Yellow Mama E zine

White Void, Black Star

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By G Garnet

            The train coughed black blood into the white void and died. I got off. Boots bit snow. Wind like a wire garrote. Siberia 1926. End of the world with frostbite. They called the place Novokrest. New Cross. Old joke—everybody got crucified here, just slower. One street, one tavern, one church without a roof. Hope froze to death years ago. Its bones were the icicles hanging from the steeple.

         I wore a long coat the color of dried blood, a fur hat pulled low, and a Nagant revolver under my belt that felt cold. My orders were folded inside my left glove like a love letter from a corpse: *Bring her back. Alive if convenient. Dead if necessary.*  Name: Countess Tatiana Alexandrovna Bolkonska. Last seen in Paris in 1917. Last heard: here, trading songs for drug money in a dive.

         The Commissar who gave the order had a flat, unreadable stare. “She sang for the Whites. Now she’ll sing for us. We show the world how the Bolshevik Revolution lifts even the fallen.” The real message was clear: parade her, or bury her. I was the one holding the shovel or the mirror.

         I found the tavern. The Red Lantern. Someone had sloppily painted a hammer and sickle over the word 'Lantern.'

         Inside, the air was thick with cheap tobacco smoke, sweat, and opium. A few men sat by a cold stove. A woman stood on a crate, swaying. Her dress was grey, her hair matted. Her eyes were dull, but when she opened her mouth, a low, slow sound came out—a ghost of a beautiful voice.

         I tossed five roubles onto the bar. The bartender was rough, his movements slow. He nodded toward a back door hanging half off its hinge. “Back room. She’s easier when she’s quiet.”

         She was on the floor, leaning against the wall, needle still in her arm. I crouched, pinched her chin.

         “Tatiana.”

         Her eyes fluttered open. Blue. A deep, cold blue.

          “Go to hell,” she whispered, her voice rough.

         “Already there. Let’s go.”

         I hauled her up. She was frail. Her breath smelled faintly chemical. I wiped the needle site with vodka.           She flinched, but only slightly.

         “Who sent you?” she asked.

         “The government. They miss your voice.”

          She gave a brief, harsh laugh. “You’re Dmitri. The Chekist.”
           I didn’t confirm or deny. I wrapped her in a bear coat I’d brought and threw her over my shoulder. The men in the bar watched, but they kept their hands visible. I didn't need to show the gun; they knew what I was. They didn’t move for a worn-out countess.

         Outside, the cold hit hard. I had a sled and two borrowed dogs waiting at the depot. I tied her down, cracked the whip, and we moved across the snow.

         A mile out, she started humming, then singing softly. Old Russian words. I told her to stop. She just sang louder.

         We reached the line cabin, a small log structure I’d scouted. I fed the dogs and built a fire. She watched me from the cot where I’d dropped her.

         “The play, Chekist? Moscow wants to wash the countess clean?”

         “Something like that.”

         “You’ll need better propaganda.” She pulled the coat tight. Her arms showed scars. Her face, however, still held the lines of an old beauty, now deeply etched by fatigue and addiction.

          I gave her a small dose of morphine mixed into hot water from my kit—enough to hold off the worst of the illness. She drank it, her eyes fixed on mine.

          “Do you believe in the bright future?” she asked.

          “I believe in today’s orders. Anything past that is just paperwork.”

           She didn't laugh, but her lips twitched. “Paperwork. Useful.”
          She fell into a deep sleep. I sat by the door, gun resting on my knee, listening to the wind. I tried to remember the woman from the stories—Paris, 1917, diamonds, a clear voice. Now she was just this: thin, sick, and bait.

                                                                         ***

          Dawn was a dull grey. I made black coffee. She drank it, her hands steady now.

         “Withdrawal starts now,” I said.

         “I’m aware.”

          I laid out the plan: “We ride to the railhead, cattle car to Sverdlovsk, then Moscow. You sign a statement. You say the Party saved you. You live. You refuse, I bury you here.”

          She tilted her head. “What if I told you your own people set you up?”

          “I’d say you were desperate.”

           She reached into the coat and pulled out a small silver locket. She flipped it open. Inside was not a portrait, but a tiny piece of microfilm.

          “Ever see a man choke on his career, Dmitri?” she asked.
          I stared. The film meant names, transfers, frozen accounts. My name on one of the documents: Agent D. Unreliable. Liquidate after extraction.
          My gut went cold.

          She snapped the locket shut. “Congratulations. You’re the patsy. I’m the bait. They plan to bury both loose ends here in the snow.”
          I leveled the Nagant. “A good forgery.”

          “Maybe. But you need to know who sent you here more than you need to hold the moral high ground.” She was right.

          I lowered the gun. “Talk.”

           She poured more coffee. “The countess died in Constantinople. The name is Valentina Semyonova, Internal security Directorate, Fourth Section. I’ve been undercover so long the scars are real.”

           The Commissar who sent me was skimming from a gold cache. I’d seen too much on a past assignment. This trip was designed to eliminate both of us.

           “Why save me?” I asked.

           “You’re useful. And you still follow orders. I’m building a new chain of command.”

           “And what do you want?”

           “First, a clean telegraph line. Second, the head of the man who sold me out.”

           I actually smiled. It felt unnatural. “You just hired a lieutenant.”

                                                                            ***

          We moved that evening. We stole an old truck from the depot. We drove west.

Second day. We hit a small army checkpoint. I slowed the truck. Valentina simply put a hand on my thigh. “Look like you belong,” she said.

            I presented a leather folder with the Commissar’s seal—a piece of evidence I’d kept from an earlier case. The young guard saw the seal and my cold expression, snapped a salute, and waved us through.

            We reached Tyumen at dawn. I took her to a cellar jazz club run by a Georgian named Iosif. He owed me a favor.

             “Clean clothes, a reliable telegraph, and silence,” I told him.

            An hour later, she emerged from the back, wearing a simple black dress. She looked tired, but the sharpness was back in her eyes.

            “Don’t get ideas, Dmitri. It’s a job.”

            “Understood. Business only.”

            We sent an encrypted wire, using the Commissar's signature, to Moscow: Package secured. Suspect treason within Section. Evidence follows. We attached enough microfilm data to start a panic.

             We took the midnight train to Sverdlovsk, riding in a reserved compartment. She poured tea from a silver samovar.

            “After the Commissar is done?” I asked.

            “I go deeper. The rot is everywhere. I prune.”

            “And me?”

            “You come with me. You’re my security detail, my muscle. Maybe more.”

             She leaned close. I tasted danger and tea. I didn’t pull away.

                                                                               ***

           Sverdlovsk station, 06:00. Fog. Two men in civilian coats were waiting. Chekists.

            The taller one used her real name: “Comrade Semyonova? Comrade Volkov? Come with us.”

            We followed them to a black sedan. No one spoke. The car stopped in a courtyard surrounded by high walls. A third man, small and officious, waited.

            He smiled. “Comrade Semyonova. Congratulations. Moscow confirms your promotion. Section Chief, Internal security, Siberian District.”

             He turned to me. “Comrade Volkov. You are under arrest.”
            The two men drew their guns.

            Valentina held up a hand. “Stand down.” They froze. She produced a sealed envelope. “Order of the Presidium. This man is my personal operative. Immunity and the rank of Senior Lieutenant, effective immediately. Any interference is treason.”

             The small man’s smile evaporated. He read the paper, swallowed, and nodded. “Understood, Comrade Chief.”

              The world flipped. I was no longer a casualty. I was hers.

                                                                                  ***

          Two days later, we were in Moscow. She wore a tailored uniform. I wore a new suit, the gun holstered.

           We walked into the Commissar’s office. He rose, turning grey when he saw us both.

            Valentina smiled, a slow, predatory expression. “Comrade, you are under arrest for conspiracy and attempted murder of an operative.”
            He reached for his drawer. My Nagant barked once. The bullet hit his shoulder. Guards rushed in. She showed them the same papers. They stopped, confused, and quickly arrested the bleeding Commissar.

           “One ghost down,” she said, dusting her hands.

                                                                                ***

            That night we drank in the hotel bar, orchestra playing something that almost sounded happy.  She wore civilian black again, hair loose. We didn’t talk about futures. Futures are for people who think they’ll live to see them. We drank till the bottles cried uncle, then went upstairs.

             Door closed. Coats fell. Skin found skin like countries colliding. No promises, just the brutal honesty of bodies that know the world ends tomorrow and maybe yesterday.

             After, she slept, head on my chest, breath steady. I stared at the ceiling, counting cracks like years I’d never see. Gun on the nightstand, locket beside it.

              Microfilm inside. Truth, lies, same silver circle.

             Morning. Snow on the windows like Fate's cold breath. She stood dressed, silhouette sharp enough to cut glass.

             “Pack,” she said. “We’re going west. Poland’s boiling. We’ll stir.”

              I didn’t argue. Arguing with her was like punching smoke—wastes energy and you still choke.

             Train station. Crowds, steam, soldiers kissing girls who’d be widows. We boarded, compartment reserved under names that didn’t exist yesterday. As the train pulled out, she leaned close.

              “You still believe in tomorrow?”

              I looked at her—aristocrat, spy, savior, executioner, lover, liar, truth.

              “Tomorrow believes in me,” I said.

              “Good answer. Let’s go write the next chapter in blood and ink.”
              Rails sang. Moscow fell behind like a bad dream you halfway miss. I didn’t know where the track ended. Didn’t care. I had a gun, a coat, and a woman who could start or stop a war with a whisper. In this country, that’s family enough.

              The frozen star had thawed. Turns out it was a sun. Now we burned, and everything in our path would learn what it felt like to stand too close to the flame.

 

The End

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      George Garnet, a writer who thrives in the shadows, has seen his fiction published in esteemed publications like Mystery Tribune, Switchblade, Out of the Gutter, Mystery Weekly, Pulp Modern Flash, Yellow Mama, The Dark City, and other shadowy corners of the literary world. He calls the vibrant chaos of Melbourne home.

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Kevin D. Duncan was born 1958 in Alton, Illinois where he still resides. He has degrees in Political Science, Classics, and Art & Design. He has been freelancing illustration and cartoons for over 25 years. He has done editorial cartoons and editorial illustration for local and regional newspapers, including the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. His award-winning work has appeared in numerous small press zines, e-zines, and he has illustrated a few books.