Yeah, one more trip to Siberia. Fitz gave a weak imitation of a laugh. And what for? According to the Doctor this Razum guy has dowsed the world in petrol and were going to be handing him the match. Ha! A match made in heaven! Fitz sensed the threat of hysterics and he stopped himself, for Aphrodites sake. He didnt want her cracking up because of him. There was probably more than seven years bad luck for breaking an empathic mirror.
The Doctor will think of something, she said.
And Fitz was reminded it was a faith they shared. He raised a smile, like a toast, to Aphrodite. Apparently she did know the Doctor of old.
Let there be light. And heat. Thank God. The commander had been waiting a cold eternity for the order. Or at least a few days that had seemed very much like it.
He and his crew had effectively entombed themselves, with only the insulation of their uniforms and a daily regimen of haemotherm capsules to keep them warm. The heat from their own waste was channelled from the onboard head to provide the minimal levels of power they had been permitted. Survival level, nothing more.
As they powered up their beast, the commander, hooking into the vehicle computer coming online, was greeted with the sight of a thousand other Thor tanks breaking up through the snows like armoured mammoths, disinterring themselves after millennia frozen under the ice.
The next few hours would still be about survival. But at least they would have might on their side. And heat. And light.
The map was lying to his face. Mogushestvo clutched at it, as if trying to strangle another treacherous part of the image. His fingers closed, inevitably, around nothing, where another armoured column had evaporated.
Wargaards divisions were moving in from the northwest and soon Omsk would have a battle on its hands. But Mogushestvos forces were well dug in and Wargaard barely qualified as a concern. Kinzhal was the threat, not least because the map kept him hidden. In the absence of any sign, Mogushestvo watched his own tanks claw their way through the streets of Sverdlovsk, viral cells invading the citys bloodstream, unopposed. Here, an infantry position; there, an artillery battery configured for a directfire role; nothing that wasnt easily detected, crushed, swept aside.
Then the trucks started winking into existence at deserted junctions. As soon as their engines showed up, their fusion signatures shot off the scale and Mogushestvos tanks lit up like chains of novae before they were erased, burned from the map, leaving faint afterimages scratched across Mogushestvos visored eyes.
Huo! he growled again. Report!
Huos voice came back, sounding more tired than ever. Theres no pattern to the distribution, Lord. Some junctions are unguarded, and other than these trucks rigged as singleshot cannon, opposition is minimal. Infantry and other units are in a fighting retreat. We will break through, Lord! Its only a matter of time!
Huo was lying to himself, Mogushestvo could hear it, plain as Lord! The southwestern quarter!
At this prompt from one of his staff, Mogushestvo stared at the offending quarter. Where the map unmasked another glaring lie. Impossible!
Thousands of fusion flares emissions from tanks that, moments before, hadnt been there rolled in towards his southwest flank no more than thirty minutes from Omsk. More lit up as they closed the gap. Kinzhal, at last, had played his hand.
Mogushestvo felt a burning fist closing around his throat.
Razum Kinzhal had constructed a model of the world in his mind; he understood its mechanism so exactly that, when it came to the components he set in motion, he could visualise their workings perfectly. While Wargaard pored avidly over the simulator map, adjusting the scale to pounce on some detail and refining his orders accordingly, Razum stood by and waited for the action to unfold in accordance with his calculations.
Sometimes he dipped into his mental model, to picture some aspect, some facet of the battle beyond these walls. More to pass the time than to monitor progress: inevitability was scarcely worth monitoring. It was all preprogrammed, hardwired into history.
All over Sverdlovsk, trucks fire their engines. Deuterium fuel, heated to a hundredmillion degrees, undergoes fusion; modified containment fields are weakened to allow directed plasma leakage. Unleashed, the fusion reaction is unsustainable and dies in a second; plasma jets have already streamed into advancing tank columns at temperatures approaching solar.
Fiftythousand degrees Centigrade. Contained and dampened, within an armoured hull, the plasma core generates a highly detectable IR signature; enemy sensor installations scan a 400km radius for signatures ranging upwards of a few hundred degrees. Powered down, the heat signature is negligible; as negligible as that of a cloaked horse. Or several hundred cloaked horses, working to pull trains of tanks over a distance of 320km. Its an epic undertaking, but ultimately its a matter of logistics, mechanics and overcoming inertia. All that work generates heat, but like the operation itself, its manageable. So a major percentage of Razums armour has been put to bed, laid out in 50km rows from Petrapavlovsk to Bulayevo, under a blanket of snow. Awaiting their wakeup call.
That alarm is tuned to Wargaards divisions. Indexlinked to the heavy losses he will incur, as his armour sweeps down from Tobolsk to fall on Mogushestvos defences. Wargaards divisions are armed with two key advantages: intelligence on dispositions and strengths of defending forces, and air cover, with Razums fighters deployed in a ground attack role, clearing paths through enemy minefields and flying tactical strike missions against troop and armour positions within the city.
Aeroelastically tailored airframes, remotepiloted to pull 1518g turns, giving a 55 per cent evasion rate versus enemy surfaceair installations. So Razum would eventually lose all his fighters in the skies over Omsk.
But his armour would sweep up to seal the victory The cavalry: 7080kmthirty minutes from Omsk. As close to zero reaction time, with Mogushestvo so thoroughly engaged with Wargaards forces, as could be bought. Of course, he would incur losses too: 40 per cent of his main battle tanks. But the battle of OmskSverdlovsk belonged to him.
That future was an engine of his design, lubricated with superheat and built of cold, hard fact.
And Angel was out there, throwing her luck into the mix; her touch was delicate, subtle, but could tip the scales so decisively. Small wonder, because her touch was a touch of Dusha. A kiss of warmth handed down through history, a missive intended solely for him. And when Dusha entered him and they became one and their fire embraced the world, Angel would embrace her fate above all others.
He knew Angel well enough to see that as inevitable too. Although it was dependent on the completion of a more substantial bridge, and that was reliant on the Doctor.
Keeping his minds eye on the battle, his gaze flicked repeatedly to the door, through which the Doctor was to be conducted the instant he made his appearance.
The Doctors arrival was inevitable, but Razum recognised him as the single unpredictable component in all of this; an unknown variable, a random factor, generating too big a question mark. Something uncomfortably akin to a nagging doubt, a grinding gear in Razums precisely engineered machinery.
The sooner that component arrived, the sooner he could ensure it all ran like clockwork.
The Command Centre shook under the closest blast yet and Mogushestvo could easily imagine Kinzhal smashing his fist down on a map of Omsk. The city was infested with Alliance tanks and suddenly the darkness of this bunker, previously a comfort and an aid to concentration, was constricting. Closing in like a net of shadows.
Mogushestvo could hear himself seething and, although they stood as silent as sinners in a church, he could hear the nerves of his generals snapping, one by one. He glared at them from behind his battle mask, and each searched himself for something to say.
Another almighty blast, directly overhead, sent down a rain of dust.
Mogushestvo was no Greel, he was no god: these men feared him, but they never believed in him. If they had, perhaps they would not be facing the outcome spelt out so emphatically in each explosion. What he hated most was their utter conviction in the impending defeat, chiefly because they had every one of them seen it long before he had.
Mogushestvo drew his ceremonial katana, managing to startle the generals. A few even started towards him, as if in halfhearted attempts to spare him from falling on his own blade. A final laughable demonstration of their pitiful understanding.
But Mogushestvo gave no vent to his laughter. Instead, with a bestial, wounded roar, he swung at the nearest of his officers with the blade, then hacked and hacked again at the rest of their quivering, cowering frames, like a reaper cutting down crops of wheat while they did their utmost to bend away from his scythe.
Mogushestvo, his rage spent, gripped his sword in both hands and turned to face the door through a bloodsplattered visor, watching and waiting for the first Alliance officer to show his head in this bunker room. Defeat may have been staring him in the face, but defeat was not something Karsen Mogushestvo was ever prepared to admit.
He would die fighting.
What the hell is this? This is getting to be a bad habit of yours, Razum, inviting personal matters to intrude on councils of war!
Loud as he was, Wargaard was easily ignored. Especially when it was Razums daughter being conducted into the room. The young man accompanying her was, on the surface, an interesting but unimportant detail. Although, beneath that, he looked likely to be a friend of the Doctors and was a little more interesting for that. Both were clad in Alliance uniforms.
Aphrodite, said Razum, dismissing the guards with a gesture. Momentarily, she had glanced in Wargaards direction, and Razum connected another strand of the web. There wasnt a conspiracy conceived that he couldnt read, but the fact that this one was being spun by the Doctor rendered its unravelling all the more fascinating a prospect. I hoped youd come. One reason I allowed articles of mine to be distributed to other time zones. So that you might find them and unlock your way to me.
Aphrodite met his gaze with a glint of his own steel. I found medals of yours in the fortysecond century. Im very wealthy and influential there, with plenty of leisure time for relic hunting. Traces of your influence were harder to find than Mamas, but if I had to sift a desert for just a grain of you,padre , you know I would have done.
Good girl.
Eh? What is this, Razum? A lady with your penchant for time travel?
Yes, Wargaard, meet my daughter. He supplied the datum to shut him up. Then he reached for his daughters hand. She accepted his, but only as a means of pressing something into his palm.
Of course, she could do no other than be cool towards him. Confronted with an emotional vacuum like himself; her feelings would be governed more by the others in this room: awe, from the young man, impatience from Wargaard, and a degree of contained nervousness from the young woman serving as Wargaards aide de camp. A volatile mix, he supposed, but nothing that he could feel: he was simply drawing informed conclusions.
Still, there was a legible tension in the young man and a skilfully cloaked brightening of the young womans eyes, as he opened his hand to reveal the locket. Dushas locket.
He recognised it, of course, from its depiction in the portrait, but that was the least of his confirmation. An unmistakable warmth, that had once been part of him, flowed from it, igniting microscopic sparks of feeling in the core of him.
The key, explained Aphrodite superfluously, connecting you to Dusha.
I can feel her already, he said, basking in a sensation greater than history.
Shes wearing that same locket, three thousand years ago, said the young man, his sense of awe on display at last. Im Fitz, by the way. A friend of the Doctors.
Razum nodded and glanced at Wargaards aide. I know. Hes written all over you.
Wargaard mistook the glance for attention paid to him. By God, somebody had better explain all this! We are trying to fight a battle here.
The battle is won, declared Razum, with all the import of a clock announcing the time. You have something to say, Fitz.
Fitz shoved himself forward, looking to Aphrodite to back him. The fact is, thats the key right there, but the Doctor is going to show you another door. An alternative to what you have in mind.
I see. Razum, despite himself, narrowed his eyes. It was an expression approaching a frown. So this was it: the ace up the Doctors sleeve. Perhaps youd care to share the details. Or hasnt he shared them with you? Does he even have an alternative, I wonder?
Hes sure to, said Aphrodite. And he wont accept yours, Father.
Im sure he wont! That is the entire point, child! He was... disappointed: Aphrodite should have seen it. Too much of her mothers side diluted her thinking, he thought wryly. Do you think any stimulus this life, this sorry existence, has to offer can compensate for that separation? He caught the sharp sting reflected in her eyes. No, I see you dont. Well, the Doctor should know, I expect him to come up with a plan. A plan for our reunion. Alternatives to that are unacceptable.
He withdrew to the map table, clutching the locket. The matter was closed.
Hello, sorry Im late! What stage of the negotiations are we at? The Doctor came barging in, reopening the matter very effectively and immediately. He marched up to the table, carrying a section of console, wires spilling everywhere from its underside. Razum studied the mans outwardly cheerful demeanour with interest.
Were still at the top of the agenda, Doctor, Aphrodite updated him.
Early for you, added Fitz. Youre supposed to leave these things till the eleventh hour.
Yes, well, Im afraid my eleven oclock is fully booked. Still, if youve presented the client with his key, I can explain the terms and conditions.
Explain them, by all means, Razum made his invitation a warning, but dont expect me to bow to them.
Ah, I see Fitz hasnt made my case very clear. The young man rolled his eyes, but Razum stayed focused on the Doctor. The Doctor smiled. Allow me. Then he wiped the smile away. I am offering you a reunion with Dusha. But onlyonly he condensed, at a stroke, the entirety of the matter into that one word to take place on a world of my choosing.
Razum waited. The room waited.
The Doctor laid the equipment on the map table, just where a minor tank engagement was taking place in the streets of Omsk. He levelled his gaze at Razum, laying out his cards with his eyes. As you well know, a system exists in the twentyfirst century via which I can convey her essence into you, just as you desire. Thought Time. It operates on similar principles to the Zygmabased transit belts you developed. And why wouldnt it? You engineered the circumstances that gave rise to that development.
He glanced at Wargaard and his aide, both of them watching and listening in very apparent bewilderment. What I am offering all I am offering, the Doctor pressed on, is a lift to another planet. In your present time. Its possible the rules that bind you to this time wont rule out a spatial hop in my ship.
Razum rubbed his chin, as if finding a hint of imaginary stubble beginning to form. So all we would require is a suitable lifeless world of sufficient mass. Within reach of this Zygma beam, I suppose.
Good point. I wont lie to you, the beamis at its most elastic in the fourth dimension. The Doctors shoulders sagged, but he raised them again with a modest amount of effort. But we wont know the full extent of the Zygma beams spatial reach until we put it to the test. We could use a conventional starship, but its a good deal slower and Im sure you would have already considered that.
The space programme is nonexistent in this century, Doctor. Theres a war on.
He and the Doctor regarded each other as if they were the only two men in the room. On the planet, even. Take it or leave it, the Doctor told him. Its all thats on offer. Ive already asked Dusha that was what held me up and she has consented. And its generally better if the heart and mind can reach some sort of accord.
The room waited.
Whats it to be? the Doctor prompted.
The planet waited.
No, said Razum Kinzhal. Not good enough.
Angel waited.
The guards either side of the door werent about to challenge the adjutant of Razum Kinzhal; she was free to come and go as she pleased. Or hesitate, if she so wished. Just as well, because at this precise moment, she was unsure which she should do. Which might be for the best.
She had spent the last hour driving through a city that was, beyond the walls of this fortress hub, falling apart. Mogushestvos armour foundered in sunhot fires. Surviving tanks turned tail, punishing entire blocks as they went until, ultimately, they ran into further blockades of trucks, moved into position and primed to rob them of their way out. Few would make it clear.
Meanwhile, tattered remnants of infantry units Alliance infantry, who had fought practically suicidal holding actions in the name of Razum drifted back towards the fortress, human litter blown along the wasted Sverdlovsk streets. Few of them would make it home.
Having seen more than enough burning armour to persuade her that victory was assured and having heard initial reports from Omsk to support the same conclusion there Angel offered a handful of the wounded a ride back in the APC. It was the least she could do.
Now, standing outside her Lord Generals Command Room, in the light of all she had overheard, she couldnt decide what, if anything, was the least or most she could do.
The inference that her Lord General was something other than he appeared was a long while seeping through. Neither, she realised, was she what she appeared. The good luck kiss, the one she had always dreamed since childhood, came back to her and somehow seemed synonymous with the name of Dusha. The woman in the portrait. Her rival for Razums affections.
Angel didnt know what to make of that. She only knew she had to make something.
In beating his independent retreat, De Schalles was mildly surprised to find a truck heading in the opposite direction towards the advancing enemy armour. De Schalles considered himself a patriot, but he felt the need to point out that the drivers zeal was entirely misguided.
He jumped up on to the footplate and aimed the pulse driver through the cab window. Motioning Halman and Denzak up on the other side, the hijack was complete. De Schalles dispensed with trying to convert the truck driver, turfed him out on to the road, then swung the truck around to navigate a route through to the fortress.
Approaching one of the main entrances was where De Schalles sweated most. But the vehicle itself had full clearance and, since he was expected to be KIA, nobody had bothered alerting security as to his official status as a traitor.
So much the better, because he was the antithesis of a traitor. He was an antidote.
Parking the truck in one of the cavernous vehicle hangars, he and his two confederates disembarked without a word. There was enough noise and commotion around them, as other vehicles made their way in and the crews busied themselves trading hugs and cheers. The mood was weary but celebratory.
Sounds like things have gone our way.
De Schalles stared in disbelief at Halman. They had all seen what happened to their assigned unit just moments after they had absented themselves.
At Omsk, I mean. Sounds like were on the winning side.
All the more reason, bit De Schalles, to finish this off.
If victory was assured, then so was the death of Razum Kinzhal.
He led his small assassination squad through the roofedin fortress streets, heading for Razums Command Centre. He had appointed himself the Lord Generals destiny. And not even a Lord General could outrank that.
Body Soul
Two futures confronted one another across the map table. In the Doctors eyes, blue and fathomless, Fitz knew there was a sea of possibilities, inviting exploration. In Razum Kinzhals, each pupil was ringed with a fiery corona, symbolic of a will that threatened to eclipse all possibilities bar one: the vision of a world on fire.
A future so painfully bright, Fitz was sure he caught a glimpse of it: two souls merging, igniting a fire that never died; whitehot and spilling out of the Lord General to boil the worlds oceans dry and turn the planets crust molten and unleash her core. Fitz saw the Earth consumed, and in her place, a blinding star. Living fire, with countless deaths for a heart.