A Strange Dominion
corbyinoz
Summary:
Part 3 of the Hamartia Series
The final part of the Hamartia series. What does she want? And who has been betraying information to her? How can International Rescue function when so much has been damaged? Will Scott's desperate plan do more harm than good?
Hamartia - inner characters revealed to the benefit and detriment of the people at the heart of this story - will play a part in determining whether this adventure ends well or badly.
Meanwhile, the Russian connection looms large...
Notes:
This will definitely not make sense unless you have read Part 1 of the series, Bo Kata, and Part 2, Fire and Brimstone.
(See the end of the work for more notes.)
Work Text:
The wind and clouds, now here, now there,
Hold no such strange dominion
As woman's cold, perverted will.
- John Clare
Chapter 1
Bergen was beautiful.
Cold, clear as a crystal, but undeniably stunning.
Virgil stood at the floor to ceiling window gazing out at a mountainside that seemed festooned with rivers of sparkling lights from the top to the dark sea at its base. Then the harbour, and the city itself – lively, bright, so aesthetically pleasing it felt like it had been designed by a specific artist just for him.
The fact that he was almost rigid with unease was a cruel juxtaposition of arresting visuals and shitty content.
Their hotel was not downmarket. Just above low-range, nicely calculated to suggest mid-budget travellers but not exactly criminal class. It did little to assuage his own feelings of being utterly illicit in all his dealings here.
"Relax." Gordon came to join him, looking with unfettered enthusiasm at the lights before him. "Everything's going to be fine. And look how pretty it is while we wait."
"Pretty being your ongoing and all-encompassing indicator of things being okay?"
"Oh yeah. If it's pretty, how can it be bad?" Gordon grinned at him. "Don't answer that."
That was standard Gordon; light, seemingly vacuous, good-natured. Except that it wasn't, not really. They weren't right, none of them, and this lingering bite between them, a needling that had become sharp when once it was deliberately blunted, was just one aspect of it.
Virgil, like all of them, had been working hard since they last heard from Hamartia.
There was a traitor in their midst.
A clichéd line. Melodramatic. Maybe if he re-worded it - someone he knew and trusted and loved was feeding information directly to the woman who had tried to kill him - it would sound less like a cheap thriller, more like a fundamental catastrophe that was tearing apart his family.
There was an image in his mind whenever he heard the word 'family', one that had formed years ago, quite unconsciously, and was so banal it would embarrass him if he ever told anyone about it. He could have summoned up all their hand-painted decorations on the Christmas tree, perhaps, that would have been sweet. Or that one photo of all the Tracy boys his father took; the one where Scott was scowling, and John was blank-faced, galaxies away in his head, and Gordon was lifting Alan up in a bear hug as Alan squealed with indignant delight, and he, Virgil, was sneezing so violently it contorted his face and body so that he looked like someone was using a taser on him from behind. He remembered his dad's exasperated annoyance, his "For crying out loud, boys".
The desired photo did get taken, eventually, dutiful sons with uniform smiles, and a copy was placed in Tracy Industry headquarters. Virgil had a copy of the other one in his bedroom.
It would make sense for that to be his family schema, but it wasn't. Instead, his mind summoned the mud room at the Tracy family farm. At the age of twelve he'd carefully put hand-embellished names beside the coat-hooks there, where they each hung their school bags, backpacks of assorted colours and styles. Nine year old Gordon took his down and replaced it with a plaster featuring his name badly scrawled across rockets during his brief period of space fixation (right before he discovered Aelfrida Kinniburgh' s documentaries about the sea and lost his heart forever). At the end of the row of hooks was a hatstand where Grandma's raincoat and Jeff's umbrella were placed.
And that was it. Family. A golden morning light coming through the small windows beside the back door, noise coming from the full to bursting kitchen beside it, the smell of bacon and wet boots and home tied up intrinsically in it all.
Unsentimental, ridiculously pragmatic, yet until these last two months or so it gave him comfort whenever he thought of it. Now? Now, he didn't need a psychologist to analyse the image for him; the light was gone. It was too dark to read those names so lovingly decorated; each was obscured. He knew where they were, but couldn't see them.
Now, it brought a swirl of nausea to his belly.
The lights for warning aircraft that were placed on top of the mountain blinked lazily. It was almost mesmerising, to watch that desultory light flicker on and off, no urgency but great meaning in its actions. Virgil sighed, and swayed forward to lean his forehead against the cool glass.
He'd gone through it again and again. He remembered the exact second when She'd mentioned the sweaters being worn by the two Russian children, Minka and Sasha. It was the same kind of ground-shifting he remembered from when She had recounted very closely the way they'd been relaxing by the rock-pool on Tracy Island. Inside, intimate knowledge. Details only someone there could know.
He thought of Grandma. Alan. John. Gordon. Each one elicited an instant denial. A sure knowledge in his bones, in the marrow of his bones, in the heart of him. Impossible. Gordon particularly had almost died at the sea base, saved by pure chance. It was unlikely that an agent would continue to provide information after something like that.
Scott? No. It was doubtful he'd even noticed the sweaters, the state he was in during the rescue, and afterwards he was unconscious in Two's sickbay. The relationship between him and Scott was like the one between him and Gordon; ostensibly fine, but intrinsically off-key. That natural, instinctive fit was gone. Oh, Scott understood why he hadn't been woken, why Virgil had insisted on handling the encounter with Hamartia. He even applauded it, commended Virgil for the line he'd taken, agreed that it was the right call.
And yet… there was a fixed quality to his smile. A rehearsed sound to his words, something false and hollow, even as he nodded and clapped Virgil on the shoulder, told him he owed him one.
Could Scott be the link?
Logistically it was possible. In terms of ever believing that Scott would betray the family he'd risked his life over and over to defend – no. Absurd. Grotesque to even think about it.
So that left the outsiders, and to even configure them in that way hurt.
Brains? No; the direct feed from Two had been shut off throughout the Maly-K rescue as an unnecessary broadcast risk. He had no way of seeing the sweaters. And the thought of brilliant, gentle, kind Brains betraying the Tracy family was anathema. Kayo was out of touch through the rescue, and would have known nothing of the sweaters, too. Against that, she was The Hood's niece; she had maintained that falsehood, even if it was only one of suppressio veri, for a long time. She was an espionage agent, used to subterfuge. If anyone could be considered a possibility, surely it was her? But she had almost died on the Nazca Plains saving Virgil's life. Hardly the actions of someone in collusion with the person doing the killing. She'd survived, like Gordon, by chance. No, it couldn't be Kayo.
EOS? Possible. Some kind of back door into her system, some kind of brilliance that circumvented every failsafe and firewall John's own brilliance could concoct. It would be arrogant to think that nothing could ever be done to find a way in to her mind. It was a possibility. And yet, Virgil struggled with it. Whatever EOS's existential reality, and he wasn't sure he could encompass her existence in any meaningful way, Virgil had a sense of trust in whatever or whoever she was. His instinct told him that she would actively resist any such incursion. More to the point, John's vigilance and knowledge of her would surely give warning of treachery?
Which left Lady Penelope and Parker.
And that was where Virgil's thinking foundered, because for all that Penelope had risked her life alongside theirs, for all the wonderful work she'd done and the very good friend she'd been to International Rescue over the years – she was present at the Tracy Island rock-pool. She was there on Umnak. Hamartia had appeared at her soirees, at Penelope's hotel opening.
Penelope and Parker. One an aristocrat, one a criminal.
One, apparently, deeply in love with Gordon.
Or was that another ruse, a claim to sanctuary she could crawl into if needed. Would she play Gordon as she'd play a trump against a long run of off-suited tricks? Would she destroy his brother for her own protection? Did Hamartia have some hold on her?
Oh, he hated himself, he hated his thinking, and on some level he wondered if Gordon sensed it, if the knowledge or suspicion sharpened that needle to a blood-point?
"Gordon, I think we should go. Just go."
"No. Stop. You'll hurt my feelings." His brother slapped him on the arm then wandered across to fling himself into the easy chair, a slightly ratty but still bright one that helped warm the grey Scandinavian styled room. "This is Suitcase Guy. Come on. Most Valuable Player. Blocked the tunnel. Argued with you – you! In full rescue mode. I mean, be fair, that earns him awesome points. I wouldn't argue you in full rescue mode."
"You argue with me all the time!"
"Yeah, but I meant – if I wasn't in International Rescue. If you weren't my brother. Seriously, dude, you bring those eyebrows into maximum stun, you're scary."
"So on the basis of his being an argumentative jerk who risked everyone else's life…?"
"I'd say he's worth a listen to. I mean, even with everything else- imagine the ego on this guy."
"Oh, yeah. You are definitely making me want this meeting."
"Come on." Gordon's legs swung in a way that was calculated to drive Virgil's back up, inch by inch. "You want to know what this is about. You're intrigued. Admit it."
"I'm doing this because of Galina."
"And Adele."
"Yes, and Adele."
"And Yuri."
"Yes, and Yuri. Can you not?"
"Not what?"
"Just – that." Virgil waved at his brother in a way meant to convey general disapproval.
"Sure." Unfazed, Gordon continued swinging his legs, content it seemed to look out at the magnificent view but undoubtedly aware that his actions and attitude were causing his brother to feel something beyond the line of irritation. "So. Norway. Pretty great country. They're doing some amazing research up under the Arctic Circle. Did I tell you Aelfrida has a contract with them to run the Eurasian Basin, up in the northwest quadrant, really do some depth work? She thinks there is a kind of orca run that cuts across the circle, lets them do a northwest passage deal which is kind of ironic considering how hard the nineteenth century dudes went to try and find one."
"He's late."
"He really isn't."
Virgil pushed away from the window, agitated. Every instinct in his body was telling him this was a dumb idea, right when they should be figuring out the far more important question of how Hamartia was getting her information, who was helping her. He remembered Suitcase Guy all too well – the arrogance. The egotism. The pure selfishness. It didn't even need Virgil's gut to tell him that nothing this man brought to this meeting would outweigh his own interests, and whatever agenda a man like this had, the likelihood of it being anything worthwhile was diminishingly small.
And he couldn't understand Gordon's attitude. Gordon, it seemed, regarded Suitcase Guy as somehow funny. A character. Of course, what a laugh – elevate your possessions in importance beyond the welfare of the people around you, to the point of imperilling their lives. What's not to love?
The fact that Gordon had survived in a spectacular fashion no doubt influenced his readiness to forgive and forget. The horror had faded; the heroism remained, and cast a golden glow over the entire episode. For Virgil, though, there remained the memory of utter loss, the acidic terror of knowing he had abandoned his little brother. Forgiveness for himself would be a while coming; forgiveness for others would have to wait in the queue.
"Did you have a pickle?" Gordon got up and circled back to the coffee table that had the remnants of their meal. "You should try the pickles. Amazing. Norwegians really know how to hardwire their veggies with vinegar. I mean, seriously yum."
"No, I don't need a pickle. What I need is for this jerk to turn up so we can get this done."
A soft knock at the door. Gordon waggled his eyebrows.
"That's impressive." He headed for the door. "But scary. Always promise to use your powers for good, Virgil."
He opened the door and stepped back invitingly.
"Hey. It's you. Come on in. Um – we're gonna get John online to run a translation of whatever you want to say – "
"That's not necessary."
This took Gordon aback. Which was secretly satisfying, considering how blasé he'd been about the meeting in spite of Virgil's unease.
"You speak English?"
"Obviously." The man put down a small briefcase, then offered his hand. "I speak nine languages, actually. Stephan Bogdanovich Likhodeyev. Please. Call me Stepa."
Virgil lifted an eyebrow in surprise. The man in front of him was nothing like the one he'd met briefly on the ledge under the volcano of Maly-K. Now that he wasn't covered in ash and clutching an outsize suitcase, aggressively ensuring its survival alongside his own, the man's face was handsome, with a strong nose between large, dark eyes. His mouth was full, and quirked upwards in a way that suggested a cynical humour.
"Stepa." Gordon was clearly somewhat wrong-footed, and Virgil took some pleasure in that. "I'm Gordon."
"Tracy, yes, and you're Virgil." Stepa shook their hands. "I owe you my thanks. You saved my life. And what is rather more important, you saved my work. I thank you both, sincerely."
"Oh, that's – uh, that's okay."
"Very much okay. Now. First." Stepa unlocked the briefcase. "I have some things for you. Here."
He pulled out three sheets of paper. On the first was a drawing of a green blob with a large red 2 on it, dwarfed by three giant figures, two with yellow hair, the other with black.
"This is from young Minka. A thank you. This – " he handed over another sheet, "is from the new inhabitants of the Anderson mine."
A photograph, showing a large group of people standing in a clearing between small huts, all raising their hands in greeting.
"Another thank you. And this is a letter from Galina. I believe she regards you as the guardian spirits of our new endeavour, and is reporting accordingly."
"Aw. Say hi when you see her again. We should go visit, Virgil."
"No, we most definitely should not." Gordon was clearly charmed; Virgil was going to be a much tougher sell. "Not until they are all processed as new Canadian migrants and no one can point any fingers about snatching Russian citizens off Russian soil. We will be staying well away."
"Yes, very wise." Stepa looked about himself. "So. You have anything to drink?"
"Yeah, sorry. Uh – there's beer, or vodka? I think?"
"Vodka, of course. I could hardly live up to the stereotype if I didn't take the vodka, could I?"
I guess." Gordon sent a clear expression of what the fuck to him, and Virgil answered with a shrug. He was as ambushed by this version of Suitcase Guy as his brother.
Stepa took the tiny bottle from the mini-bar, made a moue of disgust at the brand, then tipped the contents into a glass.
"Alright – Stepa – I agreed to this meeting with you out of respect for Galina. She insisted it was important. I don't know why Gordon's here – "
"For the pickles."
"Right. He's here for the pickles. But I have no idea why you're here, and I would appreciate it if you would tell us the reason why we've all travelled a long way to have this get-together on neutral ground."
"Fair enough." Stepa threw back the shot of vodka, and sat down in the chair opposite Gordon. Virgil stayed standing, his arms folded. The guy had charm to burn, but Virgil would happily warm his hands in its fire before sending him on his way without an ounce of regret. "Galina is correct. It is extremely important."
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sheaf of folded papers, covered in hand-written Cyrillic. "We're here because you," he nodded towards Gordon, "told me you last saw something like these in a submerged base full of dead Russians."
"Gordon!"
"I did?" Gordon looked guilty, a rare but telling sight. "I don't remember?"
"We were in the module. You saw these and said that. I have not forgotten."
"Okay, maybe. I guess. I was kinda dealing with a lot just then."
"You'd just nearly died thanks to a certain person's actions," Virgil growled.
"Well, in fairness, that tends to happen a lot. Jumping off cliffs, outta planes, the usual. Our line of work and all." He began brightly, but as he finished, Gordon's face shifted, losing its brightness. Virgil noticed and tucked the observation away for later reflection.
"So you know where this base is. And I wish you to take me there."
That brought a sudden choked laugh from Virgil.
"Yeah, well. Good meeting. Thanks for playing. The answer's no."
Stepa sat back, hands folded in his lap, and there was the stubbornness Virgil remembered and loathed from their encounter on the ledge.
"Why?"
"Why? We don't owe you any explanation. But I'll give you one anyway. It's full of radiation."
"So? We wear hazmat suits."
"And the GDF have declared it off-limits."
"What does this mean in reality? A series of markers set up? Maybe sensors?" Stepa smiled, dismissive. "Are you telling me that you could not get around these?"
"We could," Virgil said, his voice cold, "but we've already gambled with getting banned by the GDF for you and your people. We're not about to start some kind of thrill-seeker tourism deal for someone like you."
"Like me? You have no idea who I am."
"And I'm perfectly happy to stay ignorant."
"Okay." Gordon was leaning forward, and Virgil was relieved to see that happy-go-lucky side of his brother's character was gone, replaced with the cool, strategic one his brother deployed on missions. "What is so important to you that you have come all this way to try and get into the base? I'll admit, I have wondered about the place, what they were all doing down there. And I'm thinking it's some kind of weapon, maybe biological, and the last thing anyone needs is to go down there digging it up. International Rescue is not in the habit of helping people find better ways to hurt each other."
"And this is why we should go. Because if we don't go down there and get this, someone else will."
A flicker of contempt on Gordon's face.
"So it is a weapon."
"No." Stepa sat forward, matching him. "No. Far more important. It is matter transportation."
A moment of silence, and then Virgil unfolded his arms, decision made.
"Alright. Now that is absolutely it. Meeting's done."
"Why?" Gordon looked intrigued. "Matter transportation? Like 'Beam me up, Scotty'? That kind of thing."
"No, not people. The calculations are too complex for teleporting people. It's not possible."
"Teleporting – for crying out loud." Virgil's resistance to the entire fiasco was fully realised. "That is science fiction, Gordon. It's not possible, and this has been a monumental waste of time."
Stepa, damn him, didn't look in the slightest bit perturbed by Virgil's condemnation.
"As I said, you don't know me. You don't know about the Mayflies either, do you?"
"I can manage without the history lesson."
"But you've come all this way…" and he spread his arms, like a salesman. "Gordon wants to hear it, don't you?"
Gordon's glance at Virgil told him that yes, he did want some answers. Given he had almost died outside that base, and three others had paid with their lives, Virgil could begrudgingly see his point of view.
"Fine." Virgil stopped over to the third chair and sat down in it, back rigid. "The condensed version. And when the bullshit level hits peak sci-fi crazy, I will pull the plug on this meeting and tell Galina that next time I want to hear a bed time story I'll source it locally."
Stepa chuckled, a sound so condescending that it was all Virgil could do not to throw something at him.
"I doubt if you will understand anything of this. But I will try. Because if we don't then the First Responders will try again at the underwater base, and this time they might succeed."
Nothing else could have focused Virgil's attention and sucked all the air out of the room at the same time as those words.
"Yeah," Gordon said thoughtfully, "I've always wanted to know what they were doing down there. If they got what they were after."
Stepa nodded, responding to Gordon's interest with intensity. "No, I don't think they did."
"Wait – what?" Virgil's fists bunched on his knees. "How the hell do you know anything about the First Responders and the base?"
"Because of course I have read the GDF report. Which has a copy of your report attached."
"How..?"
Stepa waved that away. "Galina told you. I am a genius. I don't say this lightly. This is not ego. This is fact. So when Gordon mentioned the base, I knew I had to find the report about it. But shall I tell you why they didn't get what they needed?"
Gordon, avid, nodded.
"Because of these," and Stepa tapped the papers he had pulled from his jacket. "These are the love letters Irina Alexeyevna Rostova sent to her lover, Alyosha Duminy. They are beautifully written, but more than that, they are brilliantly written. Each one is a code key, and without these code keys nothing taken from the lab will make any kind of sense. No matter how clever Janet Kingsley thinks she is."
"Who's Janet Kingsley?"
Stepa shrugged. "Good question. Janet Kingsley. Miriam Hapschutz. Koraline Gelder. Many others. These are all names taken by the woman who is the mastermind of the First Responders criminal team."
"And who is Irina Alexeyevna Rostova?"
"Yes, good." Stepa nodded his approval at Gordon. "This is the true question. In the West she is barely known. In Russia, she is less than that – disappeared. Removed from history. Stalin did that. He could make all traces of a person vanish – not just their body, but their work, their footprints. I am a physicist, and if you spoke to your Brains, he would know my work. I am the world's most brilliant theoretician in quantum physics."
"And so modest with it," Virgil muttered.
"What is the point of modesty? There are perhaps three people in the entire world that can understand my work. This is fact."
"Okay. Point taken. Go on. Stalin disappeared someone…"
"He disappeared millions, but that is not my point. This one. This Irina Alexeyevna Rostova. Perhaps after I tell you that there are three people in the world who can think at my level you might begin to understand me when I say that she was so far beyond me it is as if a child spoke to a professor."
That was unexpected. Stepa saw their reactions and nodded.
"She was our Einstein. She made leaps of logic that were only paralleled by Newton, Einstein, Annie Okijba, Huei-Tse. She surpassed them all, in some ways. And her work, and her person, were buried, thanks to one monster's paranoia."
"So how do you know about her?" Gordon was clearly intrigued.
"Because of these." Stepa tapped the papers again. "I found them. I was working at Moscow University, investigating some early theoretical work that I felt might provide a light on a problem I was completing. In a box, mis-catalogued and forgotten, I found these papers and half a dozen others written by Irina Alexeyevna. The papers are incomplete. But there is enough there to change everything we thought we knew about quantum physics. Had she lived, had her work been disseminated, the world would be centuries ahead in terms of space travel, everything."
"Wow."
"You said these were love letters?" Virgil found he was caught up in Stepa's story despite himself.
"Yes. And the thing is, she was writing at a time when politics was deadly. Three of the papers in the box were written as straightforward science papers, and these told me of her genius. In one alone there were insights I had spent my career struggling towards, and she so elegantly… ah. The other half were in code. I reasoned that the love letters were included for a purpose, and because I am brilliant I was able to make the connection between the letters and the papers. With the love letters in hand, it is possible to de-code the papers."
"And these papers," Virgil said, his scepticism clear, "they tell you how to instantaneously transport matter?"
"What do you understand of these things?"
"Not much. I'm an engineer, not a physicist."
Stepa made a wry face. "Perhaps I can explain as much as you need. The problem has always been the need to reduce energy to a zero-point fluctuation of the field, and then extract it from another fluctuation at another place. Such fluctuations are unstable. Energy decreases in the measurement region and increases in the energy extraction region, and no one has found a way to equalise this. The impossibility was always the measurement of the qubit. The measurement of A must have the same measurement as B, but the energy fluctuation doesn't allow this."
"I'm following so far." Virgil glanced at Gordon, who looked like he had the beginnings of a headache.
"There was no physical process that uses a qubit in an unknown state in order to prepare two qubits in the same state. Could not be done. But she foresaw parametric down-conversion. The two 'down-conversion' photons emerge as independent beams with orthogonal polarizations. This creates a polarization-energised two photon state. For a time we used mode-locked TiSaphire lasers to create a pulsed down conversion, but Irina Alexeyevna Rostova looked beyond that, saw it would never work. We only abandoned that idea in 2031, but she – " Stepa stopped. "There really is no point in continuing, is there?"
"None whatsoever," Gordon said, solemnly.
"Can you imagine, then, someone writing of fusion engines, not invented until 2051, in 1951? Exactly a century before? And then writing of what would come after them? This is what Irina did."
"Wow. That would be – yeah, that really would be something." Gordon nodded. "So all this laser sapphire and polarization stuff - did you publish it?"
"No, Gordon, I did not. I spent years searching for more of her work, and I found it; papers handed down by her colleagues, kept in their families as oddities that were to be saved, though they did not know why. Other papers in other university storages, some digitalised, none of it recognised as anything but gibberish for those who lacked the key."
"But why didn't you ask people to come forward? Tell her story, get people to look for it themselves?"
"Because of what she was working on. Matter teleportation. It is the challenge we have never overcome. Her work takes us past the stumbling blocks that have existed for centuries."
"So why..?"
"Think of this." Stepa sat forward even further, his voice low and urgent. "What could be done with the person who has this knowledge? How could it be used?"
Gordon frowned. "We could get supplies to people who were cut off by floods. Instantly transport medicine. We could save energy – I mean, if the process does save energy – by transporting goods anywhere around the world."
"Ah. Yes. You see, you are thinking as a humanitarian. As someone who would use power to help others. Think for a minute what an unscrupulous leader could do with it."
"Weaponise it? You mean – send a bomb wherever they wanted?"
"Exactly. I did my work in secret because when I uncovered the entire process I wanted to be sure there were protocols in place to prevent its misuse."
Virgil's eyes went wide. "Wait, so - this is what Hamartia is after?"
Stepa gave a soft snort. "Of course! She visited me, as Janet Shipley, back at the university. My efforts must have caught her attention. She never asked me directly, but I understood quickly what she was digging for. I confirmed it afterwards when I asked colleagues at every other physics department in Russia – she had not contacted anyone else. She is one of the three who is operating on my level, by the way. If this woman gets hold of the Rostova papers and cracks the code, she could hold the world to ransom."
There was silence in the room as each one absorbed that thought.
Far below them a large ship slid gracefully into the harbour, its lights sparkling against the black water. For a moment Virgil thought of a world where Hamartia could transport a bomb into its hold as carelessly as tapping a button. It brought the outside chill deep into his stomach.
"And this is why I need to go down there," Stepa continued. "Your report said that cabinets in the first chamber were disturbed, but that you did not think she had gone below, to the second room."
"The one with all the dead people. Yeah. I was first through there."
"It's likely that this is where the key work was stored." Stepa spread his hands in appeal. "I don't think she can break the code. I think – I hope – right now she is being driven to despair trying to do so, but with a key as random as love letters I don't think it is possible for her to achieve this. And Irina was brilliant – she wrote in colloquialisms. In Stalin's Russia, things were not said directly. So, they might use a phrase saying, "There will always be bread." To a Westerner, this is a statement. To a Russian in 1950s Moscow, it is ironic. It meant the opposite. So she uses this, and the code is reversed for two lines. It is so complex. She uses mathematical code and she uses word games and she uses the love letters. One can be broken perhaps, but the chances of a non-Russian figuring all three are almost impossible. Still. Another key might exist in that other chamber. More complete workings of her theorem, developments beyond what I have in my possession now. These may not be coded. We cannot let Shipley have these. We cannot take the risk."
"Wait." A memory came to Virgil, sharp with the tang of re-lived fear. "You said, about your suitcase – on the ledge, you said this is the reason why you were here? Your work?"
"Yes." Stepa gave him a direct look. "I also said imagine what an unscrupulous leader could do with this." He shrugged. "Putin got wind of my hidden research. The Mayflies? We weren't rebels. That is the story Moscow gave. We were the physics department of Moscow University, held to ransom in order to extract my research for the government. We had word of mass arrests, a friend in government warned us. Together, we agreed we could not destroy the work. It is too important for humanity. We agreed that it was vital that this work should be given to the World Council, and only when safeguards were in place to stop its misuse. So we took the work and we fled – all the professors, research assistants, their spouses, their grandparents, children. And we hid beneath a volcano."
"So you all did risk everything for what was in the suitcase." Gordon's face was unreadable.
Stepa nodded, slowly. "Yes. Because it is more important than any of us. Galina would not leave half her people to die. I would have. But not for me. For humanity. I would have given you the suitcase, if it came to that."
"Kinda cold-blooded," said Virgil evenly.
The Russian shrugged. "People come and go. Knowledge, science, this remains. A hundred years from now we will be gone, but this knowledge could still be making an impact on others' lives. And now we must continue with the journey. We must make sure that the woman you call Hamartia does not get hold of Irina Alexeyevna's work. We must go to the undersea base and find all we can."
"Okay. Okay. But there's something we need to discuss first." Virgil and Stepa both looked to Gordon. "When we were in the – the tunnels, I don't know, whatever you lived in, all you would do was swear at me. In Russian. I mean, I didn't know it was swearing, exactly, but I got the message. Here's the thing." His voice had now dropped all of its surf-boy casualness and held nothing but the razor-sharp reasoning and discipline hard-won in service. "You decided to play a game with me even when we were about to be incinerated by a volcanic eruption. You took the time to fake me out while I was trying to rescue you. That takes some doing. It makes me wonder what kind of person you are. And, just so we're clear, the wondering is not in a good way."
Stepa nodded.
"Yes. That is fair. But take a minute to consider it from my point of view. I didn't know who you were or where you were from. The life and work of a scientist can be very narrowly-focused – I had heard of International Rescue, maybe, but seen nothing. I did not recognise you. All I saw was someone in uniform suddenly appearing and telling me what I should do."
"You had to know I wasn't Russian forces."
"Perhaps. Gordon, you must understand, we had lived for months under sentence of death, and at that moment it seemed like a different sort of death was imminent. Forgive me if I didn't immediately decide you were a force for good."
"Alright." Virgil had waited patiently, but his dislike had not disappeared under Stepa's charm offensive, and now was clear in his tone. "I grant you that. I have no issue with you distrusting Gordon when you first saw him. But the question is whether or not we can trust you, now. This underwater base is dangerous. Accessing it against GDF approval is risky. In my book, someone who doesn't trust others is generally someone not worthy of trust themselves. And we're gonna need to trust you if we're going down into that base."
"Perhaps," Stepa said again. "Trust is not something won easily. Whether you trust me or not, these facts remain as I have told them to you. If you don't trust me, think of Galina. She urged this meeting. Does she strike you as a woman who would risk everything for something unworthy?"
Virgil looked to Gordon. His younger brother looked thoughtful, and when he realised Virgil was watching, he gave a tiny shrug.
"Feels like unfinished business," he said.
Virgil sighed. The arguments were compelling. Against them stood the need to stay in the GDF's good books, the need to keep people safely away from a hazardous environment, and the fact that such a mission would sorely try a leader of International Rescue who was stretched beyond tight already.
Finally, he closed his eyes.
"Okay. You're right – it might be the chance to get ahead of Hamartia. It might be worth the risk. But I'm gonna need you to convince Brains first, Stepa. I'm gonna need you to show enough of this science to someone who understands it who can say that it makes a credible case." He finally summoned up a dark smile. "And Gordon? You get to tell Scott."
Notes:
Alright, so I stole Stepa's name from my favourite book, 'The Master and Margarita' by Mikhail Bulgakov. If Professor Worland's out there, I hope he will understand and forgive me. After all, he likes to tell stories, too.