Moving his head sent a spike of queasiness through Bledsoe’s guts, and he nearly stumbled. He should have expected that. Jumping back to 1953 was a significant leap from 2013. Pain lanced through the base of his skull, and in its wake appeared a deep weariness. These would be the symptoms of time and space travel, likely compounded by Winston tagging along at his heels — literally.
Bledsoe could take out his resentment on the boy later. Right now, larger demands required his attention. Taking a hard swallow on his discomfort, Bledsoe held himself up straight and took a step forward.
“Dobryy vecher, tovarishch Stalin,” he said. Good evening, comrade Stalin.
Bledsoe had learned as much Russian as he could while stuck in the middle of the South Pacific, with little to go on but a Rosetta Stone CD set and the rare chance to treat Russian merchants to drinks and conversation at the island’s main port. His facility was one of the few places in the Northern Mariana Islands with a satellite link to the Internet, but the connection was rarely good enough for sustained video communication.
From his prone position on the floor, Stalin jerked suddenly and lifted his head. Upon seeing Bledsoe and Winston, his bloodshot eyes grew wide and he spat the word “Dirmo!” Bledsoe’s time among Russian sailors had prepared him for profanity, but there was something odd about how he processed the word. He simply understood it. There was none of the usual, clumsy mental processing wherein his brain said, “He said that in Russian, which means this in English,” almost like working through a math problem.
Bledsoe had rehearsed countless times what he wanted to say next, but between the exhaustion that threatened to buckle his knees and the pain in the back of his head, he couldn’t for the life of him remember the phrasing he had picked. Vasha zhizn’ v bol’shoy… Opasnosti…
He couldn’t remember! Bledsoe wanted to blurt out, “Your life is in great peril. You’ve been poisoned.”
Then Bledsoe realized…he just had. The words had tumbled out in Russian with complete, natural fluency.
Oh, you wily, beautiful Omega Mesh, Bledsoe thought. You knew where I was headed, so you gave me a parting gift. Thank you kindly.
Stalin attempted to get an arm under himself to prop himself up, but he was obviously very weak and unable to push his own weight. Seizing the opportunity, Bledsoe advanced and helped to lift the Premier into a sitting position. Stalin got one arm over his mattress to help steady himself. His face was very pale.
“I am only sick,” he said in a decrepit rasp.
Bledsoe noticed that hearing him was like using the Alpha Machine and perceiving two reality layers, only now he saw and heard one thing but understood something else.
“With all due respect, Premier Stalin,” Bledsoe continued, hoping he was masking his pleasure at being able to speak freely, “I am certain you have been poisoned. You watched a cowboy movie last night with your closest political supporters — Molotov, Beria, Malenkov, Kruschev, and a few others — followed by a large meal that started at one in the morning and was supposed to last until dawn, yes?”
Stalin’s eyes had been wandering and unfocused, but now they latched onto Bledsoe with paranoid ferocity.
“Where are your guards, sir?” Bledsoe pressed. “Normally, you have two guards in here at all times, but early this morning Mr. Kruschev suggested that you dismiss them to help you sleep more peacefully. Isn’t that so?”
One corner of Stalin’s mouth curled under his mustache. “Yes,” he said, and his voice sounded like grinding gears. “That is so. How do you know this?”
“It’s a very long story, Premier Stalin, but I’m here to help you.”
Bledsoe knelt before him, careful to avoid the pool of vomit. He strategically rested the Alpha Machine between them and watched as Stalin eyed the device warily.
“I know,” continued Bledsoe, “that without my help, you are going to die on March fifth. They will say you suffered a stroke today and quickly lapsed into death. Beria gains control, but eventually he will be executed in December, leaving Kruschev with absolute control of the Soviet Union.”
Even through his sickness, the flames of jealousy and paranoia raged in Stalin’s eyes. “Kruschev?” Stalin growled. “Impossible. You are mad.”
“You have been very close with your sister-in-law, Zhenya, ever since your second wife’s suicide,” Bledsoe pressed. “Few people know about this. And no one knows — yet — that after you die your daughter Svetlana will change her name from Stalin to Allilueva and defect to the U.S.”
“Impossible!” Stalin countered.
He tried to raise himself into his bed but failed. Bledsoe stood and offered his hand. After hesitating, Stalin nodded. Bledsoe got a hand under the dictator’s arm and helped him to sit atop his mattress.
“Where do you get,” Stalin panted, “this supposed…information?”
Bledsoe took a deep breath, trying to let the dictator know from the earnestness of his expression that this was no joke. “I am from the future, Premier Stalin.” For theatrical effect, Bledsoe held up the Alpha Machine, which rose above his hand and began to slowly rotate.
Stalin studied the artifacts with obvious distrust, perhaps viewing them as some magic trick. His gaze then flicked to Winston, and his chin wrinkled with a scowl. “And him?”
“My servant,” said Bledsoe. “Please ignore him.”
Winston said nothing. Good. Perhaps the boy was finally falling into line.
“I have seen what happens to the world because of your death,” Bledsoe said with a lower, more pleading tone. “In the struggle of the great Soviet Union against the West, America wins. By the late 1980s, everything you fought for all your life is gone, swallowed up by capitalism.”
This wasn’t entirely true, but Bledsoe was prepared to fudge a few facts for the greater good.
“How?” asked Stalin. “Our military is stronger. Our people are stronger.”
Bledsoe lowered the Alpha Machine and gave Stalin a little more room. Best not to add any unnecessary pressure on him.
“First off, your military is not stronger, at least not today. You detonated your first nuclear test in August of 1949, but you won’t have a bona fide multi-stage, radiation implosion hydrogen bomb until late 1955, three years behind the U.S., and you never catch up. The U.S. will always have better jets, better submarines, better satellites in orbit — everything. The Soviet Union finally goes bankrupt trying to keep up, and it’s all because you didn’t get to finish your work. Because you died too soon. Because you didn’t have me here to help you.”
Stalin knew he was being played. It was obvious in the set of his jaw and his shivering shoulders. At the same time, though, he knew that Bledsoe had far too much information not to be somehow legitimate.
“And why would you help me?” he asked. “You are an American, yes?”
Bledsoe smiled. “I am, although I have no love for what my country or the world has become. Think of me as a defector, if you like. I have more information than you can imagine. And beyond that, I have the ability to cure you. Right now. I know you have issues with your doctors, right?”
Stalin’s face darkened further. “The Jews.”
Bledsoe knew all about Stalin’s delusions regarding how the Jews were trying to subvert his rule and plot to murder him. Although who knew? In all those conspiracies, maybe one was right? Stalin had recently ordered thousands of them rounded up for imprisonment and torture in the search for confessions.
Bledsoe tapped at the inside of his elbow. “The cure for all your medical worries is in my blood. It’s how I—” He gestured at Winston. “—we came to be here. I’m willing to share that with you if you’ll let me keep on sharing and helping you, sir. Because you and I want the same things.”
36
The Dictator Decides
Winston knew he should be awestruck, standing before one of the most infamous men in modern history, but all he could think was, We’re all going to die. If Stalin lives, everything changes. Ble
dsoe is doing it, exactly like he said, and it’s going to be over before I even have time to blink.
The one tidbit of good news was that Winston found himself able to understand the two men perfectly. He supposed he could thank his QVs and the Omega Mesh for that, but he had no idea how to use the ability to his advantage.
What were his options? He could attack Bledsoe, but he already knew he’d lose that battle. He could try to caution Stalin against Bledsoe, but who was an evil dictator going to believe — a kid or another would-be evil dictator? And again, Winston knew that if he so much as looked at Bledsoe wrong, retribution might be remarkably painful and very short. The Omega Mesh had specified that Bledsoe must keep Winston at his side, but could a lunatic like Bledsoe really be trusted to keep himself under control? How many months, or even days, of empire building would Bledsoe need to feel that he knew best and that Winston really was dispensable, after all?
Slowly, Stalin reached for the corner of his desk with a trembling hand. His pale, lumpy face showed the strain of moving, but he was a man of determination. He was going to do what he wanted or drop dead trying. Winston hoped it would be the latter.
Stalin’s hand slid along the desk and crept up the side of the black phone by the desk’s edge. He tried to grasp the handset, nearly fumbled it onto the floor, but managed to hang on and get it to his ear. He kept a nervous eye on Bledsoe and only rarely confirmed that Winston hadn’t moved, which made sense since he was the younger, more distant intruder.
“Yes,” he said into the handset in that odd tone that was both high-pitched yet stern and gravelly. “Send in the doctor… I know. Yes…alone.”
With considerable effort, Stalin managed to hang up the phone and then sink back onto his mattress with a gasp. He wiped at his brow and chin with his sleeve, breathing heavily.
On impulse, Winston said, “Maybe you should have two doctors? Get a second opinion?”
He realized that he’d meant to speak in English, but the words had emerged in Russian. OK, despite the world-ending drama, that was pretty sweet.
Stalin squinted at Winston in the darkness, and Winston wondered if the man needed glasses or if he was offended that a child had addressed him. Bledsoe shot him a warning glare over his shoulder.
“Only one,” Stalin grunted. “They are not to be trusted.”
“But they’re doctors, and, like, they’re your doctors, right?”
“I’m sorry, Premier Stalin,” said Bledsoe, who made an apologetic hunch of his shoulders and grimaced at Winston. “He has the manners of a peasant and resists my instruction. Perhaps he needs a beating.”
Stalin seemed to ignore the comment. “They are Jews. All capable doctors are Jews. And all should not be trusted. Any of them would kill me if I gave them a chance.”
“Well, that seems—” For once, Winston caught his mouth in time. “—unreasonable. Of them.”
Two small knocks sounded on the door behind them, and Stalin made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a loud wheeze. The door opened. A short man carrying a black leather medical bag entered. His gray hairline traveled far up his skull, and jowls hung under his jawline. He wore a dark brown woolen vest over a striped, button-down shirt and peered at the group from over the top of small, wire-rimmed glasses.
“How can I be of service, Premier Stalin?” he asked in a quiet voice, reverting his eyes to the floor before him.
Risking a glance up, the doctor took in Stalin’s appearance and the pool of vomit on the floor. His nostrils flared as he took in the room’s scent, and his brow wrinkled. Still, he waited by the door until Stalin beckoned him closer, and he was careful to ignore Winston and Bledsoe, as they were obviously there by Stalin’s permission.
“Doctor, come here,” said the dictator. “My two guests tell me I have been poisoned.”
Even in his extreme sickness, the narrowing of Stalin’s heavy eyelids indicated his attentiveness at the doctor’s reaction. He was trying to see if the man had any prior knowledge of such an assassination attempt.
The doctor seemed genuinely dumbstruck.
“Great Leader,” he said, “that is terrible. What are your symptoms? I will immediately order some—”
Stalin closed his eyes and pulled a frown of distaste. “Doctor. I don’t believe everything people tell me.” He opened his lids a crack and peered at Bledsoe. “Especially the outlandish things.”
“But you are ill,” said the doctor.
Stalin grunted again. “Yes. It could be anything. But come.” He nodded toward the half-filled glass of water on his desk. “Turn on the lamp and drink my mineral water. Tell me how it tastes.”
The doctor’s posture tightened, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. His eyes remained fixed on Stalin, wide with fear and blinking nervously, but he forced a smile and crossed slowly to the desk.
“Of course, Premier Stalin.”
With shaking fingers, he pressed the black button on the lamp’s base, casting a yellow aura around the desk. Obviously trying not to show hesitation, the doctor lifted the glass to his lips and downed several mouthfuls.
It was, Winston realized, a very real form of Russian roulette.
“The water tastes fine, Great Leader,” said the doctor as he tried to force a smile.
Stalin said nothing but spent a moment studying the doctor’s face and body. At last, he seemed satisfied.
“Doctor,” rasped the dictator as he pointed at Bledsoe, “this man tells me I am going to die unless I accept his blood. Can such a thing be true?”
The doctor’s expression of surprise shifted into curiosity as he examined Bledsoe. “The science of blood transfusion has only been studied in the Soviet Union for about twenty-five years. I am by no means an expert, but I do know that there are four blood types, and if you receive an incompatible type, it can kill you.”
This elicited a rise from Stalin’s eyebrows. He tilted his head back slightly as he surveyed Bledsoe.
“Father of Nations,” said Bledsoe, who seemed to be ready for the objection, “I can offer you ample proof that not only is my blood universally compatible, but it grants many additional benefits besides curing of disease.”
“What proof?” asked Stalin.
The dictator doubled over slightly as he suffered some sort of cramping. Winston feared that he would puke again, right there on his bed. Stalin raised a hand to his mouth and turned away, but the spasm passed. He was able to sit up straight and return his icy stare to Bledsoe.
“If I am cut, the incision will stop bleeding almost immediately, and the skin will glow blue and exhibit exceptionally fast healing properties. I have observed this in myself and spent years studying the effects on animals in my laboratory. In fact—”
Bledsoe turned to Winston and urged him to come closer. Winston feared that Bledsoe was going to stab him or something, but he advanced slowly.
“Premier Stalin,” Bledsoe continued, “you can see the blood still caked in this boy’s hair. We were in a…” He considered his next words carefully. “We were near an explosion just before coming here. Radicals trying to stop us from our mission to save you. The boy received bad cuts to his cheek and forehead. But now look.”
Not knowing what else he could do, Winston drew back the hair on his forehead, exposing his face for clear viewing. In the office’s dim light, the faint blue glow would be obvious.
Stalin took in a deep breath, and the doctor seemed to suddenly forget his brush with possible death.
To seal the deal, Bledsoe raised his left hand, careful to angle his open palm away from Stalin. With audible crackling, sparks and energy arcs formed and danced across his fingers.
“It’s like electricity,” Bledsoe said. “I’ve used it to…to disable people trying to attack me.” He lowered his voice and leaned forward slightly. “I’ve also used it to restart hearts.”
Stalin appeared doubtful. “Doctor?”
The man nodded thoughtfully. “I have heard of research into such
things, although I have never seen it done. In theory, it should be possible.”
Stalin sighed, deep in contemplation. His gaze flicked to the people about him, considering Winston’s face most of all. Perhaps he was trying to figure out how these things could be faked.
“Boy,” he said at last. “I can tell you do not like this man. Is everything he is saying true?”
Bledsoe opened his mouth, wanting to interject, afraid of what Winston might say, but a warning look from Stalin silenced him.
This was Winston’s moment, his one opening to derail Bledsoe’s plan. But what could he say? If he lied and said this was all a fake, Bledsoe still had enough evidence to show the truth of his assertions. It might just take a little longer. And if it took too long, giving Stalin time to die, then Bledsoe would simply maneuver himself into a similar position with Stalin’s successor. He might even decide to help someone besides Kruschev take control, which would alter the future even further. A lie was too easy to disprove, and it would leave Winston in a very bad position. How would Stalin treat people who lied to him? Probably like all the Jewish doctors — or worse.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “It’s true.”
Stalin only considered the situation for another couple of seconds, then he reached his decision. “I will try it. Doctor, draw the blood.”
Bledsoe grinned and couldn’t resist a small victory shake of his fist at his side, knowing he had won.
***
Winston’s mind was a complete blank. The doctor rested his leather bag on Stalin’s desk, undid the buckled clasp, and opened it to reveal a crowd of vials and tools. He withdrew a syringe and a small metal container, almost like an old-fashioned cigarette case, and opened it to reveal a row of needles.
Winston felt panic flush his face and clench his guts. Why couldn’t he think of a solution? Of all the times when he needed Shade and Alyssa around him, this would be it. Shade had been right. When the ball was snapped and the last play of the game was on, Winston needed his team most. All he had was himself, though. Now, if Shade had been here and seen those needles, he would have thought of something incredibly weird and terribly effective. Like…
Winston Chase and the Omega Mesh Page 31
