A History of What Comes Next

by Sylvain Neuvel

  While I welcome this new life as an American family, I fear for the safety of my Chinese one. My father-in-law is a Kuomintang official and it has become clear that the civil war that has plagued China for so long will soon end in a communist victory.

  Perhaps it is my inexperience as a father that is showing, perhaps it is the uncertainty about the world my child will live in, but I find the weight of responsibility somewhat difficult to bear. My son is but a fragile new life and already he has inherited a thousand years of baggage. His life will be shaped by choices he did not make. He will face problems others created for him and be judged for their actions before his. I did not create the injustice my son will face but I chose to bring him into a world that is filled with it. His presence brings me more hope than I dared imagine, and a hefty dose of guilt I did not expect.

  I do not wish to burden you with the complaints of a fearful parent. It is, all things considered, a time of joy for us and I hope it is one for you as well.

  Sincerely, your friend,

  Hsue-Shen Tsien

  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)

  1950

  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

  1951

  —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!