by Lee Stephen
Better known as the Baikal Highway, Highway M51 was a twenty-four-hundred kilometer federal road that stretched from Novosibirsk to Chelyabinsk in what was essentially a straight shot. The Omsk Oblast was the next oblast west of Novosibirsk and the first stage of the forty-plus-hour drive to Chernobyl. There’d been a time when making that journey was a much easier affair, when airborne transports from Novosibirsk could fly freely throughout Russia and the rest of the world. But EDEN had taken care of that. A trip that used to be little more than an inconvenience was now a multi-day drive through the array of plains and wilderness that dominated southern Russia.
Due to their sudden loss of air transportation, the Nightman exodus to Chernobyl would have to be a drive for everyone, high-profile Nightmen like Antipov included. Dostoevsky was a rare exception in that he was a Nightman with a luxury automobile. For most of the Nightmen making the journey, the drive would consist of piling into the backs of moving vehicles. But a Dovecraft was the epitome of privilege. He had purchased it several years earlier at an extreme discount, which meant the dealership knew they were dealing with a Nightman. A profit loss and a happy Nightman customer was still a net gain. Black and sleek, the Dovecraft was what was known as a hoverquad, a fairly new line of vehicles that combined wheels on the ground with hover travel, courtesy of a driftdrive that could be engaged when certain speeds were reached, at which point the wheels were retracted and propulsion took over. It was the best of both worlds: nimble in the city and a highway ride that was as smooth as the air itself.
Nestled into the passenger seat slept Varvara Yudina. The young blond medic had fallen asleep several hours earlier, the fatigue of the morning’s events overtaking the adrenaline rush of the escape from Novosibirsk. She hadn’t spoken much since the drive had begun, and sleep had come relatively quickly. That was all well and good with Dostoevsky, save one minor detail: he could barely keep his eyes open himself. There was nothing exhilarating about the endless rows of trees that lined the highway. There was only the subtle, lulling hum of the driftdrive motor. After a particularly alarming head nod that gave Dostoevsky visions of his Dovecraft wrapped around a tree trunk, he finally looked at Varvara and spoke.
“Varya.”
Her eyes squinting, Varvara’s body twisted slightly.
Dostoevsky repeated to her, “Varya.”
Varvara’s eyes cracked open. She looked around foggily before settling on Dostoevsky.
“Sorry,” he said, smiling apologetically. “Would you mind talking to me for a little while? Helping me stay awake? I am about to run off the road.”
Craning her neck in a long, delicate stretch, Varvara cleared her throat and nodded. “How long did I sleep?”
“Three, maybe four hours. We are about halfway to Omsk.”
“What time is it?”
“Ten-thirty.”
Varvara rubbed her eyes tiredly, then the medic eased herself upright. “Should you stop for a while? Get coffee, rest?”
He shook his head. “We need to reach Chernobyl. The sooner, the better. Travel will become much more difficult for all of us, soon.” The roads were free now, but at some point, the crackdown would begin. The last thing they needed was to come across a police checkpoint looking for Nightmen. “Speed and distance matter right now.”
Tying her hair into a ponytail, Varvara nodded. She pulled down the passenger makeup mirror to freshen up her appearance. “Has there been anything on the radio?” Angling her face, she examined her cheek, where the dark yellow bruises from Viktor Ryvkin remained.
“I haven’t been listening. If there is something I need to know, I will hear it from Iosif,” he said, referencing Antipov and motioning to the comm in his cup-holder. “Everything has been silent. I am sure they are keeping radio traffic to a minimum.”
“I meant music,” she said.
Blinking, Dostoevsky opened his mouth to reply, but no words came to him. Music hadn’t even been on his radar. Finally, he laughed at himself. “Sorry, I…I did not think to check.”
She made no response.
It was troubling that Dostoevsky had not heard from Antipov yet. He wasn’t sure if it was due to the sheer chaos of what was taking place or if it was indicative of a problem specific to locating Oleg and Svetlana. There were priorities, then there were high-level priorities. One could argue that tracking down Svetlana’s whereabouts was more important to Antipov than escaping to Chernobyl with the surviving Nightmen. Svetlana was leverage against Scott, and Scott possessed a Ceratopian that could change the war. Antipov was a big picture kind of person. Keeping leverage against Scott and ensuring that the Nightmen held on to whatever information the alien could provide was critical, even more so than getting the Nightman remnant to Chernobyl. The Nightmen didn’t need Chernobyl to survive, but they did need that information. That Saretok was already entrenched at Chernobyl was a benefit to Antipov. It would allow him to focus on things such as securing Svetlana as opposed to having to dabble in the affairs of a ground war and base maintenance.
Repositioning his body in the chair, Dostoevsky glanced at Varvara. She could easily say she had left Novosibirsk with Dostoevsky for Svetlana’s benefit, in the event that her older counterpart was located and found to be injured, but the truth was likely something else. Dostoevsky had stood up for her when no one else had. Varvara had spent the past several months as a villain to most people in the Fourteenth, but Dostoevsky had never treated her that way. Being with him and only him was probably a relief to the embattled medic.
Despite the fact that Varvara had only just awoken, Dostoevsky could tell that she was apprehensive, undoubtedly about their destination of Chernobyl. He respected her tremendously for having the courage to make the journey—one she hadn’t needed to make. She was stronger than people gave her credit for. Glancing at her, Dostoevsky said, “Talk to me, Varya.”
She resituated herself in the chair. “Talk to you about what?”
“What is going through your mind? What are you thinking about? Surely you must have many thoughts.”
“Must I?”
Silence fell as Dostoevsky’s eyes returned to the road. Half-frowning, he sighed and leaned back. Exhaustion threatened again as the hum of the driftdrive engine once again became the dominant sound in the hoverquad.
“What is Chernobyl like?” Varvara asked, staring at the trees as they passed.
Looking at her, Dostoevsky answered, “Did you not come to Chernobyl with us?”
“Clarke left me behind on that mission.”
“Oh.” Repositioning his hands on the wheel, Dostoevsky answered her question. “Less has changed since de-radiation than you might imagine. No one lives near the exclusion zone.”
De-radiation was the laymen’s term for the process of increasing radioactive decay in Chernobyl and Pripyat, the city nearest Chernobyl and former home to many workers at the Old Era nuclear site. The scientific name of the process was neutrino infusion, and it had something to do with lights. Or at least, that was all Dostoevsky knew about it. The bottom line was that over the course of twelve months, virtually all ground radiation in and around Chernobyl had been eliminated. Chernobyl was to be the trial run for the experiment. After its success, the plan was to implement de-radiation all across the globe, revolutionizing radioactive waste disposal. But there were two problems. Firstly, de-radiation had been patented by the New Soviet Union, which quickly turned from a spread-the-wealth nation to one with something that everyone else wanted. It was an ironic twist of capitalism for the reborn communist regime.
The right of the NSU to keep its secrets for the sake of profit became an international issue. Lawsuits, court rulings, lawyers of every type of law from every corner of the globe wrestled one another. No other nation supported the NSU’s hording of the technology. The NSU didn’t much care. At long last, after nearly five years’ worth of political bluster, agreements were made. De-radiation would become a part of the global community, and the NSU would still profit, thoug
h at a supposed lesser rate than they’d initially hoped. They referred to it as a “discount,” which was a blatant attempt to be seen as charitable. Everyone—for the most part—was satisfied.
The second problem was the Alien War. De-radiation got shelved. Earth went full military. The technology remained in the hands of the NSU, and the entire issue was promptly forgotten in the light of invading extraterrestrials. One of the greatest political tugs-of-war in modern history faded away like a whisper in the wind.
“Chernobyl power plant is like a corpse,” Dostoevsky said. “The entire building is in a state of decay. Fitting for us, is it not?” He smirked faintly.
She eyed him scrupulously. “Speak for yourself.”
“I was. I was talking about the Nightmen.” Eyes returning to the road, he said, “I would never compare you to a corpse.”
A moment passed before Varvara replied, turning her focus to the trees once more. “To what would you compare me?”
Her sullen tone indicated the question’s depth. Dostoevsky turned his head briefly to regard her, but she was still looking away. Inhaling quietly, he directed his gaze back to the road. “A seashell.”
“A seashell?”
“Yes,” Dostoevsky said. “A seashell.”
For several seconds, Varvara said nothing. Finally, she managed a response. “Why?”
His tone soft, yet firm, he answered, “Because every seashell has a story. Some find gentle rest on the bottom, while others tumble in the waves. But every shell is special, different. And sometimes, the most beautiful ones are broken.”
Varvara turned from the window to look straight at Dostoevsky, whose gaze was steadfast on the highway. Her lips parted, and she exhaled. After a moment passed, she looked ahead again. “Pull over.”
The fulcrum blinked. “What?”
“Pull the car over, now.”
The Dovecraft decelerated as Dostoevsky pulled out of what sparse traffic existed on the M51. Easing over onto the shoulder, the hoverquad drew to a halt, its wheels extending to touch the ground again once all motion had ceased. As Varvara unbuckled her seat belt, Dostoevsky looked over at her. “What is the—”
Varvara opened the passenger door and stepped out.
“Varya!” Dostoevsky hurriedly followed suit as she stalked down the shoulder, arms folded across her chest as what few cars were on the M51 whizzed past, tossing her hair in every direction. Opening the driver’s side door, he gave pursuit. “What is wrong? Varvara!”
“What are you trying to do?” she shouted, spinning around and slamming her hands into his chest, surprisingly hard. “Make me fall for you?”
He blinked. “Fall for me? I do not understand.”
“You stand up for me when no one should, you save me from Viktor, you compare me to a seashell?” Varvara’s face was flushed red. Her eyes glistened, but it seemed out of anger. “What are you doing, Yuri?”
Of every word she’d said, it was the fact that she’d called him Yuri that indicated her seriousness. It meant she didn’t fear his authority at all. That was never like Varvara. Just the same, her words left him perplexed. “I am not doing anything. You came with me, remember?”
Covering her face with her hands, she turned away from him. “I am so confused!”
“Stop walking away! Where are you going? Come back and talk to me.”
“I don’t want to be around you!” she said, turning again to emphasize with motion. Her voice cracking, she continued, “I don’t want to be anywhere near you!”
Dostoevsky’s mouth was agape. “Why?”
She pointed, her hand trembling. “Because you…” Her face twisted. She was fighting to hold it back. “Because you are so much better than me. I can’t take it.”
His shoulders sank. “Varya…”
“Little girls want to be many things. Princesses, astronauts, marine biologists. No little girl says they want to be a whore.” As the final word was pronounced, her emotions started to win out.
“Why do you say such a thing? That is foolish.”
She shouted, “Because I am the Fourteenth’s whore!”
“Varya, you are not a whore.”
“I slept with a man while my boyfriend was in the hospital! What does that make me?” Pointing to herself, she stared at him. “What do I call myself? An equal opportunist?”
Shaking his head adamantly, Dostoevsky answered, “You made a mistake.”
“I am a mistake!” Varvara bellowed, her volume making him flinch. She wrenched her fingers through her hair. “I have brought nothing to the Fourteenth. What use have I ever been? Look at Sveta, look at Esther!”
He approached her, but she stepped back. He halted the attempt. “They have nothing to do with this. They have nothing to do with you. Only you are responsible for yourself.”
“That is the point!” she screamed. “I am responsible. I made this mess of me—of Jay! Of everything! I am so…” as she fought to say the word, another heave came out, “worthless.”
As she said the word, Dostoevsky’s face became stoic. The whizzing of cars continued, sending waves of wind against them as they passed. For the first time, Dostoevsky answered her quietly. “Do not let how Viktor Ryvkin made you feel define who you are. A worthless woman would not have volunteered to go to Chernobyl.”
Wiping her eyes, she said, “Viktor was right—”
“Viktor is a speck.” Once again, he dared to draw nearer. This time, she let him. “He did not know what he had.”
Varvara laughed mockingly. “And what did he have?”
“A human being. With dreams, with aspirations. With faults. But with desires to do good. To be good.” When he came to within a step from her, he stopped. “Viktor wanted an object, something to satisfy a sick desire. No one can make someone like that happy—or into a good person themselves.”
Angling her head away, her voice now laced with exhaustion, she asked, “Why are you doing this? What are you trying to get?”
“I am not trying to get anything, Varya. I simply care.”
“Why do you care? What do you see that you simply must get involved?”
At her question, Dostoevsky fell silent, the edges of his lips curving downward just faintly. Sliding his hands into his pockets to escape the chill, he finally answered, “I see someone sickened by her own reflection.”
Her focus returned to him.
“I see someone who wakes up every morning comparing herself with everyone around her and coming up short. Someone who believes herself to be unredeemable.” He tried to smile. “It reminds me of myself, Varya.”
Looking at him curiously, she canted her head slightly as frost vapors escaped her lips. She continued to listen to Dostoevsky as he spoke.
“I arranged the murder of Scott’s fiancée. I convinced Thoor that everything would go smoothly, then I ensured that it did. I arranged her air travel, I guided Nijinsky. If not for my involvement, Nicole would be alive today.
“No one can understand the depths of my despair after her murder was carried out. What Scott did, the mistake he made by taking that young man’s life, was understandable. What I did was by design. Only an evil man designs those kinds of deeds. And it was me.”
Looking away briefly, as if to catch up with his own thoughts, Dostoevsky’s ice-blue eyes regarded the traffic, then returned to her. “I believed that I had no hope, and I am sure that others believed that, too. But I was spared. My life, which I took for granted in so many ways, was spared by a Power that I still do not understand, but that I cannot deny.” He paused. “Varya…I want to get you there, to the place where I am at now. Not perfect, not by kilometers, but redeemed just the same. What you did in deciding to come with me to Chernobyl, I know part of it was to escape the others—the company you believed despised you. I experienced that, too. But now you are with company who…”
He stopped at that word. Varvara’s brown eyes scrutinized him, waiting for whatever words were waiting in the wings to emerge.
> “Who understands you. Who is a kindred spirit. We—the two of us, you and I—were despised. We were written off, labeled as lost by everyone else. But my way was revealed to me. If you just trust what is happening, your way will be revealed to you, too. I know it.”
Varvara took in his words with silence, then she drew in a breath and swallowed. “Yuri?”
“Yes?”
The words barely came out. “I am so scared.” She looked as if she were about to break. Stepping to her, Dostoevsky placed his hands on her shoulders. She closed the gap and leaned into him, arms folded inward as his arms wrapped around her. “I am scared of Chernobyl. Of Viktor, if he is there.”
“Rely on God to give you—”
“I am not ready for God, yet,” she said, interrupting him gently. “I must first make amends with myself.”
Faintly, he frowned. Rubbing her back, he exhaled frost vapors of his own. He nodded a single time. “Do not wait too long.”
Three minutes later, the Dovecraft was once again cruising down the M51, its driftdrive engaged, at 110 kilometers per hour. Varvara resumed looking out of the window, watching the tree line as it passed by. She said nothing, and within ten minutes, the blond medic was once again curled up sideways, her eyes closed, inhaling gently in an exhausted slumber. Behind the wheel, Dostoevsky watched the highway lines as they streaked past in their infinite march to nowhere, his expression conflicted and thoughtful, but mostly thoughtful. Silence enveloped the car, the lulling hum of the driftdrive motor reclaiming its place as the only sound in the vehicle.
Until the comm chirped.
Glancing at the display as he kept the Dovecraft going straight, Dostoevsky raised an eyebrow. The call was from Antipov. And it was going out to the whole caravan. Patching the comm through to the hoverquad’s internal speakers, he waited to hear Antipov’s message.
“Attention, all caravan members currently on the M51.” The eidola chief paused. “There has been a change of plan.”
