A History of What Comes Next

by Sylvain Neuvel

  This is interesting, sort of. A list of people who didn’t donate any money after One-Pot Sunday. Families were encouraged to cook a “one-pot meal” on Sundays during the fall and donate the money they saved for charity work. Hitler’s party took credit for it. Happy Nazi charity work, and if you didn’t give, they shamed you in the local newspaper.

  Kuchen contest. I could use some cake right about now.

  Memorial service for the victims of the … something-camp tragedy. “A ceremony was held on Sunday honoring the two young girls who lost their lives at the Glücklich Entenküken summer camp.”

  … A few days by the lake. It’s beautiful out here.

  “Ten-year-olds Gisela Mayer and Renate Neuman were brutally murdered…”

  I’m dizzy.

  “… brutally murdered by another campmate on September 16…”

  Renate. I remember that name but that can’t be it. I wasn’t here. Renate. Blue eyes. Angel face.

  I’ll cut you up, you little bitch.

  No … This isn’t real.

  All dressed up in her little white dress.

  She’s calling me names. “Stinky Gypsy! Stinky Gypsy! My mother says Gypsies shouldn’t be allowed at camp!” They’re all calling me names. “Where’d you get that necklace? You stole it, didn’t you?”

  My necklace. The one I’m wearing right now. They’re pulling at it. “Criminal! Stinky Gypsy stole a necklace!” The chain broke. She took it. Renate’s holding it over my head. “Give it back! Give it back!”

  None of this happened. This is a dream. My dream. I can make it what I want.

  A few days by the lake. It’s beautiful out here. Mother’s dropping me off. She looks so young. We’ll go boating, maybe some fishing. She’ll … “Stinky Gypsy stole a necklace!” NO WAIT! Where are you going? Give it back! The bathroom. They’re all laughing. She … She dropped it in the toilet. Wake up, Mia!

  “The perpetrator, a seven-year-old child, was found covered in blood, the carving knife still in her hand.”

  The knife.

  I’m in the kitchen … I’m hiding in the meat locker trying to cool down. They found me. They drag me out. They throw some cabbage at me. Renate pours milk on my head. The milk is cold but I’m burning inside. The fever’s so loud I can’t hear their screams anymore. The knife rack is on the counter.

  I’ll cut you up, you little bitch.

  This isn’t real.

  White dress. Cold milk. Knife.

  I grab it with both hands.

  This is a dream. My dream. I can do what I want.

  Blue eyes. Angel face.

  I want this dream to end! I want to wake up now!

  I put the knife to her chest. She winces as the tip of the blade digs in. I push harder.

  MAKE IT STOP!

  …

  She puts both hands on the wound to stop the bleeding. She’s looking at me in disbelief, still not sure if this is real or not. Someone pushes me and I fall on top of her.

  …

  “No one knows what prompted this tragedy. When questioned by the police, the child had no recollection of the event.”

  Give me back my necklace!

  White dress. Cold milk.

  Her friend tries to stop me. I swing at her neck.

  Screaming. Arms around my chest, my neck. I can’t move. I’m on the floor, wrapped in grown-up arms.

  “The child had no recollection of the event.”

  …

  …

  “I didn’t think you’d come back, not after what happened in Bad Saarow.”

  ENTR’ACTE

  Rule #6: There Can Never Be Three for Too Long

  890 BC

  Young Varkida lost her first child when the Tracker’s army slaughtered her village. She heard the dogs rip her daughter to shreds as she ran for the river. A week later, she came across a caravan and chose to travel east with them to the steppes. A small group of people constantly moving would be hard to find. It also provided a modicum of protection. Varkida needed a daughter, and she quickly found a suitable progenitor among the merchants.

  Varkida was the seventh of her kind. She feared the Tracker, the Rādi Kibsi. She knew that someday more like them would come and kill everyone. Her task was to save a few, to take them away before it was too late. Varkida dreamed of ships that could traverse the heavens, of a million wonders her mother had described but that she would not live to see.

  Varkida studied the sky almost every night. One evening, she left the caravan to track a star that hid behind a hill. It was late by the time she came back, and she made nothing of the silence. It had been a long day, she thought, everyone must be tired. She had ventured far enough, she had not heard the horde attacking. She had not heard the screams of the people the Tracker had tortured. She found a pile of torsos in the middle of camp. All the arms and legs were arranged around it like sun rays. She thought of running, but the Tracker had left no one alive and was unlikely to come back. Camp, as gruesome as it was, was the safest place to spend the night.

  The next day she awoke to the sound of horses. She immediately recognized the small tribe of nomadic warriors whose path they had crossed a few days earlier. The caravan members called them the Arimaspi. Varkida noticed how nearly half of them were women. Even the sight of two dozen arrows pointing at her head could not dampen Varkida’s fascination with the intruders. Their double-curved bows were a lot shorter than Varkida’s. Their small size meant they could be raised without hitting the horse’s back. They had a much shorter draw and could be fired quickly while riding. The horses were short-legged with a large head, rugged animals perfectly adapted to the extreme temperatures. Varkida had never seen mounted warriors. For nearly two thousand years, the people of the steppes had been breeding horses and using them as livestock, but their use in warfare was usually limited to pulling chariots. Everything about these people was designed for speed and mobility. Ride fast, shoot fast.

  The archers did not release their arrows. Perhaps they did not see Varkida as a threat. Perhaps her pregnancy was beginning to show. Varkida asked if she could ride with them and offered the caravan horses as tribute. A few months later, Varkida gave birth to not one, but two beautiful daughters.

  A year after the twins were born, she was asked to take a husband. She chose the best archer of the group, a seventeen-year-old man, a year younger than her. Each warrior carried a bow and an akīnakah, a short blade, halfway between sword and dagger. Handling sharp objects came naturally to the Kibsu, but a father who mastered the bow would be beneficial for the girls. Varkida gave birth twice more in the first three years of marriage.

  The four girls grew up together among the horses. The twins were supposed to look like each other, but by the time their youngest sister was eight years old, they were all mirror images of their mother. Different clothes and hairstyles could no longer hide the obvious, and the tribe members grew to believe that mystical creatures were living among them. Fearing punishment from the goddess Tabiti, the tribe exiled Varkida and her four daughters.

  Varkida feared for her children, but the five Kibsu thrived on their own. The girls were accomplished riders. Each was given a foal as a pet. Horse and woman had grown up together and their connection was palpable. The girl’s father had also served his purpose. All five women were quick with the bow, which Varkida had greatly improved over the years. Their weapons were more precise and powerful than all, and the twins, even by Kibsu standards, were absolutely deadly with a blade.

  They were attacked by another small tribe a few months after their exile. The Kibsu were outnumbered but made short work of the enemy. The survivors surrendered and begged to join the Kibsu tribe. Varkida saw the men and women kneeling before her. She drew her bow and quickly shot every man through the heart. She then turned to the women and told them they had found a new home.

  The tribe’s reputation grew with their ranks. They were fast and fearless. Men did not dare stand against them, and women often left thei
r own tribes to join them. Varkida had an army. Everyone from the Black Sea to Lake Baikal soon feared the wrath of the hama-zan.

  The Kibsu had not encountered the Tracker for many years, but Varkida vowed to be ready when the time came. The enemy was ruthless, and she would respond in kind. The rules of the tribe were simple. Everyone would be fed and clothed but receive no wages. Those who wished to share the spoils of victory had to offer the head of a slain enemy as tribute. All could visit a neighboring tribe where they could have sex and return. If they became pregnant and gave birth to a girl, she would join the tribe and be cared for. A boy meant either leaving the tribe or leaving the child with the father. When they turned sixteen, Varkida gave the twins permission to have a child of their own. A decade later, the seven Kibsu led over six hundred women against the Zhou army at Haojing.

  Upon their return, they learned of a Thracian incursion into the steppes. The Thracians were known as warlike, brutal, but the accounts of these killings left everyone but the Kibsu transfixed with terror. People skinned alive, bathed in oil and set on fire, children left crying among the corpses with their eyes gouged out. This, Varkida thought, had to be the Tracker.

  That evening, the tribe sacrificed a horse to the gods. The horse’s forelegs were tied together. Varkida stroked its head a few times before pulling on the rope to take it down. She tied another rope around the animal’s neck, placed a stick of wood under the rope, and started turning. The crude tourniquet cut the air and blood flow to the horse’s head, and it died without putting up a fight. Varkida flayed off the skin of its belly, and her daughters and granddaughters joined in to cut off the flesh before boiling it. They drank the wine, burned the kanab, and the tribe’s chanting flowed through the steppes until the sun came up.

  After a day of rest, the women mounted their horses and rode west towards the enemy. Five days later, they spotted the Thracian encampment near the Volga River. None of the women had ever seen an army this size. Silence spread through the tribe like rain in drylands, and four of Varkida’s riders turned and ran in fear. Varkida spotted three horse-drawn wagons and a tent forming a square on the south end of the encampment. She used the space between them as a unit of measurement. The crowd occupied an L-shaped area of roughly twelve by five wagon squares for the longer rectangle and two by four squares for the smaller one. She counted the number of people in her square and multiplied by sixty-eight. Twenty-two hundred men would soon be trying to kill them, give or take a hundred or two.

  Varkida noticed that the Thracians were gathered in groups. This was no army, she realized. That horde was a collection of small tribes hastily put together for a single purpose. These people had never fought or trained together. They had likely met only a few days ago. The hama-zan would not be facing a disciplined cohesive unit, but dozens of small groups acting somewhat independently. The enemy peltasts carried a wicker shield but favored mobility over armor. They could handle a sword but their weapon of choice was the javelin. Varkida had seen Thracians before and knew of their tactics. They were skirmishers. They would rush towards their enemy, hurl their weapons at them, and retreat. They would repeat the cycle, thinning the enemy forces one volley at a time.

  Varkida’s strategy was similar, but her tribe was highly disciplined. They had trained together for most of their lives and could anticipate one another. She knew that many of the men they were facing had never seen cavalry, let alone fought against it. Varkida would strike first, but she knew that surprise was fleeting. They had to destroy the enemy’s will to fight. Shock and awe were crucial, especially while so broadly outnumbered. She had her troops form a single line over a mile wide, and they sprinted towards the encampment. They held their bows steady. They did not scream or yell but instead let the sound of their horses drum fear into the hearts of the enemy. Two hundred meters from camp, they released their first arrows. Rushing at twelve meters per second, they would enter the range of the enemy javelins in under twelve seconds. Each archer fired a second and third arrow before turning around. Varkida did not need to signal her troops. The sight of her horse raising its head and shifting its weight to the rear was enough. The Thracians moved forward, but the women had learned to shoot from behind, turning their bodies and guiding their horses with their legs. Twelve seconds later, the Kibsu’s army was again two hundred meters away, and three thousand arrows had rained on the Thracians. Everyone stopped to regroup, and they launched another attack, then another. Each time, the Thracians ran forward as much as they could to get away from the river.

  The women’s bow cases, or gorytos, could hold about seventy-five arrows and were still more than half full after six assaults. By then, a third of the Thracians were dead and their tribes had begun to spread out. Varkida looked at the other Kibsu. Her daughters and granddaughters did not acknowledge, nor did they need to. Within seconds, seven units of eighty women or so were storming towards the enemy.

  The Thracians braced themselves for three more salvos and lowered their shields to run forward, but this time the horses kept coming. Unprepared for the onslaught, few had time to throw or even raise their javelins, and the riders easily broke through their lines while firing arrows at close range. The women never stopped. Each unit regrouped almost instantly and rode towards the next target the Kibsu leading them had chosen. The Thracians had never seen that sort of discipline. The women flew around them like swarms of bees, their arrows always on target. Two minutes after the battle began, the gorytos were empty and the women were on their feet, blades drawn. They all screamed at once and rushed towards the men nearest them. All the discipline they had shown on their horses made way for pure rage. One of the twins broke her sword inside a man’s skull. Bare-handed, she then approached a young peltast holding a javelin. He extended his weapon to keep her from coming, but the Kibsu kept walking. She didn’t stop when the javelin pierced her shoulder. She didn’t stop when it came out the back. She walked through it all the way to the man’s hands, grabbed the sword from his belt, and cut his throat. The next javelin came from the air and lodged itself inside her skull. She never felt it. Her daughter also died, moments later, when a battle-ax struck her neck. Two hundred women died on the battlefield that day. None of the Thracians lived. The handful that were left standing dropped their weapons and ran, but they did not make it far. One by one, the women’s swords silenced the screams and the pleas for mercy. There was no bounty to be shared, but by nightfall the head of every man had been offered to Varkida as tribute.

  As the sun set and the tribe headed back east, Varkida turned and saw the horror they had left behind. Thousands of headless corpses lay in a sea of red. A mound of heads broke the sky. Her heads, she thought. They were given to her. She got off her horse and vomited what was left of her soul. At that moment, Varkida understood that she and the Tracker were the same. She knew who it was they were saving people from.

  Varkida looked at her daughters and granddaughters and realized what she had done. She began as one, but they were now five. If each of the girls did the same, the Kibsu would soon be twenty-one, then eighty-five. In two hundred years, there could be sixteen million of her. Another two hundred and—she did not know if the planet could hold that many.

  Varkida ordered a celebration to honor the fallen. The women drank and smoked and shared stories of the dead. When the night was winding down, she retired to her hut with her family. She told them about the future and her plan to change it. She told them they could not fight like the Tracker or they would become him. They had to be better. Varkida told her eldest daughter it was time for her to lead, and to teach her daughter to abide by the principles she had set. She gave them a set of rules they should live by and made everyone recite them a dozen times.

  Preserve the knowledge.

  Survive at all costs.

  Don’t draw attention to yourself.

  Don’t leave a trace.

  Fear the Tracker.

  Always run, never fight.

  There can never be
three for too long.

  The Kibsu would live, she said, but they would live as mother and daughter. One daughter, never more. She prepared an infusion from haumala plants she had gathered herself. She poured three cups, kept one for herself, and handed one to each of her youngest. The family held hands for a few minutes before they drank the hot liquid. They all knew what would happen next. They had used this poison on their enemies before. One by one, their muscles would seize until paralysis spread to the heart and lungs. Varkida hoped it would be painless. Before her breathing stopped, Varkida asked the eldest to lean forward. She took off the necklace her mother had given her and placed it around her daughter’s neck before whispering in her ear.

  —You are the Eight now.… Take them to the stars, before we come and kill them all.

  ACT  IV

  30

  Nature Boy

  1949

  Dear Sarah,

  It has been almost two years since I last heard from you. I can only hope your silence is not the result of indisposition and that you are in good health and spirits.

  There is so much to tell, I do not know where to begin. After three years on the East Coast, I am returning to Caltech. While I greatly enjoyed teaching at MIT, I missed the hands-on thrills of rocketry and the camaraderie I had only found in California. I could not pass up the opportunity to work with Professor von Kármán again. They honored me with his former title and I am now the Robert H. Goddard Professor of Jet Propulsion. I have also been named director of the Guggenheim Jet Propulsion Center.

  I was recently gifted another title, one I accepted with more trepidation. My wife Ying gave birth to a beautiful boy last October. We have named him Yucon. My son was born here and, with great encouragement from my colleagues at Caltech, I have recently mailed in our application for citizenship.