A History of What Comes Next

by Sylvain Neuvel

  Mother knows it but she won’t say. She wants me to figure it out for myself. I have, but it doesn’t mean I’m any closer to a solution. The scientists here aren’t up to the task, not even close. They were ahead of the game not that long ago, but Stalin has a way of ruining things. I wasn’t ready for any of this. I need Mother. That’s the one thing I know.

  “It is time for you to have a child.” I’ve never even had a boyfriend. I’m nineteen years old and I’ve never had sex! Does she think I don’t want to? I want to. I want what every girl my age has. There’s so much I’ve never experienced. I can calculate thrust coefficients with my eyes closed but I don’t know what it’s like to sleep next to someone, to feel their chest move with every breath, or how much heat two bodies can generate. Shit, I even crave the physics of it. I want someone to make me feel … normal. I want it with every fiber in my being, but I won’t kill my mother for it. I won’t watch her die, even if it’s what she wants. I’ve seen enough death already. Fuck her. She can’t die.

  I wonder if she knows. I wonder if she thinks I’ve been with someone before. She gave me a diaphragm when I turned sixteen. Thanks, Mother! I had to ask a friend what it was. That was … embarrassing. She should have known I’d never use it. As if I’d trust her life to a piece of rubber. If there were a pill, maybe. For the longest time, I thought: She must know, she knows everything. Now I’m not so sure. She knows everything about us, but I don’t know how much she knows about me. There is a me.

  Does she know I’m seeing someone? I do my best to complain every time I leave for brainwash group, but I’m sure Mother senses I’m not as reluctant as I used to be. Billie—I love that name. She … She’s not me. That’s what drew me to her. She knows things I don’t. She wants things I don’t. I don’t know what I want. I’m not … attracted to her, I think, not the way she is to me. I don’t know. I’ve never felt those things, with anyone. Maybe that’s what it feels like. I keep asking myself if I want to be her or be with her. I don’t know if there’s a difference.

  She kissed me— We kissed once. I like the way she kisses. It’ll never lead anywhere. Not here, not with me. Maybe that’s why I let myself enjoy it. It’s unsettling, in a good way. To be close to someone, to look at her and see something familiar and yet completely different, to look at a woman who’s not me … I don’t know what I’m doing or why I’m doing it, but I feel … unique when I’m with her. I feel good. I’m me. There is a me.

  Maybe that’s what bothers me most. Maybe it’s not Mother I’m so afraid to lose.

  I look at Mother and I see glimpses of myself, but some of it I don’t recognize. I haven’t lived enough yet. I’ve never seen myself her age, but she has. The flow of time is the river that separates us. It’s a one-way mirror neither of us can put down, and I don’t want to switch sides. Mother is us. She bears the weight of a hundred lifetimes. She’s her and me, and everyone that came before us. She feels their pain, cries their sorrow. Mine, too. She knows what I think and feel, what I fear. She knows me better than I know myself. We are the Ninety-Nine.

  I’ve seen myself pregnant before. I’ve had dreams about it, bad fucking dreams. I’ve seen Mother rip through my stomach and crawl up to my face. I’ve seen myself do it. Bloody, small versions of us, limbs bent and broken, speeding up my body like a spider. Each time, I bleed to death while my child whispers: “Ma. Ma.” I’ll die if I have a child. I know it. Not like that—I won’t stop breathing. I’ll still get up every morning—but I’ll die. There won’t be a me anymore.

  Mother said it. She’ll be born and I’ll lose myself, instantly. One look at her, that’s all it’ll take. I’ll see myself staring back and I’ll know I’m on the wrong side of the mirror. I’ll know that I was never me. I was her the whole time. I was always the Kibsu.

  24

  “Murder,” He Says

  —You’re lucky. You might not always feel it. You might not feel it now. But you are. You have everything. A nice apartment—small, but cozy—in New York City. I like this place. I’ve been here two hours and I like it already. You’re a—what is it you do again? You told me when we met. Oh yes. You’re in family finance. I’ll be honest, I have no idea what that means. I imagine it’s a valuable service. You do whatever it is you do and people are better for it afterwards. I bet you’re good at it, too! You must get some sense of accomplishment, some pride for what you do. There are bad days, of course. I’m sure you feel worthless at times, but overall you strike me as a happy person. Are you? Don’t just stare at me. Nod or something.

  Oh, you wish you were more. I understand. Everyone does. You wish you were … special. Well … Let me give you some advice, honey. Don’t. You’re not. You’ll never be special. You’re as ordinary as they come. You’re the luckiest woman in the world.

  Me and my brothers—did I tell you I have three brothers?—we’re special. We’ve been told from birth how special we are. We’re not like you, that’s for sure. We’re … stronger. We’re—how do I put this in a way that’s not insulting?—we’re more … intelligent. I must sound so full of myself right now. Believe me, I’m not. I wish I were like you. I wish I were in family finance. But I’m not. I can’t. You see, my brothers and I, we have a mission, a function. We were born with purpose. We’re like medieval knights on a holy quest. Do you want to know what that quest is? What our GREAT mission is all about?

  —Please, sir. Please don’t kill me!

  —Did you just call me sir? Sir was my father before we killed him. My name is Charles. Call me Charles. Seriously, I’m twenty-four years old, do I look like a sir to you? The use of honorific indicates distance. I felt quite the opposite. I know you were being polite but I felt a connection, like I could share things with you that I don’t get to share with most people.… Now I forgot what I was saying. DAMN IT! Don’t interrupt me again. I was telling you about our quest.

  We … we’re hunters. We hunt people. This is when I’m supposed to say they’re bad people, that they deserve it. The truth is I’ve never met any of them. My father never met them, neither has his father. They have something, apparently, a machine that we want. Something that can save … more people than you can imagine. I’ve never seen it, of course. No one has. Maybe it doesn’t exist. All I know is that these women left Germany and landed here, in New York. Only we won’t find them in New York because that was thirteen fucking years ago. That’s how we measure how close we are, not in distance, but in time. To be honest, thirteen years is as close as I ever got.

  Do you understand what I’m saying? We spend our whole lives, every hour of every day, chasing people we’ve never met, looking for something we’ve never seen. It’s been like that for … Do you know how amazing your life looks to me? What I wouldn’t give for just one day of family finance? I envy you. I … envy you.

  —Please! I don’t want to die! PLEASE! HELP ME! HEEELP!

  —Shhhh. You’ll wake everyone. Now I’m going to have to gag you.

  —NOOO! HMMM …

  —Stop it! I don’t want to kill you. Not like that. I’m not a maniac. I just want … I thought we were sharing … I wonder why they call this duck tape? It’s green. Ducks aren’t gr—

  I’m sorry. I thought I heard something.… Why’d you have to scream? I can’t see half your face anymore. I liked looking at your face. To be completely frank, I also find begging quite unbecoming. It makes you look—I don’t know—stupid is the first word that comes to mind. I don’t want to think of you that way. Don’t be like them. They all beg. What do they expect? Sorry to have bothered you. I was going to kill you, but you said please, so … In this particular case, I’m willing to take some of the blame. I did use some rather graphic language earlier. I—

  There. You must have heard that? I think there’s someone at the door. I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere. That was a joke. I know, you’re tied up. Not funny … I have redeeming qualities but I do lack a proper sense of humor. My whole family does.

  Yep. Th
ere’s someone at the door. He must have heard you. Now you’ve done it. I’m going to have to open the door and kill this fellow before he wakes up more neighbors and I have to kill them, too. You understand how bad this can get, don’t you? It could turn into a vicious cycle, very vicious. Watch this.

  What can I do for you, young man? There … it’s done. Don’t fight it. Now if you would please fall forward so I can close the door. Thank you.

  This is really going to ruin the carpet. It’s a shame. I could imagine myself living here. Did you see how quick that was? This man was alive—what? three seconds ago—and now he’s not, or he soon won’t be. I don’t think he ever realized what was happening to him. Maybe he did. Who cares? He’s dead. You did that.… Yes. I was instrumental in the man’s demise, but you, you started that chain of events. Maybe his wife is waiting for him to come back, maybe his kids are. What do you think will happen if they come looking for him? All because of one scream. And for what? You don’t seem particularly pleased. I know I’m not. Look at him! Was it worth it?

  I realize this may seem somewhat cruel to you. I hope you find some comfort in knowing it wasn’t a random act. I think you’ll see what I was getting at very clearly in a few minutes. I’ve told you a bit about my life already, but there is something else I’m trying to explain to you, something I would rather not share with someone who’s bound and gagged. Now if you want … If you want, I’ll untie you and take this off your mouth so we can have a civilized conversation. Is that a yes? Very well then.

  I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize these were so tight. I’m going to rip this off quickly, it might sting a bit. Again, I apologize. Are you comfortable? Just nod. You’re still in shock. I hope you’re calm enough to listen to what I have to say. I’m not going to hurt you if you just listen.

  —Please. Please don’t hurt me.

  —Isn’t that what I just said? I just said: “I’m not going to hurt you if you just listen.” Your answer to that is: “Please don’t hurt me.” You see how someone might interpret that as a sign that you weren’t listening? Again, I’m willing to cut you some slack given these unusual circumstances, but you should really make an effort. Anyway, moving on. As I told you before, the life we live, it’s … unrewarding. You’re taken over by this … unbearable numbness is how I would describe it. Case in point: a minute ago, I killed a man and I got nothing out of it. I felt nothing. There were other factors at play, or course. It happened really fast. I didn’t know the man. What matters is that I didn’t feel a thing. I don’t feel anything, except …

  Look at you! You’re terrified! It’s beautiful to watch. I wish I could feel that. I would give anything to feel something this intense. You don’t know how much I envy you at this moment, and while this may seem insignificant to you, that ounce of jealousy going through my veins is about as much feeling as I can hope for. Envying you is the highlight of my day. I thank you for that.

  There are moments, like this one, where … I told you I thought we had a connection. Watching you lie in bed, scared beyond your wits, I developed a certain fondness for you. Have you ever had a dog? You don’t need to answer, it doesn’t matter. What I’m trying to say is that—Don’t worry, this won’t hurt a bit. Shhhhhh. See. I told you it would be painless. What I’m trying to say is that I’m going to watch you die, and when the life is gone from you, I might feel something other than envy. I wish you knew how much it would mean to me, how grateful I’d be if I could, even for a moment, feel remorse.

  25

  Songs My Mother Taught Me

  —I’m not ready, Mother.

  I know she is not. I saw the despair in Mia’s face the moment I told her, but I did not need to see. I remember walking into our ship cabin like it was yesterday, the emptiness of it. The room was unremarkably tidy, my mother’s clothes still hanging in the small closet. I still cannot say exactly what was odd about it. It felt … staged, artificial, the way your neighbor’s house looks when they invite you over for the first time. Magazines angled just the right way, a tennis racket conveniently forgotten by the doorway, a book that was never read left open on the coffee table. I knew my mother was gone and that she would not come back. I knew I would never be the child again. I was not ready.

  —I know.

  —I need more time.

  I did, too. There were no warnings, no signs. Mother did not leave any subtle hints, or they were too subtle, or I was not smart enough. All I know is that my world ended in that third-class cabin. There was nothing left. Only me and a bright-eyed child who did not know why her mother was crying. I should have known. I knew the rules. I knew there couldn’t be three, but I still saw us as two. My mother. My daughter. I was just a spectator, the one taking the picture. It took some time before I felt like I could do anything on my own. I just went through the motions, making sure my daughter was fed and sheltered. In her own way, it was Mia who kept me going. I owe her my life. I owe her time.

  —I understand, Mia. I will give you some time.

  —How much time?

  —I will give you … enough.

  I can tell she was expecting more resistance. She probably had a whole speech prepared. I would not be surprised if she had spent the entire night memorizing it, weighing every word, fine-tuning her rhythm. I should have given her the satisfaction, but I do not want to lie to my daughter again.

  —Okay.

  She is smart. She got what she wanted out of this conversation. She has nothing to gain by talking, but everything to lose. Now let us see if I can get what I want.

  —I will give you some time, but you will have to give me something in return.

  —What?

  —Quid pro quo. You have to be in charge. You have to take care of things.

  —I thought I was.

  She is, sometimes. She dips her toes into her new life but she won’t dive in. She’s a dilettante, a substitute teacher, the babysitter watching someone else’s children.

  —Not like that, Mia. I mean really take care of things. We have been in Moscow for nearly a year and the Russians have not made any real progress. Neither have the Americans. They are utterly convinced they have the ultimate weapon. Such shortsightedness. I want a race, Mia. I want them to build bigger and better rockets, not because they want to, but because the other one will if they don’t. You need to speed things up. You need to get us there. You do. You must not rely on me anymore.

  —What about you? What will you do?

  —I would like to continue my mother’s research before I go. I need to know if this planet has a future.

  —Before you go? You say it like you’re planning a vacation or something.

  —In a way. You can help with my research if you want. I would love to spend more time with you. What I would really like is to see a man in space before I die. Can you do that for me, Mia? Can you make that happen?

  —I’ll try, Mother.

  —You’ll do more than that.

  She will. She might not like what it means for her, but she is us. She has the will of her ancestors, their determination. A hundred life spans of refusing to give up is coursing through her veins. She may not be ready to accept it—she sees it as weakness—but it is in her. It has always been. She will follow her instincts. She will watch herself do things she never thought possible.

  Right now, she is thinking about what she has to lose. Me, the person she thinks she is. But there is a part of her brain that craves all this. She is a Labrador who fell into a lake for the first time. Her instincts will kick in. At first, she will be surprised that she can swim at all. Soon, she will not want to get back to shore.

  —…

  Her brain is working overtime. I know that look too well. It starts with a feeling, not a thought. The urge to act, to do anything. Throwing paint at the canvas. Out of the chaos, a shape emerges. She cannot quite make out what it is, but she knows it is there, begging to be seen. She can either freeze, afraid of losing what little there is, or trust herself and t
hrow more paint at it.

  —Mia?

  —I know what to do.

  There it is. She is starting to believe.

  —What?

  —I know what to do, Mother, but you’re not going to like it.

  Of course I won’t. I am losing my little girl. I am no more ready to lose her than she is to let me go. She is my daughter, a reminder of what I once was. I love watching her grow and slowly turn into us. Mostly, I love that she is trying not to, clinging to her sense of self at all costs. Resist, Mia. You will lose, but the fight is worth it. Those days will never come again.

  —What am I not going to like, Mia?

  —I have to go back to Germany.

  26

  You Gonna Miss Me When I’m Gone

  She has that long scar on her left shoulder. Not straight like a cut. It twists and turns, like a river on a map.

  —Billie, look at me! It’s only for a few weeks.

  —I don’t want you to go.

  I don’t want to go either. That’s not true. I do. I didn’t tell Mother the whole reason why, but I do want to go. At least, I did an hour ago. Now I’m lying next to Billie and every bit of certainty has gone out the window.… All she had to do was turn her back to me and I feel like I’m already a thousand miles away.

  —I have to.

  —Why? You’re not the only interpreter in Russia. Tell them to send someone else. Tell them you’re sick.

  —It doesn’t work like that, Billie. You know it doesn’t.

  I meant that. Now that I got myself assigned there, it’d be really hard to say no. Stalin’s pretty much removed that word from the vocabulary.

  —You want to go. I can see it.

  I don’t know what this is. Jealousy? I look at her and I see … strength, independence. I marvel at it but I also worry that she doesn’t care, that I can’t reach her. I worry all the time. Now she’s showing me an ounce of frailty and I can’t feel anything but guilt for making her less than she is.