The Romanov Rescue
- Автор: Кратман Том, Watson Justin
- Год: 2021
- Язык: английский
- Год: Baen
- ISBN: 978-1-9821-2570-7
- Жанр: Альтернативная история
Электронная книга - «The Romanov Rescue». Краткое содержание книги:
As WWI comes to a close a German general, an escaped prisoner of war, and the crew of an airship converge to effect THE ROMANOV RESCUE. Can there be a world without communism?
Mankind’s history is bound up in the fabric of fate, a strong cloth, tough and closely woven.
It is the beginning of 1918, the last year of the greatest war in human history, to date. All the belligerents stagger on their feet. Starvation is an ever present reality, while disease waits in the wings. In Russia, no longer a belligerent but, instead, rapidly descending into civil war and chaos, a lone family—Father, Mother, four beautiful young girls, and a brave but sickly boy—await their own fate, shivering and hungry in the dark, hoping and praying for salvation.
Their relatives in England have turned their backs. The guards set over them do little but torment them. They look Heavenward, but God doesn’t answer. They know they’re a threat to the new regime, a threat that will, in time, be eliminated.
But even the strongest fabric has flaws. An escaped prisoner of war, caught, injured, and punished, but still highly capable, might be one. An airship, returned and at loose ends after a failed mission to Africa might be another. A German general, taking a wrong turn on his nightly walk and suddenly coming face to face with the reality of the monster rising in the east, would be a third.
Follow, then, as the general gives the orders, the prisoner of war raises the men from among his fellows, and the airship launches itself forward, to contest fate, to tear the fabric of time, and to effect The Romanov Rescue.
About the Carrera series:
“Tell him what?”
Again, she sighed. “Tell him the reason they abused me… sold me. Maxim Sergeivich, with the deaths of my parents, I inherited… well… their status. I am a baroness. No, no huge estates, but a ‘proprietary’ baroness all the same, since we do… did… have a decent sized farm. But… well… it’s worse than that, really. The royal family… mmm… we’ve met. I was little then but they might still recognize me, because I look so much like my father.”
“Does anyone else—anyone else in our party—know?”
“Sergeant Mokrenko guessed, I think. Then he caught me out, twice, at least twice, as having a better education than a simple peasant girl ought to have had, or to be expected to have had.”
“Yes, if anyone would have guessed…” Turgenev laughed at himself. “You know, Baroness Sorokin, I can’t tell if I’m disappointed or thrilled.”
“Disappointed, why?” she asked.
“I was afraid you were about to utter a declaration of undying love.”
“Why,” she asked, dryly, “would I make a declaration of something that is so obvious? I’ve decided you think I’m too young and love you the more for that. I am; I am young, not stupid or blind. But in five years, or seven, at the outside, and maybe as few as three, Maxim Sergeyevich, you belong to me. Period. If, that is, you are not disgusted by what they made of me, the Reds and the crew.”
“Don’t be silly. You want to talk about peoples’ bodies being used for obscene purposes? I’ll tell you about the war sometime. That was an obscene purpose. And I had no more will in it than you did.
“All right,” he said, “in five years we’ll open this discussion again. In the interim, how do you actually feel about the royal family?”
“I don’t know the tsarevich, Alexei,” she replied, “but the four girls—OTMA, they call themselves, as a group—are wonderful. You would think they would be spoiled, right? Self-centered? Stuck up? Bitchy? They’re not. They cleaned their own rooms, made their own beds, and took cold baths. Think about that; cold baths, in Saint Petersburg, in the middle of winter? They’re regular people, at heart. They’d all adore being regular people, in fact.”
Turgenev went silent for a moment, thinking hard. I wonder if…
“Hmmm… you know, it would help if we had someone who could act as a go between. Do you think you could get in there as a maid to them? My little spy? But without telling them much of anything… or anything at all?”
“I will try. For you, I will try.”
Governor’s House, Tobolsk
It turned out, as such things will, to be harder than that; the former tsar wasn’t hiring. Turned away at the gate by the main entrance to the Governor’s House, Natalya wasn’t sure what to do. She turned south again, heading to their safe house, and was met by Turgenev coming north on his continuing reconnaissance of the town.
“I don’t know what to do, Maxim Sergeyevich,” she said, when they turned east toward the center of town and the market. “How do I get in to work in a place that isn’t hiring because they have no money to pay staff?”
Turgenev didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he mentally counted the paces from the southwestern corner of the Kornilov House, to its northwestern corner, and then the same for two eastern corners of the Governor’s House.
“Olga is looking out the window,” Natalya said. “No, don’t turn and stare. Just trust me, she’s there with… mmm… someone I don’t recognize… a man.”
“Too busy counting to look,” the lieutenant replied. “In any case, I believe you. Now. remember these figures, Natalya… thirty-four arshini, forty-one arshini.”
“Thirty-four and forty-one,” she echoed. “What are those, anyway?”
“The exterior dimensions of the Kornilov House and ‘Freedom’ House, on their long axes. I’ll get the other dimensions later.”
“Oh. Why do those matter?”
“I’ll explain to you later, if you remind me. Indeed, you can help me with a certain project I have in mind.
“As to what to do, I don’t know, Natalya,” Turgenev replied. “If you offered them money to let you work there, it would raise suspicions. Maybe if we had a way to introduce money to the household, they could then hire staff. But would they hire a new girl or take back old staff they’ve had to let go? I confess, I don’t know. While we think about this, let’s go shopping for some rope and, after that, maybe get some lunch.”
“What kind of rope?” she asked.
“Different kinds or, rather, different colors.”
“What for? The horses?”
“No,” he answered, with a shake of his head. “If we can yet find a way to introduce you into the house or houses, I want to use it to trace out floor plans for my boss, so he can plan how to liberate the family.”
Natalya considered that for a bit, then her eyes widened. “With rope you can make a floor plan and then roll it up, so no one notices… is that it.”
“I’ve said it before; you’re a clever girl.”
She thought, Five years, seven years, and maybe as few as three.
As it turned out, the market was not a great place to buy rope, though the lieutenant did manage to acquire about two hundred arshini of a thin, plain hemp.
“You can find more and of different types,” said the vendor, “either down by the river docks or at one of the logging firm’s warehouses.”
Natalya wasn’t paying any attention to the rope transaction, but simply looking around at the generally used wares on display and the people shopping for them. She saw a Tatar bargaining for a smoked fish with some old woman. The bargaining was in Russian. Near those two some fur-wrapped man wearing waders ran a complex net through his hands, examining it closely. Not far from there, a milk salesman chopped off chunks of frozen milk, weighing them for sale to someone dressed in a way Natalya had never seen, in furs of different kinds sewn together to form patterns. Their bargaining was completely silent but conducted with gestures. Two women chatted while watching the spectacle, much as Natalya was.
“What’s that language?” she asked, pointing with her chin at the warmly and well-dressed women, talking between themselves.
Turgenev followed the direction and saw the same two women. He listened to their chatter for a bit, then said, “It’s vaguely Germanic but not German. Some of the words even sound somewhat French. English, maybe?”
“I don’t speak that,” she said. “French, yes; Mokrenko caught me with that. German, too. No English.”
Hoisting the coil of rope he’d purchased over one shoulder, he said, “They’re here, so they likely speak Russian. Let’s go ask.”
“Sophie Karlovna Buxhoeveden,” was the answer, in Russian, followed by, “And this is my friend, Miss Mather.” Sophie then proceeded to translate some of that into English for her friend.
“Buxhoeveden… Buxhoeveden,” Natalya rolled the name around her mouth a few times before coming up with, “Baroness Buxhoeveden; you were a lady-in-waiting to the tsarina.”
“Shshsh, young lady,” Sophie cautioned, “I have enough trouble already with the local authorities. And how would you know that, anyway?”
“That’s a long story,” Turgenev interrupted. “Oh, and please excuse my manners; Maxim Sergeyevich Turgenev, at your service. You seem very concerned about the local ‘authorities.’”