This should have been broken into four parts, but the first part of the epilogue was a block, so this one is, too. Enjoy. There are a few places where I couldn’t be bothered to scroll back 200 pages for names, so I used placeholders. That’s what editing is for.

I started this manuscript just over a year ago, with Konev and his scout team at point of the Russian occupation of central Canada. Thus, it is fitting that it end with him, too. But what and end: being debriefed about what happened at the CSIS prison I expected. Writing my way further in, I realized that because of what Reina had learned from rooting around Bob’s mind – and then about the future of Mars – she would want to know everything Konev knew.

And they Ivan speaks up to claim him. I didn’t see and write that until about an hour ago. They always surprise me. It’s a gift, really: “The Adventures of Sergei & Ivan” would make a great novella; it would make a great graphic novel. That boy is made of mischief and I look forward to what trouble they get in (first idea: they travel to Mars and steal that ancient device).

Now comes the hard, sober, part: editing. A multistep process: a complete read thru, shuffling material around, chapter breaks, Grammarly. Then and only then I pass it off to my copyeditor. It’s about 65,000 words, or about 245 pages in a 6″ x 9″ book. A book with no name, still. At least I can reach out to my cover designer in a day or two with the basics of what I’ll want to see. The front will be Konev and Bob, with Eloise between them, all in uniform. What else? Reactionless ships, something evocative of Canada (a can of Molson’s?), Mars. And Cartaphilus.

I’d say I need a break, but we all know I’d be lying. I’ll be writing again within weeks once I get this to my copyeditor. Thanks, everyone, for putting up with this raw MS. Please buy and review the final version once it comes out in a month or two.

Enjoy my content? Buy me a beer!

Just southwest of the Regina Airport, Suvorov had a series of tents set up out in a field near the crossroads of two major highways.  Once their team of ten had been ordered out of Ottawa, High Command had ordered their pick up by one of the reactionless transporters.

That was an hour ago, Konev thought.  He and Gogol had made sure to get their stories synchronized for what came next.  But then, the PM was behind this operation, for reasons I cannot fathom, so perhaps this is just a normal debriefing?  Then again, that bang and flash.  If the imperials are wounded or captured…

[ship name] decelerated and dropped.  As the ten unbuckled, a rating came for Gogol and Konev to follow him.  He explained once away from the others where they were and that the General wanted to see them.  Now.

No physical defensive perimeter like the imperials built every night, Konev could still see a layered defense of soldiers.  There were a few artillery pieces and no doubt some kind of air cover he couldn’t see.  At the precise center of the camp was a slightly larger tent.  With the ship’s landing obvious, General Suvorov had just walked out front.  No smile, typical, but no frown.

Both men drew up and saluted.  With that returned, Gogol spoke first, noting the two rather than one stars on the General’s uniform.  “Congratulations on your promotion, Sir.”

“It’s nothing but trouble,” Suvorov said, turning about to the table outside the command tent.  A corporal was already pouring vodka into three glasses.  He handed two over and lifted his.  “The Rodina.”

“The Rodina!” the two men said, managing to not look at one another.  With no hard surfaces nearby, they put them back onto the table.

“Walk with me,” the General ordered.  Finally, out near the pickets, he continued.  “I’m informed your mission was a success.  The imperials had a time of it and one of them is badly injured.”

“May I ask…?” Konev began.

“You know, besides these,” Suvorov pointed at his shoulder boards with his right hand, “I’ve also been appointed Acting Viceroy of the Emperor, in these former Canadian lands.”

“Congratulations,” they both echoed, wondering where this was going.

“That means more than the usual amount of political shit is now in my lap.” He paused to look east.  “The shock of imperials and Russian operating in their capital has led to the fall of the Canadian government.  Martial law has been declared.  Interestingly, Quebec has said they do not recognize the military authority and there is dead silence from Nova Scotia.  A mess, is it not?”

“I would think, sir,” Gogol said very carefully, “that our army’s active intervention so far from our bases…  Well, that would be going a province too far.”

“I and the powers-that-be agree completely,” he said, walking again, this time to the north.  “After all, we’re not even bothering with Winnipeg as it’s just a brick of ice right now.”

He still ignores my question about injuries, Konev thought.  I’m sure he has his reasons.

“From what you two saw, only, what happened last night?” Suvorov demanded.

Gogol, as intelligence officer, did the vast majority of the talking.  Konev saw the General hesitate just a moment at their invocation of “the three R’s.”  At their escape, he stopped and turned and had Konev say again exactly what he thought he saw and heard.  A nod.

“Their ship was knocked down; lucky shot.  I have no details but, obviously, they had further backup and support,” Suvorov admitted.  “Their ship and everything within a hundred meters was destroyed; I suspect a kinetic energy weapon.  The imperials and their target were evac’d.”

He didn’t walk but looked east again.

“Centurion Hardt is badly injured; in hospital somewhere in their imperium.  Have you two eaten since all this?”

The question caught Konev by surprise so Gogol answered that, besides a mouthful of hard cheese in the embassy before being expelled, no.  The General gave a single nod.

“Both of you get something to eat.  Now.  Sergeant Major?  You will be at my command tent in forty-five minutes.” A smaller nod to his intel officer.  “Alone.  Higher-ups want a word with you.”

“Sir!” They both saluted and Suvorov indicated they should go on back without him.  A glance over his shoulder had Konev see the General turn west, shaking his head.  That cannot be good.

“Attach the ledes here and here, please,” the brigade’s top doctor said to one of the three medics in the private section of Suvorov’s tent.  The general sat at a small desk and typed into laptop, ignoring what was being done to Konev.  Sergei recognized the fairly sophisticated AED they were hooking him up to.

“There is no reason for an EEG,” the doc continued for the record, speaking to the medic taking notes.  “If this goes beyond his heart stopping, there’s no point to try to salvage his mind.”

Excuse me? Konev wanted to ask.  Having a suspicion as to what was coming, he stayed silent.

I’ve seen the PM address Parliament.  And the few times when she has spoken to all the people.  In both cases, it seems she is in the Great Hall of Ministers in the Winter Palace of St. Petersburg.  And usually in the white, unadorned uniform of the Imperial Guard.  But I also know it’s not real; it’s some kind of image she creates – just like her own – to interact with humans.  Like she did those times with me across Canada.

“Open the code box and verify all meds are ready and accessible,” the doc told the medic who had stuck the ledes to Konev’s chest.  The man tore the lock off an orange box the size of a large tackle box, looked back, and nodded.

“We are ready here, General,” the doctor said to Suvorov.

“You look rather relaxed in that that cot, Sergeant,” the General said, looking at where Konev lay.  “Thinking about a nap?”

“Trying to not be a bother, sir.”

“Have you ever been over to their side, Konev?”

Did you have to say it that way?

“No, sir,” he admitted.  “I’ve seen some of her addresses, though.  Looks nice.”

“Expect a headache to start almost immediately.” Suvorov ignored him.  “She’ll know your condition and, probably, get you back in time.  It usually works.”

I’m beginning to not like this.

General Suvorov watched his Sergeant Major’s eyes roll up into his head as his body relaxed.

“What a world we live in,” he muttered.

A little cold, Konev noted everything was now very dark.  He sat up.  Fog covered the ground to a depth of perhaps twenty centimeters.  Where he had disturbed it with his motion, the edges briefly glowed red.

This is not the Great Hall, he thought, standing, disturbing the fog more as he did.  Looking about, he could just make out what looked like the ruins of a city; broken windows, collapsed walls.  Impossible to see more than fifty meters in the near-dark.  A quick glance down showed him wearing his uniform from a moment ago.

“Hello?” he asked to the darkness.

“Welcome, human.” A boy’s voice, right behind him.  Konev turned about…

He looks just like me when I was a kid, maybe six.  Cropped nearly-white hair, same build from helping my family on the farm…  But his eyes are reddish, like clay from the Crimea.  And I cannot think there are good intentions behind that odd smile of his.  Dirty scarlet pants and wool shirt with a rope around his waist.  Not military, but still…

Konev put out his hand.

“I am Sergeant Major Sergei Konev.  I am directed to speak with the Prime Minister.”

The boy looked at his hand until he dropped it.

“I’m Ivan.  You feeling okay, Sergei?” the lad asked.  That’s right:  the General told me to expect an instant headache.

“I… I am fine.  Now.  Ivan.” He glanced about.  “Am I where I am supposed to be?”

“For a start, sure.  And my step-sister and I are working in the background to keep you stable.  Oh!  Mom’s here!”

Next to the boy, Ivan, and the same height, was a person in muddy riding boots, dirty scarlet pants, a dirty wool shirt, all under a thin black leather coat.  Red eyes above a cruel mouth.  A three-cm fringe of dark hair down the side of her face to her chin.

Konev drew himself up and saluted.

“Prime Minister Mendrovovitch!” he called.  Did Ivan just call her “Mom?”

“Sergei Konev,” she said in a careful tone.  “Why do I interact with you so much these days?  Don’t answer.  As there are no such things as coincidences, it must be.  I have questions.  Walk with me.”

She moved past him without a glance.  Konev fell in behind her left, surprised to see the boy take her right hand.

“Oh,” Reina said.  “My children are working to keep you stable.  My first question is…”

“Why not take him to Kuban’s, Mom?” Ivan interrupted.  She stopped.

“A human?  Yes, there have been some demis, but no…”

“Grandfather and grandmother?” he interrupted again.

“They… that’s,” she shook her head just a little.  I’ve never seen her flustered.  This is very odd.  “They made me.  Us.  That’s different.”

“Now you’re making things up, Mom.”

She pulled her hand from his.  Konev watched her face seethe with anger before falling blank.

“Fine.”

The three stood just inside the entryway of an elegant restaurant.  Looking about, Konev was impressed by the opulence:  fine china plates, actual silverware, crystal glasses.  Hand-carved dark wood framed each table into a booth.  The chair seats a plush velvet.  He looked behind him.  The establishment name was painted onto the frosted glass but reversed and in Cyrillic:  Kuban’s.

Reina took a seat at the table immediately on their right and waved for them to sit across from her.

“My father told me about a place he liked as a little boy,” she continued in a surprising soft voice.  “I… did my best to make this for him.  We would meet here.  Before he died.”

“It is very nice, Prime Minister,” Konev said with a slight bow.  “You show me, a mere soldier, great honor.”

“I’ve already said you are meant to interact with me.  And, while here, you may address me as Reina.”

The boy snickered at that.  A glass appeared before him with what looked like some kind of berry juice.  Now Ivan laughed at his look.

“Nothing you see is what you think it is, Sergei,” the lad said.  “Everything points to something else.  Am I drinking juice?  Of course not!  I am drawing additional power from a reactor to keep you alive.”

“I see.” He did not.

“Be silent, my son,” Reina ordered.  He really is her child!  “To begin, I want your version of the raid on the Canadian Chekist prison. Begin.”

From that verbal report, she led him back, step by step, to what he – not so much his men – had been doing since they crossed the Rocky Mountains.  At his tale of meeting the peddler, Joseph, she started to reach her hand across the table to his face.

“Mom!” Ivan shouted.  “You’ll kill him!”

She paused, her fingers centimeters from his brow.

“I am much older about reality in these few of their days,” she admitted.  “What is not possible, is.  Who should not live, does.  My tribe and our people are in danger.  I must have what he knows.”

“Time travel and dead men walking?” Ivan laughed again.  He seemed a happy kid for such a mother.  He tossed the glass over his shoulder.  Konev heard the shatter.  “And don’t look surprised, Mom.  Big Sis Tay’s gift is language.  That means she burned right through all of your encrypted, secret files.  And told me, later.”

Reina’s hand came around to slap her son’s face.  His smile never wavered.

“How dare you!  The both of you…!” she began.

“I have no idea what you two are talking about,” Konev began, rubbing at the ache at the back of his neck, “and I’ve been whipped by my father and slapped by my mother, too.  But never in front of strangers.”

“No worries, Sergei!” Ivan said.  “We might be made a little differently, but we’re still Russians.  The toughest people on two worlds.  So far.”

“I have another question.” Reina seemed to pretend as if that incident didn’t happen.  “The Spetsnaz team.  Medicine Hat.”

His headache was getting worse, but he not only covered what was in the official report, but also what [name] had said about Reina.  And factions.

“I am aware of most of them, and their activities,” Reina allowed, once he was finished.  “And now, it seems, I can reach out to my step-daughter for even more information.”

Two highball glasses were on the table, half full with a clear liquid.  Reina picked her up, indicating he should do the same.

“We serve our Motherland,” she declared, tossing all of hers back.

It tastes like vodka, but from what Ivan said, it could mean anything.  Konev reeled just a bit in his chair.

“He ails, Mom.”

“I’m aware.  We are finished with him.  Now.”

“Wait,” Konev said, only realizing who he had just ordered.  Screw it.  He pointed at the boy.  “He’s your son?  You have a daughter?  Hardt said something about you being married.  You’re a Machine.  How is any of that possible?”

“It exists so it is possible,” she replied.

“He’s fun.  Can I keep him, Mom?” Ivan asked.

What?

“I know you interact little with humans, child, but they are not pets,” his mother clarified.

“You know what I mean!  I love you, Dad, and Sis, but it gets soooo booooring sometimes being with people like us!  Fate has dragged Sergei across your path, so that means mine, too,” the lad explained.  “He can be a tutor to me so I can understand them better.  You’ll rule here forever, I think, and Aqua will never let go of Mars.  Someday, I’ll rule, too.  That means I have to be older about them.”

“Agreed.  Sergei Konev?” Reina asked.  “You are now a reservist.  Your new job is to be pedagogue and mentor to my son.”

A look which made Konev shudder flickered across her face.  My head is pounding right now…

“Please.”

“I accept.  Perhaps as a first – ”

Both Machines looked up.

“His heart stopped,” Ivan said.

With a huge gasp of real air, Konev’ torso came up off the cot only to fall back.

“Sinus rhythm,” a medic called.  “He’s back.”

Disoriented and hurting, he still could hear that woman’s voice from the General’s laptop.

“…his new orders.  His physical location is of little mind to us, so I would like him to stay on with your brigade in an investigational capacity.  Don’t ask, details will follow,” the PM said.

“Can I have an android body and go play with him, Mom?” he heard Ivan’s voice from the computer, too.

“We’ll discuss it with your father.  Mendrovovitch out.”

It was nearly thirty seconds before General Suvorov stood and walked to Konev’s prone, sweating form on the cot.  He crossed himself in the Orthodox way.

“God help you, young man.  It seems you are to be cursed with an interesting future.”