea which brought about the exhaustion which killed them. The peasants suffered worse than the soldiers did—and while both Endovik and I escaped the sickness, both of our peasant hosts died within hours of each other. They were a childless peasant man and wife, who had been kind to us and looked on their two soldier “lodgers” as the children they had never been blessed with. When we weren’t drilling, Endovik and I helped them with their chores. They died, with the last words of each asking how the other had fared. “Regaining strength,” we had said. “Coming along nicely.”
We were taken to new, hastily erected barracks which were crowded with all the refugees from other cholera-stricken households. Every home which had encountered cholera was abandoned, and due to the strict, almost vicious measures of General Ursov, the epidemic was contained within one section of buildings.
No one can say what Ursov intended to do with the abandoned buildings. In all sensibility he should have burned them to the ground—everything a cholera victim has touched or even gazed upon should be destroyed as a precaution against further spread of the disease. But the General’s stubborn . . . one could almost call it worship of the things he had accomplished, which would not allow him to destroy the buildings erected under his command.
The houses are symmetrically arranged along the main road—a watchtower stands for observing the fields; the chapel and the fire station are in the center of the village, surrounded by the officers’ quarters and other administerial buildings. One entire block of houses along the road stood empty, waiting for new occupants.
General Ursov had ordered new recruits from the Tsar in St. Petersburg, and he worked us survivors harder to make up for the loss of workers—and still he did not relax our military training. “Discipline is more important than rest,” Ursov had said. I’ll add my curse to all those others who have cursed him at one time or another, for one reason or another.
Even before it seemed possible—only four days after Ursov had sent his request to Tsar Alexander—the new recruits arrived. It was not possible that a message could have reached St. Petersburg, that the Tsar could have arranged for new troops and sent them to our colony in only four days. Yet they were here, and we looked on them as a blessing. A blessing! At the time we did see them as such. I think of them differently now.
The rain had stopped in order to make way for the heavy fog which had rolled in, wet and gray. The soldiers were standing in ranks for our military drill which had already gone on for several hours. We were wet and cold and exhausted—but if we had let any of it show we would have been given an extra part of an hour of practice. Endovik doesn’t have to drill much with
us—he’s a veteran; he had survived his twenty-five years of military service. Endovik was a tough old man. He had been conscripted in 1799, before Tsar Paul I was assassinated, then served under our Tsar Alexander. He had fought against Napoleon at Borodinó in 1812, and he helped erect this military colony in 1818, almost exactly seven years ago to the date. He had survived his term of service—one of the few, for twenty-five years of discipline like Ursov’s is not easy to survive—and now the army, by its own promises, was forced to take care of him, begrudgingly. Tsar Alexander doesn’t know how bad things are—I am sure of it.
But, I promised I would not digress. We were standing in the fog, drilling monotonously, when we saw someone marching down the main road, spectral figures silhouetted in the fog. Now, these military colonies are isolated, and no one is allowed in—not government officials, not police—without the express permission of the commanding officer. We didn’t know what to think of the strange figures in the fog, until they emerged.
A young corporal, dressed in an old, dusty uniform, marched at the head of a column of twenty peasants, all thin and covered with scanty, tattered garments in the cold and wet. Their skin was pale, and their eyes were blank and staring as if they had had their very souls wrenched from them. They made no sound—no speaking, no shuffling of feet, simply quietly stepping as they marched past the troops standing at attention in the midst of our drilling.
Ursov watched as the corporal marched up to him. The General frowned, as if he vaguely recognized the other man but could not place him. Ursov seemed troubled.
The corporal halted in front of the General, saluted, and presented himself and his column of peasants. “General Ursov,” he said, “I am Corporal Belidaev. I have brought you these new recruits, as you requested, to replace some of the colonists who fell in your tragic epidemic.” Belidaev gestured to the vacant-faced peasants, allowing his words to sink in. Then he spoke again. “They are from the village of Vendeévna.”
Ursov’s eyebrows shot up, and it seemed to me that he paled rapidly. The General fidgeted, and the expression on his face seemed not to be able to decide which final form to take, as if he could not enforce the discipline on his own emotions which he demanded of his troops.
Belidaev stood placidly, matching his stare with those of the peasants. Ursov endured it uncomfortably until he turned to Lieutenant Goliepin. Goliepin is Ursov’s little servant who does everything the General tells him to. Goliepin isn’t very bright and that’s why the General likes him. In fact, I think I have a sharper mind than the Lieutenant—and it is very shocking, believe me, the first time you realize that you are truly more intelligent than your superiors are!
Ursov snapped to Goliepin, “Lieutenant, see to it that these new recruits are placed in the empty buildings.”
“The empty buildings, sir?”
“You are standing right next to me, Goliepin—has the fog gotten into your ears?”
Goliepin dug a finger into his left ear, seeming to take the General’s question seriously. “No, sir. But the empty buildings are—”
Ursov’s temper was rising. “I know full well which buildings I am talking about! If I didn’t know about them, I could hardly suggest them, now could I?”
“But—”
“GOLIEPIN!” Ursov roared, his face livid, all traces of his former pallor gone. “Am I not the commanding officer here? Do I not give the orders? And are you not to follow them? Without question! I leave this matter in your hands—I trust the new recruits will be settled adequately.”
Ursov turned and stormed away toward his private quarters. He was very upset and did not look at Goliepin standing confused in his wake, nor at Belidaev and his peasants. We soldiers were all very mystified. Belidaev was grinning to himself.
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The atmosphere of the barracks in the evening always contains a mixture of different emotions. After a long session of drilling, which encompasses most of the afternoon and all of the evening, the prevailing mood is exhaustion. And the next day we would have to labor in the fields, or out in the swamp trying to “reclaim” it.
We were crowded in the hastily erected barracks, and the noises of many men drifted through the air, mingled with the odors of sweat and dirt. Some of the newer soldiers could be heard whimpering in their sleep, dreaming of wives or families or villages left behind for the next twenty-five years. Endovik says that the ones who whimper never survive the term of service. I wonder if I whimper in my sleep. A dim lantern stood in the center of a small wooden table, surrounded by four soldiers attempting to play a game about which no one could remember the rules precisely, but that didn’t seem to bother them much. They couldn’t cheat if no one knew the rules anyway.
Endovik’s bunk was next to mine—technically he was a farmer-colonist now that he had retired, free to till his land and be self-sufficient. But many things had been changed in the crisis of the epidemic. Many of the men lay wide awake in their bunks, staring and trying to find whatever they wished for. That’s the funny thing about exhaustion—it is harder to sleep if you’re completely exhausted than it is if you aren’t tired at all. By the time your muscles and nerves relax enough to permit sleep, it is time to wake up anyway. Oh well, not even the Tsar can change that.
Endovik usu
ally stayed awake to talk with me, since he knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep for some time. Those were the times when I missed you the most, and also the times when life in the military colonies was the most bearable. Endovik and I became great friends during those quiet conversations. Poor Endovik.
I told him about the new recruits, and Corporal Belidaev, and Ursov’s reaction to the name of Vendeévna.
“Vendeévna?” Endovik said, and I looked at him to see that he was frowning, searching his memories. “Vendeévna was the name of the village that was here—before the colony. General Ursov had us tear it down to erect the colony. . . .”
“Why would Belidaev say his peasants were from Vendeévna then? Could there be another village with that name near here?”
Endovik pursed his lips and scratched his cheek by the mole under his ear. “Maybe you should know more about our General Ursov, Alexis,” he said to me.
I lay on my back and listened—Endovik was good at telling stories.
“Ursov was the fifth son of a nobleman, and entered the army in the hope that his family name might bring him more success than the family fortunes would have. He fought against Napoleon at Borodinó under Field Marshall Kutuzov—and was the only survivor of his company because he hid in the dark corner of a ruined peasant home as soon as the heavy shooting started. Instead of being hung for cowardice as he should have been, Ursov was promoted. He had noble blood in his veins. I fought at Borodinó too—I was even shot in the arm.”
Endovik fumbled with his shirt, but it was dark, and I had seen the scar before anyway. “If only the Tsar knew. . . . “ We both sighed. Endovik continued.
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