by Greg Ahlgren
“Infinite realities? What the hell does that mean?” Amanda demanded.
“What it means is that in an infinite universe there may be an infinite number of realities,” Paul explained. “In an infinite universe there are realities for everything having happened. Right now we can safely say that for one whole year one chrome canister was under that bridge. That is a reality. Now let’s suppose that tonight we send another canister back. We would then create a reality, a universe if you will, where there were two canisters under that bridge for a whole year. Then we could send a third. Given enough time Lewis and I could create an infinite number of realities where everything has happened. David theorized that time travel might simply be lateral movement to any one of an infinite number of parallel planes discovered by the travelers.”
Paul paused to allow this to sink in.
“So,” Amanda said slowly, “what you are saying is that there is a world, a universe, where Lee won at Gettysburg and where Hitler got nuclear weapons?”
Paul nodded. “That is one theory.”
“Which means,” Lewis continued, “that time travel may just be lineal movement between what are essentially parallel realities. All of this effort may just end us up in a world in which Lee loses at Gettysburg but there may also be worlds in which he wins and The South wins.”
“Sounds discouraging,” Amanda concluded.
“But that’s just a theory,” Paul added hurriedly. “It may be nothing more than that. David speculation. I know what has happened in our world and the question for us now is do we want to try and change it?”
Amanda shrugged. “Like you said, recent history hasn’t been too good.”
Chapter 10
Natasha sat in her Dorchester apartment with her laptop open. The feed from CA was a bit disjointed. She tried to review the film from Monday. She zoomed in on the piece of paper but couldn’t read the address. It was too late now to put a trace on Amanda or Paul’s car. She had no interest in staking out a bowling alley, but she needed something to send back to Yeltsengrad.
The phone rang. Without looking Natasha picked it up. “Hello Igor.”
“Comrade Nikitin. How is life in the wonderful free world?”
“Wonderful. I haven’t been shot or mugged in this neighborhood yet. My collection of malt liquor and chemical wine bottles is improving.”
“The natives are getting restless,” Rostov said. “We appreciate hearing all about the dashing British junior professors you date, of course, but if you could throw a little more meat in the stew that would be greatly appreciated.”
“Igor, I’m sending reports. I’m not holding anything back, honest. I need to cultivate Nigel as a source.”
“He obviously likes you. He agreed to hire you. Not that he would have had much choice. But, we didn’t put you in Boston to send back wallpaper.”
“I’m trying. Just a little more time,” she said.
Rostov sighed. “Would it be enough of an inducement to dangle the Charles River apartment in front of you in exchange for useful information?”
“Oh no, you’re serious about upgrading to the Charles River apartment?”
“It’s on the first floor of Ginter’s building. You two’d be neighbors.”
“Beats this dump. But what is the, ah...cost?”
“Now, Comrade Nikitin, you sound ungrateful for the arrangements. There you are, living in what they claim is the most charming city in North America, and you’re witching about what part of town you live in.”
“Igor, the windows in the car were broken again last week.”
“So don’t keep anything sensitive in the car overnight. I’d think that much’d be obvious.”
“Igor.”
“All right, all right, I’ll…see what I can do about the apartment. Does this mean you and I can be roomies when I come to Boston?”
“In your dreams.”
“You’re making this an easy decision, Comrade. You must like Dorchester more than you’re letting on.”
“I’ll leave the good vodka within reach,” she said. “Sorry, but that’s as hospitable as I’ll get.”
“Here’s an idea. Why don’t you date deVere instead of Nigel Stufflebottom, or whatever his name is?”
She shook her head, instinctively revulsed, and was glad Rostov couldn’t see her. “He’s as straight as they come,” she said. “He doesn’t even flirt with me. Still calls me Miss Nikitin.”
“Damn. We need to find out what they’re up to, Comrade.”
“I know, Igor, I know.” She paused and considered. “It may have to do with time travel, after all. At least I think so.”
“Time travel?”
“I think they want to go back in time and…undo Soviet America.”
“Can they do that?”
“I think that they’re going to try. If anyone in the world can do it they can.”
“When? How? Where?” Rostov demanded.
“When I know, you will know.”
“Dorchester’s a paradise compared to where I can send you next, you know.”
“Of course.”
“All right,” Rostov said, his tone softening. “But we do need to find out the details, I have this gut feeling something’ll happen soon. You can’t put any bugs at work, I guess?”
“No audio stuff. Too many sensors around.”
“Think you could get to Ginter?”
Natasha paused. “I’m sure I could get him to come up and look at my etchings, if that’s what you’re suggesting, but I know it wouldn’t do any good. He’s ex-special-ops, he’s a bright boy.”
“How about this Nigel character?” Igor asked. “What’s he worth again?”
“He’s a junior professor in the department. I’ve seen him and deVere talking. I need to learn if deVere’s confiding in him. Look, Igor, I’ll find something. I promise.”
On Monday morning Amanda touched Paul lightly on the elbow as they stood in line at the faculty cafeteria. “Join me outside for lunch?”
“Uh, sure,” he said. “Is this–?”
She pressed her finger to his lips and smiled. “Outside.”
He paid for his turkey sandwich and potato chips and followed Amanda out to the south lawn, a favorite spot for faculty lunches that didn’t need to be overheard. “Oh shoot,” he said, sitting down beside her on the bench. “Forgot to get a drink.”
“That’s okay,” Amanda said. “We can share.”
We can share… Paul stared in space until Amanda brought him back by flicking her fingers in front of his eyes.
“I say something wrong?” she asked.
“No, no, it’s…that was how Valerie used to say it.”
“Who?”
“My wife. When we were dating.”
“Sorry,” Amanda said. “Didn’t mean to bring up a sore point.”
Paul looked at her. “It’s not a sore point,” he said hotly. “Valerie’s a good wife and good mother.”
“Not from what I hear. Sorry it’s such a…well, never mind. Now I get to ask you something.”
Paul glanced around. “Go for it.”
“Has to do with the basics of why we’re doing this.”
Paul looked around again. Amanda touched him on the elbow again and pointed to the small metal disk in her palm. He relaxed. “You mean how the idea came about? One day Grace–”
“Face toward me,” Amanda said.
“Oh, sure,” Paul said. He turned so his knees and Amanda’s lightly touched. She didn’t pull down her skirt to cover them, although Paul guessed she could have. He started to shift back but she put her hand on his knee.
“Closer’s better,” she said. “And look down.”
He glanced at her exposed knee, and decided it wasn’t a bad place to concentrate his gaze.
“You told me that already. Is it Peter?” she asked gently.
Peter was a fiend for science; he could never get enough of it. That’s why Paul became a scientist, after all. He worship
ed Peter and the room they shared was always crammed so full of his science experiments–many of which involved frogs and mice, that Paul had to navigate his way to bed each night and check the sheets carefully before crawling in. But Peter would insist on explaining each one to Paul, making sure Paul got it, his eyes dancing in pure delight…
His father finally reached the Tulsa ambulance service. The deVere family had traveled to Tulsa to visit Norman deVere’s brother, and to allow Paul and Peter to meet their cousins. But Peter had been sick the whole way.
A Russian voice, obviously drunk, finally answered, and, sounding exasperated, agreed to send an ambulance. By this time Peter’s cough had worsened, and from where Paul stood behind his mother he could see his brother’s eyes closing and opening, closing and opening, closing and opening.
“Forty-five dollars?” his father roared into the phone. “I have to pay forty-five dollars for you to take my son to the hospital?”
“In cash,” Paul heard the voice on the other end of the line shout. “Dollars, not that Russian shit.” He heard a click and watched his father hold the receiver, not knowing whether to hang it up or throw it out the window.
Half an hour later the ambulance showed up. Peter was coughing less, but harder. His coughs now were accompanied by anguished cries. Paul saw his mother wiping the blood away from his mouth as she handed him to the orderly, who was so drunk he promptly dropped Peter. His father, crimson with impotent rage, snatched up Peter and cradled him in his arms. “Let’s go, Ivan,” he snarled.
“First, the money,” the driver said, weaving unsteadily.
His father thrust some bills in the man’s hand. “Here’s for the free Soviet healthcare, Comrade,” Paul’s father said in a cruel voice.
“Thirty-five dollars here, I said forty-five.” The man crossed his arms. “We don’t go until I get forty-five.”
“The boy’s dying,” his father shouted. “Can’t you hear?”
The orderly flicked his eyes down on Peter’s convulsing form. Paul watched wide-eyed from his mother’s side. “Forty-five dollars.”
“How about this?” his father asked, hoisting Peter over one shoulder and whipping out a Colt .45 from the other. “This get your stinking Russian ass in gear, Comrade?”
Drunk as he was, the orderly recognized what was being thrust in his face. He mumbled something about letting it pass this time and opened the rear of the ambulance. He went to start the motor. On the fourth try he started the engine and Paul, standing alone back at the hotel window, saw the ambulance lurch away and head for a tree until someone jerked the steering wheel back on the road…
“Paul?”
He snapped back in and saw Amanda’s face, worried and anxious. “Are you all right?” she asked as she touched his cheek.
“Yeah,” he breathed. “Distracted. Sorry.”
“Oh,” she said, looking down at his hand. He’d squeezed his sandwich so hard the turkey oozed out from between his fingers.
“What were we…wormholes,” Paul said, cleaning his hand with his handkerchief. “Give me your napkin there.”
Amanda handed him her paper napkin. He smoothed it out on his leg and took another bite.
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s Peter.”
Tuesday, July 21, 2026
Igor Rostov reviewed the last few dispatches Natasha Nikitin had sent. Their quality had decreased markedly, and seemed more concerned with the activities of the flighty British professor of only marginal value.
Rostov guessed that deVere had found some way to keep Natasha in the dark. His immediate supervisor had not been pleased, which had led to the scene in his office that morning:
“Ah yes, Igor Nikolayevich, come in, come in,” Petrovchenko had said.
“Thank you, Comrade,” Rostov had responded. He’d heard stories about being called to Petrovchenko’s office.
Petrovchenko seemed to be in a good mood, though. “Igor, how are you?”
“Fine, sir,” he’d mumbled. Part of the folklore of Petrovchenko’s office was correct: There weren’t any comfortable chairs to be had.
Igor selected the chair that appeared too hard, as opposed to the chair that seemed too tight or the one that seemed to be tilting at an uncomfortable angle.
“Most interesting operation you’re running in Boston, most interesting,” Petrovchenko said. “The agent is a Natasha Nikitin. Highly rated on all agency reports. You appear to be handling her well.”
“Thank you, sir,” Rostov said, shifting in his chair.
“Of course that’s to be expected from a man in your position. Otherwise you wouldn’t be in your position, would you? You’d be monitoring prisoner recreation in Siberia, right?”
Rostov didn’t say anything, and Petrovchenko looked up and laughed. “Oh come on, Igor, it was a joke. Lighten up. We’re happy with your work, you’re not going anywhere.”
Rostov allowed himself a small breath of relief. “I’m glad you’re pleased, sir.”
“Oh very pleased,” Petrovchenko said. “It looks like you’ve managed to procure some quite useful intelligence on this time travel they’re fooling around with.”
“I hope it has been satisfactory, sir,” Rostov replied.
“Oh, more than satisfactory, quite impressive, actually. At least the first dispatches were.”
Rostov’s stomach tensed. “Yes sir?”
“Any third-form student could see that your operative lost her pipeline to the good information between this report”–he threw a paper on the desk–“and this one.” He threw another paper. “What happened, they change the locks on the filing cabinets there?”
“I don’t have that information at the moment, sir, but I will certainly find–”
“You’ll certainly know very soon,” Petrovchenko snarled. “And you will remind your operative that not only does her presence in Boston depend on reestablishing that pipeline connection, your position in the agency depends on it as well. Do you follow?”
“Yes sir,” he said.
“No doubt you do,” Petrovchenko said. “As I can see by the files here you took over your position from Dmitri Volkov, who is now running a gas station in St. Louis, isn’t that correct?”
“I haven’t kept in contact with Dmitri Alexeyvich.”
“Not since you pulled the rug out from under the poor bastard’s feet,” Petrovchenko laughed. “Can you imagine anything worse than running a gas station in St. Louis?”
“No sir.”
“I can. Best hope I don’t decide to show you. Nice bit of work you did, feeding Dmitri worthless reports, which he dutifully passed up the line, while keeping the real stuff on disk for the investigators. Classic backstabbing.”
Igor squirmed. “I’m sure I acted professionally and, and in respect to the reports, they were true and correct to the best of my knowledge at the time, sir.”
Petrovchenko burst out laughing. “Ah yes, I myself used the same line when explaining to Moscow how I’d stabbed my supervisor in the back here. Know what that wretch is doing now?”
Igor shook his head.
“I don’t either. Last I heard he was on a security detail responsible for the Central Committee’s dachas in Finland. Arranging shopping tours for wives when their husbands are interviewing secretaries in the hot tubs. Does that sort of work appeal to you, Igor?”
“No sir.”
“Of course not. You’d like my job, wouldn’t you?”
“Sir, I want to do the best work possible in my present position.”
“Sure you do, sure you do,” Petrovchenko said. “And maybe this Natasha wants to do the best work in her present position, did we ever think of that?”
“Sir?”
“I mean,” Petrovchenko said, “maybe this Natasha is funneling the good stuff around you. Maybe she’s a whole lot smarter than you are, no?”
“I have full faith and confidence in Natasha Petronovna,” Igor said.
Petrovchenko chuckled. “No doubt, no doubt. Lik
e my superior had full faith and confidence in me. Her reports, in their original form, are quite interesting. Did you know that she thinks our scientists are going to try time travel?”