“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 Orlov 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!
Part V
Only Yesterday
“The timeless in you is aware of life’s timelessness. And knows that yesterday is but today’s memory and tomorrow is today’s dream.”
Chapter 13
The sensation of emptiness surrounded him, like a man suddenly thrown into water, with no place to hold and no footing beneath him. Fedorov groped frantically ahead of him for Orlov, but he felt nothing. Then a swooning moment overcame him, and he felt as though he might lose consciousness. At last, the vaporous feeling that had taken him subsided. He could feel solidity in his arms and legs again, and light dispelled the darkness.
He literally stumbled, his feet on something solid once more, and then came tumbling through the upper landing of the stairway. There he blinked stupidly, his vision clearing to see Sergeant Troyak staring at him, and all the other Marines.
“Sir,” said Troyak. “Are you all right?”
Troyak had been the first to reach that upper floor, shouldering his way through a closed door to see a startled man with a rifle there. Secure the upper landing, those had been his orders. He quickly took care of the matter, moving faster than that man could believe, and putting him down for a long sleep.
One by one, the other Marines stumbled up through the doorway, some still with their hand on the shoulder of the man in front, though that was no longer necessary after they had passed the crucial mid-point on the stairway where an inexplicable rift in time existed, a crack in Fedorov’s mirror of history, and one that ran from 1908, to 1942, and then on to 2021.
At last Fedorov came up, bleary eyed, confused, but slowly regaining his senses. He had felt that strange sensation before when he walked those stairs, but it was much worse this time. Still, Time had delivered him to this place, along with all his team, save one. He looked around the room, Troyak still watching him closely, a concerned expression on his face.
“Orlov,” he said. “Where is Orlov?”
“He was right behind me,” said Private Gomel.
“And right in front of me,” said Fedorov. “Sergeant. Did he come up?”
“No sir, I thought he was behind you.”
Eyes wide, Fedorov turned to the doorway looking down the stairs, but there was no one there. The dusty steps descended into shadows.
“Orlov!” he called. “Chief? Are you down there?”
“Sir,” said Troyak. “You know Orlov. He’s probably still in the foyer, flirting with that maid.”
“I tell you he was right in front of me!” Fedorov had a frantic look on his face, then he stopped. “Until he sneezed…. Did you hear that, Private Gomel?”
“Aye sir, that big nose of his must have gotten a whiff of that dust. Don’t they ever clean this place?”
My god, thought Fedorov, realizing what must have happened. Lord no, this can’t be happening now. Yes, he sneezed, and what if he reflexively moved his hand to his face, the hand he had on Gomel’s shoulder. He was carrying a duffel bag in the other hand. That had to be what happened.
It was.
At that crucial moment, just as Orlov reached that fissure in time, he had sneezed, moved his hand as anyone might, and the human chain had been broken. Fedorov now knew that he had literally felt Orlov vanish, felt the man disappear. In that dizzying moment where he felt himself to be untethered from all reality, Orlov had slipped through that crack in the mirror, but obviously to another place and time.
But what about me, thought Fedorov? I was right there with him when he vanished. Why did time allow me to reach this place, but not Orlov? He knew this was a futile question. He would never really know the why of it, or for that matter, why this rift persisted here at all. Perhaps it was some ineffable gravity that saw him carry on through to this place, and another riptide of destiny that took Orlov elsewhere. Lord, not again, he thought. Now how will I find that man?