Kirov Saga: Darkest Hour: Altered States - Volume II (Kirov Series) (7 page)

“Then we have reason to fear our
own coming, sir. I keep going back and forth on this. On the one hand I think
that for us to be here on this ship, this very moment, then this saga had to
begin somewhere—with that accident on
Orel,
and our displacement to July
28th of 1941. Then on the other hand I think that for any of that to happen it
must result from a history that remains sufficiently intact so that this ship
is built. The events that lead to the design and commissioning of
Kirov
,
the placement of Rod-25 aboard—well they have to remain perfectly intact. It’s
a house of cards, sir, and we are an Ace sitting at the very top. Anything that
changes the history significantly in the past could easily affect our very
existence. I wonder if the changes we see, and our presence here now, will
prevent the ship from ever being constructed—or worse, Admiral. I wonder if
these alterations in the history could even lead to changes in our own personal
histories. Remember those men on Doctor Zolkin’s list. It could be that our
names are written in that same ledger now, and that time is simply waiting for
the right moment to make an end of us.”

That was a fairly dark
assessment, and it gave Volsky pause for a moment. “I know how you feel,
Fedorov, and what you must fear. Sometimes I think of my wife, and I am sure
many others here think of their own loved ones we left behind so long ago. It
is 1940. The dear woman I married over forty years ago will not be born for
another seventeen years! Believe me, to think I am now in a world where her
soul does not yet exist has left me feeling very empty at times. This heart of
mine was half filled, or more, with the love that woman gave me, yet she
doesn’t even exist, except in my memory at this moment.”

“Yes, and forgive me Admiral, but
she might never even be born at all. This is what I fear now, and while it
remains troublesome speculation and worry on my part at the moment, come July
28, 1941 we will be facing a dangerous paradox. We cannot be here, alive, the
ship intact in this world at the moment
Kirov
is supposed to first
arrive here. This is what I fear, and Director Kamenski’s reassurances have not
yet been sufficient to allow me a good night’s rest here.”

“Yet what can we do about that,
Fedorov?”

“We can leave, sir. Something
tells me we must leave before that date. Call it a hunch, but I just have this
feeling about it. So I have been looking at any possible way we could resolve
our dilemma here, given the fact the this new control rod we used seems
unreliable.”

“So you have been brooding over
volcanoes; looking for a way out of this world.”

Fedorov smiled. “Yes, I suppose I
have, sir.”

“I know you too well, young man.
You are scheming again, correct?”

“Well sir, I thought I would see
if there were any significant eruptions in this year or early next year, but I
haven’t found anything useful. Most of the volcanic activity was in the
Pacific—a few eruptions in Japan, the Kuriles, Kamchatka. Now that we are here
in the Atlantic, we will miss a moderate eruption on Miyake-Jima off the
southern Japanese coast. That will happen July 12th, and there will be another
moderate eruption in Indonesia on July 20th.”

“Well I don’t think it would be
wise to try and spin the roulette wheel again and see if we end up in the
Pacific.”

“True, sir. But there won’t be anything
else until Asama on Honshu, Japan on July 13th next year—that’s just two weeks before
Kirov
first appeared in the Norwegian Sea. They were all moderate
eruptions—nothing like that Demon Volcano in 2021. The biggest event near us in
time and space now would be Hekla on Iceland, but it isn’t scheduled to erupt
until November 2nd, 1947.”

“That is of no help to us.”

“Perhaps,” said Fedorov. “But
that eruption had been building for more than a century. Hekla is the most
active volcano on Iceland, producing explosive eruptions on a fairly regular
basis. The 1947 event was very explosive, though it was much smaller than the
Demon Volcano, just a VEI 4.”

“You have been digging, Fedorov.
And you are thinking we have our own way of lighting a candle whenever we
choose with our special warheads.”

“I suppose so, sir. It’s
something we may have to consider if we cannot sort our this control rod
issue.”

Volsky gave him a look of
admiration. “Well I will consider this with you. But remember, these explosive
events always send things to the past, not the future. That is a caveat we must
not forget. We will discuss it with Kamenski and perhaps Zolkin as well. The
Doctor always has some interesting insight on these matters. After all, it was
he who suggested we simply have Dobrynin fiddle with the reactors to get us
home, and that has worked for us more than once. Now, however, I think we have
our foot in the door here, and we must look to what is happening with the
Germans. It is in my mind to continue north now, for Severomorsk and Murmansk.”

“You’re going to sail
Kirov
right into port, sir?”

“Possibly. If the situation
permits and it seems safe and prudent. You have told me that Sergei Kirov is
leading the Soviet State now. I want to speak with the man—in fact, I think you
should speak with him as well. After all, you two met years ago.” The Admiral
smiled.

“Do you think that is wise,
Admiral? Look what happened after I met him in 1908. Just the slightest word
form me may have caused all this.”

“I told you to lay that burden
down, Fedorov. You must not blame yourself. It may be that we vanish next July
as you fear, but Kamenski could also be correct and we may simply be forced to
live out our lives here if these new control rods no longer work. Oh, we will
keep your volcanoes in mind, but we may be here for some time, and this ship
will need a friendly port. There is no other way to say it. We’ll need food,
water, supplies. Beyond that, I have the men to consider. Perhaps sight of home
would do them some good.”

“But you can’t be considering
shore leave there, sir. Wouldn’t that be very dangerous?”

Volsky remembered how Fedorov
fretted in the Pacific when they had put men ashore. He wanted all his eggs
safe in the basket where he could keep count. “I know you still hope we can
avoid further changes, further contamination here, but that may not be
possible.”

Fedorov sighed. “I know that,
sir. One night I was standing a quiet watch and seemed to be able to let all
those concerns go and just accept the fact of my own existence here—that this
was my life now, here, in this time and place. It was very liberating, far
better than carrying these troubled thoughts around in a big burlap sack on my
back.”

“Yes? Well have you considered
this, Fedorov? You say Sergei Kirov followed you up that stairway at Ilanskiy.
It may be that he discovered what was happening there in some way, even as you
did. He was a clever young man back then as well. Suppose he did discover that
there were two different worlds joined by those stairs. Then what?”

“I’ve thought about that,
Admiral, but how can we know this?”

“By speaking with Kirov, that’s
how.”

Fedorov was silent for a time,
finally realizing what the Admiral was driving at. Yes, he thought, we could
learn a great deal about what happened in such a meeting. For that matter, if
we do make port somewhere, then I could get my hands on some history books and
read all about it. This would clear up many questions, but it would also be
very risky, and he said as much to Volsky.

“Yes, yes,” said Volsky. “It’s
risky to get out of bed each day. But we still get up. Breakfast is waiting. So
we must take a few risks here if we want our eggs and sausages, eh?”

“Or a good blini and jam, sir.”

“Exactly. But there is one more
reason I think we must speak with this man, and this is one you may have
considered yourself. If what I have said is true, and Sergie Kirov did learn
the peculiar nature of that back stairway, then he knows it still—to this day.
There is one other way we can move in time, Mister Fedorov, and without control
rods, nuclear bombs or volcanoes. That stairway may still exist, and if it
does, it is the single most important place in all of Russia. You understand?
The innkeeper at Ilanskiy may be the most powerful man on earth and not even
know it! But that said, only a very few people on this earth may know about
this. Aside from a select club on this ship, Sergei Kirov may be one of those
people.”

“I see….” Fedorov suddenly
realized that Volsky had been thinking a great deal about things, and had plans
and schemes of his own. Then the Admiral held up a finger.

“There is one other man who may
know of what we speak, that Intelligence officer Kamenski told us about, the
man who shares the name of the current leader in Orenburg—Ivan Volkov.”

The name fell like hot coals
hissing in a bucket of water. They passed a brief moment, with a palpable sense
of dread between them, clearly evident in the eyes of both men.

“So you see, Fedorov, we may have
more to worry about here than this rendezvous with fate on July 28th next year.
We have business of our own making to attend to first, and something tells me
time has left us here for that very reason.”

Part III

Prodigal Son

“The pattern of the prodigal is: rebellion, ruin,
repentance, reconciliation, restoration.”

—Edwin Louis Cole

Chapter 7

The
madness that overtook
him was a raging storm, yet something within him struggled to restrain it. End
it!
End it!
The shame was too great, welling up like bile in his throat,
and he raised the gun to his head. At that moment Admiral Tovey intervened,
steady at the wheel of HMS
King Alfred
, bearing down on the ominous
shadow ahead. A shell from his guns fell very near the ship, sending a hail of
splinters up when it exploded, one scoring Karpov’s face even as he began to
squeeze the trigger. The pain and blood shocked him to the realization of life,
harsh, stunning blood-red life that was still pulsing in his veins.

The ship lurched and he was
thrown off balance, careening against the gunwale as
Kirov
rolled, and
he was thrown completely over, falling from the weather bridge and scudding off
the Korall BN-3 space communications system dome cover, which sent him flying right
off the ship and headfirst into the sea! He plunged into the water with a hard
thump, dazed and yet moving with an instinctive frantic impulse to save
himself.

Beneath the frothing sea, he
opened his eyes in a moment of panic, gaping at the shadow of fear itself in
the shape of a submarine, like a phantom from his own private hell. There it
was, lurking like a predatory shark very close to the ship! It was as if he had
been flung into his worst nightmare, and he flailed, nearly gasping in the
seawater as he struggled to reach the surface.

The broad hull of the ship had
passed on, looming up as it slid away on the turbulent waters. He found himself
batted about in the swirling wash of the ship’s wake, the sea suddenly alive
with energy, a scintillating seafoam green radiating out in every direction.
Only his adrenaline kept his limbs moving, thrashing and flopping to keep his
head above water. In one last terrible moment he saw the horizon studded with
the squat iron shapes of the enemy ships, dark and threatening, iron monsters
churning forward, their bows biting into the waves as they converged on the
scene.

From the bridge of
Kirov
,
with the power of the ship at his command, they were no more than heedless
targets for his anger and ambition to squash on a whim. But here, alone in the
wild sea, they loomed as steely devils, belching steam and black smoke, their
guns training and firing, booming out reprisal.

It was over, he realized in a
sudden moment of lucid thought. This was his end. Death waited for him here in
the cold, merciless sea. Then he closed his eyes, his struggle finished,
feeling a sensation of feathery lightness, his
skin tingling as with the prickle of a thousand needles. There was no
pain, only the strange sensation that he was slipping, falling, sliding away
into the unseen depths—the infinite sea of time itself. His vision faded to
grey, his consciousness fleeing as he lay in the hand of fate that moment. Yet
its resolute grasp did not choose to close upon him with the finality of its crushing
weight. Not yet… not now… not this day…

It
was
not
over. Death was not waiting hungrily for him as he hoped it
might, and when he finally awoke he felt himself adrift, still floating, his
body moved by some unfathomable power beneath him that he instinctively
recognized as the rise and swell of the sea. Karpov was alive. The sun was warm
on his face, but something else was there. Eyes closed, he reached his hand,
still feeling the soreness in his shoulder where he had fallen against the
ship… coarse cloth… a bandage on his face.
He opened his eyes, squinting
up
at the azure sky, studded with fluffy
white clouds and resounding with the call of seabirds. A quiet bell rang, very
close. The salty marine smell and an odor of fish was all about him. Then a
shadow loomed over him, and he saw a face.

The
eyes held a smile beneath cinder brows, the face of an old Asian man. The
sudden memory of that headlong fall from grace and power to what seemed a clear
and imminent death was on him again, and he struggled to sit up, almost as if
to flee from the vision in his mind—
Kirov
, the guns and missiles firing,
the faces of the crew, Samsonov and Rodenko, stony, adamant, full of
recrimination. Doctor Zolkin slumped against the bulkhead… the blood… then the
wild fall into the nightmare sea and his vision of the one thing that sent
chills through his frame and haunted his thinking whenever he stood at the
helm—a submarine! His breath came faster.