John Schettler - Paradox Hour

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.