The other was the female interns. He’d done it with at least two of them on this sofa. It was only a shame that one of them had gotten the stupid idea into her head that he would leave his wife for her—and had shared that idea with his wife. Because of that foolish Masha, he now had to spend his nights in Shandarin’s narrow bed, while his secretary slept on a mattress in the hallway.
He hoped the data would prove exciting enough to get him through the holiday season. Doroshkevich rubbed his hands together.
January 2, 1984, Moscow
Doroshkevich tore the fur hat off his head and threw it down on the leather sofa. He was in a bad mood. It had been no fun riding the metro to his office that Monday. Everyone had their elbows out, there were grouchy faces everywhere you looked, and everyone stank—half of them of vodka and the other half of garlic.
In reality, it was his wife he was angry with... soon to be his ex-wife. She’d thrown him out of the yolka party on New Year’s Eve, just after Morozko and Snegurochka had brought presents for their two children. He’d even paid the two students in the costumes! Ten rubles each, and what thanks did he get? He’d had to leave the house before midnight. At least Shandarin didn’t know anything about it, because he’d gone to spend the holiday in his mother’s village. He wouldn’t be back for another two days.
And that meant he had time to study the Relikt-1 data in peace. It was truly spectacular what this Strukov from the Space Research Institute had discovered in it. He went through the tables again and again using different algorithms. If it wasn’t for that relatively large error interval, he would have been almost certain there was some kind of information encoded in it. As it was, it could be a mere coincidence—although that was unlikely.
To some extent, the measurement inaccuracy was causing the numbers on the dice to become blurred. Right now he seemed to be getting nothing but sixes, but in reality it could be just a random distribution. Or was it a system error, which must have already been present in the measuring apparatus? If that was the case, he was playing with weighted dice. He rolled all the sixes that were shown in the data. He presumed it was an interesting physical phenomenon, but actually the trick was in the dice themselves.
He needed to find out what was really hidden in the cosmic background radiation. It was his specialty, because it came from the beginning of the universe, which was his Institute’s field of research. Once the cosmos had cooled enough for electrons and protons to combine into hydrogen atoms, the light suddenly had freedom of movement. The echo from this time was still detectable in the form of background radiation. If he could find a structure in it, he could possibly earn himself a Nobel Prize. Then he’d be as good as guaranteed a lifetime post in the Academy of Science.
Don’t daydream, Andrei, he told himself. First you need proof. He needed to get a new space mission approved with the help of this data. Relikt-2, it would be called, with significantly improved measuring instruments. The only problem was that Relikt-1 was operating under the authority of the Space Research Institute. Strukov was still the researcher in charge—and he’d just taken the data away from him. He would have to circumvent the Institute somehow.
There was only one sure way to do that—the Army. More than half of all rocket launches were reserved for the military. The generals were the only ones he believed were able to requisition all necessary resources and instruments, not to mention a launch-ready rocket, within three or four months.
Fine. He’d write an application now and send it to the... yes, where? The Soviet Army primarily conducted applied research, usually at locations where the relevant technologies were then manufactured. Prognoz 9 had come from NPO Lavochkin. Where could a follow-up probe be built fastest, if not there?
He just had to make sure his proposal wasn’t interpreted as a criticism. Prognoz 9 was an excellent satellite. It just needed even better measuring instruments. He could really use Shandarin right now. The boy could take over the job of finding the perfect contact. But he’d have to make the calls himself. He must have an acquaintance who owed him a favor and who already had a relationship with NPO Lavochkin.
If this worked, he wouldn’t have to ride the metro anymore. As a member of the Academy he’d have a fleet vehicle. Then he could have himself chauffeured around Moscow in a Moskvitch like the head of the Institute.
January 6, 1984, Moscow
“Dr. Doroshkevich?”
“Speaking.”
“This is Shirshakov from the staff of Colonel General Komikov.”
Komikov? He’d never heard the name before. But the call must have something to do with his proposal.
“What can I do for you, comrade?”
“It’s about the new Relikt experiment you proposed.”
That was quick! Today was Friday. He’d had the envelope taken to the Lavochkin headquarters by the Institute’s courier on Wednesday. The postal service was far too unreliable for such purposes. But normally letters like his would lie around for a few weeks in someone’s inbox. Some secretary at Lavochkin must have recognized the importance of his proposal. Oh, oh, this was exciting.
“I’m very pleased you’ve responded so quickly.”
“I don’t want to beat around the bush. I’m sure your time is valuable, Comrade Doroshkevich. Colonel General Komikov found your comments quite fascinating. You should know that he belongs to the technical-scientific corps.”
“Thank you very much, comrade, I realize that’s high praise.”
“Well, my superior would like you to provide him with all the documentation—including any copies you might have in your possession.”
Doroshkevich slumped. Govno, govno, govno. Such a damn shame. His beautiful plans were all going up in smoke. Someone else would sit on the leather upholstery of the Moskvitch, and his wife wouldn’t take him back—which he’d allowed himself to imagine, because no woman would reject a member of the Academy.
“I... ah... I’d be happy to offer my services,” he said, trying his luck.
“I’m supposed to let you know that we very much appreciate your work...”
Yes, so much that the general hasn’t even bothered to come to the phone himself!
“...but that’s not the issue now,” said Shirshakov. “Please gather everything up and give it to your secretary, Shandarin. At the end of the day, a driver will be waiting to collect your secretary and the data.”
Shandarin? Why him? Because he was always so quiet and was guaranteed not to give anything away?
“Of course, comrade, everything will happen as per your request. Could I perhaps accompany the driver, too? Then I can personally—”
“Thank you so much for your commitment, but I mustn’t waste any more of your time. The colonel general insisted that Shandarin bring us the data—and I don’t think he’ll be coming back to you, either.”
Shandarin, Shandarin, what did the general want with his secretary? Had he sought him out because he thought Shandarin, as a simple Kandidat Nauk, wouldn’t understand the material and would therefore make the perfect envoy? Well, he was wrong about that. Shandarin was a gifted scientist with extraordinary mathematical abilities. He could certainly make something of himself if he played his cards right.
“Good, I’ll let him know. He lives alone, so he has time.”
“Thank you. Can you tell us about copies that might exist in other locations?”
“I requested all copies from Tyuratam, but they haven’t arrived yet.”
“I understand. We’ll take care of that ourselves.”
“Perhaps you should chase that up with Strukov at the Space Research Institute. Our comrade is taking his time with the handover. I don’t mean to imply anything, but it’s possible he might have made hectographic copies.”
If he was being cut out of the loop, then at least Strukov shouldn’t be allowed to sneak in through a backdoor.
“Thanks for the tip. We’ll check that, too. On behalf of the colonel general, I would like to thank you once more f
or your willingness to cooperate.”
Cooperate, ha-ha. He was outranked, that was all there was to it. If he’d refused, even the head of the Institute wouldn’t have been able to protect him. If the Army wanted something, it got it. Brezhnev’s death hadn’t changed that.
“You’re welcome,” he said through gritted teeth.
Groaning, Doroshkevich lifted himself out of his armchair. After that uninspiring conversation he felt like he’d aged ten years. Shandarin would have to help him collate the data. Fortunately he’d returned from the provinces the day before yesterday. He hadn’t even asked his secretary how it went.
Doroshkevich made his way to the door of his office, his right knee aching. He was meeting two old friends from school at the banya that evening. They’d sweat, whip themselves with bundles of brushwood, rub themselves down with plenty of snow, and drink cold beer. It would be a wet and happy evening. He could already imagine the hangover he’d have on Saturday. But it would be worth it.
He opened the door. It creaked. Shandarin was sitting hunched over his tiny desk, flipping through papers. He must have heard the door creak, but it was about half a minute before he turned around. There was a strange atmosphere in the unheated and therefore seldom-aired room, as though the stale, cold air had frozen time.
“Shandarin, how are you?” he asked.
The secretary looked at him with wide eyes. Doroshkevich had to laugh at himself. He should probably ask his underlings more often about their wellbeing. He didn’t want the staff to think he was heartless. No one liked heartless bosses.
“I’m a little tired from the journey.”
“How’s your mother?”
Shandarin’s eyes grew even bigger. “As well as can be expected. Things don’t get any better at her age. You...”
Shandarin stopped. He had probably been about to say, “You know how it is,” but then realized how inappropriate that would be. Doroshkevich didn’t hold it against him. He’d be 46 this year, which was basically ancient. At 26 or 27, Shandarin could have been his son.
“She’s still working?” he asked.
“For better or worse. She’s only 62, and they’re short of workers in Kolchoz. Everyone who can moves to the city.”
That wasn’t old—62. But Shandarin must have been the end of the line. His mother would have been 36 when he was born. Or maybe he was her only child, a typical mama’s boy. He himself had four brothers and he’d had to assert himself from a young age.
“It’s nice that you visit her regularly.”
“It’s her only pleasure, she always says.”
“Unfortunately, I have some less happy news. We have to package up all the data from Prognoz 9 and send it to the technical-scientific corps.”
“Oh, that’s a shame. The data looks very promising. That could have been your breakthrough.” Shandarin clapped his hand over his mouth.
Quire impertinent, this boy. But he couldn’t be angry with him. Indeed, his breakthrough would have to wait. Doroshkevich nodded.
“Should I prepare a postal service or order a driver?” asked Shandarin.
“No, the colonel general is sending a driver who will be here by the end of the day. I hope you don’t have any plans, because you’re supposed to accompany him and hand over the data personally.”
“Which Colonel General?”
Strange. His secretary wasn’t asking what he would have asked, namely, where he was going and when he’d be back. Instead he was asking who had issued the order.
“Colonel General Komikov.”
Shandarin lowered his gaze. Had he gone pale, or was it the lighting?
“Do you know him, Shandarin?”
“You could say that.”
But the secretary still wouldn’t look him in the eye.
“There’s something you’re not telling me. Now, out with it. Did you have problems during your military service?”
“No. Komikov is my father.”
“But he...”
Doroshkevich broke off the sentence and clapped his hand to his forehead. His secretary had his mother’s name. Now he realized how the quiet, unassuming Shandarin had convinced the Institute’s personnel committee to employ him instead of one of his more vocal competitors.
He couldn’t hold it against him. Shandarin had never mentioned his father. He probably didn’t even know Komikov was smoothing the way for him in the background. He told himself he should be thankful. If Shandarin was going the way of the Relikt data, he would leave the Institute. Otherwise, the young man would inevitably have become the head of the Institute, eventually, and Doroshkevich would have forever wondered and been annoyed at his own lack of success.
“Are you angry with me?” asked Shandarin.
Interesting. The boy was disarmingly honest. A person like that could never survive the bureaucracy without help from the wings.
“Of course not, comrade. Let’s gather the data together. I want to conclude this unpleasant episode as quickly as possible.”
March 17, 1984, Tyuratam
The driver’s supply of papirosas seemed inexhaustible. Fascinated, Sasha watched from the right rear passenger seat as the maybe fifty-year-old man rummaged in the pocket of his coarse jacket, pulled out a flat pack of Belomorkanal cigarettes and shook it in such a way that one of the thin papirosas defied gravity and moved up out of the pack. The driver bent his head and pulled the cigarette out with his lips. Then he put the pack back in his pocket.
Now came the most exciting part. The driver took the cigarette from his mouth, lifted his other hand off the wheel and folded the cardboard mouthpiece twice. Only then did he take a lighter out of his jacket pocket, put the cigarette back in his mouth, and light it.
The street curved slightly to the right. The black Volga veered to the left. The Ural truck coming the other way turned its headlights to high beam. The driver calmly lifted his right knee and steered out of its path. The two vehicles passed each other at a distance of a few millimeters. The driver puffed on his papirosa, smoke billowing through the interior of the vehicle.
Sasha coughed and the driver gave a throaty laugh. Sasha reached for the side window winder, but there was only a shiny metal bracket.
“Are you looking for this?” The driver held up the handle.
“That would be nice.” He reached forward with his left hand, but the driver wouldn’t give him the handle. The smoke from the strong makhorka tobacco was burning Sasha’s lungs and eyes.
“But it would also be damn cold,” retorted the driver. “We’re in the middle of the Kazakh steppe, which you’d have no idea about as a spoiled city dweller. Just wait, you’ll get used to this little bit of smoke. It’s good for your health. The smoke kills all the bacteria.”
Sasha sighed but didn’t argue. Freeze or suffocate, neither option was particularly appealing. Today wasn’t the first day he’d wished himself back in his front office at the Lebedev Institute. He just wanted to be left in peace.
Tyuratam reminded him of a town in an American western. Vegetation was scarce, and many of the houses were made of wood. There was even tumbleweed blowing down the streets. The car was now driving more slowly. The driver had a map on his knees, which he was studying intently. He kept looking up and cursing. The place must have developed so quickly that no map could keep up.
“Looks like an American western,” said Sasha.
The driver looked up and turned around. Sasha had learned that his name was Oleg.
“Could you please look ahead at the road?”
Oleg roared with laughter but didn’t turn around. “Don’t worry, boy, the others have eyes in their heads, too.”
But he did worry. What if one of the oncoming drivers was also lighting a cigarette or chatting with a passenger? Most of the traffic consisted of heavy trucks. The Volga had no chance against a Ural.
“You mentioned westerns, boy—you mean the bushes that keep rolling across the streets?”
Sasha nodded.
&nb
sp; “Did you know they’re native to here? The plants are called Russian solyanka, or thistle. They were introduced into America sometime in the last century. Since then, Soviet bushes have been wandering all over the capitalist steppe, ha-ha.”
The driver turned back to face the front. Suddenly he hit the brakes so hard Sasha’s head banged into the headrest in front of him. Lucky for him the seat was upholstered.
“Sorry, boy, this is the house number where I’m supposed to turn off.”
They were in the middle of an intersection where two identical-looking streets met. Sasha had no idea what house number the driver was talking about. A heavy truck hurtled toward them, braked, and came to a screeching halt just in time to not hit them.
“See, boy? The others are paying attention.”
The driver opened the door and got out. Then he went over to the truck where the other driver was leaning out of his window. Oleg offered him a papirosa and the other man helped himself. They both took a few drags, then started talking.
Oleg came back and started the car. “Now at least I know where to go. Everything happens for a reason.”
The Volga stopped in front of a low wooden house indistinguishable from the other houses in the area.
“We’re here,” said Oleg.
“Are you sure?”
He’d been told he was expected in Tyuratam—known as Baikonur in the west. Of course, he’d assumed his destination was a spaceport, not a bungalow on the edge of this town in the middle of nowhere. The Soviet Union had specially selected this Kazakh location as their rocket launching site, because there was nothing else for many kilometers around that could be destroyed by falling debris.
“This is the house number I was given.”
“Good, then I’ll get out.”
“Don’t hold it against me, boy, but I don’t want it getting dusty in here. You’ll manage on your own.”
The Death of the Universe: Rebirth: Hard Science Fiction (Big Rip Book 3) Page 2
