Chapter 2 – Great great great great granddad
Meanwhile, back in the Krasnorussia of 2025, Maj. Voronov was worrying his head off. None of the program functions were working, and he was running out of ideas. Voronov decided that he was going to call the big bosses and see if they could do anything about his situation. He picked up the phone and dialed the number of the Red Army high command.
“Greetings, comrade.” an automated voice said over the phone, “You have reached the office of the glorious and heroic Red Army War Council. If you desire to place a call to a local number within the office, press 1 and dial your number.”
A pause.
“If you wish to contact the General of the Ground Forces…” the voice continued, “…press 2 now.”
Voronov pressed 2.
“You have chosen to contact the Secretary of Agriculture! Please hold while we patch you through.”
Voronov screamed a loud, “What the fuck!?” as the music of the Red Army played in a monotone.
Vladivostok, 1750. Alexei Kazansky climbed on board the war frigate, soaking from the water; Natasha followed after him. Kyurdin, Valeri and Charnaiz were already on board, being attended by the crew.
Charnaiz was talking to a crewman in Russian, and the masked sailor was shrugging at the king, as if he couldn’t make heads or tails of his queries. Kazansky walked up to them and heard what the sailor was saying, and grinned at Charnaiz.
“What?” asked the king.
“He doesn’t understand you.”
“I can see that! Maybe you can help me translate? I’m speaking perfect Russian to this buffoon and he only grasps a few words!”
“That’s because you’re speaking my Russian – Modern Russian. This man speaks Imperial Russian. It’s a dead language which was—“
“Enough of the history lesson, just translate!”
“There’ll be no need for that.” replied a deep voice in Russian-accented English from the officer’s cabin.
A man in a red navy coat and a cavalier’s hat with a white feather in it stepped out into view. His long hair and beard were neatly trimmed, and his eyes were narrow and fierce. If it wasn’t for the beard and all the frilly clothing, you could almost say he looked like,
“Kazansky – Admiral Rodion Ivanovich Kazansky, of the Czarina’s Pacific Fleet – at your service, mesdames et messieurs.”
“Wait, did you say Kazansky? As in Alexei Mikhailovich Kazansky?” asked Charnaiz, albeit a bit confused.
“What? No, of course not.” replied the Admiral, “I know no such relative of mine. He must be a fake.”
“A fake, huh?” interrupted Alexei, “I assure you, dedushka, I am no fake.”
“You incorrectly approximate my age to be relative to that of your grandfather, comrade… uh… I did not have the pleasure…”
“Kazansky – Alexei Mikhailovich Kazansky, of the 1ST Red Chemical Warfare Battalion – at your service, sir.”
“I see – so you are from where?” inquired the Admiral.
“Vladivostok, comrade Admiral.”
“I see… intriguing…”
“Excuse me,” Charnaiz interrupted, “But it seems to me we’ll have to have this little family reunion after we break up this ‘lover’s quarrel’.” he said, pointing over to Natasha and Kyurdin.
The two were “happily” rolling around on deck, Natasha throwing punches at Kyurdin’s head while stomping on his gonads; and since the latter had left his sword some distance away, he had no active means to defend himself. They actually seemed like they would roll overboard in the commotion. Natasha screamed at the top of her lungs,
“You never touch me again! You sick, perverted, ZHOPA!! Ti liubeesh papeenu pees'ku sassat'!!”
Suddenly, the sound of gunfire was heard in the air. Natasha stopped punching and instinctively looked over at Kazansky – it was usually him who was shooting into the air. He shrugged and mumbled, “It wasn’t me.” Instead pointing with his thumb to Admiral Rodion, who was frowning and holding what looked like a smoking pepperbox pistol in his right hand.
“No fighting on my ship.” said the Admiral, with a stern look on his face. “It’s either we all get along or I throw your ungrateful hides overboard into the merciless ocean deep!”
He holstered his pistol and crossed his arms, saying,
“Now – where is it that you all were going to, so I can drop you off?”
“Uh… um…” Kazansky said, wondering how he could explain how they got there. He was about to offer the truth before Valeri spoke,
“Japan – the island of Hokkaido.”
“That is very far away!” the Admiral said, smiling slightly, “However, it’s on my course, and we were due to stop there anyhow.”
Kyurdin got up from the floor and stared wide-eyed at Valeri, mouthing those famous words,
“What the fuck?”
Valeri raised her hand to him in a gesture to calm him down and said to Charnaiz, “We’ll find a friend in Japan. You remember Shruiken? He’s from this time. He should be able to help us. Besides, we’re staying here for a reason. I’ll tell you why later, your majesty.”
“It better be a good one, prophetess.” Charnaiz mumbled, “For your sake.”
Krasnorussia, 2025. The automated voice continued to pester Voronov. It was getting so bad that the major wanted to take a 90 meter long coil of steel cable and shove it up the telephone operator’s ass – if that automated voice had an ass. The voice droned on,
“If you wish to contact the OMSN SpetsNaz, dial 13742 now.”
“Fuck you, man, fuck you.” Voronov mumbled as he entered the digits.
“You have chosen to contact the National Sports Commission! Please hold while we patch you through.” the music played for the nth time. Voronov slammed the phone down and groaned.
“This is going nowhere…” Voronov said, hanging up. His ear was aching and the “hold” song, “Katyusha” by the Red Army Choir, was playing over and over in his head. He slammed his head on the table, picked up the phone again and dialed another number.
“If you wish to contact the Department of Fishery, dial 13743 now.”
“Fishery? Well what the hell, I’ll pester them for a little tuna. I’m hungry anyway.”
He dialed 13743 and received an unexpected reply,
“You have chosen to contact the Chairman of the Chiefs of Staff! Please hold while we patch you through.”
Voronov could scarcely believe his luck. He stared into space blankly, muttering, “This has to be fake…” over and over again as the music of the Red Army played, the lyrics already tattooed on Voronov’s mind. “Rastsvetali yabloni i grushi, poplyli tumany nad rekoy; vykhodila na bereg Katyusha, na vysokiy bereg, na krutoy...”
Suddenly, the song stopped. Someone actually picked up the phone!
“Wait a moment, Grigori, I have a call.” said the voice on the other end of the line. It was the voice of Chairman Nikolai Sobakov, the acting head-of-state of Krasnorussia, and a man who would be dead had it not have been for the efforts of the team from the Gondwanan incident.
“Yes, hello?” said the chairman.
“Hello, comrade chairman! It’s an honor to speak to you!” said Voronov, sounding a bit fan boy-ish.
“Who are you, a Red Army groupie? I have no time for idle banter!”
“No, no, sir. This is Cap – I mean Major Dr. Voronov, of the Red Army’s 1ST Electronic Warfare Battalion?”
“Oh yes, that one from the Gondwanan incident. What can I do you for?”
“Yes, well, ah – do you remember a Major Alexei Kazansky?”
The chairman thought for a moment.
“Yes, I believe I do. He reported to me that he could not arm the SSRMa-18 because he had a better idea? Is that the man?”
“Yes, comrade chairman.”
“I see. What is it about him?”
“He got sucked into the wormhole generator.”
“I see…”
A long pause.
“Aren’t you going to do anything about it?”
“Why should I?”
“He’s an officer!”
“It’s not worth it – possibly risking an entire squad of the best of our men just for the sake of one officer? He can be replaced, you know.”
“But, but…”
“I’ll inform the Chiefs of Staff. Thank you for the information. The new leader of the 1ST Chemical Warfare Battalion will be in service by next week. Thanks again, and goodbye!”
A busy tone.
“You pompous sons of bitches!” Voronov shouted, “Fine, if you don’t give me any help, then I’ll find someone who can!”
He slammed down the phone, picked it up again and dialed “86”, the country code for the People’s Republic of China.
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