A History of What Comes Next

30 Nature Boy

31 Still a Fool

Whatever I am, wherever we are, I know we weren’t always the prey.

I keep telling myself I didn’t know but it’s a lie. I blocked those memories, somehow, but I knew. It’s in me. It starts with a tingling, hair standing on end. Heightened senses. Everything becomes clearer, crisper. There’s a monster inside me. I keep it caged up but it’s there, constantly clawing at the walls. I thought I could control it, tame the beast. I thought I was stronger than it but I was wrong. It won’t fetch or heel.

For months I thought it was just me, what I am, but I look around now and I see it in everyone. Every time someone cuts the line at the store, every time people bump shoulders in a crowd. They can control it most times, but their first instinct is violence, hatred. Deep down, people are built to kill, exterminate.

Now they can do it on an even bigger scale. The Russians have the bomb. They nuked a small village this morning. They built it in the middle of nowhere, Kazakhstan. It had houses, a store, even a little bridge. They watched their fake little town burn when the nuclear device exploded. First Lightning, they called it. Lavrentiy Beria was in charge, Stalin’s right-hand man. Basically, anything really bad, Beria handles. Stalin’s absolute priority after the war was to get that weapon. He has it now. It’s what we wanted, but having Beria in charge makes my skin crawl. This monster had twenty-two thousand Polish prisoners executed in 1940. Soldier, civilian, priest even, it didn’t matter. Beria had them all shot and piled the corpses in mass graves. He did the same to ten thousand Georgian nationalists before the war. They gave him a medal for it.

I heard the scientists on his nuclear project were told in advance of their reward or punishment based on today’s outcome. Get the Order of Lenin if it goes boom, life in a gulag if it doesn’t. Beria loves his gulags. He’s the one who got most of them built. Those who played a more critical role would get higher honors or a bullet in the head. Lots of smart people here breathed a sigh of relief when that village was vaporized today.

I bet you things are a little more tense on the other side of the Atlantic. The balance of power moved a hell of a lot in one day. The Americans finally closed their concentration camps for Japanese-Americans. Just watch. They’ll fill them up with communists before the decade’s over. Got to have someone to hate, even if it’s your own people.

It’s all I see. Hatred, pain, ugliness. I can’t work. I can’t think. The truth is I don’t think I should be working, or thinking, or breathing. I go through the motions every day. I watch Korolev stumble and fail but I can’t bring myself to help. I want no part in this, or anything else.

Stalin, Beria. These are the good guys, the people who defeated Hitler. These are the people we’re supposed to save. Fuck no. Let this world burn, and me with it.

32 East of the Sun (and West of the Moon)

They arrested him. Former “Red Squads” accused Hsue-Shen of being a member of a “subversive organization.” He was questioned by the FBI before he decided to take his family to Shanghai. They seized his belongings, which, they said, contained classified materials, and they put him in jail. His friends got him out, but he is now under house arrest. His security clearance was revoked, his application for citizenship denied. His son isn’t even two. His daughter is four months old. It doesn’t matter where these children grow up now, they will be strangers everywhere. Discarded by their own country, mistrusted wherever they go.

They said he was a member of the Communist Party. The accusation is preposterous; his family served the opposing side. They said he attended “meetings.” I am certain he has. Social gatherings of liberal scholars, reinventing the world over a gin and tonic. Not exactly a plot to “spread communism” and overthrow the government. Common sense rarely prevails in the face of paranoia, but this is completely asinine.

I hardly recognize the world anymore. My daughter is running from her duty. Her mind is troubled, and I cannot blame her for it. It would be difficult, with the evidence at hand, to reach a different conclusion. The world as it is does not beg saving.

I watch Mia suffer and I wish I could make it stop. I feel the guilt Hsue-Shen spoke of. I thrusted my daughter into a life she did not choose, as my mother did with me. We were never asked to be who we are. Whatever choice we made, it happened long before Mia was born. Perhaps I should have let her make it again.

I know now why my grandmother hid her climate research from everyone. I know why she did not tell a soul. She was ashamed. She did not fear that our efforts were in vain if the planet was doomed. She would have shared that thought, like my mother did. She hoped the planet was dying. She was looking for a way out. Something was eating away at her soul, and she was desperate to rationalize it, one carbon measurement at a time. She wanted to stop. She did not want her daughter, her granddaughter to carry our burden. She wanted to live, and for her child to have a normal life.

It should have been obvious. I chose not to see her failings because I did not want to face mine. I will not betray all that came before me, but I do share my grandmother’s sentiment. I, too, would very much like to live, for Mia to pursue happiness in any way she wants. I wish I could die of old age and watch my granddaughter grow. I wish we were someone else.

33 I’m Gonna Dig Myself a Hole

—Korolev left a message for you. He said your presence is requested at State Central Range No. 4.

Mia barely spends time with Korolev anymore. I doubt she realizes how much he—the entire program—is struggling. Korolev misses her—he says so loudly and often—but he does not know what he is missing. He longs for Nina the interpreter, not the scientist with an IQ forty points above his. I can hardly blame him; he doesn’t know that person exists. He has only seen glimpses of what she can do.

—Tell him I can’t go. I can’t handle Kapustin Yar right now.

—Who is Kapustin Yar?

—It’s not a who, Mother, it’s a place. Total shitville. Too hot or too cold. Getting supplies, materials, getting anything there is a nightmare. We can’t even drink the water. I hate it.

—I would assume the living conditions have improved since your last visit. Besides, you will not be there that long.

—You don’t understand. It’s so cold, the launch troops are drinking the rocket fuel to stay warm. When the snow melted in the spring, they found a dead soldier, frozen like a Popsicle. They didn’t even know he was missing. Hell, they found a whole herd of horses. The horses froze to death, Mother.

—Korolev needs you, Mia.

I do not know how to reach her. I thought the work might bring her back but there is too much anger and hate inside her. She is angry at the world for being what it is. She hates me for hiding the truth. She hates herself with infinite conviction.

—No he doesn’t. Korolev only wants to go back because that’s where he kissed me for the first time.

—What?

—Yes. We had our first successful launch with the R-1. Out of the blue, Korolev pours me a glass of champagne, says, “To the stars!” and kisses me. I should have slapped him.

—Mia! People will think—

—Oh, Mother. Everyone thinks Korolev and I are having an affair. His wife thinks we’re having an affair. She served him with divorce papers last year. He said he wanted to save his marriage. Good luck with that. Anyway, tell the soon-to-be-divorcé chief designer that he can find someone else. Tell him I’m allergic to cats.

—You are not, but what does that have to do with anything?

—That place is hell? Even the mice know it. There are snakes everywhere and it gets super cold at night. We put this nice and cozy insulation over the R-1 wiring and the mice moved in. Then they ate the wires because, why not? So yes, we bring cats every time we go up there to keep the mice from destroying the rockets.

Four, almost five years of work and this is what we are left with.

—Mia. I know you still hate me, but the Soviets—

—I don’t hate you, Mother. I hate myself.

—Do you think there is a difference? Can I finish what I was saying now?

—Yes.

—The Soviets will never get anywhere without your help.

—They have the R-1, the R-2.

—The R-1 is an imperfect copy. And no, they most definitely do not have the R-2. Twelve test launches, Mia. Twelve. All of them failures. That is the longest test series on record and they could not hit their target once. They will fail without you. You also need to publish what little work you have done so that others can build on it.

—I can do it later.

—Get someone to publish your findings. Trust me, you do not want to spend a decade teaching your daughter about things she could teach herself at the library. Spread your rocket knowledge far and wide and your child will only have to learn about rockets.

—It’s not as bad as you think, Mother. They’re making progress. Korolev is working on the R-3 and—

—Mia, you need to wake up. The R-1 has a range of two hundred and eighty kilometers and it barely works. Now they want to hit three thousand. Korolev is ambitious—I will give him as much—but the R-3 is a gigantic quagmire. New technologies, new propellants, new problems. It is quicksand, Mia. It will be the end of Korolev’s bureau if you do not step in.

—We’re doing what we can.

—You are not doing anything, Mia. You stare at the clouds for hours on end while they do what they can. Unfortunately, what they can is not enough.

—I’m not ready, Mother. Tell him I can’t.

—I told him you were indisposed. He did not seem to care. He said nothing about bringing cats, but he did mention two dogs. Derik and…

—No! Not the dogs! I thought they were running a second test series on the R-2!

—He spoke of five launches in one month. How do you know the dogs?

—It’s Dezik, not Derik, and Tsygan. I feed all the dogs, Mother. They’ll use them to study the effects of space travel.

—Which would suggest they are thinking about sending a man up soon. This should be cause for celebration, should it not?

—No! Tsygan is the sweetest thing, Mother. She just wants her belly scratched, not to get blasted a hundred kilometers into the sky.

—Presumably, the objective is to bring the dogs back alive.

—There’s a parachute.

—You see… How do they not run out of air?

—They have a little pressure suit with a bubble helmet. But something will go wrong, Mother. Something always does. The parachute won’t deploy. The rocket will explode. Korolev is going to kill those dogs.

—Then you should go and make sure that does not happen. Go for the dogs, Mia. Go for Korolev, or yourself. Whatever the reason, you cannot spend the rest of your life hiding from everyone.

—I don’t—

—I need to show you something. Wait here one moment.

…

You have asked me what we were many times before and I did not have an answer for you. Here. Look at this picture.

—It’s a fish, Mother. I don’t know what we are but I’m pretty sure we’re not fish.

—It is called the Amazon molly. It was discovered in 1932 in—

—In the Amazon.

—No, Mia. In Texas. It gets its name for the way it breeds. The female molly—they are all female—finds a—

—All females? How’s that possible?

—That is what I am trying to explain. They are named after the Amazons of Greek mythology. In most versions of the myth, the women warriors would visit a neighboring tribe and have sex with them before returning home. They would keep only their female offspring and either kill or abandon the males in the woods.

—So this fish of yours kills its male babies?

—No, it does not need to. The Amazon molly finds a male from a species that resembles it, and tricks it into believing it found a mate of its own kind.

—They have sex?

—I do not know the specifics of their mating ritual. I do know they need sperm from the male fish to trigger the development of the embryo. Do you remember when we talked about genes?

—Pea plants.

—Yes. Pea plants. What makes the Amazon molly so special is that none of the genes from the male fish are passed on to the offspring. Only the mother’s genes are. All of them. The babies get everything from their mother.

—Everything. You mean, like us?

—I do not know if it is exactly like us, but yes.

—They’re all the same fish?

—I suppose it depends on your definition of “same.”…

—Shit. We’re fish. Why are you showing me this, Mother? Is that supposed to make me feel better?

—Yes, it is. What I am trying to tell you, Mia, is that the world is vast and full of strange things. Just because something is strange does not mean it should not exist. You feel different. You are different, Mia, we are. That does not mean you have no place in this universe. I cannot tell you what you are, but I can say with absolute certainty that you belong here as much as everything else.

34 Unforgettable

—I’m tired, Nina. I’m tired of this.

I’m surprised Billie stuck with me this long. I’ve been distant, cold. I need her but I can’t stand her being close to me. I can’t look her in the eyes; it reminds me of what I am. I stay awake every time I spend the night because I’m afraid I’ll hurt her in my sleep. I just lie there and stare at her bookshelves. She’s read A Hero of Our Time again. It’s not shelved where it used to be.

—It’s okay, Billie. I’ll leave.

—I don’t want you to leave! I want you to talk to me.

—…

What would I say? Hey, I killed some thirty people. Want to play chess?

—You’re hurting, Nina. I can see that. You’re in pain and I want to help you, but you won’t let me.

—I don’t need your help.

—You need someone’s help. I love you, Nina. I love you with all my heart, but you won’t let me do that either. I can’t just sit and watch you suffer from a distance. I can’t do that. You need to let me in.

She’s right. I won’t let her. She doesn’t know me. She’s never seen what’s inside. What she loves, what she thinks I am, it’s a lie. If she saw…

—It’s probably best if we stop seeing each other.

—Fuck you, Nina!

There. Anger I can relate to. This is real. I deserve that. She… I don’t know exactly what she deserves but I know it’s better than this, better than me.

—I can’t give you what you want, Billie. I can’t share everything that’s in my head. I don’t want it in my head. I sure as shit don’t want it in yours. I’m making you unhappy. I can see that. You said you can’t do it. I understand.

—Fuck you!

—Billie, I—

—I never said I didn’t want to. I said I can’t! As in it’s too hard! I see you suffering and I suffer with you. I watch you drown and I’m gasping for air. You and I, we’re… I’m not giving up on you, Nina. I don’t give a rat’s ass if that’s what you want.

—Why?

—Because you don’t do that, you pudding-head! You never give up on the people you love. When the storm comes, you hold on to them and you don’t let go. Do you hear me, Nina? You don’t let go.

I am the storm. She should get as far away from me as she can.

—You have to.

—…

She’s… getting out of the house. This is her place. I should be the one leaving.

—Billie, wait! Where are you going?

—…

She left the door open.

—Billie!

—Come!

—I—Let me just get my shoes….

—Who needs shoes?

Neither of us, apparently. She’s sprinting. This is true Billie. I want her to run away, she makes me run after her. I am running, barefoot in the middle of the night. I want her. It’s me I can’t stand.

She’s getting away. The streetlamps aren’t working but the moon’s so full we can almost touch it. Faster. We aren’t the only ones who can’t rest. I see cars across the Moskva, silhouettes in dimly lit windows. Moscow’s ill-behaved, it only pretends to sleep. This feels good, somehow. The pavement’s still warm, but the faster I run, the more I feel the night breeze blowing in. She’s going for the bridge.

Faster. My heart is stomping louder than the city. It’s not the running, it’s me gaining on her. Hunting. She’s slowing down in the middle of the bridge. Full stop. This is where she wants me. She’s…

—Billie, DON’T!

She can’t hear or she won’t listen. She’s climbing over the guardrail.

—Catch me before I fall!

She’s crazy. She’s across the rail now, leaning over water. I need to run faster.

—Stop it, Billie! You’ll kill yourself!

—Not if you catch me first!

No! She let go of one hand. She’s dangling sideways, arms spread like an angel. She’s gonna fucking kill herself.

I’m almost there. Her hand is slipping, or she’s letting it slip. Her fingers are stretching. I won’t make it in time. I—

—FOR FUCK’S SAKE, BILLIE! ARE YOU CRAZY?

I caught her, barely. She’s still leaning back but I’ve got her arm. I’ve got her.

—I knew you’d catch me.

—Billie, don’t you ever pull a prank l—

—It’s okay, Nina.

—No it’s not. You—

—Shhhh. You’re hurting my wrist now.

She’s climbing back over. Her wrist’s all red. I squeezed it with all I had.

—You’re insane, you know that?

—Maybe. But I knew you’d catch me. And when you fall, I’ll be there to catch you. Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter, Nina. Give me your hand and I’ll catch you.

—Billie, I—

—I’ll catch you. I swear. All you have to do is give me your hand. Now say you believe me.

I’m not going to cry.

—I want to.

I want to believe her. I want it so bad I feel my heart will explode, but I won’t cry. It’s bad enough I’m barefoot on a bridge at 4:00 A.M., I won’t cry on top o—

—Stop crying, Nina. We look like a couple of fools already.

—I hate you.

—I know. Now let’s go home and get some sleep before you leave.

—I’ll be back in a month. If you change your mind, I’ll—

—I won’t change my mind. Now you go to this place, this Kapustin Yar, and you find yourself.

—There’s nothing there to find.

—Then we’ll keep looking together. Either way I’m not going anywhere. I’m here, Nina. I’m here now and I’ll be here when you get back.

35 Pink Champagne

The smell of rocket fuel’s so strong it scratches at your throat. Somehow I feel better out here than I did at home. It might be the booze. Maybe I just really like things bleak and lifeless. Kapustin Yar is three hundred and sixty degrees of nothing, an endless sea of dead grass and dirt roads. Our little island is made of steel and concrete. There’s nothing fragile here. We can’t hurt anyone but ourselves.

—Hands on your desk, Sergei.

—One kiss. Then I swear I will get back to work.

Korolev is a child. He’s a charming, intelligent child, but he has all the maturity of a five-year-old.

—No! You have a rocket to launch, Mr. Chief Designer. Remember? Also, you look like a goldfish when you do that.

—It will work! We reinforced the nose cone so it does not overheat. You gave us the idea to fix the guidance system. How do you know about accelerometers, anyway?

I usually make sure my ideas come through other people, but there aren’t any right now. Also, that takes time and we don’t have much of that either. I just need a vague excuse for not being a complete idiot.

—I told you, my father liked to tinker. I spent hours watching him. And we didn’t fix anything, we just reduced the vibrations so the thing could work. It might not. The accelerometer could be bad to begin with.

—It did just fine in the horizontal test. It will work! Trust me! There is no point in worrying about it now.

I don’t trust him. Well, I do. I just don’t trust the other eleven million people involved in building that rocket. He’s right about one thing, though. There isn’t much more we can do from here.

—I hope it works. I don’t think you can afford many more of these failed launches.

—Have dinner with me tonight.

—I’m serious, Sergei! You need to be more careful.

—Careful how? My wife is not going to divorce me twice.

—Not about me, you nitwit. You speak of space rockets in front of everyone, orbiting satellites—

—I thought that is what we were doing. You said yourself—

—I know what I said, but Stalin wants missiles. You need to give him that first or you’ll get a visit from Beria and the secret police.

—They will get their missiles. The R-2 will work. Then we will build the R-3.

—The R-2 is too small, and even if you built the R-3, it still won’t cross the Atlantic. You know that’s the only thing Stalin is interested in.

—I will be fine.

—You keep saying that, but you know how Beria thinks. If you’re not adding to the might of the Soviet empire, then you must be trying to sabotage it. You of all people should know what they’re capable of.

He thinks he might lose his job, but Beria’s a madman. Korolev won’t survive another stint in the gulag. He definitely won’t survive a firing squad.

—You are worried about me.

—I’m worried about the program.

—… Nah! You are worried about me.

Fine. I like him. I keep telling myself it’s the work, but there’s something endearing about Korolev. He’s like a puppy. He also builds rockets for a living. Life around him—I don’t know—I don’t hate myself as much when I’m with him.

—You keep telling yourself that.

—I will. So? Dinner?

—Just dinner.

—Cross my heart. We will talk shop. I will tell you about that paper from Tikhonravov. He has some fascinating ideas.

Oh, good. He’s read it. “On the Possibility of Achieving First Cosmic Velocity and Creating an Artificial Satellite with the Aid of a Multi-Stage Missile Using the Current Level of Technology.” Mouthful. Mother said I had to publish, and Tikhonravov is my voice in all this while I play Nina the interpreter. He works in another bureau, NII-4. I thought it best to keep some distance. I’m paying him, of course, but he is brilliant. His next paper is called “Flight to the Moon.” I don’t think anyone here will pay attention, but the Americans will think that’s what the Soviets are working on. Hopefully.

—Okay. Dinner. But on one condition.

—There I was hoping my mere presence might be enough.

—Send the German scientists back home. You’re not using their ideas anyway. You’re paying them to play cards all day.

—End of the year. I will send them all home. I promise. Seven o’clock in the office?

—Seven thirty. And I’m not sleeping with you.

—I said cross my heart! Why not, by the way?

—You are still a married man, Mr. Korolev. And I’m a woman of virtue, not some able Grable you can just—

—Forget I asked. I will see you tonight. I want to check on the dogs before I leave.

—Poor dogs. I still hate you for that, by the way.

—I know.

—Good. Just making sure.

36 How High the Moon

—I can’t believe Korolev proposed. What’s wrong with men? Did he really think I’d say yes? Ooooh, we fixed the guidance system. Yes, Glavny Konstruktor. I’d love to marry you!

Here, Tsygan. Let’s get you out of that cage.

Mother, I have something to show you!

—…

Three successful launches in a row. I’ll admit, it was exciting. Saber-some-champagne exciting, not propose-out-of-the-blue. What kind of person does that?

—Next thing you know he’ll want me to cook his meals, wash his clothes. Fat chance, dog killer. Right, Tsygan? It’s okay. The bad man is gone now. You can look around. This is your new home.

Mother, I’m back! Where are you?

—…

It’s good to be home. I’m glad I went, though. Mother was right. I must be as crazy as Korolev, but being in the middle of nowhere shooting dogs into the sky is as close to normal as I’ve felt since I came back from Germany.

—Mo—

—Mia?

—Yes! I’m in the kitchen.

—Who are you talking to? I can hear you blab—Is that a dog?

—Very perceptive, Mother. This is Tsygan. Tsygan, meet Sarah, your… grandmother.

—I think not.

—Mother, you won’t believe what Korolev did in—

—Not now, Mia. I think you better sit down.

—What is it? No, not the shoes, Tsygan.

—Sit, Mia.

—You’re making me nervous now. Just tell me!

—Your girlfriend has been arrested.

My heart stopped. Too much to unpack here.

—Who?

I didn’t know what else to say. I just need a second to get myself back together.

—Billie. They arrested her.

—For what? What did she do?

—You know why, Mia. I do not think you are the only one she was close to.

Shit. This is bad. This country wasn’t made for people like her. I just need to know that she’s fine. I need her to be fine.

—Wha-what did they do to her? Where is she?

—In a psychiatric clinic. Her mother put her there.

No, not this. Anything but this. Billie won’t survive in a cage. Is this my fault? Did someone see us? I hate myself for making this about me, but I can’t handle this being my fault. I’ve hurt her enough already.

—How long?

—A day or two after you left. She’s been there a whole month.

37 Moanin’ at Midnight

My daughter would not take no for an answer. The clinic is quite small. Hopefully everyone is sound asleep and we can sneak in and out. Mia is angry. She does not understand. Billie’s mother was smart to have her committed. She can either be mentally ill or a decadent fascist conspiring against the state. Neither are pleasant but she would not survive the latter. She would be in the gulag already if she were a man. Homosexuality is a crime for them. Women get arrested for plotting against the government, or they are “reeducated.”

—Through here, Mia. This window is open.

Part of me is glad we came. What goes on in these places is inhuman. I have heard of ice-pick lobotomies performed in the US. Place a sharp pointy object, like an ice pick, underneath the eyelid and drive the point through the bone and into the brain with a small hammer. This is a more “gentle” clinic. They will not punch holes in Billie’s brain, but she will wish she were dead nonetheless. I wonder if her mother knows what they will do to her.

—Mother! Are you coming?

I am. I should not be, but I am. From the outside, we could only see light in one of the rooms up front. This must be where the nurse on duty is working. This corridor is empty. I hope the guards are not making their rounds.

—Patient rooms are on the second floor, Mia.

—I know.

She is upset. I sympathize, but we should not be here. Do not draw attention to yourself. I told her not to come. I ordered her. It was foolish of me but I thought she might do what I asked. This is the second time Mia has disobeyed me, but it is the first time she has done it to my face. I suppose I should be glad it lasted this long, but nothing good can come from this escapade. They do not allow visitors during treatment. Even if they did, it would be bad for Mia to be seen with Billie. There is also a distinct possibility Mia will not get the reaction she wants. Either way, there is nothing we can do for that woman.

—Here, Mother. She’s in here.

The door is locked. They will not let them out of their room. I wish Mia would be satisfied seeing her through the window, but I know my daugh—Strike that. I never knew she could pick a lock. She is good.

—Go, Mia. Talk to her so we can leave.

—I’m not leaving without her.

I do not remember ever being this stubborn. I must have been.

—Mia! You have not thought this through. Just get inside and talk to her.

—Stay here, Mother.

I hope Mia gets some satisfaction out of this, a modicum of closure. I hope Billie is capable of having a conversation. Mia does not understand what goes on within these walls. There is no telling what kind of mental state Billie is in, what drugs she is on or what they are doing to her. I can only guess.

[I don’t want you here! GET OUT, NINA!]

This was a bad idea from the start.

—Mia, you need to keep her quiet.

—I just—

[GET OUT!]

—Listen to me carefully, Mia. You need to keep her quiet before the situation escalates. Do you understand what I am trying to tell you?

—I know! I’m trying!

She believes the old Billie will surface if she is able to calm down. I fear she might be out of reach.

—Mia! They use psychotropic drugs to make subjects more suggestible. Billie could be having hallucinations. She might not even know if this is real or not.

She might have spent the last month vomiting all day. They give patients nausea-inducing drugs and make them watch homoerotic pictures while they lie in their vomit or feces. She would have received shock therapy, electric current applied to her hands or genitalia while being shown photos of naked women. Masturbatory reconditioning. These “treatments” may not change anyone’s sexual preferences in the end, but they will do a number on their mind. Mia should know that.

[GET OUT! GET OUT! HEEEELP! SOMEONE GET HER OUT OF HERE!]

—Stop it Billie, please!

Too late. I hear footsteps in the stairwell. A guard. Medium build, about my height. Baton in hand, no firearm. I see one exit behind me, one behind him. He is coming this way.

[What’s going on here?]

—Good evening, sir. My daughter and I are visiting our cousin.

[There are no visitors. How did you get in here?]

It was worth trying but we broke in in the middle of the night. It will take more than a story.

—We were just leaving. Take this envelope, sir—take it—and let us agree that we were never here.

I had a feeling we might need to bribe our way in or out. It is the one constant in this country now. People are underpaid if they are paid at all. He saw what is in the envelope. If he were going to do anything, he would have done it by now. He will pretend to think about it, either to convince me I was lucky he took my money, or to convince himself he has some moral character left. Now. He just slid the envelope inside his shirt pocket.

[I SAID GET OUT!]

Shhhh! The guard is entering the room. I know why. If she keeps screaming and someone else comes… He does not need the complication any more than we do. He could lose his job, or the money he took from me.

[You ladies need to go now. And you, will you shut up already?!]

Mia is just standing there. She is waiting for a happy ending but none is forthcoming.

[HEEEEELP!]

[I told you to shut. Your. Mouth!]

He put his baton on Billie’s throat. She cannot protect herself. Her arms and legs are tied to the bed. I do not think Mia will—

—MIA, NO!

Open-hand strike to the throat. I did not see it coming. Neither did he. This is what I was afraid of. This is why I came. The guard is on the floor clawing for air. She must have crushed his trachea. I could open up his throat before he asphyxiates, but the money will not be enough. He will talk. Will Billie?

Mia is still waiting for the person she knows and loves. That person is likely gone, and Mia just killed someone right in front of her.

—MOTHER, BEHIND YOU!

AAHGHH! I think my arm is broken. Another guard. I did not hear him approach over his colleague’s gargling. Assess, Sarah. His baton is in my right hand. I grabbed it without thinking. Push him against the wall and strike with the forehead… I broke his nose. He will focus on that while I snap his collarbone.

There is a nurse standing atop the stairs. She was looking at me. She froze, but fight-or-flee will kick in soon. Here it is. Flee. I must catch her before she calls for help and this gets out of control.

Faster. I should land midway through the stair leg if I jump over the rail. Ugh. I twisted an ankle but I am three feet behind her. Close enough to lunge forward.

She hit the concrete floor hard. I have her in a choke hold.

—Do not resist, ma’am, you will only make it worse.

We lie a few inches from the doorway, but no one can see us. If the noise did not alert anyone, this should be the end of it.

I hope Mia has Billie under control. I will find out when this nurse stops moving. Brain hypoxia will begin five minutes after the blood flow is stopped, but I am exerting over a hundred pounds of pressure on her neck. If her vertebrae are not severely damaged, enough blood vessels will rupture when crushed against her spine. Another thirty seconds should suffice.

I must remember to wipe down anything we touched. The window frame, the door handles. The police do not have our prints, but Mia and Billie were close. They were in youth group together. Zero degrees of separation. It will not take a genius to—

—Let’s go, Mother.

What is Mia doing here?

—Mia, you should be upstairs. Wipe our prints. Keep Billie quiet.

—We need to go.

I do not have the courage to tell her what needs to be done. We cannot leave a witness anymore, not after we killed three people. Mia will never forgive me, but that is something I must learn to live with. Do not draw attention to yourself. I broke the rule and I will pay the price. I will send Mia home and take care of Billie myself. I only wish they could say goodbye.

—Mia, we cannot leave just yet. There is—

—Mother! It’s done. Let’s go.

She knew. That look on her face. It is not resilience, or the knowledge that it had to be done. She is… angry. Is she angry at me? Perhaps Billie did not give her the recognition she wanted. Mia loved and she was not loved back. She felt vulnerable. That is not what we do best. It could be something else entirely, but it does not matter anymore. The nurse is dead. It is time for us to leave.

38 Hey, Good Lookin’

I’m proud of you, Son.

That’s what he said. Those were his last words. What an idiot. His brother, Uncle Hans, he knew better. Hans didn’t go easy. My brothers and I had to chase him down. It took us almost a year to catch up to him. He called us dimwits before we slit his throat. He always called us dimwits, but I think he meant it more that time. He said: “You fools have no idea what the hell you’re doing.” Back then, I thought he was just a coward. Now I think he might have been on to something.

I was always proud to be the eldest. I thought that made me—I don’t know—more me than my brothers. I worshiped my dad as a kid, and being allowed children sounded like quite a gas. Damn. I don’t wish our life on anyone, but when my son was born, I kind of looked forward to teaching him what I know.

Ha! The little buggers can’t do anything when they’re born. They don’t even speak. I mean, I knew all that going in, but I didn’t realize I’d be twiddling my thumbs for years while a tiny me makes spit bubbles and shits himself all day. I also didn’t realize he’d spend all his time with his mother, which meant I’d have to spend time with his mother. I must have not done a very good job at that, because she took the kid and ran after two years.

I had it all worked out. I wasn’t gonna kill her. I wasn’t even gonna yell. We’d both admit to our wrongs and start anew. It was all in my head, but I honestly thought it would work, and I was even a little proud of myself. She took a bunch of pills and drove her car right off a cliff. What kind of sick person does that to a child? I barely knew the kid but he was one of us. He didn’t deserve that. I took it hard. There was some drinking, some unfortunate incidents. I had to move a couple of times. It doesn’t really matter, what matters is that I wasted five years and I don’t even have one son, let alone four.

Now Charles and Leonard are in Washington. Lord knows what William is doing. And I’m here, thirty-four years old, trying to sway the ladies. I had plenty of hunt left in me when I retired. I still do. I’m sure my brothers would say the same, but I was good at this. I hated every moment but I had instinct. They wouldn’t be in America right now if it weren’t for me. I found that photograph. Me. Thousands of years we didn’t know what the traitors looked like, until I came along. We might have found them already if I’d gone with them.

That made me think. If my son were still alive, I’d show him things, teach him about our ways, but really, there isn’t that much to teach. Find the traitors, get the device, save the world. There. I could show him how to fight, whatever, but I couldn’t teach him what it meant to have spent an entire lifetime chasing after someone, the connection you develop, the intimacy. I know these women. No kid of mine will know them as much as I do, not until they reach my age and then, bam. Start all over again. I love tradition as much as the next guy, and I get how we don’t want to reproduce like rabbits, but this system of ours is really lossy. What a waste.

I dream of our world at night, I see its moons traverse the red sky, but I know now what I see can’t be real. I’ve only heard my father describe a place he’d never seen for himself. We’re playing telephone. Our dreams get garbled with every generation. Colors get diluted, details are erased. We lose a bit of who we are every time we’re born. We’re watered down like cheap drinks.

When the children I don’t have are old enough and they come to kill us, what will I say? “I’m proud of you, Son”? Fat chance. I’ll tell them: “You dimwits have no idea what the hell you’re doing.”

I need a drink.

39 Hymne à l’Amour

—You lied to me, Mia!

She lied and I did not see it. She said it was done. I do not know what upsets me most, Mia’s deception, or that I cannot read my own daughter anymore.

—I had to! You would have killed her. I couldn’t let you do that.

Mia has killed before. It nearly destroyed her, but she did what had to be done. She followed the rules. How can I leave three thousand years of work and sacrifice in her hands if she will risk it all for one person?

—I trusted you, Mia! What you did put us both in danger. Billie could have told them everything. I am still not sure why she did not. We could have been arrested, executed. Or sent to die in a mine somewhere. Billie could have had us both killed. She still can.

—She didn’t! I knew she wouldn’t.

—How could you know? She was screaming for you to leave!

—I think…

—What do you think? That you were being selfish? Dishonest?

—I think she didn’t want me to see her that way.

—Mia, she—

—She gave me her hand! My hand was on the bed and she… She put her hand in mine.

—That is not good enough, Mia. You put your feelings ahead of everything we hold dear. We cannot take that kind of risk. If both of us were to die, it would mean—

—You would have done the same thing.

—…

—You would have let her live if you’d been in my place. You would have, Mother, or everything you told me about us is a lie. We’re the same, aren’t we?

Is that what upsets me so much? That I have it in me to risk it all on someone? That I would give up everything we worked for? I think of those who came before me, of my mother, and all I see is strength. Would they have sacrificed everything for the person they loved? Survive at all costs. That is the rule. That is the only reason I am here, the only reason Mia lives. We are the Kibsu. We survive. Is it really Mia I am upset about? I have felt my own conviction waver ever since we moved to Russia. Have we lost our way, or have we always been weaker than I thought?

—Perhaps, Mia. Perhaps I would have, but it does not make it right.

—Why are we here, Mother?

—Here where? I do not understand.

—Why do we do what we do?

A rhetorical question if there was ever one.

—You know the answer, Mia.

—Take them to the stars, I know. But that’s what we do. I’m asking you why?

—Before Evil comes and kills them all. We do what we do to protect people.

—From what? Who will come? What Evil?

—Where is this all coming from, Mia! What are you trying to tell me?

—Who’s coming? It’s not the Tracker. He’s been here all along if he exists at all. More people like him?

—Mia, it is—

—Answer me.

—I assume it is people like him, yes.

—People like us?

My daughter thinks we are monsters, like the Tracker. Perhaps we are… related to him, like sun and moon, day and night.

—Does it matter?

—No, it doesn’t. What I’m trying to say is that this is all about them. Take them to the stars. We’re not going, Mother. We’re doing it for them. Not us.

—I do not see how this has anything to do w—

—Then if we can’t trust a single one of them, if they’re all so fucking aw—

—Watch your tongue, Mi—

—If they’re so fucking awful, all of them, that we can’t believe in the ones we love, what’s the point? Tell me, Mother. Why are we doing all this if they’re not worth our love, or our trust? You want me to lead us. You want us to be the One Hundred. I’ll do it, I will, but I have to know why. It has to mean something.

Now I understand what Mia was doing. She was saving one life to give meaning to another. This was my doing in some way. I asked her to take charge. I asked her to pursue a goal she did not set, for a purpose she did not believe in. Letting Billie live was… science. We are creatures of facts and empirical evidence. We trust what can be proven or observed. She was asked to believe in something she could not see, and so she devised the only experiment she could think of to prove its existence. She took a leap of faith.

I wonder how many of us did the same. How many times throughout history did we need proof that our path was righteous, that the goals we pursued were worthy of the effort? I imagine that moment would come with a new generation, or the promise of one. It is one thing to extend the self for a nebulous purpose. It is another to ask your child to spend a lifetime doing the same. Perhaps this is how our entire journey began, with a leap of faith in someone.

ENTR’ACTE Rule #2: Survive at All Costs

At the young age of twenty-six, al-Muqtadir bi-llāh had been the Abbasid caliph for as many years as he had not. Though he would rule the caliphate for over a quarter century, al-Muqtadir bi-llāh showed little or no interest in the affairs of government, leaving most decisions to his viziers and members of his harem, including his mother. The caliph was thus unaware that the king of Volga Bulgaria, who had converted to Islam, had asked for his assistance in establishing a proper Muslim kingdom. He was also unaware that he had agreed to the king’s demand and sent a delegation from Baghdad.

Among the small group forming the diplomatic mission were Ahmad Ibn Fadlan, who served as secretary to the ambassador, and the Sixty-Five, one of his many servants. She—her name was Nabia—was good with numbers and proved a valuable asset when matters of trade or taxation were at hand. Ibn Fadlan was kind, and Nabia was thankful for the opportunity to live among men and travel to foreign lands. She had read the ahadith stories of fierce Muslim women warriors, of the women poets and rebels, but a lot had changed in the last century. Slave or not, Abbasid women were now kept behind closed doors, treated as objects of pleasure to be possessed or traded.

From the Caspian Sea, the mission made its way up the Volga River through the Khazar Khaganate. Relations between the Khazars and the Abbasids were cordial at the time, and all hoped for an uneventful journey. On the seventh morning, the Sixty-Five spotted a silhouette on the riverbank ahead of them and woke her master. It wasn’t a Khazar. The man didn’t wear a tunic, nothing but a cloak covering half his body. He was holding an ax in one hand and his penis in the other, peeing in the river. The boat drew closer, but the man didn’t turn or hide, showing no sign of modesty. Nabia’s master told her he was Rusiyyah, a Viking. They ruled all of Kievan Rus’ to the north and west and had been using the Volga as a trade route for over a century. They sold goods and slaves to the Abbasids and often traveled all the way to Baghdad. Neither Nabia nor her master had ever seen one up close.

When the man was done peeing, he gestured to them to come ashore. The Vikings wanted to trade.

Nabia was well traveled and her master thought she might prove useful in bargaining. They made their way to the small camp the Vikings had set up next to their ship. The camp was filthy by Abbasid standards, but it was the Vikings’ physique that struck them. In the middle of camp, a man was having intercourse with one of his slaves out in the open. Nabia and her master tried their best not to stare, but both were aroused by the scene. In his journals, Ibn Fadlan would write: “I have never seen bodies as nearly perfect as theirs. As tall as palm trees, fair and reddish.”

The Abbasids had nothing to trade with. The riches they were carrying were meant for the king of Volga Bulgaria. The Vikings also had very little to offer: a couple of slaves, some fur and honey.

Nabia was taller than most, and she stood with unusual confidence. She was unique. The leader of the Viking party thought something unique would make for a proper tribute to his earl, and he asked to buy her for a handful of coins. He did not take kindly to Ibn Fadlan’s refusal but reluctantly added one of their slaves to the offer. A slave for a slave, plus what was already a fair price for a slave. Ibn Fadlan knew that another no would amount to an insult. The Vikings could easily slaughter all of them and leave with whatever they wanted, or simply take Nabia. There was little anyone could do to stop them. It was certainly better to leave with something than with nothing, but Ibn Fadlan reminded himself the Vikings had made a very generous offer, and when he waved Nabia goodbye from the deck of his boat, he did so with pride and a smile.

The Viking ship followed for more than a day. It was not until they split that Nabia fully realized what was happening to her. She sat up front with every man to her back. Each carried an ax or a blade, and the scars on their arms and legs were a stark reminder that the Norsemen had seen battle before. Their ships were fast and agile. The Kibsu were never good swimmers. She could neither fight nor flee and chose to rest as best she could for whatever came next.

They arrived in Novgorod a few days later. She was presented to the earl during a visit from Igor of Kiev, son of Oleg, descendant of the great Rurik and supreme ruler of the Rus’. Igor looked into Nabia’s eyes and saw something he had not seen before. It wasn’t defiance, or the hatred he had seen so many times. She looked at him as her equal. And so, instead of spending her days milking cows serving the earl of Novgorod, Nabia got back on a ship and took the Oka River all the way to Kiev. Igor’s wife had died, and his infant son needed a mother. The Sixty-Five needed a daughter, and while her consent was not necessary, she embarked on that voyage willingly.

The wedding was a wild and chaotic event. Neither of the newlyweds remembered much of it. Life in Kiev was better than what she expected. The Vikings, for all their brutality, were genuine and honest. They showed a profound sense of community. The city was lively, and Olga—that was the name she had taken—felt at home almost instantly. She adored Sviatoslav, her adoptive son, and grew to love her husband almost as much. Viking women enjoyed quite a bit of freedom. They could own property. They ran the affairs of the house as they saw fit. Konnungar and earl women also shared their husbands’ power and privilege. If Igor were to die, Olga would rule until their son was old enough to reign.

Come spring, Olga gave birth to a beautiful daughter, Hilde. “She has her mother’s eyes,” said Igor when he saw her for the first time. As pleased as he was, what Igor needed was another heir, and while holding his daughter for the first time, he told Olga she would soon give him a boy. Seven slaves were strangled and stabbed to ensure the gods’ goodwill. Olga knew the rules—the Kibsu come in twos, not threes—but she chose to be a wife and mother first, Kibsu second. Hilde might not survive winter, and she convinced herself another daughter was a good insurance policy.

Hilde did survive to see her sister born. Brynhild also had her mother’s eyes. She and her sister had their mother’s cheeks, her smile, her everything. Igor did not have another son. Hilde was reminding him of his wife a bit more every day. Brynhild reminded him of both. Igor tried his best to see something of himself in his girls. They were bold, fearless. Olga hoped that would be enough. She knew full well it was time to leave, but she chose not to. She loved her husband and could not fathom leaving her son behind.

When Sviatoslav was six, Igor was killed while collecting tribute from the Drevlians. After they captured him, they bent two birch trees, tied one to each of his legs, and watched Igor tear in half as they released the trees. Olga thought this might be the work of the Tracker, but she did not care. There would be no running. The Drevlians sent emissaries to Kiev to tell Olga of her husband’s death. They asked that she return with them to marry their prince and settle peace between their people. Olga thanked them for their offer and said she would welcome them to her court the next day. She had her people carry the emissaries inside their boats as if they were palanquins, and dropped them inside a trench she had dug during the night. All of Kiev watched as the messengers were buried alive.

Their death did little to quench Olga’s thirst for revenge. She requested the Drevlians send a proper diplomatic party so that she could return with them and meet the prince with distinction. The Drevlians sent a group of noblemen, whom she received with the highest honors. While they were bathing, Olga locked the doors and set the bathhouse on fire.

She sent a second message to the Drevlians and asked that they prepare a feast on the site of her husband’s death so that she might mourn him properly before marrying the prince. They did. Mead flowed profusely that night, and when Olga felt she had mourned enough, she and her party slaughtered the five thousand Drevlians who had gathered with them. Olga returned home to prepare an army and kill anyone left alive. The Drevlians knew better than to fight the Rus’ again, and they retreated behind their walls. Olga did not want a siege to drag on for years, and she offered to leave if the Drevlians simply gave her pigeons and sparrows as tribute. The Drevlians were suspicious but thought they had nothing to lose by answering such a small request. Olga wrapped some sulfur inside small strips of cloth and attached one to each of the bird’s feet before lighting them on fire. The scared birds returned to their nests at once and set the city ablaze.

When the Vikings returned home, Olga told her children their father had been avenged, but when she approached Sviatoslav to hug him, the boy cowered in fear. Consumed as she was with wrath, she failed to notice that her son had watched her through it all. He had seen her drink blood and slaughter children his age. The boy’s mother had died. All that remained was a monster. Olga could not bear to see herself through her son’s eyes. She took a small ship and headed south with her two daughters.

Wife and mother first, Kibsu second. Olga had bet it all on a man and a boy, and she had lost both of them. She had lost her family, her home, and most of herself. Olga had broken the rules, and it had caught up with her. She fought when she should have run. She stayed when she should have gone. She had two daughters. That night, Olga held Hilde for hours, until she fell asleep in her arms. When Hilde was dead, her mother kissed her on the head and gave her body to the Dnieper. Olga had broken the rules, and she had paid the price. She had lost the will to live, but she would not dare break the rules again. Survive at all costs.

Mother and daughter changed their names. Don’t leave a trace. Olga became Eurybia, goddess of the sea. She arrived in Athens a month later with her daughter Zosime, the survivor.