Babushka: Shadows of Betrayal (Book 2) - Chapter 6 - Lagunov
Admiral Veronika Lagunov leads a fractured council aboard The Sovereign Tide, navigating past betrayals and forging alliances to spark a rebellion that could determine Gred’s future.
The Sovereign Tide’s steel prow groaned against the ice, the shudder running through the hull and into her bones.
Veronika braced against the wind slicing across the deck, its bite sharp enough to seep through the thick wool of her coat and the waterproofed outer layer beneath. Her scarf, pulled tightly around her neck, was already stiff with frost, and her gloves barely kept the chill from biting her fingers.
She squinted at the horizon. Ice stretched in uneven patches across the gray sea—restless, indifferent. The open waters between the floes offered no relief, only the illusion of progress.
This was what they’d made of her ship, refitted for survival rather than warfare. Ice-breaking had never been its purpose, but neither was drifting aimlessly in waters that neither embraced nor rejected them.
Above, gulls wheeled and screamed, their calls faint against the relentless howl of the wind. She caught fragments of their cries, sharp and discordant, like a mocking refrain that slipped through the noise to unsettle her.
The subtle rocking of the ship joined in, an uneasy rhythm that had once brought her comfort but now felt like a ghostly echo of stability long gone. The Sovereign Tide wasn’t just a vessel today; it was the stage for a council meeting that would decide the fate of the ousted and the betrayed.
Her fingers brushed the icy bow rail, and her mind began to drift, the present slipping as memory overtook her. A different sea, a different time. She recalled the first spark of rebellion that had flickered within her—an act that, back then, felt like the ultimate defiance. As a reckless young officer aboard the Admiral Gorshkov during a deployment to West Africa, she’d forged her own shore pass. She’d borrowed a stamp in haste, the faint ink smudges betraying her inexperience. But none of that mattered once she stepped onto land. For one stolen night, the constant drills and rigid naval order fell away, giving her the briefest taste of freedom. She hadn’t realized how much she needed that moment—one that cut through her quiet shame of never quite knowing where she fit.
It wasn’t smart. Disembarking without permission in a port like that could have ruined her record—jeopardized her rank entirely. But the warm, salty air of Port Harcourt, the hum of street music, and a drunken chorus of David Bowie songs had been the relief she’d craved. The ship’s rigid drills and her own gnawing doubts had weighed her down for weeks. And yet, what should have been reckless had changed everything. Her crewmate’s stumble into the water that night—too much vodka, too little caution—had thrust her into action. Pulling her out, soaked and sputtering, had earned her a commendation she never expected. That crewmate became one of her closest allies, their bond surviving a world war and two global pandemics.
The world had gone to hell far faster than any of them could have imagined, and now she almost wished for the clarity of those days fighting militants on the Niger Delta. The slow, ponderous turns of her ship during target practice—barrels floating like lazy driftwood in the vast Atlantic—had once felt tedious, but those drills prepared them for something tangible: armed raiders seizing oil tankers, taking hostages in their fast, armored skiffs.
She and her crewmates would hum the theme to Jurassic Park, stifling laughter as the ship moved with the grace of a dinosaur wading through molasses. Those dangers had been immediate, their solutions straightforward. But putting a fractured city back together, with the shadow of a malevolent superintelligence looming ever closer, was another story entirely.
The sound of ice cracking under the prow yanked her back to the present. Now, as The Sovereign Tide made its slow, deliberate turns through the frozen waters near Karaginskiy, at the roof of the world, she felt the contrast sharpest. In Gred, the city’s geothermal reactors kept the ice at bay, filling the air with the sour tang of hydrogen sulfide and benzene. Out here, away from civilization’s protections, she almost wished for a breath of that acrid warmth to cut through the punishing cold.
Her grip tightened on the metal, frigid fingers tangled in the storm of deceit that had capsized her world. The bitter taste of treachery lingered on her tongue, and the surprise of Yelena’s coup still reverberated like a silent explosion.
She thought of the days when command had been simpler, when loyalty felt earned and her authority unquestioned. They had once called her Grand Mariner Veronika Lagunov, the linchpin of Gred’s precarious balance, but she was a Grand Mariner without a berth, a title ebbing away with each day spent at sea.
Her confidence had been fractured, her trust in the Syndicate shattered like the keel of a ship split in a storm, leaving her adrift in doubt about whether she could ever reclaim what had been lost. How could she not have seen the signs?
Romanova’s warnings now shone with the clarity of a lighthouse beacon willfully ignored; like forsaken church bells, they rang: “It’s not about relinquishing control but steering clear of the storm’s path... Sail to Karaginskiy. Hold there, maintain your readiness, and wait for my signal. This city will need its Mariner again, but only once the fires have cleared.” The humiliation of ignoring that warning was now an inescapable burden. Like the heavy coat she wore against the sea’s icy chill, each fold a layer of disgraced pride and discarded duty.
Below deck, she could hear the council convene—representatives of the Battalion’s fractured remains and defectors from the Black Wolves’ hallowed halls. Their murmurs carried up through the ship, a fragile tide pooling beneath her feet. Their loyalty is as shifting as the winds. They flow towards me in the absence of a stronger current, she thought.
The bridge beneath her boots was slick with the ocean’s spray, and she steadied herself. Today, her address would not amount to mere words; it would be the sounding horn of her conviction, the clarion call to those still loyal to the city that thrived in her blood.
Turning from the railing, Veronika cast one last glance at the endless horizon—a silent farewell to the solace of solitude as the weight of leadership settled heavily on her shoulders. She made her way toward the stern where her new commanders awaited.
The door to the council chamber creaked open as she pushed it, and the murmurs within ceased. All eyes turned to her—their last hope.
The air here was stifling, thick with plots and fears and the heavy scent of oil and omens. It was the same smell she had encountered at the convening of the War of Formation, at the signing of the Charter, which had ultimately led to Gred’s creation.
She took her place at the head of the table, the sea’s chorus replaced by the silence of expectation. The council meeting would begin, and with it, the first maneuver in this chess game of rebellion.
For The Sovereign Tide was not just a ship—it was the seed of a storm she would brew, one that would surge back to Gred’s shores with the fury of the scorned.
As Veronika sat down, her gaze swept over the assembled figures, each a pillar within the tapestry of Gred’s political and military landscape.
To her right, General Olega Orlov sat, her back straight as a ruler, exuding a calmness that seemed almost sculpted.
Beside Orlov, Commodore Alexandra Baranov sat, her gaze distant and intense. Veronika noticed the subtle clench of Baranov’s jaw and the tightening of her fists. In Veronika’s mind, a single phrase surfaced: “The Belltower Betrayal,” the end of an era. Baranov’s every tense movement seemed to echo that memory. Veronika felt it just as keenly, the two of them having escaped at the last moment together, their fates inextricably linked by that harrowing exodus.
Veronika couldn’t help but chastise herself for not having seen through Yelena’s schemes sooner. Despite Baranov’s insubordination, Veronika harbored no resentment towards her. In fact, she now wished she had possessed the insight to recognize the truth behind their predicament on her own. That failure haunted her still.
Commander Goga Borisova, once the green leader of the Black Wolves, sat rigidly across from Baranov. Her command had seen difficult days following the demise of her sister Arkadya. The defection of half or more of the Black Wolves’ forces to Yelena followed. But in her steely gaze, Veronika saw a deep-seated thirst for retribution. She would never forgive that betrayal, Veronika thought, knowing that the undercurrents of a fresh wound simmered hot beneath Borisova’s composed exterior.
At the far end of the table, a handful of seasoned advisors and specialists, each a veteran of countless struggles, murmured in low tones. Between them, Veronika sensed the shadows of betrayal. Yet, she suspected that beyond these shadows lay a foundation of pride. Each had been deceived, either by Yelena or perhaps even by Zakharovna. She had hoped to see more honor in their eyes, but all she so far found was a burning desire for vengeance. In her heart, Veronika knew she had to do whatever it took to restore the principles of the Charter, to guide them beyond their thirst for retribution towards a path of justice and integrity.
She stood, and the chatter around her subsided. She could feel the eyes of her council members on her, their gazes heavy with a mix of respect and doubt. This was her coalition, bound by fragile trust and necessity. For the first time, she would wield direct military power—not as a symbolic leader, but against former allies. The gravity of that shift settled in her chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome.
Admiral Veronika Lagunov spoke up, allowing her words to resonate in the charged atmosphere of the room. “Our enemy is formidable, armed not only with weapons but with a resolve born of a twisted vision. Yet, in our hearts, we carry the true spirit of our city—the unbreakable will to fight for order and justice. Our path is fraught with peril, but it is the only path that delivers to our people a life lived without fear, without oppression. The strategies we devise here today must be as dynamic and unpredictable as the times we are living in now. We must be swift, we must be cunning, and above all, we must be united. General Orlov, Commodore Baranov, Commander Borisova, your insights, and leadership are vital. I defer to your expertise in shaping our military response. Let us forge a plan that turns our weaknesses into strengths and makes every blow we strike against the enemy a declaration of our indomitable spirit.”
As she concluded, Veronika sensed a shift in the room. She felt tension. It was Orlov, her enthusiasm barely contained, who broke the brief silence. She leaned in, her voice cutting in sharp, “We must broaden our horizon of alliances. Consider the outlaws in the Derge. Despite their limited resources, they share a burning hatred for the Coven and Yelena’s rule both. They could play a key role in our offensive.”
Veronika noticed a new wave of doubt seeming to sweep across the faces in the room. She saw Baranov’s furrowed brow and heard the caution in her tone when she said, “Allying with the outlaws is risky. Their lack of sophistication in warfare could turn them into mere cannon fodder against Yelena’s fortified defenses.” Adding to the weight of her words, she warned, “And if they sense that’s what they’re being used for, they could even attack us in retaliation.” There had been much bad blood spilled between the outlaws and the Wolves, Veronika knew.
So Veronika replied, “Yelena’s drones are nothing but a regimented mass. They’re strong but they’re predictable. And that’s precisely where their weakness lies. The outlaws, with their raw, chaotic energy, can break through this rigid formation. They’re not bound by strict military tactics. Their resilience makes them the perfect foil. It’s this contrast, the mechanistic versus the unbridled, that will tip the scales in our favor.”
Borisova nodded in agreement, her voice firm and confident, “Exactly. The Black Wolves, having served as the city’s guard for so long, have honed their skills in guerrilla combat. We understand the streets and alleys of Gred like no other. Together with the outlaws, we can orchestrate the chaos that will provide the key to reclamation. However,” she added, her tone taking on a more somber note, “convincing them to join forces with us won’t be straightforward. The Black Wolves have a complicated history with the people of the Derge. Under the leadership of former Matrons, we were often known as oppressors. This legacy of mistrust will be our greatest challenge. We must demonstrate that we have changed, that our fight now is for the people, alongside them, not against them. Only then can we hope to unite and turn the tide against Yelena’s regime.”
Borisova’s expression hardened, a shadow of anger passing over her features. “And there’s more,” she said. “Rumors have it that Volkova didn’t perish in her confrontation with Yelena. Instead, it’s feared she was...turned. The Wolves may have sworn loyalty to the Charter, but their allegiance to Volkova was always stronger. And since she executed my sister, the only way to truly dissolve her influence is to confront her directly, to end her.” Goga’s fists tightened on the table. “This is a personal wound for me. But I am aware that our struggle is larger than any individual grievance. It’s about wresting Gred back from tyranny, restoring justice for all who once called it home, and still do.”[A1]
Commodore Baranov’s voice crackled with rage, adding, “They didn’t just eliminate your Commander. In the Cathedral’s chaos, Matron General Irina Nikitin fell, and that turncoat Zhukova usurped her position. She now leads the remnants loyal to Yelena. We’ve lost more than leaders; we’ve lost symbols of our resilience. This treachery, this betrayal... It strikes at the heart of everything we stand for. We must respond with equal measures of force.”
“Baranov is right,” Orlov said quietly. “The passing of our Matron General isn’t just a military defeat, it’s a blow to the soul of our cause. I remember her leading the charge at Yelizovo. Her bravery turned the tide against overwhelming odds during the Strangers’ Revolt. In her, we saw the embodiment of what we fight for—freedom, courage, and an unbreakable will.”
Veronika’s gaze swept across the room, making deliberate eye contact with each member of her council, before finally settling on Black Wolf Commander Borisova, “You will all have your chance for revenge, but right now, our focus must be broad. We need a strategy that harnesses our collective strengths. We’ll channel the outlaws’ fervor and intimate knowledge of the city’s outskirts. This, we will synergize with the tactical acumen of our own Black Wolves, and the resilience of our remaining Battalion and Admiralty forces. Our strike must embody not just raw power, but the cunning and precision that are the hallmarks of Gred’s military tradition. We will be a united front, an unstoppable force forged from our shared determination and strategic genius. The Admiralty will launch a head-on assault at Avacha Bay. We will draw their forces out and create a diversion. This will pave the way for the outlaws to strike from the west, exploiting their knowledge of the urban terrain to infiltrate with stealth and precision. Simultaneously, the Black Wolves will enter the city via amphibious transport along the eastern beachfronts and, once inside, use their tactical acumen to sow disorder. Together, we’ll reclaim Gred and end this tyranny once and for all.”[A2]
As the council reached a consensus, it was General Orlov who broke the silence, as she often did. “We should name ourselves The Order,” she proposed, her voice steady with a reverence that caught Veronika’s attention. The way Orlov’s gaze lingered, filled with a mix of solemnity and memory, spoke volumes—it was as if Veronika could see the ghost of Tatyana Romanova’s dream, once vibrant but now extinguished, reflected in Orlov’s eyes.
Commodore Baranov nodded firmly in agreement, “It’s time we reclaimed the honor and discipline that Gred was built upon. To cast away the reckless ambitions and false freedom Yelena’s Hive has come to champion.”
Orlov added, “The Order signifies our dedication to the principles that Matron Romanova upheld. It’s a call to restore the integrity that defined our city before its descent into chaos.”
The meeting ended with Orlov’s impassioned words still lingering in the air. As the council members filed out, Veronika sat put.
The sound of the chamber door closing marked the end of a pivotal gathering. Admiral Veronika Lagunov’s gaze fixated on the empty spaces now devoid of her comrades. She could still hear echoes of the discussions that had just taken place. But it was during this moment of solitude that her own thoughts rang loudest.
Suddenly, a voice disrupted her phantoms. Veronika felt the hairs on the back of her neck shoot up, realizing the young woman must have been standing there all this time; she certainly hadn’t heard the door open again. “There’s something we need to talk about,” Borisova said, “something I didn’t feel comfortable bringing up around the others.”
...Didn’t feel comfortable? At such a pivotal meeting? Lagunov’s back stiffened. Trust was the cornerstone of the order they were striving to rebuild, yet here was more secrecy at play. “The whole point of this new organization is to rid ourselves of the whispers that undermined Gred,” she said. Veronika tasted disappointment spill out of her own mouth.
Borisova’s response was quick, assured. “This is simply too far outside our realm of experience to have brought it up in front of the new council. Please, hear me out.”
Reluctantly, Veronika nodded. Trust. Distrust. The weight of leadership bore down on her once again. She was growing to despise that weight.
“Before Tatyana died,” Borisova said, “I managed to upload a part of her into the Arkyv. This fragment exerted some influence...”
Oh, Tatyana... Would that you were still with us. Veronika had often been at odds with the Pra Matron of the Battalion, but in truth, Tatyana Romanova had been a confidante with whom she had shared not just the duties of their roles but the intimate details of their past lives, those ghostly echoes before the Board had first been established. Together, they were among the few in Gred who bore the weight of having been married once—sharing stories of their husbands, Ivan, and Mikhail, and musing about how these two men might have been friends in another world, if fate had been kinder. Both Ivan and Mikhail had fallen in the Great War, you see, defending their country with valor until the bitter end. And as the memory of their faces flooded Veronika’s thoughts, a bitter-sweet nostalgia enveloped her. For a moment, she was transported to a time when love, not just duty, defined her existence.
“You see, there’s been a secret, closely guarded for years. Nina Grigoreva, she was the keeper of a truth few know,” Goga paused, glancing around before continuing, “Alexei Zakharov, his legacy...he has an heir. Her mother, Nina, shielded her from the world, but the girl survived. Rayna is her name[A3] .”
Veronika’s mind froze, the name reverberating through her like the crack of splitting ice. A sudden, breathless silence swallowed her thoughts.
Rayna... Alexeyevna... Zakharova?
It could not be.
The revelation hit Veronika like a rogue wave, leaving her mind blank once more. She hadn’t recovered from the first shock, and now the enormity of it all pressed down harder, filling the space where her thoughts should have been. It swelled again, sharper now, as if the enormity of what Goga had said only just began to seep through.
She had known Alexei well. He had mourned the loss of his daughter early in the war—loudly at that, making sure everyone felt the weight of his grief. Though she had never suspected that Grigoreva of all people had been the mother. It was uncouth to ask such things at that time, given how rare children were and the lengths those who could have them went to protect them... There had been no funeral then. But who was Veronika to judge? She had never had children of her own. Now, to hear that the girl had survived, hidden, called for action she had not anticipated. But Rayna... That wasn’t the name Lagunov remembered.
“With your leave,” Borisova implored, “I, along with my best two Wolves, request to be ferried back to Gred. The young woman is being held in a bunker by the sea.”
Veronika’s mind reeled, processing the implications of that lineage reborn. The resurrection of the Zakharov line risks changing everything. Though...the people were tired of false promises, she knew. Science, progress, freedom—they balked at it all in truth. What they craved was stability and a familiar face to lead them. Alexei’s child could be that face... If they could control her.
After a moment’s hesitation, Admiral Veronika Lagunov agreed, saying, “If what you say holds true, Commander, the impact on Gred...on all of us...would be profound. We must act, but with caution and discretion. Initiate the mission but ensure absolute confidentiality. The balance of our future might well rest on this old secret.”
As Borisova left to ready her team, Veronika sat alone once more, contemplating the ever-shifting whispers of destiny that seemed to ensnare them all. The irony of her situation was not lost on her. Just moments ago, she had admonished Commander Borisova for the very kind of secrecy she now found herself endorsing. A pang of hypocrisy gnawed at her conscience; this was one secret she’d have to carry herself, a reality that contradicted the transparent foundation she had hoped to build upon. Yet, she understood the difference—this wasn’t for power or control, but preservation.
Secrecy for the sake of security, not for the shadows of power. Can the two ever truly be separated? Is this the burden of leadership, to navigate the gray spaces with the hope of preserving light? Perhaps this was the lesson Tatyana was trying to impart all along, the balance of holding secrets not to deceive, but to protect. Though I wonder, is it I who is protecting our city, or am I simply preserving the fragile web we’ve woven? Is there honor in this lie?
...or is there an opportunity? Perhaps there was more to victory than guns, she thought. Perhaps she needn’t navigate every turbulent wave herself; perhaps this young heir could anchor them safely back to shore.
Veronika’s gaze drifted across the room, coming to rest on the aged tapestry that hung on the far end wall, suspended by an ornate brass rod. A focal point amid the clutter of old, useless maps and dusty tomes scattered across the room, it depicted the Grand Mariner’s Cathedral, her former charge. The intricate threads meticulously wove into a mirage, capturing every arch and spire in vibrant detail. Even as wool, it stirred within her a maelstrom of memories and reflections.
It was within those hallowed, now ruined halls that she had diligently maintained her customary distance from the politics swirling like a tempest around its pillars. That tapestry, a silent witness to both grandeur and decay, now tugged at the fringes of her ambition, or lack of it.
It reminded her of the solemn tradition she had once upheld—observing, but never engaging. Ruling from the margin. Perhaps she still could...rule from the margin.
But Admiral Veronika Lagunov found herself drawn ever deeper, descending into the heart of the vortex she had always tried to navigate around. She was no longer just an observer at the edge, but the pivot at its center—a role she had never sought, forced upon her by the tides of fate.
If I can’t step ashore, at least I can open the way.
Time to forge another pass.
I hope you’ve enjoyed the story and these previews so far! Stay tuned for when Babushka: Shadows of Betrayal becomes available on Amazon. In the meantime, be sure visit the Book & Chapters List, where you can explore previews from each book and upcoming releases in the Babushka universe. Dive in and discover more!