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

by Brandon Q Morris

  He’d been strangely sentimental since his accident. Why hadn’t he started that earlier? As a child it would have made him happy. Not anymore. No, that wasn’t true. He tried to convince himself it was, but he truly was pleased. If only Komikov would talk to Yekaterina...

  “Thank you sergeant, for escorting him. Would you mind waiting outside?”

  “Of course, Colonel General.”

  They were alone. Sasha stood next to the bed, feeling uncomfortable. What could he say, what was he allowed to ask?

  “I hear you did well on the space station.”

  “Thank you. It was definitely an exciting trip, even if not everyone was happy about me being there.”

  “That’s understandable. They’ve all gone through a long selection process and then trained for several years, and then a rookie comes along.”

  “I know that, Father. Anyway, my appetite for surprises has been satisfied for the time being.”

  “That’s unfortunate.”

  “Why? Are you going to transfer me to a submarine next?”

  “No, but I’m putting together a research group that will study the results of the Relikt measurements.”

  “In Akademgorodok?”

  His father frowned. “The gossip mill is working overtime at the moment,” he said.

  “I only asked where Yekaterina was.”

  “Yes, she must have just arrived. She’s part of the research group.”

  “And who’s leading it? Verkhodanov?” Verkhodanov had been at it the longest out of all of them. He was the most likely candidate.

  “No, I was thinking of you, son.”

  Sasha stiffened. He was pleased, but only briefly. Everyone would think he’d only gotten the post because his father wanted it that way. He’d never wanted to be his father’s protégé. That was why he’d deliberately applied to work at Doroshkevich’s civilian laboratory.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Group leader at the whim of the colonel general?”

  “You’re good, son. Doroshkevich said so, too, and that guy is so full of himself he’d never excessively praise his subordinates.”

  “Yes, but I don’t have any experience. Verkhodanov has been doing it for much longer.”

  “Verkhodanov needs someone to give him direction. He’s good at sinking his teeth into things, but he doesn’t have any ideas.”

  “It’s all too soon for me.”

  “You became a very capable cosmonaut in just a few days. Good enough that you didn’t draw attention to yourself amongst all those old hands. You’ll adapt quickly to the role of group leader.”

  Sasha sighed. If Komikov asked him and not Yekaterina, she’d be disappointed. And that would affect their relationship, regardless of what form it was now going to take. A good father should treat his children equally.

  “I can’t do it,” said Sasha.

  “Why not? Are you afraid? You’ll be fine!”

  “No, Father, but it’s favoritism.”

  “You’re my child. Of course I put you first. Everyone understands that!”

  “Katya—isn’t she just as much your child? Why do you put me first?”

  “Yekaterina? What gave you the idea she was my daughter? You’re my only child. I never wanted any more. I couldn’t even take proper care of you.”

  “But didn’t you have another family in Leningrad?”

  “I enjoyed visiting Yekaterina’s mother when I had to go to Leningrad. A man has needs, you must understand that. I was sometimes stationed there for several weeks. But when I met her mother at the Institute, Katya was already two years old. Her charming father never had time for her, which was why we had such a good relationship. But she isn’t my daughter, and she knows that. Did you never ask her? I had the feeling something was developing between the two of you.”

  “I thought she assumed she was your daughter, and I wanted you to tell her the truth yourself.”

  “Well, you really got hold of the wrong end of the stick, son.”

  What an idiot. How many times had he held himself back because he thought she was his half-sister? Yeah, why hadn’t he asked her? He’d wanted to punish his father—who wasn’t even guilty—for it. How stupid could you be? He had to go straight to her and explain what had happened, that he loved her and all that.

  “You’re right Father, I was an idiot. But now I need to know when I can start.”

  “So you’re accepting my offer to lead the group?”

  “Yes, definitely. When can I leave?”

  “If nothing’s keeping you here, then tomorrow? I have to admit, I was hoping you could still visit me now and then in the hospital.”

  “Sorry. I have to get to Akademgorodok as quickly as possible, or I’ll be unhappy for the rest of my life.”

  “Then that’s what you’ll do, Sasha. I never expected such drama from you.”

  April 13, 1984, Tyuratam

  He went through his bungalow one last time. Every shelf, chest, and cupboard was empty. His belongings still fit in the rucksack he’d arrived with. But he felt much richer than he had a month ago.

  The sand outside the door crunched. The dezhurnaya entered the house. She had to officially take possession of the bungalow before it could be passed on to the next tenant.

  “You’re a little early,” he said.

  “I just wanted to keep you company for a while.”

  “That’s kind of you.”

  They sat at the kitchen table. He was sure Valya was going to pull a small bottle of vodka out of her apron. But he waited in vain. She leaned forward conspiratorially.

  “So, what’s happening with you two?” she asked.

  “And what’s happening with you two?” he retorted.

  “Volodya? Oh, I’ve known him for a long time. I like him and sometimes we have a bit of fun.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Now don’t change the subject, Sasha. I asked you a question. It’s your turn. Who knows when we’ll see each other again? You can’t let me go to my grave not knowing.”

  “I... yes, I like Yekaterina, too.”

  “You like her?”

  “A lot.”

  His heart beat faster when he thought of her. He wanted to hug her. And kiss her. And... But he wouldn’t tell Valya all that. ‘A lot’ would have to do.

  “Ah, I understand,” she said.

  “You understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, I just understand.”

  “But what do you understand, Valya?”

  “Your relationship.”

  “Why? I don’t even understand that.”

  “You only know one side of it.”

  “But you know both sides? Because you know us, or what?”

  “No, because I asked Katya.”

  “You asked her what she thinks of me?”

  “Which I also asked you. Ask and you get answers, a fundamental principle.”

  Yeah, he’d just figured that out himself. “And what did she say?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Yes what?”

  “I won’t say anything else. It’s best if you ask her yourself.”

  “Please, Valya.”

  “No, it’s between you two. But I’m very happy for you both. You’re a good match, I think. Volodya thinks so, too.” And probably half the residents in Tyuratam. The dezhurnaya knew everyone.

  A car was approaching. It must be the driver to take him to the airport.

  “I hereby take possession of your bungalow,” said Valentina.

  “Thank you, Valya, for everything.”

  “You’re welcome. Now give me a hug.”

  “Of course, comrade.”

  Valya laughed. She smelled of Makhorka, garlic, and juniper. Home.

  Sasha wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. He didn’t want the driver to see it.

  April 15, 1984, Akademgorodok

  The freshly fallen snow crunched under his feet. It w
as around minus ten degrees—not too cold—but the wind was fresh, a dry north wind that made his eyes water. A gray shadow flashed past him. Sasha was startled, but it was only a skier overtaking him on a well-worn trail. In the summer that must be the bicycle trail. The wide road was empty. And it was smooth as glass—he’d noticed that earlier when he had needed to cross it. The wind must have blown the fresh snow away.

  Sasha pulled his lambswool coat tighter around himself. Now he was glad he’d accepted his father’s parting gift. As if he’d need a fleece coat in April, he’d thought, forgetting that Akademgorodok was a district of Novosibirsk, which was pretty much the capital of Siberia. The dezhurnaya of the hostel he’d been dropped off at last night had also given him a colorful scarf.

  He started walking faster. He was supposed to be at the Institute at eight, the dezhurnaya had commanded. At least it had sounded like a command coming from her mouth. It was still dark. When did it get properly light here?

  He reached a junction. The Lavrentyev Prospekt, where most of the research institutes were located, extended in a northwesterly direction. Sasha looked around. In the middle of the small park to his left he saw the Institute for Cytology and Genetics, which he’d passed earlier. Only a few lights were visible there behind the dense trees. Turn here, the dezhurnaya had instructed him, and then take the second street on the right.

  The side street was more of a track. It hadn’t been cleared, but numerous feet had worn a narrow path. There were fences on both sides. They were adorned with snow, but you could see how rusty they were at the latticework. Smoke was drifting toward him from one of the buildings on the right. It smelled of ash and sulfur. He still hadn’t encountered anyone apart from the skier. Probably because it was Sunday and they all had the day off.

  Sasha ran—as much as he could in the snow and wearing a thick jacket and boots. At least he wasn’t in danger of slipping. The cloud of steam in front of his face grew. It was as though it was connected to him. But the faster movement helped him warm up. Another side road led off to the right, and then a second, which he ran along.

  Four minutes later he was standing at a small junction. Left seemed to lead into the forest. Ahead on the right he could see the building the dezhurnaya had described to him—four stories clad in dirty yellow tiles. That must be the Computing Center. Officially, it belonged to the Mathematical Institute. It allegedly had the best computing technology around. The building itself looked pretty old-fashioned.

  Anyway, right now Sasha wasn’t interested in the mainframe computer that was going to help him decode the Relikt data.

  He longed to see Yekaterina again.

  The reception by the head of the Computing Center was as frosty as his office. The heating was probably functioning at reduced capacity because it wasn’t a workday. Shostakovich was wearing a suit and tie that had seen better days. “Good morning, comrade,” he said. His expression didn’t change when he said it, nor did he extend his hand.

  “Good morning. And thank you very much for your hospitality.”

  Shostakovich pulled a face at the last word, as though he’d just bitten into a pickle.

  “I promise we’ll only take advantage of it for as long as strictly necessary.”

  Shostakovich grumbled and frowned. He couldn’t blame the man. They were going to be using a large portion of Shostakovich’s computing resources, and he’d probably only been informed a few days ago.

  “Come with me,” said Shostakovich, indicating the door.

  They took a decrepit but somehow still-working elevator from the fourth floor down to the basement. It smelled moldy and roughly every other fluorescent tube wasn’t functioning. Was the mainframe, the pride and joy of the Mathematical Institute, supposed to be down here? It was unbelievable. But Shostakovich led him undeterred along a narrow passageway that wasn’t even two meters high. Various cables ran along the ceiling as well as a thick pipe, which was presumably for the central heating.

  Two men wearing black work clothes passed them. One had a bucket half filled with water in his hand. The other was shouldering a broom, which kept hitting against the ceiling and chipping off small pieces of plaster. It didn’t seem to bother Shostakovich. He gave them a short nod, and they nodded back. Sasha thought he saw a conspiratorial glint in their eyes, as though they both knew what was in store for him.

  Was the head of the Computing Center maybe going to lock him in a cell down here, to get him out of the way? And perhaps the two workmen had just finished cleaning Katya’s blood off the floor of the cell. You’re crazy, Sasha. The man with the illustrious name probably just wanted to show him how hard people worked around here.

  Shostakovich opened a heavy steel door. Then he stepped back. A man with a moustache and wearing a green smock came out of the corridor that led off to their left. He was holding a toolbox in his left hand, which must have been pretty heavy because the man was listing heavily to that side.

  “Excuse me, comrade,” said the man.

  Shostakovich tipped his imaginary cap. He let the handyman pass and then entered the corridor. Sasha followed him. It felt to him like they were passing the outer wall of the Computing Center. Of course! Because it was so cold outside, they’d dug subterranean corridors so that you could get between the buildings without a fur coat. Sasha was relieved. Sure enough, after about 40 more steps they reached another steel door at another junction, which brought them to a staircase leading up.

  The stairs ended in a roughly three-meter-high warehouse lit by fluorescent tubes and filled with the hubbub of activity. It was unusually warm. The warehouse measured about 15 by 25 meters. There were no supporting columns, so the building must be a single story. The entire floor space was taken up by control cabinets, which seemed to be arranged according to some unfathomable system.

  Shostakovich stopped. He was visibly proud of his baby. “This is our pride and joy,” he explained. “Our BESM-6.”

  “So all the control cabinets are part of the BESM?” asked Sasha.

  “BESM-6, yes. The machine takes up about two-hundred square meters. But it only requires thirty kilowatts.”

  That was why it was so warm in here. Thirty kilowatts would put out a decent amount of heat. What must the temperature be like in here in summer, when the Siberian sun blazed down on the flat roof?

  “Don’t worry, we have a few cooling systems on the opposite side,” said Shostakovich, as though he’d read Sasha’s thoughts.

  “We’ll be gone by then anyway,” said Sasha.

  Shostakovich looked at him doubtfully. Sasha didn’t believe they’d solve the problem that quickly either. It was said that the summer began here as soon as the winter was over, so May.

  “A forty-eight-bit processor, sixty-thousand transistors, a hundred-and-eighty-thousand diodes, a clock speed of ten megahertz, and a million commands per second,” said Shostakovich. “Can you imagine that?”

  The numbers sounded impressive, but what they actually meant Sasha had no idea. So he just nodded.

  “For the Soyuz-Apollo Test Project we were thirty times faster than the Americans,” Shostakovich added.

  But that was ten years ago, my good man. Sasha decided it was best if he kept that comment to himself. “How long have you had the BESM-6?” he asked cautiously.

  “Since 1974,” said Shostakovich. “But since then we’ve expanded the ferrite-core memory from thirty-two to a hundred-and-twenty-eight kilobytes and replaced it with an even faster, transistor-based memory. Instead of the annoying teletype input, you can now launch interactive sessions with brand-new Videoton VT-340 terminals from Hungary. And we’ve also expanded the tape drives with twelve ten-megabyte hard drive cabinets, connected via a high-speed bus.”

  “A bus?” Sasha imagined a dilapidated suburban bus driving between the computer and the memory cabinets, and couldn’t help smiling.

  “Oh, you’re not familiar with computer systems?” Shostakovich raised his eyebrows. What deadbeats have they sent me, he
must have been thinking.

  “I’m a mathematician, comrade. At the university I completed a cybernetics course, but otherwise I’m not familiar with state-of-the art computing technology. But I’m sure I’ll familiarize myself quickly.”

  The creases in the forehead of the head of the Computing Center deepened. “I’ll make my personal assistant available to you,” said Shostakovich. “Lonja knows—”

  “That’s not necessary, comrade,” Sasha interrupted. He was sorry he had to insult Shostakovich like this. He probably had a lot of influence at the Institute and in the whole city, and he would have liked to have him on board. But the project was classified. They couldn’t have anyone observing them.

  “Well, then, I’ll just take you to your group. Someone there can probably explain to you what a bus is,” said Shostakovich, turning abruptly and walking away.

  Sasha barely managed to catch up with him before he disappeared between the cabinets. Shostakovich kept turning left and right. Sasha felt like he was chasing a zigzagging hare. The man was probably doing it on purpose. He’d never find his way back.

  The individual control cabinets weren’t all identical. Some of them were closed and only had a few lights, while others seemed to have spinning components inside of them. They walked past two cabinets. Each had a kind of protruding tray with numerous buttons. This must be where they controlled the BESM-6. But how? Hopefully Katya knew her way around this stuff. Katya—he shouldn’t be thinking of her right now! He should have paid more attention to computers at the university! He didn’t even know what the individual components were for.

  “Here we are,” said Shostakovich.

  They’d reached a clearing in the computer forest. It was about two by three meters wide. On two tables along the back stood several screens connected to keyboards with chairs in front of them. In the middle was a green, worn sofa that didn’t look like it belonged. It probably knew as much about the technology as he did. At least there was someone here who understood him.

  Two people in white coats stepped simultaneously out of narrow passages from the left and the right. It was Yekaterina and Verkhodanov. Sasha stuck his hands in his pants pockets. He dearly wanted to fling his arms around Katya’s neck, but he didn’t want to show weakness in front of Shostakovich. But a smile, that was okay.