A History of What Comes Next

by Sylvain Neuvel

  —Mia—

  —I’m not running from him, or Beria, or anyone else.

  This is the first time I have something that remotely resembles a life. I’m not giving that up for this man or any other. Enough.

  42

  Thinking and Drinking

  —What can I get you, hon?

  —Do you have any tea?

  —Tea? Look at the sign, dear. What does it say?

  —It says … all patrons must be twenty-one or older.

  —Not that sign, dummy. The big bright one. This is a bar, not a tearoom.

  —I’m sorry, I never drink before noon.

  —Well, that’s sad. But seeing as you’re my only customer, how about a soda?… Yes? Come on, my treat. You can’t leave a lady alone in a bar, now can you? I’m Sue, by the way.

  —You can call me Charles.

  —What brings you to the city?

  —How do you know I’m not from here?

  —Oh, hon. That’s very cute. Do you mind handing me that knife over there. I have to cut these lemons before people come in.… Thank you. Seriously, why are you in Washington?

  —I’m looking for someone.

  —You’re not chasing after a girl, are you?

  —Two, as a matter of fact. They lived around here not that long ago.

  —Maybe I know them.

  —Sarah and Mia Freed.

  —Doesn’t ring a bell. Sorry.

  —They might have changed their names.

  —Hmmm. That sounds to me like maybe they don’t want to be found.

  —Oh, we’ll find them. My brothers and I are getting close.

  —That’s … kind of creepy. But none of my business. Let’s talk about something else. How many brothers do you have?

  —Three.

  —And they’re all here with you?

  —My brother Leonard is. George—he’s the eldest—is in Europe, probably drunk. Billy, the cadet, was just arrested in Chicago.

  —Oh no! What did he do?

  —Burglary. Someone saw him breaking in. Billy ran, but he didn’t get far. Some off-duty cop dropped three flowerpots on his head from two floors above.

  —Seriously? You’re pulling my leg. That’s the craziest thing I’ve heard in my life. I’m sorry about your brother, though. I’m sure he’ll get out soon.

  —He won’t. George said we should leave him behind.

  —I don’t know how they do things in Chicago, but here, they won’t keep you long just for a break-in. Either way, you can’t just abandon your brother. Family’s forever, right?

  —They say he killed three people.

  —Oh my God.

  —They worked on him for six days straight before he signed a confession. I think someone else had confessed before him but they didn’t care.

  —These cops. They’ll pin anything on anyone.… They beat it out of him, didn’t they?

  —They drugged him, too, but Billy wouldn’t have talked if he didn’t want to. I think he wants us to leave him there.

  —Why would anyone want to stay in jail?

  —It’s not … this.

  —What’s that supposed to mean?

  —How can I put this? You’ve seen parents screaming at their kids during a Little League game? The same parents that make their five-year-old practice four hours a day instead of playing with their friends. Our life is kind of like that. Some kids just can’t handle the pressure. Besides, Billy was always—I’m not sure how to say it—different. Our mother died giving birth to him. Father raised him by himself, the way he wanted. It was … difficult for Billy.

  —Wait. Did he do it?

  —One of the women Billy confessed to killing was shot in the head. That’s not Billy. He was always afraid of guns.

  —If he didn’t do it, he can recant, can’t he? He can say they forced him to talk.

  —There’s another woman that was dismembered. They found her head in a sewer, her torso in a storm drain. They kept finding body parts for weeks.

  —That’s hor—

  —I thought: Now there’s my Billy! He carved our dog into pieces when he was seven, tried to put him back together afterwards when he saw we were angry. Billy likes to chop things up. Speaking of, you cut yourself.… Your finger’s bleeding.

  —It’s nothing.… I think you should leave now.

  —Leave? No, I can’t leave you like that. Let me see. That’s a pretty deep cut. Run some cold water on it before you put a bandage on.

  —I’m fine. I really think you should go.

  —I can smell the blood from here.… That’s what set Billy off, every time. He was always so calm, ice-cold. Even as a kid, people picked on him, pushed him around. Billy was bigger than other kids his age but he never did anything, never fought back. If there was blood, though, a scrape, a small cut, anything red, Billy would just lose it. I saw him pound on someone twice his size until the man had no face left. Father said it was the smell of iron. I always thought it was the blood, you know, the symbolics of it, but it’s a physical reaction to whatever chemical is released when your skin touches metal. We didn’t believe it, so we experimented on our little brother. Sure enough, if you rubbed Billy’s hand on silverware long enough or had him count a jar of pennies, he’d start throwing things around.

  —Please go, sir. Leave, before I call someone.

  —You know, I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone about Billy, or my father. I don’t open up a lot around people. I’m not sure why. Somehow I feel comfortable talking to you. It’s like we have a connection.

  43

  Blue Moon

  I thought I would have a ton of data from ice core samples by now. We funded a research project in Copenhagen, but it is taking longer than I thought. I see now that I am not as patient as I used to be. I want to know if the level of carbon dioxide slowly increased over millennia, or suddenly, presumably with the advent of industrialization. I thought all I needed was to measure CO2 concentration from different time periods. Getting air from the past seemed hard enough, but Dansgaard—the man spending the money in Copenhagen—said I also need to know the temperature at the time. It makes sense. If I am to explore the correlation between climate and carbon dioxide levels, I would need to know both.

  Thanks to Mia, I know how to find old air, but it does not come with a weather report. Yet I believe the answer might still be found in that ice cube tray. I was so focused on the air bubbles— if I got old ice, I would have old air—I forgot I would also have ice. Perhaps the frozen water has something to say about the temperature.

  There are only so many things one can look at. Water is just hydrogen and oxygen, but both of these come in different flavors. Hydrogen has a heavier cousin called deuterium. The same is true of oxygen. There is hefty O out in the world with two extra neutrons. It takes more energy, more heat, to evaporate water that contains heavy isotopes. It should therefore rain more of it in warm weather, less when it is cold. If that is true, counting the heavy oxygen in the ice core samples would allow us to calculate temperatures in the past. More would mean warmer, fewer would mean cooler. Dansgaard is following that theory. Unfortunately, it will take months, maybe years, before we find out if it works. I require something new to keep my mind occupied.

  Truth be told, all I can think about is Beria. That monster tried to rape my daughter. Mia wants me to let it go, but I cannot. She should have killed him when she had the chance. We should have moved. I understand why she did not want to. She is in love. She and Korolev are making real progress for the first time. What I fail to understand is why I did not force her to leave.

  Of all the people who saw her face that night, Beria is the only one still breathing. He does not know her name—he never thought to ask. There is no reason for Beria to visit Korolev, at least for now. That was, more or less, the extent of my daughter’s argument. It is flawed in so many ways. Beria prowls the same streets she walks on every day. It is only a matter of time before he runs into my daughter agai
n. And yet we stayed. We broke the rules.

  I could not bring myself to rob my daughter of what she loves. I put her happiness ahead of our survival and I should be ashamed but all I feel now is anger. I watch the sun set and I think of Beria telling his chauffeur he wants to go for a ride. I dream of the girls he lured to his home and I wake up screaming. Mia let her girlfriend live because she needed her faith in humanity restored. Now it is my turn to search for solace. I do not believe in a moral universe, but even I need to feel some semblance of justice. I need to restore some cosmic order.

  44

  Hound Dog

  —No, Nina. Tikhonravov’s packet design is better.

  Korolev is stubborn as a mule. I should be flattered; it was my design. Two rockets with giant tanks strapped around a third, all of them sharing fuel. Drop the side rockets when they’re empty. Like the milk churns on that bicycle I rode downhill in the Bavarian Alps.

  —Sergei! You’re not listening.

  It was a good design, but I had the government commission a study to figure out exactly how much we could extend the range by dropping parts of the rocket during flight. One of the researchers there really ran with it and came up with a smarter version of what I had. I like it. It’s robust, elegant.

  —You are right. I am not listening.

  —It’s still the same! Only simpler. Remember how much trouble we’re having with the R-3? Simpler is better, Sergei. Pumping fuel between rockets will be a mess, you know that. This way, we’ll have four boosters, each with its own fuel. We jettison them when we’re done. It’s the same thing! Except it’s lighter, easier to build, and it won’t break every twenty minutes.

  —You said “we” again.

  —I guess I did.

  —If the rockets are carrying their own fuel, why not put the second stage on top of the first, like the Americans are doing?

  Oh, that thing. The US stuck a smaller rocket on top of a German V-2. It failed a bunch of times, but it went pretty high when it worked.

  —You mean Bumper?

  —No! The ferry rocket!

  Ha! So that’s what it is. This is funny. There was a symposium on space travel in New York City, and Collier’s magazine covered it. “Man Will Conquer Space Soon.” Twenty-eight color pages full of the craziest ideas. Von Braun must have turned on the charm, because most of them are his. There’s a circular space station, and this insane three-stage rocket straight out of a pulp magazine. It was meant to make the average Joe excited about space, but I see it turned into a dick-measuring contest for a certain Soviet chief designer.

  —That was a magazine, Sergei. It’s not real. If we put our boosters around the main engine instead, we can ignite them at the same time, on the ground. You know, where there’s air? That way we won’t have to worry about lighting a fire way up there in near vacuum.

  —I still think—

  —Four bullet-shaped boosters, Sergei. Four! It’ll be so badass. Like some souped-up space hot rod with four. hundred. tons. of thrust.

  —…

  Aaaaaand I win. That’s the upside of working with a five-year-old. I’ll admit, I kind of feel like a kid myself. This whole project, it’s … It fits. All of it fits together perfectly.

  —We’re going to need a bunch of tiny rockets for steering that hot rod. Did you ask Glushko?

  —His answer was a resounding no. “It would be impossible to control a rocket by such thrusters.”

  —Someone else will make the tiny rockets, then. Your Glushko impression was spot-on, by the way.

  —Thank you, Nina. You only have to make the most mundane thing sound like a presidential address. Try it.

  —It would be impossible—Hahaha. I can’t.

  —We make a good team. Don’t we?

  —I think so.

  I know so. I’m good at math, physics. He’s good at the real world. People. Getting things done, knowing what everyone can and can’t do. He’s a dreamer, and a realist. It’s a rare thing to have both. I can draw a combustion chamber—I see it in my head, clear as day—but I don’t see the men bending sheet metal to get the nozzle just right. He does. He sees them tired on a Friday, with a sick kid or marriage problems. These rockets, what we’re building, they’re part science, lots of math, but they’re also giant, clunky metal machines. They’re made of steel, sweat and tears, late hours at the shop because you don’t want to face whatever’s waiting for you at home. Korolev gets that and I admire him for it.

  —I know how much that rocket means to you, Nina, but it will not come cheap. I truly hope we can get the project approved.

  —Now you’re the one who said “we.” Just tell them it will drop a five-ton thermonuclear warhead in the middle of Chicago. They’ll be all smiles.

  —Like you are now?

  I am smiling. That rocket will put a man in space. I know it. Why is he staring again?

  —Stop looking at me that way!

  —You are going to break that chain if you keep twisting it.

  My necklace. I didn’t even notice I was playing with it. His fault. I get nervous when people stare. He knows, too. That’s why he does it.

  —Then stop looking at me like I have something in my teeth.

  —Maybe you do. Did your mother give you that necklace? It looks old.

  —It’s been in the family for a while.

  —Is it worth anything?

  —I don’t think so. I thought it was a garnet.

  —I can have someone look at it if you want. Oh, before I forget, I am having drinks with Mishin and his wife tonight. Would you like to join us?

  —Thank you but I can’t. Not tonight.

  I wish I could, but I told Billie we’d meet after work. I want to see her, but I love these get-togethers. Turning colleagues into friends. I see these people’s math every day, their brains put to paper, but I know almost nothing about them. I suppose what I like most is that it makes me feel like a normal person for a few hours.

  45

  All Night Long

  I’m waiting for it. I don’t know what it is, but she’ll ask me something in the next minute or so. Billie asks for things right after we have sex, and now she has that look.

  —It’s the third time you’ve spent the night this week. Anything you want to tell me?

  It must be something big if she’s tiptoeing around it.

  —Not really. Mother works late every night these days. I hate being alone in that house.

  —So that’s why you’re here. I feel so special.

  —You should! You’re amazing, and special, and smart. And special, did I mention special?

  —You could spend the night at your man’s.

  Shit. So this is what we’re doing. Why now? She’s known about Korolev for a while, but she never made it an issue. I know she sees other people. What does she want?

  —Billie, we talked about this.

  —I know! I know! I’m not being jealous. I’m just … How long has it been since he proposed?

  —Billie! No! I don’t want to fight!

  —We’re not fighting! How long?

  We’re not fighting. That’s good to know. It still sounds like a trap, though. It sure as hell feels like a trap.

  —I don’t know. A little over a year. Why?

  One smile and I walked right into it. I deserve whatever comes next.

  —I think you should say yes.

  I didn’t see that one coming. It’ll take more than an orgasm to make me agree to that. What the hell is wrong with her? Did I say that out loud? No, I didn’t.

  —Billie! What the hell is wrong with you?

  —You should! I know you like him.

  —I like him, but I don’t like him like him. I want to be with you!

  —But you also want to be with him. It’s okay. I get it.

  What is there to get? Yes, I like him. He’s brilliant. He’s moderately romantic and most of the time he makes me feel like a regular human being. I like that, but I’m not going to lose
Billie for it.

  —No you don’t. I said I want to be with you. I choose you! I. CHOOSE. YOU!

  —Shhh. You’ll wake up the neighbors. It’s not a choice, Mia. You’re not going to marry me. You can’t. We have to hide to see each other. You can marry him.

  —But I want to see you.

  —Then see me! Why is this so hard to understand? I must not be saying it right. I don’t own you, Mia. I don’t want to. You say you want to see me, so see me. No one’s stopping you. But I know you also want some sort of normal life, at least a part of you does. Holding hands in public. Dinner with the neighbors, that sort of thing. You’ll never get that with me, not here. Get it with him.

  I love that woman with every fiber in my being. I look at people, couples, and all I see is selfishness. People stick together for how it makes them feel. Keeping the other happy is just a way to make it last. Not her. She sees me.

  —It doesn’t bother you?

  —Why would it bother me? Those are different things. A steak is great if you’re hungry but it doesn’t do you much good if you’re cold. You need a jacket. Get yourself a jacket.

  —Billie, I don’t—Wait. Are you a steak in this story?

  —All right, bad example. My point is I’m not jealous of your doctor, or the person who fixes your car. I want you to be healthy and have a working car. I want you to get married because I want you to be happy.

  —What about you?

  —I can be the sultry mistress. I know things have been … difficult at times but I can still be sultry, can’t I? Please say yes, even if it’s a lie.

  —Like a movie star.

  —Thank you.

  —You do know that I love you, don’t you?

  —You keep coming back, so I kind of figured as much.

  —Good …

  Billie?

  —What?

  —We never talked about that night.

  —What night?

  —You know what night, Billie. You know what I did.

  —You came for me. You risked your life for me, Nina. No one’s ever done that. I was falling and you caught me. Everything else … it doesn’t matter.