The Death of the Universe: Rebirth: Hard Science Fiction (Big Rip Book 3)

by Brandon Q Morris

  Sure. It reeked of tobacco smoke, and the driver was afraid of dust?

  Sasha nodded anyway. “Safe travels,” he said.

  Oleg answered with a nod. Sasha opened the right-hand door and went around the car to the trunk. He pressed the button under the Volga logo and the lid opened. He bent forward and took out the duffle bag containing all his worldly possessions. Then he was suddenly overcome by an urge to rebel.

  Sasha smiled to himself. He picked up his duffle bag and went with it to the house without closing the trunk. He’d love to see the driver’s reaction, but his fear got the better of him and he quickly entered the house through the unlocked front door.

  Sasha felt around for a light switch. He found a lever on the wall to his right and flipped it. A naked bulb illuminated a narrow hallway at the end of which was a ceiling-high shelf. To the left and right were two doors. He opened the left-hand one and found himself in the kitchen. There was a sink under the window and a small table in front of it with two chairs. In the corner to the right was a large boiler, which was heated by an oven and delivered hot water to the sink and the small bath tub that stood against the front wall of the house. On the wall next to the door ticked a modest clock with a yellow frame. The room smelled of chlorine. Someone must have cleaned recently.

  Sasha turned around and went across the hallway into the second room. It was a lounge and study. The most impressive piece of furniture was a swiveling armchair with a high back. It was facing away from him so he couldn’t see the seat. But he could see two legs extending down to the floor. First a western, now a crime thriller.

  The chair turned around and a man was sitting in it, the high back throwing his face into shadow. “You’ve finally arrived,” said the man.

  He knew that voice well. “Hello, Father,” he said.

  His father stood up. They shook hands. How long had it been since they had last seen each other? Two years?

  Komikov had been working for the Ministry of Defense since mid-January. Only one position had been open and he took it. When his father wanted something, he usually got it.

  But there was something he’d never get—the love of his only son. Not that he’d ever tried very hard. Other fathers were loved by their sons. This one wasn’t. Sasha didn’t even need to make it felt. He was sure that his father was well aware, but it was his own fault. He should never have left his mother and him.

  “Hello Alexander,” said his father. “I wasn’t able to arrange anything better for you at such short notice. Tyuratam is much too full. But it’s still better than your apartment in Moscow.”

  How did he know about his apartment? He’d never visited him there.

  “It’s fine,” he replied. “I don’t need much.”

  “I know. You get that from me.”

  Was that something like paternal pride? Sasha just shrugged his shoulders.

  “You can rest for now. We’ll get you started tomorrow. My driver will pick you up at six.”

  “Can’t I come on foot?”

  “Maybe later. But first you need to learn your way around. This town, if you can call it that, is huge.”

  “Why did you requisition this project, Father?”

  “Because of the potential military advantages that could enable us to win out against capitalism, of course.”

  “Seriously? The data is still much too sparse for that.”

  “That’s what my experts said, too. To be honest, I made the decision when I saw your name and signature on the proposal.”

  “My name? When Doroshkevich wrote the proposal I was still in my mother’s village.”

  “Well, he gave you as the source for the main assertions. He was probably just trying to protect himself, not wanting to stick his neck out in case it went wrong. You even co-signed the proposal.”

  Sasha couldn’t suppress the laugh. Doroshkevich had totally shot himself in the foot by doing that. If his former boss wasn’t such a coward, he could have led the experiment himself. He’d have to let him know sometime.

  “You look skeptical. Is that not your signature?” asked his father. “I could easily nail Doroshkevich for forgery. His career wouldn’t survive that.”

  “No need—I did sign it.”

  His father looked at him with his head tilted to one side. “The same as ever,” he said. “You get it from your mother, that sympathetic side. It would be a good idea to break that habit.”

  “I don’t want to, Father.”

  “I know. It’s my own fault. I should have stayed with you both. A boy needs a firm hand from the start. Then I could have driven it out of you. But now I suppose it’s too late.”

  Maybe he should actually feel gratitude toward his father, instead of resentment, for leaving him and his mother. But he simply couldn’t summon it.

  March 18, 1984, Tyuratam

  Sasha was awakened by a loud knocking. He groaned and sat up. The bed was rock-hard, but he had still managed to sleep well. Sunlight penetrated the room through a crack in the shutters, which he’d closed the evening before. Dust shimmered in the golden ray of light.

  “Get up,” called a female voice.

  Sasha peeled off the blanket and sat on the edge of the bed, which creaked. He inhaled. The air smelled of dried mushrooms.

  “Get up,” he heard the voice say again, accompanied by banging on the door.

  He complied. The floor was cold. The warm coziness of sleep slid off him like a blanket. He realized how frosty the room was. Was there no heating here?

  The woman was getting impatient. “Get up! Time to go!”

  He walked down the hallway to the front door. He felt a sudden sting in the ball of his foot. “Govno!” Shit! He lifted his foot. A wasp was lying on the floor. Or was it a bee? Where had it come from? It was March, practically still winter, and they were in the middle of the desolate steppe!

  “Get up at once!”

  “I’m coming,” he called.

  He made it to the door, limping, and turned the key. The door was immediately pushed open from the outside. An older woman of about 50 was standing in front of him. She had broad shoulders, wide hips, and short hair dyed a garish red. The sunlight falling on her from behind made it look like she had a halo. A socialist with a halo. Sasha had to smile.

  The woman’s mouth pressed itself into a straight line. His smile dissolved.

  “The door isn’t supposed to be locked!” bellowed the woman.

  “Sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “And you’re needed in Lab T4. They called me 15 minutes ago. Do you have any idea how late it is? It’s already after seven!”

  Already? So, the workday began early in Tyuratam. No one had told him that. He pined for Moscow again. Presumably everyone here got up when the rooster crowed and went to bed at dusk. As if to confirm this, he heard a chicken squawking somewhere.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “Can you say anything else?”

  “Sor... I’ll get moving. Where is Lab T4?”

  “Listen, boy, I’m your dezhurnaya, not your travel guide.”

  The woman looked him up and down. Sasha was relieved that his pajamas were relatively clean and tidy. Her gaze was so cold he got goose bumps. But maybe that was due to the icy air. He’d never met a dezhurnaya who didn’t behave like a surly company commander.

  The woman’s face brightened. “Apparently no one explained to you how it works around here. You can find me in the bungalow in the middle of the block. You report to me when you leave and then again when you return from work. Visitors are officially prohibited. I clean for you and in the morning between six and seven you can come to me for your kasha. Lunch and dinner are available in the canteen. There are two washing machines in my bungalow that you can use.

  “Can I make telephone calls there, too?”

  He still didn’t know where Lab T4 was, and this duty officer wasn’t telling him. But maybe the switchboard could advise him.

  “Telephone? Sorry, only with special pe
rmission. Everything here is strictly classified. They must’ve told you that.”

  “Everything happened really fast. Actually, a driver was supposed to pick me up.”

  “The young man has his own driver. Unbelievable.” The dezhurnaya sighed. “Fine, then get dressed and come over to my house. I’ll point you in the right direction.”

  The dezhurnaya put a bowl of light brown porridge on the table. He remained standing indecisively.

  “Now sit down and eat your kasha,” the woman said, putting her hands on his shoulders and firmly but gently pushing him down onto a chair.

  Sasha gave in. The kasha smelled edible.

  “I’m Valentina. You can call me Valya,” she said.

  In her own domain she no longer seemed as unapproachable as she had earlier when she was standing at his door. She was wearing a light-colored blouse with a stiff collar, and a black pleated skirt. It made her look more like a grandmother than a military superior.

  “Shouldn’t I get to the T4 lab as soon as possible?”

  “Don’t worry, boy. If I deliver you there, you’ll be punctual.”

  He leaned back and some of the tension dissolved. Contradicting the dezhurnaya was a bad idea. He was reminded of his time in the student hall of residence.

  Valya pressed a coarsely-carved wooden spoon into his hand. He shoveled down the porridge. The gloopy mass tasted slightly sweet. If he polished off the whole bowl—and the dezhurnaya probably wouldn’t let him go until he did—then he wouldn’t be hungry again until evening.

  “Finished,” he said, pushing the bowl away.

  “Very good!”

  Valentina seemed satisfied and put the bowl in the sink. Her bungalow was laid out almost exactly like his, except for the two washing machines next to the sink. A clothes spinner stood in front of them, and there were several lines stretched across the kitchen with wooden clothespins on them.

  “What’s up with the heating?” he asked.

  “The heating plant ran out of coal, so the central heating only operates for a few hours in the evening. But you can heat using the oven in the kitchen, if you can rustle up some wood or coal.”

  “And how do I rustle up fuel?”

  “You swap it for something. Just need to be creative. But you know that. Or are you a mama’s boy who’s always had everything done for you?”

  No, he really wasn’t. Sasha shook his head, although he was wondering how much his father had secretly influenced his career. He’d never wanted that.

  “We should go now,” said Valentina.

  He stood up obediently, took his coat off the hook by the door, and put it on.

  “Wrap your scarf around your neck properly,” said the dezhurnaya. “The wind is icy. I don’t want another sick person to have to take care of. I already have enough to do showing newcomers around the town.”

  Valentina spoke in a terse manner, but that was probably part of her role. Was there a school for dezhurnayas where women learned this kind of barracks-yard tone? She straightened the knot in his scarf, turned him around and slapped him on the back.

  “Get out of here, boy!”

  Laboratory T4 was located in a three-story factory building made of red brick. The dezhurnaya delivered him to the double entrance doors. The soldier posted there gave her a military salute and she returned it. The dezhurnaya must have served in the military. The sergeant—his rank recognizable from the three stripes on his lapels—belonged to the Army, just like Sasha’s father did.

  “I’m supposed to deliver Shandarin here to Komikov,” said Valentina, as though he was some kind of goods.

  The sergeant reached into the inside pocket of his uniform jacket and pulled out a typewritten sheet of paper. He ran his finger down the list. He stopped two thirds of the way down.

  “Shandarin, correct. Go in, comrade. Thank you, comrade, for bringing him here. The general was asking after him.”

  And the man still had to look at his list first? The sergeant straightened the weapon he was wearing across his back and opened one of the doors.

  “Up the stairs, then right, second door.”

  “Thank you, comrade.” He cast a last glance out into the sunlight and stepped through the door. It started to close behind him.

  “Valya, nice of you to show your face again,” he heard the sergeant say through the door.

  Then the door closed completely and the outside world vanished. He would never know how the sergeant knew the dezhurnaya. Maybe he was her son? They were the right age, but he wouldn’t call his mother Valya.

  Sasha found himself in a kind of foyer utterly lacking in elegance. Light penetrated through narrow windows right at the top. Doors led off on all sides. There was a staircase on the back wall leading up to the second floor. He followed the sergeant’s instructions and turned right when he reached the top. The walkway was bordered by a crude balustrade from which he could see the main door. The second door was on the back wall. It was labelled ‘T4’ in white letters against brown wood.

  Sasha opened the door without knocking. A lab wasn’t an office, after all. He entered a room that was about the size of the central waiting area of a small train station. From the ceiling a transparent, heavy film was suspended, giving the room the impression of a giant tent. Directly across from the door was an opening covered by a curtain.

  On the right he saw a machine sucking air out of the room and pumping it through a hose going through a hole in the wall to the outside. This must be some kind of clean room. On the wall to his left hung several white suits. There were also flexible blue plastic boots on the floor below them. He pulled a suit on over his street clothes, donned a pair of boots, and went past the curtain.

  No one paid any attention to him. On the other side of the lab a group of a dozen or so people, all identical in their white coveralls, were bending over an object he didn’t recognize, discussing something he didn’t understand. Sasha went closer, found a gap, and pushed himself into it. Still, no one paid any attention to him, but at last he could see what everyone was so interested in. On a small platform stood a satellite.

  It must be the successor to Prognoz 9. A man with an impressive moustache seemed to be explaining the instruments. He had a stick in his hand and was using it to point to one component after another.

  “Here we have the gamma spectrometer,” the man explained. “It consists of three germanium detectors, which point in different directions out into space. As the satellite moves the detectors in rotation around the main axis, we receive three independent measurements.”

  “How do you activate the cooling?” asked a woman. Judging by her face—and there wasn’t much else to see—she was quite young.

  “Let us worry about that, Andreyeva.”

  The moustache was a real charmer. Another man, who appeared to have suffered from bad acne as a youth, elbowed him.

  “Sorry, comrade. Verkhodanov didn’t mean it like that. Did you, Yuri?”

  The moustache shook his head, but his reluctance was apparent. This was going to be fun—a bickering collective, quarreling for some unknown, probably petty reason.

  “So, the cooling, comrade... We can do without that because this side of the probe always lies in its own shadow. Prognoz 9b, like its predecessors, always orients itself toward the sun. What you’re looking at here is the back.”

  “Great ass,” cried a man in the second row, and his neighbor laughed.

  “Comrades, this is not acceptable!” The thundering voice belonging to his father came from his left. He was barely recognizable in the white coveralls.

  The others fell silent at once. Gaining people’s respect was something his father had always been good at. He’d just never tried it with love.

  “A valued comrade and colleague asked a simple question,” said his father, “and I expect a reasonable answer. Even if you don’t all want to be here, we will still work together as a socialist collective, one for all and all for one. Anyone who doesn’t understand that c
an go home, but not without first spending two years polishing the floors with the strong arm of the working class. I promise you that.”

  Silence reigned. Everyone knew Colonel General Komikov had the power to reassign them all to the cleaning crew or send them straight to Siberia.

  “So, please continue, Comrade Verkhodanov.”

  The moustache pointed with his stick at another component. “Here we have the magnetometer. It registers the strength of the field at various distances from Earth.”

  Sasha followed the explanations. He’d already had the measurement values from these instruments on his desk, had calculated the deviations, devised theories, and isolated measurement errors—how they got onto the paper had never particularly interested him. But, here, that was the crucial question. Did he even belong here?

  “If I’ve been correctly informed, then the Relikt flew for the first time on Prognoz 9,” said Andreyeva. “Why can’t we continue investigating planetary shock waves as intended for Prognoz 10?”

  No one answered. The woman had just questioned the purpose of the work. That was... unheard of. Sasha tensed his neck muscles, expecting a thunderstorm.

  “Good question,” replied his father. “Luckily, we have the support of a real specialist today, who is guaranteed to be able to answer that.”

  Sasha went into shock. Even at school, he’d always hated being called on. Although he always knew everything, he was never able to give the answer people wanted. His father must be talking about someone else. He clenched his fists.

  “I’m talking about Alexander Shandarin, who apparently has just arrived,” said his father.

  Oh no. He did mean him. At least he hadn’t introduced him as his son, and the family name didn’t give that away.

  “Comrade Shandarin comes to us from the Lebedev Institute in Moscow. I don’t need to tell you how renowned the Institute is worldwide. So I’m very pleased that their laboratory for physics of the early universe has provided one of their most talented researchers for the cross-institutional work on this project. Comrade Shandarin, how would you answer Comrade Andreyeva’s question?”