by Alex Sapegin
A remarkable incident occurred on February 23rd. This is a Russian holiday dedicated to the Defenders of the Fatherland. It is also unofficially known as “men’s day,” where women often give small gifts to their husbands, boyfriends, fathers, sons, and male co-workers. The Kerimovs had decided to celebrate the day by eating out in a restaurant. In honor of the holiday, Iliya Evgenevich allowed Irina, whose line of suitors was so long, Iliya had stopped counting after the first ten, to bring her new young man along to the lunch. It was a nice time. Even Olga was constantly smiling, but no one was quite sure exactly why. It was either the general atmosphere at the restaurant, or the funny scenes being acted out on a stage by the invited actors. An elderly gypsy woman approached Elena as they were leaving. Her husband was busy helping Olga get her coat and hat on. What it was that made her go outside, she couldn’t say.
“Want me to tell your fortune, my pretty one? I’ll tell the whole truth!” the black-eyed woman said. Elena Petrovna stood, frozen to the spot like a rabbit in front of a boa. The dark eyes’ gaze seemed to fix her in place.
“Would you like me to tell your fortune?” a child’s voice said from behind the old woman. The gypsy spun around and locked eyes with the light-haired girl. Olga removed her sunglasses, which she previously always wore while outside, and smiled. Her smile looked predatory, foreboding to the old lady. She made the sign of the cross several times and started running in the other direction, shouting something in her language. Olga put her glasses back on.
“That lady’s aura was yucky, sprinkled with blackness,” she said. Iliya and his wife glanced at one another. They never heard another word out of her about auras and such, but the incident was firmly fixed in their memories.
After that day in the restaurant, Mr. Kerimov began regularly recording Olga’s night time babbling on the Dictaphone. If it were possible to solve the problem of energy consumption to maintain a portal, the recordings could later be useful in deciphering the language of the world where Andy was transported.
How was he? The regular searches they conducted through the apparatus, although short, were not yielding any results, but the head of the institute was one hundred percent sure his son was alive, and he wasn’t just relying on his own feelings or blind hope. He was believing in what his child told him. Once when he and the wife were yelling at each other for the nth time (unfortunately, fights had become a common occurrence in their home. You’d think Andy’s disappearance would bring them together—they shared the grief, after all! But no, their relationship had taken a bad turn), Olga walked in. The spouses fell silent. The girl stood in the doorway for a few minutes, casting a strict glare at her parents.
“Andy wouldn’t like this, your fighting,” she said after the pause. “He’s having a hard time as it is, and here you are, going at it!”
“How do you know how Andy’s doing?” Elena asked cautiously. She was aware of her husband’s latest research.
“I feel it,” she answered curtly and went to her room. Bon’s claws clanked on the floor as he followed her.
Elena Petrovna collapsed into a chair and began to sob.
“Iliya, I can’t go on like this….”
And he could? What about him? Did his wife think he was made of steel? As if there wasn’t enough turmoil around him at work! An incomprehensible carousel was constantly spinning around the institute. Bratulev, who promised to send a new security service boss and show up himself, had yet to fulfill any of his promises. It was good that the finances kept flowing. It would have been a sin to complain. The golden rain shower showed no signs of stopping. But all attempts to contact the oligarch failed. He had to get by on his own and wind up his employees, which did not provide any spiritual consolation. Screw work, but on top of that, Lena was constantly deriding him… what was with her? What was she hoping to accomplish? She can’t go on? As if he were having an easy time? When did he ever keep any pills with him? Now they were in his pocket at all times. His heart seemed to have been acting up lately….
Work, his wife, his daughter, Andy, and again his daughter, more specifically, the younger one. Mr. Kerimov thought long and hard before letting anyone hear his recordings. But, once he got to Moscow, he decided to find, since he had the opportunity, his school friend. Once he had finished his business about the institute’s problems, he got on the Internet. Experience had shown that you could find anyone but God himself on the web. And yes, googling his name yielded a multitude of links, three of which related to the object in question. Two of those listed his friend’s place of work. After that, it was just a question of applying his knowledge. Champagne and a big box of chocolates…. Yary was a ladies’ man then; he still was.
In his words, Kopilov indirectly confirmed the idea about a connection between Andy and Olga. If only he could think of how to take advantage of this connection while he was in charge of the institute and could use their administrative resources.
Taking his Personal Digital Assistant out of his pocket, Iliya began to sketch a diagram and the configuration of the apparatus. The driver, busy keeping his eyes on the road, did not interfere with his passenger. There was something incomplete about the diagram Iliya’s young colleagues had presented. For over two months now, Kerimov, who was used to and adept at seeing the big picture, couldn’t for the life of him isolate the “speck” interfering with his perception and complete the configuration. The colleagues were doing something unnecessary. To the quiet hum of “Retro FM,” the outlines of yet another vector diagram materialized on the screen.
Setting the PDA aside, Iliya put his head back against the high, firm headrest and observed the dank spring drizzle hitting the car’s roof and windows.
Andy, baby, you’ve really set quite a task before me. Iliya Evgenevich’s gaze slid across the little computer’s screen, which had gone dark to save energy. It would be nice if we could bring back the past, but it’s too bad, that’s not possible. Hold on…. It seemed the pocket computer was jumping into its owner’s hands of its own accord. Why are we using the opposite vector direction for time in our calculations? The vector of direction, essentially, can go in the opposite direction from ours. How can we keep track? There’s the snag, there’s the mistake. Time can’t be negative! The calculations and counting should not be conducted from negative values, but from positive ones.
Somewhere on the edge of his consciousness flickered the taxi driver’s foul language as he cursed the people who’d gotten into a crash and caused the traffic jam. Abandoning the world around him, Kerimov drew diagrams interspersed with formulas.
It was a tumultuous night, full of feverish frenzy and no rest. Iliya used up all the minutes on his phone and twice went downstairs to the lobby to add funds. Not being able to sleep, he didn’t allow the others to, either. His new ideas needed to be sent to the personnel post-haste. Awoken from his sound sleep, Alex asked for an explanation and swore at his boss for not taking his computer with him. The PDA flatly refused to email the diagrams outlined by the Kerimov.
Russia. N-ville.
The minutes before the Boeing 777 airplane landed in his home airport seemed to go on forever. As soon as the plane’s landing gear touched the ground, Kerimov turned on his cell. He found a charging station and discovered a whole series of text messages and missed calls. Interrupting the stream of messages as they came through one by one with little chimes, his wife’s face lit up the phone’s screen.
“Yes, honey.”
“Iliya, where are you?” His wife sounded like she was panicking. Something serious had happened.
“I just flew in. Still on the plane.”
“Iliya,” she sobbed through the phone. He could hear Bon whining. “Come right home.”
“What happened?”
“There’s something wrong with Olga!”
* * *
“Seventeen New Bauman Street!” Kerimov cried, jumping into the first taxi and swatting a hundred dollar bill at the driver. “Step on
it!”
“Are you gonna talk to the cops?” the taxi driver asked phlegmatically.
“Screw the cops!” He took two hundred more dollars from his wallet. “Go!”
“Money talks,” the driver chimed and slammed on the gas. The car took off.
“Iliya!” His wife, her face stained with tears, grabbed him by the arm and pulled him to the kids’ room. Bon, whining, jumped to his feet.
Olga was laying on the floor in the fetal pose, …glowing with a ghostly light. She looked like a bioluminescent mushroom at night. The room smelled distinctly like ozone. Kerimov senior’s hair stood on end. An electrical discharge ran between the arch of his glasses and his right temple.
“OH, my!” he exhaled and darted out of the room. “Lena, bring the wire from the pantry. We’ll try grounding Olga to the heating system.”
“No need,” Olga stretched her legs out. “No need,” their daughter repeated quietly, getting up onto her knees. “It’s all over. I’ll just sleep a little.”
The girl leaned to one side. In one leap, Kerimov was beside her and picked his daughter up in his arms:
“Honey, what’s happened to you?”
“The guy said it’s all...”
“What guy?”
“I don’t know. He said Andy didn’t mean to do this. He’s still learning. I didn’t understand all of it.”
“Honey, what guy did you talk to?”
“I don’t know, he was here,” Olga, not opening her eyes, touched her head. “He said that Kerr shouldn’t be here…. I’m gonna sleep.”
“Who’s Kerr, Olga, baby, what’s this Kerr you’re talking about?”
“That’s what the guy called Andy.” Olga opened her eyes for a second. Iliya Evgenevich almost dropped his daughter from the ring of his arms. A chill ran down his spine like he’d never felt before. For a split second, he thought she had vertical pupils, like a cat’s. No, he was seeing things. He set his daughter down in bed and covered her with the blanket.
His phone vibrated on his belt.
“Hello?” he answered, exhausted.
“Mr. Kerimov,” Alex’s cheerful voice grated his nerves something awful. “Where have you disappeared to? We’re all waiting for you.”
“Go on without me,” he said, tucking her in and patting Bon on the head.
“What about the apparatus?” Alex asked, discouraged.
“Do what you want. I can’t be there. The apparatus’ configuration is at your disposal.” He hung up and set the phone down on the child’s desk in the room.
“Iliya…,”
Kerimov turned towards his wife, who was standing in the doorway.
“Not today, Lena,” he said, taking two steps towards the door and slamming it in her face. “Sleep, sweety,” he said, sitting down on the floor and resting his back up against the bed. The large man, not used to retreating when fate dealt a blow, silently cried.
“Dad, I’m hungry.”
“What?” Iliya rubbed his eyes. Had he fallen asleep? Yes, it was dark outside, and the little clock on the wall said 10:55.
“I’m hungry, Dad,” Olga tugged at his collar.
“Yes, yes, one second. Do you want pelmeni?” he asked his daughter, moving his legs, which had fallen asleep along with him from the uncomfortable position.
“Yes please.”
“Let’s go see what’s in the fridge.”
“I don’t want to walk.” She jumped onto his back.
“Let’s go, rider cowgirl.”
Elena wasn’t home. Perhaps it was for the best. She’d probably gone to her mother’s while Iliya and Olga were sleeping. Where Irina was, God only knew. Iliya Evgenevich sat at the table and watched Olga gulp down her pelmeni, burning her lips on the hot noodles, practically not even chewing. She washed them down with orange juice.
“More, please,” the baby girl said, finishing her first helping. She was feeling like a bottomless pit.
“Wow! You’re not going to pop?”
The second helping was finished almost as quickly as the first. The small child had acquired a simply beastly appetite. Looking at his daughter, Kerimov couldn’t get rid of one nagging thought.
“Honey, do you think you could tell me how Andy’s doing?” He tested the waters.
Olga stopped eating and closed her eyes. Her father got another shiver running down his spine.
“He’s alive.”
“Honey, do you think you could help find him? Daddy’s got a special searching apparatus at work…,” he said, wading in deeper. Olga shrugged.
“You want to take me to work with you? Wow, awesome! I won’t have to go to school on Monday. But how can I help look for Andy? I don’t know.”
“That’s okay. Maybe we’ll think of something as we go along.”
The thought that had been tormenting him all yesterday evening and today had finally taken on substance and then action.
* * *
“Alex, are you sure you did the math right?”
“Definitely, Denis. I’ve told you a thousand times. I’m not an imbecile!”
“Alright, sorry, don’t take it personally. You surprise me, Alex. You’re like a little lamb. Do you really trust the boss that much? That oddball Paul Chuiko,” (who was in the room working with them, a fourth member of the Bandar-log gang) “as soon as he saw the new calculations, we couldn’t tear him away from the computer for half a day. Now we’re building the blocks according to his diagram. He’s a science freak, can’t sit still, as it were. But you—you’re a mathematician!”
Oleg Maksimov stepped out from behind the accumulator block:
“Stop mouthing off! Are you going to help us or what?” He poked his finger into the polarizer mounted on the cart. “Remember, in the transition chamber you’ll have to figure things out for yourselves, and the small blocks will have to be carried on your own backs. I still have the point of focus to adjust.”
“We’re coming, we’re coming,” Denis said, waving his hand dismissively.
“Tell me, Bandar-log face,” Alex said to Denis, pushing the heavy cart. “Before you started working at this shady establishment, had you ever heard of Heim’s theory? What are you staring at me for? So you hadn’t. But the boss enlightened me on that physicist.” Remezov nodded. “Uh-huh. And did you know that Walter Dröscher and Jochem Häuser, who, like our unforgettable boss, paid attention to Burkhard Heim’s theory,… their work is still at the theoretical research stage?”
“Yes, I know. You can work while you talk, you know.” Denis responded, snapping the cable connectors.
“Yeah yeah. A lot of solid physicists are convinced that modern technology is not at all capable of giving off the tension in the field and creating other conditions necessary for a ‘puncture’ through space, that is, they can’t give Heim’s theory a practical application. All their efforts to attract the Z machine from the Americans’ Sandia National Lab3 have amounted to squat. Those Yankees won’t let anyone near their machine without mucho dinero.”
“Hey, banana-eater, what’s the point?”
“The point is, you dipstick, that the boss began his work back in the eighties. He’s piggy-backing off the work of our most esteemed colleague Heim. Get it? In the West, they’re still scribbling on paper, and in Russia here, we are doing the test in the field, the roots of which were put down during Soviet times! And you and I are the ones doing them, not Joe Shmoe. I read Dröscher’s work. It’s about as far from Kerimov’s as here to the moon. So, don’t you touch my oddball. He’s taking us straight to a Nobel Prize! But hey, who am I talking to? Mr. Nuclear, are you even listening to what I’m saying?”
“Alex, you’re a mathematician, right?”
“With you, dunces, I’ve become a physicist whether I like it or not. I’m prepared to argue that the power consumption will decrease, and the system of double feeding the circuit will allow the ‘window’ to stay open for several hours. What d
o ya wanna bet?”
“Loser gets a noogie!”
“A noogie’s not enough!” Oleg entered the conversation after rolling up another block. “Alex gets to give you a noogie every day all next week, and Paul and I get to slap you in the back of the head if it works. Why are we busting our balls here all weekend? Work should be fun.”
“And what if Alex is wrong about the math?” the leader of the Bandar-logs didn’t give up.
“Then you get to slap each of us on the back of the head,” said Oleg.
“Strange math. You want to give me two slaps and one painful noogie every day, so that’s three acts of violence against my person, but I only get to give you one each?” the main jungle resident said, plugging the second block into the power supply system.
“If you wanna back down, just say so,” Alex, leaning over the framework that contained the control devices, egged his friend on.
“Alright you baboons, you’re on!”
“Oleg and Paul, you’re witnesses!”
Five hours later, their work on setting up the apparatus was finished. Paul Chuiko conducted the first adjustment of the installation.
“What the heck, let’s go ahead and launch the blocks under pressure,” Denis suggested, “and fire it up in different modes.”
* * *
“How are things in the jungle? What can the great Bandar-log people tell me?” Kerimov asked the group of young men, who were sitting in the break room drinking coffee.
Alex, the genius with numbers and mind-boggling formulas, smiled mysteriously, adjusting his glasses. Oleg pretended not to have heard the question since he was busy examining the bits of tea at the bottom of his mug. He was the only one of the gang who didn’t abuse coffee.
“Well?” Iliya looked gravely at Denis Remezov. “Or do you want me to dance Kaa’s death dance? Come clean, you blockheads! What have you done!?”
“It’s always the same,” Denis said sadly. “I told you that a prophet’s never accepted in his homeland, and no one will value you on merit. You could fall into an open manhole, and no one would notice. What, Paul, do you think our wild boss will give you a bonus for solving the problem of the accumulators consuming energy? Or you, Alex, will he give you some new glasses to help you keep pineapples and bananas straight? And what can I expect? I changed the apparatus’ configuration, AGAIN, without permission. Who cares if we can now keep the ‘window’ to a certain interesting parallel world open in observation mode for an hour and a half, and open for transport for two minutes. That’s neither here nor there. Our fate is to die in the stomach of an old boa with an unquenchable appetite….”