Once everyone was up, Savrova and the guards led them into a different part of the factory, where a disused, rusting freight train car was sitting on equally rusted rails. There were several tracks here, each leading out from a train-sized hole in the wall. This was where they probably shipped from, or got raw materials from, back when this place was up and running, probably some twenty years ago.
Then a cadre of folks came in wearing Russian uniforms, and Cal froze.
“Aw, Maggie. No,” he whispered.
She was walking right next to Lavrentiy Beria, in full NKVD uniform. Nobody had a gun on her. She even had her hair done up like Savrova’s, and put on some makeup, too — things that she very rarely did back at Mountain Home. She looked composed.
“Please tell me she’s doubling,” Yamato whispered. “Otherwise, we’re fucked.”
Cal could only shrug, even as he tried to fight back a tear. “I sure hope so.”
The prisoners were brought forward and forced to their knees, their hands on their heads, while the other Soviet Variants gathered around. Savrova, Tsakhia, and Illyanov were all there, and the Russian they’d taken to calling the Shadow Man was there too, though in his inky black, wispy form rather than in person. There were four others he didn’t recognize, except maybe one who might have shown up in a surveillance photo he’d seen in some file long ago.
Maggie walked over to Cal. “Your Russian still weak?” she asked simply.
“Yeah,” he replied bitterly. “Bet yours gotten all kinds of sharp lately, though.”
A flash of something ran across her face a moment, which took Cal aback — she was never one for showing any kind of emotion, even briefly. But then she recovered and arched an eyebrow at him. “I’ve been asked to translate.”
Cal looked her in the eye for a long moment, then shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Beria waved over the Chinese officer in charge and whispered something to him. A minute later, the guards cleared the huge, hangar-like room entirely, giving rifles to Maggie, Illyanov, and Beria. The rest of the Soviet Variants stepped closer, surrounding Cal and his fellow prisoners in a kind of semicircle.
“My friends,” Beria began. “My fellow Empowered. Champions of the Proletariat. We have been together for a very long time now, and I am truly, deeply appreciative of all of your efforts and all you have done to further our true revolution — not the hollow, meaningless drudgery of Stalin and his cronies, but the real, the only revolution! The revolution in which the Empowered take their rightful place as the shepherds of the masses, the Champions of the Proletariat! Today is the day when we unleash the abilities granted to us, and grant them to so many more across the globe. Together, we shall help humanity rise up! Cast off their oppressors! We shall usher in an age of enlightenment! An era free from want! And all of you — yes, even you Americans — will have a beautiful role in this new future. You will indeed be the very cause of it!”
Cheers rose up from Soviets, but Cal could only roll his eyes. The man sure loved to hear himself talk. Maybe it was a Russian thing.
“Savrova, begin preparations,” Beria ordered.
With two other Soviets by her side, Savrova entered the freight car from the side door and went inside. Meanwhile, Beria himself walked up to the four prisoners and addressed Cal directly in English. “I must ask you, Mr. Hooks, has your country improved its relations with your people?”
Cal knew full well what the Russian was talking about, but wasn’t in the mood for chitchat. “What people? My fellow Americans?”
Beria just sighed. “Stubborn. They say many of your fellow Negroes are like this. And yet you live in a country that continues to enslave you. Not in chains, today. No, much more civilized. But you work harder for less money, and your prospects are limited by the same capitalist system that keeps you down.”
“It’ll get better,” Cal said, looking the Russian in the eye. “Already has. Truman desegregated the Armed Forces. Parts of the country are downright pleasant now for black folk. The rest, well, we’re working on it.”
Beria motioned toward Tsakhia. “Here is a Mongol from the Russian steppe. He is our equal — not just in the Soviet Union, but here, with the Empowered. Your life, Mr. Hooks, could be so much better than it is. You can be an equal — more than an equal, with your gifts. There is a place for you with me, just as Miss Dubinsky has found.”
Cal looked over to Maggie, who quite obviously decided not to meet his gaze. “That’s all right, Mr. Beria. You go on ahead. I’m an American, come what may.”
Beria gave Cal a small smile, then walked off.
“Hey, I don’t get the recruitment speech?” Yamato said. “Come on.”
Maggie eyed Yamato coldly. “He doesn’t want you. Just Cal.” She then knelt down next to Cal and looked him in the eye. “This isn’t gonna end well, Cal. Come with us. For Sally. And Winston.”
Cal’s heart just about broke. “Aw, Miss Maggie. You ain’t gotta do this. Help a fella out, what do you say?”
She smiled at him and got to her feet again. “I’m sorry. You’re gonna die.”
With that she walked off, and yet in that moment, Cal felt an incredible peace settle over him, as though the hand of God’s grace, in that moment, had decided to reach in and heal his heart and make him whole. A tear finally escaped his eye, but one that was shed with joy and hope, not sadness or fear. This, he thought, was what the Lord wanted, and He was giving Cal a touch of heaven in what would surely be his last moments.
Cal looked over to Yamato, who was eyeing him strangely. “What the hell, old man? What’s with that look?”
“I dunno… I just… It feels okay, you know? It’s gonna be okay.”
Yamato only snickered. “Sure, Pops. There’s nothing okay about this at all.”
They were interrupted by the pop of a rifle.
Cal turned and saw Illyanov — with his rifle trained on another Russian. There was a flurry of angry shouting, and Maggie was a part of it, her rifle trained on the Russians as well.
“Holy shit,” Yamato breathed. “It’s on! Let’s go! I — wait. I still got nothing.”
Cal turned to the young man. “That Mongol fella?”
“Dunno. I had a charge a second ago, but now nothing’s working.”
Another shot rang out, and this time one of the Soviets fell to the ground, clutching his leg, the result of Maggie’s shot. The rest put their hands up, most of them looking downright pissed off as they were marched up into the freight car.
“Is Maggie flipping back now?” Yamato asked.
Then Illyanov walked over, and fixed Cal with a furious glare. “I should just kill you now,” the now-old man said in rough English. “But you no heal me. You are old as well.”
Sweet Jesus, does everybody here hate me now? Cal thought. “Well, you know what they say, Boris. Old age comes for us all.” Maggie, if you’re really back, time to take care of this boy.
Illyanov cried out and raised his rifle butt, striking Cal in the head.
Everything went dark.
The building was little more than a barn, though a particularly nice one with a very Asian flavor. The slightly curved, four-sided roof hung over a large, nearly empty space with simple floors and white-washed walls. The windows were open — Korea in late spring could get pretty hot — and the hum of conversation filled the room. There were two groups of folding chairs, well away from each other, with a long rectangular table between them. Several seats lined the sides of the table, which had pencils, paper, and pitchers of water at the ready.