Paradox Hour

Chapter 34

Fedorov had a very odd feeling. It was more than that oddly spinning compass in his pocket. It was more than his boots, a brush with a fate that could have seen him end up like Lenkov. It was more than the unaccountable damage to the ship itself. When he walked the ship, he felt like a man who had left for work that morning and forgotten his lunch box or wallet. Something was off, twisted, rearranged. Something was missing.

He had the distinct feeling that he had misplaced something, but he could not think what it was. As he made his way to the bridge, he found himself peering through one hatch or another, noting the crew at work, the equipment, almost like a mother hen checking her nest to see that all the eggs were still there.

Yes, he thought. That was it. A missing egg… Had something hatched here in this strange displacement the ship was experiencing? Was this the moment he had feared all along, that day of reckoning for all the crimes they had committed in their long, incredible journey through time? What was happening here?

He remembered the many things he had discussed with … How very odd… with who? The arguments were there in his mind, fresh and clear, but he could not recall the face on the other side of the discussion he had about them. Things had been topsy turvey these last days. He was tired, needing sleep, and it was a miracle he could even still function here. He felt very confused, and he had the distinct feeling that there were others on the ship that felt the very same way, like Mister Gagarin, staring at his work detail clipboard with a bemused and puzzled expression on his face.

These time shifts are beginning to have an effect on me, he thought. This situation is most unusual. Clearly we’ve shifted somewhere. This is not simply the pulsing instability that we experienced before. The ship seems suspended in time, somewhere, but we are clearly afloat and underway on the high seas. But where? This damn fog is impenetrable.

Volsky and Rodenko were discussing the situation near the Captain’s chair where the Admiral sat, tapping his hand on the padded arm rest impatiently. Nikolin, Samsonov and Velichko were at their stations, as always… but there it was again—that feeling that something was off kilter, something wrong, something missing…

“Mister Fedorov,” said Volsky. “How is the ship’s hull?”

Fedorov put his inner agitation aside and made his report. “Byko put men over the side, sir, and while there is a minor depression on the starboard side, the hull seems intact and sound.”

“Very well,” said Volsky. “So when does this end? Are we still involved with this pulsing business?”

“The ship seems to have reached some stable state,” said Fedorov, “but I have not yet been able to determine just where we are—in space or time.”

Volsky nodded. “There’s been nothing on our sensors, and I have had Nikolin listening for any radio or short wave transmissions. Nothing. We have tried contacting Invincible, Kazan, and Argos Fire, but get no reply. The equipment does not even handshake, as Nikolin explains it. He sends his signals out, but there seems to be no one listening out there. This is most alarming, Fedorov, and I think he’s a bit frustrated.”

“Agreed sir,” said Fedorov. “Though this situation was not entirely unexpected. I knew we were in for trouble of some kind, and it seems we have found it. This is frustrating for us all, Admiral.”

“Then this is that paradox you have warned about? It is only May, and you said that would not occur until late July.”

“Frankly sir, we don’t know what our position is in time any more than I can determine our position in space. We can’t see the stars, so I can get no navigational fix. Radar has no land forms within range. We have nothing on sonar… this fog has us completely socked in. I suggest we send up the KA-40. Maybe it can get up above this sea fog and find the stars. Then we can used the old fashioned methods to at least determine our position. As for where we are in time, we will need some touchstone to ascertain that. Remember, it often took several hours.”

“Very well, make it so. In the meantime, we must consider our options. We cannot just sit here in this fog.”

“What do you suggest, Admiral?”

“We are capable of making a deliberate time shift,” said Volsky, “are we not? We still have those two control rods aboard.”

“Yes sir, but I would not recommend using the Alpha rod. We clearly discovered that it can also move us in space. If that were to happen again, we might end up marooned on dry land… or worse.”

Volsky shrugged. “You can think of something worse?”

“We could re-materialize inside a landform, just as Lenkov was melded into the deck. And don’t forget my boots!”

“Wonderful!” Volsky shook his head, his hand still tapping the arm of the Captain’s chair. “Then what about the second control rod, the Beta rod, good old Plan B.”

“That remains another unanswered question,” said Fedorov. “At the moment we are clearly somewhere in spacetime, and in the physical world, even though it feels like some never-never land with this heavy fog. I suggest we first try an ascertain our position by using the KA-40, and then, if this situation persists, we always have Plan B.”

“Assuming Chief Dobrynin is well enough to manage things.”

“I checked with Doctor Zolkin earlier,” said Fedorov. “The Chief is recovering, and already asking to be returned to duty.”

“Well at least we have a little good news,” said Volsky. “Strange that he was the only one to hear this odd sound.”

That remark struck Fedorov as odd again, strangely provocative of some inner objection on his part, yet he could not see why. The stress of these last hours seemed to weigh on him now, and he thought he had better gets some food and rest himself.

“Sir, if all is well here for the moment, I would like to take a meal break.”

“Excellent,” said Volsky. “Eat hardy, Fedorov. Let me know what the cook is serving, and I’ll add a few more pounds to this belly of mine when you get back.”

Fedorov saluted, and was on his way to the officer’s dining hall, the hunger feeling like an empty hole in his soul now. He could still not shake that strange feeling of discombobulation. Thankfully, the engineers had worked on the main hatch, and it was now in operation again, so he would not have to take that foggy ladder down.

As he sat at the dining table, he could not shake the feeling that he was overlooking something of great importance. He felt again like a man at a train station or airport, but at the wrong boarding gate, just minutes left before his departure. The food did him some good, but he soon found his mind dwelling on what may be happening to the ship now—to all of them—in this grey fog of uncertainty. The only note of reason in all of this had come to him in his discussions with…

Something was there, something right at the edge of his awareness, yet he could not grasp it… a slippery fish… Something suddenly snapped in his mind with that thought. Yes! A slippery fish! Director Kamenski! He took one last sip of wine to chase down the stew he had been eating, stuffed a dinner roll into his jacket pocket, and was up on his feet, suddenly animated with newfound energy.

He made his way to the officer’s quarters, to the spare visitor’s cabin at the end of the hall opposite the Admiral’s room. Stepping up to the door, he quietly knocked, waiting, somewhat breathless with anticipation more than anything else. Perhaps he was sleeping, he thought, but decided the situation was too grave, and he knocked again.

There was no answer.

“Director? Captain Fedorov here. Are you awake sir?”

Silence.

He decided to try the door, finding it locked, and now he became concerned. Reaching into his pocket for the master quarters key that was always on the Captain’s keychain, he unlocked the door, knocking again as he inched it open. The room was swathed in deep shadow, and he flicked on the light switch, suddenly afraid he might find Kamenski in a state like Lenkov. The man was always reclusive, keeping mostly to himself aboard the ship, happy and content to stay in his cabin reading and smoking his pipe. He even took his meals there quite often, lost in his deliberations, yet always amiable and willing to receive visitors.

Fedorov eased through the door, a sense of rising anxiety in him now. The light was revealing, and thankfully nothing seemed out of order. Yet that fact alone was still disconcerting. The room was empty. In fact, it appeared as though it had never been occupied, with the bed all made up, the wardrobe area clean and unused, and no dinner tray from the meal Kamenski must have surely ordered tonight. The stack of books on the desk were gone, as was the ash tray, and the Director’s pipe. Then he heard an unexpected sound, the meowing of a cat, though faint and far off. Doctor Zolkin’s “Gretchko” must be prowling about up here, he thought, but he saw nothing in the room—until he looked over at the nightstand.

There, sitting quietly by the lamp, was the only sign that Kamenski might have been there recently, though it surprised Fedorov to see it there. Why would he go and leave a thing of such importance just lying about like that? He edged around the bunk, stepping over the nightstand, and reached for it, a slight quiver in his hand as he did so. He must be out on deck getting some air, thought Fedorov.

But he was not on deck.

Kamenski had been in his quarters, as always, when Kirov vanished from Admiral Tovey’s horizon. Then the feeling came, like someone tapping on his shoulder, reminding him of an appointment he had to keep. He looked up, knowingly, a quiet smile on his lips, and slowly set the book he had been reading aside, wondering where it might turn up one day. He put his pipe into his sweater pocket, and when he removed his hand, it held something else.

Quietly, and with little fanfare, he set it on the nightstand, breathing deeply, and taking what might have been thought of as a last look around the quiet room, if anyone had been there to see him.

Fedorov tramped back to the officer’s mess, disappointed that he had not found the Director available to consult with him on the predicament they now found themselves in. Along the way, he stopped off at the ship’s Purser to see if other accommodations might have been made for Kamenski. There his evening took another turn for the worse.

“I’m sorry sir, who is the crewman you are enquiring about?”

“Not a crewman, Mister Belov, a special guest—Director Kamenski. He was quartered in the officer’s reserve cabin opposite Admiral Volsky, but he doesn’t seem to be there. Has he been relocated?”

Belov looked at his clipboard, then went over to his desk and keyed something on a computer. “Sorry Captain, I have no listing under that name. In fact. I’m showing the reserve cabin as presently unoccupied.”

“Unoccupied? Well I was just there the other day conferring with the man. He’s been quartered there for months!”

“Not according to my records, sir. We had the British Admiral Cunningham there for a night when we were in Alexandria, but no one has been assigned there since.”

Fedorov gave the man a stern look, frustrated. We can’t even keep the guest roster straight on this ship, he thought, somewhat annoyed. Clearly the Purser must have slipped in making this data entry. Then something occurred to him, and instead of pressing the matter here, he stepped out into the corridor, and found the nearest intercom station.

“This is the Captain. Will Director Pavel Kamenski please report to the officer’s dining hall. I repeat. Director Kamenski—please report to the officer’s dining hall. That is all.”

He looked at Belov, still annoyed, and moved on.

Yet he would sit in the dining hall for the next half hour, picking at a slice of Natalka, a layered Russian cake he was fond of, and lucky enough to find available tonight for dessert. Kamenski never arrived.

“May I join you, sir?”

It was Nikolin, down from the bridge for his meal shift. “Please do,” said Fedorov. “Though I must say, I’m not in the best of moods, Mister Nikolin.”

“Me neither, sir. I’ve been feeling very strange of late.”

“We all have. These time shifts are very disconcerting. This latest event was uncontrolled, and I think more than the ship was bent and warped when we moved. But you look very glum, Nikolin. Why such a long face?”

“I can’t really say, sir. I was at my post an hour ago, and something very strange happened. It’s a bit of a riddle, literally.”

“What do you mean.”

“Well sir, I play with riddles… It has neither eyes nor ears, but it leads the blind. Things like that.”

Fedorov smiled. “What’s the answer? I thought of a seeing eye dog, but it clearly has both ears and eyes.”

“A walking stick,” said Nikolin, seeming a little more himself for a moment. Then a squall of what Fedorov might only interpret as sadness seemed to sweep over him, and his eyes had a distant look.

“I play riddles with anyone I can find,” he said. “And sometimes I will send them over the ship’s private text messaging system,” he confessed. “I was checking those file archives as part of the general diagnostic you ordered on all ship’s equipment… and I found something.”

“What Nikolin? You look upset.”

“I am, sir, but it feels like my roof has caved in—Choknutyj.” That was an untranslatable Russian word for crazy, and Fedorov could understand how anyone on the ship might feel that way just now. “When Karpov was here—during that last incident on the bridge,” said Nikolin, “I caught part of the radio transmission on a recording when the Admiral was ordering the Captain to stand down. I didn’t know what to do, but I had been sending riddles to someone on the text messaging system, and I used it to give warning of what was happening. I ran across the very message I sent in my system check, by chance I suppose. It was very upsetting. The station number was listed, and the crew member’s code comes right after that for message routing. I had been playing the game, sending riddles to that same code earlier that day, so I looked it up.” He gave Fedorov a puzzled look. “There’s no one assigned to that code sir. It was void—designated unused.”

“Perhaps you got the number wrong,” Fedorov suggested.

“No sir. The code was on numerous text messages I sent that day, always the same number, and these are permanent assignments, like a person’s email address. Yet when I queried the database the code was unassigned.”

“You are certain of this number?”

“001-C-12.” Nikolin rattled off the number from memory. “I know it as easily as my old street address. 001 is for main bridge stations. Sub-codes C-10 through C-12 are for personnel serving at the sonar station.”

“Velichko?

“No sir, his number is C-11. I double checked that.”

“I see… So you say you have messages in the archive sent to C-12, but no one has that number? Then you found a glitch in the system, Nikolin. Good for you! This could be a clue. We will have to give the electronics a deeper look. If this data was not stored properly, or perhaps written wrong by the system, then other things could be amiss as well. I discovered a problem with the Purser’s data just a little while ago.”

“I suppose so sir, but you don’t understand…” Nikolin had a tormented look on his face now. “When I saw that number, it was as though something broke inside me, and I remembered. 001-C-12. The number kept after me. I knew it meant something—someone, but I could not remember who it was. Then this feeling came over me that is hard to describe. I felt so sad, as though I had lost a brother—my best friend. That’s when it hit me, Captain. My best friend! Yes, I knew who had that number now—I could see his face, hear his voice, remember. It all came back, and I remembered he had been taken ill—just a little while ago sir. So I went looking for him. I went down to sick bay and asked the Doctor about him, but he had no idea who I was talking about!”

“Well who are you talking about?”

“Alexi, sir. Alexi Tasarov! I can’t find him! I’ve looked all over the ship!” There was a pleading look on his face now, very troubled and bothered.

“You can’t find him?” Now Fedorov realized he had been sitting there waiting for Director Kamenski for the last 45 minutes. Something about Nikolin’s travail suddenly struck him like a hammer.”

“You can’t find him? Have you gone to his quarters?” His mind offered up the next logical step in solving that simple puzzle, but even as he did so, he had the feeling that the missing piece meant something much, much more than it seemed on the surface. Nikolin was sitting there, telling him he’d lost his best friend—telling him he could not find this man Tasarov…

Fedorov knew every man that served in a main bridge station, with no exceptions, but he had no recollection of this name—Tasarov…

Until that very moment.

Something gurgled and bubbled up from deep within him, not the boiled stew and tomatoes he had for dinner an hour earlier, but from some deep inner place that seemed almost primal, an old, lost memory, emerging to the forefront of his consciousness.

Yes… Tasarov! Alexi Tasarov, the man with the best ears in the fleet! His eyes widened with the recollection, and he could see the man even now in his mind, sitting quietly in his chair, the big headphones like ear muffs on his head, sandy hair protruding from the round rim of his cap, lost in the sound field, or perhaps surreptitiously listening to music when the ship was in a situation where no undersea threats might be possible.

“Tasarov!” he exclaimed. “Lieutenant Alexi Tasarov!”

“You know him?” Nikolin beamed. “I thought I was going mad, Captain. Every time I asked about him, no one knew who I was talking about—not even the Admiral! I’ve looked everywhere, sir—all over the ship, but he’s missing.”

Missing… Now the P.A. system announcement Fedorov had made concerning Kamenski seemed to resonate in his mind, yet with a forlorn, hollow feeling. Missing… Like the eighth man on Mister Gagarin’s duty roster… He was up on his feet, with an energy that seemed to drive him with renewed urgency now. All the strangeness he had felt these last hours seemed to suddenly shatter like a glass. It wasn’t me, he thought. Something is amiss here!

“Mister Nikolin—Eat!” he pointed at the buffet station. “Then come right back to the bridge. I’m going to get to the bottom of this and find out what the hell is going on here.”

He rushed away, intending to go to the bridge, his thought being to report this to the Admiral at once. But another voice in his mind seemed to caution him, and he found himself heading back to the reserve officer’s cabin, letting himself in with a furtive glance down the hall.

He went immediately to the nightstand, relieve that it was still there where he had left it out of respect to Director Kamenski. Now he reached for it, with more than a little trepidation, and took it in his hand, somewhat tentatively at first. Then he closed his palm around it, and put his hand in his pocket.

Anton Fedorov was now a Keyholder.

Chapter 35

Fedorov’s footsteps came hard on the deck as he hastened to the bridge. Behind him came Nikolin, forsaking his meal and instead struggling to keep up with the Captain, who now seemed driven by a tireless energy. They made their way up the final stairway, and in through the hatch, now permanently open, because the subtle warp in the metal would not allow it to close properly. His eye fell on the dimpled spot in the deck, and his boots were still there, as if glued to the metal deck plating, a reminder of how close he had come to suffering grievous harm. Another few feet, and he might have been standing right in the center of that warped deck zone. Who knows what would have happened to him?

The incident concerning Director Kamenski, and now this sudden revelation by Nikolin had jolted something loose in his own mind—he remembered! The thick, oppressive fog that surrounded the ship seemed to befuddle his mind as well as his senses, and now he could see that many other crew members had been affected this same way. He remembered those first hours after the displacement shift, as he walked the ship to survey possible damage. The crew had seemed listless, confused. Chiefs and Petty officers were growling to get the men moving and put them to some useful work. A few seemed dazed, even lost. He had run into one man, a junior mishman, who said he had been looking for the radar workshop, but ended up well forward, under the long empty deck where the missile maintenance crews held forth. He was lost!

While the ship’s electronics all seemed unaffected, operating without a hitch, the only damage they had found had been to dead space areas, stretches of metal deck, bulkheads, gunwales and ladders. But now he saw that the men had been affected as well, and it had something to do with their memory.

That was why I could not recall who was on the other side of all those arcane discussions about quantum physics! Director Kamenski! I could not even remember the man’s name for a time, until that phrase turned over in my mind, leaping from the muddied pool of my recollection—the slippery fish. As soon as I said that to myself, it seemed to set off a chain reaction, and I started to remember. And by god! When Nikolin first started to spin out this tale about his riddle game, I had no idea who he was talking about—Tasarov! He’s clear in my mind now, but thirty minutes ago it was as if he never existed.

What was happening? Are we affected now, just as the equipment and radars seemed to be dazed and inoperable after a time displacement? Or was this something darker, more threatening, more final and absolute. He remembered those missing men when the ship had reached Vladivostok—the list of names coaxed out of Doctor Zolkin by that meddlesome intelligence Captain—Ivan Volkov. They were the names of all the men that had died in those first displacements, in battles we fought with the Royal Navy, the Italians, and the Japanese. Yet when he tried to look up their service records, nothing had been found. There was no record of them in any archive or database in the country. It was as if they had never existed.

Is this what is happening to us all now?

He was through the door, hearing the watchstander announce his coming, though he offered no salute, making straight for Admiral Volsky. Nikolin came up behind him, waiting nervously as Fedorov took a moment to catch his breath.

“Ah, Fedorov, I hope the meal did you some good. I did not expect you back so soon.”

“Admiral, I believe we have a serious problem.”

Volsky suppressed a laugh. “That is quite the understatement, Mister Fedorov. The KA-40 went up, and they simply could not get high enough to break through this fog. Can you believe that? The service ceiling on that helicopter is 5000 meters, but its grey as a whale’s back all the way up! Beyond that, they had a hell of a time finding the ship again on the way back down. We had to use lasers. Another equipment malfunction. They say they couldn’t see the ship on radar, and Mister Mikoyan there at the comm station was even beginning to lose our link with them. Thankfully, we got them back, but it was a very chancy landing.”

“Sir,” said Fedorov, not knowing where to begin. “I think we have more than the equipment and helicopter to worry about now. Nikolin says we have a man missing.”

“A man overboard? Who? When did it happen?”

“Not a man overboard, sir, its Tasarov. You remember? He was sent down to sick bay on a stretcher, about four hours ago, just before that system malfunction Kalinichev reported. Just before we lost contact with the Invincible.”

Volsky seemed to hesitate a bit. “The Invincible… Oh yes. Admiral Tovey’s ship. Who did you say this man was?”

“Tasarov sir, our number one sonar operator. The best ears in the fleet.”

At this Velichko looked over with a smile. He had been listening under his headphones and only caught the tail end of what Fedorov had said, recognizing the familiar phrase that people used with him.

Now Volsky was quiet, his head inclined to one side, eyes looking up, as if he was thinking to see something he was looking for on the overhead HD panel. “Tasarov?” he said. “I must be getting old, Fedorov, or you must be needing sleep. Velichko has been at that post since the morning shift.”

“No sir, that is not correct. Tasarov was assigned there this morning. We were discussing that sound he had been hearing. Chief Dobrynin too. We even called down to Doctor Zolkin in the sick bay to check on Dobrynin’s condition.”

“Chief who? Dobrynin? What department?”

Fedorov’s eyes widened with alarm. He went directly to the ship’s intercom and punched in the code for sick bay. “Doctor Zolkin,” he said. “This is the Captain.”

“Zolkin here.”

“Doctor… Please update me on the condition of Chief Engineer Dobrynin. Has he been released for normal duty, or is he still with you there?”

The interval of silence hit Fedorov with a sinking feeling. Then Zolkin came back. “Chief Engineer? You mean Byko? He isn’t here, Fedorov. I haven’t seen him today.”

“No, Doctor, not Chief Byko. He’s Damage Control Chief. I’m speaking of Engineer Dobrynin—Chief of propulsion and reactor operations.”

“I’m sorry, Captain. I don’t know the man. He must be very healthy. Good for him!” There was Zolkin’s inevitable humor, but Fedorov was not happy. My god, he thought. Another man that no one will have heard of, like Tasarov, like the missing man on Mister Gagarin’s duty roster, like Kamenski! It isn’t just the ship we must worry about now. It’s Paradox Hour!

Fedorov seemed shaken as he thumbed off the hand microphone, letting it dangle limply from the coiled wire. It shifted back and forth with the movement of the ship, a silent pendulum of disorder, wanting to be cradled again, safe in the overhead intercom station, and not left like that, dangling, loose, forgotten.

“See what I mean sir!” said Nikolin, and Fedorov gave him a quick glance.

Now he looked directly at Admiral Volsky, his voice taut, the tension evident as he spoke. “Admiral, what I am now about to say will seem preposterous, but you must have faith that I have evidence to support every word of it. We’re in trouble—extreme danger—at this very moment. Not just the ship, but the crew itself. Men are being reported as missing. That alone is cause enough for alarm, but what I say next is the real problem—no one remembers them, just like Zolkin there with Chief Dobrynin. Are you saying you have no recollection of the man? He was coordinating all our earlier time displacements with those ears of his. And then there is Tasarov, our number one sonar man—Nikolin’s best friend. And one more man has gone missing, Director Kamenski is not in his quarters, and does not answer to intercom hails. He’s missing too, sir. They’re all simply gone.”

“Director who? Kamenski…” Volsky lowered his heavy brows, thinking deeply. Fedorov was watching him very closely, waiting, then he spoke, with hasty urgency.

“We met him in Vladivostok, sir, after we returned from the Pacific. Inspector General Kapustin brought him in on his investigation, and he came to your office at Naval Headquarters, at Fokino. He had photographs, Admiral. Remember? Photographs of the ship as it was moving through the Straits of Gibraltar. We asked him to come with us when we boarded Kazan, on that mission to try and stop Karpov in 1908! He’s been with us ever since. My god, I spent hours and hours with the man in his cabin, right across from your quarters, Admiral. Don’t you remember? You told me to ask him about the gophers—in his garden!” He realized that last bit might make him sound like a fool, but it had quite the opposite effect on Volsky.

“Gophers?” His eyes seemed to catch fire, brightening with newfound awareness. Now he looked around, from Samsonov, to Rodenko, and then to Nikolin and the sonar station, where Velichko sat beneath his head set, oblivious.

“Kamenski,” he said haltingly. “Yes… Director Kamenski. The Gophers in the Devil’s Garden. That man had a knack for colorful metaphors. I’ve twiddled with that one in my mind for months.”

“Then you remember?” Fedorov beamed, a feeling of great relief sweeping over him. He gave Nikolin a nod, smiling. “You remember sir—Tasarov? Chief Dobrynin and Rod-25…?” He waited, almost breathlessly.

“Tasarov, Tasarov,” said Volsky. “Yes… Lieutenant Alexei Tasarov.” He looked at Nikolin now. “What have you two been up to, Mister Nikolin? Sending more riddles over the ships messaging system? Don’t think I don’t know about it.”

“That’s it, sir!” said Nikolin. “That’s how I remembered. I was just telling Mister Fedorov about it, and he remembers too, but no one else, Admiral. No one on the ship knows anything about him—not even Doctor Zolkin. I went down there first thing, but the Doctor says he never heard of him. What’s happening? Where is he?” Nikolin seemed at the edge of tears, and Volsky raised a hand, father-like, as if to calm him and offer comfort.”

Now the Admiral looked to Fedorov, a grave expression on his face. “Any others?” he said, thinking first of the crew. The instant Fedorov had said that about the gophers in the garden, it was as if a bell had rung in Volsky’s mind. That single thread of memory had rippled with fire, the energy leaping through one synapse after another in his tired brain, and the soft glow of recollection rekindled as it went. Places in his mind that had been stilled, as though misted over with that same heavy fog that now surrounded the ship, were now suddenly awake again, remembering… remembering…

“Director Kamenski is missing? You are certain of this?”

“I’ve been to his quarters, sir. No one is there, and the room itself looks as though it was never used! The Ship’s Purser has no record of any visitor quartered there, and no recollection of the man either. And by god, I nearly forgot he was here myself, until a phrase he used came to mind—slippery fish. He always said that about the way the ship seemed to move in time. Then it all came back!”

“And Tasarov? He is missing as well?”

“Nikolin put me on to that,” said Fedorov. “You know those two are inseparable. I think that attachment, a long, deep attachment of friendship, was simply too strong a bond between them to be easily forgotten. Nikolin came to me just now in the officer’s dining hall. He said he felt like he had lost his brother, but could not explain the sadness he was experiencing. Then he remembered, though no one else remembered Tasarov. Their friendship was simply too strong to be easily broken.”

That was the only way Fedorov could explain it, a bond of friendship that was so strong that not even time and fate could break it. For some unfathomable reason, Tasarov had vanished, just like Kamenski. Nikolin had felt that loss on some level, that terrible emptiness, a god shaped hole in his soul. And just as those colorful phrases the Director had used jogged loose memory in the minds of Fedorov and Volsky, Tasarov’s message ID had struck Nikolin through with the light of recollection, and he suddenly knew what he had lost.

“Dear lord, Fedorov. What is happening here? Is this what you have warned of? Are we facing this paradox hour you keep talking about.”

“Something has changed, sir. Can you feel it? First it was physical—things in the ship suffered actual physical damage. The ship was pulsing, unstable in time. We could all feel it, and god knows Lenkov got the worst of that. Then we just made an uncontrolled shift in time. Who knows why? Yet here we are… somewhere… and the effects we have uncovered extend beyond the damage to bulkheads, deck plates and hatches. Something has changed. Men are missing—so profoundly missing that no one was even remembering they were ever here. Do you remember Chief Dobrynin now?”

“Yes,” said Volsky, a vacant look in his eyes. “We needed the Chief to listen to those time displacements, when we used Rod-25. Chief Dobrynin—Yuri Dobrynin! He is a friend of mine as well, Fedorov. I have shared many a good cigar with that man, and Zolkin will come to his senses as soon as I get down there and rattle the Vodka cabinet. The three of us had a nip or two in Zolkin’s office from time to time. He’ll remember.”

“I remember Tasarov now!” It was the deep voice of Viktor Samsonov. “Yes, sir. How could I forget? He was complaining to me for days—about that strange sound he claimed to hear.”

Now Fedorov looked to Rodenko, who had drifted into the conversation, a puzzled expression on his face. “What about you, Rodenko?” asked Fedorov. “Can you remember Tasarov now?”

Something about Samsonov’s comment concerning that strange noise had shaken the teacups in Rodenko’s cabinet. He blinked, looking a bit bewildered, then spoke. “The sound… Yes sir. Tasarov. He said he was hearing something, and I had him trying to work it like a possible contact. Yes! I remember now. Lieutenant Tasarov!”

“Dobrynin was hearing that same sound as well,” said Fedorov quickly. “Now both men turn up missing, and they were also nearly wiped from our memory, as if they never even existed, just like the men on that list Doctor Zolkin gave to the Inspector General. But they do exist—in our minds.” He pointed a stiff finger to his head, where the black Ushanka cap he always wore was tilted at an odd angle. “We can remember them now, just like Kamenski told me.”

“Kamenski? What did he tell you, Fedorov?” asked Volsky.

“That he could remember many versions of the history we were living through. He said his books changed, from day to day, right before his eyes, but not his head.” He pointed again. “He could remember events that everyone else had no recollection of at all—events that history itself denied, as if they had never even happened. Do you recall those discussions, Admiral? Remember? Your Chief of Staff at Fokino knew nothing of Pearl Harbor—because our stupid intervention here changed the American entry date in the war. It was ‘Remember the Mississippi,’ not ‘Remember Pearl Harbor.’”

“Who can forget that?” said Volsky.

“Some on this ship may have,” said Fedorov. “Just like we very nearly forgot about Tasarov and the others—my god—might there be more men missing? I was talking with Gagarin in the workshops, and he seemed very troubled, thinking he had a short shift, with a man missing. It was as if his old habits were at odds with the reality around him. I think he was struggling to remember something, just as I was, and Nikolin. Just as you did Admiral.”

“Who else?” said Volsky. “Might there be other men missing? What if none of us remembers? We’ll have to find a way to go over the entire crew with a fine toothed comb and count our heads.”

“Orlov would be the man for that,” said Fedorov, fingering the pocket compass the Chief had given him, suddenly remembering the man.

“Orlov?

Now Fedorov gave the Admiral another cautious look. “Gennadi Orlov,” he said. “The Chief. He’s the one who found that thing I threw over the side—the Devil’s Teardrop…”

“He reached for the dangling intercom handset again, grasping it and raising it to speak. “Chief Orlov, please respond immediately. This is Captain Fedorov.”

They waited, each man looking from one to the other, wondering, held in suspense, as if they were waiting at the edge of infinity itself. They had all climbed to this place together, and the rope of their recollection and memory was still dangling over that precipice, as they waited for the last man to come up.

But he never came. Fedorov repeated the call, but it went unanswered, his voice echoing plaintively through the ship, hollow, forlorn, lost. Orlov was gone.

Chapter 36

They stood in a circle around the Admiral in his chair, instinctively closing ranks, as if to guard against some icy wind that might sweep over the bridge and take another man—then another. Any man who ever joined the military, on land or sea, knew there would come moments when they would sit and stare at those empty chairs, the memory of lost comrades, fellow soldiers and sailors, still bright and glowing in their mind. But the men who made those memories would be gone, and that was sometimes an agony worse than a missing arm or leg. Those lost limbs sometimes still tingled with a strange sensation, phantoms, ghostly remnants of the life that was once there. Now they all felt that same prickling recollection of the men who were no longer there—Tasarov, Dobrynin, Kamenski, Orlov…

How many others were gone, forgotten, swept away on the tides of this sea of time, their memories hidden by the thick fog still enfolding the ship? They stood there in that circle, Volsky, Fedorov, Rodenko, Nikolin, Samsonov, five who knew, contemplating those empty chairs.

“Why, Fedorov?” said Volsky, reaching for understanding. “Is it that these men failed to survive our recent displacement? Are they out of phase, stuck somewhere else? Are we going to find them in a storage locker somewhere, like Lenkov’s legs?”

“No sir,” Fedorov said emphatically. “I know that Dobrynin was here after that shift—right in sick bay. I called on the Doctor to check on him myself when I was walking the ship to see about shift damage. Orlov was here too! I remember he came onto the bridge, complaining as he often does, and he handed me this!” Fedorov showed Volsky the pocket compass, its needle still wildly erratic.”

“Yes,” said Volsky. “I remember that… we all remember that. Correct? Rodenko?”

“He went over to have some coffee, sir,” said Rodenko. “Then he went into the operations room, but I was just in there, and there’s no sign of him. Not even his coffee mug.”

“So they were here after the shift we just made,” said Fedorov. “But I think Tasarov went missing during the shift. I clearly remember someone saying Velichko had the best ears in the fleet. No offense to Mister Velichko, but we all used to say that about only one man—Lieutenant Alexi Tasarov. Am I correct? It struck me as odd at the moment, but there was too much to worry about just then. After that I walked the ship, and I could see the men were somewhat confused and disoriented. One even reported he thought someone was missing on a work shift, but I took no real notice of that. Yet I know Dobrynin was in sick bay, so he must have vanished some time after that.”

He gave them all a wide eyed look. “That means this may not be over yet. These effects could continue.”

“Not over? You mean others could go missing—just disappear?”

“Like Dobrynin, Orlov, Kamenski…” Fedorov had made his point clearly enough. “Yes, I think Kamenski may have survived the initial displacement as well, but then he vanished too. We’ve clearly entered some altered state here, and like ice freezing, it doesn’t always happen at once. It takes…. Time…”

The thought that others might soon feel that cold freezing hand of time on the back of their neck gave each man there a shiver. Volsky lowered his voice, seeing other junior members of the bridge crew looking their way now.

“Why these men, and not us?” The Admiral had a scattered look on his face.

The anguish of the question clawed at Fedorov, though he had no real answer. All he could think of were the words Kamenski had spoken to him in their last meeting… Now you question the choices Death makes… Why do leaves fall in autumn, Fedorov? Who decides which ones go first?

“Consequences,” he said, unknowingly echoing the very same word Orlov had spoken to Karpov when Sergeant Troyak first burst through the bridge hatch when the Captain had tried to take the ship. That all seemed so very long ago now, another memory, another reality.

“If these men are taken from us, then we may have done something that affected their personal lines of fate. Then again, maybe that thing Orlov found had something to do with all of this. Dobrynin spent a good deal of time around it during his examination of the object. Even my brief handling of the object caused that strange event with my hand, and Orlov, god rest his soul, he was carrying the damn thing around in his pocket!”

“But Tasarov? Kamenski? They had nothing to do with that thing,” Volsky protested, inwardly grieving for the missing, like a father who had lost his children.

“It is only one possible explanation,” said Fedorov. “Maybe it had nothing to do with these disappearances. Perhaps it was us—the ship and crew—all of us, as I said earlier. We could simply be fated now, fated to face the consequences of the world we have created in the future with our actions in the past. I don’t have all the answers. Right now everything is spinning like a mad top. We’re somewhere, but we don’t know where. It isn’t just these three men that have gone missing. From Admiral Tovey’s perspective, we’ve all gone missing—right along with the ship itself.” Then something occurred to him, that had stood as one of those stubborn unanswered questions in his mind for so long. “Just like Alan Turing’s watch,” he said.

“What is this you say?” said Volsky.

“You remember how Turing claimed his favorite watch went missing, only to reappear in those file boxes containing evidence of our earlier time displacements? They appeared at the same time we arrived here, in June of 1940, but time had a problem with that. You and I both know that everything in those files was created in the future, mostly in 1942 from the dates on the material. Everything in those boxes then moved to 1940—including the watch. Apparently Turing must have had the watch with him while he was working on those files in 1942. Who knows, perhaps it slipped and fell into one of those file boxes. When they moved here, strangely following in our wake, there would have been a problem. Unlike the files, that watch was already here. It existed in June of 1940, and so how could it travel back inside one of those file boxes? It was a paradox, and look at the way time handled it. Turing’s watch went missing. It simply vanished, until it turned up later in that file box. We vanished the same way, the ship, all of us, because we face the same paradox.”

“Yet we thought we would have until July, Fedorov. We first shifted on July 28th, during those damn live fire exercises. You are saying this is not so? This paradox business has already happened?”

“Perhaps. It may have merely been the ship’s instability in time that provoked this latest shift. In that case, perhaps Time is just taking advantage of that to sort things out.”

Then this is the result?” said Volsky. “Lenkov? That warped deck over there where your boots are still stuck? Men missing?” He shook his head. “I know you cannot know any of this for certain, Fedorov. Forgive me if you hear any blame in my tone. I mean none. If these are the consequences of our actions here, we may never know why some are missing, while we still remain. A pity we don’t have Kamenski to weigh in on this.”

Now Fedorov remembered what he had found on that nightstand. He reached into his pocket, feeling the key, his mind returning to that piece of this shattered puzzle.

“Kamenski left something behind,” he said, drawing out the key. “I found it on the nightstand, just sitting by the lamp.”

“That is one of those mysterious keys, is it not?” asked Volsky. “If I understand correctly, one was responsible for moving the Argos Fire—displacing it in time, just like Rod-25. Yes?”

“Not exactly, Admiral. I asked Miss Fairchild about this, and she believed it was the box that moved the ship. The key merely activated it. In fact, she said she believed there was a fragment from the Tunguska Event in a hidden compartment of that box. I do not know how she would come to that conclusion, but apparently British intelligence knew about the odd effects surrounding Tunguska, and we both know what Orlov found there…”

“Only too well,” said Volsky. “But I don’t like this, Fedorov. That thing might be part and parcel with what we are dealing with now. What if you turn up missing next, just like Kamenski?”

“I don’t think the key caused his disappearance,” said Fedorov. “It was placed on the nightstand, as if he had deliberately left it there to be found. If Kamenski just vanished, and the key was all that remained behind, why wouldn’t I have found it in some haphazard place, perhaps on the floor, or chair where he often liked to sit and do his reading. No. I think he meant to leave it behind, and meant for us to find it if that is so. Fairchild seemed to think these keys were very important sir. In fact she claimed to be their keeper, on a mission to recover any known key they could find. That was what this rendezvous with Rodney was for, but when I last spoke with Director Kamenski, he told me Fairchild was mistaken. She was not the keeper of those keys—Kamenski said he was!”

“What? You mean he knew about these keys all along?”

“Yes sir, he said he had been a Keyholder for over thirty years. Apparently the KGB found this that long ago, and he’s had it in his possession ever since.”

“Remember what I said earlier, Fedorov. There’s more to that man than we know. But I don’t suppose that key will unlock the dilemma we now find ourselves in. We still don’t know our position, in space or time. What are we going to do about this situation?”

“We should look after the crew first,” said Fedorov. “We know men are missing. There may be others we do not know about—others we’ve forgotten.”

“Yes, we must count heads,” said Volsky. “Yet a few minutes ago no one here even remembered Tasarov. Taking roll call is going to be a bit of a problem under these circumstances.”

“Perhaps we can check all the ship’s records,” said Fedorov. “I’m beginning to think these changes are still underway, a process that has not reached completion. If that is so, there may be some record or clue that can help us. I suggest we start with the ship’s primary roster, and see if Orlov and the other missing men are still listed there. Yes, we might find some evidence—particularly the digital records. All the electronics seemed unphased by this last event… except the Purser’s computer. He had no record of any assignment to Kamenski’s quarters. I think we must act quickly now. Whatever seems to be happening to the ship and crew might still be underway. Mister Nikolin, see if you can find the ship’s roster in a digital file, then compare it to any printed physical roster we have. Check for discrepancies. Check everything.”

“Then we will finally have a count on the empty chairs,” said Volsky with a somber tone.

“As to where we are, and what happens next,” said Fedorov, “I do not think we can just sit here, waiting for the axe to fall. What? Will we watch people disappear, one by one? It feels like we are sitting here with all our heads on the chopping block, waiting for the executioner, or worse. No. I think we must do something. We still have those two control rods. Remember what we discussed? Time to go to Plan B.”

“But Fedorov,” said the Admiral. “Chief Dobrynin is gone. We have no one who can listen to the event, the reactors—no way to control the outcome.”

“We had no control over this the first time we displaced,” said Fedorov. “In fact, it wasn’t until we reached the Pacific that we put two and two together and figured out Rod-25 was responsible. I say we should just get on with the maintenance procedure, and see where it takes us. Anywhere would be preferable to this nightmare. We must try and take our fate into our own hands.”

“Spoken like a good ship’s Captain,” said Volsky. “If we end up in the Himalayas, sitting on some lonesome peak like Noah’s Ark, then we’ll all have a good meal, and hike out.”

Fedorov nodded, as he could think of no real reason why they should not try—aside from the possibility they might end up inside the Himalayas, which he had suggested to Volsky earlier, though he said nothing of that now.

“I think we must hurry sir,” said Fedorov, with more urgency. “We’ve got to take some action before it’s too late! These events are still unfolding. The longer we delay, the greater our peril.”

“Very well,” said Volsky. “Now that I notice all these stripes on my jacket cuff, I think I will start giving some orders. Mister Nikolin, get back to your station and dig up those digital files, but first send a message to the reactor room. Tell whoever is in charge that they are to retrieve the Beta control rod from storage and re-mount it in the number twenty-five reserve rod position. They are to prepare for normal rod cycle maintenance, to be initiated on my order, or that of Captain Fedorov or any senior officer on the bridge. Hopefully, no one else will be leaving soon…”

He gave them all one last look, as if trying to firmly fix the image of each man in his head, seeing the lines on their faces, their eyes, remembering them, loving them all. Then he smiled.

“Let’s get to work, gentlemen, before we end up having coffee with Orlov!”

That was life in a nutshell, thought Fedorov. They were all going to disappear one day, in one way or another, and then simply vanish from this world. It was all about the things they could do while they were still here.

Far away, perhaps in another time and place, the world Kirov had vanished from was still raging with the ravages of war at sea. As Rodney foundered, her hull rent open by the explosion of her own torpedoes, two ships appeared on the horizon, Renown and Repulse, rushing to the scene with guns elevated for battle. And off to the southeast, Argos Fire was dashing forward into the fray, the missile crews rushing to their stations.

Yet Kapitans Topp and Hoffmann were not to fight alone. Lütjens’ task force was also arriving on the scene coming out of the southwest like a sudden squall. There sailed the ship that had once been fated to meet its doom this very month, the Bismarck. And behind came another ship, larger, more powerful, looming like a shadow of death, the Hindenburg.

Not wanting to miss out on the action, Admiral Tovey had also altered his course to steam north to Rodney’s aid. Though he might come late to the party, HMS Invincible would soon make its presence felt with the roar of nine more massive 16-inch guns. It was to be the largest naval battle ever to be fought in the Atlantic, a collision of five battleships, three battlecruisers, and one interloper from another era, desperate to save Rodney, and not knowing her quest was already foiled.

But time and fate were fickle partners in the mad dance that was now underway. Things gone missing in one era, might be found somewhere else. No one knew just then where the quest for that missing key might now lead, or what the fate of England’s embattled new ally might finally be.

Kirov had left the world of the here and now, its sharp bow slipping into the grey shadow of Paradox. The strange effects had started with Lenkov, with that awful unheard sound, but they would not end there. Each moment was now bringing the ship closer and closer to that final tick of Time’s unfathomable clock—that final hour when Kirov would be held to account for all its many interventions in the history of these events.

As with Alan Turing’s watch, the ship had slipped into some sallow purgatory, waiting to be judged, and not knowing whether heaven or hell would greet them with that final tolling of the hour that Fedorov had feared for so long. Their presence in 1941 had been a grave and insoluble problem for Time.

On one side of that equation, the ship and crew were set to pierce the ground of infinity, to be planted in the cold northern seas of World War Two like a darksome seed of doom. On the other hand, that seed had already bloomed, a black rose, its thorny stem scoring the history as it grew, its dark flower a shadow in the Devil’s Garden of time. Yet only one of the two could remain when that final bell tolled, and Time would have to choose which side of that equation would balance through to the zero sum it was seeking now. Which would it be, the darksome seed or the black rose?

It was time to decide, because the hour of fate was drawing nigh… Paradox Hour.