after that long conversation they had shared together, Kamenski had quietly finished his last pipe, and then reached into his pocket for the key, hefting it in his hand for a moment with a smile.
“Let us see what you can unlock with it, Mister Fedorov,” he had said aloud to himself, and he set it quietly on the nightstand as he slipped into his bunk, turning out the light there for the last time. He would never be seen again.
There was something in that key that opened hidden doors, not only in the physical world but in time itself, and the presence of the key in Fedorov’s pocket when Kirov made that last shift had everything to do with his survival. In like manner, there was something in the bones of Tunguska that had a similar effect, and the metal skeleton that now surrounded Karpov’s stateroom at the heart of the ship acted like a shield. Paradox had reached for him, wanting him gone, wanting him dead and vanished, but it could not take hold.
And so he survived.
He awoke, bleary eyed, as though emerging from a deep unsettling sleep, where nightmare dreams haunted him, the images of the faces of men he had doomed, the ships and planes he had destroyed. Struggling up onto his hands and knees, he felt an enervating sense of fatigue, a weariness, as though the very particles of his being had fallen into an apathetic stupor. The lethargy lay heavily upon him, his arms and legs leaden, and only slowly recovering.
He managed to pull himself up onto the chair by his desk, reaching for the oxygen mask again. He slipped it on, breathing deeply, and feeling his mind and thoughts clearing as he did so. As he slowly came to his senses, he realized where he was again, saw the uniform, his Admiral’s cap there on the desk, and heard the thrumming of Tunguska’s engines.
Karpov… Vladimir Karpov, Admiral of the Air Fleet, and Viceroy of the Western Oblasts of the Free Siberian State. He stared in the mirror again, remembering the shadow he had seen behind his own reflection, and the deeply unsettling feelings it had spawned in him. That feeling he had, that he was being watched, stalked, hunted by some unseen evil, had finally passed, yet in its place there was a strange sensation of absence.
He found himself involuntarily searching his pockets, as if something had been taken from him, stolen from him while he lay in a daze on the carpeted stateroom floor. I must have passed out from the altitude, he thought. Better men than me have done the same, and I’ve been under a great deal of stress lately.
Yes, there was something wrong still, something missing, something stolen from him, but he could not see what it was. Then he realized that this damnable storm could have sent Tunguska careening through time again, and he looked to find the telephone on his desk, cranking the handle and ringing up the bridge. Bogrov’s voice was the first reassurance that there was life beyond the four walls of this stateroom, and he passed a moment of relief, though he did not know why he should feel that way.
“Bogrov? Is the ship alright?”
“Aye sir, just a little rough weather, but I’ve made a turn and we’re steering to avoid the next thunderhead. Things should settle down soon. We’ll be mooring over Moscow within the hour.”
“Good,” said Karpov, again with a sense of relief. Though he realized he must have been unconscious on the floor for a very long time. The ship was already at Moscow… but in what year? We could be anywhere, he thought. We might have shifted somewhere else.
“Bogrov… send Tyrenkov to my stateroom, and ring the galley. I’m famished.”
“Right away, sir. Will that be all?”
“Yes, I just need food and information. Tell Tyrenkov I need him immediately.”
“Aye sir, Bogrov out.”
Karpov had never been a drinking man, but now he sought out the good bottle of Vodka that is never very far from a true Russian, opening the drawer to his desk and taking out two glasses. He started to pour the first glass, his hand quivering, and then stopped, staring at the glasses, a strange feeling overtaking him. Slowly he set the bottle down, his eyes staring at the scene, one glass empty, the other half full, and he did not know why he was so transfixed by that.
There sat one glass, empty, waiting, yearning, all potential, nothing realized. There