Khronos (Hanover and Singh Book 3) by Chris Paton Page A

to Stepan. “Murmansk vodka,” she licked her lips. “I hope you navy boys can take it.”
    “Boys?” Stepan took a swig of vodka and grimaced. “You are in your twenties?”
    “Twenty-six.” Lena reached forward and took the flask from Vladimir when he was finished with it. She slipped it back inside her pocket. “They are not metal labourers, but metal emissaries .”
    “That is what they were called in the posters,” Stepan nodded.
    Lena leaned back in her chair and propped her feet up on the crate. “At least they were emissaries, once.”
    “Emissaries for what?” Stepan fingered the face of watch hiding the picture of his family.
    “For use in Central Asia, where it is too dangerous to send a man,” Lena scoffed. “Of course, they never thought to send a woman.”
    “How do you know this?” Resting his hands on his knees, Vladimir leaned forward.
    “My father,” Lena cast a glance at Stepan.
    “Is no longer my concern, not since I joined naval research,” Stepan nodded. “Please continue, Lena.”
    “He was sent to Central Asia.” She turned to Vladimir, “This was before the Murmansk Revolt when he,” Lena dipped her head in Stepan’s direction, “and my father got to know each other.” The crate creaked as Lena shifted her feet. “My father served under Kapitan Bryullov in Peshawar. He was responsible for unloading Russian emissaries, a rough copy of these German machines, and getting them ready to be sent to different towns and villages in Afghanistan and Pakistan.”
    “Your father worked with Bryullov?” the light from the thin window above the door reflected in Stepan’s eyes as they widened. “I know of Bryullov.” Stepan turned to Vladimir. “He was in the army. A secretive man. Not someone one hears a lot about.”
    “His job was secret,” Lena nodded. “He controlled the emissaries sent to the villages and towns. One at a time. He would follow them on horseback or foot.”
    “And your father?” Stepan tapped his fingers on the false watch face.
    “No,” Lena shook her head, black curls shaking free of the tight leather band pulling her hair into a ponytail. “He never left Peshawar. But he did learn much before returning to Russia.” Lena paused at a rap on the door.
    “Yuri?” Vladimir pushed back his chair and stood up.
    “ Da ,” Lena removed her feet from the crate. “Black tea and black bread,” she smiled. “Yuri is a true revolutionary.”
    Vladimir crossed to floor to the door. Sliding back the bolt, he reached down and took the rough wooden tray from Yuri’s hands. Yuri lifted his chin and looked up at Vladimir. The Cossack frowned.
    “You have never seen a giant before, Yuri?” Lena twisted in her seat.
    “I am not a giant,” Vladimir walked to the crate and placed the tray on top of it.
    “You say that now,” Lena laughed. “But when Yuri is finished telling the men, you will be the Giant of Arkhangelsk , a new legend for the Cossacks to savour in the cold, hard winter outside the city walls.”
    “And what are Cossacks doing inside these walls, Lena Timofeyevich?” Stepan poured strong, black tea into a chipped porcelain cup.
    “Apart from saving officers of the Imperial Navy?”
    “Yes, apart from that,” Stepan waved at Yuri as he closed the door behind him.
    Lena spread a thick layer of butter on a stubby crust of black bread. “We heard the news about the robot labourers coming to Arkhangelsk, to work in the mines. My father recognised them from the pictures – the German equivalent of the Russian models – and,” Lena shrugged, “he thought they could be put to other uses. But, it seems, the Germans had already thought of that.”
    “You were going to steal one?” Stepan handed Vladimir a cup of tea.
    “One?” Lena scoffed, crumbs of bread cascading from her lips. “We were going to steal an army.”
    “An army is what they have, Kapitan,” Vladimir wrinkled his nose as he sipped his tea.
    “You don’t like it?”