Winston Chase- The Complete Trilogy

by Bodhi St John

  That nudge never came. Their boundary of color rushed outward, and Winston returned to himself. He lost all sense of depth and rested in stunned silence.

  What had happened? Was the Omega Mesh trying to tell him something? Was he nothing more than a speck in the big scheme of things?

  said the Omega Mesh.

  Relief flowed from Bledsoe in waves.

  Winston wanted to object. There had to be a way to make the Omega Mesh see reason. Despair welled throughout him, which fueled Bledsoe’s satisfaction even more.

  Before he could formulate his next thought, though, Winston noticed that the point at which he focused had become a white dot. As the surrounding rainbows touched the spot, they flowed into it. It was, Winston realized a white hole, swallowing up this bizarre universe.

  He didn’t have long to wait. The white spot grew at an increasing rate like a supernova swallowing the sky. Blue sparks appeared within the immaculate emptiness, almost imperceptible at first, then growing into fireworks that exploded across the heavens.

  At last, one spark ignited immediately before Winston, and although he had no form, he backed away from it, shocked, scared, wanting to cry out in amazement…

  …until the world of space and time reformed around him.

  35

  Bledsoe's Blood Offer

  In his years on Rota, Bledsoe had studied Joseph Stalin’s summer home outside the town of Sochi so often that he felt he could have navigated it blindfolded. The U-shaped dacha, as it was called, was painted the exact green of the surrounding cypress forest to help camouflage its exterior. The main floor’s fifteen-foot height allowed for towering windows and doorways. Stalin disliked the distraction of artwork, so most rooms lacked paintings. Nor were there carpets or rugs in most spaces, which might have muffled the sound of approaching footsteps. Room to room, and from ornately paneled ceiling to parquet mosaic floor, the dacha was coated in fine hardwoods, especially beech. It was a fine place, rich without being gaudy, comfortable yet built for around-the-clock work.

  Bledsoe had long imagined himself conducting world affairs from this building, as Stalin once had. It seemed fitting.

  From the remaining sparks that fell and fizzled about his feet and the scant moonlight that filtered into the large room from its balcony, Bledsoe knew that he was standing in Stalin’s study. Before him rested the dictator’s famed desk — two squarish cabinets topped by a simple plank on which rested a glass pane and only a few items: a blue-domed desk lamp, a blotter, a black phone that Bledsoe knew was a direct line to the Kremlin, and a finely carved silver-and-glass writing set gifted to Stalin by China’s Chairman Mao.

  Against the wall to Bledsoe’s right rested a long, black leather couch crafted from pigskin and stuffed with horsehair, which, in addition to being comfortable, also provided excellent bulletproofing. Between the desk and couch stretched a bed so narrow that Bledsoe felt it must be impossible to roll over in without falling off. The footboard facing him was no wider than his shoulders. At best, the thing might serve for a quick nap, but Stalin regularly slept on it during his summer months here, leaving him literally two steps from his work at any moment of the night.

  Except this night.

  It was 6:30 PM, March 1, 1953, and the Russian dictator lay sprawled on the hardwood floor between the desk and bed. The mauve cover from his bed lay in a crumpled heap across his body. His silver-streaked black hair jutted out at all angles, and his thick mustache twitched as he shivered. Bledsoe noticed with unexpected revulsion that a small, dark pool of vomit lay around the right desk cabinet, and the sharp scent of urine hung in the air.

  No, the Soviet premier was not well at all. Perfect.

  Bledsoe stilled the Alpha Machine and held it at his side to make it seem less odd or threatening. Noticing the Chase boy on his right, Bledsoe scowled and motioned for him to step back. The boy was feeling at his face, which seemed remarkably improved. Come to think of it, his skin no longer glowed either. Whatever weird limbo they had been in had apparently healed him. How long had they been there?

  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?”

&n
bsp; “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. Bledsoe 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 wrinkl
ed. 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?”