Paradox Hour

by John Schettler

  When she had bandaged his face and secured his arm in a splint, she just walked slowly across the room, sitting quietly in a plain wood chair, her skirt riding a little above the knee, when she crossed her legs, ever so invitingly. Then the door opened, and this time it was Karpov.

  “Good morning, Kymchek. I trust you were able to get some sleep, in spite of the dogs and that light bulb there.” He tapped the hanging bulb, setting it to move, pendulum like, and creating a strange effect as the light fled from the woman, then returned. She seemed to recede into shadows, appearing again, angel-like, her dark eyes always on his, her face always pleasant, smiling, promising.

  “I see you have met Major Yana, as we call her. Grilikov is still having his breakfast, and none too happy that we were out of sausages until the next train. He’ll be here shortly, and probably in a very bad mood. But before that, I thought I would check on you and see if you have given any thought to our previous discussion.”

  Kymchek blinked as the light slowly settled, leaving most of the Major wreathed in shadow, except those long, long, legs. He knew what was happening now, first the gruel, then the honey. It was nothing unexpected.

  “Well then,” said Karpov. “What shall it be, Kymchek? You can have it either way, Grilikov with his bad temper, big fists in your face again, and then more long nights with the dogs. We’ll feed you, because you know too damn much to simply let you die here. Then we’ll have to let Grilikov get serious to get the answers to a lot of the questions you know will be coming your way. He has a fetish for very sharp knives, and I’m told he starts with fingers and toes, just for openers. It won’t be pleasant, you know that, and it won’t be brief. Eventually you will tell us what we want to know, but that will be a long, painful process, and the questions may never end. Understand?”

  Now Karpov stepped into the light again, his uniform immaculate, boots shined, hand resting on a the pistol in his side holster. The door opened and another man came in, stepping to Karpov’s side, hands folded behind him, his uniform equally smart and dressed out. He was holding a small bundle, and a pair of military boots. Kymchek recognized him through bleary, bandaged eyes. It was Tyrenkov, Karpov’s own master of intelligence and security. The two men had been rivals for some years now, each one trying to out-maneuver the other to get the best information. They were as different as yin and yang, Kymchek fair skinned, with short cropped grey hair and pale blue eyes, Tyrenkov dark haired, steely lean, the light of his quick mind seeming to glow his eyes. They were fire and ice, yet both grimly calculating in their own way, and with devious intelligence.

  “You know this man?” asked Karpov. “Of course you do. Well he is here to welcome you to our side of the game, if you so choose. You will be working directly with Tyrenkov, and together you will make an unbeatable intelligence team. See those boots he is holding? The bundle there is a uniform—with the rank of Major General in the Free Siberian Army. It’s yours. Step into those boots and stand with us. This war is only beginning, and there is much you have to learn about what will soon happen to our dear Mother Russia. Yes, even you, the man who knows everything. Well, you will soon learn that is not the case.”

  Karpov was pacing now. “I need you, Kymchek. I need your mind, your skills, your competence. I would embrace you as a friend here, if you so choose. As I have said, you will have rank, the power and privilege that comes with it, and the pleasures. Yes, Major Yana there will gladly tend to more than that broken arm, whenever you desire, and there are a hundred others just like her. So face the reality here, the information you have will come to us one way or another. I would prefer to sit with you over a good meal and discuss things like a gentlemen. We have plans to make, and battles to fight. Join us.”

  The logic of Karpov’s appeal was hard. “Together with Tyrenkov, we can settle the matter of Ivan Volkov once and for all, “ he said. “He’s an aberration, a blight in history, and an insult. Curse that man for shaking hands with Hitler, and curse him for raising his hand against his brothers, and shedding Russian blood so wantonly in this hour of our greatest need. I’m going to destroy him, just like I destroyed his damn flagship out there, one way or another. That is inevitable. So the choice before you now is very simple. Do you hold with him, Kymchek? Is that the kind of man you will sit there and endure this shit for? What will it be, Major Yana or Sergeant Grilikov? Don’t think you’ll be a hero if you see some warped sense of virtue in being loyal to a man like Volkov. But choose otherwise, and you can be a hero—not for me, but for your country. Decide.”

  The door opened again, the snarl of the dogs louder as Grilikov finally came tramping in, his hard soled boots soiled with mud. He yelled at one of the dogs over his shoulder, slamming the door as he cursed.

  “Sorry, sir. Breakfast was late.”

  “No bother, Sergeant. Stand there, will you?”

  “Certainly sir.” The big Sergeant took his place at the edge of the light, the shadows rising up his stolid form, legs planted wide, heavy arms crossed over his chest. He was slowly rolling up his sleeves. At a nod from Karpov, Major Yana stood, and walked sinuously to the edge of the light, the same shadows fingering the curved lines of her body. They stood there, two ends of a choice that would now decide Kymchek’s future life. Tyrenkov slowly handed the bundled uniform and boots to the woman, and then stepped to Karpov’s side.

  “Come now, Tyrenkov. We’re off to the officer’s dining room. I think your breakfast was late, Sergeant, because the chef was too busy preparing our meal. I’ll make that up to you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Good enough.” Karpov started away, with Tyrenkov in his wake, then he stopped, just short of the door, looking back over his shoulder. “Oh yes, there is a third table setting and a chair for you, Kymchek. Come over dressed in that uniform and join us, and let’s put this unfortunate incident behind us and talk about the Rodina. There is more to be healed here than that right arm of yours, and we men must do that work. Our nation stands or falls in the years ahead, and now you get a chance that comes to few—a chance to right the wrongs you have done in this world. Decide, this very hour, and join us. There will be more than Major Yana’s smile in that choice for you. History will smile on you as well.”

  He turned, and stepped through the doorway. The dogs saw the door opening and were up with a snarl, but one look at Karpov and they were immediately stilled.

  Kymchek never forgot that.

  Across the way, Karpov sat at the breakfast table, the white linen cloth lending a pristine quality to the setting. The silver was laid out next to well folded napkins, the tea hot in the polished samovar, the smell of the blini and porridge enticing. The sausages Grilikov had been missing were here in abundance.

  “That was quite a find, Tyrenkov. You are to be congratulated. What do you think Kymchek will do in this situation?”

  “That’s anyone’s guess, sir. You were very persuasive. A punch in the nose and a kiss on the cheek is old hat when it comes to interrogation. Kymchek knows that, but your other arguments were very convincing.”

  “He would be a fool to die here out of some misplaced and foolish loyalty to Volkov,” said Karpov. “I might expect you to do this for me, so believe me, it was not easy asking Kymchek to throw away those years he stood by Volkov. Why should he? Only to save his skin, and perhaps do what I suggested, right some wrongs, and salvage what remains of his life, his pride, his sense of being a useful man. We all want to be useful, don’t we? The information he has will be vital in the campaign ahead, but the man is also a great asset. You can use him, a very able addition to your team.”

  “No question about that, sir.”

  “And Tyrenkov, I also want you to know that your position as head of security and intelligence is completely secure. Don’t entertain the slightest thought that Kymchek might ever replace you. You’ve proven yourself to me many times, and I will never do what Volkov has just done here to Kymchek. The man was simply thrown to the wolves. This is why I ha
d those dogs tethered right outside his door—a little subliminal message to that effect. Well… I wonder if the blini is getting cold. Perhaps we should begin.”

  At that moment there came a quiet knock on the door. Karpov had given both the Sergeant and Major Yana very specific orders. Should Kymchek remain obstinate, or fail to choose within one half hour, the Sergeant was to come over and report this, and get Karpov’s approval to begin more intensive interrogations. Should Kymchek choose to side with the Siberian State, then Major Yana was to accompany him to the Officer’s Dining room.

  “Come…” Karpov turned, wondering who he would see when that door opened, and hoping he would not have to grind Kymchek like so much meat in the days ahead. He was not disappointed.

  There stood Kymchek, dressed out in the uniform and boots that had been tailored for him, his General’s cap under his good left arm, where Major Yana guided him with a smile. As much as he wanted to smile himself, Karpov maintained a well practiced decorum. He stood up, gesturing to the third place at the table, his hand extended graciously.

  “General Kymchek,” said Karpov politely. “I am very glad you have chosen to dine with us this morning, very glad indeed. Every choice makes a difference in this world, and I know that in a way that few men understand. This next choice will be a little easier for you… Do you prefer honey with your tea? And will it be boiled eggs, sausage, or black bread and cold cuts?”

  It was only then that Karpov allowed himself a smile, not to taunt the man, but to welcome him. Kymchek never forgot that either. There was another side of this man, though he knew Karpov had good reason to be accommodating here.

  I hope I didn’t make this look too easy, thought Kymchek. Volkov was very insistent about that, and I told him that two or three days, and a good beating, would be the norm. But Karpov was certainly eager to get me here to his table. So here I am, you conniving little bastard. Did you really think I would turn so easily? Yes, the walk over here with Major Yana cradling that wounded arm of mine was much to be preferred over Grilikov breaking the other one. But that had little to do with anything. As you said yourself, Volkov is an aberration, but so are you—a little weed that needs plucking out, and I’ve been sent to till the garden. So I’ll play your game now, and tell you anything you might care to know. Then, one day, when the time is right, I’ll find a way to do what we came here to do in the first place, and make an end of your little theater on the taiga.

  Tonight he would consider how best to contact his operatives in Ilanskiy, and discretely have them get a message to Volkov, telling him all was well, and everything was going exactly as they had planned it.

  Part VIII

  Peake’s Deep

  “Cast your bread upon the waters, for after many days you will find it again. Give portions to seven, yes to eight, for you do not know what disaster may come upon the land… Sow your seed in the morning, and at evening let not your hands be idle, for you do not know which will succeed, whether this or that, or whether both will do equally well.”

  ― Ecclesiastes 11:1-6

  Chapter 22

  Engineering Chief Dobrynin was the next man to hear it, the same deep disturbance in the sound field that Tasarov had heard earlier. The Chief’s ears were fine tuned to the nuances of the ship, every squeak and rumble and grind of the turbines and engines, the hum of the reactors, the symphony of the entire machine itself as Kirov cut its way into the Atlantic. He had been reviewing service readouts from the main propulsion system, pleased that the reactors had been holding up very well, in spite of long hours at high speed. As he folded the file closed, he heard something that prompted him to incline his head, listening…

  “Mister Garin,” he said to his reactor Technician, Ilya Garin. “Any disturbance on your monitors?”

  “Sir?” Garin looked over his panels, noting nothing out of order, and reported as much.

  “Very well… “ Dobrynin should have been satisfied with that situation, but he was still not content. He set the sheaf of files down, sat in his swivel chair and put his feet up on the low stool he often used like a makeshift ottoman. Then he closed his eyes, listening… Listening…

  There it was, something barely perceptible. Was it a vibration, or a sound? It seemed to reside on some undefined grey zone between those two sensations, and it was as if the Chief had a sixth sense that could perceive the medley. A sound… a tremor… a warning… There was nothing in his file readouts, and nothing on Garin’s monitors, but he could feel it, sense it, and it gave him a deep sense of misgiving. He listened for a time, and the longer he did, the more foreboding the feeling became. After a while it began to create a slowly rising anxiety in him, as if his body could feel the vibration, and interpret it as danger. He could feel that thrum of adrenaline in his torso, and could no longer sit still.

  “Mister Garin, I believe we should initiate a diagnostic routine of the reactor system.”

  “Again sir? We only just completed compiling the data from that diagnostic we ran two days ago.”

  “So we will have new data to compile. Yes? Let’s begin with the thermodynamics. We will use the primary monitor, and the backup system as well.”

  Garin shrugged, but knew there was really only one response that was acceptable. “Aye sir. I’ll get started right away.”

  * * *

  Fedorov could feel the tension on the ship. It had been a very long journey, perhaps one of the longest deployments at sea ever endured by any modern ship or crew. After those first harrowing encounters in the North Atlantic, Mediterranean and finally in the Pacific, the crew had some brief relief off the coast of Australia, and on that island Admiral Volsky had been longing for. The time they had in Vladivostok was brief, and provided no real sense of homecoming for them. There were odd incidents there, resulting from the subtle changes in the time line caused by Kirov’s intervention. The city was different, yet in places oddly familiar. There had been restaurants that were apparently meant to be, in any time line, and other familiar businesses. Yet some crew members had gone home to find total strangers living where their house once was, or worse, to find their home, or even street, was entirely missing!

  So we left a different world from the one where we started, he thought. I was lost along the Siberian Rail line when Karpov took the ship out, so all I know of that period was what I have learned from the others here. There was more combat against the American navy, in two different time periods. And then that unfortunate situation that saw the ship blasted deeper into the past must have been very hard. When that happened, I think the crew abandoned any hope of ever seeing home again as they once knew it. Even Admiral Volsky took to a little relief in a bottle of Vodka in his quarters. I certainly don’t blame him.

  Doctor Zolkin has been a life saver, and in more ways than one. It was his character and opposition to Karpov at that critical moment that eventually enabled us to complete our mission and remove Kirov from the early 20th Century. Yet we remain stuck here in WWII, the great catharsis of the modern world, the most devastating war mankind has ever inflicted upon itself—save that last one, the war we were trying so hard to prevent.

  We arrived here last June. Now here it is May of 1941! In all that time the crew has been faithful at their posts. They got some relief when we sailed north to Murmansk, yet I think all that did was give them a taste of what they had lost. The brief shore leave we arranged in Alexandria was hardly enough. They must be wound up tighter than a spring, and this incident with Lenkov was most unsettling.

  Everywhere Fedorov went as he walked the ship, he got the same questions. The crew wanted to know what was happening, and he had no real explanation for them. “We experienced a moment where our position in time was not stable,” he said in one compartment near the missile bays. “You remember what happened to us when that Japanese ship seemed to move right through us.”

  “Who can forget that sir?” said a mishman of the watch.

  “Well it was something like that, only a very mino
r incident. Lenkov was just unlucky, that is all I can say. I know you men have had a hard time here, We have asked more of you than any man should have to give in the service of their country. I thank you for being the strong bone and muscle of this ship, and I am sorry I have put you through all of this.”

  The men were silent for a time. Then the mishman spoke up, going so far as to even put his hand on Fedorov’s shoulder. “We stand with you, Captain. Where you lead us, we will follow. Don’t worry sir. We are all fine.”

  That was a hard moment for Fedorov. He felt the emotion clench his throat, nodded his acknowledgement, and moved on. Here the men were trying to comfort me, he thought. This is a good crew, loyal to a man, and god go with us now. God help me lead them, and if there is anyplace out there that we can ever call home again, show me the way…

  He finished his silent prayer, ducked into a hatch, and found the ladder down to the next deck. That was when he ran into Chief Dobrynin.

  “Good day, Chief. How are the engines holding up?”

  “Well enough, sir, but there was something else I wanted to speak with you about.”

  “Oh? Shall we go to your office?”

  The two men walked down one more ladder, and found the Chief’s working hideaway. Fedorov took note of the books he kept there, a mix of technical manuals, physics, thermodynamics, engineering, and strangely, music. He had several books on the great Russian composers, and even a few musical scores of symphonies by Shostakovich, Stravinsky, and Tchaikovsky.

  “When do you ever get time to listen to good music?” said Fedorov.

  “Not often enough,” said Dobrynin. “In fact, it is something else I’ve been listening to that I wanted to discuss with you. You know I have good ears. That’s how I was able to try and control those flux events when we used Rod-25. Well… I’ve been hearing something of late—something strange.”