Terraplane (22 page)

Continued reading, coming at last to the conclusion:

All human beings bear the virus within their bodies, although
only in the earliest stages is any similarity in symptoms
seen.... Neither inoculation nor cure has been discovered.
There are no known survivors of Dovlatov's Syndrome.

"Horrific," I said, handing the tone back to him. "We've no
disease such as this."

"You all are mighty lucky, then," Doc said. "Sometimes diseases
just fade away and no one ever gets 'em anymore. Doesn't happen
often but it happens. If it was still around, you'd know about it."

As I stared round the room, my mind dizzied with what I'd just
read, I discerned a sudden change in all I saw, as if this existence
had been suddenly rinsed in shadow, leaving stain on even the
purest surfaces. "Seventy million died?"

"Over twenty years," he said. "Took long enough getting out of
Russia but once the war came it started spreading fast. Ever'body
that didn't die of it knew somebody that did. About ten years ago it
started to just disappear, though it's never gone completely away. I
think I've read there's still about three thousand new cases a year."

"What's purposed by this info?" I said, fearful to inquire.

"Like I said, you're clean. So's Jake. That is to say, the virus isn't
active in you all and probably won't be-"

"It's in us-"

"You been breathing since you got here, right?" he asked. "You
got it. It's in you. In me. It's in ever'body. But if it was going to start
up in you I'd say it already would have. Peewee-" he said,
eyeshut. "She's got it." The el rumbled by, topside; the stoplight in
the street outside switched from blue to orange, and the traffic
moved along. "It's progressing faster in her than I've ever seen it,
Luther."

"Then how long does she-"

"Not a week," he said. "Probably a lot less. When I saw her catch
those flies this morning, that was the giveaway. Nobody moves that
fast unless they have it. If I'd have thought, I'd have run the tests
last night, but I don't think it would've made any difference. We're
all just so used to it. I'm sorry, Luther."

Apology's nonessentialled for me," I said. "What was her response, hearing?"

"I didn't tell her yet-"

"No?"

"Jake, neither. They got eyes for each other, don't they?"

"Of sorts," I said. "Why didn't you tell?"

"I wanted to be sure. That's why I was waiting till I heard from
the hospital. It's certified. I was going to say something, but she's so-" He faltered. "She looks so young. Cat got my tongue.
Couldn't say a word."

"Then it's finalized?" I asked. "Death's secured? Such a death?"

"Unless you get back and unless you got a cure for it there once
you get back, it's for certain."

Otherwise, then, an army death, bringing nothing with it but
waste and pain. Returning with all speed more than essentialled
now, not simply to save her-for we had no such disease in our
world of which I was aware, and therefore no antidote-but if her
departure prematured it would almost certainly make finding
Skuratov a moot point, and locating Alekhine seemed evermore
doubtful. Jake's unpredicted reactions disconcerted as well; that he
knew attraction of his own was obvious, if unspoken. If he knew she
would be leaving, so soon after arrival, would he act with reason, or-

"Luther," Doc said, "it's in the Lord's hands." To fall through
those hands, as ever, I nearly said. "Listen, there's a patient of mine
works weekdays. He's coming round in about ten minutes. Let me
get ready for him and I'll be down once I'm finished with him."

"Tonight's source"-unlikely source-"arrives when?"

"Eight, like I said. I'm sorry I couldn't tell her yet. I will-"

"We will," I said. Leaving, I moved across the hall, reentering
the unlocked apartment. Jake and Oktobriana couched together, a
half meter between. She flipped pages of a gigantic book she had
lapped before her, riffling them as if for breeze; watching her eyes
flicker to and fro I realized that she was reading. Jake stared on as if
waiting for an appropriate pause to introduce himself. Spotting me
she suddenly lifted the hook and heaved it my way.

"Catch, Luther!" she laughed; twohanded, I snared it before it
cracked heretofore missed ribs. So red was her face that I thought
she'd been drinking; her gestures came as semaphores.

"Marvelous Time magazine world history book of Doe's. Read,
Luther. So many remarkable differences."

"Where's Wanda?" I asked.

"In dreams," said Jake. "Drawn into slumber by morning's wear
and fear." He'd doubleclasped his hands before him as if uncertain
of their action, once loosed.

"Is very fascinating," Oktobriana said, perspiration's beads
bejeweling her forehead. "For long time all here seemed to follow
same historical path as ours, only later. Nearly eighty years ago
divergence begins."

Shortly, I'd found desired entry one: LINCOLN, ABRAHAM. Sixteenth elected President of the United States, Kentucky-born, railthin, legal eagle of the prairie, orator deluxe, history's victim. En
route to inaugural in March 1861, entering secession-crazed Baltimore, southern faetionalists ambushed, brutally shot down-

"No obvious reason for sudden change. Factor conceivably
could be setting off of first atomic bombs in our world. Unexpected
side effect-"

"Side effect," I said. A bomb in New Mexico there kills Lincoln
here?"

"Interconnectedness makes sense," she said, licking parched
lips. "No other theory holds so likely. Like identical twins separated
by distance. One hurts, other feels pain."

Senseless, I thought, holding neither weight nor reason; no more
senseless than our being here. As Oktobriana tossed off theories
like firecrackers I ravaged the history held.

11
-in hologrammatic theory that which exists contains within
itself duplicative pattern which in rationality-"

Checked the Presidents list for the late nineteenth century:
Hamlin, Conkling, Tilden, Blaine, Harrison, Cleveland, McKinley, Teddy Roosevelt.

"-possibilities not limited to existence of two worlds only, of
course-

RoosEVE.Ll; FRANKLIN D. Thirtieth elected President of the
United States. Patrician-born, polio-stricken, former Empire State
governor, 1932 election winner over Depression-disgraced Herbert
Hoover. Assassinated month prior to inauguration in Miami by
anarchist Joseph Zangara. In popular legend believed to have had
secret plan to heal economy, in fact held vague notions of institutional socialism, bolshevized U.S. Successor John N. Garner
ignored plans, watched ba; ks fail, saw dust-blown, povertyshattered midwestern states attempt secession-

"-resulting changes in any event provide miraculous historical
mirror in which we see our face as it might have been."

"Churchill was run over by a cab here in New York in 1931, I
said, tossing the book couchward after glancing over his bio.
"Roosevelt in '33. They had slavery in America until thirty years
ago and still feel the results. Hitler and Stalin are prepped to fire for
Europe's control. Some mirror. Some face."

"Such monsters," said Oktobriana. "Tut gavno, tam gavno." As
translated: Here shit, there shit.

"Skuratov said you loved the Big Boy beyond reason," I said.

She shook her head, her hairbangs wavering in wild corona.
"Chort. Krasnaya disinformation of most ludicrous sort. My
grandfather died in Stalin's gulag."

"You've a framed portrait," I reminded, "of most ideal form-"

"Sanya's," she said. "Kept because it reminds me of him."

"The Big Boy was Alekhine's fancy?"

Thinking of her vanished comrade settled her, though facial tics
remained, rippling her cheeks without rhythm. "He was sheltered
scientist," she said. "Held faint knowledge of political realities of
past. Brain only holds so much, he said often. Had fool's delusion
that Stalin would have given scientific work due proper respect and
unguided assistance. I tried many times to send cleansing rain over
his muddy head. Told him of Lysenko madness and such. He took
my words as smears of past nonhistory. Thought use of Big Boy
image in ad campaigns cheapened great leader but still served
purpose in infusing previously banned presence throughout new
generations. Said many times that our world would be better place
if he were still alive. Such brilliance as Sanya had so often contains
much stupidity." Her glistening eyes fastened upon Jake. "Strong
men I like, sure. Their attraction overwhelms sometimes. But I
have no love for monsters."

"You allowed him his dreams?"

"He was deaf to reason without hypothesis. And Sanya and I
planned marriage after project completion," she said. "At project's
beginning, at least, we planned. One loves beloved's flaws better
than perfections, within limits."

"You'd set a wedplan?" Jake asked, his face, mornentslong but no
longer, showing other than stolid; seeming aglow with unwarranted because evident emotion.

"Certainly. Standard state marriage with suitable music. Afterward long taxi ride to Lenin Hills for taking of pictures."

"What music was programmed for backdrop during the ceremony?" I asked, rambleminded, thinking of the music at my own:
Satie, Purcell, Elgar, Prokofiev, Moussorgski-

" `Can't Buy Me Love,' " she said. "Everyone's favorite. But
most dreams become ash as time burns away. By day he left I had
accepted his departure in spirit long before. Not since last summer
had we made violent love."

Jake's face flushed thrombosis red. With unforeseen lunge
Oktobriana leapt pantherlike atop him, mad for flesh's rub. Her
foot grazed the table near, sending a pressed-glass cup laden with
matches tumbling, spilling them across its top. "Great stone man
here distracts me now,,, she laughed, winding round him; he didn't
pull away. Inadvertently, she eyed the matchpile. "Six thousand
eight hundred eighty-nine," she said. We looked. There weren't a
hundred there.

"Your mind's going," said Jake.

"Count them," she whispered. We did, laying them out in fives
until the last.

"Eighty-three," he said.

"Square of eighty-three is six thousand eight hundred eightynine," she said, thought clouding her face. "How odd to know
square.

"It's reasoned you should, I'd think-"

"I have never memorized tables. Would be pointless waste of
brain so long as calculator is near. This is so strange. The number
appeared to flash in my head."

Rising, retrieving an unopened box from the kitchen, breaking
its seal, I slid it open, rained its contents before her.

"Nine thousand two hundred sixteen," she said, at once.
"Ninety-six matches." Bringing her hands upward she rubbed her
eyes, looked again. "How peculiar. There is factor operating here
that I do not understand. Perhaps because I am so tired. Sleep came but at moments last night," she said, lying down, placing her
head in Jake's lap. "Suffering from unexpected jet lag or equivalent,
possibly. Jake, rub neck please. Such lingering stiffness."

With good hand he drew his slender fingers across her nape,
probing and stroking, continuing slow massage for several silent
minutes. Periodically her legs jerked as if in hypnogogic phase,
before sleep's sweet coma envelops. Our own blips must flash on
his screen, I thought. A safe extraction seemed impossible; her
implant would be mote small and no unguided digging might haul
it forth. At any instant the local team, guided by his word, might
show, coming at his urging to mop us away. Through the windows I
looked to see those black bugs flitting up; nothing. Not until
tonight, I thought, considering. Takeout was strictly a nightgame,
in my experience, and so seemed likely here.

"Jake," I said, lowvoiced. As I watched her eyes speed backforth
beneath her shut lids, her small fists knotted as if for battle, I
realized why Doe's tongue had so stilled. "Come kitchenways with
me. Something essential needs passing. " Easing himself up, allowing her descent without overt disturbance, he extricated and followed as I led into the sunbright kitchen, sweat pooling at my
beltline. He eyed me without blink; folded his arms before him as if
certain of answer, no matter the question.

"You've developed an intriguing relationship," I said to him,
curious to gather what feelings he had, if any, before I related. "It
eased capture-"

"Capture sans escape," he said. "To little purpose, under circumstance. Keep minded there exists but a one-mind intrigue."

"She's quite attracted, Jake-"

"In untenabled way," he said, his suit yellowed by sun pouring
through the drapes' filter, "for unlogicaled reason. Passing fancy, a
bunch of forget-me-nots waiting to wither."

"Perhaps. Perhaps deeper than admitted. Where's your stand,
then? She's physically bountied. Intelligent beyond grasp. Articulate, multi-able. Mad as a cat for you. You say no?"

He nodded. "Untenabled."

"You've let the answer hang, Jake. Where's your stand?"

His mouthcorners drew as if by pickle's touch. As he stood, shifting from foot to foot, he idly frisked himself for his missing
toys.

"Well?"

"She tears my dreams apart," he said at last. "It's not me she sees,
Luther. It's whatsisname on the backbound. The Big Boy. A deliveryman could have served as such an object-"

"It's you."

"Untenabled!" he repeated, his voice deepening as it rose; not
since Thursday night had I seen such rising within his face.

"Why?" I asked, nearly so loud. "What's foreseen?"

"Hurt," he said, shifting again to barely heard mutterance. "The
wrong kind."

He spoke true; I had to tell how true. Leaving his words where he
dropped them he moved as if to exit. I motioned him to return.

"She's dying, Jake," I said. As I told of all I'd read, all that Doc
added, he evidenced no shift in feature, gave no hint that what was
heard disturbed. As mentioned, Jake was not devoid of comprehension; he quickly gathered all ramifications. Upon concluding I
paused, baffled by what might be passing through his mind.
"Response? Reaction?"