“Good day, Dimitri Ivanovich,” the young scientist said.
He looked uncertain, a slight dark fellow who still blinked as if he had thick glasses on his face, despite the expensive corneal surgery Batyushkov had financed.
“Uncle Dimitri, please, Sergei,” the Prime said, and the two Russians smiled at each other. “Sit, sit—refresh yourself.”
The Batyushkov country seat was only recently completed; it was not far from FirstSide’s town of Aptos, with the sea breaking at its feet and the Santa Cruz Mountains to the north, stretching eastward along the valley of the Pajaro River and south nearly to the site of Castroville. He’d been offered a selection of coastal properties, all the way from Oregon to San Diego—he supposed he could have picked something in Australia, for that matter—but this had been his choice. It was close enough to Rolfeston to be convenient, but not close enough that the Commission was looking over his shoulder every moment of the day; and it was even closer to Colletta Hall, over the hills in the lower Santa Clara. He sensed opportunity there; the Prime of the Collettas was a discontented man.
“It reminds me of the Crimea,” the young scientist said. “Mountains, the sea, fertile land between, and the climate of heaven.”
Batyushkov nodded. That was true, and as a bonus the land was spectacularly beautiful. Greener than much of New Virginia, which soothed his Leningrad-born eyes. At this time of year, the young apple and apricot orchards of his Settlers left patches of fragrant pink mist strewn along the valley, and the colts kicked up their heels in the green pastures thick with golden poppies. The mansion’s design was based on that of a nobleman’s manse from the old days before the Revolution; one he’d seen on the shores of the Black Sea, converted to a sanitarium and resort. Waves crashed on the cliffs not far away.
Many of those Settlers were Russian too. Most were not, which Batyushkov grudgingly admitted was a wise precaution from the Commission’s point of view. They would let him flavor this part of the stew, but not make a separate pot of his own.
“Yes, the Crimea is a little like this,” the Batyushkov said. “Many have said so.” He scowled. “That is as well, since the real Crimea is lost to the rodina, the motherland. Part of that absurd Ukraine, like amputating a man’s leg and calling it a brother… and probably those Ukrainian peasant bumpkins will let the Tatars take it over sooner or later. Stalin was a fool to kill only half of the Tatars when he deported them, and Khrushchev was a worse fool ever to let a single one return from Kazakhstan.”
The younger man nodded. “Uncle Dimitri… I thank you for bringing me here. Science no longer prospers in Russia; things are not as bad as they were even five years ago, but they are not good. And the Gate!”
His face took on a transfigured look, one Batyushkov had seen on mujahideen in Afghanistan, as they called on their stupid Allah just before they were crushed under a tank’s treads from the feet up to encourage them to talk.
“The Gate… our theories have only the merest hints of the possibility of such a phenomenon. Many would call it impossible; until this month, I would have called it impossible!”
“I would have as well, until I saw it,” Batyushkov said. “The question is, though, can you understand it? Can you duplicate it?”
Sergei Lermontov spread his hands. “I do not know,” he said. “If I can understand it, it will take much time—much effort—many facilities, supercomputers, experimentation. Eventually, I must bring colleagues to join me.”
Batyushkov smiled, a smug expression. “And the ami, they have no hint of what it is?”
“Very little,” Lermontov said. “I have studied the papers of the physicists at the University of New Virginia. They are not particularly capable men.”
“They are what the Commission could get,” Batyushkov said. “Men embittered by failure in their original homes. And they are not allowed free transit, so they have no access to the laboratories or talent of FirstSide.” The satisfied smile grew broader. “And you, my nephew, will be. Thus you may study the phenomenon, have access to the facilities of FirstSide, and travel freely.”
Lermontov nodded. “This will be helpful. I cannot, however, guarantee results. Certainly not at anytime within the next two years.”
“Nichevo,” Batyushkov said: It cannot be helped. His hand closed into a fist on the table as he went on: “Understand, you must take no chances. Playing at boyar here, that is acceptable; certainly better than living in today’s Russia and looking always over my shoulder. The wealth I gain as a member of the committee, that is more than acceptable, and I can keep it and hand it down to my children, which would probably not be the case in Russia. But control of the Gate—knowledge of how to make more—that is power. Imagine whole new worlds… better still, imagine being able to establish more such gates to our world. To be able to come and go anywhere, at any time; the storage facilities of a nuclear facility, the inner chambers of any headquarters or fortress… given that, much that we have had to accept as inevitable becomes much less so!”
“Za nas!” Sergei Lermontov said, springing to his feet and raising the glass.
“Za nas!” Dimitri Batyushkov replied. “To us, indeed!”