A Preview of Babushka: Echoes of Immortality (Prologue)
Prologue — Marzanna
“In the far reaches of Kamchatka, where time bows before eternity and even the stubborn ice whispers secrets, there lies Gred — a city that does not age, forged from the womb of the Earth. Here, immortality is not a myth whispered in the corridors of power but the very fabric upon which our walls and souls are embroidered. Our foundations are as ancient as the volcanic rock below and as enduring as the cycle of seasons. To live in Gred is to exist on the periphery of mortality, an echo in the grand symphony of existence. Yet heed this, wayfarer: immortality is not freedom from consequence but the endless unraveling of action and reaction, as certain and unyielding as the sea that lashes at our stone skirts. Eternity, then, is not a gift but a question — a riddle for which each citizen is a living, breathing answer.”
— An Entry in the Arkyv of Gred, “The Word of Babushka”, recorded by Matron Doctors Elizaveta and Ekaterina Morozov, Year 2084
Another explosion rocked the metro. Marzanna whimpered, “I’ll never get used to 77.”
Klara shot back, “Countin’ years or spills, Marz? Move, or there won’t be another birthday.” She yanked Marzanna up.
Marzanna winced. “Easy. These legs are new.” I’m too old for this, she thought. She brushed back a strand of silver-white hair as they dashed forward. Sprinting through the damp, graffiti-scarred corridors, Marzanna gasped, “Was it always this terrifying?”
Klara snorted, “Used to run for trains, not our lives.”
Explosions grew nearer, the tremors shaking everything around them. As debris fell, Klara shoved Marzanna forward. “Go!” she roared. “Safe zone, close!”
The pair broke free into the night, and the sudden brilliance of searchlights danced dizzyingly across Marzanna’s vision. The crackle of gunfire and the heavy thud of distant explosions vibrated through her bones, a chilling reminder they were still being pursued.
And then the station erupted into life. Its doors groaned open, releasing a torrent of shpichkis into the plaza. They streamed forth, young women with hair like tongues of fire or frost-laden strands. Bodies detonated in the crowd, igniting like stars against the night.
The surrounding buildings, a mix of crumbling old structures and sleek, glass-fronted edifices, echoed back the strife. Their reflections seized the bursts of light — quick flares that painted the snow before darkening once more. With the next explosion, Marzanna’s breath caught. The infantry, thrown into stark relief by the blast, held their ground. They’re laying down their lives, she thought. But why?
“Follow me!” Klara ordered, her voice cutting through the crowd as she pulled Marzanna into the swell of oncoming shpichkis. They surged toward the sanctuary of the nearest structure, sprinting through the chaos.
A squad of enemy soldiers, their armor glinting under the searchlights, advanced from the opposite direction.
“This way,” Klara commanded, veering sharp to the right. They dove into an alley, where Klara pressed Marzanna against a wall. “Stay here. I’ll come back for you.” Klara gave Marzanna’s hand a comforting squeeze before she disappeared into the shadows.
Marzanna flattened herself further against the cold wall, trying to make herself invisible. Images of her father and brothers, long lost to the war, flickered in her mind’s eye. Had they, too, felt this numbing void in their final moments? She shook her head, dislodging the past from her mind, forcing her eyes to refocus on the present.
The alley terminated abruptly, an open wound in the urban fabric leading to a precarious precipice. From her hiding spot, Marzanna peered at the unfolding drama on the streets below. Enforcers patrolled with deliberate, menacing movements, more like hunters than guardians. She watched, almost certain they were targeting the city’s most vulnerable, lurking in the blind spots and shadows. Marzanna’s anger flared, a potent mix with her creeping sense of helplessness. Yet as she witnessed these scenes play out, fatigue began to overtake her. The city’s distant noise softened, blending with her memories, lulling her toward sleep even as the threat loomed.
For a fleeting moment, she felt the pull to oblivion, the promise of escape. The cold ground beneath swallowed her whole, and the edges of the world softened…
…The crack of a rifle jolted Marzanna awake. Heart pounding, she took a keen-eyed survey of the narrow passage, her senses honed to a razor’s edge.
The searchlights had moved on, and the alley was swallowed again by the night, every shape melting into an indistinct blur. The gunfire, which in her roused state felt like it had thundered through the air moments ago, receded to a distant rumble.
As the echo of her heartbeat subsided, Marzanna’s gaze was drawn to a shifting shadow at the alley’s entrance. Three figures materialized, standing side by side, their outlines framed by the faint light.
In the center was Klara’s unmistakable silhouette, tall and defiant, flanked by Lucija and Svetlana, both of whom Marzanna recognized from the underground.
Marzanna swallowed. “Klara, it’s on us. We’ve got to put a stop to this.”
“Service entrance by the boardroom, two blocks down, hard left. You good for it?”
“I am.”
Klara eyed her. “You sure you’re focused?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll need to be strong, kid.”
Marzanna nodded back at Klara. She squared her shoulders, and she felt her resolve harden.
Klara’s voice shifted, commanding respect. “Ladies, the moment’s come. Are we ready?”
Lucija and Svetlana, the formidable sisters, exchanged a determined look and nodded in unison. Scars marred their faces, crisscrossing their cheeks and running along the bridges of their noses, each mark a silent scream of rebellion against the torture endured under the Syndicate’s cruelties.
Lucija regarded her sister. “This all feels a bit familiar, doesn’t it? Like our little getaway at Govna’s pleasure palace.”
Svetlana smirked. “Those thugs thought they’d break us. All they did was give us a proper workout.”
Marzanna’s laughter bubbled up, surprising her. “Whatever’s next,” she said, “surely can’t be worse than that cell you two just broke free from.”
The momentary lightness of their banter dissolved as the faint echoes of distant footsteps reached Marzanna’s ears. The shadows around them seemed to grow denser.
Klara extended a sleek black pistol towards her. Marzanna hesitated for a split second. Her hand trembled slightly, not from fear, but from the surge of adrenaline she felt coursing through her veins. With a steadying breath, she closed her fingers around the cold metal, allowing its firmness to anchor her.
The notorious Yarygina Pistolet. Its reputation preceded it — an instrument of death, renowned in the hands of those who knew its language. The unique etching of a stiletto, wreathed in flames on its grip, screamed its birthplace — the clandestine anvils of a Coven black market forge.
Klara’s eyebrow arched. “Still need training, or does your new powder cover that too?”
“The powder’s just a tool,” Marzanna said. Though her mind was a whir of silent defiance. Let’s find out, she thought. She was ready to prove herself, not just to Klara, but to her own lurking doubts.
Klara led the way, Marzanna at her heel, and the other two women watching their six. The remnants of a once-thriving city lay beneath their boots, scarred from the ceaseless combat.
They followed the road, entering the churchyard forest that marked the end of their world and the inception of the Board’s absolute dominion. The serene grove of slender white trees seemed to observe them here. Marzanna’s coat, its greens and grays a mere echo of the vibrant Alaskan fields she once remembered, seemed almost luminous as she glanced at those trees, remembering tales of others who’d tried this path and failed. They proceeded with caution, and through sidelong glances, Marzanna gauged the silent tension in her companions’ steps.
As they emerged from the birch grove, the Grand Mariner’s Cathedral loomed into view, towering above the surrounding skyscrapers. Its hundred clerestories were ablaze with candlelight, casting an intense glow that commanded the eye. Marzanna felt a shiver run down her spine, a mix of reverence and trepidation. The very stones seemed to hum with the oppressive authority of those who preyed within its walls.
Snaking along the cathedral’s flank, Klara whispered, “Back door’s hidden by the garden. Covered path up north. Stay sharp — we might have new guards on our tail soon.” Klara raised her hand, signaling the group to halt, her gaze locking onto the squad of soldiers ahead, armored in obsidian carbon-fiber. Red and blue silk scarves, marked with sharp teeth and feral patterns, decorated their imposing gear.
“Black Wolves,” Klara hissed, her tone dripping with contempt. “They’re blocking our entrance. We’re goin’ through them.”
Marzanna tightened her grip on the pistol, adrenaline coursing through her veins. “No time like the present,” she said, eyes fixed on the threat ahead.
“Time to show them what we’re made of,” Svetlana said, unsheathing her gunblade. Moonlight danced upon the weapon, revealing the intricate designs of Perine, the goddess of thunder and war. Every facet of the gunblade, from its leather-wrapped hilt to its precision-made barrel, was a testament to deadly artistry. “I came here with two goals: to kick ass and spoil my grandkids. But, seeing as I’m fresh outta grandkids and still stubbornly alive, looks like kickin’ ass is all that’s left on my bucket list.”
“Ha, looks like we’re both stuck with the fun part then,” Lucija said with a smirk, her fiery red hair burning even brighter against the night. Standing tall, her robust figure, clad in custom-fitted armor that permitted swift movements, belied the years she’d seen. Marzanna was quickly getting familiar with Lucija’s endless boasts about the trusty sniper rifle always slung across her back. “Time to add some more notches to my retirement belt,” Lucija said with a confident air. “Lost count of how many I’ve put down.”
Weapons inspected, helmets secured, the women inhaled the tense air, primed to storm the fortress.
Marzanna’s fingers were rigid with anticipation as she ventured into the worn depths of her coat pockets. Her grip tightened around the small blue pouch, the one she had kept safe for years, safe for this very moment. This was no ordinary satchel; scrawled in chalk on its faded exterior were the letters “EXO”.
Twice my morning dose. Let’s see what this does, Marzanna thought to herself as she pinched the pouch open. Facing her crew, her voice was all business: “Let’s fire it up.”
Lucija caught her eye, looking cautious. “Just don’t burn me, okay?”
“Watch and learn,” Marzanna said with a wink.
The bitter tang of the seductive powder coated Marzanna’s tongue as her muscles tensed in anticipation of its effects. Her hands tingled, her skin tightened, and a deep, cold pressure settled behind her eyes.
With a last glance and a subtle nod to Klara, Marzanna burst from cover. As she cut through the quadrangle, Klara unleashed a barrage of rifle fire to match her pistol shots. Her ears rang while the guards’ panicked screams were swallowed by the echoing volley.
With each squeeze of the trigger, Marzanna could almost see the momentary widening of her foes’ eyes, the dawning realization of an immortal death before they fell to the ground. No sooner had a group of reinforcements emerged from the door than Svetlana stepped forward, her broad gunblade sweeping through the air with lethal grace. With a few deft movements and a couple of precise shots as they fell, she cleared the threat.
Their bodies lay scattered now. Marzanna stepped over the fallen, deliberate, and steady, as she pushed her way into the cathedral’s heart. The echoing emptiness of hallowed halls weighed heavily on her, yet the purpose that propelled her burned fiercer than any fear.
Suddenly, more gunfire echoed, the sound springing from the shadows that clung to the cathedral’s grand columns. Instinctively, Marzanna threw herself behind a pillar for cover. Her hands were steady as she peered out, pinpointing the flash of gun muzzles. She returned fire.
Too many shadows, too much risk, Marzanna assessed quickly. In her gut, she knew that bullets might not reach them all — that her next move could turn the tide.
“Cover me!” Marzanna said to Klara, the short command cutting through the gunfire. Adrenaline lent her speed as she gritted her teeth and lunged from her hiding spot. As she ran toward the enemy, each step was fueled by a clear resolve; Marzanna would become the inferno they never expected.
Punches turned to kicks — each blow delivered the raw power that surged within her. One guard’s face contorted in shock as Marzanna’s fist connected with her gut, sending her falling to the cold marble floor. Another assailant raised her rifle too slowly; Marzanna’s hand, edged with fire, struck with blinding speed, leaving a seared imprint across the old woman’s cheek.
The dull thuds of her impacts were punctuated by the harsher notes of snapping bone. One by one, the matriarchs faltered, fell, or fled.
Those last hastened footsteps echoed off the marble walls and floors of the Syndicate’s bastion, and Marzanna could almost taste their panic.
The battlefield fell silent, and Marzanna sensed a change in the air. On alert, she lead the way into the cathedral, her pistol ready and senses sharp. Her luminescent palms carved a path through the stygian blackness.
Klara signaled towards the looming iconostasis at the far end of the nave. To Marzanna, the overturned pews and aisles littered with sandbags and barbed wire felt like a desecration.
“Seems we missed the funeral,” said Marzanna.
Then, a solitary gunshot echoed from above, quickly joined by two more. Klara’s voice cut through the tension, “Board’s up there. Move!”
Their sprint gave way to a grueling ascent as they confronted the stairwell of the towering cathedral, a vertical challenge stretching high into the sanctuary’s heart. Marzanna’s old legs burned with each flight, her lungs demanding air as they pushed upward relentlessly. She kept a mental tally of the floors — one, two…ten — expecting swarms of guards to emerge at any turn, but encountering only a few, easily subdued. Her mind buzzed with the question of where the rest might be lying in wait.
As time stretched on, the urgency pulsed through them, driving their climb as grueling minutes passed in a blur of exertion. Finally, they reached what felt like the sky’s edge.
There, the staircase ended at a pioneer’s rest, the grand double doors of the summit. Silent sentinels wrought in dark wood greeted them, their formidable presence halting their advance. Centered on the massive doors, the engraving “Mudrost, Vremya, Resheniya” spoke of wisdom, time, and decisions, principles that had long governed the sacred space they were about to breach.
Gathering her breath, Marzanna turned to her team, “I expected more resistance. Stay vigilant.”
Klara met her gaze, the air of readiness about her unmistakable. “They’re here,” she said. “Just beyond these doors. That’s all that matters now.”
With a forceful shove, Marzanna thrust the boardroom doors wide open.
As Marzanna’s gaze swept over the huddled group, she pieced together the source of their terror from the sounds of gunfire that had echoed from below earlier. Directly opposite the entrance, the window, a grand fixture, stood jagged and broken, its frame marred with dark stains. It was a brutal thought, but it was clear to her now: some of the women hadn’t merely witnessed horrors, they had been part of them, pushed to their deaths through the shattered glass.
Around the long, oaken boardroom table, the group of hostages had been forced into a tight cluster, their expressions a mix of fear and resignation. Some sat slumped in the high-backed chairs, while others were huddled more closely on the floor, seeking comfort in proximity.
“Tatyana Romanova,” Klara whispered, her gaze anchored on the formidable figure who had risen from her seat at the head of the table.
Romanova’s weathered tan skin and dyed black hair betrayed her years, but the power she wielded seemed timeless. Her ornate burgundy dress, with intricate lace and beadwork, outlined her stature against the backdrop of the boardroom’s opulence. Flanking her were two Black Wolf guards, shrouded in dark, elaborate armor, their faces obscured behind visors that hinted at the menace lurking within. Each sported a submachine gun, deadly as they were beautiful, with matte gold finishes that caught the dim light. Even at rest, the weapons promised untold destruction with the simple flick of a switch, ready to deliver a barrage that could annihilate any threat.
Marzanna could feel the temperature in the room drop as the old matron’s controlled, commanding voice greeted them. “What is the meaning of this intrusion?” Romanova demanded. “How dare you interrupt our meeting.”
Marzanna, Klara, Lucija, and Svetlana snapped to attention. They took cover behind the pillars lining the room’s perimeter.
“You call this a meeting, you psycho bitch?” Klara said.
In that tense moment, Marzanna felt her palms tingle with heat. The energy for annihilation buzzed beneath the surface, resonating with Klara’s brazen provocation. But she held firm. Not yet, Marz. Just a little longer…
“We’re here to end your reign, Tatyana,” Klara shouted. “This is your final warning. Drop your weapons. The coup is over.”
Romanova sneered at the mention of the word. “Coup? You call this a coup?” Her voice rose to a fevered pitch. “This is a revolution!” She laughed with wild abandon.
The very notion of opposition seems to amuse her.
“And what makes you think that you and your ragtag group can stop me? And you. Aren’t you running out of time?” The matron’s eyes flicked down to Marzanna’s hands, perhaps noticing the faint shimmer of heat that betrayed her growing power. She couldn’t help but feel as if she were being appraised and found wanting all at once. Then, with an ease that to Marzanna seemed forced, Tatyana’s gaze swept across the room, skimming the weary survivors with a twisted smile. She read that gesture as a taunt. “Well, come on then. Do what you came here to do,” Romanova said.
The provocation struck a deep nerve, and every fiber of Marzanna’s being screamed against unleashing the full force of her power. But as she scanned the room, her eyes landed on something that shattered her restraint—a slate jacket, burned and crisped, barely recognizable but unmistakably belonging to the one she was meant to protect.
The one she had poured her soul into saving had already been ripped away, a victim of this woman’s savage cruelty. Rage bubbled up from the pit of her stomach, coiled tightly with a thread of despair.
Marzanna’s heart raced as she caught the glint of steel in the guards’ hands. As they drew their weapons, every instinct dared her to act. The world around her seemed to slow. The sounds of gunfire became distant echoes. She darted forward. The ground blurred beneath her boots, until she found herself standing in front of the hostages.
Energy flowed, rising from a place deep inside her. She felt the surge as a tingling sensation that grew into a steady stream of warmth. The air buzzed gently as a faint glow came off her skin, forming a protective dome between them and the chaos.
The rapid gunfire from the Black Wolves was muffled now, distant. Marzanna felt a strange calm as the bullets neared. They evaporated into smoke against the shield she had somehow conjured. It was all instinct, reaction. She was a live wire, a conduit of power, and for now, that was enough.
“Go! I’ll hold them off,” Marzanna snarled, and she saw the terrified women hesitate briefly. They scrambled into an adjacent room, the door slamming with a resonant thud.
Through the barrier, she heard metallic clicks, the shuffling of heavy boots, and the low, urgent exchange of commands. They were reloading.
Grief and rage consumed her. Tears blurred her vision. She wanted to kill them all. She couldn’t hold it any longer. A battle cry, raw and full of pain, escaped her lips. Flames erupted from her hands, and she charged.
Time stopped. A brilliant flash devoured her vision, and she felt the shockwave of an explosion blast right through her. For a moment, everything was fire and light. She surrendered to the void that followed. And for a heartbeat, two, she was lost in the roar of silence.
Total silence.
Awareness crept back in, and the soft caress of falling ash broke the stillness. Marzanna’s scorched coat fluttered to the ground. No longer green, but the gray of dead birch.
The room was a mess of bodies, both friend and foe. The air carried a smoky scent, thick with the iron of spilled blood. A gnawing sense of foreboding seized her then, and her veins darkened like storm clouds, pulsing with an urgency that begged release. She knew her time was running out and the inferno within could not be contained.
Not like this, Marzanna thought, the fear of her own impending combustion eclipsed by the dread of confinement. Not in here, in the smoke and the death.
Marzanna gasped for breath, her bare chest heaving with heavy sobs. Flames danced around her hands. She had saved some lives, but not the one she had needed the most. As she looked around the room, the weight of her choices — the lives she couldn’t save — bore down on her.
In the ruins, Klara lay motionless, the strength that once filled her eyes now extinguished, her fingers having relinquished their tight hold on her rifle. Not far, Lucija’s still form was propped awkwardly against a wall that failed to protect her, her fiery red hair softened by dust.
Partially concealed under a cascade of rubble, the slender barrel of Svetlana’s sniper rifle jutted out. And there, draped over the debris like a macabre tapestry, lay Tatyana Romanova. Her dress, once a symbol of elegance and power, contrasted tragically against the permanence of her stillness. Beside her, the guards lay motionless, the fierce golden guns now silent in their stiff grasp.
“Damn it,” Marzanna cursed, her voice raspy as she coughed through the smoke that lingered like a haunting specter. “Not again,” she whispered. Right and wrong, always a dance. And who are we to judge its rhythm?
Marzanna sprang into action, her contemplation interrupted by a more pressing need: survival. One more dance in the snow, then who knows where, she thought bitterly.
Bursting into the cool morning, Marzanna squinted as sunlight blinded her, and she heard roaring flames. Her skin tightened under daylight’s chill. Fresh air filled her lungs, a welcome relief from the harsh confines of the cathedral, though the acrid sting of smoke still coated her tongue. As her eyes adjusted, she saw that the cathedral had indeed become the inferno she had hoped to avoid. Flames rose high and fierce, casting an ominous glow against the pale winter sky. Tendrils of smoke twisted and turned after them, like silent carriers of countless hidden omens, and above all the chaos, the moon hung in defiance of both God and women alike.
The frenzied shuffle of feet and rustling fabrics filled her ears as a throng of old crones, a blur of colors and expressions, surged past her. Tattered babushkas whipped in the wind, and fear deepened the lines on worn faces. In this frantic sea of movement, she was an island — still, untouched, standing apart. A beam of morning sunlight slanted across her, carving her out from the crowd. It reflected off a patch of black ice at her feet, and in that cold reflection, she saw her face — smooth, and unmarked, as if from another time. Young.
A sense of the surreal washed over her. Familiar panicked shouts, the pressing urgency — had she not lived this before? The world around her blurred, sounds and sights melding into an indistinct hum. The flames at her fingertips, once bright and unwavering, had since faltered. Her skin, which had held the vibrancy of life, now appeared subdued, the rich tones muted in the aftermath of her exertion. A chill she couldn’t place began to creep in. Shadows danced at the edges of her vision, and she strained to focus, to ward off the growing darkness. Each breath, each pulse, felt longer. The world grew quiet, and in that silence, the weight of a single, endless second pressed upon her. As the cold grip of time tightened, Marzanna surrendered to its hold.
Martin Erlic is an olive oil producer and science fiction author from the Dalmatian coast of Croatia. In addition to running his family’s orchard and producing authentic Croatian olive oil, Martin has poured his love of Eastern European culture into his debut novel, Babushka: Echoes of Immortality. Set in a post-war metropolis where immortality reigns, the plot follows Doctor Anastasia Zakharovna through a web of power and deceit. When he’s not tending to his olive groves or writing, Martin can be found spending time with his family in their little village by the sea.
