Russian Amerika by Stoney Compton Page A
Authors: Stoney Compton
Tags: Fiction, General, Science-Fiction, adventure, Fiction - Science Fiction, Space Opera, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Science Fiction - Adventure, American Science Fiction And Fantasy, Alternative History, alaska, Alternative histories (Fiction), Science Fiction - Alternative History
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Slayer-of-Men felt proud as he looked over the nine under his command. Each of them had commanded raids like this in the past.
They were the best warriors the Dená nation offered. He fervently believed that every day brought them closer to the time when the Cossacks and their masters would be driven from Dená land. And people like these would lead new armies.
"You must all be in place by the time the shadows have moved from here"-his finger traveled less than a hand's width-"to here. I will signal and, after Malagni kills the Kalashnikov, the attack begins."
Murmurs of assent dissipated in the air and the team melted into the brush. Slayer-of-Men made his way back to the wide oval hacked out of the forest by the Russians. He waited and watched the huge Cossack who sat on the small guard platform with an automatic rifle resting across his knees.
There would be more weapons like that in the camp. The Cossacks ruled their world so completely that they felt only one of them at a time needed to be armed in this manner. Every one of their camps the Dená had attacked had been just like this one.
The only deference the Russians made to their previous losses elsewhere was the decrepit tank sitting on the riverbank. The tankers had lapsed into boredom and indifference over a week ago. The prisoners didn't need the machine to keep them working; the Cossacks did that.
The Cossacks wasted their own strength, Slayer-of-Men thought for the second time in less than an hour. He knelt and took his bow from its hiding place. Nocking a metal-headed arrow, he leaned back and calmly waited for his team to strike.
The shadows crawled inexorably along their appointed paths. 9
Construction Camp 4
Grisha could not ignore his thirst any longer. One of the many Cossack rules forbade convicts more than one drink of water per hour. He felt sure dehydration due to diarrhea played no part in their calculations; a drink of water would improve his work. Perhaps if he just explained it to them.
The water station stood directly in front of the squat guard tower. A Cossack corporal dominated the middle of the newly built square, a Kalashnikov resting across his muscular thighs. Fear threatened the tightness of Grisha's bowels as he spread his arms outward in the prescribed manner and shuffled forward.
As if it were animate, the barrel of the automatic weapon lazily centered on Grisha's chest. The corporal's blocky, bearded face remained bereft of expression. When Grisha was five meters from the drinking water, the big Russian spoke with a voice reminiscent of rusty iron hinges in use.
"What are you doing here, dung-eater? You guzzled more than your share of water much less than an hour ago."
Grisha stopped and braced as straight as he could. The weight of his hands multiplied every trembling second but he resolutely held them out.
"Yes, master, that is true." He felt overwhelming disgust for his selfdebasement. "However I have the shitting sickness and my body does not retain the fluid-"
"Then shit in a cup." The Cossack jerked the slide back on the weapon and released it to snap a round into the chamber. One pull on the trigger and Grisha would no longer need water, ever.
His knees trembled uncontrollably, the familiar burning told him he'd slightly fouled himself, and the stench of his body hung around his face like a rotten wreath. A raven called from deep in the trees. His tongue ran over cracked, parched lips, and he felt the last reserve of energy, and care, drain from his soul. Only anger remained.
The anger sparked a determination to end this animal-like existence. If nothing else, he would die like the soldier he once was. His arms dropped.
The corporal's mouth slowly twisted into a parody of a grin and he raised the weapon. "Go back to work now or you die."
Grisha felt incredible freedom. This moment would have presented itself sooner or later; why endure any longer in a world without hope? He squared his
They were the best warriors the Dená nation offered. He fervently believed that every day brought them closer to the time when the Cossacks and their masters would be driven from Dená land. And people like these would lead new armies.
"You must all be in place by the time the shadows have moved from here"-his finger traveled less than a hand's width-"to here. I will signal and, after Malagni kills the Kalashnikov, the attack begins."
Murmurs of assent dissipated in the air and the team melted into the brush. Slayer-of-Men made his way back to the wide oval hacked out of the forest by the Russians. He waited and watched the huge Cossack who sat on the small guard platform with an automatic rifle resting across his knees.
There would be more weapons like that in the camp. The Cossacks ruled their world so completely that they felt only one of them at a time needed to be armed in this manner. Every one of their camps the Dená had attacked had been just like this one.
The only deference the Russians made to their previous losses elsewhere was the decrepit tank sitting on the riverbank. The tankers had lapsed into boredom and indifference over a week ago. The prisoners didn't need the machine to keep them working; the Cossacks did that.
The Cossacks wasted their own strength, Slayer-of-Men thought for the second time in less than an hour. He knelt and took his bow from its hiding place. Nocking a metal-headed arrow, he leaned back and calmly waited for his team to strike.
The shadows crawled inexorably along their appointed paths. 9
Construction Camp 4
Grisha could not ignore his thirst any longer. One of the many Cossack rules forbade convicts more than one drink of water per hour. He felt sure dehydration due to diarrhea played no part in their calculations; a drink of water would improve his work. Perhaps if he just explained it to them.
The water station stood directly in front of the squat guard tower. A Cossack corporal dominated the middle of the newly built square, a Kalashnikov resting across his muscular thighs. Fear threatened the tightness of Grisha's bowels as he spread his arms outward in the prescribed manner and shuffled forward.
As if it were animate, the barrel of the automatic weapon lazily centered on Grisha's chest. The corporal's blocky, bearded face remained bereft of expression. When Grisha was five meters from the drinking water, the big Russian spoke with a voice reminiscent of rusty iron hinges in use.
"What are you doing here, dung-eater? You guzzled more than your share of water much less than an hour ago."
Grisha stopped and braced as straight as he could. The weight of his hands multiplied every trembling second but he resolutely held them out.
"Yes, master, that is true." He felt overwhelming disgust for his selfdebasement. "However I have the shitting sickness and my body does not retain the fluid-"
"Then shit in a cup." The Cossack jerked the slide back on the weapon and released it to snap a round into the chamber. One pull on the trigger and Grisha would no longer need water, ever.
His knees trembled uncontrollably, the familiar burning told him he'd slightly fouled himself, and the stench of his body hung around his face like a rotten wreath. A raven called from deep in the trees. His tongue ran over cracked, parched lips, and he felt the last reserve of energy, and care, drain from his soul. Only anger remained.
The anger sparked a determination to end this animal-like existence. If nothing else, he would die like the soldier he once was. His arms dropped.
The corporal's mouth slowly twisted into a parody of a grin and he raised the weapon. "Go back to work now or you die."
Grisha felt incredible freedom. This moment would have presented itself sooner or later; why endure any longer in a world without hope? He squared his
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