John Schettler - Steel Reign

That was the way it always started, the pulse pounding fear, then that awful sensation of falling. It didn’t end that way though. It got better. The longer he fell, the more he experienced a tremendous sensation of freedom. He was not plummeting down to some inescapable doom, but soaring free, alive, and with some newfound purpose. He was leaving the ship behind, out on his own, and yet here, in this world, he knew things that would make him a very rich and powerful man in no time at all.

Soon he was brawling in bars, drinking himself to sleep, rolling hapless derelict passersby on the quays of some big harbor, and taking whatever he wanted. Karpov said a little brawn was necessary at times, and Orlov was quick to agree.

Strange dreams… always the same, falling, falling into the sea, adrift until he found himself on a fishing boat. After that it just got better and better. He would go where he wanted, take what he wanted, and with everything he knew, he would be rich in no time. Then came that strange dream with another nosy Captain ruining his game, this time a barrel chested British officer with a cane he kept tapping on the deck of his antiquated old destroyer. The next thing he knew he was sitting in a dark room, with a single light above, and someone was getting pushy, asking him questions. Yes… Too many questions.

They came every night now, dreams of riding the wide sea in a freighter, then on a much smaller old trawler… Dreams of laughing aloud as he opened up on a submarine with a machinegun. What was that all about? Then he had the weirdest dream of all. It was just the face of a man, choking, eyes bulging red, a look of constricted pain on his face. Orlov realized he had the man by the neck, and he was choking the life out of him, enjoying every last second of the experience, watching his lips turn purple, eyes roll over like a shark, and hearing that last desperate wheezing attempt to save himself. Then it was over.

That was one hell of a dream, and it had fisted up like a bad storm in his mind three times in the last ten days. He couldn’t wait to see if he would dream it again that night. Or maybe he would dream the other wild flight he made, dangling from some massive hulk in the sky above, suspended inside a small steel capsule on a long cable. It was another wild free moment, only this time it ended in that terrible wrenching experience of icy cold fear. The sound… The goddamned sound… the sound you could feel, but not hear… That bright shiny thing he found on the ground when he turned to run for his life….

He kept that dream in his pocket for some time, wondering about it. Then, as if to mock him, it returned to plague his sleep yet again, a strange object, silver bright, perfectly smooth, and in the shape of a metal teardrop, about the size of an egg. It made no sense, but the next thing he dreamt was the swirling of silt and sand, as if driven by a fitful wind. He looked in his hand, saw the object he had found with a strange glow about it. Suddenly it was very hot and he dropped it with a yelp of pain. After that it was Fedorov again, sticking his nose in the situation and demanding the object, whatever it was.

He didn’t like that dream, the one where Fedorov appeared and took that thing from him—put it right in his pocket and walked away. Why would he ever let that little shit get away with something like that? What did all this mean?

He shook his head, as if to dispell the recollection of the dreams, but he knew they would bother him again that night. Maybe he’d choke that bastard to death again, or ride that steel capsule, or fall like a fiery angel from the sky into the sea. Then again, maybe he’d hear that sound again, there but not there, deep and chilling, so goddamn unnerving that the only response was to run, run for your sorry ass life. Then he’d awaken into that life, remembering he was safe on the ship again, one sorry ass indeed. He’d get up, forget to shave, grumble on below decks as always, checking the duty rosters. And he’d see Karpov climbing the ladder up to the goddamned bridge, his eyes on him a very long time as he went, sallow, vengeful eyes. What the hell am I doing on this god forsaken ship, he thought? Why do I put up with all this shit?

That night, however, he got quite a shock. He had been sitting in the officer’s mess, thinking about all of this—Karpov, Grilikov, Fedorov, the dreams. Then in walked the fresh little Starpom himself! Orlov gave him a sallow grin.

“Look what the bear dug up,” he said, the Russian equivalent of ‘look what the cat dragged in.’

“Good evening, Chief. How’s the fare tonight?”

“Miserable,” said Orlov, “just like last night. But you’re a senior officer now, eh? You can just go back and ask the chef for specials.”

“Well, you’re a senior officer as well, Orlov. Is that what you do?”

“I wrangled some gravy, but it didn’t help much.”

“I see… Mind if I join you?”

Orlov was thinking he had to see what Fedorov was up to tonight, as he had been somewhat remiss, so he simply nodded his head. Maybe he could learn something.

“How’s the air up there on the bridge these days,” he said with just an edge of resentment.

“Same as always,” said Fedorov. “Karpov casts a pretty thick shadow. The man practically lives on the bridge now, and Grilikov gets a permanent post up there too. Samsonov is training him on CIC operations.”

“The two of them should get along fairly well.” Orlov shrugged, his expression hiding nothing of his sour inner mood.

“Something bothering you tonight, Chief?”

“Tonight, last night, every night.” He didn’t know why he offered that, but once he had enjoyed talking with Fedorov—before, when he was just the ship’s Navigator. He secretly admired the other man’s intelligence, even though he could never understand how he could bury his nose in those boring books all the time.

“What do you mean?” asked Fedorov.

“Nothing… Just bad dreams. Probably because of all this lousy food. A man can’t sleep with a belly full of cold potatoes. That’s what this whole deployment has turned into, eh Fedorov? Cold potatoes.”

“It’s certainly difficult. You losing sleep over it? What’s with these bad dreams?”

Questions… Just like that dream he had from time to time. Dark rooms and questions. Now here was Fedorov asking them this time, like he was Doctor Zolkin, only without any medicine to dispense. He gave the new Starpom a sour look.

“Tell you what,” he said gruffly. “I was dreaming I was choking the life out of someone the other night. I had these nice big hands on his scrawny little neck and I was watching his eyes bug out. He was asking me too many questions too, just like you. So maybe I’ll dream you into that little nightmare next time it comes around, eh? And where do you get off taking anything from me?”

Even as he said that, Orlov realized it was stupid. It had just popped out, as he had been thinking about that last dream, where Fedorov demanded that silver teardrop, pocketed the damn thing and then just walked away.

“Taking something from you?” Fedorov could sense Orlov’s hostility, and his instinct was to mend fences. “Have I done anything to offend you Chief? I can’t recall ever taking anything of yours.”

“Never mind,” said Orlov. “It was just another dream.”

Strange, thought Fedorov. Orlov is clearly in a bad mood tonight. Dreams are dreams, and I realize he may bear me a good deal of resentment, seeing as though I was promoted to Starpom over him. He’s never liked that, but… I did take something from him once, though he couldn’t possibly know about that. Just the same…

“Sorry Chief. I don’t mean to pry into your affairs, but what was it you thought I took from you?”