He warily followed the footprints into the substation. They looked 
small to him. So much the better; the last thing he wanted was to try 
and wrestle some drunk, hulking oaf back to the base. His radio, 
muted by his coat draped over the speaker, angrily demanded 
something. He thought he heard "perimeter" in the tirade 
somewhere. Shit. He hurried along, following the tracks. 


The soldier felt a radiating heat on his face as he went further in, 
small twinges of metal creaking and groaning amid the tangle of 
cables and wires, the tiny hairs on his neck raising as though the 
current of the substation were leaking into the air around him. He 
came to a melted circle in the snow, bare ground marking a control 
console. The footprints ended. 


"God damn it! Quit messing around! We have to get back!" He yelled 
to no one in particular. Every minute he was out looking, the 
Commissar would get angrier and angrier. They would both get 
skinned if he was out here looking around all day. He scanned his 
surroundings in increasing desperation. His eye caught. 


A briefcase. Lying against the edge of the snow-circle, propped 
against a drift, about five meters away. It was the only clue toa 
mystery that he needed to solve before the radio burned a hole in 
his hip with its rage. He gingerly approached, each step measured 
and careful as he crouched low, old habits learned on Mamayev 
Kurgan kicking in now as he moved as quickly as he could without 
disturbing a single pebble or dirt clod. He kept a few paces of 
distance as he smoothly and quietly unsheathed his combat knife, 
scanning the ground in front of him for any hints of wires or 
suspicious patches of fresh dirt. 


When he was satisfied that the ground around the briefcase was 
clear, he laid his rifle gently on the earth beside him, and lowered 
himself into a prone position. He crawled the last meter to the 
briefcase, carefully, delicately. He tilted his head, examining the tiny 
sliver of daylight between the bottom of the case and the snowbank. 


Nothing. Almost clear. 


He took several deep breaths to steady his nerves. Plaintively, he 
brought his knife forward in his left hand, not ideal but better suited 
to the position his body was in. Gently, ever so gently, he began to 
work the tip of the blade between the case and the snowbank, 
listening for the slightest noise of any springs, bearings, or god 
knows what rolling around in the briefcase. He twisted his wrist 
slightly, and started to work the knife as a lever, moving the 
briefcase slightly. 


Something right next to him burst out of the snowbank, sending piles 
of gray slush flying through the air, and for a moment he thought he 
was dead, but the briefcase was still intact. Then he felt a weight 
slam into the middle of his back, the shock causing him to release 
the hold on his knife. He turned his neck to find a woman, covered in 
snow, her hands wrapped in rags, pointing a pistol in his face as she 
drove her knee into his back. 


"How...ho-how..." he stammered, still not convinced that he had not 
been blown up. 


"The keys. To your bike." 


He nodded back to the entrance. "In the ignition, | left them. What is 
this?" 


The woman stood up and kicked the soldier's rifle away, gun still 
trained between his eyes. Nechayeva did not answer. She picked up 
the briefcase once more, her hands freezing but not too numb to 
keep a finger on the trigger. She started to back away, out of the 
substation. The soldier's eyes were still wide with shock at the 
ambush. He started at the fresh round of profanity blasting from the 
radio at his side. 


"What did you tell them?" 


He shook his head. "Nothing, just that | was checking out a gunshot, 
establishing the perimeter." 


"What's caused the lockdown?" 


"No one knows, they don't tell us shit. And who are you, anyway? 
What are you doing here?" 


She motioned with her pistol for the soldier to stand up. Hesitantly, 
wearily, knowing what was coming, he obliged. He slowly put his 
hands behind his head. 


"We're on the same side, comrade," said Nechayeva. 


She lowered the pistol and discharged two rounds, one into each of 
the soldier's knees. He screamed and dropped to the ground, 
writhing in pain, blood seeping through his fingers where he clutched 
at his wounds. 


"Now no one can tell you that you didn't do your duty," she said as 
she holstered her pistol. "Tell your commanding officer the truth. 
They'll sort it all out eventually. My apologies." 


She turned and walked out of the substation, the soldier's curses 
trailing after her. She spotted his bike at the entrance. She stowed 
the briefcase in one of the saddlebags, mounted the bike, and with a 
kick started the small engine. In moments, she was speeding away 
from the scene. 


She made her way through several back streets and alleys, looking 
for an access point to a concrete drainage ditch that passed behind 
the rendezvous point. After a few blocks, following a corrugated 
storm pipe from a nearby factory, she found it. Twisting the throttle, 
she zipped onto the service road, ducking her head to avoid a tree 
branch growing around the disused gate. She immediately raced 
north down the concrete ditch, swerving to avoid the clumps of mud 
or debris that dotted it. Alerting the local authorities was less than 
ideal, but if KGB had an advantage over GRU-P anywhere, it was 
dealing openly with the rest of the military. Hopefully, this all would 
prove more disruptive to Zherdev than KGB. 


That was a problem for later. For now, she was headed to the drop 
point. 


« | Part Four | Matryoshka | Part Six | » 


Matryoshka: Part Six 


The Site-7 surgical auditorium, for all of its wood paneling lining the 
walls and the rows of well-worn theater style seats, might have been 
any one of a hundred medical facilities of the rational world, Geissler 
thought to himself as he soldered wiring into place. The only 
discordant detail happened to be the bars over the windows of the 
viewing gallery. 


His thoughts were broken by the lancing pain of the soldering iron as 
it slipped again, burning his hand. He sharply inhaled, but stopped 
himself from exclaiming anything. The rat-faced guard looked as 
though he may enjoy such an outburst, and anyway, he didn't need 
help brought in to make this part of the work go quicker. This part of 
the project was for one man. He grasped the iron once more, and 
bent over the ponderous bundle of cables and wires snaking its way 
through the metal conduit. So many little details, so many circuits 
that needed to be arranged just so. Even one out of place, and this 
procedure would become very unpredictable indeed. 


The main doors of the auditorium creaked open, making way for the 
march of three sets of high-ranking boots, come to check on his 
progress. His eyes stayed on his work. He knew who it was. 


"We've only been here for two hours. | thought you were joking 
when you said tonight." 


"He works fast, doesn't he. | think he wants to see the results as 
much as we do." 


Geissler recognized the unperturbed voice of Chernikov among the 
officers. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of anger at Chernikov's 
habit of speaking about him as though he weren't in the room. He 
had practically invented this new branch of science that these thugs 
were so keen to exploit. His grip tightened on the soldering iron. 


A new voice spoke. A wheezing, hoarse whisper. A woman, he 


thought. "The Colonel has assembled the 19th Congress Planning 
Committee in our agreed-upon location. They meet in three days. 
Do you think we'll be ready by then?" 


Chernikov addressed him now. "Dr. Geissler. What do you say? Will 
we be meeting our deadline for the project we discussed?" 


Geissler turned, iron still in his hand. He saw Chernikov, flanked by 
a young attaché and a woman in a commissar's uniform. She was 
far younger than the voice he had heard moments ago. The doctor 
saw the apparatus he was constructing reflected back at him in her 
eyeglasses. 


"Assuming you have the subject in hand, we will be finished by this 
evening. | need those cages. And people to assemble them. Unless 
you want me hobbling about and putting those together too." 


Chernikov smiled. He pulled out a small pad, scribbled a note, tore it 
off, and handed it to the young man at his elbow. With a salute, the 
attaché ran back down the entryway, out of the operating theater. 
"The things we can achieve when we work together. Commissar 
Rosenstein, | think you're going to be pleased with our work tonight." 


Major Chernikov clapped a hand on the commissar's shoulder, and 
turned to walk out. The commissar stood in place, looking at 
Geissler, her face impassive, eyes obscured by the reflected mass 
of metal and wires in her large, black rimmed glasses. Geissler's 
hatred seemed to have left the room with Chernikov, replaced by 
deep unease at the woman before him. He suddenly felt dizzy, and 
he reached out to brace himself against the upright metal post 
serving as the apparatus’ core, struggling to keep his balance. The 
soldering iron clattered to the floor. 


Commissar Rosenstein made no reaction. She continued to watch 
him, silently. He steadied himself, head swimming. He returned her 
gaze. Or he thought he did. 


With a neat about-face, the commissar turned around and began 
walking back out. His balance suddenly came back to him. He kept 
his hand on the post, just to be certain. She walked through the 
doors. They closed behind her. 


He looked to his rat-faced minder. His eyes were still on the room's 
exit, fear plainly visible on his dull features. 


The doctor picked up his iron again, as well as a stray metal hose, 
connecting it to a nearby electrical port on the apparatus. No time to 
waste. 


SCP-1041 started awake; she must have fallen asleep in her chair. 
She jerked her head up from the armrest, the back of her head and 
the space behind her eyes throbbing sharply with pain. She 
groaned, her vision still blurry from waking. Swallowing, she felt a 
pain in her throat, like a muscle strain. She held her hand under her 
chin, gently massaging the tender area. The room was too bright. 
She rubbed her eyes, and sat up straight. 


In front of her sat a middle-aged man in a soldier's uniform, blonde 
and smiling. His hat was perched tidily on his folded coat on a table 
beside him hair, slightly mussed. Behind him stood a woman in a 
different uniform. Dark hair, glasses. She held a clipboard. 


"Ah, you're awake. Wonderful." He reached out a gloved hand and 
gently took hers as she instinctively flinched from the presence of 
the strangers. "Shhh, shhh. It's okay, it's okay, I'm a friend. You're 
fine, though you may not remember how you got here. Do you 
remember?" 


She thought, searching her memories. The headache and the bright 
lights were making her feel disoriented. How did she get here? What 
was the last thing she recalled? A...cell of some sort? Possibly. How 
did she get there in the first place? The details were unclear. 


"Let's start with your name. Do you remember your name? Who are 
you?" 


She thought. An instant passed. Why wasn't this obvious? Then 
something surfaced in her mind. 


"My...my name is Eileen Warner. Eileen Warner, from South 
Kensington." 


The man in front of her smiled, nodding at the answer. "Eileen 
Warner," he repeated to the woman next to him. She lifted a few 
pages on her clipboard, before writing a series of notes. 


"Eileen Warner. Number seventy-three in the sequence. As 
expected." The woman's voice was hoarse. Ugly, breathless, and 
grating. 


The man turned back to her. "Any more details you can give us? 
Nothing too personal, mind you. Occupation, parents' names? Then 
we'll be done and you may take your leave." 


Her heart continued to race, faster, despite the apparent end of the 
questioning. "What is this? Am | under arrest? What's going on?" 
She was starting to remember. She had been in a cell before. But 
the people were different. And they hadn't been military before. 


"Just a few more details, Mrs. Warner. And then we can explain." 


She paused. Resisting didn't seem wise. "I...I-l'm a bank manager... 
my m-my parents were Todd and Mary Trost, | swear | haven't done 
anything, I-" 


"Shhh, shhh. Commissar Rosenstein?" 
The woman consulted her clipboard once more. "Checks out." 
"Fantastic. You are dismissed, Mrs. Warner." 


For a moment, nobody moved. Then the man leaned forward and 
wrapped his hands around her throat. 


She fought as adrenaline dumped into her bloodstream, swinging 
her hands at his face, but he was far too strong. He squeezed right 
on the place at her throat that had been sore, and she felt 
lightheaded, suddenly weakening. Her vision darkened as he held 
his hands around her neck, feebly kicking a few more times at him 
from her seated position as her limbs grew heavy. A few seconds 
longer, and she blacked out. 


The darkness around her shimmers, scenes of memory and fantasy 


and the lives of other people fading in and out, blending into each 
other. Dozens of lives unfold, things done and things to come, 
scenes in which every viewpoint is hers. She recognizes her own 
face on all of the others. She knows she is dreaming, and she is 
carried along in the current as she always is. 


Something is happening across each scene as she floats by in the 
nothingness that runs between all of the disparate visions. A man, 
smiling and terrible, his hands reaching to strangle the life from her, 
again and again, each one of her lives coming to the same place. 
But it isn't death that he is after. Each time, he does not finish her. 
His progress across each of her facets is inexorable. What will he do 
when he reaches the end? Will he cycle around again, as she does? 
The thought is horrifying. 


She had only just returned from the world. Ekaterina must have 
gotten out. Thank God for that much. But | am still here, she thinks. 
Something must be wrong. She is in the hands of GRU-P. If they 
knew about her work with Geissler, how much she had assisted, 
then they might be looking for her. Her, specifically. The thought 
occurs to her that she needs to run. 


She tries to go the other direction, against the slow current that 
carries her back into her body, the physical form that she shares in 
turn with all of the other versions of herself, fighting against her own 
dreams. She passes a scene. Geissler has arranged a web of 
electrical sensors all around her head, while she explains her latest 
thoughts on how brain regions might relate to each specific 
personality. It fades, lost to the current, headed to the smiling man 
with his hands at her throat. Another now, her memories of the work 
flowing freely, bursting from the barriers in her mind as she struggles 
to dam the flood. Geissler is struggling to explain in his notes the 
physical co-location of what he still doesn't want to call a soul. His 
frustration (and hers) washes away, replaced ever more quickly with 
flashing scenes. She tells him why she cannot walk every 213 days. 
He tells her how the Foundation falsely informed his family of his 
supposed death in an Allied prison camp. She sketches more lines 
on a diagram on the wall with dozens of her own names. He asks 
her if he can trust the information supplied by Ekaterina (they can). 
She tells him that what he is proposing is not a cure. He shouts 


triumphantly at the reading he had been hoping to see on the brain 
wave monitor. Fragments wash by. The Foundation cannot be 
compromised. All of it will have been for nothing. 


She fights the current, but the river merely flows around any 
resistance. And its flow is quickened by the smiling man. There is no 
choice but to wait her turn, and hope that it is some other her that 
awakes to see his face.