Now it was Fedorov.
If I do this thing, he thought, then I gift the world again with the darkness and depravity of Josef Stalin. I sit here in the hope that someone with a heart so blackened will be the one man strong enough to stop Volkov, to stop Hitler, and to build the Soviet Union that would one day build the ship that brought me here.
That was the cold chain of logic and reason he had forged with Karpov, link by treacherous link. Yet now, as he sat there, with that gun in his trembling hand, a great and yawning doubt seemed to encompass his soul. How could he know any of that would ever happen? Wasn’t it all speculation, all well-reasoned conjecture that was really nothing more than a wild guess, driven by that one coiled link of hope he had put in that chain?
How could he know that Stalin would live, rise to power as he did, find and defeat Volkov, ruthlessly enforce his will on the world? And how would it all become that world again at the top of those stairs—Stalin’s world, the purges, the gulags, the death ships in the icy Tatar Strait? Was it true that Russia would fall beneath the iron tread of Nazi Germany? Was it inevitable that this man before him, young Sergei Kirov, would falter and fail? Couldn’t they win the war? Couldn’t they prevail?
He could hear the man he once was, weeping within, as he cried out all these reasons, pleading for mercy. For at this moment, everything Kirov said was completely true; he was innocent. Yet now came that voice of cold Karpov logic—the death of one innocent man could save the lives of millions. Yet even Karpov had faltered with that.
What did he mean with that last urgent call, cancelling the mission and ordering me back to the ship? What twisted thread of dark possibility had he pulled from the loom of their sinister conspiracy? Fedorov thought he knew what it was. Karpov could not bear the uncertainty of rolling those dice one more time. He could not bear the thought the he might lose the cards he held so stubbornly in his hand, laying down his strait, and seeing Josef Stalin’s evil grin as he laid down his full house.
No, Karpov had decided that he would stand on the ground they had built together, and fight his war to whatever end that might come. Karpov had decided he could win that war, or die trying. His cruel and self-centered logic had simply decided it was better to rule in the hell they had created than to serve anywhere else. That was why he wanted to recall me, thought Fedorov. He simply could not bear the thought of losing everything he had striven so hard to grasp in his greedy hands—Kirov, the ship, the power he could wield with it, the Free Siberian State, and all his dreams of the world that would come after this war.
Kirov….
He stared now at the man his ship had been named for, the young eyes flaming with indignation, feeling his spirit, seeing in him the temperament that would take him to the crest of the wave of revolution that was only now gathering strength—Sergei Kirov. Yes, one day the world would build a ship in this man’s name, a ship born of fire, and steel, and the strangeness of some otherworldly thing that had fallen from the darkness of outer space, only yesterday….
Do it now, an inner voice urged him on. Do it before you think another thought. Become nothing more than reflex, mindless synapse, the twitch of a finger on the trigger of fate and time. Become Samsonov. Become the hiss and snap of a missile leaping up from beneath that long sea washed deck. Become judge and jury. Become the assassin. Become death itself.
His hand trembling, his face wrenched with pain, he raised up his unsteady arm, and Mironov saw the gun.
Chapter 12
Mironov saw the gun.
His eyes widened with sudden shock, and he instinctively leaned back, his body tense as coiled steel. So that was it, he thought. No interrogation, no trumped up charges, no trial and term in prison. He was to be executed, here and now. That was why all these men with guns had come here. But why? What had he done? And why would this man want to kill him now, when only yesterday he pleaded with him to live?
Something was wrong. Mironov could see it in the shaking of Fedorov’s arm, in the torment of his eyes. Then he saw the other man slowly raise up that pistol, but he was pointing it at his own head! His hand quavered, and there were tears welling at the corners of his eyes.
Then Mironov moved. It was impulse, synapse, Samsonov.
“No! Don’t!” Mironov lurched forward, taking hold of Fedorov’s arm just as that pistol went off with a loud report that stunned them both with its closeness. The chair gave way and the two men tumbled to the ground. The door burst open and in came Troyak, his assault rifle leveled, and seeing what was happening he simply fired a burst at the boarded windows, the bullets ripping through the wood, sending a rain of splinters onto the floor.
The pistol had slipped from Fedorov’s hand, the hand that Mironov had been struggling to stay. Troyak strode across the room, three quick steps, and collared Mironov, pulling him up off the floor and away from Fedorov with one arm, the hard steel of his rifle pressed into the young man’s back.
“Are you alright sir?” he said, seeing things were clearly otherwise with Fedorov. The bullet had just grazed his chin when that gun had fired, and he reached his hand to feel the place, seeing the thin trickle of his blood.
“Zykov! On me!” Troyak shouted over his shoulder, and the lanky Corporal came running in. “See to the Captain.”
As Zykov rushed to Fedorov’s side, he could see the stain of blood on his service jacket, but quickly surmised that he was not seriously injured. He reached into a pocket of his jacket, pulling out a ready wound patch and pulling off the outer packaging to apply it to the nick on Fedorov’s chin.
Slowly, as the ringing in his ears subsided, and his senses gathered, Fedorov sat up, then started to stand. Zykov helped him to his feet, with an ‘easy does it.’
“What in God’s name happened here?” he said to Fedorov, stooping to fetch the fallen pistol.
He tried to save my life!
That was all Fedorov could reason in that moment. His eyes were fixed fast on Mironov, the young man’s eyes still smoldering as he squirmed in the steely grip of Sergeant Troyak.
I was not man enough to do what I came here to do, and just coward enough to try and kill myself and end this misery. But he stopped me. Sergei Kirov could have done anything in that moment, anything, but his only instinct was to stop me from killing myself—me, the man he suspected as an agent of the Okhrana, come here to harry and harass and judge him. He tried to save my life….
Taking a deep breath, Fedorov composed himself, the eyes of both Troyak and Zykov heavy on him now, their concern obvious. He could see the question in their eyes, and how they were waiting for him to tell them what was to be done.
“Easy, Sergeant,” he said to Troyak. “This is not what it seems. It was just an accident. Corporal, take that pistol outside and return to your watch. Gather the other men in the front room. We’re moving out. Sergeant, you can release that young man.”
“But sir—”
“That is an order, Sergeant. He means me no harm. None of this was his doing. It was just an accident. See to your men. Make certain that all the equipment we brought is accounted for, and find Orlov. I want the entire squad assembled in the outer room in ten minutes. And for now, I want those ten minutes here with Mironov.”
Troyak was not comfortable with the situation as he saw things, but he knew an order when he heard one, and also knew another ‘but sir’ wasn’t going to get him anywhere. Something had clearly happened here, but he would not sort it all out now.
“Shall I send in a guard?” he asked, his eyes still looking Fedorov over searchingly, as if to make sure there were no other wounds.
“No Sergeant. I’ll be quite alright. Just see to the men, and make sure there is not so much as a ball of lint from our trousers left behind. We move in ten.”
“Aye sir.” Troyak moved now, synapse, reflex. He saluted and then gave Zykov a nod of his head, saying nothing more.
There were no other wounds, at least not in the flesh, thought Fedorov. He stooped slowly, pi
cking up the chair, Mironov’s eyes on his every move, dark and serious.
“Sit with me,” said Fedorov in a low voice, but he could see Mironov hesitate. “No interrogation,” he said again. “I… I must thank you for what you just did. I….”
Fedorov sat down, his head lowered with shame. Mironov stood there, watching him for a moment, and then he walked over, sitting down at the table, and the two men sat there a moment, just looking at one another in silence. This time, the pistol was gone.
If that inner voice from the man Fedorov once was could not stay his hand, this man could. He could not bring himself to kill Sergei Kirov, and like that awful moment that had come to Karpov on the weather deck of the ship as he fired his pistol at Tovey’s distant cruiser, Fedorov had fired off every last argument and reason in his mind, and the last he kept for himself. He would take his own life in payment for the terrible change he had brought to the world. Mironov was innocent.
“I know you will not understand what I am about to tell you,” said Fedorov quietly. “I came here to kill you…. Yes… that was why that pistol was in my hand. But when it came right down to the moment, I simply could not do this thing. You are correct, Mironov. You have done nothing wrong, and I could not sit here as your judge and executioner. I’d sooner take my own life than do that.”
Mironov nodded, his face betraying his confusion. “Kill me? But why? You were ordered to do so by the Okhrana?”
Fedorov managed a wan smile. “You might say that,” he said. “Let me just say that it was not anything you did that put that pistol in my hand. It was simply fear of something you might do—one day.”
Mironov was beginning to understand. “They couldn’t find the printing press,” he said, “but they know it is out there somewhere. They are probably still looking for it.”
“Yes,” said Fedorov, “and one day they will find it, and arrest you again. You will see the inside of a prison more than once in the days ahead, but you will survive.”
“They want to kill me? For that?”
“No… No, not for that. It is very complicated. How can I explain?” Fedorov looked over his shoulder, finding the silent door shut tight at the bottom of those stairs.
“Do you see that door?”
“Of course.”
“You remember what I told you yesterday? I said that you should never go up those stairs again. Get as far from here as you possibly can, but you and I both know that won’t happen. In a moment I’m leading my men up to the second floor, and you are free to go. No harm will come to you, but I know exactly what you will do. You will not be able to resist the urge to follow me, for curiosity is a very powerful thing. You have already seen far more than you should have, but what is done, is done.”
“I don’t understand,” said Mironov. “They ordered you to kill me, but you refused. Well, my friend, I can help you now. Come with me, you and all your men. There are places we can go where they won’t find us. You’ll see.”
Mironov knew it was risky to say what he did, but something in the desperation he saw in Fedorov’s eyes told him that this man was not a dark servant of his enemies. He did not know about the other men, but this one could be a new ally for the cause, for the revolution. The man was clearly conflicted, and unwilling to carry out his orders, so much so that he thought to take his own life instead. He was ripe fruit for the revolution.
“No, I cannot go with you. I have duties elsewhere. Now Mironov, listen carefully. Remember what I warned you about yesterday—do not forget it. In a moment I will take that stairway up, and you must not follow me this time. It is very dangerous there. If ever you find yourself near this place again, you must be very careful, very cautious. You will find what seems like madness at the top of those stairs, and one day you will understand. You will reach a place there where I can no longer go. You will see a world there that I was once born to, but now I am an outcast, and I can never return there again. No, I live in another world now, and I must return there to carry on the fight. I thought I could change things—change everything, reset the clock and the whole world with it, but it seems I cannot. So I will leave with my men in a moment, and we will return, to do the only thing left for us now—to fight and win. You fight too, here and now. You win through, Sergei. I have every faith in you. I know you will surmise what to do, and have the strength to do what I could not.”
Mironov looked at him, a puzzled expression on his face, not understanding, but sensing some deep truth in the man’s words and tone, sensing some ordained fate that was his, and his alone to find and grasp. It was a feeling more than a thought. It was a reflex, just like the impulse that prompted him to stop this man from raising that pistol to his own head to end his life. Something about him, this man named Fedorov, was right and good, and he could see now that he meant him no further harm. He was telling him the truth with every word he spoke, though he could not sort them through to find their meaning.
“So I will say it to you one more time,” said Fedorov, “just as I said it to you before. Do not go to St. Petersburg in 1934! Beware Stalin! Beware the month of December! And if you ever walk that stairway again, be as careful and cautious as you possibly can. No matter how dark and forsaken you may ever come to feel in the days ahead, no matter how hopeless the situation may ever seem, know that you can win. You can win, and you must never give up. Go with God now, Sergei Kirov. Go and live, Mironov. Live!”
Fedorov had sat at fate’s game table, hearing her ash grey whisper, seeing the bony hand push another stack of chips out onto the center of the table. Fate had called Fedorov’s bet, and now he would do the same, doubling down. He had said what he had said. It was over and done, and now he would return to the world he had created, and he would return to the war. Every thought of fixing the world and redeeming his own darkened soul was now banished from him. He had only one cause in his heart now, one mission. They were going back up those stairs, come what may, and they were going to fight that goddamned war, and win.
“Sergeant Troyak!” he called, giving Mironov one last smile as he stood up. The Sergeant was quick to respond, his eyes still laden with concern.
“Sir?”
“Are the men ready?”
“Yes sir, all assembled, just outside the front entrance. All equipment accounted for. I’ve double checked everything.”
“Good. And Orlov?”
“He’s there. I found him flirting with one of the maids.”
“Then it is time we get out of here, and leave this place to the innkeeper. We’ve caused enough ruckus as it stands. He’s locked that door there. We need it opened, and I don’t have time to find the man. See to it.”
Fedorov called the other men in, and looked them over. “Alright,” he said. “We’re going up these stairs. It may seem stupid, but bear with me. This is very important, and you must all do exactly as I say. I want the squad in single file, and every man is to take a firm hold on the shoulder of the man in front of him. Sergeant Troyak will lead, and secure the upper landing when he gets there. The rest of you file on up, and remember, nuts to butts, just as Symenko had it. Keep physical contact with the man ahead of you at all times. Come on then.”
“What about him?” Zykov pointed to Mironov.
“What about him? Our business with him is concluded. Let’s move.”
The Marines had bemused expressions on their faces, but orders were orders, and Troyak waved at them to form up. Fedorov had some reason for all of this nonsense, and this likely had something to do with that story he told us, he thought.
Mironov watched as the other soldiers filed in, Marines, as Fedorov had told him. They were tall, and fierce looking men, well-muscled, well-armed, and their every movement and step betrayed the deadly craft they specialized in. They were men of war.
The burly Sergeant went first, all business now. The Corporal was next in line, then the others filed into the dark well of that lower alcove, and he could hear their footsteps begin to ascend. Fedorov herded Orlo
v along next.
“After you,” said Orlov, fumbling with something in his pocket.
“Not on your life,” said Fedorov. “There, take hold of Private Gomel’s right shoulder. Good.” He reached up and placed his hand on Orlov’s broad shoulder in turn, and the line began to pull him into that shadowed alcove. At the last moment, he looked over for Mironov, and he smiled.
It was dark in that stairwell, and the walls and steps were dusty. That was something that would matter, though no one could foresee what would happen next. Fedorov’s heart rate was up, for he himself did not know if this would even work. Every man that comes down those stairs seemed to be linked to the time and place where he originated. That was all he could cling to, but there was only one problem. None of them came here by that stairway. He had navigated the airship right over the hypocenter where that thing had fallen from the deeps of space, and it had pulled them here to 1908 like a ship pulled down into a maelstrom of time.
So now he had no idea of what he should expect as they filed up those stairs, or where any of these men would end up. But he had one thing he held fast to, like he kept his hand firmly on Orlov’s shoulder.
“Sookin Sym!” said Orlov. “Can’t see a thing in here. Why didn’t someone turn on a flashlight. And there are cobwebs everywhere!”
“Quiet!” Fedorov hushed him, and even as he did, he felt Orlov’s big frame shudder with a sneeze…. And then he felt nothing at all, not the shoulder he had been clutching, not the steps beneath his feet—nothing!
Thor's Anvil (Kirov Series Book 26) Page 11