A History of What Comes Next

by Sylvain Neuvel

—I don’t know, Mother. I mean, there are V-2 rockets out there already. They exist. What good is making one with a hammer and sickle on it?

  —We are creating a race and the Soviets do not have anything to race with. It will take them years to get a working rocket. You can give them a V-2 in ten months.

  —That seems very optimistic. I think it would ta—Wait a minute. I can?

  —Yes, darling. You know enough. Give the Soviets a working V-2 and you will get the Americans’ attention. Make it cross an ocean and I guarantee von Braun will get his own research center and all the resources he needs. Then you can race him higher and higher, all the way to the stars.

  —Me.… What will you do?

  —I will support you as best I can, of course. I also need to find old air.

  —Old what?

  —Air. I require air from the past. I need air from centuries ago, as far back as possible. I need … old air.

  —That sounds fun. Do I dare ask why?

  —No, Mia. You do not. I am too tired for science this evening. Tonight, you and I are carving.

  —We are?

  —We are performing the Maqlû.

  —What’s the Maqlû?

  —It is an ancient ritual.

  —I figured that part, Mother.

  —My mother and I did it together, before you were born. We would sit on her bed. It was rare for her to let me inside her bedroom. We would light a candle on each of the nightstands, barely enough light to see what was in front of us. In the winter, the draft of cold air from the window would make the flame waver. I tensed with every flicker. I think my mother enjoyed scaring me.

  —What does it do?

  —It was meant to protect against witchcraft, evil sorcerers.

  —Don’t tell me you believe in all that.

  —I did at the beginning. Perhaps not, but I wanted to believe. I was much younger than you are now. There was a sense of danger to the ritual. It had the allure of the forbidden. Now I find it quite soothing. But enough talking. I will get what we need for the Maqlû. You get us some iced tea from the refrigerator.

  —Fine.

  —With some ice, please.

  —I know!…

  —… Thank you, Mia. Now take this block of wood and start carving.

  —Carve it into what?

  —The evil sorcerer. Anyone who wishes to harm you. I would suggest the Tracker.

  —I don’t know what he looks like.

  —It is a piece of wood, Mia. A human shape will suffice. When we are done, we will drown it in ink, then crush it while we recite the incantations.

  —We’re making voodoo dolls. How exciting.

  —Do not make fun of your mother. As I said, it is … soothing. You’ll see.

  —…

  —Mia?

  —…

  —Mia! What are you doing? Stop staring at your tea and start carving.

  —Look.

  —No, Mia. I will not look at your tea.

  —Not the tea, Mother, the ice.

  —I have seen ice before. Now can we please—

  —Closer, Mother! Bubbles!

  Where is she going with this?

  —I see there are small air b—

  Air bubbles.

  —Yes! Unless I’m mistaken, that’s air that was trapped when the ice formed, air from whenever you made the ice. Yesterday, or last week.

  —Old air. This … is …

  —I know, Mother. Now all you need is to find old ice. Somewhere with lots of snow—Antarctica, maybe Greenland … If there is melting in the summer season …

  —It would create a fresh layer of ice each year. Count the layers to date the ice. Like the—

  —Like the rings on a tree.… Can I have my drink back now? I thought we had voodoo dolls to make.

  —I’m sorry, Mia. This is just—

  —I know, Mother. I know.

  20

  My Mama Don’t Allow Me

  I don’t know how it’s possible but my uniform is getting itchier with time. What do they make them with? Asbestos? These Komsomol meetings are a complete waste. I’m supposed to make rockets, not to reminisce about the great sacrifices placed on the altar of the Motherland in the name of freedom and independence. Seriously, who comes up with this nonsense?

  Still, I have no idea how I’m supposed to speed up a rocket program that doesn’t exist. I mean, there are a handful of Soviets working on different things, but none of them are where we need them to be if we’re going against von Braun. Mother is right. We’ll need some Germans to help, but which ones? Even if I knew, they’ll need to work for someone, somewhere. I can probably get German scientists to build a German rocket, in Germany. That I can do—

  —Nina?

  But if we want the Soviets to race, we’ll need some Soviets. We need a Soviet something to approve a Soviet program, a Soviet chief designer, Soviet money. I don’t know how—

  —You’re Nina, aren’t you?

  Shit. I keep forgetting Nina’s my name in this hellhole. Who wants to know? Oh, behind me. Another Komsomol. She’s …

  —I … Yes. I’m Nina.

  —You’re not from around here, are you?

  She can talk. She stands out like … well, like a black girl in Moscow. Come to think of it, she’s the only black person I’ve seen here. She’s also taller than me. No one’s ever taller than me. Where am I supposed to be from again? Oh yes.

  —We’re from Uzbekistan.

  I have no idea if we look Uzbek or not. I’ve never met an Uzbek before but, apparently, neither have most people.

  —Neat! Come with me. Quick!

  What? Come with her where?

  —Where are we going?

  —Through here, behind the building. Hurry! We don’t have much time.

  She’s … skipping along. I don’t even know why I’m following her. This feels like a couple of ten-year-olds hiding from their parents. Are we hiding? Oh, she’s stopping now. She’s digging through her bag. A cigarette. She’s lighting a cigarette.

  —Isn’t that against Komsomol principles?

  Smoking, drinking, modern dancing. The marks of hooliganism and decadent fascism.

  —I think we’re allowed one vice. Just one.

  She’s handing me her cigarette.

  I … I took it. What’s wrong with me? I just took it from her hand. I couldn’t say no. The tip is still wet from her lips. This feels … intimate, someh—WHOA! Head rush. Holy cow, that’s rough. I’m doing my best not to—

  *cough* *cough*

  I feel … dizzy. She’s smiling. Is she making fun of me? She hasn’t stopped smiling since we got here. It’s a beautiful smile. Childlike, careless. Now I’m self-conscious about everything. Is my face all red? How does her uniform fit her so well? I look like a fool in mine. Another drag.

  …

  So this is what smoking feels like. Light-headed and super awkward.

  Why does she keep looking at me? She stares while she smiles. Few people can do that, look someone in the eyes for more than a second or two. Those who can do it with intent. They want submission. Not her. She just stares, with … insouciant abandon. I find it impossible not to look back, but I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m fidgeting. Why am I fucking fidgeting?

  —I have to go. See you next week?

  What? No, don’t leave. She’s putting out her cigarette, skipping back the way we came.

  —Wait! You never told me your name!

  —I’m Billie! Bye, Nina!

  Billie? I have so many questions. She’s gone now. I wanted more. More of … something. Oh shit, I think I’m going to be sick.

  21

  Che Puro Ciel

  —What was it like, Mother?

  —What was what like?

  —Hiroshima.

  —… I don’t know.

  How could I? No one saw it. Those who did are dead or dying. The Americans did not televise the murder of countless civilians. Newspapers used words lik
e “terror” and “devastation,” but even a thousand words are not worth one picture. The only way Mia and I can experience the event is through science. We can do the math.

  Come.

  —Where are we going?

  —Come with me!

  —Outside? But it’s raining!

  —You will survive. Here. Look at the sky and choose a point about two thousand feet above your head. That’s where it would have happened, where the bomb exploded.

  —It didn’t detonate on the ground?

  —No. Up in the sky. Within … a millionth of a second, the temperature at that point reached tens of millions of degrees and vaporized what was left of the bomb. The expansion created a pressure wave, probably over a million pounds per square inch, moving outwards at … three thousand miles an hour, give or take. Now imagine a one-mile circle all around you. That is nine or ten blocks in every direction, from here to the Bolshoi. Somewhere between three and four hundred city blocks. About one second after the explosion, everything in that circle was hit by a wall of air moving at supersonic speed. Every building was ripped apart or toppled over. Bodies were squeezed like lemons, compressed with enough force to rupture most internal organs. The same circle was hit, almost instantaneously, with a lethal dose of neutrons and gamma rays.

  —What does that do?

  —It does not matter if you were inside that circle. Look up again. At the point of detonation, the air surrounding the weapon was bombarded with enough X-rays to form a ball of burning air many times brighter than the sun. Within ten seconds, that ball of fire had reached the edge of the one-mile circle, blowing burning debris and broken bodies at hundreds of miles per hour. Anyone who was still breathing was burned alive instantly. By then, the air blast would be two or three miles ahead, still moving incredibly fast. Then came the heat, visible and infrared light. It caused blindness, third-degree burns up to ten miles away, perhaps more. In about a minute, tens of thousands were dead or dying. Just as many were burned or injured.

  —Hell on earth.

  —A quick death for most. The ones who did not die will experience hell.

  —Neutrons and gamma rays.

  —Yes. Living cells will absorb the energy. If they absorb enough—

  —It’ll kill them.

  —Not directly, no. If you were close enough for that to happen, the firestorm would have hit you first. But it will damage cells, enough to stop them from making proper copies of themselves. When the cells die their natural death, their imperfect offspring will not survive. The faster the cells reproduce, the more sensitive they are to radiation.

  —So the brain—

  —You figure it out, Mia.

  She does not need to hear me say it. She knows enough to play it out in her head. Bone marrow will die first, but it will take a month before it causes severe internal bleeding or infection sets in. Epithelial cells in the intestinal tract will be next. Nausea, vomiting, diarrhea. Death will come faster, a couple of weeks. Nerve cells are slow to regenerate so they will die last, but with enough exposure, they will die. Seizures, convulsions. Dead in a day. Brain cells do not reproduce, so they will not be destroyed. Too bad. I would prefer not to be conscious for this.

  —Mother?

  —What is it, Mia?

  —Did we do this?

  —…

  —Mother?

  —No, Mia. That was not us. You are soaking wet. Go back inside and get rid of these clothes before you catch your death.

  A white lie, perhaps. The truth is more complicated than yes or no. The work of thousands, tens of thousands, went into that project. A million small pieces of knowledge interlocked in just the right way. Some of the pieces were ours, undoubtedly, but we did not put the puzzle together. That will have to be enough.

  —Aren’t you coming in?

  —I think I will stay a bit longer.

  I like the rain. It’s a new dawn. The age of gods is over. The era of man began when a neutron struck the nucleus of a uranium atom. The emperor did not just rule over Japan, he was a direct descendant of the sun goddess. A divine being was just cut to size by science. The last living god bowed to man. Nothing will ever be the same.

  22

  I’m on My Last Go-Round

  —I don’t know what’s on your mind, Mia, but you need to focus. We have work to do.

  I am focused, very focused. Just not on this.

  —Yes, Mother.… Did you know hundreds of Afro-Americans came here during the thirties?

  —They were recruited by the state, were they not?

  —Yes. How do you know? Never mind that. Why would anyone want to move here, under Stalin?

  —I can think of many reasons. Jim Crow laws, the Great Depression. I would surmise many were simply looking for an adventure. Is this about your new friend?

  —My fr—Yes. Her father studied agriculture at Tuskegee University. He brought his family here to teach the Soviets new cultivation techniques.

  —This is fascinating, Mia. Now can we—

  —She was an actress. Kind of.

  —Who was?

  —My friend. Billie. She made a Soviet propaganda film about racism when she was eight.

  —I would love to meet her someday, Mia. Can you please focus on the task at hand?

  —I’m sorry, Mother. What can I do?

  —I told you before. You need to start a research program, put a team together.

  —But I don’t know how! I don’t even know who’s in charge, here or in Germany.

  —Don’t worry, Mia. Neither do the Soviets. Right now, there are a handful of Russian scientists in Germany. In Bleicherode, where you were. Boris Chertok is running what they call Institut Rabe.

  —Rabe. What does it mean?

  —Some German acronym for rocket building, I suppose. Things are more complicated here in Moscow. They are still bickering over who should be in charge of the technology. NKAP—that’s aviation—thinks it should be theirs. The People’s Commissariat of Ammunition wants it, so does the People’s Commissariat of Armament. Our man is with the Main Artillery Directorate, General Kuznetsov. He more or less single-handedly decided Rabe was under his command, and no one objected.

  —You said “our man.” We have a man?

  —Yes, Mia. We do. For the time being, he believes he is working for a secret commission only Stalin knows about, but it will not last. You will need to make more permanent arrangements.

  —A secret commission. You made it up?

  —I did. We had nothing to blackmail Kuznetsov with, or anyone else here for that matter. I had to spend a fortune on a low-ranking government official just to create the paperwork. Fortunately, there are more commissions and committees here than anyone can remember. You first priority should be to find a suitable general, or a member of the Politburo.

  I’ve watched Mother do it but I never turned anyone before. It’s not that hard from what I’ve seen. Debt works best, especially the gambling kind. Ask for something illegal but harmless at first. Threaten and squeeze for more. Rinse. Repeat. Like most things, guilt doesn’t last. Habituation is a horrible thing. We’ve done it a thousand times over generations, amassed file after file of everyone’s dirty little secrets. Mother says we could overthrow governments if we wanted to. I don’t know if that’s true but we could sure run one with the money we’re spending.

  My grandmother had hundreds on the take. Scientists, government officials, a whole network of people gathering information for us. Some of it is pretty bad, but the most useful is usually petty crimes, love affairs. It’s amazing how many people will end up selling state secrets because they couldn’t keep it in their pants.

  —Do we have enough money for this? I mean, we’re still paying a ton of people.

  —We have enough, Mia.

  —How much?

  —I have shown you the accounts, what documents we need to move money around.

  That she did. Lots of paperwork. People can’t hide money, they just can’t. We ha
ve to make sure it comes from somewhere. Family trusts from long-lost relatives, research grants from some obscure foundation. Yuck.

  —I know, but how much do we have?

  —Difficult to say. Most of it we owe to the Eighty-Seven. They made a fortune in the Dutch East India Company. You can do the accounting. You should know where the money is.

  Aaaaand. She wins. She knows how much I hate accounting.

  —It’s okay, Mother. You know about these things a lot more than I do.

  —It was not a suggestion, Mia.

  I really don’t like where this conversation is going.

  —Mother, what is going on? You do the accounting, you buy people, you get the Russians to build V-2s. Why me? Why not you? Why do I have to do all this?

  —Because it is time, Mia.

  —Time for what?

  —It is time for you to have a child, time for us to be the One Hundred.

  23

  Gloomy Sunday

  Fuck no! I know the rules. Mother and me plus one is three. There can never be three, not for long anyway.

  She’s my mother. I’m not ready for her to go. I’m not ready for anything without her. She’s my protector, my guide. She shows me the path and I follow. It took a hundred generations to get us here. I’ll mess that up in a week. I won’t ruin everything because Mother is having a midlife crisis. We are the Ninety-Nine and I live in her world. I like it there. I trust her a hell of a lot more than I trust myself. I’m not … right. I still hear the dead in my sleep.

  “Don’t you want to know what happened in Bad Saarow?”

  I’m a mess. I shouldn’t be in charge of anything. I’ve been trying to run things for about five seconds and already the Allies are accusing the Soviets of breaching the agreements on the liquidation of the German war machine. They’re right, we’re not dismantling anything. We’re building more rockets, German rockets the Americans already have, but at some point we’ll want to work on new designs. If they send inspectors, they’ll know what we’re working on. They might know already. Russians are supervising but they aren’t learning anything. We have a bunch of Germans trying to build a German rocket, in Germany. For the most part, they’re all free to move around. Anyone could talk, defect. This was a bad idea from the start.