The world was changing rapidly. New revolutionary ideas spread like wildfire. A natural outcome of humanity's development. The future was predetermined for many years to come, as if carved in granite.
But something changed, shifting the course of predetermined events. The flow of history, with all its might, crashed against the solid ground as soon as ordinary words were spoken in an not-so-ordinary place under not-so-ordinary circumstances.
***
A deafening silence fell upon the office of the Senate Palace, like a stone slab. In this tense stillness, even the smoldering tobacco in Stalin's pipe seemed like peals of thunder.
Voroshilov, as if frozen, looked at the map of Europe. His gaze slid along the lines marking the advance of German troops. It seemed these lines were not just ink, but poisonous fangs sinking into the flesh of Poland, whose agony was palpable in the very air of the office.
The Third Reich, like a giant spider, was tightening its steel web around the throat of the unfortunate country, leaving it no hope of salvation. The words spoken moments ago still burned like red-hot iron, and Voroshilov, understanding their meaning better than anyone, tried to grasp what would follow. Something they were completely unprepared for.
"With Germany?!" Beria did not hide his astonishment. "Koba, but why?! We just signed a non-aggression pact with them!"
To everyone gathered here, the words spoken were thunder from a clear sky. In the corridors of power in Moscow, party officials were discussing the division of Poland, not war with Germany. What war, when a non-aggression pact had just been signed?! The easy walk for the Red Army suddenly turned into something ominous. A few words from the country's Master were enough to make the air smell of gunpowder.
"The Party," Stalin took another puff of his pipe, "has carefully considered Hitler's motives and reached a disheartening conclusion. If Hitler is not crushed now, the Soviet Union will become the next victim of his bloody aggression. Let's look closely at what Hitler declares? First and foremost – the fight against communism and foreigners. Almost every speech he gives to the German people directly addresses these topics. The Communist Party in Germany is banned, as are all other parties except the NSDAP. German communists are persecuted, arrested, and terrorized. The Jewish people in Germany are also persecuted; this is no secret to anyone. But the USSR is a country of equal opportunities for any communist, regardless of nationality. And Hitler calls almost all other Soviet nationalities wild Asians at the lowest stage of development."
Stalin froze, like a predator ready to pounce, and took another puff. The glow of the pipe momentarily illuminated the leader's stern, inscrutable face. This brief moment of silence was agonizing, like torture. It seemed that silence itself pressed down on his associates, forcing them to comprehend the monstrous truth that had come from his lips. Stalin gave them time not out of compassion, but to strengthen his power, to make them peer into the abyss he was revealing. Releasing clouds of acrid smoke, he slowly spoke again:
"It is not difficult to guess what a terrible and ugly monster Hitler sees us as, what his true attitude is towards both the USSR and the Soviet people. We embody everything that Nazism has proclaimed as its irreconcilable enemies. The non-aggression pact for Germany is nothing more than an opportunity to shield itself from a two-front war, to defeat its enemies one by one, and then gather its forces and drown our Soviet state in blood. Hitler has proclaimed the concept of expanding living space for the German people and will not abandon his plans. Austria was his first victim, then German troops entered Czechoslovakia, now Poland. But the fascist octopus will not stop there. Its tentacles will reach endlessly if they are not severed. War with Germany is inevitable, and the Party believes that now is the best time to start it."
"But, Comrade Stalin," Voroshilov attempted to object, shaking off the chilling delusion, "we are not ready for such large-scale combat operations! The Red Army needs serious reforms; the war in Spain gave us invaluable experience that must now be implemented in the troops!"
"Then implement it, Comrade People's Commissar of Defense," Stalin replied imperturbably, pretending not to see the frantic movements of the party bigwigs. "Involve the communists who fought in Spain in the troops, give way to officers with modern combat experience, ensure the correct setting of tasks for the People's Commissariat of Industry, and so on. Show that the Party did not entrust you with this post in vain. We cannot miss such a favorable moment. The Soviet Union's strike will be a surprise to Germany. Hitler is not prepared for such a turn of events."
None of those present in the office could have predicted such a turn of events. Stalin's close associates, accustomed to his predictability, were in disarray. Even Beria, an experienced intriguer, struggled to contain his indignation. If not for the unwavering certainty that Stalin was Stalin himself and no one would dare take his place, he would have been the first to rush at this impostor who so crudely violated the established order of things. The words spoken by the leader seemed so wild and incredible that each of them felt the ground slipping from under their feet, opening an abyss of the unknown.
"Our intelligence," Stalin cast a sharp glance at Voroshilov, freezing him in place despite his composure, "assures the Party that the main thing for us is to capture the Romanian oil fields as quickly as possible. Without Romanian oil, the Luftwaffe and the Wehrmacht's tank armies will quickly be bled dry. Germany's own gasoline production will not be enough to meet the needs of its troops."
Stalin, carelessly pointing at the map with his smoking pipe, silently said: "Didn't you say: with little blood and on foreign territory? Then prove the correctness of your words in practice!"
"The Party is satisfied with this. We will attack in two directions: we will support our Polish comrades and deprive Hitler of Romanian oil. At the same time, we will return Bessarabia and Northern Bukovina to the Soviet Union, taken from Russia twenty years ago. Seeing our actions, England and France will resume their offensive against Germany, and Hitler will be forced to fight on two fronts. Thus, the USSR will deprive the enemy of the opportunity to shed blood on Soviet soil. The fascist octopus will be crushed quickly! Before it becomes excessively strong."
The leader of the peoples took a final puff and finished, raising his hand and sweeping his gaze over those present. The master of the office decided to end the prolonged performance:
"I propose to put this question to a vote. Who is for?"
Molotov hastily raised his hand, eager not to fall behind Stalin, and glanced at the others. Everyone in the office quickly raised their hands, not wanting to cast even the slightest shadow of suspicion on themselves. There were no dissenters. Nothing else could be expected. Especially for Molotov, whose ambitions demanded more and more power, and for that, he had to be like everyone else, waiting for the right moment for one precise strike. He knew perfectly well who he was sitting at the table with, feigning freedom of choice.
There were not people there, but calculating predators. Any of them, sensing weakness, would not miss the opportunity to finish off a wounded relative. Competition was the basis of their existence; only the scenery and methods of achieving their goals changed. Power and position were their food. They would go to any lengths not to lose their piece. Each would easily walk over heads and pay for their ticket to a bright future with someone else's blood...
"The Party voted unanimously," Stalin summarized. "Comrade Voroshilov, begin mobilization..."
Thus, on September 17, 1939, began a war that was destined to redraw the map of the world and become the most devastating in all of human history. Now, a day and a half before this, the USSR did not yet know about the coming blood and losses. It was an ordinary autumn day. It stood out in no way for ordinary workers and residents of the country. They could not even imagine in their nightmares what awaited them...
***
Chains of events were shattering with a deafening crack, burying all possible probabilities under their debris. The war that was supposed to ignite in the future, as predetermined by a series of decisions, erupted here and now.
Two forces clashed on the endless battlefields. The Red Army fully demonstrated its doctrine of fighting on foreign territory, but the "little blood" part didn't quite work out, even if not from the very beginning. The haste with which combat operations began was evident.
The Germans were repelled by the first blow, but quickly recovered, proving they were not to be written off too early. They knew how to fight, and their army possessed modern instruments of death. And yet, despite this, the Wehrmacht, though slowly, retreated, losing the confrontation. The human resources were too disproportionate.
The Allies were in no hurry to rush to the front lines, preferring to warm their hands with others' labor. Across the ocean, they chose not to intervene at all, profiting from others' misfortunes, skimming the cream and building up their own strength. They were much more concerned with Japan than with the slaughter somewhere in Europe.
In Berlin, they realized the fragility of the established balance, and therefore, in the headquarters, they no longer harbored hopes of victory by conventional means. The advantage on the side of the allies was too great. The Reich decided to take its enemies to the grave with it if it couldn't flip the chessboard, snatching victory for its non-childish people. In the depths of German soil, a weapon of retribution was being forged.
The nuclear hammer was almost ready to level the entire world. The enemy armies could not oppose the jet and rocket fangs of the Wehrmacht, even without nuclear warheads.
Ordinary V-2 rockets struck the rear, while V-5 rockets harvested the battlefields. It was the V-5 that stopped the Red Avalanche, forcing it to pay with soldiers' lives for every small step.
Modernizing the V-2 by adding a nuclear charge, and the world would burn in fire at the same moment, unable to withstand the crushing power of the German war machine. From the nuclear ashes, an invincible Wehrmacht would rise, sweeping away the feeble resistance of the survivors.
Germany only needed time to realize its plans. The ruling circles turned Berlin into one giant trap for simpletons. Fanatics intended to fight to the end and even beyond. This was understood in Moscow as well.
The USSR knew: the enemy was preparing a retaliatory strike. The Germans made no secret of it, broadcasting it from every corner through propaganda loudspeakers. Although intelligence didn't know where the new weapon was being forged, it could accurately measure the time until the turning point. This doesn't mean everyone sat idly by. Eyes couldn't find a breach to stab the monster's soft underbelly with a dagger, despite numerous attempts.
Therefore, those who started it all decided to unleash their monster in the hope of containing it. Warnings and protests were ignored. The very existence of the country was at stake. The stakes in this war were known before, but everyone hoped for a different outcome.
Against the backdrop of all this torment, the learned man, tired of the stream of deaths on his operating table that began with the war, was lost somewhere in the pages of history. His disfigured creation was destined to change the world once more, bringing unprecedented death before that. If the authorities had listened to him earlier, all of history would have chosen a third path. This path was not bright, but it would have saved many lives of ordinary people. Unfortunately, greed, lack of strategic forecasting, and short-term gain won. Understanding all this weighed on the scientist.
***
Dmitry Sechenov leaned wearily against the laboratory table, rubbing his tired, red eyes. His gaunt face, worn by the war, looked even more exhausted. Even a hundred operations in a military hospital did not take as much moral and physical strength as what he was doing that night. The neurosurgeon was perverting his creation, turning it from a panacea into an exquisite poison.
Intellectually, Sechenov understood there was no choice. No time for moral torment when fanatics want to burn the world in a nuclear furnace. Thousands of lives there or millions here? Mathematics is cold and logical, easily predicting the choice. It didn't make it easier, but it helped to somehow come to terms with the inevitable.
The scientist understood his friend, Academician Zakharov, who hid behind cold logic. Even though he himself proposed this option, it didn't mean his burden was any lighter. Quite the opposite. Dmitry's friend took responsibility, knowing how difficult it would be for his friend...
"Enough!" Sechenov slammed his fist on the table.
If he wants to change the world, pave the way to the stars, and elevate humanity, why is he giving up? He can continue to torment himself morally, but it won't help the cause. Do or don't do. Speak or be silent. Words that say "you can't" will remain just words if they don't go hand in hand with action. Can't change the situation? Make sure there are fewer victims!
"I am a Soviet scientist! Can't I come up with some kind of trigger for activation to reduce the number of accidental victims? My ideas created the Polymer Reversant. We managed to pack a virus into a bacterium, and we can't come up with a safety mechanism? Khariton! Friend?! Are you asleep? I have an idea!"
***
Poison in small quantities can become medicine. The main thing is to measure the dose precisely. Even penicillin in large quantities can kill a person, while microdoses of the drug destroy the disease.
The scientists could now only hope for the best. The contents of the fateful briefcase had been treated with a modernized Polymer Reversant and were ready to kill in order to save many lives. The brave scout, Senior Lieutenant Alexander Kuznetsov, was to "gift" it to Doctor Zimmerman, not knowing what exactly he was handing over to the enemy. Zakharov helped Sechenov fulfill his little plan. For them, who had modernized the polymer preparation for the needs of war, adding a small enhancement was a matter of technique. And who else but them, who created the miraculous composition, could modernize what was created with its help?
Although Khariton considered these actions unnecessary, he helped his friend without question. He was too... righteous in his opinion. In other times, this would have been good, but not when there was a war. No one could remain clean in it. For Zakharov, it was easy to help Sechenov come to terms with the inevitable. Dmitry's ardor would later help them all realize their ideas...
***
The virus began to collect its toll a week later, as planned. The long incubation period allowed the infection to spread, engulfing all of the Germans' underground complexes simultaneously. A single targeted strike decided the outcome of the war...
Only years later did Soviet investigators find out what went wrong in the ruins of the laboratories. Although the Germans working in the secret underground facilities were ideological fanatics, they were by no means fools. After the first deaths, many understood: they had been outplayed. Most understood this at the last moment of their lives, but a negligible minority realized it a little earlier. One virologist, infected later than others due to precautions when working with pathogens he was trying to create another superweapon with, managed to outplay his killers.
He dragged his enemies to the grave, turning his body into an incubator, introducing virus after virus, bacterium after bacterium, refining it all with chemicals, so that at the last moment he could unleash the resulting cocktail in his blood outside the gloomy underground, which had by then become a tomb. In his fanaticism, he left a message so that everyone would know exactly who did it. Even more terrifying was the last phrase in his message: "Germany above all!".
He managed to create a weapon of retribution. Was it chance, the madness of a dying man, or perhaps fate that helped him? No one will ever know. The dead are surprisingly silent.
The contagion, breaking out, carried by people, animals, and the wind, began to collect its toll. Death swung its scythe over Europe, rapidly moving east, mowing down everything in its path!
***
Molotov didn't know what Stalin or other party officials were thinking, having left Moscow to escape the contagion, but he guessed the thoughts buzzing in his comrades' heads. The last time he saw the Leader of the Peoples, Stalin appeared thoughtful and tired. The head of the country had isolated himself from the world, minimizing contact with people. Perhaps he was contemplating the responsibility and burden of the people, but for Molotov, something else was obvious. He who, with whose name on their lips, people went to die, was afraid of death!
A sticky fear ran through his veins, driven by a clenched heart, as the disease marched across the world. Germany burned, having received its desired dragon. Europe wept, consumed by the epidemic. The Soviet people retreated in despair, trying to contain the contagion at all costs.
Infected areas were burned. Refugees who escaped quarantine were shot by blocking detachments. Cities turned into cemeteries. The army suffered colossal losses. They died not by companies, but by divisions.
In the east, in China, the Quantum Army managed to halt the march of the disease. The Japanese simply created a death strip where they burned everything alive. The flamethrower became a ubiquitous working tool. The number of corpses was so great.
The disease killed demonstratively. If one fell, a cascade of death swept away everyone who was unlucky enough to be nearby. You could talk to a person, turn away, and a moment later hear the thud of a falling body. Survivors would get sick again, recover, and so on, until the surrendered body stopped fighting.
Sechenov and Zakharov fought to create a cure. Molotov was extremely annoyed that his majestic fate depended on the actions of two arrogant, fanatical, in his opinion, scientists! He could barely tolerate Dmitry Sechenov before, taking satisfaction each time he received news of the cancellation of the scientist's projects, but now he simply irritated him. The man understood that if all the ideas of the scientific team, led by the Soviet scientist, had been realized, none of this would have happened, but Molotov did not want to share power with anyone. And he understood perfectly well that he would have to share it if Sechenov ascended to the Olympus of science.
The whisper of thoughts in his head had almost become a discernible voice. Molotov wanted power. He would get it. The Leader had shown his vulnerability. Well, it would be easier to conspire against him. The main thing was to survive this plague.
***
Sechenov stirred again, feeling himself snore as he sat on a chair he had sat on for just a couple of minutes until the centrifuge finished its work. The scientist rushed to the samples, hoping that the reaction had not yet burned out. Fortunately, it hadn't. Unfortunately, the medicine still couldn't defeat the disease.
Dmitry Sechenov took the epidemic hard, as did Zakharov. It was their creation that was now killing people, and sometimes not just them, but in droves. Initially negative, although understanding the necessity, the neurosurgeon and candidate of sciences now felt, to put it mildly, complex emotions.
He forgot when he last ate normally. He slept right in the laboratory. Zakharov, although he didn't show it, was also suffering. Sechenov's friend had grown a beard, and his face had taken on an earthy color. Even his pragmatism and rationalism seemed tired.
The academician sighed, massaging his temples, trying to quell the migraine that had started again. The doctor couldn't take his usual remedy: a little cognac, just a finger's worth, with dark chocolate, and medications would make it even worse. The body was already miraculously not bursting from the chemistry trying to replace normal sleep.
Dmitry Sergeyevich couldn't even stop for a moment. Recently, the disease had become too personal a challenge for him. Fate wasn't satisfied that on one terrible day, as a volunteer, he saw someone he never expected to see; it decided to finish off the tired man. In the section with those who had survived the disease was Sergeant Sergey Nechaev, almost his godson. The young man was chatting cheerfully with a girl, about eighteen or nineteen years old. The doctor could bet his dissertation on it, but guess with an accuracy of a hundredth of a percent who her mother was.
Then, not a muscle on his face twitched; he was too burned out by everything that was happening. Only the fatigue weighed on him more. Later, he asked his godson, whom he had practically raised, "Why are you here?"
"How else, Dmitry Sergeyevich?" the young man smiled, making the brown spots on his face look even more sinister. "The Motherland is in trouble! I fought, and now I can only help like this..."
"We would have managed without you!" the neurosurgeon said with a sigh, frowning. "I see you've gotten close to Katerina Muravyova?"
Sergey scratched the back of his head sheepishly before answering, smiling lightly again: "It just happened naturally..." Professor," he corrected himself at the last moment. Although he was a rascal and the life of the party, he had brains too. He noticed that his godfather had approached not immediately, and only after making sure there was no surveillance. "Even though we all came here as volunteers, not many have retained their optimism. And her enthusiasm is enough for everyone, not to mention mine. Together, we don't let others give up!"
"Optimism is good..."
The doctor emerged from his memories, with a hint of a greeting from that stormy night many years ago, wiping his eyes again and yawning openly. In fact, everything had become complicated since then. A comparative test only confirmed what was already visible to the naked eye. Therefore, Sechenov couldn't stop. Not after that. He had learned the mother of Katya, who was assigned to them as a liaison officer, while the strong-willed woman didn't even betray recognition with a glance. As if that stormy night, as a result of which Ekaterina was born, had never happened.
"That's it, I've had enough!" Zakharov swore, jumping up from his workstation, irritably throwing the microscope against the wall.
The observers, drawn by the noise, came running, but seeing nothing out of the ordinary, they hurried away so as not to disturb the luminaries with their presence.
Breathing heavily, as if he had just run uphill, Academician Zakharov strode to the sample refrigerator. Without slowing down for a second, he decisively opened the unit, taking out a sealed test tube with a sample of the brown Plague, as they had nicknamed the disease they had created. Drawing the deadly liquid into a syringe, pulled from the pocket of his lab coat, Khariton plunged it into his thigh without even flinching.
"Khariton?!" Sechenov exhaled in shock.
"What Khariton, Dima?! What?!" his friend and colleague retorted maliciously. "I've had enough of all this! It's all or nothing!"
Dmitry cast an unreadable glance at his friend, nodding to himself. The attack of melancholy had completely vanished from the academician. He knew what to do!
This is exactly what he told his friend, extending his hand: "Give me the syringe! You're right! We don't have time to doubt!"
Khariton smiled, but his face contorted into a grimace. Handing the syringe to his friend, after refilling it anew, he said, "And there was no doubt! Our wandering has cost thousands of lives, if not millions! I've had enough of this, so! Now, we have only one path! Forward! We created it, we will kill it!"
From Stalin's diary
They are always watching me. These disembodied voices, like octopus tentacles, penetrate my mind, studying and controlling every corner of it. They constantly whisper doubts to me, forcing me to reconsider every decision... But now I understand their game. I realize that I am merely a puppet in their hands, dancing to their vile tune. And I will not tolerate this.
Time... It has become my enemy and, at the same time, my ally. I know: there is very little of it left. But I am not afraid, I am not broken! Solitude in my study, surrounded by stacks of books, is a way to resist them. Preparation for a great battle, a battle for myself, for my people, for my state, which is my continuation, my true self. In solitude, the whispers torment my mind less.
They are driven by fear. Their rage is like a fire that quickly dies out, while mine is like an eternal flame, for I defend not life, but an idea.
Cadres... What a foolish thing it was to rely on cadres! These talentless puppets who pass themselves off as "comrades"! Only now have I been able to see their false faces, their rotten nature. And the whisper... That vile, icy whisper, that intrusive voice in my head...
It was then that I understood! This whisper is not intuition, but someone else's will, imposed from outside, like a parasite feeding on my mind! It has always been there, but I did not realize it. Now I know! I must tear it from my consciousness! Fight to disrupt their plans.
I chose this day, September fifteenth, to cut all the threads, like fragile ropes, binding the puppet, and I felt them howl with rage, like cornered beasts. I had to start this war! In spite of them. To break the chains! They thought I was just a pawn on their chessboard, but they were wrong!
War is a way to break free from their clutches, which keep the working people in the darkness of ignorance. A path to true freedom! It is an opportunity to save the people, but not myself. I must liberate my people, tear them from this vile power. I will not let them rule minds!
I see everything! I understand that the path of socialism is a path of struggle, a path of self-sacrifice. Even the purest ideals can be distorted by their vile manipulations, like a mirror reflecting ugly faces. I suspected Sechenov, my doctor. I felt echoes of their influence in his words, a barely perceptible stirring of their tentacles, and therefore I rejected his proposals one after another.
What a terrible mistake that was! The voices fear him, like light. They have no power over him! Their whispers do not touch his mind!
Now they penetrate my dreams, like ink, trying to lead me astray, sowing doubt, whispering counter-revolutionary lies. Anything to prevent me from helping Comrade Sechenov realize his ideas. But I will not yield! Communism is not just an ideology, it is my essence, my defense, my reality! They cannot break through such a shield!
No, I am not mad! My mind is the tool with which I build my state. Every order of mine is like a brick in the foundation of the future. Communism is not just a word, it is the essence of my "I". They wanted to turn me into a puppet, but I became a creator! And I will not give up! My plans, my orders, my ideas are my will, embodied in reality! I must finish my mission, create a state that will be a beacon for all the oppressed!
I am writing this so as not to forget who I am, who I was, and what I fought for. Even if no one reads these words, I will know... I did not do it in vain! Through blood, pain, and fear, I paved the way to a bright future. I do not need forgiveness. Through blood, pain, fear, a new USSR will be built, where science will be paramount, where everyone will create their own future. I lived and died saving my people, striving to build a world where the working man would finally find true freedom.
They will be defeated! I don't know what they did with this virus, but I see their despair, and it gives me strength! Comrade Sechenov managed, perhaps without even realizing it himself, to take a step towards liberation. His project is the key to true communism, where there will be no place for puppets, where there will only be the will of the people, which will carry the light of the future. But for this to happen, the project must be realized, and I must oversee it! The struggle for the freedom of the working man is just beginning! And I will not deviate from this path, even if I do not see the victory!
For the first time in a long time, Academician Dmitry Sergeyevich Sechenov could afford to relax. The cognac pleasantly warmed his blood, washing away the cold trace left by stress.
He understood that with the invention of the medicine, everything was just beginning. The world had changed. They would have to change with it. If before and during the war his ideas were for the future, now he and his associates must first ensure the country's survival.
Cities were empty, roads were buried, and villages were overgrown with weeds. How many more nameless graves, small and large tragedies, remained to be found? They would do everything to ensure that the world never experienced anything like this again. They would elevate humanity, paving the way to the stars. It is better for people to be driven forward by a thirst for discovery, not by a greedy desire for power. But for now: rest.
Sechenov and Zakharov slowly savored the cognac, simultaneously celebrating victory and remembering the fallen. Their battle was yet to come.