A History of What Comes Next

by Sylvain Neuvel

  You Belong to Me

  1952

  Nights are getting colder. I should have brought a scarf. Here it is again. Big armored Packard limousine. It’s the third time I’ve seen it since I left Korolev’s house. Whoever it is, it’s someone important. Tinted windows. I can’t see who’s inside, but the car slows down every time it drives by. I’m pretty sure it’s me they’re looking at. I’ll take the long way home. No way I’m walking the alley by myself.

  It could be nothing, but with the day I had, my guess is it’s more bad news. Korolev and I had a fight. I told him we should scrap the R-3 project altogether. That didn’t go well. I had to throw some math at him and, well … He doesn’t like it when I’m smarter. Makes him feel … I don’t know how it makes him feel. All I know is he was mad. It might have something to do with that marriage proposal. He said I owe him an answer. Owe. What’s the hurry? Oh, yeah. I told him I won’t sleep with anyone before I tie the knot. Anyway, he can find someone else if he doesn’t like it. It’s also not my fault his rocket’s a mess. Glushko built a nineteen-burner engine for the R-3, but the mixing chamber is too big to survive the pressure. He says he’s solved the problem, but I don’t want to build another engine for a rocket that won’t cross the ocean. If we’re going to do this thing, we’re going to do it right. I want to go straight for the prize and build an intercontinental ballistic missile. A short-range missile is just that, a missile. It can’t be used for anything but killing people. I want to build something that will get us to space. I want to build the perfect rocket.

  Where the hell is everyone? Another car slowing down. Black sedan this time. Looks a hell of a lot like the secret police. Oh shit, this one’s stopping. Two men getting out. They’re … Yep. They’re secret police all right. I hate the MGB. There’s an alley behind me twelve meters to the right. It’s too far. I’d need to slow them down first.

  —You need to come with us.

  They’re both large and heavy. It’s intimidating but it usually means slow and clumsy. I could push one on the other, duck behind cars, and make the alley before they draw.

  —Who? Me? This must be a mistake.

  Forward might be better. I’ve got high heels. Push one down, kick him in the eye. Take his weapon. I can probably puncture a kidney with a hard kick.

  —It’s no mistake, ma’am. Just get in the car.

  Could it be because of the clinic? Maybe Billie talked. I need to decide now.… Pistols are holstered, straps are on. Shoulders are relaxed. Whatever they want, they don’t see me as a threat. There’s no point in taking them on now.

  —I’m coming.

  I’ll reassess in the car. I’ll fare better in there anyway. Confined space, limited freedom of movement. Holsters aren’t made for sitting. Drawing is awkward when you sit. They put me in the middle, one man on each side. The doors are unlocked, so I could push one out if need be. We’re moving now, but where to? I guess I can just ask.

  —Where are we going?

  —Just sit back and relax, ma’am.

  Of course. I’ll relax. Who doesn’t like being driven to an unknown location by the secret police? One of them is pouring himself a drink. He’s relaxing, that’s for s—Oh, he’s handing it to me. I guess he was pouring me a drink. This is crazy. I don’t know what’s going on but, clearly, I’m not getting arrested.

  I wonder how far we’re going. I hope it’s nearby, because neither of these guys is the talking type. It’ll be a long—EWWWWW. Warm vodka. A whole juice glass of it. For once, I agree with Mother. I don’t think I should be drinking this. Then again, I could be on my way to a firing squad. I’ll have one more sip.

  Music would be good.… Anything.…

  Shit. I forgot about dinner. Billie probably spent the whole day cooking. She’ll have to eat alone. I hope she doesn’t stare at the clock while our food’s getting cold. Not that it makes a difference, Billie can’t cook to save her life, but I like it when she tries. I know she does it for me. She couldn’t care less about everyday things. I wish I were like her, but I need a bit of normal in my life.

  I think this is it. We’re pulling into a driveway. It’s a big house. Big big. Here’s the limousine I saw earlier. This has to be a party official, a general maybe. This whole place screams: “Look at me! I’m important!” What the hell am I doing here?

  —You can get out now, ma’am.

  Hand on my back. I could turn fast and break his arm, shoot the other one and take the car. This might be my last chance. He’s guiding me towards the door. I’ll play along. At this point, I’m more curious than scared. I have to know who went through all this trouble just to meet me.

  It could be someone saw me with Korolev and wants to know what he’s working on. Maybe someone from another bureau. Glushko? It’s no secret he and Korolev aren’t fans of each other. Maybe it’s one of the Germans. There are only a handful left, but Korolev doesn’t trust them. He’s had them working on rockets that will never be built. He’ll cherry-pick a few things from their designs, but that’s about as much as they can hope to contribute. I’m not sure any of them has enough pull with the party higher-ups, though. Maybe Gröttrup. He must know someone. He lives in a villa outside of Moscow. This could be it for all I know. Everyone else sleeps in crowded barracks. “Communal apartments,” they call them. Has a nice ring to it.

  —This way, please.

  Again with the hand on my back. I don’t like being touched, especially by MGB goons.

  We’re inside. This is not Gröttrup’s. I’ve met his wife, and whoever lives here isn’t married. I’ve only seen the lobby but I know a man decorated this place, an insecure one at that. Ostentatious doesn’t even begin to cover it. Is that a fucking Fabergé egg? Seriously, who puts that in a lobby? Someone who thinks it’ll look great next to medieval armor, I suppose. There is so much ugly here, it feels like a yard sale for stupidly rich people.

  We’re walking now. They’re taking me to another room, the dining room. Not as crowded as the entrance, but more pretentious if that’s even possible. This room is meant for guests. I bet whoever lives here never set foot in here alone. Goon number one is pulling out a chair for me. Goon number two is pouring me some wine. These guys really want me drinking. Nice glass, though. I can still run, but I really want to know whose house this is. The table is set for two. White porcelain with gold trim. I suppose all I have to do is wait. Ewww, that wine. I really shouldn’t be drinking.… Anyone who serves this to guests has to be evil.

  The Tracker. What if it’s him? I doubt the devil lives in the suburbs, but why not? He … wants to see me before he kills me. He’ll torture me until I give up Mother. Stop it, Mia. This is stupid. There’s no— Oh, someone’s coming.

  … Beria? Lavrentiy Fucking Beria? Now I know why the MGB is here. He doesn’t run the agency anymore, but he is the—what’s that stupid title again?—Curator of the Organs of State Security. He’s not the Tracker, that’s for sure. Mother said they’re stronger than us. Beria’s an … emaciated little rat. What could he possibly want with me? Is he after Korolev? I’ll know soon enough. He’s sitting down.

  —How do you like the wine?

  He’s waving the goons away. Whatever he needs to discuss, he wants it to be private.

  —It’s very good, sir.

  Worst thing I ever drank. Warm vodka was better than this.

  —Château Trotanoy. A ’45. The soil in the region consists almost exclusively of black clay.

  How la-di-da. Now I know who decorated the house.

  —I did not know that, sir. Thank you.

  —I’m terribly sorry. I forgot to introduce myself. Do you know who I am?

  —Yes, sir. I do. It’s an honor to meet the deputy chairman.

  —Oh, please. Call me Lavrentiy. We’re amongst friends here.

  Friends? He’s been drinking more than me if he thinks we could ever be friends. This man kills and tortures for a living.

  —I couldn’t possibly, sir.

&n
bsp; They’re bringing us food now. The secret police are bringing me food. Why? This house is so big, I know he has staff. Why aren’t they serving us? What is this thing? Is this a fucking bisque?

  —Please. Eat.

  It smells fine but I’m too nervous to eat. Anyway, I’m not sharing a meal with this man. I just want to know why I’m here and get the hell out.

  —I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know if I’m coming down with something or if I’m just very tired but I seem to have lost my appetite.

  —Are you sure? I had the chef prepare his veal blanquette for us. It is absolutely divine.

  —Please send the chef my apologies.

  —I will. Shall we get on to business, then?

  Finally.

  —Yes. Please.

  He’s getting up. He’s thanking the MGB officers. I guess they’re not coming with us. There’s a large double door ahead of us. That’s where he’s taking me.

  —After you.

  It’s his office. It’s oddly empty. There’s a large wooden desk—dark wood; it’s actually pretty—but not much else. A rug, a couple of chairs. A red sofa, velvet. There’s something odd about this room. It’s the walls. There are no books here, no bookshelves. There’s nothing on any of the walls. They’re all padded. Red velvet with crystal buttons. The man loves his velvet. He even put some on the inside of the doors. Speaking of, he just closed them.

  —You should get comfortable.

  Comf—I’m sorry, what? Did I say that out loud? No, I didn’t. I meant to, though. This is …

  The walls. Now I know what’s bugging me about the walls. The padding isn’t decoration. It’s soundproofing. Beria is taking his jacket off.

  —I should go.

  —When I say so.

  Whoa. So this is his thing? He prowls the streets at night. He brings girls to his home, wines them and dines them, then he rapes them in his soundproof office. I thought this had something to do with Korolev, with my work. I bet this asshole doesn’t even know who I am.

  —Let me go now or I’ll call for help.

  —Oh dear. Scream, or not. It doesn’t matter. You are in my power now. So think about that and behave accordingl—

  Fuck.

  What did I do? I didn’t think. My hand just … flew. One right hook to the jaw and Beria crumpled to the floor like a wet towel. I’m glad I knocked that little rat’s lights out but I’m in trouble now, serious trouble.

  It’s getting hot in here. Think, Mia. Beria’s not going to stay unconscious forever. The right move is to kill this piece of shit, him and everyone in here. Survive at all costs. We can be out of Russia by morning. That’s what I should do, but I won’t. I don’t want to kill anyone anymore, not unless I have to. I’ll lose everything. Billie. My research. I’ll lose myself.

  Don’t draw attention to yourself. That’s also a rule.… Assassinating the highest-ranking military officer in the Soviet Union is probably not the best way to keep a low profile. Beria will be mad but he’ll get over it. I mean, the man has other fish to fry. I can continue my work, see my project through to the end. I can see Billie. That’s the plan. The little rat gets to live. I get to walk out the front door, hopefully.

  Here we go. Open the office doors, no one’s here. That corridor seemed much shorter when I came in. I’ll trace my steps back. I don’t want to get lost in the house and walk in on an MGB poker game.… Dining room is clear.…

  One of the goons is in the lobby. Smile, Mia. Big smile. He’s not doing anything. I think this might just w—He’s reaching for something! There’s nowhere to run but the way I came in, nothing to duck behind. Flowers? He’s handing me a bouquet. Why on earth would he give me a bouquet?

  Consent? Any girl who walks out of here is a threat to Beria. But if they accept a bouquet, it will be that much harder for them to claim it wasn’t consensual. All right, I’ll take your stupid flowers.

  —Thank you for the bouquet.

  More smiling. He’s opening the door for me. I wonder what happens if you refuse to t—

  —IT’S NOT A BOUQUET! IT’S A WREATH! MAY IT ROT ON YOUR GRAVE!

  Shit. That was Beria. I need to not be here right now. The MGB asshole is closing the door. I guess he’s not afraid to turn his back on an unarmed girl. Bad call. He’s only five feet away but that should be enough to get some momentum. Elbow up. Slam his face into the door. Bam! Left arm around his neck, grab his pistol with the right.

  Where’s Beria? Good. He ran when he saw me grab the gun. Deep breath. I’m burning hot but I’m in control. Take a couple of steps back and open the door. Let’s see what’s out there.

  One more MGB at the bottom of the steps. One reading in the car. I’ll use the guard I’m choke-holding as a shield. He’s getting harder to move, he must be coming about. I’m pushing against his back as hard as I can. I can’t see a thing now but we should hit the stairs right about …

  *TAK*

  *TAK*

  Gunshots. Shit. My human shield just took two to the chest. He’ll go limp soon and I can’t shoot back while I’m holding him. This asshole must weigh close to two hundred pounds. I need to cover some distance before I drop him. Damn, he’s heavy! PUSH, MIA! PUSH!

  Guard number two is right beside me now, raising his gun hand. His arm is thirty degrees ahead of me, but he’ll aim for my chest before he pulls the trigger. I have a smaller arc to cover if I aim for his foot.

  *TAK*

  His hand dropped. His whole body’s bending in pain. The foot is a complex machine: twenty-six bones, loads of muscles and ligaments. A hundred things send pain signals at once when a piece of metal shatters them at the speed of sound. I’ve got the tip of my gun on his head.

  *TAK*

  So much for not killing anyone. Where is the last one? Is he still in the car? No, the car door’s open. Where the hell is he? To hell with him, I’ll just take the car.…

  Crap. The keys are gone. I can’t leave on foot; we’re in the middle of nowhere. They’ll have two hundred men combing through these woods in twenty minutes. The good news is he doesn’t have a gun or he’d have used it by now. I’ll put my head to the ground, see if he’s hiding anywhere.

  Oh yeah, I see your ugly black boots behind the limo, asshole. You better have the keys on you or I—Wait … I don’t need his keys. The limo keys are in a bowl in the lobby. He’s closer to the door but he won’t see me until I run by him. RUN!

  Now he sees me. The door’s still open but he’s … right behind me. Up the stairs and—

  —AAAAAGH!

  He’s got me by the hair! I’m in midair staring at the ceiling. This is going to hurt.

  The gun! I dropped it when I hit the ground. Where is it? Ugh. Asshole stepped on my hand. GET UP, MIA!

  He’s found the gun. He’s on one knee, picking it up. Fight or flee? He’ll shoot me in the back if I go for the door. The suit of armor! That ugly thing is holding a sword. I just hope that thing’s real. Yes. The sword weighs about four pounds. The center of percussion should be about two feet from the hilt. If I swing hard enough, it should remove a head. The gun’s in his hand now. One! Big! SWING!

  Gotcha.…

  Beria’s back at the end of the corridor, staring at his headless henchman on the ground. Do I kill him now? I’ll never see Billie again if we have to leave Moscow. Screw him. I’m not giving up everything I care about for this jerk. I’ll just throw the sword down and give him a nice wiggly hand wave.

  I’ve got the keys. Time to go.

  41

  Night Train

  I shouldn’t have told Mother. I should have just kept my mouth shut and went on with my life. Best I can do now is stare at the window, eat my cereal and Butterbrot while she tells me we have to move.

  —We have to move, Mia.

  Here we go.

  —…

  —We have to pack our things and get out of Russia. Tonight.

  I probably can’t ignore her all morning. Deep breath.

  —I’m not going
anywhere, Mother. Not after all the work I put in. And we need milk. This one’s gone bad.

  —Perhaps I need to remind you of recent events. You just killed three people, inside the house of Stalin’s right-hand man. You did it right in front of him, and you let him live.

  —I let him live precisely so we wouldn’t have to move! That was the whole point.

  —You are not thinking straight.

  Maybe not. But I’m still not going anywhere.

  —He doesn’t know who I am, Mother. He’s the only one who’s seen my face. What’s he going to do? Knock on every door in Moscow himself on the off chance I’ll open the door? Besides, what would he arrest me for? I don’t think Beria will want to draw attention to his extracurricular activities.

  —I think you gravely underestimate the lengths to which a man will go to reclaim his pride.

  —Oh, Mother. That’s what he does all day, every day. He’ll arrest a couple more people, torture them a little longer. If that doesn’t do it, he’ll find himself a revolution he can crush. Trust me, he’ll be back to his old self in no time.

  —I will not take that chance, Mia, not with the Tracker closing in on us. We have to move.

  This again.

  —Enough about the Tracker, Mother! He’s …

  —He is what? A myth? Do you truly believe our ancestors were killed by a figment of their imagination?

  —No, Mother. I don’t. But I won’t give up everything because of him. I’m sorry. Fuck him.

  —MIA! The Tracker will slaughter us if he gets the chance.

  —So will any number of people. There’s evil everywhere, plenty of it. World War II is barely over and they’re at it again in Korea. Five years, Mother. That’s how long they waited before sending more people to die for nothing. Sixty million dead wasn’t enough, apparently.

  —I under—

  —Seriously! I just left the house of a man who ordered hundreds of thousands of people killed. Lord knows how many he sent to their grave himself. As if being a mass murderer and a sadist wasn’t bad enough, it turns out he moonlights as a serial rapist. Just tell me, Mother, how bad can this fucking Tracker be?