Doppelganger

by John Schettler

  “Copied?”

  “Yes, think about saving a file on your computer. You have two options. The first is save with replace—that’s what Paradox does, or what it should have done here. This Karpov in Siberia should not have survived Paradox Hour. He should have been removed from the continuum, erased, annihilated to allow for first arrival to occur, which was an imperative. If he did survive, as your intelligence chief here believes, then it was like a save as a separate file. It’s like two versions of the same novel residing on your hard drive, even though one may have revisions and material added that the other lacks. They’re both the same story, but slightly different, and they both exist. I believe all the legends concerning the existence of Doppelgangers may have arisen from this, and it appears we’ve got a case like this on our hands now, and a very dangerous one.”

  “Astounding,” said Tovey. “A Doppelganger. Lord knows that man Karpov was more than enough trouble here the first time through the tube. Now he’s riding the train again! Why, he would have no knowledge of the delicate alliance we made with the Russians. In fact, the first time around he went to war with the Royal Navy. Could that happen again?”

  “That’s quite possible. This situation is very perilous. It must be handled very carefully.”

  “Good Lord,” said Tovey. “I’ve got ships up there teeing up the Dervish Convoy operation to Murmansk. It’s very likely that Russian ship will soon spot them with their advanced radars. I should get word out to all fleet units about this.”

  “Well,” said Elena. “This Captain Karpov is standing by this very moment. Shall we have a chat with him?”

  As if in an eerie response to Elena’s suggestion, the radio speaker crackled and the voice of Nikolin was heard again. “BCG Kirov standing by. Do you still copy HMS Invincible. Read Back for Check. Over.”

  “Be very cautious,” said Dorland, looking at the Admiral. “It’s likely that this man does not yet know what has happened to his ship. Things are riding on the razor’s edge just now, and they could easily tip one way or another.”

  Chapter 35

  Far away, in the tumult of the storm as Tunguska approached Moscow, Professor Dorland’s theory had been put to a most exacting test, for another Prime Mover in all these events, Vladimir Karpov, lay on the floor of his stateroom aboard the airship Tunguska. There came a bump and a shudder, the glowing energy striking the ship and sending that luminescent glow through its bones, as if an X-Ray had been taken. Yet, within that metal skeleton, the exotic particles mined from the river valley the ship was named for stood as that one missing factor in Dorland’s equation.

  Yes, Karpov was a Prime Mover, a Free Radical, and a key initiator of so many of these deep variations that had so violated the continuum. Time did not look kindly on the man, and the stabbing pain he had felt in his chest was the cold, steely grasp of her jealous and spiteful hand, clawing at his soul and wanting it crushed to oblivion. But like the radio sets that had been spared from annihilation when the hour of Paradox finally transpired, Karpov was there aboard Tunguska as it skipped out of the here and now, into the ethereal realm of Elsewhere, if only for the barest moment. Then the ship shuddered with the roll of deep thunder, lightning rippling through the dark clouds, and returned, just as it was, impervious, immune, unbowed by time and the tumultuous tides of wind and sky.

  It was the very same effect that had also served to preserve the unique life and mind of one Anton Fedorov, for at that moment, when the Admiral and crew of Kirov finally faced the advent of Paradox, Fedorov held a strange artifact in his pocket, the key that had been deliberately left on that nightstand for him to find by Director Kamenski. It had served to keep the Director safe through many similar riptides of fate, preserving his memories over the years, though the world had changed around him many, many times.

  And old man at the end of a long and very full life, Kamenski had finally grown tired of his days as a Keyholder, and he had found in Fedorov the perfect young protégé, a man with a keen and curious mind, and a penchant for sorting through the confounding mystery of time. He left no note, and said no farewell, but after that long conversation they had shared together, Kamenski had quietly finished his last pipe, and then reached into his pocket for the key, hefting it in his hand for a moment with a smile.

  “Let us see what you can unlock with it, Mister Fedorov,” he had said aloud to himself, and he set it quietly on the nightstand as he slipped into his bunk, turning out the light there for the last time. He would never be seen again.

  There was something in that key that opened hidden doors, not only in the physical world but in time itself, and the presence of the key in Fedorov’s pocket when Kirov made that last shift had everything to do with his survival. In like manner, there was something in the bones of Tunguska that had a similar effect, and the metal skeleton that now surrounded Karpov’s stateroom at the heart of the ship acted like a shield. Paradox had reached for him, wanting him gone, wanting him dead and vanished, but it could not take hold.

  And so he survived.

  He awoke, bleary eyed, as though emerging from a deep unsettling sleep, where nightmare dreams haunted him, the images of the faces of men he had doomed, the ships and planes he had destroyed. Struggling up onto his hands and knees, he felt an enervating sense of fatigue, a weariness, as though the very particles of his being had fallen into an apathetic stupor. The lethargy lay heavily upon him, his arms and legs leaden, and only slowly recovering.

  He managed to pull himself up onto the chair by his desk, reaching for the oxygen mask again. He slipped it on, breathing deeply, and feeling his mind and thoughts clearing as he did so. As he slowly came to his senses, he realized where he was again, saw the uniform, his Admiral’s cap there on the desk, and heard the thrumming of Tunguska’s engines.

  Karpov… Vladimir Karpov, Admiral of the Air Fleet, and Viceroy of the Western Oblasts of the Free Siberian State. He stared in the mirror again, remembering the shadow he had seen behind his own reflection, and the deeply unsettling feelings it had spawned in him. That feeling he had, that he was being watched, stalked, hunted by some unseen evil, had finally passed, yet in its place there was a strange sensation of absence.

  He found himself involuntarily searching his pockets, as if something had been taken from him, stolen from him while he lay in a daze on the carpeted stateroom floor. I must have passed out from the altitude, he thought. Better men than me have done the same, and I’ve been under a great deal of stress lately.

  Yes, there was something wrong still, something missing, something stolen from him, but he could not see what it was. Then he realized that this damnable storm could have sent Tunguska careening through time again, and he looked to find the telephone on his desk, cranking the handle and ringing up the bridge. Bogrov’s voice was the first reassurance that there was life beyond the four walls of this stateroom, and he passed a moment of relief, though he did not know why he should feel that way.

  “Bogrov? Is the ship alright?”

  “Aye sir, just a little rough weather, but I’ve made a turn and we’re steering to avoid the next thunderhead. Things should settle down soon. We’ll be mooring over Moscow within the hour.”

  “Good,” said Karpov, again with a sense of relief. Though he realized he must have been unconscious on the floor for a very long time. The ship was already at Moscow… but in what year? We could be anywhere, he thought. We might have shifted somewhere else.

  “Bogrov… send Tyrenkov to my stateroom, and ring the galley. I’m famished.”

  “Right away, sir. Will that be all?”

  “Yes, I just need food and information. Tell Tyrenkov I need him immediately.”

  “Aye sir, Bogrov out.”

  Karpov had never been a drinking man, but now he sought out the good bottle of Vodka that is never very far from a true Russian, opening the drawer to his desk and taking out two glasses. He started to pour the first glass, his hand quivering, and then stopped, staring at the glasses,
a strange feeling overtaking him. Slowly he set the bottle down, his eyes staring at the scene, one glass empty, the other half full, and he did not know why he was so transfixed by that.

  There sat one glass, empty, waiting, yearning, all potential, nothing realized. There sat the other, the heady liquor glistening in the light of the desk lamp like the fruits of long experience, the laurels of battles fought and victories won, and yet still not full, wanting more, a fulfillment that was as yet just beyond its reach. Strange, he thought. Just drink the damn vodka, you fool, and stop gawking at it. But instead he decided to wait for Tyrenkov, heartened to hear the knock on his stateroom door.

  “Come,” he said, the sound of his own voice seeming hoarse and hollow.

  “You needed me sir?” said Tyrenkov coming in with a salute.

  “Sit,” said Karpov. “Drink with me…”

  Tyrenkov removed his hat, striding to the desk, his uniform immaculate, and took the seat offered. The Admiral had been locked away in his stateroom for two days as Tunguska navigated to the meeting with Sergei Kirov at Moscow. The summer heat had given rise to a ripening storm, and he first thought that the ship might end up someplace quite unexpected, but they had arrived at Moscow safe and sound, and apparently with no strange occurrences, except that one moment when the lightning came, rippling through the ship’s skeleton when it struck the forward lightning rod.

  “What day is it?” said Karpov.

  “August 1st.”

  “And the year?”

  “The year sir? 1941. All is as expected. The meeting with Kirov is all arranged. Bogrov is maneuvering to the mooring tower near the Kremlin as we speak. Didn’t you see the city below as we approached?”

  “I was… occupied.”

  Tyrenkov looked at the Admiral, studying him very closely, noting the pallor of his face and cheeks, his disheveled hair, the lean, hungry look of the man.

  “Are you alright, sir? You did not answer any calls these last two days, but, as you gave orders that you were not to be disturbed…”

  “Correct,” said Karpov, not saying anything of what had happened, of how he had sat in terror at the edge of oblivion, staring into that mirror. He saw the shadow behind him grow and grow, and could feel its icy chill on his shoulders, but he was resolute. It would be his life or that of the other Karpov, or so he believed, and he was determined to prevail.

  Now, as he realized he was still alive, exhausted as he was, a awareness of that finally dawned on him. He had prevailed. He had done exactly what he decided he would do, and stared Time and Fate right in the eyes as he looked at his own haunting image in that mirror. And Time had blinked; Fate had shirked away, and what remained was Vladimir Karpov.

  “You do not look well, sir,” said Tyrenkov.

  “Too much work, that is all. It’s nothing that a good meal and a stiff drink will not cure. In that instance, pour yourself a drink, Tyrenkov. I want to discuss something with you before the meeting.”

  “Very well, sir. Thank you.” Tyrenkov naturally filled the empty glass, and then was about to lift it to a toast when he realized his glass held more liquor than Karpov’s. So he tipped the bottle to fill the Admiral’s glass, and was careful to see it held just a little more than his own.

  “To our meeting, sir. To your health. To victory!” he said, clinking his glass against Karpov’s. “Nostrovia!”

  “As to the meeting,” said Karpov, “I have little doubt that I will get all we need, and all we have planned now that the Germans have crossed the border. What is happening on the front?”

  “The enemy has made remarkable progress, sir. They have not crossed the Divina, but are making a thrust towards Smolensk. Both Minsk and Kiev have fallen, and Kirov has had to abandon the whole line of the Dnieper and has fallen back to the Donets River. The Germans are outside Kharkov, and there has been a mad rush to get reinforcements there. Unfortunately, many of those divisions were pulled from the reserves set aside for our Volga offensive against Orenburg, which may have to be postponed. Our guards divisions obtained the bridgeheads as you ordered, but the Soviets are not prepared to launch a general offensive there now.”

  “I will discuss this with Sergei Kirov shortly,” said Karpov.

  “There is more, sir. The Germans have taken the Perekop Isthmus, and it looks like they are planning a general offensive against the Crimea. At the same time, they are pushing east from the Dnieper, and a big offensive is being aimed at Rostov.”

  “As we expected,” said Karpov. “Does it look like the Soviets can stop them?”

  “That remains to be seen, sir. They have already withdrawn numerous armored brigades that were sent into the Kuban for the drive on Maykop. Two rifle divisions were also pulled off the line there, but Volkov is up to his old tricks again. He moved his 1st Kazakh Army to the south Volga Front, relieving his 5th Regular Army so it could build up and concentrate for an offensive.”

  “Of course,” said Karpov. “It’s the least he can do, to keep pressure on from the south.”

  “The Soviets are being very stubborn. They fight for every village and hamlet now.”

  “As they should,” said Karpov.

  “Yet nearly a third of the nation has been overrun!” said Tyrenkov. “Hitler has made a declaration annexing all of Ukraine west of the Dnieper as a permanent German province.”

  “That may look like a fact on the ground to you now, Tyrenkov, but believe me, it is just talk. Things will change come winter. You will see. Believe it or not, the Soviets are doing quite well. In the history I know, the Germans did not even begin their offensive until June 22nd, and the first battle of Smolensk began around July 10th! Their initial offensive was a spectacular success, but here, Sergei Kirov has avoided many of the terrible cauldron battles where the Soviets lost hundreds of thousands of men, and instead he has conducted a deliberate, and very skillful withdrawal. Yes, the German war machine is at the height of its power now, and it will be difficult to stop, but I am telling you that their offensive is already well behind schedule.”

  “The Soviets have had to transfer most of the armies in their strategic reserve to hold the line,” said Tyrenkov.

  “Don’t worry, they will raise more. Now then… There is another matter I wish to discuss, and it concerns that Russian ship operating in the Atlantic. Is it still mising?”

  “The missile cruiser? Yes sir. It transited the Straits of Gibraltar in May, and there was that big engagement I reported on.”

  “The Germans are still in their French ports?”

  “Yes sir, and the British fleet has consolidated in the Azores, with a strong patrol also in the Celtic Sea.”

  “Then nothing more was seen or heard of the Russian ship?”

  “Not as yet, sir. The speculation is that it may have been sunk.”

  At this, Karpov laughed. “No, Tyrenkov. It was not sunk, of this I can assure you.” He gave his intelligence chief a searching look, thinking. “I want you to focus your signals intercept teams on the Norwegian Sea.”

  “Sir? There isn’t much happening there. We believe the British are preparing to mount a convoy operation to Murmansk. The code word Dervish has been picked up, and we think it pertains to this operation.”

  “Correct,” said Karpov. “That was the first convoy to Murmansk, and not the last. But look for that Russian battlecruiser, Tyrenkov. Look for it in the Norwegian Sea, and I want to hear about it the instant you have any further information, even if I am cheek to cheek with Sergei Kirov when the news comes in. Understand?”

  “Very good, sir. I assume you have plans concerning this ship?”

  “My ship, Tyrenkov. Yes, I have plans concerning my ship. I am its rightful Captain. Don’t forget that. But I want to know if you find it there, in the Norwegian Sea, and I want to know immediately. Focus your attention on Jan Mayen. Can’t we get a fishing trawler out there with signals intercept equipment?”

  “I have some good men in Norway, sir.”

  “Well ge
t them busy. Focus on the region near that island, the Denmark Strait as well. Oh… one more thing… Have you any information on a possible meeting between Churchill and Roosevelt?”

  Tyrenkov looked surprised. “Nothing has come up concerning that,” he said.

  “Be wary. Keep your ear to the ground. What are the Americans doing now?”

  “Not much, sir. They are rattling their sword in the Pacific, by way of a warning to Japan. In the Atlantic they have relieved the British on Iceland, and sparred with a few German U-boats. They made certain declarations there concerning a 100 mile wide naval exclusion zone.”

  Karpov smiled. “Yes,” he said, “I sailed right down the middle of it, and raised hell the whole way.”

  “Sir?”

  “Never mind, Tyrenkov. Don’t forget about that meeting with Churchill and Roosevelt. See if you can get some men over to Nova Scotia and Newfoundland… Have a look at Argentia… Placentia Bay. Snoop around. The Americans will be setting up bases there soon. And see if you can ascertain the whereabouts of one of the British battleships, the Prince. Yes, the Prince of Wales. I want to know of its movements, but first and foremost, I want you to find me that Russian battlecruiser. Put everything you have on that.”

  “You can rely on me, sir.”

  Chapter 36

  Tovey stared at the radio, realizing the situation was very grave. He had never met the man he would be speaking to, the Russian officer that had been involved in a mutiny, and the man who was most likely responsible for those reports he read in the file boxes Turing had found.

  It was this man, he thought. He was the reason this ship put fear into our souls, for with men like Volsky and Fedorov at the helm, Kirov became a bulwark for the defense of the realm. Then it really wasn’t the ship I supposedly set a watch on, establishing that secret group within the Royal Navy, it was this man. He put the darkness in the shadow this ship became for us, and the fear. Karpov… And here he is again, like some rough beast, his hour come round at last. Yeats was in his mind as he thought this, a poem called The Second Coming.