Topic: The Past Never Leaves Us

Anastas Iskandorj

Date: 2007-11-23 23:17 EST
For the first time in a long time, Anastas Nikolaevich Iskandorj was very, very happy. This was very much to do with the fact that for the first time in a long time, he was lying in bed with somebody else with him. And Maria was beautiful, truly, in a way nobody else had ever seemed to him. And more important than that, she loved him. And he loved her just as much, and all was right with all the worlds. And as he listened to her gentle breathing, he slowly fell into the world of sleep himself . . .

And he was in a mud brick house, sitting around a rickety wooden table playing hearts with men in the uniform. Lieutenant Bira sat across from him, and as this was the beginning of the hand he dropped the two of clubs. Sergeant Ochirbal was next, and dropped a five. Anastas followed with a seven, and Sgt. Vasyakov put down the four. Anastas took the trick, and was left to lead in the next hand. He puffed the cigarette that was in his mouth, and he realized that it was the year 2065, and he was in the city of Peshawar, in Pakistan. The Siege of Lahore ended a few months ago, and when the Pakistanis tried to regroup at Rawalpindi, they were crushed. All that remained was to mop them up, and the 31st Motorized Rifles, the pride of Buryatia, was part of the force that was going north. "It's yours, comrade sergeant." That was Ochirbal. It felt so strange to be called that, even though he had probably been called it twenty times in the last hour. Tovarishsch Praporshchik. He had earned that, six years in the Army and an Order of the Red Star. He and his squad had earned it together, and it earned him a promotion from Lt. Bira. Anastas dropped a four of diamonds; let someone else worry about picking up the trick. "Damn it, Anka, you would do that." Vasyakov was never a stickler for decorum, but Anastas didn't mind. The three of them were equals, anyway. Now, if one of the privates had talked to him like that, it'd be a rifle butt. The best he could do was a seven. Lt. Bira relinquished a six, and Sgt. Ochirbal gave up the three. Vasyakov took it, and Lt. Bira crushed a cigarette beneath his boot. "Give me another one, Vasyakov." Lt. Maidar Bira. It was unspoken, but everybody in the division worshipped him. Here he was, all confidence and easy-going charisma when life was easy, hard as steel when it was time to fight. He was born on the steppes, Mongol by blood and by upbringing and especially by disposition. He pushed his men to their limits and loved them - and of course, he pushed and loved himself even more. But everyone was ready to die for him. Vasyakov gave him the cigarette, and he lit it. He was too important to chain-smoke. Vasyakov dropped an eight of clubs, and Bira dropped a ten. "Oh no, I have no clubs. Whatever will I do?" Ochirbal dropped the queen of spades. Anastas let go of a six, and Lt. Bira collected. Just then, they heard a wailing outside as one of the locals - one of the peers, the PRs, the protibodeistuyshii rabocha, the reactionary workers who weren't grateful for being liberated - started to wail outside. It spoiled the mood of the game. There was a sudden flurry of 'not-its' from the sergeants. "It appears it's your turn to do something, Lieutenant." Lt. Bira leaned back in his chair. "My officer's commission gives me an automatic not-it. Sgt. Iskandorj, you were last - go deal with it." Anastas stamped out his cigarette and stood up. "Don't look at my cards." He then walked out to find the source of the noise. A Pakistani woman was standing over the body of a man, probably her husband. One of the privates - Ochirbal's, but it didn't make a difference now - had spooked, thought he was a mujahideen, and shot him. Anastas approached the soldier calmly. He shouldered his rifle and snapped into a salute. "Thought he was a hostile?" The soldier was sheepish. "Yes sir, comrade sergeant." Anastas removed his hat to scratch his head. "Gonna take care of the woman?" "N-no sir, I thought . . ." Anastas shushed him. "I thought you were in Lahore with us." The unspoken assumption was that nobody who lived through Lahore could possibly have any shred of mercy left in him. Scenes like this had happened about four times an hour there. "I was, sir, but . . ." "Whatever. Be quiet. I'll take care of it." He left the private in his salute and walked over to the woman, who was screaming her grief to the smoky heavens. "Get out of here, woman." She kept screaming. He took out his pistol and shot her, and in death husband and wife were together again. He put his pistol away, buttoned the holster, and walked back to the private. "That door. 20 feet outside that door is all killzone. Peers or locals gets that close, yell at them. They come any closer, shoot them. They don't leave, shoot them. That woman could have been carrying a bomb. Do I make myself clear?" He knew this boy. Only 17, but he had proven himself a good soldier. Anastas knew he wouldn't make that mistake twice. After all, he himself made worse ones when he was 17. "Yes sir, comrade sergeant!" The salute was dismissed and Anastas went back inside. Lt. Bira greeted him first. "One more for the dogs?" In the Red Army, whenever an officer speaks to you, you get at full attention and stay there until he says otherwise. Lt. Bira, however, didn't care. With morale as poor as it had been, any obstacle between himself and his sergeants was dangerous and unnecessary. "Yes sir, comrade lieutenant." He sat back down, and the hand resumed. Lt. Bira put down a 6 of spades, Ochirbal a 10, Anastas a 7, and Vasyakov a 4 of Hearts. Ochirbal took the trick and moved on the conversation. "I wonder when the Pakistanis are going to realize that we're the good guys." Lt. Bira started laughing, the way that you laugh when the person next to you in front of the firing squad tells a joke. "You were there for Lahore, and you still think we're the good guys?" He clucked his tongue as Ochirbal put down an 8 of hearts. Anastas put down a seven, which made Ochirbal clear his throat in mock frustration. Vasyakov put down a 9 and spoke next. "Don't you believe in the cause, comrade lieutenant' But you got political training in school." He puts down a 5 of hearts and the game goes on, Ochirbal taking the trick. His next words would stay with Anastas for the rest of his life. "This war is a race war. We may pretend that it's a war of righteousness, to liberate the people of Pakistan. If you're more cynical, then you might even say that it's to deny the Chinese access to the Persian Gulf." Ochirbal put down the next card, a 7 of clubs, and the conversation went on. Anastas didn't play his card, but listened instead. "We're a waste product, all of us. We're just trash, and this whole war is just a trash disposal product. It's not a war between Soviets and Pakistanis; it's a war between Russians and us, all of us, Buryats and also Kalmyks, Ukrainians, Tatars, Jews, all of us. And if we lose, they won't even bother with camps. They'll just shoot us all in the streets and leave us there." Gunshots rang off in the distance. Anastas woke up before he dashed off to fight again. He sat up in bed, jolted upwards, electrified, and mouthed the Lieutenant's words. "We're a waste product, all of us." He was alone in bed, and he punched the mattress.

Anastas Iskandorj

Date: 2007-11-26 00:15 EST
The sun did not shine over the village of Ramsgate, far to the northwest of the city of Rhydin. The sun itself was nowhere to be seen - the sky was cast a featureless gray and the earth was cold and damp beneath it. Hob, the farmer's son, walked the long way back from the market, carrying a basket full of tools under his elbow. He would have liked to stay at there and explore, maybe meet up with some girls, but it was such a long walk back again that he couldn't afford to waste any time. He walked quickly, hoping to make it back before dark and before it really got cold.

He didn't have a chance to notice when somebody sneaked up behind him and stabbed him in the neck. He died surprised, and his attacker eased down his body gently to check him for anything of value. When the attacker saw that his basket was full of hoes and rake heads, it got a sharp kick that sent the tools spilling into the ground.

"Not even worth the calories burned to get all the way out here." Petulant, he kicked his victim in the face. It was a good kick, too - kind of a standing football punt. That plus steel toes ensured that Hob's face was smashed out of recognition, and blood, lymph, and ocular fluid leaked onto the ground next to his head. The attacker sighed through his cheeks as he reached up to scratch his dirty hair

"I need cigarette." He started to walk through the woods back to town when he heard a voice call out.

"Don't worry, comrade. I've got more than enough." But it wasn't in Common that he heard the call. For the six years that he'd been here, he'd heard people speaking nothing but Russian. Since nobody was cognizant that they were speaking Russian, he had just as well assumed that some mysterious sorcery was translating for him. But the voice called out in a language he hadn't heard in years - almost a decade. Harsh Mongolian syllables, taken with his mother's milk, rolled into his ears. He replied in kind.

"Who are you? How do you speak my language?" Out from beneath a tree stepped an old man, hair long turned white and face dotted with liver spots. His open mouth was a mess of rotting yellow and glinting gold teeth, and both his eyes were white as snow. The rest of him was covered with a military greatcoat, and his gloved hands leaned on a cane.

"I speak your language because I knew you for years, Anton Romanovich Ochirbal." Seeing that this was, in fact, his name, the attacker brandished his knife. He had been going by a string of false names pretty much since the day he washed up here, all those years ago.

"Don't think I won't kill you, too, even if you know my name somehow. Lots of people know my name. And now that I know you've got cigarettes, well, that just gives me an excuse. Not like I need one, you know. I didn't need one for this boy, certainly." The man laughed, and it was an old, hoary, rackled laugh - almost on the verge of a coughing fit, but not quite there.

"You're not going to kill me. I'm your superior officer." Captain Maidar Bira had been promoted since the last time they saw each other, but he was still quite recognizable. He still had that swaggering walk.

"We've got some things to talk about, Sergeant Ochirbal. We've got to reminisce together."