Нэнси Кресс - The End Is Now

A voice behind him yelled out, “We need to get to the lifeboats!” Sam turned as an old man approached him. He didn’t know the man’s name. The boat rolled again, and Sam slammed against the wall. He braced himself and moved forward.

He grasped the railing along the stairs and did his best to haul himself up, the erratic rolling of the ship tossing him in every direction. Depending on the direction that the ship rolled, the water flowed down in great enough volume that Sam found it difficult to breathe.

He reached the door to the deck, which was already open. Sam hauled himself through and supported himself against the frame as he looked outside. It was impossible: The bow of the ship was bent upward, with massive waves surrounding it on all sides. One of the waves slammed into the hull, and it took all of Sam’s strength to hold onto the door and avoid being swept out to sea.

“This way!” Off to the left was a crewmember with a group of people. They pulled themselves along the tower to the lifeboats by clinging to a metal railing. The deck rose, and Sam let it propel him to the railing. As his body slammed into it, he grabbed hold. He turned back to the door; the old man was no longer there.

He looked right; the crew and passengers were making their way to the lifeboats. “Wait! There’s someone else here!” One of the passengers glanced back at him, but Sam couldn’t see who it was through the sudden surge of water as another wave tossed the ship. When the water and mist cleared, the people fleeing continued to move away from him.

Sam ran to the door and hurled himself at the stairs. The oily water made the railing slick, and Sam stumbled down the steps, barely keeping himself upright. Another wave of water flowed through the door and filled the hall. The old man was sitting with his back against the wall.

As Sam reached him, the man’s face went wide in shock. “What are you doing here? Go! The ship is sinking!”

“I’m here to help,” Sam replied, as the ship rolled again. Sam smashed against the opposite wall. He looked back at the man, who was bracing himself against the floor with his hands. His face was contorted in pain.

“I broke my leg. You can’t save me. Go!” The man motioned toward the stairs with his head.

“No, I can help support you.” Sam moved closer and reached for the old man’s arm.

Pulling his arm away from Sam’s grasp, the man looked him in the eyes. “Look, son, don’t be foolish. I know I can’t survive this, but you can.” He grabbed Sam’s arm. “Go! Save yourself.” He then shoved Sam toward the staircase.

Sam didn’t argue and stumbled toward the stairs. He looked back at the old man, whose face was lowered, his eyes closed. Sam paused and wiped the salty water from his eyes.

He had left enough people to face death on their own.

“What’re you doing?” the old man asked as Sam slid down next to him.

“Not leaving you.” Sam looked at the old man, who seemed confused and afraid, but whose face didn’t remind Sam at all of any of the poor souls from the Expatriation Office.

The old man shook his head and smiled, his fear receding. “Better than being dashed against the hull, I guess.” He squeezed Sam’s shoulder. “Thank you.” The change in the old man took Sam’s breath away. There was no fear. No desperation.

Just a warm and friendly face.

The water rose, and the other faces faded. So many of them, alone as they walked out the door of his office.

Sam closed his eyes. He was finally there for someone, walking with them as they left through the door.

There was a pure and brilliant light on the other side.

Jake Kerrbegan writing short fiction in 2010 after fifteen years as a music and radio industry columnist and journalist. His first published story, “The Old Equations,” appeared in Lightspeed and went on to be named a finalist for the Nebula Award and the Theodore Sturgeon Memorial Award. He has subsequently been published in Fireside Magazine, Escape Pod, and the Unidentified Funny Objects anthology of humorous SF. A graduate of Kenyon College with degrees in English and Psychology, Kerr studied under writer-in-residence Ursula K. Le Guin and Peruvian playwright Alonso Alegria. He lives in Dallas, Texas, with his wife and three daughters.

The five Imperial Russian infantry saunter toward us, hips rolling in their rain-spattered saddles. I raise my shashka and point the saber at the heart of the nearest guardsman. In response, the mounted dragoon smiles at me, his teeth rotting under a bushy black moustache.

Even from this distance, I can see that he is eager to fight. I lower my saber. The gesture was futile. In a few moments, these men will run us down on the empty plains.

I will have to fight. And my daughter will fight alongside me.

This morning just before dawn, Peter the Great, father of his country, founder and Emperor of the Russian Empire, true sovereign of the northern lands and king of the Mountain princes, passed from this world and left no heir. In the aftermath, those of us allied too closely with Peter lost everything. By command of Empress Catherine, newly appointed Tsarina of Russia, we have been sentenced to death.

And so today our world ends, along with the life of our sovereign.

On tall horses, the royal dragoons are confident. They trot toward us under a storm dark sky. Short wet grass rolls away from us for hundreds of miles, each blade glinting purple-green under a light rainfall.

“Stay close to me,” I say to Elena.

The little girl presses her hard shoulder against my thigh and the wind pushes the tail of my kaftan over her chest. Misty rain has plastered her wig to her forehead, spreading the black ringlets like cracks over her porcelain skin. Her sculpted face is nearly lost within the hood of her cloak. My daughter is indistinct under the billowing fabric, but she moves like a small, fierce animal.

“We cannot succeed,” she says, and her voice is a melody, like the singing of clockwork birds. Indeed, the mechanism that speaks for her was created from a singing wooden clock that came from the German Black Forests.

The beautiful noises signify an ugly truth.

The dragoons are trained soldiers, chosen by Peter himself from a standing force and elevated to personal Guard for the royal family. Wearing dark kaftans with red sashes crossed over their chests, the moustached men ride fearlessly with well-worn sabers hanging from their hips. Each is equipped with two saddle-mounted Muscovite wheellock pistols. The leader wears a steel cuirass over his chest and carries a long carbine. The rest carry simple Hussar lances.

Pursued by the Imperial Russian Guard, we took a risk and fled across the rolling steppes east of St. Petersburg. We hoped to disappear into the emptiness, but we knew this could happen. Our goal was never simply to survive . . . we are running to protect the secret of our existence.

A single dragoon separates from the others, gallops toward us with one hand on the pommel of his saber.

“Stay low, Elena. Survive the onslaught,” I say. “After I am finished, surprise them if you can. If they take you, do not let them discover what you are.”

“Yes, Peter,” she says.

I shove my cloak to the side and step away from Elena, drawing my long knife. The dagger is a simple blade the length of my forearm. Long and short, both my hands now sprout fangs.