Diktat: Fractured Reflection

Diktat: Fractured Reflection

Maxim Orlov

© Maxim Orlov, 2025

ISBN 978-5-0068-3797-3

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

DIKTAT: Fractured Reflection

The Rail Junction

The air tasted of iron and frost. Commander Sineus lay flat behind a shattered wall of concrete, the grit pressing into the rough wool of his greatcoat. Snowflakes, thin and sharp as dust, settled on the frozen mud and the twisted steel of the rail yard. His objective was a hundred meters away: a raised signal house where a German machine gun crew commanded the junction. They had been pinned for an hour. The cost in blood was rising.

He signaled to Sergeant Major Boris Kulagin, his trusted veteran, who lay ten meters to his left. Kulagin was a man made of iron filings and black tobacco, his face a roadmap of old campaigns. Sineus pointed with two fingers, tracing a path through the labyrinth of skeletal boxcars and craters. The flanking route. It was risky. The Wehrmacht defenders were dug in, disciplined. But staying here was a slow death. Kulagin gave a single, sharp nod. He understood the geometry of the problem. He always did.

– First and third squads, on my mark, – Sineus’s voice was a low rasp, barely audible over the wind. – We move to the collapsed water tower. Kulagin, you provide suppression.

– Understood, Commander.

Sineus watched as the first squad began to move, their grey winter uniforms blending with the ruins of the Stalingrad Cauldron. They moved low and fast, ghosts in a city of ghosts. He felt the familiar tension, the cold calculus of command. He was sending men into a meat grinder. His men. The price of this frozen dirt was paid in their lives. It was his job to make sure the price was not paid for nothing. He committed the route to memory, every piece of cover, every open field of fire.

Then the pressure started.

It began behind his eyes, a familiar spike of pain that was more than a simple headache. It was a physical weight, as if his skull were being squeezed in a vise. The sounds of the battlefield – the distant crack of rifles, the groan of stressed metal in the wind – faded to a dull, underwater drone. His vision blurred at the edges, tunneling into a single point. He fought it. He always fought it. A commander could not afford weakness. Not here.

He blinked, trying to clear his sight. The world swam back into focus, but it was wrong. Ten meters ahead of his command squad’s position, where an open patch of rubble offered no cover, the air shimmered. It was like heat haze on a summer road, but this was a place of absolute cold. The shimmering coalesced. For a single, impossible second, he saw it. A ghostly image of an artillery shell, grey and finned, hanging in the air before it plunged into the ground and erupted in a silent, spectral bloom of dirt and shrapnel.

A memory of the future. Or madness.

There was no time to decide. His body reacted before his mind could object. The choice was instinct. The price was his authority if he was wrong.

– Down! – The word was torn from his throat, a raw, desperate bark.

His command squad, men conditioned by months of brutal fighting, did not hesitate. They hit the dirt on pure reflex, their trust in him absolute. They trusted him even when his orders made no sense. The half-second of their reaction felt like an eternity. He waited for the laughter, the confused questions. He waited to be proven a fool, a man cracking under the strain.

The air screamed.

A real shell, its whistle a sharp, rising crescendo, slammed into the earth. It struck the exact spot where the phantom had been. The impact deviation was zero meters. A geyser of frozen dirt, ice, and metal fragments erupted, scouring the air where his men would have been standing. The shockwave hit him like a fist, rattling his teeth. The men were safe. He had been right. And that was the most terrifying thing of all.

He pushed himself up, his ears ringing. The headache was gone, leaving only a hollow ache in its place. He refused to look at the crater. He refused to acknowledge what had just happened. It was shell-shock. A trick of a tired mind. It had to be. He had seen men break in a dozen different ways. This was just his way. He was a commander in the Red Army. He believed in material reality. He believed in the Party, the plan, and the power of massed artillery. He did not believe in ghosts.

Kulagin crawled over to him, his face caked in grime.

– Commander? You are well?

– I am fine, Sergeant Major, – Sineus said, his voice flat. He forced himself to meet the man’s gaze. There was no judgment in Kulagin’s eyes. Only concern. – A lucky guess.

He pushed the event into a locked box in his mind and turned the key. There was a battle to win. He scanned the chaos, his eyes landing on a shard of glass from a shattered signal lantern, half-buried in the icy mud. For a moment, he saw his reflection. The face was gaunt, bearded, a stranger’s mask of exhaustion. But beside it, for a fraction of a second, was another face. A distorted, fractured image of a man he did not know, its features twisted in a silent scream.

His own face, but not.

With a curse, he kicked the shard of glass, sending it spinning into a snowdrift. He would not look at it again. He would not think about it. He was Sineus. A commander. His identity was his uniform, his rank, his duty. Nothing else. He suppressed the tremor in his hand, clenching it into a fist. The cold was a welcome distraction, a clean and honest pain.

He raised his arm, signaling the general advance.

– All units, forward! – he roared, his voice carrying across the ruined yard.

The battle began again. His 105 men rose from the rubble, a wave of grey against the white snow, and surged toward the final German positions. There were perhaps 30 defenders left, but they were fanatics, fighting for every meter of frozen ground. The air filled with the chatter of submachine guns and the flat crack of rifles.

Sineus moved with his men, a part of the machine. He was no longer a man with a splitting headache or a fractured reflection. He was an instrument of war. He directed fire, pointed out targets, his mind a cold engine of tactical necessity. He saw a machine gun nest open up from a blasted-out window on their flank.

– Kulagin! Second floor, left side! Suppress!

The Sergeant Major’s squad laid down a withering hail of fire, forcing the German gunners to duck back. Under that cover, Zoya Koval, the partisan girl attached to his unit, led a small team forward with grenades. The explosions were muffled thuds, followed by silence. One nest gone.

They moved from one piece of cover to the next, a brutal, systematic process of erasure. The fighting was close, ugly work. A man fell to his right, a dark stain spreading on the snow. Another crumpled silently behind him. The cost was eight men. Eight lives for a hundred meters of twisted track and broken concrete. Sineus did not allow himself to feel it. He would feel it later. Or he would not. It did not matter.

The final assault on the signal house was a storm of grenades and point-blank fire. He was at the front, his pistol in his hand, the smell of cordite sharp in his nostrils. He kicked in the door and shot the man who turned to face him. The fight was over in twenty seconds of savage violence.

Silence fell. It was a heavy, unnatural quiet, broken only by the wind whistling through the bullet holes in the thin metal walls. The air was thick with the coppery smell of blood and the stink of spent powder. He stood on the captured rail junction, his chest heaving. Below him, the last pockets of German resistance were being mopped up. The objective was secure. Area control was 100%. He had done his duty. He was a good soldier. A loyal commander.

The snow fell harder, a clean white sheet covering the filth of the battle. He watched the flakes land on the barrel of his pistol, melting instantly.

Then he saw the runner. A young soldier, barely a man, picking his way through the rubble, heading directly for the signal house. The boy was not from his unit. He carried a sealed dispatch case. He moved with an urgency that cut through the post-battle exhaustion. The routine of war was broken.

The courier scrambled up the embankment, his face flushed. He saluted, his eyes wide.

– Commander Sineus?

– I am Sineus.

– A dispatch for you, Commander. From General Volkov.

The courier handed him the oilskin pouch. Sineus took it. The seal was heavy, wax stamped with the insignia of the Directorate. Not the army. The Directorate. He knew the name Volkov only by reputation, a whisper in the high command, a man of immense and unseen power. A summons from such a man, delivered directly to the front line, bypassed every protocol. It was not a request.

It was a chain being fastened around his neck.

He broke the seal, his fingers numb from the cold. He pulled out the single sheet of paper and read the order. His presence was required immediately.

The Hard Right

The canvas flap of the hospital tent did little to stop the cold, but it trapped the smell. A thick, layered stench of antiseptic, sweat, and something metallic and sweet that Sineus knew too well. He stepped inside, his boots sinking slightly into the muddy floorboards. His goal was simple. See to his men. The sounds were muted here, a chorus of low groans and pained, sleeping breaths that was worse than the sharp crack of battle. This was the ledger for the whole sector. More than fifty men lay on cots. His own victory at the rail junction had added its share to the count.

He moved down the narrow aisle, his eyes scanning the faces. Some were bandaged so heavily they were no longer faces at all. Just shapes in the dim, yellow light of the swaying lanterns. He saw a medic, a tired-looking woman with dark circles under her eyes, changing a dressing with practiced, impersonal movements. She was the only one moving with any speed. Everyone else was caught in the slow, thick gravity of pain.

He found Boris Kulagin near the back of the tent. His Sergeant Major was kneeling on one knee beside a cot, his broad back to the aisle. The man on the cot was a boy, no more than 19, his face pale and slick with sweat. His breath came in shallow, rattling gasps. Kulagin, the hardened veteran of three wars, was holding the boy’s hand. Sineus stopped a few meters away, giving the man his space. This was a private moment, and the tent was a public place of suffering.

The boy’s eyes fluttered open. They were wide with a terror that no training could erase.

– I’m afraid, Sergeant Major, – the voice was a dry whisper, a rustle of dead leaves.

Kulagin leaned closer. His own voice was rough, but the tone was gentle. A tone Sineus had heard him use only a handful of times, and always in moments like this.

– The hard right is harder for a reason, son. Anyone can do the easy thing.

The words hung in the air, simple and heavy as stone. A debt is a debt. It must be paid. Sineus felt a presence to his left and turned his head slightly. Pavel Morozov stood there, observing. The political officer. He was a man who always seemed clean, even here. His uniform was perfectly pressed, his face sharp and intelligent. He did not belong. Morozov’s eyes flickered from Kulagin to the dying boy, and then he took a small notebook and a pencil from his breast pocket. He made a short, precise entry. Noting it down. Another doctrinal impurity from a front-line soldier.

A flicker of pure contempt went through Sineus. He hated the watchers. The men who carried notebooks instead of rifles, who measured loyalty in paragraphs and reports. They were a different kind of enemy, one that fought with ink and whispers. He saw Morozov glance at him, a cool, appraising look. The political officer knew he was being watched in turn.

Sineus suppressed the feeling, locking it down. He was a commander. He could not afford such divisions. He gave Kulagin a slow, deliberate nod. An affirmation. An act of solidarity that Morozov would be sure to note in his little book. The price was more scrutiny. He accepted it. Kulagin was his man.

The medic arrived at the cot. She checked the boy’s pulse, her expression unchanging.

– There is nothing more, – she said, her voice flat and exhausted. She prepared a syringe of morphine.

– Make it easy for him, – Kulagin said, not looking up.

The medic administered the dose. The boy’s breathing eased. The tension went out of his thin body. A few moments later, he was gone. Kulagin gently placed the boy’s hand back on the cot and stood up, his knees cracking. He looked at Sineus, his face grim.

– That’s the last of them from the assault.

Sineus looked at the still form on the cot, then back at his sergeant.

– What is the count on our other wounded?

– Seventeen, Commander. From the company. Most are stable. Four are serious. We lost eight, plus this one.

Nine men. For a rail junction. The math of war was a brutal, simple thing. Sineus felt the dull throb of the headache from the battle return, a faint echo of the pressure behind his eyes. He pushed it away.

He saw his reflection for a moment in the polished metal of a surgical tray. A gaunt, tired face. The image seemed to waver, the lines of his jaw and cheekbones momentarily indistinct, as if the man looking back was not quite solid. He turned away from it.

The tent flap was thrown open, letting in a blast of frigid air and a flurry of snow. Pavel Morozov stood there, his greatcoat dusted with white. The political officer’s face was sharp, impassive. He spotted Sineus and moved through the cots with a clean, deliberate purpose that did not belong in this place of messy suffering.

– Commander, – Morozov said. His voice was crisp, cutting through the low groans of the wounded.

Sineus met his gaze. He said nothing.

– Your travel papers. General Volkov is not a patient man. You are to report to his headquarters at once.

He held out a sealed folder. The urgency of the summons had followed Sineus from the battlefield into the quiet despair of the hospital. It was a hook that had been set, and now the line was being pulled.

Sineus took the folder. He looked at Kulagin, then back at Morozov. He was a man caught between two loyalties: to the man beside him, and to the system that watched them both. He was being pulled from the front. Pulled away from his men, from the only war he understood.

The air smelled of canvas and damp wool. A single drop of water fell from the tent’s ceiling and landed on the back of his hand, cold as ice.

The Fracture

The staff car moved east. The road was a grey scar on a white landscape. Dead trees clawed at a sky the color of dirty steel. Sineus sat in the passenger seat, the dispatch from General Volkov a cold weight in his greatcoat pocket. His goal was to reach the Red Directorate’s regional headquarters. Forty kilometers to go. The driver, a young private named Mishin with nervous eyes, kept his focus on the road. He chewed on a crust of black bread, a habit that grated on Sineus’s nerves.

The journey was silent. There was nothing to say. The war had burned the words out of the world, leaving only the wind and the drone of the engine. Sineus watched the terrain, his commander’s mind automatically mapping the dead ground. A good place for an ambush here. A poor line of sight there. The habits of the front were hard to unlearn, even when you were being pulled away from it. He was a tool being sent back to the forge, and he did not like the feeling.

He thought of Kulagin’s words in the hospital tent. The hard right. It was a simple philosophy for a complicated world. A world where political officers with clean hands and dirty notebooks decided who was pure. He had made his choice, standing by his sergeant. The price was a black mark in a file he would never see. He could live with that.

Fifteen minutes passed. The car crested a low rise. The landscape ahead was the same. Snow, dead trees, silence. But the air was wrong.

It began to shimmer.

It was not the heat haze of a summer road. This was a cold, crystalline distortion. It looked as if they were driving toward a wall of flawed, moving glass. The world seen through it warped and bent. The trees on the other side seemed to stretch and compress. The driver saw it too.

– What is that? Sweet mother of— – Mishin shouted, his voice cracking. His knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. The car’s speed dropped from sixty kilometers an hour to thirty. He was fighting the instinct to slam on the brakes. His fear cost them momentum.

– Drive, – Sineus said. The word was a chip of ice.

They plunged into the shimmering field. The car shuddered, not from the road, but from something else. The light inside the cabin grew dim and strange, the color of a deep bruise. The air grew cold, a sudden, unnatural drop in temperature that had nothing to do with the weather. Sineus had heard rumors from reconnaissance patrols. Whispers of zones where the world went mad. They called them Frontline Fractures. He had dismissed them as battlefield fatigue. He had been wrong.

Then the sky filled with ghosts.

To their left, a spectral T-34 tank, shimmering and translucent, charged across the snow. It made no sound. Its treads threw up phantom clouds of powder. It was met by a Panzer IV, equally silent, equally unreal. More than a dozen of the phantom machines appeared, locked in a silent, ghostly battle that had been fought here days or weeks ago. Memory, burned into the very fabric of the place.

The pressure behind Sineus’s eyes returned. The same vise-like grip from the rail junction, but a hundred times stronger. It was a physical intrusion, a force trying to crack his skull open. The sounds of the car faded. The world outside his window dissolved.

He was no longer in the staff car. He was inside the spectral T-34. He felt the gut-twisting lurch as it crested a ridge. He smelled the hot oil and cordite. He felt the terror of the young gunner, a boy named Sasha, as the German shell came for them. It was not a thought. It was a feeling, raw and absolute, pouring into him. A memory-echo bleeding across time.

He was losing himself. The boundary between his own mind and the phantom battle was dissolving. His sanity was the cost. He fought back. He was a commander of the Red Army, not a vessel for dead men’s fears.

He clenched his jaw. He refused to be a passenger. He ripped his gaze away from the ghostly war and fixed it on the dashboard of the car. He focused on a single, solid object: the small, brass dial of the speedometer. He stared at the needle, the painted numbers, the grime in the corners of the glass. He anchored himself to it. He exerted his will, building a wall in his mind, brick by painful brick. He pushed the fear of the dead gunner out.

It was an act of brutal mental force. The suppression effort took everything he had.

The phantom sensations receded. The smell of cordite vanished. The terror subsided, leaving him with a hollow, shaking emptiness. His headache eased from a spike of agony to a dull, persistent throb. He was back in his own body. He was back in the car. He had won.

He glanced at the side mirror. His own face looked back, gaunt and tired. But for a second, the reflection was split. Overlaid on his own features was the face of the driver, Mishin, twisted in a silent mask of panic. A fractured reflection, showing the fear he refused to feel himself. He blinked, and the image was gone. There was only his own face, a stranger he was beginning to know too well.

The driver, Mishin, was muttering a prayer under his breath. He stared straight ahead, his face slick with sweat despite the cold. He accelerated, his foot heavy on the pedal. The car surged forward, its speed climbing back to seventy kilometers an hour.

They burst out of the shimmering field as if breaking the surface of water. The world snapped back into focus. The light was normal again. The sky was empty. The dead trees were just dead trees. The two-kilometer-wide fracture was behind them. Reality felt solid again.

Mishin let out a long, shuddering breath. He did not look at Sineus. He did not ask what had just happened. Some things were better left unspoken. Some things, if you gave them a name, might follow you.

Sineus leaned his head back against the seat, closing his eyes for a moment. The effort of will had left him exhausted. A dull ache pulsed behind his eyes. His uniform felt too tight, the wool scratching at his neck. He had walled off the experience, just as he had walled off the vision at the rail junction. But the walls were getting harder to build. And he was beginning to wonder what would happen when he no longer had the strength.

The rhythmic thump of the tires on the frozen road was the only sound. Dust motes danced in the thin afternoon light slanting through the window.

The General’s Order

The aide stopped. He was a young lieutenant with a face scrubbed clean of expression. He knocked twice on a heavy, steel-sheathed door. A voice from within answered, too low to be understood. The door opened inward. The aide stood aside and gestured for Sineus to enter. Sineus stepped across the threshold, his goal to simply receive his orders and understand why he had been pulled from the front.

The room was not an office. It was the nerve center of a hidden war. Vast maps of the front covered three walls, crisscrossed with red and blue grease-pencil lines. But beneath them, other lines glowed with a faint, sickly green light, pulsing slowly like sleeping veins. Two radio operators sat at a long table, their headsets on, whispering into microphones. The air smelled of hot vacuum tubes, strong black tea, and the damp wool of greatcoats.

A large man stood with his back to the door, studying the central map. He was built like a bear, broad and thick through the shoulders, wearing the immaculate uniform of a Red Directorate general. He did not turn.

– That will be all, Lieutenant, – the man said. His voice was a deep, calm baritone. It was a voice used to being obeyed without question.

The door clicked shut behind Sineus, the sound unnervingly final. The two radio operators stood, removed their headsets, and left through a second, smaller door without a word. The only sound left was the low hum of the radio equipment and the hiss of static. The privacy was absolute. The gravity of the meeting settled on Sineus like a physical weight.

The general turned. He was older than Sineus expected, his hair more grey than black, but his face was full and his eyes were a clear, intelligent blue. This was General Ivan Volkov, a man whose name was a rumor of power in the regular army. He smiled, a warm, almost fatherly expression.

– Commander Sineus. Welcome. Please.

Volkov gestured to a small table where a polished brass samovar steamed gently. Two simple glass tumblers stood beside it. He poured a stream of dark, fragrant tea into each glass. The gesture was disarming. An offer of hospitality in the heart of the state’s security apparatus.

– I trust your journey was not too eventful, – Volkov said, handing a glass to Sineus. The tea was scalding hot.

Sineus took the glass, his fingers wrapping around the heat. He said nothing. The journey had been a descent into madness. He had no words for it that this man would accept.

– Your actions at the rail junction were exemplary, – Volkov continued, taking a sip from his own glass. He watched Sineus over the rim. – Decisive. Brutal. Exactly what was required. You saved many lives with that order to take cover. Your instincts are sharp.

Sineus knew the praise was a test. He met the general’s gaze and gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. He would not be drawn in. The dull throb from the Fracture still pulsed behind his eyes, a reminder of the true nature of those instincts.