Jaunt (16 page)

He shook his head, dismissing his curious thoughts. It wasn’t his concern to know why, just do. Too many years had passed since he had been the eager young man, ignorant of proper decorum. Now the fresh young men he commanded must learn the lessons he had been taught, or end up fodder, like the Muscovites.

“Lieutenant!”

The clamor outside the Akilina carrier broke Nicolenko away from his scheduled webcast with the captain. Rising out of his tight seat in the rear of the craft, the lieutenant produced fur gloves from his pockets and slipped them on before rejoining the men outside.

A light snow had coated the taiga, covering all but the recent tracks made by the sergeant and two corporals behind him as they crossed over to the aircraft.

“Sir, come quickly!”

He doubled his pace, keeping up with the fleeing sergeant. Steam crept from his nostrils and ruby lips, inevitable given the front that had pushed through this morning.

A circle of soldiers divided the sergeant, his two men and Nicolenko from a segment of heavily surveyed permafrost. Cutting through the gaping soldiers, the sergeant led Nicolenko to the secured ground, which still underwent scans from a soldier brandishing a portable EM spectrometer.

The sergeant shoved the obstructing soldier out of the way, allowing Nicolenko to view a shiny patch of material littering the soil, deceptively diamond-like to the eye, but possessing far more...presence.

Crouching down, the lieutenant’s gloved hand fingered the first of the pair of objects, noting its peculiar gleam in the snowy air, seemingly reflecting and refracting far more than the simple Yakutian light pouring through the lattice. Despite the jewel’s intrinsic beauty, Nicolenko did not pretend to be a gemologist.

He craned his head back to the soldier. “Diamonds?”

“No, sir,” the boy said, a native Yakut. His own bare hands, nearly frostbitten, pointed to the object’s natural facets; in all probability, its exquisite structure and complexity were of such remarkable design work that duplication would be nigh impossible, even in specialist laboratories. “They are unique to anything I have ever seen before.”

Nicolenko nodded; perhaps there was a way to salvage this mess before he had to report to his superiors. “Very well, Corporal. Collect these gems and secure them inside the carrier.” He checked his wrist chronometer, then rose to tower over the assembled men.

“You have one hour to clean up! We leave at dusk!”

“Yes, yes, bring him in.”

A creak admitted Nicolenko into the Spartan office. Removing his cap, he deferred to the old man, who stood, not noticing the gesture, at the room’s sole window, staring away, as if into infinity. The old man’s worn hand placed a tiny phone into his pocket. Turning to the officer, he finally welcomed him. “Ah.”

“Lieutenant Vasily Nicolenko reporting as ordered, sir.”

“You have returned from Yakutia, correct?”

Nicolenko nodded. “I bring a field report on our maneuver.” Unbuttoning his overcoat, he produced a small holobook from an inner pocket, then tapped a series of buttons.

The old man held up a hand, halting the upcoming recitation of events. “What of your men? How did they fare during this expedition to the cold north? Are they resilient? Do they like it?”

Taken aback, Nicolenko masked his awe with deep thought. “They do not question their orders, if that is what you ask.”

“Good, then they are not Muscovites, eh?” He laughed, then stepped closer to the officer. “That is reassuring.”

“Sir,” he began, pursing his lips, “perhaps I am dull from my long flight. I was under the belief that you required my report, per Capt—”

“In a moment. We here,” his weary arms opened, signifying the whole of St. Petersburg, “are interested in you, Lieutenant. You have risen fast from the mire of your postings. This matter in Yakutia was a simple cleansing, yet you relished it with such fervor unheard of in other officers of your caliber. Above that, the expedition was a prologue to greater duties, if you are willing.”

“Sir, I have always been at the mercy of my country’s will and greater judgment. I do what must be done, no matter the circumstances.”

A flame lit in the old man’s eyes, a burning that was once believed to have been snuffed out. “Good, good.” Uncharacteristically, a palm now rested on Nicolenko’s shoulder.

“There are several colleagues of mine, important men you would do well to become acquainted with.”

“What of my report?”

The old man ushered Nicolenko towards the paint-flecked door. “Tell me on the way. It is a tedious walk, and I rarely have good drinking company.”

A waft of tobacco smoke, cloyingly sweet, met Nicolenko’s nostrils, and he wished he had received a box of homegrown, studiously rolled cigarettes from his sisters the past holiday instead of the bathtub vodka he hated. No matter, he could always dream of next season.

He was beckoned inside a larger office, sans windows, by the old man, where a motley assemblage of military officers—some he recognized, others not—and men in high-priced suits, were seated on leather couches and chairs. Each eyed Nicolenko intently, studying his stature, facial features, gait and military dress. They made obvious gestures to one another, some nodding while others murmuring behind a cloak of cigarette smoke. Curiously, he caught the gaze of a solitary gentleman off to one corner, his white, disheveled hair and dress distinguishing him from the other men, very much not belonging in the same room, let alone organization, as the other men.

“Have a seat, Lieutenant,” one of the suited man said, gesturing to a wooden chair centered in the room.

Nicolenko eagerly nodded, noting all the trappings of a traditional interrogation. Sitting down, the men continued their silent conference, betraying no hint of the meeting’s purpose.

The suited man stood before Nicolenko, his eyes locked with the old man in silent dialogue before returning to the seated lieutenant. “We are pleased to finally meet you, Lieutenant. Your mission to the Yakut Republic was a success?” The question was more rhetorical than query.

“Details of our expedition will be found in my report.” He produced his holobook and held it out to the man.

“Thank you.” The suited man received the holobook and unceremoniously handed it to another man next to him, not even committing it a glance. “Reports are not our priority. Your country needs your expertise, dear lieutenant. My comrades have kept a very close eye upon you, and you have distinguished yourself well. I trust you have been informed of this already, hmm?”

Nicolenko looked to the old man, then to the suited man again. He nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“There is a situation, a problem that needs to be resolved.” He folded his arms over his chest. “The Americans have created a new weapon of mass destruction, capable of destroying all that we have labored so long to preserve. Several weeks ago, a specialized team invaded our sovereign soil to test the strength of this weapon on our innocent citizens of the Yakutia Republic.”

So, there was more to the mission, Nicolenko thought. And the dispatch of the expendable Muscovites to stop the Americans started to make more sense as well.

“Our people cry out for security from this threat,” he continued. “You, Lieutenant, have been selected to be the vanguard of our sovereignty.”

Nicolenko tightened his collar, then rose to his feet. “I will do my utmost, sir.”

The suited man nodded, satisfied. Raising a hand, he gestured to the peculiar, solitary man, who came forth from the smoky shroud. “Lieutenant, your first duty as vanguard will be to train with Doctor Vasya Zaryov, our chief scientist with the Cosmoscience Institute. He has spent much time studying this new class of weapon.”

Nicolenko clenched his jaw, stifling his imminent confusion; what business did that man have training a career officer?

The suited man detected Nicolenko’s smugness. “Are there any problems, Lieutenant?”

“No, sir.” Nicolenko’s knees knocked together, reinforcing his confident stance.

The suited man smiled, revealing alcohol-and tobacco-stained teeth. “Excellent.”

Stepping away from Nicolenko, he allowed Zaryov, tufted shock of hair and rumpled overshirt in all, to look over his new pupil.

Nicolenko bowed in deference to the elder Zaryov.

Vasya Zaryov placed a hand on Nicolenko’s shoulder, much the same way the old man did earlier, and led him out of the darkened room. The old system still thrived well, indeed.

“You are very quiet, Lieutenant,” Zaryov observed. The pair sat together in a car of the old regime’s private subterranean railway, a stingy, stubborn, and oftentimes insolent system built to expedite the Soviet and New Democratic Republic’s leaders to safehouses in the event of nuclear confrontation. Now, the railway had been relegated to simply ferrying government men under St. Petersburg’s various canals.

“I’ve known lots of men as yourself,” Zaryov continued. “You are probably thinking,

‘Why is this crazy man training me?’. Well, you would do well to think that, Lieutenant.”

Nicolenko’s eyes did not wander from the window view opposite him.

“You are a steely one. They have done well.”

“I serve where commanded, sir. My duty is to my country, not my feelings or thoughts. They are good in bed only.”

At that, Zaryov laughed heartily, leading to a coughing fit. Nicolenko looked at the scientist, wondering if the old man was going to keel over next to him. Zaryov wiped the tears from his eyes, finally gaining control of his spasmodic lungs.

“Good, good. You do have humor. It will come to good use where we are going.”

Nicolenko turned to the disheveled man, asking, “Which is?”

“The fate of our Confederation is in our hands, now, Lieutenant. The Premier and all the siloviki who elected him cannot influence the events of the future, as you will soon do. It is not a light responsibility. The Institute—my home—will be the forefront of world diplomacy. And you’ll be our ambassador, Lieutenant.”

“What is out there? What is so important?”

“Power, my young sir. The power to shift world governments. To crumble them. To reset the world as one sees fit. It is a race against the very fabric of spacetime itself. It curves back upon itself, prevents us from ever exposing its secrets...until now.”

“Why now? Why here?”

“A tremendous event, two centuries in the past. A craft...a vessel of unearthly origins. It holds the potential you see in these jewels. Our enemies possess a minute quantity of them. You saw firsthand what transpires when governments clash for supreme power. These are worth dying—killing—for. You will do the same, like they have.”

“I am a soldier. That is my duty, sir. If I am to...retrieve these jewels, how shall I accomplish this?”

“Therein lies the secret, young lieutenant. Look deeply into the objects, perhaps you will see....”

Outside U5-10, de Lis heard the door vibrate in unison with a melancholy strain of music, a piece he recognized but couldn’t place. A swirling violin gave him a start before he composed himself and toggled the door’s buzzer, confident that the occupant wouldn’t hear his knock. After a moment, he raised his finger to toggle again until the door opened unexpectedly, revealing a man who had willingly severed himself from the world, waiting at the threshold.

“Agent Gilmour,” de Lis uttered, the sight of the fully bearded and pallid man shocking him. He had to push his lips open to say, “May...I come in?”

Gilmour nodded reticently.

De Lis tread carefully behind the agent, as if walking onto hallowed ground. “I’m sorry I didn’t come by sooner,” the doctor apologized, closing the door behind him. De Lis’

eyes roamed around Gilmour’s quarters, noticing the room was as spare as the day the Ottawa Bureau had assigned it to him. Baggage, not emptied since his return, had clustered in one corner, joined by several days’ worth of stacked meal trays. Like an afterthought, he remembered the still-playing piece: Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony, one of the maestro’s most moving, and particularly recently, in de Lis’ opinion, dirge-like compositions. How better to drown one’s sorrows then in a sorrowful elegy for lost ones?

Gilmour crossed over to his bureau and tapped a button on its metal surface, silencing the music. “Pardon my decor. I hadn’t much cared to pick up after myself.”

De Lis dismissed the carelessness and stepped over to the disheveled man. “I’m sorry for your loss. I wish I had had the opportunity to get to know Mason and Louris better.”

“This is the nature of our profession, Doctor.” He turned around to face de Lis, ready to drop the matter. “Why are you here, exactly? Didn’t you receive my notice to be left alone?”

“Agent Gilmour, it’s been three days since your return, just as you specified. Have you even kept track of the time?”

Gilmour laughed inside. The mission to Russia had destroyed time in his mind; how did one follow a nonstop routine of day sleeping and night hiking, then compartmentalize in one’s brain the passage of time, when the stars were your only companions? Time was the invention of madmen.

De Lis checked the condition of Gilmour’s clothing, and seeing the stains and rips, concluded he hadn’t an inkling of the day. “You have a new mission, Agent. We have been provided with a new objective from the Department of Defense, stemming from your retrieval of the specimens from Sakha.”