The Time Surgeons

Vasili woke suddenly, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow testimony less to the heat than to the dream that had awakened him. But when he tried to grasp the dream it danced away from him like the shimmer of a mirage, and was gone.

He sat up on the narrow bunk in his cramped cabin, stretching the kinks out of his muscles as best he could. Dreams do not matter when you may be waking into a nightmare, he thought. Let us hope we hear word, and that the word is for life not death.

He knew they stood on the brink of war. It seemed so long ago now, but in truth had been mere decades, when men had fought a war so horrific they had thought it would be the last war of all. They had been wrong. The seeds of that conflict had spawned another, which had managed to plumb even greater depths of what men were capable of doing to their fellows. And in its turn, the seeds of that war had scattered to sprout yet more, like weeds in the vacant lot of humanity’s soul. And now the inexorable drumbeat had brought the world to the edge of another, this one so terrible that perhaps it would truly be the war to end all wars. Not that men would look upon it and become too appalled, too afraid, or even too wise to wage war: but that this time there would be nobody left to fight.

The enemy were hunting him, that he knew. The enemy had placed a blockade, and he was running it. Thus they were running as silently and as deeply as they could. This they had been doing for days, and both temperatures and tempers had been rising steadily. The one thing that had not been rising was information. This deep they had no word, and little hope of receiving any. While safety lay in the dark, the deadly dangers of fear and ignorance stalked there too. And when the stakes were this high any decision could be deadly, and not just for them.

He hoped the enemy knew what they were doing. Not hoped that they knew enough to capture or kill him, but that they knew the dangers of continuing or escalating their hunt. That they had the sense to know when it would be wiser to give up their chase rather than pursue it to its end. For the longer Vasili’s men were forced to evade and hide, the less they knew about the world outside the hunt; and so the more their own fears about the motives of the hunters would rise; and then the more likely they were to decide that their duty compelled them to stop hiding.

He did not think the enemy seeking him would like what they then found.

If the enemy knew what they were hunting, perhaps they would have already realized that wisdom lay in graceful withdrawal. Or perhaps they did know, and that was why they continued. Vasili remembered the sheen of sweat on his forehead, and knew that is what his dream had warned him. Or perhaps it had warned him that they did not know, and their finding out would be the end of the world.

Or maybe the sweat was just from the heat of his cabin.

He sat there for a moment, contemplating the vision of a choice made in ignorance, on the cusp of which his own fate and perhaps that of the world might hinge.

It was only a moment. He had risen to a position where such a choice might be thrust upon him through decisiveness, courage and an inability to give up no matter what the odds. He rose from his bed, straightened his uniform and left his room, his footsteps padding quietly down the passageway.

But as he walked the first boom and rattle sounded, and he knew the enemy had found him, or thought it had. Or with luck it was a random shot in the dark, a confession not of knowledge but of ignorance.

But then there was another boom and rattle, this time from the other side. They are bracketing us. Showing us they know.

He increased his pace, and as he hurried along the corridors the cadence of the enemy’s rain sounded like the halting but ever approaching footsteps of a doom no longer to be denied or escaped.

When Vasili entered the room, the captain and political officer stood in greeting and respect but said nothing. He looked slowly from face to face and knew their thoughts. Beneath his own trademark calm, icy currents swirled to the darkest reaches of his soul. He knew what they would say. He knew what he would say if they did.

But they had to say it.

“Report status,” commanded Vasili.

“Still nothing from Command,” replied the Captain, “and we are now under attack.”

“No word from command after all these days,” added the Political Officer, unnecessarily voicing their thoughts.

“We have been hiding. We did not expect to hear word while we are this deep.”

“We may be at war already, and we would not know,” noted the Political Officer.

“But nor can we assume we are. We must be careful. As much as we do not want to lose a war by not striking when we should, our country will not thank us if we start one ourselves before she is ready.”

“Surely you know that Mother Russia would win such a war?”

Vasili gave the Political Officer a searching glance. Such questions were dangerous, and meant to be recognized as such.

“Nevertheless, she will be hurt. It would be disloyal to bring that hurt upon her through hasty decisions.”

“Hasty!” cried the Captain. “We are under attack! What more proof do you need?”

“We may not be under attack. They are bracketing us, not causing us significant damage. They are telling us they know we are here, and warning us to admit it or risk the obvious consequences.”

“If they know we are here, perhaps they also know what we are. If they know what we are, perhaps they wish to trick us into surfacing so they can destroy us with accurate and deadly force. Rather than risk an indisputable attack when they are not completely sure where we are, which could still leave us able to retaliate. A wounded bear is the most dangerous.”

Vasili considered, looking from face to face, searching for doubt or perhaps salvation. Normally on a ship like this the decision would already be set. Attack required the agreement of the Captain and the Political Officer, no less, no more. It was only the accident of his presence on this particular vessel that made their decision more complicated. While he was junior to the Captain in authority on this ship, he was also the Commander of the entire flotilla.

That meant he had to agree too. It had to be unanimous.

Which made the decision his, if the other two voted for war.

He thought, another rattling boom underlining the urgency. If they were at war then the Captain was right: the enemy was playing it safe, attempting to flush them out for a clean kill. But if they weren’t at war, the enemy was merely trying to enforce its blockade, and warn them that they had failed to run it. Slap their face, and turn them home in shame.

But if they know we are here, they know we are out of communication with command. If they know we are out of communication, what utter fool would drop depth charges on us, knowing we would fear it was an act of war, knowing how we might react? Knowing we would react exactly as we are doing? Surely they would not be so incalculably stupid as to gamble the fate of the world on our guess?

He looked again at his comrades. Look at them. They are warriors, trained for war. They vote for what they know, fearing failure to act more than the consequences of acting wrongly. I knew what they would decide even before I saw their faces, and if I were not here it would already be done. And if I know it, surely those above know it too.

He felt the ice grip his chest, knowing the decision was made.

“You know this is the death of us all?”

“We are dead anyway. Better to die heroes than cowards, and strike at the heart of our murderers with our final thrust.”

He gave a curt nod.

“Captain, give the order.”